THE TRIUMPHS OF GOD'S REVENGE Against The crying, & Execrable Sin, of (Wilful, & premeditated) Murder Expressed In forty Several, Tragical Histories (Digested into Six Books) which contain great variety of Mournful, & Memorable Accydents Amorous, Moral, & Divine The whole Work now Compleatlye finished  
Written By john Reynolds  
LONDON Printed for W. Lee and are to be sold at the Turks head in Fleetstreet over against Fetter Lane.    

THE TRIUMPHS OF GOD'S REVENGE AGAINST THE CRYING AND EXECRABLE SIN OF (Wilful and Premeditated) Murder.  
With his Miraculous Discoveries, and severe Punishments thereof.  
In Thirty several Tragical Histories (Digested into Six Books) committed in divers Countries beyond the Seas, never published, or Imprinted in any other Language.  
Histories which contain great variety of mournful and memorable Accidents, Historical, Moral, and Divine, very necessary to restrain and deter us from this bloody Sin, which in these our days makes so ample, and large a Progression.  
With a Table of all the several Letters and Challenges, contained in the whole six Books.  
Written by JOHN REYNOLDS.  PSALM 9 16. The Lord is known in executing judgement, and the wicked is snared in the work of his own hand. PROVERBS 14. 27. The fear of the Lord is a wellspring of Life, to avoid the snares of death. 
LONDON, Printed for WILLIAM LEE; and are to be sold at his shop in Fleetstreet, at the sign of the Turks Head, over against Fetter Lane.  
1635.   

TO MY SACRED SOVEREIGN, CHARLES, KING OF GREAT BRITAIN, FRANCE, and IRELAND, Defender of the Faith, etc.  
SIR,  
AS Rivers, though in their passing they fall into many neighbour Currents yet finally empty themselves into the Sea, so let these my poor Labours (though formerly Dedicated to divers Illustrious Peers of this your Realm) be suffered at last to terminate in the Ocean of your Princely Greatness and Goodness, whereinto all virtuous endeavours (as so many lines in their Centre) desire to be united.  
What private respests might challenge of me towards their Honours, the same towards your Majesty will claim the public Bond of Common Allegiance, whereby I am more eminently, and more universally obliged. I am not so over●… weening of my weak Endeavours, as to think them worthy of your Majesty's view, much less able to add any thing to your Royal Virtue's; Rivers add nothing to the Main, yet thither they naturally send the Tribute of their Streams; and if my Loyalty reach me to do the like, it will not (I hope) be conceived as done out of an opinion of Merit, but only out of a desire to discharge the Duty of a Subject to your Majesty.  
And I am the rather emboldened to this Confidence, because I have formerly adventured the like, when to your Princely View, being then the Second Hope of this Kingdom, I (about eleven years since) presented a Translation of a Work of Monsieur de Refuges, entitled A Treatise of the Court; the Gracious and Undeserved Acceptance whereof, if it hath inspired me with farther Courage, to present You (now advanced to a greater State) with a greater Increase of mine own Labour, your Majesty will not (I hope) condemn me of groundless Presumption.  
The former three Books had the Honour and Happiness to be perused by the judicious Eye of King JAMES, your Renowned Father, (of happy Memory) In whose incomparable judgement they failed not of Approbation, though Dedicated to Inferior Names; the more am I now encouraged to Inscribe and Entitle the whole Six to your Sacred Majesty, as being no less Heir of His Virtue's, then of His Crown and Dignity.  
And one thing more (arising from the Consideration of the Subject itself) made me think it a Present not altogether unworthy of your Regal Estate; for the Contents of it being the Execution of justice, upon the unnatural Sin of Murder, where can it be more fitly addressed, then to the Great Patron of justice among us (God's immediate Vicegerent) by whose Sword (as the Minister of Heaven) such odious Crimes are to be chastised, and Innocent Blood justly expiated with Guilty.  
And it may more fitly suit with your Majesty, who as you excel in the careful Administration of justice upon all Offenders, so especially upon those (most heinous of all others) the Violators of Gods sacred Image, in the perpetration of wilful Murder, towards whom Clemency even changeth her nature, and becomes Cruelty to the Wealpublicke. Never had any Land less cause to complain of too much Indulgency this way, than ours, as may well appear, both by the rareness of such Occurrences in your Kingdom, and the severe vindication of them, whensoever they happen, or by whom, or howsoever performed.  
These Histories therefore, which may serve as a Looking-glass to all Nations, shall to these of Yours be a special Ornament and Mirror of their felicity, and set forth and publish Your Praise, in the peaceable and quiet Government of your People, whose Climate (seldom or never) affords such Tragedies; nor will do, whiles Your Christian resolution shall continue to prevent them in the Spring, and to punish the lighter degrees of Bloodiness with due retaliation. The great Author of justice (who is Goodness and justice itself) long preserve your Majesty to Us, and the Happiness We enjoy in your Sacred Person, so near resembling Him whose Authority and Image You bear. So prayeth  
Your Majesty's most humbly devoted in all Dutiful Allegiance, JOHN REYNOLDS.   

THE AUTHOR HIS PREFACE TO THE READER.  
CHRISTIAN Reader, we cannot sufficiently bewail the Iniquity of these last and worst days of the world, in which the crying and scarlet sin of Murder makes so ample, and so bloody a progression: for we can now searce turn our ear or eye any where, but we shall be enforced, either to hear with pity the mournful effects, or to see with grief the lamentable Tragedies thereof: as if we now so much degenerated from ourselves, or our hearts from our souls, to think that 
a Psal 23. 1.  Christ were no longer our Shepherd: 
b Psal. 100 3.  or we the sheep of his Pasture: or as if we were become such wretched and execrable Atheists, to believe 
c Mat. 25. 34. 41  There were no Heaven, to reward the Righteous: or Hell, to punish the ungodly. But if we will divert our hearts from Earth to Heaven, and raise and erect our souls from Satan to God, we shall then not only see what engendereth this Diabolical passion in us: but also find the means to detest and root it out from amongst us.  
To which end it is requisite, we first consider, that our enemies, who oppose our tranquillity in this life, and our felicity in that to come, are neither so few in number, nor so weak in power, that we should think ourselves able to vanquish, ere we fight with them: for we have to encounter with the bewitching World, the alluring Flesh, and the enticing Devil: not with three simple Soldiers or poor Pigmies, but with three valiant and puissant Chieftains, subtle to encamp dangerous to assail, and powerful to fight.  
The World, that it may bewitch us to its will, assails us with Wealth, Riches, Dignities, Honours, Preferments, Sumptuous houses, perfumed Beds, Vessels of gold and silver, Pompous Apparel, Delicious fare, variety of sweet Music, Dancing, Masks and Stageplays, delicate Horses, rich Coaches, and infinite Attendants, with a thousand other enticements and allurements.  
The Flesh presents us with Youth, Beauty. The 
d 1 joh. 2. 16.  lust of the eye, and the pride of life: with 
e Col. 3. 5.  inordinate affection and lascivious desires, with a piercing eye, a vermilion cheek, golden hair, and a slender waste: and although it discover us not all these perfections of nature in one personage: yet, he shows us most of them in divers, and then if any thing want to captivate our affections, we shall hear them marry their Siren voices, to their own Lutes and Vials, or their dancing feet to those of others: or if this will not suffice, than Perfuming, Powdering, Crisping, Painting, Amorous kisses, Sweet smiles, Suggered speeches, Wanton embracings, and Lascivious dalliance, will vudertake to play a World in love. On the other side, Strength, Nimbleness, Agility of body, Sloth, Luxury, Gluttony, Intemperancie, Drunkenness, Voluptuousness and Sensuality will cast us out so fair (I mean so treacherous) a lure, as if we stoop thereto, we shall buy our pleasure with repentance, and our delight therein, will prove our ruin and destruction.  
And now, if neither the World, nor the flesh can entangle, or ensnare our hearts, Then comes the Devil 
f 1 Pet. 5 8.  that roaring Lion, who wa●…tes about, seeking whom he may devour, that mortal enemy, and 
g Revel. 12. 9  Archtraitor to our souls, that 
h joh 12. 31. Ephes. 6. 12.  Prince of darkness, whose subtlety is the more dangerous, and malice the more fatal, in that he transforms himself into 〈◊〉 
i 2 Cor. 11. 14.  Angel of light, thereby to make us heirs and slaves of his obscure kingdom: yea, he will proffer us more, then either our tongues can demand, or our heart's desire: for all the pomp, treasure and pleasures of the World, yea, all that is in the World, and 
k Luk. 4. 6. 7.  the world itself, he will prostrate and give us, if we will consent to obey him, and promise to fall down and adore him; and for a pledge of his infernal bounty and liberality, he will puff us up with Pride, Arrogancy, Ambition, Vainglory, Ostentation, Disdain, Covetousness, Singularity, Affectation, Confidence, Security; and if all these allurements will not prevail to subdue us, he hath yet reserved Troops and Forces, and another string to his Bow: for then exchanging his smiles into frowns, and his calms to storms, he will give us pensiveness, Grief of mind and body, Affliction, Sorrow, Discontent, Choler, Envy, Indignation, Despair, Revenge, and the like.  
Yea, he will watch us at every turn, and wait on us at every occasion: for are we bend to revenge, he will blow the coals to our choler: are we given to sorrow and discontent, he will thrust and hale us on to Despair: are we inclined to Wantonness, and Lasciviousness, he will fit us with means and opportunity to accomplish our carnal desires: or are we addicted to covetousness and honours, he will either cause us to break our hearts, or our necks, to obtain it: for it is indifferent to him, either how or in what manner we enlarge and fill up the empty rooms of his vast and infernal kingdom.  
Thus we see how powerful our three capital enemies are, yea, what a cloud, nay, what a world of subordinate means and instruments they have, not only to ensnare, but to destroy us. yea, not only to conquer our hearts, but which is worse, to make shipwreck of our souls? And from hence comes our misery: yea, from these three fatal trees we gather the bitter fruit of our perdition.  
But against all these temptations and dangers, against all these our professed enemies in general, and each of them in particular: We may swim in the Ocean of the world without drowning, and pilgrimage upon the face of the earth without terror or destruction, if we will consider, and in considering remember that 
l Gen. 1. 27. Psal. 115. 6.  God is our Creator, 
m joh. 10. 21. 11. 25.  Christ our Saviour, and the Holy Ghost our Sanctifier and Comforter: that we are honoured with the resemblance of God, whose stamp and character we bear, and enriched with immortal and 
o Gen. 2. 7.  living souls: which sacred privileges and divine prerogatives lift us up by many degrees of excellency 
p Gen. 1. 28.  above the rest of all his creatures, whom he hath made for our service, and 
q Isay. 43. 21.  we only to serve and glorify him: That he hath made the world for a thoroughfare, and us as Passengers: That 
r Heb. 13. 14.  we have no abiding City here, but must seek one in the World to come: That the World is ours but for a season, and Heaven our patrimony and inheritance for ever: That the pomp and pleasures thereof are but transitory and temporary, and that the vanity thereof passeth away as dust or 
s Psal. 102 3. Isay 40. 7.  smoke before the wind, whereas those of Heaven are both immortal and eternal: That 
t Psal. 39 5.  our flesh is but like flowers that fade, and grass that withereth, but a mass of corruption, a tabernacle of clay, and a coffin of dust and ashes: that the best of its beauty is but 
u 1 Cor. 〈◊〉. 〈◊〉  vanity and deformity, and the end of its bravery, but rottenness and putrefaction: If I say, we spurn at the vanity of the world, contemn the pleasures of the flesh, and scoff at the temptations of Satan, using the first, as if we used it not, making the second the Temple of the Holy Ghost, and not the members of a harlot, and that we are so far from fearing, as we defy the third, 
x Coloss. 3. 〈◊〉.  Setting our affections on things that are above, and not on things of the earth: for if we will be heirs of the Church triumphant, we must be first soldiers of the Militant, and so following the advice and direction of the Apostle, stand against all these our enemies, 
y Ephes. 6. 〈◊〉  Having the whole spiritual Armour girt about us, as the girdle of Truth, the Breastplate of Righteousness, the Shield of Faith, the Helmet of Salvation, and the Sword of the spirit, not to catch at these allurements, or to be caught by them; not to strike sail, or stoop to these afflictions, or to hang down our heads, as if we gave way to them, or were contented that our weakness should yield to their strength; or our joys to their afflictions: rather to stand up courageously, and to expel and resist manfully, considering that we are not only heirs, but coheires with jesus Christ, in the participation and felicity of that heavenly Jerusalem, whose joys are infinite, and glory eternal.  
I deny not but afflictions, and temptations may befall us, yea, I acknowledge they are subject and incident to the best and dearest of God's children, whom he will try in the fire, to see whether they will prove silver, or dross: yea, he will come with his Fan and winnow them, to see whether they are Wheat or Chaff, Corn of Darnell: But the Children of God should 
b Rom. 5. 3.  rejoice in tribulations, and 
c james 1. 2.  account it exceeding joy, when they are tempted: yea, they must consider 
d jam. 1. 13, 14.  that God tempteth no man with evil: but it is our own concupiscence that draws and enticeth us to it. In which respect, we may justly say, it is a folly to hearken to temptation, but a misery and madness to follow and embrace it.  
For why should discontent cast us into despair, except we will resemble the foolish Sailor, who abandoneth the Helm in a storm, when he hath most need to use it? or the simple fish, that leaps from the pan to the fire; Or those ignorant fools, who, to shelter themselves from the rain, run into the river? For are we tempted? 
e Psal. 73. 23.  The Lord will hold us up by his right hand, yea, 
f Psal. 9 10.  he will not fail those that seek him: For he is 
g Psal. 18. 2.  our Rock and our fortress, our shield and our refuge, yea, 
h Hos. 6. 1.  although he hath wounded us, he will bind up our wounds. And that we may yet see a farther benefit, that accrueth to those that are tempted, let us read with joy, and retain with comfort, that 
i james 1. 12.  Blessed is the man that endureth temptation, he shall receive the Crown of life, which the Lord hath promised to those that love him: yea 
k Psal. 125. 1.  they that trust in the Lord, shall be as Mount Zion, which cannot be removed, but abideth for ever.  
When therefore (amongst other temptations) choler so far prevaileth with us, (or rather the Devil with our choler) that we imagine mischief in our hearts, or life up our hands against our Christian brother; let us then consider what the Apostle tells us from God: 
l 1. joh. 2. 11.  He that hateth his brother, walketh in darkness, and knoweth not whither he goeth: yea, 
m 1 joh. 4. 10.  He that loves not his brother, is not of God. Hath any one therefore offended thee? Why, consider he is a man, and no Angel, and as subject to infirmities as thyself; as also, that he is thy brother by Creation and Adoption, by Nature and by Grace, and that he bears the same Image and Resemblance of God, as thyself dost: in which regard thou art counselled, 
n Ephes. 4. 26.  Not to 〈◊〉 the Sun go down on thy wrath: 
o 1 Pet. 3. 9  That thou seek after Peace and follow it: 
p Coloss. 3 13.  That we forbear and forgive one another, as Christ forgives us, and q that if we live in Peace, the God of Peace will be with us.  
But some there are (yea alas, too too many) who are so 
r Psal. 145. 8.  hardened in their hearts and sins, and so resolute in their wilfulness, as in stead of relishing, they distaste, and in stead of embracing, reject and disdain this Christian advice and counsel, opening their thoughts and hearts to all vanities, or rather drawing up the Sluices and Flood-hatches to let in all impiety to their souls, they give way to the treacherous baits of the World, to the alluring pleasures of the Flesh, and to the dangerous and fatal temptations of the Devil, and so cruelly imbrue their hands in the innocent blood of their Christian brethren; and although the murders of 
s Gen. 4. 8.  Abel by Cain out of Envy, of 
t 2 Sam. 11. 17.  Vriah by David for Adultery, of 
u 2 Sam. 3. 27.  Abner by joab for Ambition, of 
x 1 Kin. 21. 13.  Naboth by jezabel for Malice, and of 
y 2 Kin. 21. 1.  jehu his Sons by Athaliah for Revenge (with their several punishments which God inflicted on them for these their heinous and horrible crimes) are precedents enough fearful and bloody, to make any Christian heart dissolve into pity, and regenerate soul melt into tears: yet sith new examples engender and produce fresh effects of sorrow and compassion, and as it were, leave and imprint a sensible memory thereof in our hearts and understandings, therefore I thought it a work as worthy of my labour (as that labour of a Christian) to collect thirty several Tragical Histories, which for thy more ease, and perfecter memory, I have digested into six several Books; that observing, and seeing herein, as in a Crystal mirror, the variety of the Devils temptations, and the allurements of sin, wherewith these weak Christians (the Authors and Actors hereof) suffered themselves to be carried away and seduced: Considering, I say, the foulness of their facts in procuring the deaths of their Christian brethren, some through blood, others through poison, as also Gods miraculous detection and severe punishment thereof, in revenging blood for blood, and death for death; yea, many times repaying it home with interest, and rewarding one death with many, that the consideration of these bloody and mournful Tragedies, may by their examples, strike astonishment to our thoughts, and amazement to our senses, that the horror and terror thereof may hereafter retain and keep us within the lists of Charity towards men, and the bonds of filial and religious obedience towards God, who tells us by his Royal Prophet 
z Psa. 7. 14, 15  that Whosoever makes a pit for others, shall fall into it himself: for his mischief will return upon his own head, and his cruelty fall upon his own pate. Which we shall see verified in these, who seduced partly by sin, but chiefly by Satan, who is the Author thereof, forgot the counsel of the Apostle, 
a jam. 5. 13.  If any one be afflicted, let him pray: and grieved, 
b Psal. 61. 8.  to powreforth their hearts before God: not considering 
c Exod. 15. 15  the efficacy thereof, nor how Moses made the bitter waters of Marah sweet thereby: yea they builded not their faiths on God, and his promises, on Christ and his Church, on his Gospel and his Sacrament, but spurned at all these Divine comforts, and spiritual blessings: yea, and trampled that sweetsmelling Sacrifice of prayer under their feet, which is the Antidote and preservative of the soul against sin, and the Bulwark to expel all the fiery and bloody darts of Satan's temptations: yea, the very ladder whereby both the aspirations and ejaculations of our souls mount unto God, and his benefits and mercies descend unto us: and this, and only this, was both the Prologue to their destruction, and their destruction itself: the which I present unto the view, not only of thine eyes, but of thy heart and soul: because it is a Virtue in us to look on other men's Vices with hatred and detestation, imitating herein the wise and skilful Pilot, who mourns to see the Rocks, whereon his neighbours have suffered shipwreck: and yet again rejoiceth, that by the sight thereof he may avoid his own: which indeed is the true way, both to secure our safety, and to prevent our destruction, as well of the Temporal life of our bodies in this World, as the Spiritual of our souls in that to come.  
I must farther advertise thee, that I have purposely fetched these Tragical Histories from foreign parts: because it grieves me to report and relate those that are too frequently committed in our own Country, in respect the misfortune of the dead may perchance either afflict, or scandalise their living friends; who rather want matter of new consolation, than cause of reviving old sorrows, or because the iniquity of the times is such, that it is as easy to procure many enemies, as difficult to purchase one true friend: In which respect, I know that divers, both in matters of this, and of other natures, have been so cautious to disguise and mask their Actors, under the veils of other names and sometimes been enforced to lay their Scenes in strange and unknown Countries.  
For mine own part, I have illustrated and polished these Histories, yet not framed them according to the model of mine own fancies, but of their passions, who have represented and personated them: and therefore if in some places they seem too amorous, or in others too bloody, I must justly retort the imperfection thereof on them, and not thyself on me: sith I only represent what they have acted, and give that to the public, which they obscurely perp●…rated 〈◊〉 private.  
My intent, desire, and prayer is, that if thou art strong in Christ, the perusing and reading of these Histories may confirm thy faith, and thy defiance of all sins in general, and of Murder in particular, or if thou art but weak in the rules of Christian fortitude and piety, that hereby it may encourage and arm thee against the allurements of the World and the Flesh; but especially against the snares and enticements of the Devil, which may stir thee up either to Wrath, Despair, Revenge, or Murder: that by the contemplation thereof, thou mayst resemble the Bee, and not the Spider, and so draw honey from all flowers, but poison from none.  
It shall be the felicity of my thoughts, and the glory of my content and labour, if by the sight of these Histories, thou reap any Spiritual comfort or encouragement in this Christian Warfare against the World, the Flesh and the Devil, our three professed and fatal enemies: or if thou wilt be so wilfully negligent of thine own good, as to ride post by other men's sins and vices, yet with leisure take a curious and exact survey of thine own, and in seeing them, not only endeavour, but strive to reform them.  
If this first Book of my Tragical Histories work any good effect in thee, in causing thee to assume and take on a resolution to hate these sins in thyself, and to detest them in others; then the five other parts which I owe to my promise, and the frontispiece to thee, shall not be kept back, or withheld thee, but in due time succeed this their elder sister: having purposely enlarged thee this my Preface, because this one shall serve for all six books, at least, if the rest be so happy to see the world, or I so fortunate, that the World may see them. In the mean time, hoping that thy courtesy and charity will wink at some defects and imperfections, which may herein have slipped either from my Pen, or the Press, and whereof the malice of some, or peradventure the ignorance of others may accuse themselves, by condemning me; I recommend these my labours, from their passion, to thy friendship; from their censure, to thy judgement: and us all to the protection of 
c Deut. 30. 20.  God, who is our life, and the strength of our days. 
d Psal. 104. 31  To whom be glory for evermore.  
Thy Christian Friend, JOHN REYNOLDS.   

THE AUTHOR HIS READVERTISEMENT to the judicious Christian READER.  
THat my Promise owed six of these Books of God's Revenge against Murder to the World, the Title, and my Epistle (to the Reader) of the first Book doth apparently testify; It is now some ten years since that I published the third thereof, since when, my time and leisure hath still been so interrupted, and (as it were) cut asunder by many different intervening Accidents, that I a long time both doubted and feared that the three last Books would have absolutely died upon the Design: But I praise and bless God (He hath been so favourable to my desires, and so propitious to my intentions and resolutions) that I have cleared that doubt, and secured this fear; for now (by His sacred Assistance and Providence) I have fully and completely finished them, and do here present all Six Books to thee in one entire Volume. I am not so vain or presumptuous, to think that they deserve to be seen and read of the more judicious; for my thoughts aspire to nothing unproportionable to my mean abilities. I knew it was a singular great and excellent point of wisdom in Socrates, who (by the Oracle of Apollo) was doomed the wisest of Men, to confess and acknowledge to the World, That he knew but one thing, which was, that he knew nothing.  
But here, before I proceed farther, I must let the World know, that I understand there are a generation of people, who have been so strangely ignorant, as to give out that these my Histories are not Originals, but Translations, either from Italian or French; all which (with equal Truth and Modesty) I firmly contradict and deny, whether they regard Matter, Manner, or Method, or Phrase, Place, or Persons; for chose I found out the grounds of them in my Travels, and (at mine own leisure) composed and penned them, according to the rule of my weak Fancy and Capacity, they being so far from Translations, that as I have hitherto refused to imitate any therein, but myself, so had I been so ambitious or vainglorious to have given way, or consent to it, some Friends of mine in Paris, had long since done the three first Books into French, from my first Original thereof: But knowing Humility to be the fairest Ornament of a Writer, and Modesty best to beeome Virtuous Minds, I have hitherto prevented it, and do still resolve so to do.  
Now because as Idleness makes some too curious, and Curiosity makes others too idle, so it hath likewise pleased some (not so discreet as forward) to condemn and tax some of my Histories for being too long, and others for being too short, as if I were bound to observe and please their Fancy, more than the Truth, or mine own judgement, or that in the contriving and penning thereof, I were obliged to delight and content them before myself. No, no, as long as I know Men are as different in their Opinions and Censures, as in their Countenances and Complexions, I shall rather connive, and not regard their (worthy to be pitied) Ignorance, and resolve and content myself to contemn and pass by, rather than to esteem or grieve at it. They will first I hope read, before they understand; and let me then request them also, that they will first understand, before they either censure, or tax any part of what they read, and so I doubt not, but they will both see, and find, that (in the penning and publishing of these Histories) if I am not worthy of their Love, yet (at least) their unjust Envy and Detraction is every way unworthy of me; and that although many Books of these our Times are not particularly approved and liked of for the present, yet it is not impossible for the future both to respect and honour them; and so I leave these uncharitable Zoylist's to sleep standing in the simplicity of their Ignorance, if they will not be rectified and reform by warning: And I will now divert my Pen to the wise and religious Christian Readers, who well know what singular good effects it worketh in their Hearts, first to read with Understanding, and then to apply with Charity and Prudence, for whose sakes solely I have now added these my three last Books of God's Revenge against the Crying Sin of wilful Murder to the three former; For I send them to the public good, whereunto all our Endeavours should tend, to the Propagation of Christian Love and Charity among Men, whereat all our Enterprises should aim, and to the flourishing Advancement of God's Honour and Glory, to which all the thoughts of our Hearts, and Faculties of our Souls should chiefly aspire and level.  
And because Sealiger affirms, That nothing so soon allures or draws a Reader to peruse and read, as a strange Theme and Argument; Therefore this Path being seldom (if ever) trodden or beaten by any other, I am so far from despairing, as I am confident, at least, of thy Acceptance, if not of thy Approbation of these my Labours, and much the sooner, because as thou hast heretofore disburdened my Stationer of the three first of these Books, so he (in contemplation thereof) hath now drawn the three last of them from me to the Press, with a more than common and usual Importunity; and I shall bear this content to my Grave, and I hope from thence to Heaven, that in penning of them all, I shall leave no pernicious Heir behind me, to infect Youth with Scurrility, or corrupt their Manners and Inclinations with Incentives to Lewdness and Vanity; which as it is the shame of this our Age, so it ought to be the care of every good man, to shun that which so many of our lewd and lascivious Pamphlets do not. In writing hereof, I have consecrated my Pen rather to Instruction then Eloquence, and to Charity rather than Curiosity, and have made it my chiefest Care, Ambition, and Conscience, to profit thy soul, rather than to please thine Ear, and to savour more of Heaven than Earth; Yea, I will affirm (with equal Truth and Boldness) that I have written it with so innocent a Pen, that the purest and most unstayned Virgin shall not need to make her beautiful Cheeks guilty of the least Blush in perusing it all over.  
It is with no small Cost and Labour, that I first procured, then penned these Histories, and have now polished and prepared them to the Press, aswell for the extirpating of that Execrable Sin of Murder (which cries so loud to Heaven for Vengeance) as also to show thee Gods sacred justice, and righteous judgements, in the Vindication of the inhuman Authors thereof; to the end, that (by the knowledge and reading of them) thou mayest become more Charitable, and more hate Cruelty, by their wretched and lamentable Examples, having herein endeavoured (as much as in me lies) to make my Reader a Spectator, first of these their foul and bloody Crimes, and then of their condign and exemplary Punishments, which (as a dismal Storm and terrible Tempest from Heaven) fell on them on Earth, when they least dreamt or thought thereof.  
And here to conclude this my Readvertisement to thee, I religiously from my Heart entreat thee to respect the Matter, not the Words, and the Importance and Consequence, more than the Dressing of these Thirty several Tragical Histories, whiles I will account and esteem it a far greater Happiness for myself to learn true Charity, and the true Fear of God in writing them, then to presume of my Ability to instruct and teach others by reading them, because I may justly and truly say with Lipsius, That my Aim and Desire in publishing of them, Is not that I might be made greater, but better thereby, and (if it please God) others by me.  
What Spiritual Fortitude, or Benefit, thou reapest by their Knowledge and Contemplation, I exhort thee, in steed of giving me any Thanks, to reserve and give them wholly to God, Who is the Giver of all Good things, yea, the Father of Mercy, and the God of all Comfort and Consolation, to whose Grace I commit thee, defiring thee to assist me with thy favourable Opinion, and daily Prayers to His Throne of Grace, as I shall ever be ready to requite thee with mine.  
Thy Christian Friend, JOHN REYNOLDS.   

The PRINTER to the Courteous READER.  
THe Author of these Six Books of God's Revenge against Murder, being absent from the Press, and the Press running far swifter than my thoughts, it is no marvel if (unwillingly) I have made myself guilty of some Errors therein, both of commission and omission; but as I despair of his excuse and pardon for the same, so yet I nevertheless hope of thine, because thou knowest that absolute perfection is not to be found in Angels, and therefore much less to be expected or hoped for in men, who for the most part are wholly composed of Errors. Those therefore which are material and capital (whereof I here present thee a few) I pray thee (for thine own content and satisfaction) accordingly to correct and reform in thy Book with thy Pen, before thou attempt the reading thereof: And for the Literal ones, if my judgement fail me not, I am confident that thine will esteem them to be every way far more worthy of thy scorn, then of thy care.   

Errata.  
PAg. 5. Lin. 19 for, she might, read, how she might. pag. 36. lin. 2. the beauty Varina, read, the beauty of Varina. pag. 60. l. 25. for foreleg, r. his left foreleg. pag. 104. l. 49. for constantly, r. consequently. pag. 132. l. 8. f. I not owe, r. I not only owe. pag. 198. l. 42. f. pleaded. r. pleaded there. p. 206. l. 34. for, That if he for, r. that for. p. 210. l. 42. f. hands. r. hand. p. 259. l. 22. f. to Benevente. r, to Alcasero. pag. 282. l. 28. f. Summer of his folly, r. Summer of his youth in folly. p. 312. l. 25. f. as grief. r. as discontented as grief. p. 356. l. 18. f. my misfortune. r. or my misfortune. pag. 397. lin. 28. f. comes to Savona, read, comes to Savona no more. Hist. 24. for, the parish of S. Aignaw, r. S. Aignan. In the same History, for, the City of Rheims, r. Rennes. Next to Page 493. Hist. 24. are 45 Pages omitted. Next to the last Page of Hist. 25. which is Pag. 527. are 190 Pages omitted, Which the Reader is prayed to remember. Pag. 343. l. 26. f. Corsu, r. set sail for Corfu. pag. 345. l. 15. f. and burn, r. and sojourn. p. 350. l. 10. f. what a crime is, r. not what a crime is. pag. 366. lin. 49. for, of glad. r. as glad. pag. 382. lin. 50. for, fast, r. pass. pag. 386. l. 5. f. though not enough, r. though not time enough. p. 418. l. 34. f. repundiate, r. repudiate.   

TO THE RIGHT HONOURABLE GEORGE, Lord Marquis of Buckingham, etc.  
RIGHT HONOURABLE,  
ABout some two years since, I (from beyond the Seas) presumed to send your Honour two several pregnant testimonies, as well of my affection to your service, as of my zeal to your prosperity; not that I performed those then, or remember them now, in regard of your fortunes, but of your virtues; for I know, that to flatter, is to betray Greatness: a vice most ignoble in itself, and therefore most improper for your Honour's receipt, or acceptance, sith your actions still make it apparent to our Sacred Sovereign, and his most Excellent Majesty to all the World, that you are truly Honourable, truly Noble: and now to second my two former acknowledgements of zeal and duty to your Honour, with this third, I (though in a less serious, yet more public manner) presume to make you the Worthy and Noble Patron of the first Book of my Tragical Histories, (some of the mean observations and collections of my slender Travels,) wherein The Triumphs of God's Revenge against the crying and execrable sin of Murder, are so eminent and conspicuous, that (except my hopes betray my judgement) they are made obvious to the sight, and consequently profitable to the soul of a Christian; and not to profane either your Honour's ears, or my pen, with the least spark or shadow of an untruth; my presumption had not been so ambitious, to have committed these Histories to the Press, except with a desire, that in some sort they might thereby repress that hellish sin, against which they solely contest and fight, and which in these our days (with as much pity as grief) makes so bloody and so lamentable a progression, thereby to serve as stops and preventions, in our England, in imitation of the Cataracts of Nilus, which keep Egypt from being submerged with her Inundation: nor had I aspired to shelter them under the wings of your Honour's Patronage and protection, but that thereby they might find the surer passage, in conversing with the different Opinions, and the safer, in meeting with the self-pleasing Censures of the World; and if your Honour please select some few hours from your more serious and weighty Affairs, and vouchsafe employ them on the different Accidents these Histories report and relate, I (with as much humility as confidence) presume, that you will esteem them, if not profitably lent, yet not prodigally, nor viciously cast away, in the perusal and contemplation thereof. Howsoever, they proceed from his Pen, whose Heart not only admires and honours your Virtues, but rejoiceth in the Reward thereof, your Fortunes; for I live not, if in the sincerity and candour of my Soul, I wish not that your Honour may still remain firm to these, and these eternally fixed and constant to You; and from your Honour, successively to your Posterity, transcendently to your Name.  
Your Honours in all Duty and Service, JOHN REYNOLDS.   

A TABLE Of all the Letters (and Challenges) contained in these whole Six BOOKS; With the Pages where to find them.  

BOOK. I.  
MErmanda to Betanford. Pag. 6  
Betanford to Mermanda. Pag. 7  
Grand Pre to Betanford. A Challenge. Pag. 8  
De Malleray to Grand Pre. A Challenge. Pag. 12  
Christeneta to Pisani. Pag. 19  
Pisani to Christeneta. ibid.  
Christeneta to Pisani. Pag. 20  
Pisani to Christeneta. ibid.  
Gasparino to Pisani. A Challenge. Pag. 23  
josselina to Mortaigne. Pag. 34  
josselina to Calintha. Pag. 35  
Calintha to josselina. Pag. 36  
Alsemero to Beatrice-Ioana. Pag. 50  
Beatrice-Ioana to Alsemero. Pag. 51  
Alsemero to Beatrice-Ioana. Pag. 51  
Beatrice-Ioana to Alsemero. Pag. 52  
Tomaso to Alonso Piracquo. Pag. 53  
Tomaso Piracquo to Alsemero. A Chal. Pag. 59   

BOOK. II.  
Sypontus' to Victoryna. Pag. 91  
Sypontus to Victoryna. Pag. 93  
Victoryna to Sypontus. Pag. 95  
Sypontus to Victoryna. Pag. 96  
Antonio to Berinthia. Pag. 109  
Berinthia to Antonio. Pag. 110  
Antonio to Berinthia. Pag. 111  
Berinthia to Antonio. Pag. 114  
Antonio to Berinthia. ibid.  
Vilarezo to Sebastiano. Pag. 118  
Sebastiano to Antonio. A Challenge. Pag. 119  
Poligny to Laurieta. Pag. 133  
Laurieta to Poligny. ibid.  
Bellvile to Poligny. A Challenge. Pag. 134  
La Palaisiere to Poligny. Pag. 136  
Poligny to La Palaisiere. ibid.  
Bellvile to Laurieta. Pag. 140  
Laurieta to Bellvile. ibid.  
Perina to Castelnovo. Pag. 156  
Castelnovo to Perina. Pag. 157  
Perina to Castelnovo. Pag. 158  
Castelnovo to Perina. Pag. 158  
Castelnovo to his Son Castelnovo. Pag. 160  
Brellati to Be●…tolini. A Challenge. Pag. 171  
Sturio to Paulina. Pag. 174  
Paulina to Sturio Pag. 175  
Sturio to Bertolini. A Challenge. Pag. 176   

BOOK. III.  
Vaumartin to De Salez. A Challenge. Pag. 197  
De Salez to Vaumartin. Pag. 197  
Vaumartin to De Salez. Pag. 198  
Argentier to De Salez. Pag. 201  
Baretano to Clara. Pag. 220  
●…lara to Baretano. ibid.  
Baretano to Clara. 2●… Pag. 1  
●…lara to Baretano. ibid.  
Leonardo to Albemare. Pag. 231  
Lafoy Vasselay to De Bremay. Pag. 249  
De Bremay to La Vasselay. Pag. 250  
Lafoy Vasselay to De Merson. Pag. 252  
De Merson to La Vasselay. ibid.  
La Vasselay to De Merson. Pag. 253  
De Merson to La Vasselay. ibid.  
Carpi to Fidelia. Pag. 265  
Fidelia to Carpi. Pag. 266  
Carpi to Fidelia. Pag. 268  
Alcasero to Carpi. A Challenge. Pag. 270   

BOOK. IV.  
Don juan to Idiaques. Pag. 310  
Don juan to Marsillia. Pag. 310  
Idiaques to Don juan. Pag. 311  
Marsillia to Don juan. Pag. 312  
Don juan to Marsillia. Pag. 313  
De Perez to Don juan. A Challenge. Pag. 314  
Don juan to De Perez. Pag. 315  
La Precoverte to Harcourt. Pag. 333  
La Precoverte to Masserina. Pag. 334  
Harcourt to La Precoverte. Pag. 335  
Masserina to La Precoverte. ibid.  
Borlary to Planeze. A Challenge. Pag. 354  
Planeze to Borlary. Pag. 356  
Borlary to Fellisanna. Pag. 359  
Fellisanna to Borlary. Pag. 360  
Borlary to Fellisanna. Pag. 361  
Planeze to Borlary. A Challenge. Pag. 363  
Castruchio to Borlary, Pag. 370  
Blancheville to Beaumarais. Pag. 377  
Champigny to Beaumarais. A Chal. Pag. 379  
Beaumarais to Champigny. Pag. 380  
Fermia to Moron. Pag. 399  
Fermia to Moron. Pag. 404  
Moron to Fermia. ibid.  
Fermia to Moron. Pag. 408  
Moron to Fermia. ibid.   

BOOK. V.  
Babtistyna and Amarantha to Streni. Page 429  
Babtistyna and Amarantha to jaquinta. ibid.  
Streni to Babtistyna and Amarantha. Page 430  
jaquinta to Babtistyna and Amarantha. Page 431  
Amarantha to Streni. Page 436  
Amarantha to Baptistyna. ibid.  
Catharina to Delrio. Page 455  
Martino to Delrio. Page 456  
Delrio to Catharina. Page 457  
Delrio to Martino. ibid.  
Delrio to Cecilliana. Page 458  
Cecilliana to Delrio. Page 459  
Father Thomas to Cecilliana. Page 469  
Cassino to Sophia. Page 474  
Sophia to Cassino. Page 475  
Sophia to Cassino. Page 476  
Cassino to Sophia. Page 479  
Cassino to Sophia. ibid.  
La Pratiere to Valfontaine. Page 492  
Valfoutaine to La Pratiere. Page 493  
La Pratiere to Valfontaine. Page 448  
Valfontaine to La Pratiere. ibid.  
Quatbrisson to Valfontaine. Page 449  
Salyna to Vasti. Page 516  
Vasti to Salyna. Page 520  
Salyna to Vasti. ibid.   
Here, although there be 235 numbers different, and omitted in the Pages, yet the Reader is prayed to proceed on according as he futurely finds them marked and observed.  

BOOK. VI  
Imperia to Morosini. Pag. 345  
Morosini to Imperia. Pag. 346  
Imperia to Morosini. Pag. 349  
Morosini to Imperia. Pag. 351  
Bondino to Palmerius. Pag. 360  
De Laurier to Du Pont. Pag. 377  
Hippolito to Roderigo. Pag. 392  
Roderigo to Hippolito. Pag. 393  
Cervantella to Roderigo. Pag. 395  
Dominica to Roderigo. ibid.  
Roderigo to Cervantella. Pag. 396  
Roderigo to Dominica. ibid.  
Cervantella to Roderigo. Pag. 398  
Sanctifiore to Ursina. Pag. 411  
Ursina to Sanctifiore ibid.  
Sanctifiore to Ursina. ibid.  
Ursina to Sanctifiore. Pag. 412  
Ursina to Sanctifiore. Pag. 419  
Placedo to Ursina. Pag. 424  
Bellinda to Palura. Pag. 446  
Palura to Bellinda. Pag. 447    

A TABLE OF THE CONTENTS of all the HISTORIES Contained in the whole Six BOOKS.  

The Contents of the First Book.  
HISTORY I. HAutefelia causeth La Fresnay an Apothecary to poison her Brother Grand Pre and his Wife Mermanda, and is likewise the cause that her said Brother kills de Malleray her own Husband in a Duel. La Fresnay condemned to be hanged for a Rape, on the Ladder confesseth his two former Murders, and says that Hautefelia seduced and hired him to perform them: Hautefelia is likewise apprehended. And so for these cruel Murders they are both put to severe and cruel Deaths. pag. 1.  
HIST. II. Pisani betrayeth Gasparino of his Mistress Christeneta. Gasparino challengeth Pisani for this Disgrace, and kills him in the Field; He after continueth his Suit to Christeneta. She dissembles her Malice for Pisani his Death. She appoints Gasparino to meet her in a Garden; and there causeth Bianco and Brindoli to murder him. They are all three taken, and executed for the same. pag. 16.  
HIST. III. Mortaigne, under promise of Marriage, gets josselina with child, and after converting his love into hatred, causeth his Lackey▪ Lafoy Verdure and La Palma to murder both her and her young son. The jealousy of I●…ella to her Husband La Palma is the cause of the Discovery hereof. They are all three taken and executed for the same. pag. 31.  
HIST. IU. Beatrice-Ioana, to marry Alsemero, causeth the Flores to murder Alonso Piracquo, who was a suitor to her. Alsemero marries her, and finding the Flores and her in Adultery, kills them both. Tomaso Piracquo challengeth Alsemero for his Brother's death. Alsemero kills him treacherously in the field, and is beheaded for the same, and his body thrown into the Sea: At his execution he confesseth, that his wife and de Flores murdered Alonso Piracquo: their bodies are taken up out of their graves, then burn, and their ashes thrown into the air. pag. 45.  
HIST. V. Alibius murthereth his wife Merilla: he is discovered, first, by Bernardo, then by Emelia his own Daughter: so he is apprehended and hanged for the fact. pag. 65.   

The Contents of the Second Book.  
HIST. VI Victoryna causeth Sypontus to stab and murder her first Husband Souranza, and she herself poisoneth Fassino her second: so they both being miraculously desected, and convicted of these their cruel murders, he is beheaded, and she hanged and burnt for the same. pag. 87.  
HIST. VII. Catalina causeth her waiting-maid Ansilva, two several times to attempt to poison her own Sister Berinthia: wherein failing, she afterwards makes an Empiric, termed Sarmiata, poison her said Maid Ansilva: Catalina is killed with a Thunderbolt, and Sarmiata hanged for poisoning Ansilva. Antonio steals Berinthia away by her own consent: whereupon her brother Sebastiano fights with Antonio, and kills him in a Duel: Berinthia, in revenge hereof, afterwards murthereth her brother Sebastiano: she is adjudged to be immured 'twixt two walls, and there languisheth and dies. pag. 105.  
HIST. VIII. Bellvile treacherously murthereth Poligny in the street. Laurieta, Poligny's Mistress, betrayeth Bellvile to her Chamber, and there in revenge shoots him thorough the body with a Pistol, when assisted by her Waiting-maid Lucilla, they likewise give him many wounds with a Poniard, and so murder him. Lucilla flying for this fact, is drowned in a Lake, and Laurieta is taken, and hanged, and burnt for the same. pag. 127.  
HIST. IX. jacomo de Castelnovo, lustfully falls in love with his daughter in Law Perina, his own son Francisco de Castelnovo's wife: whom to enjoy, he causeth jerantha first to poison his own Lady Fidelia, and then his said son Francisco de Castelnovo; in revenge whereof, Perina treacherously murthereth him in his bed. jerantha ready to dye in travel of child, confesseth her two murders, for the which she is hanged and burnt. Perina hath her right hand cut off, and is condemned to perpetual imprisonment, where she sorrowfully dies. pag. 147.  
HIST. X. Bertolini seeks Paulina in marriage, but she loves Sturio, and not himself: he prays her Brother Brellati his dear friend, to solicit her for him, which he doth, but cannot prevail: whereupon Bertolini lets fall some disgraceful speeches, both against her honour and his reputation: for which Brellati challengeth the field of him, where Bertolini kills him, and he flies for the same. Sturio seeks to marry her, but his Father will not consent thereunto, and conveys him away secretly: for which two disasters, Paulina dies for sorrow. Sturio finds out Bertolini, and sends him a challenge, and having him at his mercy, gives him his life at his request: he afterwards very treacherously kills Sturio with a Petronel in the street from a window: he is taken for this second murder, his two hands cut off, then beheaded, and his body thrown into the River. pag. 167.   

The Contents of the third Book.  
HIST. XI. De Salez killeth Vaumartin in a Duel; Lafoy Hay causeth Michaelle to poison▪ Lafoy Frange; De Salez loves La Hay, and because his Father Argentier will not consent that he marry her, stifleth him in his bed, and then takes her to his wife; she turns Strumpet, and cuts his throat; as he is dying, he accuseth her of this bloody fact, and himself for murdering his father Argentier: so his dead body is hanged to the gallows, then burnt; Lafoy Hay confesseth this murder, and likewise that she caused Michaelle, to poison La Frange: she hath her right hand cut off, and is then burnt alive; Michaelle is broken on the wheel, and his dead body thrown into the River. pag. 187.  
HIST. XII. Albemare causeth Pedro and Leonardo to murder Baretano, and he after marrieth Clara, whom Baretano first sought to marry: He causeth his man Valerio to poison Pedro in prison, and by a letter which Leonardo sent him, Clara perceives that her husband Albemare had hired and caused Pedro and Leonardo to murder her first love Baretano: which letter she reveals to the judge; so he is hanged; and likewise Valerio and Leonardo for these their bloody crimes. pag. 213.  
HIST. XIII. La Vasselay poisoneth her Waiting-maid Gratiana, because she is jealous that her husband De Merson is dishonest with her; whereupon he lives from her: In revenge whereof, she causeth his man La Villete to murder him in a Wood, and then marries him in requital. The said La Villete a year after riding thorough the same Wood, his Horse falls with him, and almost kills him; when he confesseth the murder of his master De Merson, and accuseth his wife La Vasselay to be the cause thereof: So for these their bloody crimes, he is hanged, and she burnt alive. pag. 237.  
HIST. XIV. Fidelia and Caelestina cause Carpi and Monteleone, with their two Lackeys, Lorenzo and Anselmo, to murder their father Captain Benevente, which they perform. Monteleone and his Lackey Anselmo are drowned, Fidella hangs herself, Lorenzo is hanged for a robbery, and on the Gallows confesseth the murdering of Benevente; Carpi hath his right hand, than his head cut off; Caelestina is beheaded and her body burnt.  
HIST. XV. Maurice like a bloody villain, and damnable son, throws his Mother Christina into a Well, and drowns her: the same hand and arm of his wherewith he did it, rots away from his body; and being discrazed of his wi●…s in prison, he there conf●…h this foul and inhuman murder, for the which he is hanged. pag. 277.   

The Contents of the fourth Book.  
HIST. XVI. Idiaques causeth his son Don Ivan to marry Marsillia, and then commits Adultery and Incest with her; She makes her Father in Law Idiaques to poison his old wife Honoria, and likewise makes her own Brother De Perez to kill her Chambermaid Mathurina; Don Ivan afterwards kills De Perez, in a Duel; Marsillia hath her brains dashed out by a horse, and her body is afterwards condemned to be burnt; Idiaques is beheaded, his body consumed to ashes, and thrown into the air. pag. 303.  
HIST. XVII. Harcourt steals away his brother Vimoryes wife, Masserina and keeps her in Adultery; She hireth Tivoly (an Italian Mountebank) to poison La Precoverte, who was Harcourts' wife; Harcourt kills his brother V●…mory, and then marries his widow Masserina; Tivoly is hanged for a robbery; and at his execution accuseth Masserina for hiring him to poys●…n La Precoverte, for the which she is likewise hanged; Noel (who was Harcourts' man) on his deathbed suspecteth and accuseth his said Master for killing of his brother Vimory, whereof Harcourt being found guilty, he is broken alive on a wheel for the same. pag. 325.  
HIST. XVIII. Romeo (the Laquay of Borlary) kills Radegonda, the Chamber maid of the Lady Fellisanna in the street, and is hanged for the same; Borlary afterwards hireth Castruchio (an Apothecary) to poison her Husband Signior Planeze, for the which Castruchio is hanged, and his body thrown into the River, and Borlary is beheaded, and then burnt. pag. 339.  
HIST. XIX. Beaumarays, and his brother Montaigne, kill Champigny, and Marin (his second) in a Duel; Blancheville (the widow of Champigni) in revenge thereof hireth Le Valley (who was servant to Beaumarays) to murder his said Master with a Pistol, the which he doth, for the which Le Valley is broken on a wheel, and Blancheville hanged for the same. pag. 377.  
HIST. XX. Lorenzo murthereth his wife Fermia; He some twenty years after (as altogether unknown) robbeth his (and her) son Thomaso, who likewise (not knowing Lorenzo to be his father) doth accuse him for that robbery, for the which he is hanged. pag. 395   

The Contents of the fifth Book.  
HISTORY XXI. Babtistyna and Amarantha poison their Eldest Sister jaquinta, after which Amarantha causeth her servants, Bernardo and Pierya to stifle her elder Sister Babtistyna in her Bed, Bernardo flying away, breaks his neck with a fall off his Horse, Pierya is hanged for the same, so likewise is Amarantha, and her body after burnt; Bernardo being buried, his body is again taken up, and hanged to the Gallows by his feet, then burnt and his ashes thrown into the River. pag. 427.  
HIST. XXII. Martino poisoneth his Brother Pedro, and murthereth Monfredo in the street; He afterwards grows mad, and in confession reveals both these his murders to Father Thomas his Ghostly Father, who afterwards dying, reveals it by his Letter to Cecilliana, who was Widow to Monfredo, and Sister to Pedro and Martino. Martino hath first his right hand cut off, and then is hanged for the same. pag. 449.  
HIST. XXIII. Alphonso poisoneth his own Mother Sophia, and after shoots and kills Cassino (as he was walking in his Garden) with a short Musket (or Carabyne) from a Window. He is beheaded for those two murders, then burnt, and his ashes thrown into the River. pag. 473.  
HIST. XXIV. Pont Chausey kills La Roche in a Duel. Quatbrisson causeth Moncallier (an Apothecary) to poison his own Brother Valfontaine, Moncallier after falls, and breaks his neck from a pair of stairs. Quatbrisson likewise causeth his Father's Miller to murder, and strangle Marieta in her Bed, and to throw her body into his Mill-Pond; Pierot the Miller is broken alive on a wheel, and Quatbrisson first beheaded, then burnt for the same. pag. 487.  
HIST. XXV. Vasti first murthereth his Son George, and next poisoneth his own Wife Hester, and being afterwards almost killed by a mad Bull in the Fields, he revealeth these his two murders, for the which he is first hanged, and then burnt. pag. 513.   

The Contents of the sixth Book.  
HIST. XXVI. Imperia for the love she bears to young Morosini, seduceth and causeth him (with his two Consorts, Astonicus, and Donato) to stifle to death her old Husband Palmerius in his bed; Morosini misfortunately letting fall his gloves in Palmerius his Chamber that night which he did it, they are found by Richardo the Nephew of Palmerius, who knows them to be Morosinies, and doth thereupon accuse him and his Aunt Imperia, for the murder of his Uncle; So they together with their accessaries Astonicus and Donato, are all four of them apprehended and hanged for the same. pag. 337.  
HIST. XXVII. Father justinian a Priest, and Adrian an Inn keeper, poison De Laurier, who was lodged in his house, and then bury him in his Orchard; where a month after a Wolf digs him up, and devours a great part of his body; which Father justinian and Adrian understanding, they fly upon the same, but are afterwards both of them apprehended and hanged for it. pag. 369.  
HIST. XXVIII. Hippolito murthereth Garcia in the street by night, for the which he is hanged. Dominica and her Chambermaid Denisa poisoneth her Husband Roderigo; Denisa afterwards strangleth her own new borne Babe, and throws it into a Pond, for the which she is hanged; on the ladder she confessed that she was accessary, with her Lady Dominica in the poisoning of her Husband Roderigo; for the which Dominica is apprehended, and likewise hanged. pag. 389.  
HIST. XXIX. Sanctifiore (upon promise of marriage) gets Vrsina with child, and then afterwards very ingratefully and treacherously rejecteth her, and marries Bertranna: Vrsina being sensible of this her disgrace, disguiseth herself in a Friar's habit, and with a case of Pistols kills Sanctifiore as he is walking in the fields, for the which she is hanged. pag. 409.  
HIST. XXX. De Mora treacherously kills Palura in a Duel with two Pistols: His Lady Bellinda with the aid of her Gentleman Usher Ferallo, poisoneth her Husband De Mora, and afterwards she marrieth and murthereth her said Husband Ferallo in his bed; so she i●… burned alive for this her last murder, and her ashes thrown into the air for the first. pag. 437.    

THE TRIUMPHS OF GOD'S REVENGE AGAINST THE CRYING, AND EXECRABLE sin of Murder.  

HISTORY I.  
Hautefelia causeth La Fresnay an Apothecary, to poison her brother Grand Pre and his wife Mermanda, and is likewise the cause that her said brother kills de Malleray her own husband in a Duel: Lafoy Fresnay condemned to be hanged for a rape, on the ladder confesseth his two former Murders, and says that Hautefelia seduced and hired him to perform them: Hautefelia is likewise apprehended: and so for the cruel Murders, they are both put to severe and cruel deaths.  
IF our contemplation dive into elder times, and our curiosity turn over the variety of ancient and modern Histories (as well Divine as Humane) we shall find that Ambition, Revenge, and Murder, have ever proved fatal crimes to their undertakers: for they are vices which so eclipse our judgements, and darken our understandings, as we shall not only see with grief, but find w●…h repentance, that they will bring us shame for glory, affliction for content, and misery for felicity: Now as they are powerful in men, so they are (so●…etimes) implacable in women, who (with as much vanity as malice) delight in these sins: as if that could add grace to their bodies, that deforms their souls, or lustre and prosperity to their days, that makes shipwreck both of their fortunes and lives. It is with grief and pity (yea not with passion, but compassion) that I instance this in a Gentlewoman, who was borne to honour, and not to shame, had not these three aforesaid vices (like so many infernal furies) lain her glory in the dust, and dragged her body to an untimely and infamous grave. It is a History that hath many sorrowful dependences, and which produceth variety of diasasterous and mournful accidents: wherein (by the just judgement of God) we shall see Ambition bitterly scourged, Revenge sharply rewarded, and Murder severely punished; by whose example, if all that profess Religion, become less impious, and more truly religious, we shall then lead the whole course of our lives in such peaceful and happy tranquillity, as (arming ourselves with resolution to live and die in the favour of Heaven) we need not fear either what earth, or hell can do unto us. The History is thus.  
Near Auxone (a strong and ancient Town upon the frontiers of Burgundy, and the free County) dwelled an aged grave Gentleman (nobly descended, and of very fair demaynes) named Monsieur de Grandmont, who had to his wife a virtuous Lady, termed Madammoyselle de Carnye, the only daughter of Monsieur de Buserat, a worthy Gentleman of the City of Dole: this married couple for a long time lived in the greatest height of content, that either Earth could afford, or their hearts desire, for as one way they grew opulent in lands and wealth, so another way they were endued with three hopeful Sons, Grand Pre, Vileneufe, and Masseron, and with two daughters, Madamoyselles de Hautefelia, and the Cressye: a fair posterity: they blessed in their Parents, and their Parents hoping themselves blessed in them: so as (to the eye of the world) this one family promised to make many, (especially sith the youngest of the five had already attained its tenth year) but God in his providence ordained the contrary.  
Grand Pre (as the first and chiefest pillar of the house) craves leave of his Father that he might serve his apprenticeship in the wars, under the command of that incomparable Captain, Grave Maurice then Earl of Nassaw, since Prince of Orange, Vileneufe delighting in books, his Father thought fit to send to Pont-au Mousson, and thinking to retain Masseron with him; he for his beauty was begged a Page by that valorous Marshal of France who so wilfully and unfortunately lost his head in the Bastile of Paris.  
As for their two daughters, Hautefelia lived with her Parents; and the Cressye they presented to a great Lady of Burgundy, who was long since the most afflicted and sorrowful Wife and Mother to the Barons of Lux, Father and Son, who were both slain by that generous and brave Lorraine Prince, the Knight of Guyse.  
But behold the inconstancy of fortune, or rather the power and pleasure of heaven, which can soon metamorphose our mirth into mourning, our joys into tears, and our hopes into despair: for within the compass of one whole year, we shall see three of these five Children laid in their graves, and of three several deaths, for Vileneufe was drowned at Pont-au Mousson as he bathed himself in the River: Masseron was killed in a Duel at Fontaine bleau by Rossat a Gascon, being Page to the Duke of Espernon: and Hautefelia died at home of a burning Fever with her Parents: a triple loss, which doth not only afflict their hearts and souls, but also seems to drown their eyes with a deluge of mournful and sorrowful tears.  
Grandmont and de Carny his Wife, being thus made unfortunate and wretched by the death of three of their Children, they resolve to call home their other two, to be comforts and props to their old age, but their hopes may deceive them. First, from the Baroness of Lux comes the Cressye, who succeeding her sister, we must now term by the name (or rather by the title) of Hautefelia; who hath a great and bloody part to act upon the Theatre of this History: and after her very shortly comes Grand Pre from Holland, where (in divers services) he left many honourable and memorable marks of his prowess and valour behind him.  
Upon his arrival to his Father's house, the flower of all the nobility and gentry of the Country, come to condole with him, for the death of his brothers and sister, as also to congratulate his happy return (an office and compliment which expresseth much affection and civility) they find Grand Pre a brave complete Gentleman, not in outward pride, but in inward generosity and virtue, not in the vanity of fashions and apparel, but in the perfections and endowments of his mind and body: he is wholly addicted to the exercise of war, and not to the art of courting of Ladies, his delights are in the camp of Mars and Bellona, and not in the Palace of Venus and Cupid, well knowing that the one will breed him honour and glory, the other shame and repentance; his pastimes are not crisping and powdering of his hair, quarrelling his tailor for the fashion of his clothes, dancing in velvet pumps, and tracing the street in a neat perfumed Boot with jangling Spurs; yea, he resembleth not young spruce Courtiers, who think no heaven to brave Apparel, nor Paradise to that of their Mistress beauty: for he only practiseth riding of great Horses, Tilting, running at Ring, displaying the Colours, tossing the Pike, handling the Musket, ordering of Rank and File, thereby to make himself capable to conduct and embattle an Army, and to environ, fortify, or besiege a City or Castle, or the like; yea, he spurns at the Lute and Vial, and vows there is no music to the rattling of the Drum and Trumpet, and to the thundering of the Musket and Canon: but this warlike and martial humour of his shall not last long: Wherein we may observe the vanity of our thoughts, the inconstancy of our delights, and the alteration and mutability of our resolutions; for now we shall shortly see Grand Pre hate that he loved, & love that he hated; yea, we shall see him so plunge and drown himself in the beauty of a fair & sweet Gentlewoman, as he shall leave Holland for Burgundy, War for peace, Arms for Love, and Enemies for a Mistress: but time must work this alteration and Metamorphosis.  
The old Gentleman his father, seeing Grand Pre's martial disposition, fears lest this ambitious and generous humour of his will induce him to seek wars abroad, sith he finds none at home; and therefore, desirous of his company and presence, in that it will sweeten his former afflictions, and give life to his future hopes and content, he proffers him the choice of many rich and fair young Gentlewomen for his wife, of the best and most ancient families in and near Auxone: but Grand Pre is deaf to these requests and motions, & thinks it a disparagement and blemish to his valour, if he should any way listen, or give ear thereto, the which his father perceiving and understanding, he bethinks himself of a further invention, and so resolves at Winter to leave the Country, and to reside in the City of Dijon, (famous for the ancient seat of the Dukes of Burgundy, and for the present Court of Parliament) hoping that there, amongst the multitude of sweet Ladies & Gentlewomen, wherewith that City is adorned, his son Grand Pre might at last espy some Paragon of Nature, whose beauty might have power to subdue and captivate his affections, and indeed (as the sequel will show) the event answereth his expectation.  
For on a Sunday morning in Lent, as Grand Pre went to the royal Chapel to hear Father justinian (a Capuchin Friar) preach, he opposite to him espies a most delicate and beautiful young Lady, slender of body, tall of stature, fair of taint & complexion, having a quick & gracious eye, with pure and delicate hair of a flaxen colour, being infinitely rich in Apparel, yet far richer in the perfections and excellencies of a true and perfect beauty; in a word, she was so amiable and so lovely, so sweet, and so pleasing to his eyes, as at her very first sight Grand Pre could not refrain from blushing, as being ravished with the sweetness of so sweet an object, so as his heart panted and beat within him, as being not accustomed to encounter with such beauties, or with such sudden passions and alterations.  
Now by this time this young gentlewoman (whose name we shall anon know) could not but perceive with what earnestness and delight Grand Pre beheld her, and seeing him to be a proper young Gallant, and richly apparelled and followed, she could not refrain from dying her Lily cheeks with a Vermilion blush, which gave such grace to her beauty, and so inflamed our poor Grand Pre, as he could no longer resist the influence of such amorous assaults; and now it is that his thoughts strike sail to affection, and his heart doth homage to beauty, so as he revokes his former opinion conceived against the power and dignity of Love, which he now holds erroneous, and in his heart vows that there is no such felicity in the world, as to enjoy the Lady of his desires, whom his eyes and soul chiefly honour and adore: But if he be ensnared and imprisoned in the fetters of her beauty, no less is she in those of his personage, only she is more coy and precise in the exterior demonstration there of: for as he cannot keep his eyes from gazing on her; so she seems but to look on him by stealth, or if she transgress that Decorum, she immediately, in outward appearance, checks her eyes from ranging beyond the lists of modesty and discretion.  
But by this time, to the grief of our new Lovers, the Sermon is ended, and all prepare to depart, so their eyes with much discontent and unwillingness, for that time take leave each of other: and here Grand Pre making a turn or two in the Church, is doubly tormented and perplexed, first with grief, that he is deprived of his Mistress sight, and then with sorrow, that he neither knows her, nor her name: But as Love refines our wits, and gives an edge to our intentions, so he shows her to his Page, and sends him to make secret enquiry what she is. His Page speedily returns, and informs him, that she is Madamoyselle Mermanda, eldest daughter to Mounsieur de Cressonuille, one of the chiefest Precedents of tthe Court of Parliament. Grand Pre extremely rejoiceth to know what she was, and far the more, in respect he sees it no disparagement either to himself or his house to marry her: and therefore omitting all other designs and resolutions (and bidding farewell to the Wars) he resolves to seek her in marriage; to which end, the next day, he of set purpose, with a Gentleman or two of his ●…mate and familiar friends, insinuates himself into her Father's house, who being absent, whiles they entertain the Mother, he (under colour of other conference) courts the Daughter: yea, now his affection to her is by many degrees redoubled, because he sees the excellency of her mind is answerable to that of her person, and now she coming likewise to know him, is as it were wrapped up in the contemplation of a thousand sweet contents, which so work on her affection, (or rather on her heart) as if he thinks himself happy in seeking such a Mistress, she esteems herself blessed in finding such a servant.  
Grand Pre finds his first entertainment from Mermanda to be respective and pleasing: and so authorized by her courtesy and advice, he taking time at advantage, goes to the old Precedent her father, and betrays him his affection to his daughter, and the desire he hath to obtain her for his wife: so having begun his suit, he leaves his father Grandmont to finish it, and continually frequents the companion of his beautiful Mistress Mermanda.  
Her father Cressonville dislikes not this match, but deems it both agreeable and honourable; only he knows that Grandmont hath likewise one only daughter, and himself one only son: so he infinitely desires to make this a double match, thereby to contract a more firm and stricter league betwixt their two houses; this is proposed and debated, as well between the young folks, as the old Parents, and at last it takes effect, so as purposely omitting, first the conference, than the letters sent from Grand Pre to Mermanda, and from Mermanda to Grand Pre; from De Malleray (Cressonvilles son) to Hautefelia, and from Hautefelia to De Malleray; because the inserting thereof would make this brief History swell into an ample volume. These Marriages, to the joy of the parents, and the sweet content of their sons and daughters, are pompously solemnised in Dijon, with all variety of feasting, dancing, and masking, answerable to their degrees and dignities. But these Marriages shall not prove so fortunate as is hoped, and expected, neither was Hymenaeus invited thereunto, or if he were, he refused to come; and therefore Lucina will likewise save her labour, because she knows that neither of these two young married Gentlewomen shall live to make use of her assistance.  
And here before I proceed farther, I wish the event of this History would give the lie to this ensuing position, that there is no pride nor malice to that of a woman; but I have more reason to fear then hope to believe the contrary: for no sooner have our two young couples reaped the fruits of Marriage, and the felicity of their desires, but we shall see the Sunshine of their joy overtaken with a difmall storm of grief, sorrow and misfortune; whereby we may observe and learn, that there is no perfect nor permanent felicity under the Sun, but that all things in this world, yea, the World itself is subject to revolution and change. The manner is thus:  
Hautefelia envies her sister in Law Mermanda's advancement, and contemns her own; she likes not to give the hand to her, whom she knows is by descent her inferior, and to speak truth, prefers a Scarlet Cloak before a Black, and a Swordman before a Penman; these ambitious conceits of hers, proceeding from hell, will breed bad blood, and produce mournful effects; yea, peradventure strangle her, who embraceth and practiseth them.  
Mermanda is of a gracious and mild nature, Hautefelia of an imperious and revengeful: never any married couple live more contented, nor past more pleasant days, than did Grand Pre and his fai●…e Mermanda for the space of one whole year; wherein she bore herself so loving & courteous towards him, & he so kind and pleasant to her, as their sweet carriage, and honourable, and virtuous behaviour, was of all the world (Hautefelia only excepted) highly praised and applauded. But Hautefelia envying Mermanda's prosperity and glory, because she could neither parallel the one, nor equal the other, & seeing with no other eyes then those of ambition and envy, bethinks herself she might act her disgrace, and eclipse the splendour of her virtues and glory. When remembering that the Baron of Betanford (dwelling not far from Auxone) sometimes visited her brother Grand Pre, as also that he very lately had done her two unkind offices; the one, by buying a jewel from her, which she was in price with, of a Goldsmith at Dijon Fair; and the other, for retaining a little fine white Frizland dog, which his Page had stolen from her: she thinks to give two strokes with one stone, and at one time to be revenged both of the Baron and of her sister in Law Mermanda.  
judge, Christian Reader, what simple reasons and trivial motives this inconsiderate Gentlewoman hath for her malice, but she is resolute therein, and as she hath laid the foundation, so she will perfect the edifice of her malice & revenge: which to effect, she sends a servant of hers purposely ne'er Auxone, to her brother Grand Pre, and writes him a letter to this effect: She entreats him to come ride over to her, for she hath a secret of importance to reveal him, which she holds not fit to commit to pen, and withal adviseth him to frame some excuse towards her husband for his sudden coming.  
Grand Pre arrives at Dijon, and is welcomed of his Brother and Sister, but he discovers her to be more sorrowful than accustomed; he is ignorant what these clouds of her discontent import, or from whence they arise: but he shall know too soon, and his curiosity shall pay dear to understand it. Supper ended, they fetch a walk in the garden, and so he is conducted to his Chamber, where his brother in Law De Malleray giving him the good night, his sister Hautefelia with tears in her eyes informs him, that she knows for certain, the Baron of Betanford is too familiar with his wife Mermanda, yea, beyond the bounds of honesty, the which she must needs reveal him, because his honour is hers, which, as she is bound by nature, she will cherish & preserve as her own life.  
Grand Pre amazed at this strange & unlooked for news, is like one lunatic, or rather stark mad, he stamps with his foot, throws away his hat, now casting himself on the bed, then on the floor; yea, & had not his sister prevented him, he had killed himself with his own sword: these are the wretched passions of jealousy, which transport ourselves beyond ourselves, & our reasons beyond the limits of reason: & now this vild & malicious sister of his (more out of policy than charity) useth many prayers & persuasions, brings him again to himself, and they conclude to keep it secret from all the world, but withal Grand Pre vows to be sharply revenged both of his wife, & the Baron of Betanford.  
Hautefelia having thus broached her inveterat & implacable malice (laughing hereat like a Gipsy) betakes herself to her rest, leaving her brother not to sleep, but to drive out the night in watchfulness and jealousy: who the next morn (sooner than his accustomed hour) riseth, takes his leave of his Brother and Sister, and so very pensive and sorrowful rides home.  
Mermanda finds her husband sad, and inquires the cause thereof: she prays him, that if any grief or misfortune have befallen him, she may participate and bear the one half thereof, as she doth of his joy and prosperity: and as she was wont to do, proffereth to kiss him; but he slights her, and with much unkindness and disdain puts her off; whereat she is amazed, as not acquainted with such discourtesy. After Supper (jealousy being his chiefest dish; and grief, hers) he makes three or four solitary turns in the Court, and then sends his Page for his wife, who betwixt comfort and gtiefe, hope and despair, presently comes to him: He demands of her whether she will walk with him; she answereth, that his pleasure shall ever be hers: and that she will most joyfully and willingly wait on him where he pleaseth: he brings her to a solitary Grove, and there having choler in his looks, and fire in his tongue, he chargeth her of dishonesty with the Baron of Betanford.  
Poor Mermanda, as it were pierced to the heart with the thunderbolt of this news, falls to the ground in a fainting swoone: yea, Grand Pre her husband hath much ado to recover her, when, coming again to herself, she with many volleys of sighs, and rivulets of tears, purgeth herself of that imputation and scandal; she blames his credulity and jealousy, terms her accusers devils and witches, invokes heaven and earth to bear witness of her innocency; and withal clears the Baron of Betanford, vowing and protesting by her part and hope of heaven, that he never attempted nor opened his mouth to make her the least shadow of so unchaste a motion.  
Grand Pre, weighing her words, and seeing her bitter and sorrowful tears, believes his Wife, and so frees both herself and the Baron, prays her to pardon him, and vows that he will love her dearer than before, and for ever forget and bury the memory thereof in perpetual oblivion and forgetfulness.  
But his wife Mermanda, notwithstanding this submission and reconciliation of her husband, is still vexed in mind, as finding it easy to admit grief, but difficult to expel it: she knows not what to do, nor of whom to take advice how she should bear herself in this strait and perplexity; for well she knows, that if the Baron of Betanford should come to visit her husband, as formerly he was accustomed to do, it would revive and confirm his jealousy, although they were both as innocent as innocence itself. Now she resolves to write the Baron a Letter to refrain her house: but then she thinks it too much indiscretion and presumption to attempt it, or that the letter might be intercepted, or her husband have news thereof; but again fearing his coming, and encouraged through her innocence, she resolves to write unto him: which she doth to this effect.  
IT is not with blushes, but tears, that I presume to write unto you; for indeed it grieves me to publish my Husband's folly, which by duty I know I am bound to conceal: neither had I attempted it, but that grief and necessity throws me on this exigent: for so it is, that my unspotted chastity is not capable to defend him from jealousy, which makes me as much triumph in mine own loyalty, as I grieve at his ingratitude: and not content to wrong me, his folly, or rather his frenzy hath reflection on you, whom he takes to be both the object and cause thereof: but as your innocence can justly warrant and defend mine honour, and your bonour my innocence from the least shadow of that crime: so that we may both endeavour, rather to quench then inflame this his irregular passion: I most humbly beseech you to refrain our house, and neither to visit me, nor be familiar with him, and so peradventure, time may wear away from his thoughts, that which at present, truth and reason cannot: your relucent Virtues and true generosity assure me of this courtesy, the which I will repay with thanks, and requite with prayers, that your days may be as infinite as your perfections, and your fame as glorious as your merits.  
MERMANDA.  
The Baron receives this letter, praiseth Mermanda's discretion, and laughs at Grand Pre's folly, extolleth her innocence, and condemns his jealousy: he will be careful to preserve a Lady's honour, especially one so truly chaste and honourable as Mermanda: he before had a purpose to see Paris, so now this occasion doth both crown and confirm his resolution; he makes ready his preparatives and baggage, and so takes Coach for that great City, which abounds with the greatest part of the Nobility of the whole Kingdom; but before his departure, he returns Mermanda this Answer.  
YOur virtues and my conscience, make us as unworthy of your husband's jealousy, as he of so chaste a wife as Mermanda, and so true a friend as Betanford: but as your affection to him hath still shined in your loyalty, so it must now in your patience; sith he in this base passion of his seeking his own shame, will at last assuredly find out your glory. Had his folly revealed me so much as your discreet Letter, I would have exchanged my pen to a sword, and with the hazard of my life, and loss of my dearest blood, made known as well to him as to the whole World, the truth, both of your chastity and hanor, and of mine honour and innocence: in the mean time I will both embrace and obey your request, and will manage it with such observance to your Husband, such respect to your virtues, and such regard to mine own reputation, as I hope he shall rest satisfied of your chastity towards himself, and of mine to you; otherwise I prise Ladies of your perfections at so high a rate, and set Cavaliers of his humour and inclination at so low an esteem, that I well know how to answer his choler with contempt, and to requite your discretion both with admiration and praise.  
BETANFORD.  
Mermanda very joyfully receives this Letter: but hers to the Baron producerh effects, contrary to her hopes; for Grand Pre understanding of the Baron of Betanfords sudden departure for Paris (as jealousy is full of eyes) he fears a plot betwixt him and his wife, and so confirms his former suspicion of her disloyalty: he therefore converts his love into hatred towards her, and now (to show the fruits and effects of his jealousy) refuseth her his bed, than which, to a chaste and virtuous wife, nothing can be more distasteful.  
At this ingrateful discourtesy, poor Mermanda tears her hair, sigheth, weepeth, mourneth, and lamenteth in such pitiful sort, that it seems nothing in the world is capable to comfort her, but she conceals her grief as secretly as she may, only he●… pale cheeks and discontented looks, as the outward heralds of her inward affection, do silently discover and bewray it.  
Her husband's father and mother, Grandmont and the Carnye, all this while know nothing of this discontent between Grand Pre and Mermanda; but their malicious and wretched daughter Hautefelia (whose malice never sleeps) hath spies in every corner of her father's house, who advertise her thereof: whereat she infinitely triumpheth and rejoiceth. But this joy of hers shall be but as breath on steel, or as smoke before the wind.  
Grand Pre this mean time boyles with inveterate rage, and his jealousy carries him to such extremes, as he vows to be revenged, first of Betanford, then of his wife, to which effect he pretends business to chaalon's (as what will malice leave unpretended?) and taking a choice Horse, a Page and two Lackeys with him, he passeth a contrary way, and comes first to Troy, then to Brie-count Robert (a day's journey from Paris) where being very private in his Inn, he writes a Challenge, and taking aside his Page, delivers it him, and commands him, at break of day to post with all expedition for Paris; where being arrived, to go to the Crown of France in S. Honories street, & secretly to deliver i●…to the Baron of Betanford, to take his answer, & to return the same night.  
The Page to obey his Master's command, seems rather to fly, than post; he fitly finds out the Baron, and very fairly delivers him the Letter, who breaking up the seal, therein finds these words:  
GRAND PRE, to the Baron of BETANFORD.  
YOu need no other wit●…esse than yourself to inform you in how high a nature you have wronged me, and herein your false glory hath made my true shame so apparent, as I had rather dye then live to digest it: for not to dissemble you my malice, as you have done me your friendship, I can sooner forget all other offences, then pardon this: therefore find it not strange that I request you to meet me, on thursday morning next, at five or six, either with your sword, or Rapier on Horseback or a foot at Carency, half a league from Brie-count Robert, where the Bearer hereof shall expect you, to conduct you safely to a fair Meadow, where without seconds I will attend you. It is impossible for me to receive any other satisfaction; for to write you the truth, nothing but your life, or mine, is capable to decide this difference.  
GRAND PRE.  
At the reading hereof, the Baron is so far from the least show or apprehension of fear, as he is pleasant and jocund; yea, he causeth Grand Pre's Page to dine with him, and after dinner, takes him aside, and speaks to him thus: Tell thy Master, that I will not fail to meet him on Horseback without a second, at the hour and place appointed. The next morn he dispeeds away a choice horse, which his Lackey leads, and about ten of the clock, only with his Chirurgeon and Page, taketh Coach, and comes that night to Carency, where he lodgeth.  
The next morn being Thursday (the day appointed to fight) Grand Pre, pretending to go to the Church, sends away his Page to Carency, to await and attend the Baron, and so only with his Chirurgeon hies himself to the field; which he first entered, and immediately (before he had fully made four turns) in comes Betanford, whom Grand Pre's Page had met at Carency, and now conducted thither, having only his Chirurgeon with him, and having left his Coach, Page, and Lackey a furlong off, with command not to stir, till they heard from him.  
The Surgeons (in stead of two Gentlemen for their Seconds) dispose themselves according to the order and ceremonies of Duels) to search the Combatants for Coats of Male, or the like: but they might have eased themselves of this labour and curisity; for both the Gentlemen were too honourable, to have their valours tainted with this base point of cowardice, or treachery; yea, in mere contempt thereof, they both of purpose had left their Doublets behind them. And now begins a Combat, as memorable as bloody, yea, performed with such valour, dexterity, and resolution, that as these times infinitely admire it, so succeeding ages will very difficultly believe it.  
They come into the Field with a soft trot, and each having his Enemy in front, and being near six score paces distant, they give spurs to their horses, and part like 〈◊〉 flashes of lightning. At their first meeting, Grand Pre runs Betanford thorough ●…e left shoulder, and Betanford only wounds Grand Pre in the right check, close under the eye; and being excellent Horse men, they turn short, and so again, fall to it with bravery and courage: in which encounter Betanford receives a wide wound upon the brawn of his right arm, and Grand Pre another thorough his left side, which undoubtedly had proved mortal, and so ended the Combat with his life, had not his sword glanced on a rib, and so ran outwards; and now they both retire to take breath, resolving to advance with more fury: they part again, Betanford runs Grand Pre thorough the neck, and he Betanford thorough the small of the arm, where meeting with the sinews and arteries, it causeth the sword to fall out of his hand, whereat he is extremely perplexed and amazed.  
Here perchance some base fellow (who had never been trained up in the School of Honour, and therefore not deserved the title of a Gentleman) would have wrought upon the misfortune of this accident, and desired no better advantage to dispatch his Adversary: But Grand Pre, whose generosity in this I commend, as much as I detest his jealousy, doth highly disdain to stain his honour and courage with this infamy, and so puts Betanford out of his apprehension and fear with these words; Baron, be courageous and cheerful, for I will rather dye, than disgrace myself so much, to fight with an unarmed man, and so commands his Chirurgeon to deliver him his sword again. Betanford is thankful to him for this courtesy, and vows he will never forget it.  
Now although their wounds do rather ingraine then embroider their shirts with blood, yet their youth is so vigorous, their courage Io inflamed, and their hearts so resolute and magnanimous, as they neither can, nor will yet rest satisfied: in a word, they manage their horses bravely, and act wonders with their swords; for by this time they having run four several Careres: Betanford hath received seven wounds, and given Grand Pre ten: but the loss of all this blood, (which now issued from their bodies rather by spouts then drops) is not capable to cool their courages: and so although with dust, sweat, blood, and wounds, they rather look like Furies than men, yet they will not refrain fight.  
And now their Chirurgeons grieving and pitying to see them, as it were drowned in their blood, and well knowing that they had performed more than they thought possible for men, they both agree, and so running with their hats in their hands, humbly pray them to desist and rest satisfied, by showing them that their swords and courages had already acted wonder beyond belief, and that it was pity their praents, Prince, and Country should be deprived of such resolute and valorous Cavaliers, than whom, the world (upon so unfortunate an accident) hath seldom seen braver: but they speak to the wind, and receive no other thanks, but this check from them both, that they are base fellows, and know not what belongs to their function and duty; and so rating and commanding them away, they once more divide themselves, and with fresh resolution and courage, again set spurs to their horses; but this encounter proves more happy to Betanford, and more dangerous to Grand Pre: for as he makes a thrust to Betanford, which mist and passed under his right arm, without doing any other harm then piercing and cutting thorough his shirt, Betanford (with all the courage and dexterity he had) run Grand Pre thorough the belly into the reynes, with which unfortunate wound, as also with a false pace, his horse then mad, he fell from the Saddle to the ground speechless, sprawling and struggling, as if he were upon the point to take his last farewell of the world: but he was not so happy, for he shall be cured of his wounds, and hereafter dye of a more mournful and lamentable end.  
Betanford, seeing Grand Pre fall, doubted that his wounds were mortal and so alights: whereat his Chirurgeon with a loud voice, cried out. Dispatch him, Dispatch him: but he calls him villain for his labour, when remembering the former cour●… he had received of Grand Pre, in regiving him his sword, he like a true noble Gentleman vows now to requite it, and so throwing it and his Ha●…te awa●… he with out-spred arms ran to embrace & assist him; yea, he prefers Grand Pre's life before his own, and with all possible speed commands his Chirurgeon to bring and hast thither his Coach, and to his best power doth assist Betanford, in setting him up, in ordering and binding up his wounds; his Coach being come, he causeth him to be laid in softly, and so he in one Boot, and the two Surgeons in the other, their Pages and Lackeys attending them, they drive away to the very next country house, where they hush themselves up privately, and here Betanford resembling himself, conjureth both the Surgeons to use their best art and chiefest skill upon Grand Pre, and before he would have his own wounds looked unto, he causeth his to be opened, they do it, and both concur in opinion, that his last wound is mortal; he sees them dress him, and vows he will not forsake him in this extremity, but will be more careful of him then of himself. Reciprocal and singular demonstrations of courtesy and honour in these two Caveliers, which will make their memories famous to posterity.  
Betanford, seeing Grand Pre committed to sleep, causeth his own wounds to be speedily searched and dressed, which are not found dangerous, and then takes order in the house, that Grand Pre be furnished with all things necessary, as Chamber, curious attendance, and the like; yea, he ordereth matters so, that all things might be done with great secrecy and silence, nor permitting any of his own, or Grand Pre's servants to be seen forth the house, to the end that the news of these their accidents might not be bruited or vented.  
About noon, Grand Pre's speech by little and little comes to him, and likewise his memory, when Betanford absenting all from his Chamber, with his Hat in his hand came to his bed side, and having courteously saluted and comforted him, prays and conjures him, as he is a Gentleman of Honour, to tell him why and wherefore he fought with him. Ah Baron (quoth Grand Pre) first swear to me on thine honour, thou wilt deliver me the truth of a question I will demand of thee, and then I will show thee. By my honour and fidelity, replies Betanford, and as I hope for heaven, I will. Then Baron (quoth he) didst thou never wrong me and mine honour, in being too familiar with my wife Mermanda? The Baron with many solemn protestations and religious oaths, clears both himself and Mermanda, and vows, that his heart never thought it much less his tongue ever attempted it. Whereat Grand Pre very humbly entreats him to excuse and pardon him, sith he understood and believed the contrary, which was the only cause of his discontent and challenge: adding withal, that he will, till death, esteem him as his most honourable friend, and, as long as he lives, will affect and love his wife dearer than ever he had before. It is as great a happiness to repair and reform errors, as a misery to commit them.  
The Baron of Betanford stays very secretly ten days with Grand Pre at the Country house, when seeing his wounds hopefully cured and recovered, they resolve to depart. Grand Pre kindly thanks Betanford for his life, and all other courtesies he hath received of him, and he as courteously doth the like to Grand Pre, for giving him his sword wherewith he preserved his own, and so like honourable and intimate friends, they take leave each of other, the Baron taking horse for Paris, and freely lending Grand Pre his Coach to return to Auxone. Thus we see courtesy always returneth with interest.  
Grand Pre at his coming home, kisseth & fawneth on his wife Mermanda, acquaints her with the occasion and event of the combat, condemneth his own folly, and extolleth her chastity, prays her to forgive him again this once for all, and vows, that there lives not a braver Noble man in the world than the Baron of Betanford: and to speak truth, she deserves this submission and reconciliation, and he that praise.  
At the knowledge here of, I know not whethet Mermanda (like a gracious and courteous wife) do more grieve at her husband's wounds, then rejoice at his recovery and life: and now he repenting and detesting his former error, renews his love, affection, and friendship to her, the which he confirmeth and uniteth with a perpetual and indissoluble Gordian knot: nevertheless the variety of her afflictions, and the excess of her grief and discontent, breeds her much weakness and sickness, which withereth the Roses and Lilies of her beauty.  
But come we from Mermanda's heavenly Virtues to Hautefelia's devilish Vices, which cannot be paralleled or compared, except by Antithesis: for as Mermanda reposeth herself under the shadow of her own innocence, and lives in perfect love and charity with the whole world, so her wretched Sister in law Hautefelia, seeing her hopes and purposes prevented, will not sleep in her malice, but sets her wits and revenge upon the Tenter-hookes, to find out another expedient, to be rid of Mermanda, who (in her wicked conceit) she thought was enemy to her content, and an eyesore to her ambition and greatness.  
We no sooner fly from God, but the devil follows us; & it proves always a miserable folly to be wise in wickedness and sin: Hautefelia is resolute in her rage, and cannot or rather will not see heaven for hell, she be thinks herself of another invention to send Mermanda into another world, and so strikes a bargain with La Fresnay an Apothecary for two hundred crowns to poison her, who like a limb of the devil doth undertake and promise it, the which (Ah grief to think thereon) he in less than two months performeth; and so this virtuous and harmless young Gentlewoman is most unnaturally and treaherously bereft of her life, and brought to a mournful and lamentable end: Which inhuman murder, we shall see, God in his due time will miraculously detect, and severely revenge and punish.  
Her Husband Grand Pre exceedingly bewails her death, as also all her parents and friends; yea, so infinite were her Virtues, and so sweet her behaviour and carriage, as all that knew Mermanda lamented her decease, yet no way suspecting or knowing the violent and extraordinary cause thereof.  
Now, whiles others mourn, Hautefelia exceedingly triumphs and rejoices hereat: but this bloody victory shall cost her dear. In the mean time, Mermanda's single death can neither quench her revenge, nor satisfy her ambition; for as she liked not the Sister, so she (as before we have partly understood) never loved the Brother, her own husband de Malleray, whom she observed, very bitterly wept and grieved at his sister Mermanda's death; she therefore, resolute to add sin to sin, resolves to cast the apple of discord betwixt Grand Pre her brother, and de Malleray her husband, knowing that if the first were slain, she were sole heir to her father, if the second, she would have a noble Husband; a policy, whose invention is as diabolical, as the execution thereof dangerous.  
To which effect she informs her husband, that her Brother Grand Pre had killed his Wife Mermanda with his jealousy, that he held her to be the Baron of Betanford's strumpet, with whom for the same cause he had fought at Brie-count Robert, and which was more, it was shrewdly suspected he had poisoned her, the which she once thought for ever to have concealed, but that she knew her husband was, and aught to be n●…rer to her then her brother. Good God, how far will the malice of this wretched woman extend, or to what a monstrous height will it grow?  
De Malleray grieved to the heart for this heart-killing news, because he ever loved his Sister as dear as his own life, without considering and weighing whether his wife's words were dross or gold, believes her; and so resolves very secretly to acqu●… the Precedent his father herewith, thereby thinking and presuming that he would by order of Law call Grand Pre in question for the fact.  
But old Cressonville (having as well his head in his eyes, as his eyes in his head:) seeing that this suspicion and accusation had no firm grounds, that it was an intricate business to find out, that it would breed a scandal to his family, and especially to his deceased daughter's reputation, sith it is the nature of calumny to aim at the most virtuous persons, as Cantharideses do at the fairest flowers; that it would rake up the dust of her tomb, and withal breed him an infinite number of potent and powerful enemies: Therefore grounding his judgement upon these reasons, and his resolutions upon this his judgement, he holds it best to smother it in silence, and so to brook his daughter's death as patiently as he may.  
De Malleray seeing his father so cold in this business, began to be all in fire himself, vowing that he would maintain the honour, and revenge the death of his only Sister Mermanda; and his wife Hautefelia, with her impetuous and implacable malice, blows the coals, and sets an edge to this his resolution: when that very instant understanding his brother Grand Pre was that Evening arrived at Dijon, he (consulting with Nature, but not with Grace) by a Gentleman of his familiar acquaintance, sends him this Challenge.  
DE MALLERAY to GRAND PRE.  
I should degenerate both from my honour and blood, if I were not sensible of those wrongs and disgraces you have offered your Wife and my Sister; they are of that nature, that I know not whether her innocence deserve more pity, or your jealousy contempt and revenge: her death and your conscience make me as justly challenge you, as you have unjustly done the Baron of Betanford: Therefore to morrow at five of the clock after dinner, at the foot of Talon for't, in the meado●… ranked with Wallnut trees, bring either a single Rapier, or Rapier and Poniard, and I will meet you without Seconds; the equity of my cause, and the unjustice of yours, make me confident in this hope, that as you lost your blood near Brie-count Robert, you shall now leave your life in the sight of Dijon; judge how earnestly I desire to try the temper of your heart and sword, sith already I not only count hours, but minutes.  
DE MALLERAY.  
Grand Pre, though newly recovered of his late wounds, accepts this Challenge, but not without extreme wonder to see De Malleray so passionate and resolute; he makes choice of single Rapier, and so they meet, where, without any other ceremony they throw off their doublets, and give them to their Surgeons, whom they command to stay without the next hedge, and not stir from thence, till the death of the one proclaim the other victor.  
The Sun (that great and glorious lamp of heaven) swiftly posts away from our Horizon to the Antipodes, of purpose not to see, or be accessary to this bloody Tragedy, when our Champions unsheathe their swords, and dispose themselves to fight both with judgement and resolution; De Malleray comes up fairly, proffers the first thrust, and gives Grand Pre a wound in his left thigh, and in exchange receives another from him in the neck, which he aimed fully at the breast, but that he bore it up with his Rapier. Grand Pre at first gives back, but seeing de Malleray insult and press on him, he resolutely advanceth, and runs him thorough the side: but the wound was so favourable, as though it caused much blood, yet it brought no danger. They make a stand and take breath, and so they very resolutely to it again: de Malleray having hitherto the worst, doth now resolve to manage his business with less violence and more judgement; when Grand Pre driving home to him, he wards bravely, and taking time at advantage, thrusts him in the left shoulder with a wide and deep wound, but himself is hurt in the left arm with a wound, which ran from his wrist to his elbow.  
By this time their shirts are deeply besprinkled and gored with their blood: but this will not appease their courages, they will try again; for they never think enough as long as they can stand, and this encounter proves as fortunate for Grand Pre, as fatal for De Malleray: for he receives a deep wound under his left pap, which carries his life and soul from this world to another; so as without speaking one word, he falls dead to the ground.  
Grand Pre seeing De Malleray dead, giveth thanks to God for his victory, and so mounts on horseback, and with his Chirurgeon posts towards Dole, a Parliament City of the free County; belonging now to the Arch Duke Albertus, leaving De Malleray's Chirurgeon, not to cure, but to bury his Master, or at least to convey his dead body to Dijon, for Precedent Cressonville his father to perform that office,  
Who is no sooner advertised of his son's death, but with tears he gives the Parliament to understand thereof, and craves justice for the Murder. The Parliament decrees a power to apprehend Grand Pre; but he is not desirous to lose his head on a Scaffold: for by this time he hath recovered Dole, where having stayed some three months his parents and friends (by the favour of that generous and true noble Gallant, Mounsieur le Grand, his Majesty's Lieutenant of that Province of Burgundy) procured and sent him his pardon.  
But in this mean time come we to his sister Hautefelia (the disgrace of her sex, and the firebrand of Hell) who no sooner understood the death of her husband, and the flight of her brother, she having hardly the patience to see him laid in his grave, and resolving rather to break her neck with malice, than her heart with sorrow, being sure of her Dowry, packs up her jewels, Plate, and chiefest Baggage, and so leaves Dijon, and goes home to her father near Auxone, where during the age of her father and mother, and the absence of her brother, she most imperiously sways and commands all.  
But this her authority lasteth not long: for now home comes Grand Pre from Dole, at whose return she finds matters altered, and her greatness and power diminished, and to her grief sees that she cannot so absolutely domineer as before; and which was far worse, her brother in his absence at Dole, having smelled and understood her malice and inveterate hatred, both to Mermanda, the Baron of Betanford, De Malleray her husband, and likewise to himself (though nothing suspecting or dreaming of her poisoning humour) he is so far from acknowledging or respecting her for his sister, as he will neither endure her company or sight; which she making no show to perceive, but like a Fury of hell, as she is, dissembling her malice and revenge, she is still constant, and persevers in her humour of blood and Murder, and hath again recourse to her execrable Apothecary La Fresnay, and to the devil her Doctor likewise, to make away her brother Grand Pre with poison, as he had already Mermanda his Wife, and gives him three hundred crowns to effect it. This damnable Apothecary, loving money well, and (as it seems) the Devil better, doth engage himself speedily to perform it, and, wretched villain as he is, within two months he accomplisheth and finisheth it; and so as Mermanda ran equal fortune with him in life, he doth the like with her in death; for one deadly Drugge, one bloody Sister, and one devilish Apothecary gives a miserable and lamentable end to them both.  
And now his blood thirsty sister Hautefelia (the author of these cruel Murders and Trageedies) thinking herself freed of all her enemies, and of all those who stood in the way of her advancement and preferment, she (neither thinking either of her conscience or soul, of heaven or hell) domineers far more than before; yea, builds castles in the air, and flatters herself with this false ambition, that she must now be a Duchess, or at least a Countess: But she reckons without God.  
We have seen, nay we have here glutted our eyes with several Murders, whereof we have beheld this wretched Gentlewoman Hautefelia to be the horrible and cruel author, and this execrable La Fresnay to be the bloody actor: these crimes of theirs, and the smoke of these their impious and displeasing sacrifices, have pierced the clouds, and ascended the presence of God, to sue and draw down vengeance and confusion on their heads: for although Murder be for a time concealed, yet the finger of God will in due time detect and discover it; for he will make inquisition for blood, and will severely and sharply revenge the death of his children.  
But God's providence and justice in the discovery thereof, is as different as miraculous: for sometimes he protracts and defers it of purpose, either to mollify or to harden our hearts, as seems best to his inscrutable will, and divine pleasure; or as may chiefly serve and tend to his glory: yea, sometimes he makes the Murderer himself as well an instrument to discover, as he hath been an actor to commit murder: yea, and many times he punisheth one sin by and in another, and when the Murderer sits most secure, and thinks least of it, than he heaps coals of fire on his head, and suddenly cuts him off with the revenging sword of his fierce wrath and indignation.  
And now that great and sovereign judge of the World, who rides on the Winds in triumph, and hath Heaven for his Throne, and Earth for his foot stool, will no longer permit Hauteselia and La Fresnay to go unpunished for these their execrable Murders: for the innocent and dead bodies of Mermanda and her husband Grand Pre out of their Graves cry to him for revenge, which, like an impetuous storm, or a terrible Thunder clap, doth in this manner suddenly befall and overtake them.  
Some six weeks after Grand Pre's funerals were solemnised, whereat his Sister Hautefelia (the better to cloak her villainy) wept bitterly, and was observed to be the chiefest Mourner; this hellish Apothecary La Fresnay, having gotten his money so easily, thought to spend it as prodigally; and so on a time, being in his cups at a Tavern at Dijon, and his brains swilling and swimming with strong Wine (as Drunkenness is the Bawd and Usher to other sins) he stealing from the rest of his company, committed a Rape upon one Margaret Pivot, a girl of twelve years old, being the Vintner's daughter of the Tavern wherein he sat tippling.  
This young girl, with millions of tears throws herself to the feet of her Parents, and accuseth La Fresnay for the fact, who do the like to those famous Senators of the Court of Parliament: so he is apprehended; and being examined, with many vehement and bitter asseverations denyeth it: he is adjudged to the Rack, and at the second torment confesseth it, and so he is condemned to be hanged.  
Two Capuchin Friars prepare him for his end: they exhort him not to charge & burden his soul with concealing any other crimes, adding, that if he reveal and repent them in earth, God will remit them in heaven: these exhortations of theirs produce good effects; for though he have formerly lived like a devil, he will now dye like a Christian: and so with many tears revealeth, that at the instigation of Hautefelia, and for the lucre of five hundred crowns (which at two several times she gave him) he had poisoned Mermanda and her husband Grand Pre.  
All the world is amazed, and the Parliament acquainted herewith, they alter their first Sentence, and so for his triple villainies condemn La Fresnay to be broken alive upon the Wheel, and there to languish and dye without being strangled: which in Dijon is accordingly executed to the full satisfaction of justice.  
A Provost likewise is forthwith dispatched from Dijon to Grandmonts' house, to apprehend his daughter Hautefelia, and God would have it that she was ignorant of La Fresnay's apprehension, and more, of his death. The Provost finds her dancing in her father's garden, in company of many Gentlemen and Ladies: he sets hands on her; and so exchangeth her mirth into mourning, and her songs into tears: she is brought to Dijon, and examined by a Precedent, and two Counsellors of the Parliament. She impudently and boldly denies both Murders; saith La Fresnay is her mortal and professed enemy, and therefore not to be believed. But the devil, who hath so long bewitched and deluded her, either will not, or rather now cannot save her with this poor evasion: she is adjudged to the Rack, and at the first torment confesseth it.  
The Criminal judges of this great and illustrious Parliament, in detestation of these her execrable and bloody crimes of Murder, pronounce sentence on her: so, after she had repent her sins, and prepared herself to dye, her Paps are seared, and torn off with red hot Pincers, than she is hanged, her body burnt, and her ashes thrown into the air.  
Now to gather some profit by reading this History, or indeed, rather by the memory of the History itself, let us observe, nay let us imprint in our hearts and souls how busy the Devil was by ambition, covetousness, malice and revenge, to seduce and persuade Hautefelia and La Fresnay to commit these Murders; and also how just God was in the detection and punishment thereof, that the fear of the one may terrify us from embracing and attempting the other: to the end, that as they lived in sin, and died in shame; so we may live in righteousness, and dye in peace, thereby to live in eternal felicity and glory.   

GOD'S REVENGE AGAINST THE CRYING AND EXEcrable sin of Murder.  
HISTORY II.  
Pisani betrayeth Gasparino of his Mistress Christeneta. Gasparino challengeth Pisani for this disgrace, and kills him in the field: he after continueth his suit to Christeneta: she dissembles her malice for Pisani his death: she appoints Gasparino to meet her in a Garden, and there causeth Bianco and Brindoli to murder him: they are all three taken and executed for the same.  
WHere Affection hath Reason for guide, and Virtue for object, it is approved of Earth, and applauded of Heaven: but where it exceeds the bounds of Charity, and the lists of Religion, Men pity it, Angels lament it, and God himself contemns it: for if we are crossed in our love, why should discontent make us desperate? or to what end should we fly Reason to follow Rage, except we desire to ride post to Hell, and to end our days on a shameful and infamous Scaffold here on earth? It is an excellent felicity to grow from Virtue to Virtue, and a fatal misery to run from Vice to Vice: Love and Charity are always the true marks of a Christian, and Malice and Revenge, those of an Infidel, or rather of a Devil: but to imbrue our hands in innocent blood, and to seek the death of others, is to deprive ourselves of our own life, as the sequel of this History will declare, which I relate with pity and compassion, sith I see the Stage whereon these Tragedies are acted and represented, not only sprinkled, but gored with great variety and effusion of blood.  
In Pavia (the second City of the Duchy of Milan) the very last year that Count Fuentes (under the King of Spain) was Viceroy of that State, Signior Thomaso Vituri, a noble Gentleman of that City, had one only child, a daughter of the age of fifteen years, named Dona Christeneta, who was exceeding fair and beautiful, and endued with many excellent qualities & perfections, requisite in a Gentlewoman of her rank: she was sought in marriage by many Gallants of the City: but a Cavalier of Cremona must bear her away, or at least her affection: The History is thus.  
Signior Emanuel Gasparino, a noble young Gentleman of Cremona, hearing of Vituri his wealth, and of his daughter Christeneta's Beauty and Virtues (the Adamants and Loadstones to draw men's affections) resolveth with himself to seek her for his wife: he acquaints none herewith, but an intimate dear friend of his, a young Gentleman of the same City, named Signior Ludovicus Pisani, by descent a Venetian, whom he prays to assist and accompany him to Pavia, in seeking and courting the fair Christeneta his Mistress. Pisani terms himself much honoured and obliged to Gasparino, and very willingly grants his request; and so they prepare for their journey.  
They come to Pavia: Vituri bids Gasparino welcome, and entertains him respectfully and courteously, as also Pisani; he thanks Gasparino for the honour he doth him in seeking his daughter, and like a careful father takes time to consult hereon: but for Christeneta, she looks not so pleasing nor pleasantly on him as he expecteth; he is deeply in love both with her beauty and other perfections, but he finds her cold in her discourse and answers, and very melancholy and pensive: he courts her often (and after the Italian fashion, with variety of Music, Ditties, and airs) but still he finds her averse, and contrary to his desires, as if her thoughts were otherwise fixed. Gasparino knows not how to win her affection, nor how to bear himself herein; he consults with Pisani, and prays him to confer with Christeneta, and to sound her affection: But it proves often dangerous, still indiscretion, to trust a friend in this case.  
Pisani promiseth to perform the office of a friend, and to confer effectually with Christeneta; he seeks opportunity and place, and finds both; he sets out to her Gasparino's merits, and paints forth his praises, and in a word, leaves nothing untouched, which he thinks may any way advance his friends content and affection: but he finds Christeneta's mind perplexed and troubled; for she often changeth colours, now red, then pale, and then pale, now red again: yet he observes that her eyes are still steadfastly fixed on him: he prays her that she will return a pleasing answer for him to carry to his friend, and her lover Gasparino.  
Christeneta would willingly speak, but cannot, for her heart and paps beat and pant, and her fighes very confusedly interrupt her words; but at last, dying her Lily cheeks with a Vermilion blush, she tells him that she is not ignorant of Gasparino's merits, who deserves far her better, but that she cannot consent to love him, in respect she hath fixed, but not engaged her affection on another. Pisani still extolleth his friend Gasparino to the sky, and for all honourable parts prefers him before any Gentleman of Lombardy; and withal, with much industry and insinuation, endeavours to request and draw Christeneta to name him her servant, which she once thought to have done, had not Modesty (the sweetest and most precious ornament of a Virgin) for that time withheld her, when after two or three deep sighs (the outward Heralds of her inward passions) she told him thus,  
Pisani, it is a dear and near friend of yours, who is the first that I have, and the last that I will affect; but I will not at present name him, only if you please to meet me secretly to morrow, at eight of the clock in the morn, in the Nun's garden at Saint Clare, I will there inform you who it is: but in the mean time, and ever, forbear to solicit me any more for Gasparino, sith he shall not be my servant, nor will I be his Mistress: and so for that time they part, and he confidently promiseth to meet her.  
Gasparino demands Pisani how he finds his Mistress Christeneta: He answers faithfully according as she told him; but conceals their appointed meeting in the Nun's garden: and now because he seeth it labour lost to research Christeneta, he will not be obstinate in his suit, but will give a law to his passions and affections, rather than they shall prescribe any to him, and so resolves to take leave of her, because as well by herself, as by her father and mother, and now chiefly by Pisani, he sees she is otherwise bend and affected, to which end he leaves Pavia, and returns to Cremona. Leave we therefore Gasparino to his thoughts, and come we to those of Pisani and Christeneta, to see what their garden conference will bring forth.  
Pisani cannot imagine what friend of his it should be that Christeneta loveth, but she knows enough for them both; and it may be, too much for herself: she knows it at least an immodest, if not a bold part for her to court Pisani, who ought rather to court her: but she thinks it both wisdom and duty to give way to that which she cannot avoid and prevent, and so prefers the zeal of her affection before the respect of her modesty: but that which makes her so resolute in the execution of this her amorous attempt is, to see that Gasparino hath found Pisani to solicit for him to her, and she can find none but herself to solicit for herself to Pisani: therefore bold in this her resolution, she bears so deep and so dear an affection to Pisani, that she thinks every moment an hour, and every hour an age, before she see Pisani, that one person of the World, whom she loves more dear than all the world. Thus wishing night day, her house the Nunnery, and her chamber the garden: she with much impatient patiency awayts the hour of eight, which she knows will bring her her joy or her torment, her felicity or her misery, her life or her death.  
The Clock strikes eight: Christeneta takes her Prayer-book, and her waiting-maid, and so trips away to the Nunnery; but she doth now dispense with her devotion, to give content to her eyes, or rather to her heart, in seeing and enjoying the desired company of Pisani, whom she esteems the life of her content, and the content of her life, and so forsakes the Church, to go to the Garden: Pisani, who never failed of his hour and promise to men, doth now disdain to miss thereof to a Lady: for Christeneta hath scarce made three paces in the walks of the Garden, but ere the fourth be finished, she sees Pisani enter, she blushes at his sight, and he grows pale at her blushes: he finds her in a bower of Sycamores, Cypresses, and Vines, decked within with Roses, Lilies, and Gillyflowers, he gives her the good-morrow and the salute, the which, with a modest and sweet courtesy, she receives and returns; he tells her he is come to perform his promise, and if it please her, to receive hers: she would fain answer him, but her cheeks give blushes, where her tongue should words; but at last, darting a sweet look on him (which was the Ambassador and Herald of her heart) she discovereth herself to him thus:  
The person (Pisani) on whom I have fixed and settled my affection, doth exceedingly resemble you, is of your own blood, and of your nearest and dearest acquaintance. Pisani presseth her to know his name; when after many glances, sighs, and blushes, she tells him, his name is Pisani, and himself the man, prays him to pardon her boldness, and to give an honourable interpretation and construction to her affection, 〈◊〉 withal, that when she first saw him, she loved him; and now prays him to be 〈◊〉, that Christeneta may be a solicitor for herself to Pisani, and not Pisani to Christeneta for Gasparino; yea, she confirms her words with many sighs, and again her sighs with many tears, which trickle down her beautiful cheeks, like pearled drops of dew upon blushing damask Roses.  
Pisani wonders at this unexpected news, and knows not how to bear himself in a business of this nature; he sees that her beauty deserves love, and her descent and virtue's respect: but withal, he is not so dishonourable to betray his friend; he wonders at her affection, and is not ignorant that she deserves a more noble husband then himself, but seeing her languish for an answer, he returns her thus: Although I acknowledge myself infinitely bound to you for that affection of yours, wherewith you please to honour me, yet as honour is to be preferred before affection, so Christeneta must excuse Pisani, sith he cannot be a servant to her, but he must be a traitor to Gasparino; and that respect excepted, in requital of your favour, I will esteem myself happy if I may lose my life for your service.  
Yet he is not so unkind, but gives her a kiss or two at farewell which as much delights Christeneta, as his refusal doth afflict her: so they part. The rest, time must bring forth.  
Now although Gasparino have left Pavia, yet he cannot forsake his affection to Christeneta, but cherisheth her memory, and in heart adoreth her Idea; yea he loves her deeply and dear, and indeed her perfections and beauty deserve love: but such is Christeneta's affection to Pisani, as she can take no truce of her thoughts: but despite of discretion and modesty (which persuade and counsel her to the contrary) she within ten days after purposely sends a confident Messenger to him, to Cremona with this Letter:  
CHRISTENETA to PISANI.  
Find it not strange, that I second my last speech with this my first Letter, and think, that, were not my affection entire and constant, I should not thus attempt to reveal it you in lines, which blush not, as my cheeks do, when I write them. I should offer too palpable violence and injury to the truth, if I tell you not that it is impossible for Christeneta to love any but Pisani, whom I no sooner saw, but deeply admired and dear affected. Now sith my zeal to you is begun in virtue, and shall be continued in honour, it makes me flatter myself with hope, that you will not enforce me to despair: for if I am not so happy to be yours, I must be so unfortunate never to be mine own. judge what your absence is to me, sith your presence is my chiefest felicity: which makes me both desire and wish, that either you were in Pavia, or I in Cremona. I can prefix and give bounds to my Letter, though not to my affection. Hate not her who loves you dear, otherwise, whatsoever you think, I know, your unkindness to me will be mere cruelty.  
CHRISTENETA.  
〈◊〉 Pisani receiveth this Letter: he wonders at her affection, and now consults betwixt Christeneta's love to him, and his respect to Gasparino: he at first holds it incivility not to answer her Letter, and yet is very unwilling, in doing her right, to wrong his friend: but at last perusing her Letter, again he finds it so kind, as he deems it not only ingratitude, but a degree of inhumanity for him not to return her an answer: and therefote taking Pen and Paper, he writes to her thus.  
PISANI to CHRISTENETA.  
YOu discover me as much affection as I should treachery to my friend, either to accept or ●…equite it; and were it not for that consideration, which must tend as well to mine own honour, as to your content, I would not stick to say, that Pisani loves Christeneta, because she deserves to be beloved; only give me leave to inform you, that as you are too fair to be refused, so I am too honest to betray my friend, especially such a one who is as confident of my fidelity, as I assured of his. Could time reconcile these difficulties with my reputation, my heart would i●…stantly command my pen 〈◊〉 signify you, that I desire to give you hope, and to take away your despair; and withal, that Pavia is more pleasing to me then Cremona, sith Christeneta lives in it, and Pisani in her. I was never heretofore cruel to any, neither do I resolve to be unkind to you: for how can I, ●…th I as truly vow to honour you, as you profess to love me? Live you in this assurance, and I will dye in the same.  
PISANI.  
Time with a swift foot vanisheth and passeth away; but Christeneta's affection to Pisani cannot: she in his Letter perceives a glimmering light of hope break forth thorough the obscure clouds of her despair; but fear doth as soon eclipse and strangle, as propagate and produce it; only, despite all apprehension and opposition, her thoughts do still gaze and look on Pisani, as the Needle of the compass doth to the North; so as she can rest in no true tranquillity of mind, before she writes to him again; the which, some fifteen days after, she doth to this effect.  
CHRISTENETA to PISANI.  
I May pass the bounds of discretion, but will not exceed those of honour. I have ever learned to retaives this Maxim, that affection which receives end had never beginning. If then I live, I must breathe the air of your love, as well as this of my life, sith it is the prime and sole cause thereof, as the Sun is of the light. Your Letter I find so full of doubts and ambiguities, as I know not wherefore to hope, or why not to despair: could you dive as deeply into my heart, as I have into your merits, if nature do not, pity would inform you, that you ought to prefer the love of a Lady before the respect of a Gentleman, especially sith he may carry his heart from you, and I desire to bring and present mine to you: and how can your absence either rejoice or comfort me, sith your presence will not? Think what you please, either of me, or of yourself; only give me leave to tell you, that I find doubt a step, and degree to despair, as despair is to death: I write rather with tears then Ink. If you will not live my Saint, I must dye your Martyr.  
CHRISTENETA.  
At the receipt of this second Letter (which was so sweetly pleasing, and pleasingly sweet to his thoughts) he found the Bulwarks and defences of his respect to Gasparino razed and beaten down, and a fair breach made and laid open for Christeneta to enter and take possession of the Castle of his heart; so now at one instant he performs two several attempts: for the farther he flies from his friend Gasparino, the nearer he approacheth to his Mistress Christeneta; and therefore now wholly imparadising his thoughts in the garden of her pure beauty, and taking the chiefest light of his content and felicity from the relucent lustre of her eyes, he thinks it high time, no longer to bear out his Flag of defiance, but to strike sail, and do homage to the sovereign of his thoughts, the which he doth in this Letter, that he purposely sends her in answer of hers by his Page.  
PISANI to CHRISTENETA.  
YOur virtue and beauty is enough powerful to prevail with me: but your affection, which adds grace to either, and either to it, makes me forget my respect to Gasparino, to remember my love to Christeneta: but that which gives life to this my resolution, is, that it is impossible for him to hate me as much as you love me; and in this hope I both rejoice and triumph, that you shall not be my Martyr, but my Mistress, and I will be both your Saint and your servant: for as you desire to live in my favour, so my chiefest ambition and zeal is to dye in your affection: that which heaven makes me affirm, earth shall not enforce me deny. I will shortly follow, and second this my Letter; till when, you can never so much lament my absence, as I desire your presence. Let this be your true consolation, sith it is my sole delight and chiefest felicity.  
PISANI.  
If Pisani his first Letter overthrew Christeneta's despair, this his second revives and confirms her hopes; so that whereas heretofore she condemned her presumption in writing to Pisani, she now not only applauds her resolution therein, but also blesseth the hour that she attempted it; yea, she buildeth such castles of delight and content in her heart, and her heart in her soul, to think that she should be his Wife, and he her Husband, that she anticipateth the hours, and blames the days for not presenting her with the sight and presence of her sweet Pisani, whom, above all earthly contents, she chiefly desireth.  
Now if Christeneta were thus perplexed with the absence of her Pisani, no less is he with that of his Christeneta: for remembering the freshness of her youth, and the sweetness of her beauty, he in conceit hateth Cremona, which before he loved, and now loveth Pavia, which before he hated: it is as great a grief to him to be with his other affairs without her, as it would rejoice him to be with her without them: yea, she runs so deeply in his thoughts, and they on her beauty, as (if it were not immodesty) he either wisheth himself impaled in her arms, or she incloistered in his. And now to perform as much as his Letter hath promised, he, without thinking or respecting of his old friend Gasparino, prepares all things ready to go see his new Mistress Christeneta.  
He comes to Pavia, accompanied with three or four of his nearest and dearest friends, visiteth Christeneta, whom he saluteth and courteth with all kind of honourable and amorous compliments: She is joyful, yea, ravished with his arrival: he doth assure her of his perpetual affection, and reciprocally himself of hers; yea, she so infinitely delights in his presence, and he so extremely in hers, that she now freely gives herself to Pisani, and he in exchange, as absolutely takes himself from Gasparino, to give himself to Christeneta: so as she rejoicing in her purchase, and he triumphing in his victory, they attend the time, wherein heaven and earth hath ordained of two bodies to make them one.  
But it is not enough for Pisani to be possessed of Christeneta's favour: for he must likewise obtain that of her parents, before either he can enjoy his wishes, or she her desires, and so he goes honourably and secretly to work with them: but he finds them not so tractable as Christeneta hoped, or himself desired: for old Vituri her father preferring wealth before honour, and riches before virtues, dislikes this motion, alleging that Pisani's father died exceedingly in debt, that his chiefest Lands were engaged and mortgaged, that he had many great Legacies to pay to his sisters, but which was worst of all, that Pisani himself loved the Court better than the Country, and that in his expenses and apparel he was extremely prodigal, and frugal in neither: which considerations so swayed the judgement and opinion of Vituri, that knowing he might every day provide and procure a better match for his daughter, he gives Pisani to understand, that as yet he hath no intent to marry his daughter, alleging her few years, and the like trivial reasons and excuses, whereby Pisani might plainly perceive, that he had no intent to give him his daughter.  
This refusal of Vituri doth wonderfully grieve Pisani, and afflict Christeneta, so as they see their hopes nipped in their blossoms, and their desires not in the way to reap such efffects as they expected. Pisani distrusting his own power, sets his parents and chiefest friends to draw Vituri to hearken unto reason: but his age cannot be deceived in that, which his judgement, and not his passion, suggesteth him: they have divers conferences, but every day, in stead of bringing hopes, produceth more difficulties and despair; and now that Pisani may see that his sure and research is displeasing to Vituri, he looks not on him with so courteous an eye as accustomed: and which is worse, Christeneta is forbidden his company, and he her father's house.  
This goes to the hearts of our two lovers, but they brook it as patiently as they may, and hope that time will give end to these their discontents and afflictions. In the mean while, as fire suppressed doth often flame forth with more violence, so, sith they cannot personally visit one the other, they entertain their affections by their Letters, who are so many in number, as I hold it fit rather to suppress then divulge them. Thus whiles Pisani comforts himself, that there are no roses without prickles, and that hopes long expected are best welcome, but chiefly relying upon the affection and constancy of his Mistress: he will not stain his valour with this point of cowardice, to be put off with the first repulse of Vituri, but resolveth to continue as constant in his affection, as he doth in his refusal; and so after he had stayed a month or two in Cremona, he bethinks himself of an invention, whereby it is not impossible for him to obtain his Mistress of her father.  
Pisani being enriched with the treasure of Christeneta's favour and affection, writes to her, that if she can obtain her Mother's consent, she peradventure may easily procure that of her husband; who harkening and relishing this advice with much zeal, puts it a foot; and as in few days she gained her Mother, so a month was not fully passed, before she had likewise drawn her husband to approve and consent to this Match: So now our Lovers are again revived and comforted; for the rubs being taken away, the difficulties removed, and the parents of both sides fully satisfied, all things now seem in so fair a forwardness and preparation, as if our two Lovers were shortly to enjoy each other in marriage, or to enjoy the fruits of marriage, which so earnestly and infinitely both affected and desired.  
To which end, that their nuptials might be solemnised with the greater pomp and glory, they provide themselves of variety of rich and sumptuous Apparel, the day is apppointed, and all the Nobility of Pavia and Cremona (as well their kinsfolks as others) are invited to the Wedding: but their Parents shall come short of their designs, and these our two Lovers of their hopes: for this Marriage being not begun in heaven, shall never be finished nor consummated in earth.  
We have here so much spoken of Pisani, that it seems we have quite forgotten Gasparino, as if he had no farther part to act in this History; but he is not so fortunate: for this proceeding of Pisani to Christeneta is not so secretly managed, but he hath news thereof, who knowing there can be no greater treason, after that of a subject to his Sovereign, then for a friend to betray his friend, he grieves, and is extremely incensed at Pisani, to see he hath betrayed him of his Mistress; the which he takes so bitterly and passionately, that he vows he will make him repent it. jealousy and Revenge are always bad Counsellors, and therefore can never prove good judges: But such is his love to Christeneta, and so deeply is her beauty imprinted and engraven in his heart, as shutting his Judgement to Charity, and opening it to Revenge he is resolved, at what price soever, to call Pisani to a strict account for this affront and disgrace, and is resolved rather to die, then live to see himself thus abused, by one whom God and nature hath made his inferior. Were we as apt to do good as evil, we should be Angels, not men; but resembling ourselves (or rather harkening too much to the Prince of darkness) we fly reason to follow rage, and many times procure our own destruction, in seeking that of others.  
Gasparino having thus his eyes and senses oreclouded and veiled with the mis●… of revenge, is transported with such bloody passions and resolutions, as he is sometimes resolved to pistol Pisani, either in the street, or in his bed, and other times to hire two or three Ruffians to murder him the next time he rides into the Country but at last casting his eyes from hell to heaven, and from Satan to God, he trampleth those execrable resolutions under his feet, and banisheth them from his heart and thoughts, esteeming them as unworthy of him, as he were of the world, if he should commit them: and so for that time enters in a resolution with himself, no more to think on Christeneta, and less to be revenged of Pisani, for betraying her from him.  
Had Gasparino continued in this peaceable and Christianlike mind, he had not exposed himself to so many dangers and misfortunes, nor given himself as a prey tó feed the malice and revenge of his bloody enemies: but now understanding that all Cremona and Pavia prattled and laughed at his disgrace, in seeing him thus baffled and abused by Pisani, he thinks that not only himself, but his honour is disparaged, and wronged herein, and that he shall be extremely condemned of cowardice, if in a Duel he call not Pisani to right him, and give him satisfaction: yea, the only consideration of this point of honour (which many times is bought and sold at so dear a price, as the peril and loss both of body and soul) did so violently persuade and prevail with him, that as revenge admits of no opposition, nor hearkens to any advice, so enquiring for Pisani, and understanding him to be in Pavia, he the more encouraged and inflamed hereat, taking with him a resolute and confident Gentleman, and one only Lackey, sets spurs to his Horse, and so hies thither, resolving with himself to gain his Honour in the same City, where he had received his disgrace.  
Being arrived at Pavia, he is assured that Pisani is in the City, and enquiring more curiously after him, he understands, that, that very instant he is with his Mistress Christenea, which so galled his thoughts, and inflamed his heart, as he was once resolved that very instant to send him a Challenge, and the sooner, because Christeneta might be an eyewitness of the delivery thereof: but to speak truth, Passion could not find a better opportunity, nor judgement a worse, for him to draw his malicious contemplation into bloody and impious action; and therefore respecting Christeneta, although she had refused to respect him, and fearing if she had the least notice or ●…kling thereof, she loved her Pisani so dear, as she would hinder and prevent him from running into so imminent a danger, he all that day hushed himself up privately in his Inn, deferring the sending thereof till the morning, when delivering it to his cousin Sebastiano (the Gentleman that came with him from Cremona) he prays him instantly to find out Pisani, and to deliver it to him as secretly and as fairly as he could.  
Sebastiano being no novice in these occasions and accidents, repairs to Pisani his Lodging, and finds him as he was issuing forth his Chamber, whom he salutes, and delivers Gasparino's Challenge fast sealed. Pisani with a constant carriage, and firm countenance, receives it; and breaking off the Seals, steps aside and reads these Lines:  
GASPARINO to PISANI.  
YOu have given the first breach to our friendship: for sith you have treacherously bereave●… me of my Mistress, you must now both in honour and justice, either take my life, or yield me yours in requital: If you consider your own ingratitude, you cannot tax, much less con●…e this my resolution: the Place, the West end of the Park; the Hour, four or five after Dinner; the manner, o●… foot, with Seconds; the Weapon, if you please, two single Rapiers, whereof bring you one and I the other, and I will be content to take the refusal, to give you the ●…yce. If your courage answer your infidelity, you will not refuse to meet me.  
GASPARINO.  
Pisani having received and perused this Challenge (like an Italianated Gallant, preferring his honour before his life) very cheerfully, without any motion or show of alteration, either in his speeches or countenance, turns to Sebastiano, and speaks to him thus; Sir, I pray tell Gasparino from me, that myself and Second will with single Rapiers meet him and his, at the hour and place apppointed.  
Sebastiano returns: and Pisani having accepted the Challenge, bears it so secretly, as Christeneta (the other half of his heart) understands not hereof: he finds out his dear and intimate friend Sfondrato, a valiant young Gentleman, issued of a very noble Family of Milan, who accompanied him from Cremona, to whom he relates the whole effect of this business, showing him Gasparino's Challenge, and requesting him to honour him so much as to second him in this quarrel. Sfondrato very cheerfully and freely offereth, and engageth himself; and so about noon Sebastiano and himself, like honourable friendly enemies, meet to provide and match the Rapiers: but bear it so secretly and discreetly, as none whatsoever could once perceive their intents, or gather their resolutions. The hour approaching, they all take horse, and that day Pisani, because he would be no way prevented and hindered, doth purposely refrain to visit his Mistress Christeneta. They post to the Park as to a Wedding, being the place of Rendez●…vous of their meeting (so famous for the defeat of the French, and taking Prisoner of their King Francis the Second, by the Forces of the Emperor Charles the Fifth.)  
Gasparino and Sebastiano are first in the Field: but Pisani and Sfondrato are not long after: so they all tie up their Horses to the hedge, pull off their Spurs, and cut away the timber-heeles of their Boots, that they might not trip, but stand firm in their play: But ere they begin, the Seconds search the Principals, and they the Seconds; so they throw off their Doublets, and appear all in their shirts, not as if they feared death, but rather as if they were resolved to make death fear them.  
By this time Gasparino and Pisani draw: they make their approaches, and at the first encounter Pisani is hurt in the outside of the left arm, and Gasparino in the right flank, the blood whereof appeared not, but fell into his hose: they again separate themselves, and now try their fortunes afresh; here Pisani receives two wounds, the one glancing on his ribs, the other in the brawn of his right arm, and Gasparin●… one deep one in his left shoulder; but these slight hurts they only esteem as scars, not as wounds, and therefore seeing their shirts but sprinkled, not died with their bloods; they courageously come on again; but this bout proves favourable to them both; for Gasparino wards Pisani's thrust from him, and only runs Pisani thorough the hose, without doing him any other harm: and so they close, which Pisani doth purposely to exchange ground, thereby to have the Sun in his back, which was be fore in his eyes, and now they conclude to take breath.  
Their Seconds withdraw not from their stations, neither can they yet imagine to whose side fortune will incline, they being well-neare as equal in wounds as courage; and now Pisani and Gasparino dressing their Rapiers, and wiping off the blood from them, begin again to make trial on whom Victory is resolved to smile: but they alter the manner of the fight; for now Gasparino fights with judgement, and not with fury, and Pisani with fury, and not with judgement, whereas heretofore they both did the contrary. They traverse their grounds; Pisani is so violent, as he hath almost put himself out of breath, but Gasparino is so wary and cautelous, as he contents himself to break his thrusts, and resolves not to make any but to the purpose, and upon manifest advantage; the issue answereth his hopes and expectation: for at the very next encounter, as Pisani runs Gasparino in the neck, he runs Pisani thorough the body, a little below the left pap: and his sword meeting with Cav●… Vena (which leads directly to the heart) makes a perpetual divorce betwixt his body and his soul, and so he falls stark dead to the ground. Gasparino knowing him dispatched, sheaths up his rapier. But Sfondrato and his Chirurgeon runue to his assistance, but the affection of the one, and the art of the other were in vain: for Pisani his life had forsaken his body, and his soul was already fled from this world to another.  
Whiles Sfondrato and the Chirurgeon were stretching out the dead body of Pisani, and covering it up with their cloaks; Sebastiano runs to Gasparino, and congratulates with him for his victory, extolling his valour to the sky: But Gasparino tells him, that these praises appertain not to him, but to a higher providence, and withal prays him to be careful, and to manage his life both with courage and discretion; and for himself, finding his wounds, no way desperate nor dangerous, he is resolved not to suffer his Chirurgeon to bind them up, till he see the issue of the Combat betwixt his faithful friend Sebastiano and Sfondrato.  
By this time Sfondrato thinks it high time to begin: and being no way daunted with the misfortune and death of his friend Pisani, but rather encouraged and resolved to sell it dear on the life of Sebastiano; he draws, and with his Rapier in his hand comes towards him. Sebastiano meets him half way with a very fresh and cheerful countenance, and so they approach one to the other: at their first encounter, Sebastiano gives Sfrondrato a large and wide wound on his right side, but receives another from him thorough the left arm, a little above the elbow; but that of Sfondrato poured forth more blood; and to be brief, they both give and take divers wounds, and perform the parts of valorous Gentlemen.  
But in the end, God, who would not give all the victory to one side, but will make both parties losers, to show that he is displeased with these their bloody actions, and uncharitable resolutions, which though Honour seem to excuse, yet religion cannot; after they had three several times taken breath, Sebastiano advancing a fair thrust to Sfondrato's breast, which only pierced his shirt, and ravelled his skin: Sfondrato requited him with a mournful interest, for he ran him thorough at the small of the belly, and so nailed him to the ground, bearing away his life on the point of his Rapier.  
Thus our four Combatants, being now reduced to the number of two, Sfondrato expected that Gasparino would have exchanged a thrust or two with him: the which certainly he had performed: But Gasparino finding that the loss of so much blood made him then weak, and that it was now more than time for him to have his wounds bound up, they having taken order for the decent transporting of their dead friends, that night to Pavia: they, without speaking word one to the other, commit themselves to their Surgeons, and so their wounds being bound up, they take them with them, and, to save themselves from the danger of the Law, they take horse, and post away, Gasparino to Parma, and Sfondrato to Florence, from whence they resolve not to stir, before their friends have procured and sent them their pardons.  
Leave we them there: and to follow the stream of this History, come we to Cremona and Pavia, which rings with the news of the issues of these lamentable and tragical combats; Pisani and Sebastiano are infinitely bewailed of their parents, and lamented of their friends, yea of their very enemies themselves, and generally of all the world, who either knew them, or heard of their untimely and unfortunate ends.  
But all these tears are nothing, in comparison of those which our fair Christeneta sheds for the death of her sweet Pisani: For her griefs are so infinitely bitter, 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 tears her hair, disfigureth her face, weeps, mourns, howls, and cries so extre●… that sorrow herself would grieve to see her sorrow; yea, she forsakes and abandoneth all company, throws off all her rich and glittering garments, and takes on mournful and sad apparel: so as all the persuasions of the world are not capable to give her the least shadow of consolation: for as she affirms, she neither will, nor can be comforted; only amidst her tears, if she admit, or permit any passion to take place in her heart or thoughts, it is choler and revenge against Gasparino, who had bereft her of her only joy, of her dear and sweet Pisani, whom she loved a thousand times more dear and tenderly then herself, and of him she vows to be revenged in the highest degree: Whereby we may here in Christeneta see the old phrase made good, and verified; That there is no affection nor hatred to that of a Woman: for where they love, they love dear; and where they hate, hate deadly: But leave we her to her sorrows, and come we again to Gasparino, who in short time, having obtained his pardon, returns from Parma to Cremona, where he is joyfully received of his parents and friends.  
He is no sooner arrived, but the remembrance of Christeneta's beauty doth flourish and revive in his heart; for although she had loved another, yet he could affect none but herself: when letting pass some six or eight months, and hoping that time (which is subject to nothing, and all things to it) might wipe off her tears, and blow away her sighs for the death of Pisani; he resolves to renew his old suit to her, to which end he visits her first by friends, next by letters, and then in person. Christeneta (like a counterfeit Fury) dissembles her love to Pisani, and her hatred to him, and withal triumpheth and takes a pride to see how discreetly and closely she bears her malice: But our wisdom in sin proves mere folly in the eyes of God, which though she will not now acknowledge, yet she shall hereafter be enforced to do it with repentance, and peradventure when it is too late. So being resolute in her inveterate indignation, her malice doth so outbrave her charity, and her revenge her religion, as she cannot find any rest in her thoughts, or tranquillity in her mind, before she see the death of Gasparino make amends and satisfaction for that of Pisani.  
Gasparino having the eyes of his judgement hood-winked, and not foreseeing how dangerous it is to repose and rely on the favour of an incensed enemy (as our judgements are never clearest when we approach our ruin) is very importunate with Christeneta, that he may meet and confer privately with her, which indeed is the only opportunity that in heart she hath so long desired: and now it is that she conspires his ruin, and plots his destruction, wherein (perchance) seeking his death, she may procure her own.  
Dissembling Wretch as she is, she seems to be vanquished with his importunity; and therefore to show herself courteous and kind to him, she appoints him to meet her in the Nun's Garden at six of the clock in the morning. But what courtesy, what kindness is this, to have honey in the tongue, and poison in the heart? For she presently agrees with two wretched Ruffians, Bianco and Brindoli, for twice fifty Ducats to murder him. See here the implacable and damnable malice of this young Gentlewoman, who forgetting her soul and her God, becomes the Author of so execrable and lamentable a Murder.  
Gasparino, drowning his senses and understanding in the contemplation of the content he should receive in enjoying his Mistress Christeneta's company, thinks the night long ere the day appear, and although the evening were fair and clear, yet in the morn, Aurora had no sooner leapt from the watery bed of Neptune, but the Skies were overcast and veiled with obscure clouds, which imprison the Sun and his golden beams, purposely not to behold so bloody a Tragedy, as was then to be acted.  
Christeneta (who could not sleep for revenge) is stirring in the morn betimes, and so is Bianco and Brindoli. They all meet in the Nun's Garden, she walking in the Alleys, and they hiding themselves out of sight: At last the Clock strikes six, and immediately in comes Gasparino, with his Hat in his hand, and his Rapier by his side; he courts and salutes Christeneta with many amorous speeches, and sweet Compliments; she prepares to receive him: but in stead of courteous entertainment, gives him a bloody welcome,: Her words (or rather her watchword) are these: Gasparino (quoth she) this Garden is the place where I had my first conference with Pisani, and where I purpose to have my last with you: At which words, Bianco and Brindoli rush forth of a Bower, and with many wounds kill him dead at their feet; but he had first the leisure to draw, and for a while very valiantly defended himself, giving each of them several wounds. Christeneta seeing Gasparino felled to the ground, fearing that he was not fully dead, and to prevent his crying, she runs to him, thrusts her Handkerchief into his mouth, and to show herself more like a Tiger then a Woman, and a Devil then a Christian, she with a small Poniard, or Stilleto, stabs him many times thorough the body, and spurning him with her feet, utters this revengeful and bloody speech: This I sacrifice to the memory of my dear Love Pisani. And so Bianco and Brindoli take this murdered body of Gasparino, and tying a great stone to it, threw it into the Well of ●…he Garden; and the better to conceal this damnable act, they fly by a Postern ●…oore: and Christeneta thinking to cover and shroud her sin, under the cloak of Piety and devotion, forsakes the Garden; and so, unseen of any earthly eye, betakes herself to the Nun's Church, where she falls an her knees; but with so profane a devotion, as she did no way repent, but rather triumph at this Murder: But this her hypocrisy shall cost her dear.  
We have here seen this horrible and cruel Murder committed and acted, and the Murderers themselves by this time all fled, and gotten to their homes: Yea, Christeneta glorieth in her revenge, and Bianco and Brindoli in their money; so as they now ●…hinke themselves free, and past all danger: but they shall be deceived in their hopes; for Divine providence hath decreed otherwise. And here we come to the detection and punishment of this Murder; wherein God's mercy and justice, his providence and his glory, do most miraculously shine and appear.  
The Nuns being in their Cells at their Orisons, hear the flynking of swords, and so they advertise their Abbess or Governess thereof, who gives the Alarm in the house. They descend to the Garden, to see what this rumour might be: they find the Postern open, and the Alleys very much sprinkled and gored with blood; they suspect Murder, but neither find nor see any, either living or dead: they send to acquaint the Perfect and Provost of the City herewith, who repair to the Garden, and (as before) find much blood, but see nobody: they make strict inquiry and search in the Ditches, hedges, thickets, and vaults of the Garden, but find nothing, only they forget to search the Well: Then, to find what those Fighters were, they think of a Policy, as worthy of them, as they of their office, they give a secret charge to all the ehirurgions of the city to reveal them, if any having new wounds, came that night, or the next morning to them, to be cured; whereupon Rhanuti●…, one of the chiefest Surgeons, informs them, that he, about an hour since, had dressed Bianco and Brindoli (two soldiers of the city) of nine several wounds, which they newly received. The Perfect and Provost advertised hereof, cause them to be brought before them, whom they found both together, where (no doubt) they had consulted. They inquire who wounded them: They answer, they had a Quarrel betwixt themselves, and so they fought it out. Being demanded again, where, and when they fought, they looked each on other, and knowing that Christeneta was safe at home, and Gasparino close in the well, they instantly replied, It was in the Nun's Garden at Saint Clayre, and at six of the clock in the morning, which agreeing to the Nun's relation, gave end to this business, for that time especially. But though they delude and blind the eyes of men, yet they cannot, nor shall not those of God: And now, although these murderers have thus escaped, yet they prepare to forfake and leave Pavia, for fear to be afterwards discovered. But they shall be prevented in their subtleties, for the hand of God will speedily arrest them.  
Now we must observe, that Gasparino being found wanting two whole nights from his Lodging, and his Lackey gathering no news of him at Vituri's house, where he usually frequented to visit and court his Mistress Christeneta, he informs the Host of the house hereof; and he like an honest man, doubting the worst (after the custom of Italy) acquainted the Perfect and Provost thereof, who, like judicious and wise Magistrates, examined Gasparino's Lackey when he last saw his Master, and where. The Lackey answers, He parted from his Chamber yesterday morning betwixt five and six, with his Prayer-book in his hand, as if he were going to Church, but commanded him not to follow him; and since (he saith) he saw him not. And now, by the providence of God, the Lackeys relation gives a little glimpse and glimmering light to the discovery of this Murder: for the Magistrates see, that the hour of Gasparino's departure from his Chamber, and that of Bianco and Brindoli's fight do agree, as also his Book and the Nun's Church bear some show of coherence and probability.  
Whereupon they (guided as it were by the very immediate finger of God) resolve and determine to apprehend, and forthwith to imprison both Bianco and Brindoli, who the very next day had thought to have slipped down the River to Ferara, and so to Venice.  
They are examined concerning Gasparino: they vow he is a Gentleman they have neither known nor seen. The Magistrates hold it fit they should be put to the Rack; which is as speedily performed: but these stout Villains firmly and constantly maintain their first speech; and although they make suit to be freed and released, yet the Perfect holds it necessary to continue them in prison; and withal, to make a more narrow and exacter search in the Nun's Garden.  
Christeneta, being at the first advertised that Bianco and Brindoli were dead, is thereat astonished and amazed, and so resolves to fly, but being advertised they had already suffered torment, and revealed nothing, she again resolves to stay, which indeed she doth: but it is the justice and mercy of God that keeps this bloody bird within her nest.  
The Perfect and Provost (as being inspired from heaven) continue constant in their resolutions, to make a second search in the Garden for Murder; which they do, and very curiously, leaving no place unsearched: at last it pleased the Lord to put into the Provosts mind to search the Well, which the day before they had omitted. He acquaints the Perfect herewith, who with much alacrity approves hereof, and so causing it to be searched, they at last in their hooks bring up some pieces of wrought black Taffata: which by the Lackey was affirmed, and known to be the same his Master Gasparino, wore the last time he saw him: whereat they were more eagerly encouraged to search again most exactly: which they do, and at last bring up the dead body of Gasparino, when stripping off his clothes, they find his body pierced with thirteen several wonuds: at the mournful sight whereof, the whole assembly, but especially his Lackey, cannot refrain from tears, and yet all glorify God for finding of his body, as also for the discovery of the Murderers, who now they confidently believe are Bianco and Brindoli. But see the farther mercies of God: for Bianco and Brindoli are but the hands which executed this Murder, and not the head which plotted it: therefore the Magistrates being sure of them, do now resolve to hie to Prison, and to give them double torment, thereby to discover out of what Quiver the first arrow of this Murder came. But behold the mercy and justice of God! they are eased of this labour, and the name of the malefactor brought them by a most miraculous and unheard of accident: for when the Magistrates and whole company had often visited Gasparino's naked body, and seen nothing but wounds, a little boy standing by (of some ten years of age) espied a linen cloth in his mouth, which he showed the company, which the Perfect causing to be pulled out, found it to be a Cambric Handkerchief, and withal, a name in red silk Letters in one corner, which was the very true name of Christeneta.  
See, see the goodness, O let us stand amazed and wonder at the mercies of God, to see what means and instruments he ordaineth for the discovery of Murders.  
The Perfect and Provost send away speedily to apprehend her: she is taken in the midst of her pleasures and pastimes, yea, from the arm of her Mother, and feet of her Father, to whom she fled for safety, but in vain; for she is instantly committed close Prisoner, from whence we shall not see her come forth, till she come to her condign punishment, on a shameful Scaffold, for this her horrible offence of Murder.  
And now the Perfect and Provost go themselves to the prison, where Bianco and Brindoli are: they accuse them peremptorily for the Murder of Gasparino, whose body, they inform them, they have taken up out of the Well: but they again deny it. They give them double torment, and conjure them to reveal this their Murder; but they are so strong of courage, or rather the devil is so strong in them, as they deny all, and neither accuse themselves, nor any other.  
The Perfect and Provost, although they saw all circumstances concur, that undoubtedly Christeneta had a deep hand in this Murder, yet they examine her fairly, and promise her much favour, and their best friendship and assistance, if she will reveal it: but she, as her two confederates, denies all. They adjudge her to the Rack, whereunto she very patiently permits herself to be fastened; but her dainty body and delicate limbs cannot endure the cruelty of this torment: and so she confesseth all, that in revenge of Pisani's death, she had caused Bianco and Brindoli to murder him in the Nun's garden, as we have formerly understood.  
And now comes God's sentence from heaven, pronounced against these Murderers, by the mouth of his Magistrates on earth, who for reparation and expiation of their horrible crimes of Murder, committed on Gasparino, adjudge Bianco and Brindoli to have their right hands cut off, then to be hanged, and their bodies thrown into the River Po: And Christeneta (notwithstanding all the solicitation which her father and friends made for her) to be first hanged, then burned, and her ashes thrown into the air: Which to the full satisfaction of justice, before an infinite number of Spectators (who assisted at their mournful ends) was accordingly executed, who yet could not refrain from tears, but as much approved and applauded Christeneta's affection to Pisani, as they detested and abhorred her inhuman and bloody revenge to Gasparino.  
Bianco and Brindoli, as they lived unrighteously, so they died desperately, and could not be drawn to repent themselves of this their bloody fact: But as I have understood, Christeneta was extremely sorrowful for her sins, but especially for this murder, whereof at her last breath she infinitely and exceedingly repent herself: yea, I have been informed, that she delivered a godly and religious speech upon the Ladder, but I was not so fortunate to recover it. May all true Christians read this History with profit, and profit in reading it, that so God may receive the glory: and their souls the eternal comfort and consolation.  
Amen.   

GOD'S REVENGE AGAINST, THE CRYING AND EXEcrable sin of Murder.  
HISTORY III.  
Mortaigne under promise of marriage gets josselina with child, and after, converting his love into hatred, causeth his Lackey La Verdure, and La Palma to murder both her and her young son: the jealousy of Isabel to her husband La Palma is the cause of the discovery hereof: they are all three taken and executed for the same.  
IT is a just reward for the vanity of our thoughts, and a true recompense for the errors of our youth, that we buy pleasure with repentance, and the sweetness of sin with the bitterness of affliction: but if we violate the Laws of Christianity, and abandon ourselves to lust and fornication, than we shall see with shame, that men will not pity us, and find with grief, that God will punish us. It is an excellent virtue in Maidens, not to listen to the lewd temptations of men; and in men, not to hearken to the sugared charms of the devil▪ for commonly that folly gives the one shame, and this madness brings the other destruction: but if we first forget ourselves, and then our God, by adding and heaping sin upon sin, as first, to perpetrate fornication, and after Murder, then assuredly our estate is so miserably wretched, and so wretchedly miserable, as we have no hope left for better fortunes, nor place for worse. And because Example is both pleasing to our memory, and profitable to our judgement, this mournful ensuing History shall make good, and confirm it to us: therefore let us shut the door of our thoughts against the power of sin, and that of our hearts against the malice of Hell: and we shall not only make our fortunes immovable in this World, but our felicity eternal in that to come.  
In the Southeast part of France, within a day's journey of the famous City of Lions, at the foot of the Mountain of Tarara, upon the border and bosom of that sweet River Lignon, so famoused by the Minion of honour, and the darling of the Muses, the marquis of Vrse, in his beautiful and divine Astrea: near Durency (a certain small Village) there dwelled a poor Country Farmer, named Andrew Mollard, who of late burying his Wife, had one only child left him by her, being a very fair young girl, about the age of twelve years old, named josselina, whom he hoped should prove the staff and prop of his age, and resolved when she grew up in years, and came to woman's estate, to marry her to some of his neighbour's sons, and at his death, to give her all that little which either his parents, or his own labour and industry had left or procured him.  
Two or three years sliding away, in which time Mollard increasing in wealth, and his Daughter in years, she was, and was justly reported to be the fairest Nymph of those parts, and by all the rustic Swains termed, the fair josselina, esteeming themselves happy, if they might see her, much more, if they might enjoy her presence.  
Now within a little League of Mollards house, dwelled an ancient and wealthy Gentleman, named Mounsieur de Coucie, who had many children: but among the rest, his eldest son, termed Mounsieur de Mortaigne, was a very hopeful and brave Gentleman, who was first a Page to that generous Nobleman Mounsieur de la Guiche, sometimes Governor of Lions, and since his death a chief Gentleman to Mounsieur de Saint jerrant, now a Marshal of France.  
This Mortaigne having lived some years in Paris with his Lord the Marshal, where he followed all honourable exercises, as Riding, Fencing, Dancing, and the like (whereby he purchased himself the honourable title of a most perfect and accomplished Gentleman) was at last desirous to see his father, partly, because he understood he was weak and sickly; but especially to be at the Nuptials of a sister of his, termed Madamoyselle de la Hay, who was then to be married to a Gentleman of Avergne, termed Mounsieur de Cassalis.  
This Marriage being solemnised, Mortaigne having conducted his sister into Avergne, and now seeing his father strong and lusty, he begins to dislike the Country, and to wish himself again in Paris, where the rattling of Coaches, and the infinity of fair Ladies did better delight and please him: he craves leave of his father and mother to return, which (because he is the chiefest stay and comfort of their age) they unwillingly grant him, and so he prepares for his return to Paris. But an unlooked for accident shall stop his journey for the present, and another, but far more fatal, seconding and succeeding that, shall stop and hinder him from ever seeing it.  
For the night before he was to depart, the morning de Coucye his father is most dangerously taken with a burning Fever, and so neither he nor his mother will permit him to depart. Living thus in the Country, and few Gentlemen dwelling near his father's house, he gives himself to Hunting and Hawking, Pastimes and exercises, which though before he loved not, yet now he exceedingly delights in: Now amongst other times, he one day hunting in his father's Woods (hollowing for his Dog which he had lost in a Thicket) by chance sprung a Pheasant, who flying to the next Woods, he sends for his Hawk, with an intent to fly at him; and so being not so happy as again to set sight of him, he ranged so far, and withal so fast, that he was very thirsty, but saw no house near him, that he might call for wine; till at last he happened on that of Andrew Mollard, of whom we have formerly made mention. Mortaigne, seeing a man walking in the next Vineyard, demanded if he were the man of the house, and prayed him to afford him a draught of Wine, alleging that he was very thirsty; Mollard knowing this young Gentleman by the Model of his face, presumed to demand him if he were not one of Mounsieur de Coucye's sons: He answered yes, and that his name was Mortaigne. Mollard presently calling to mind that he was his father's heir, very courteously (in his fashion) prays him to enter his house, and so being set down, he sends his daughter josselina for wine, which she fetched, and they both drink: where honest Mollard thinking his house blessed with so great (and as he thought, so good) a Gentleman, very cheerfully proffers him pears, Grapes, Walnuts, and such homely dainties as his poor cottage could afford. But we shall see Mortaigne requite this courtesy of Mollard, with an extreme ingratitude.  
Mortaigne, whose eye was seldom on Mollard, and never from his daughter, admires to see so sweet a beauty in so obscure a place: he cannot refrain from blushing, to behold the delicacy of her pure complexion: for though she were poor in clothes, yet he saw her rich in beauty, which made not only his eyes, but his heart conclude, that she was wonderful fair; sith it is ever the sign of a true and perfect beauty, where the face graceth the apparel, and not the apparel the face. And now comparing Iosselina's taint to that of the gallant Ladies of Paris, he finds that the truth of nature exceeds the falsehood of their Art: for thorough the Alabaster of her Front, Neck and Paps, he might perceive the azure of her veins, which like the windings of Meander's streams, swiftly range, and sweetly presents itself to his eye. And for her eyes, or rather the Diamonds and Stars of her face, their splendour was so clear, and their influence so piercing, as they not only captivate his thoughts with love, but wound his heart with affection and admiration. But if Mortaigne gaze on the freshness and sweetness of Iosselina's beauty, no less doth she on the properness and perfection of his youth, only his eyes tilt at hers with more liberty, and hers on him with modesty, respect and secrecy: which Mortaigne well espying, he vows to obtain her favour, or to lose his life in research thereof: but the end of such lascivious resolutions seldom prosper.  
But see how all things favour Mortaignes affection, or rather his lust to josselina! for Mollard tells him, he holds a small tenement near adjoining of his father, who hath now put him in suit of Law for two herriots, and therefore beseecheth him for his good word, and favour to his father in his behalf. Mortaigne glad of this occasion to serve for a pretext and cloak for him, to have access to his house and daughter, promiseth him to deal effectually with his father for him, and the next time he passeth that way, to acquaint him what he hath done therein: and so stealing a kiss or two from josselina, as her father went into the Court, and withal swearing to her, that he loved her dear, and would come often to see her; he thanking Mollard for his good cheer, for that time departed.  
But the further he goes from Mollards house, the nearer his heart approacheth his daughter josselina. So his thoughts being steadfastly and continually fixed on her, he begins to distaste his father's house, yea, forsakes all company, and many times pretending to walk in the Park and Woods, he steals away privately to see his new Mistress. He visits her often, but especially when her father is at market, and gives her Gloves, Lawn, and silk girdles, yea he never comes to her, but brings her some gift and present, thinking thereby the sooner to obtain his desire▪ but as yet he is still deceived: for although she be humble and simple, yet she is chaste, and will not hearken to his allurements and enticements. Had josselina continued constant in this resolution, her life would have proved more happy, and her death less mournful.  
Mortaigne perceiving Iosselina's coyness and obstinacy, is thereat no way the less, but rather far the more ensnared and inflamed with her beauty; and now perceiving, that all his Visits, Gifts, Speeches and prayers work no desired effect, he hath recourse to that old fallacy and subtle invention, whereby so many silly maids are abused and deceived; he vows, that if she will permit him to enjoy his desire, he will marry her notwithstanding that their birth and quality were so unequal and different: and this, and only this battery and allurement, was that which van quished Iosselina's Chastity, who, poor girl, caught with this snare, in hope to be a Gentlewoman, shook hands with her may den-head, which she should have prized and esteemed far more precious than her life: but she shall pay dear for this her folly; for she shall live Mortaigne's strumpet and never dye his wife.  
Mortaigne hath now his desire of josselina; and for the fruit of this their unchaste pleasure, in short time her belly swells: Mollard her father discovers the Pad in the straw: he grieves hereat, tears his white hairs, and vows, his daughter's infamy will shorten his days: he torments her with reproachings and threatenings, so as she can find no rest, or tranquillity in his house: she advertiseth Mortaigne hereof, and requests his assistance, in this her affliction: Mortaigne by night steals her away, and sends her ten leagues off from Durency, placing her in a poor Kinsman's house of his, where she is delivered of a young Son: But she shall shortly see (with repentance) what it is to have a child ere a husband. In the mean time she feeds herself with hope, that Mortaigne will shortly marry her, but he resolves nothing less: for the Gallants of these times (who build their triumphs upon the shipwreck and ruins of maiden's honour) will promise any thing, ere they enjoy their desire, but perform nothing, when they have obtained it, but rather spurn at those pleasures, as at Nosegays which they delight in the morn, and throw away ere night.  
Calintha, (Mortaigne's Mother) all this while knows nothing of these occurrences betwixt her son and josselina, and desires to see him married, that she might have the felicity to see herselfe a Grandmother: to which end, she resolves to seek a wife for him; and makes a motion to Monsieur de Vassy, the Seneschal of la Palisse, to match her son with Madamoyselle la Varina his only daughter. De Vassy dislikes not this motion: the young folks see and love: so as in all humane sense and outward appearance, it seems a short time will finish and conclude this match: But it was otherwise determined in heaven.  
This news doth amaze and terrify josselina: but as misfortune seldom comes alone, she likewise that very instant understands that Mollard her father (for very grief of her foul fact) is dead, and hath disinherited her, leaving her nothing but the memory of her shame, for her portion and dowry, and only repentance to comfort her: And this indeed is the forerunnet of her future misery: Wherefote now if ever, it is for her to look to herself and well fare, to which end she resolves to write Mortaigne a Letter, to put him in mind of his promise, and to take compassion of her poverty, being already reduced to this misery, that she hath not wherewithal to maintain herself and child: her said Letter (word for word) I thought good to insert here, because the substance and perusal thereof deserves both pity and compassion.  
JOSSELINA to MORTAIGNE.  
You have bereft me of mine honour, the which (had I had as much grace as vanity) I should have esteemed far dearer and precious than my life. Your promise to make me your wife, was the only lure, which drew me to consent to that error and folly, at the remembrance whereof I grieve with shame, and shame with repentanee, especially sith I see you are so far from performing it, as you hate me, in stead of loving me: let the sweetness of my youth, and the freshness of my beauty (which with many oaths you protested you both admired and adored) judge whether I have deserved this discourtesy of you: but it is a just punishment for my sin and now I find too late, though formerly would not believe, that the fruits of pleasure are bitter resembling those Pitts that seem sweet to the palate, but prove poison to the stomach: and may all mardens beware by my example. If you will not advance my fortunes, yet seek not to make shipwreck of my life, as you have done of my chastity: you know, my father is dead, and with him all the means which in this World I can either hope or expect, as well for the maintenance of myself, as of your son, except from yourself, the which with millions of sighs and tears, I beg and beseech you afford us, and if not love to me, at least for pity to him: if you will not grant me the honour to be a piece of yourself, yet in nature, you cannot deny but your little son is not only your picture, but your image: therefore if you will not affect me for his sake, at least do him for mine, and think, that as it will be an extreme ingratitude in you, not to give her maintenance, who hath given you a son, so it will be extreme cruelty, not to allow that poor babe wherewithal to live: sith he hath received both his being and life of you: but I hope you will prove more natural to him, and more charitable to myself: otherwise rest assured, that such disrespect and unkindness will never go long, either unpitied of men, or unpunished of God.  
JOSSELINA.  
josselina having penned this Letter to Mortaigne, she desirous to draw hope and assistance from all par●…s, thinks it fit likewise to write another to Calintha his Mother, to the same effect: the which she doth, and sends it by a confident messenger, with express charge to deliver them severally: the tenor thereof is thus:  
JOSSELINA to CALINTHA.  
I Know not in what terms either to relate you my misfortune, or reveal you my misery: especially sith mine own folly and undiscretion gave life to the first, as your son Mortaigne's ingratitude doth to the second, had I been as wise as now sorrowful, or as chaste, as now repentant, or which is more, had I not then loved him, as much as he now hates me, I need not blush as I do, to write you, that his promise to make me his wife, hath made me the unfortunate mother of a young son whereof he is the unkind father: I may well term myself unfortunate, sith I no sooner lost mine honour, but my father, who, for his displeasure of my shame and folly, gave all his means from me, which before, right and nature had promised me: and I may justly term your son Mortaigne unkind, sith he not only refuseth to marry me, but also to allow maintenance, either for myself, or his child. It is therefore to you, wanting and despairing of all other means friends and hopes, that with many blushes and tears, I presume to acquaint you with the poverty of my fortune, and the richness of my misery, the which I humbly request you both to pity and relieve: at least if you will not, that your son may, who is the cause thereof: my love to him hath not deserved your hatred to me: and therefore in excusing my folly, or rather if you please, my youth, I hope you will be so charitable to the poor babe my son, that I shall not want for his sake, nor he for his fathers: or if yet will frown, and not smile on me, but rather triumph to see me languish and faint under the burden of my poverty, yet vouchsafe to excuse his innocency, though you condemn mine error: and so, if I must dye miserably, at least let me carry this one content to my grave, that I may be sure he shall live happy. Nature cannot deny this Charity, and Grace will not excuse that cruelty.  
JOSSELINA.  
Whiles josselina flatters herself with hope,, that these Letters will procure her her desire and comfort, Mortaigne and Calintha his mother receive them. As for Mortaigne he like a base Gentleman (whose courtesy was now turned into inhumanity) as much triumpheth in his own sin, as rejoiceth in Iosselina's foolish ambition and poverty. It is a felicity to him to think, that he hath abused her youth, and betrayed her chastity: and therefore he now respecteth her so little, or rather dis-respecteth her so much, as her shame is his glory; her misery, his happiness; and her affliction, his content; yea he no more thinks of her, but with disdain and envy: for the beauty Varina hath quite defaced and blotted out that of josselina, neither doth this cruelty of Mortaigne end in her, but it begins in the pretty babe his son: for he so far degenerateth from the laws and principles of Nature, as he not only hates the Mother for the child's sake, but the child for his mother's sake: yea, he is so far from giving either of them maintenance, or both content, as he scorns the Mother, and will no way either own or relieve the child: and so burning his Letter, and forgetting the contents thereof, he very ingratefully and cruelly resolves to answer it with silence, and this is the best comfort which josselina and the poor young babe her son receive from Mortaigne. But I fear the worst is to come.  
If josselina and her babe receive such disrespect, and inhumanity from Mortaigne, it is to be feared and doubted, that they will meet with little better from his Mother Calintha, who no sooner received and read her letter, but full of wrath and indignation, she in disdain throws it away from her: yea, her discontent and malice is so inflamed against josselina and her child, as fearing it may prove a blur and block to Mortaigne's marriage with Varina: she not only refuseth to relieve them, but is so cruel and inhuman, as she wisheth them both in another World, as unworthy to live in this; but her choler is too passionate, and her passions too unnatural and cruel: for if she would not relieve josselina whom her son Mortaigne had abused, yet in pity, yea in nature, she should have taken order for the maintenance of the child whom her son had begotten: for if the Mother had deserved her hatred, yet this poor babe was innocent thereof, and rather merited her compassion then her envy: or at least, if there had been any spark of humanity, grace, or good nature in her, if she would not have been seen courteous and barbarous to them herself; yet she might dispense with her son, and wink if he had performed it. But nothing less; for her malice is so great, and her rage so outrageous and unreasonable, as she refuseth it herself, and commands him to the contrary: so as being once resolute, not to cast away so much time to return josselina an answer, she at last in a humour, wherein disdain triumphed over pity, and inhumanity over charity, calls for pen and paper, and returns her this bitter and cruel answer.  
CALINTHA to JOSSELINA.  
HAving been so graceless to abuse my son, I wonder how thou darest be so impudent, as to offend me with thy Letter, the which I had once thought rather to have burnt then read: but I find it not strange, that being defective of thy body, thou art so of thy judgement to think, that sith thine own father gave all from thee, that I, who am a mere stranger to thee (as I wish thou hadst been to my son) should afford or give thee any thing; neither doth this resolution of mine proceed from contempt, but charity; for as thou art a woman, I pity thee, but as a strumpet, hold it no pity to relieve thee. Now then, despairing of any hope for thyself, thou pleadest for thy brat; but sith he is the object of thy shame, as thou art that of my son, and withal the cause, why should I look on the child with compassion, sith I neither can, nor will see the mother but with disdain and envy? Thou complainest of thy misfortune and misery, without considering that the Stars and Horoscope of thy base birth never pointed thee out for so high an estate, as of a clown's daughter, to become a Gentleman's wife: but thou must add ambition to thy dishonesty, as if one of these two Vices were not enough powerful to make thee miserable. Thou dost likewise tax my son of unkindness towards thee, without considering that hi●… love to thee, hath been cruelty to himself: for as thou art like to buy his familiarity with tears, so, for aught I know, may he thine with repentance: if thou expect any comfort, thou must hop●… for no other than this, that as my son disdains to marry thee, so do I, that either myself 〈◊〉 he relieve thee: look then on thyself with shame, on thy child with repentance, whiles my son and I will remember ye both with contempt, but neither with pity.  
CALINTHA.  
Poor josselina having received and perused Calintha's Letter, and seeing withal Mortaigne so in humane, as he disdains to write to her; for mere grief, and sorrow, she, with her Babe at her breast, falls to the ground in a swoone, and had not the noise thereof advertised those in the next room to come to her assistance, she had then and there ended her misery with her life, and not afterwards lived to see and endure so many sharp afflictions, and lamentable wants and misfortunes.  
Alas, Alas! she hath now no power to speak, but to weep: yea, if her tears are not words, I am sure her words are sighs; for being abandoned of Mortaigne; and hated of his mother, she is so pierced to the heart with the consideration of that cruelty, and the remembrance of this disdain, as she tears her hair, reputes herself of her former folly, and curseth the hour that Mortaigne first saw her father's house, or she him: but this is but one part of her sorrows and afflictions. Lo, here comes another, that is capable to turn her discontent into despair, her despair into rage, and her rage into madness.  
For by this time Calintha understanding by her son, where josselina resided and sojourned, she so ordered the matter, as when josselina lest thought thereof, she and her Babe in a dark and cold night is most inhumanely turned out of the house where she was; yea, with so great barbarism and cruelty, as she was not suffered to rest, either in the Hayloft, Barn, or Stable, or any other place within door; but enforced to lie in the open field, where the bare ground was her bed, a Molehill her Pillow, the cold air her Coverlet, and the Firmament her Curtains and Canopy. And now it is, and never before, that her eyes gush forth whole Rivers of tears, and her heart and breast sends forth many volleys of deepe-fetched sighs; yea, having no other Tapers but the Stars of heaven to light her, she looks on her poor Babe for comfort, whose sight, God knows, doth but redouble her sorrows and afflictions, because it lies crying at her breast for want of Milk, which (poor woman) she had not to give it; when, being in this miserable case, and accompanied with none but with the Beasts of the Field, and the Birds of the air, who yet were far happier than herself, because they were gone to their rest, and she could receive none, she after many bitter sighs, groans, and tears, uttered these speeches to herself.  
Alas, alas, poor josselina! It is thy folly, and not thy fortune, that hath brought thee to this misery: for hadst thou had grace to use, and not to abuse thy beauty, thou mightst have seen thyself as happy, as now thou art wretched and miserable: but see what a double loss thou receivest for thy single pleasure, for the loss of thy chastity to Mortaigne, was that of thy father to thee: and now being deprived of both, what wilt thou do, or whither canst thou fly for comfort? But alas, this is not all the misery; for as thy loss is double, so is thy grief: for now thou must as well sorrow for thy child, as for thyself; yea josselina, forget to grieve for thyself, and remember to do it for thy Babe, sith thou hast brought it into the world, and hast not wherewith to maintain it. And then not able to proceed farther, she takes it up and kisses it, and reins tears on its cheeks, though she cannot stream milk in its mouth, when again recovering her speech, she continues thus:  
Ay me, josselina, thou art both the Author and the cause of thine own misery, and therefore thou must not blame heaven, but thank thyself for it: for thy afflictions are so great, as wheresoever thou turnest thy thoughts or eyes, thou findest nothing but grief, nothing but sorrow: for if thou think on Mortaigne, he looks on thee with disdain, if on his mother Calintha, she with envy; yea, thou canst not behold the world without shame, thy poor infant without sorrow, nor thyself without repentance: nay, consider further with thyself, what thou hast gotten by casting (or rather by casting away) thy affection on Mortaigne: he found thee a Maid, and hath left thee a strumpet; thou hast a child, and yet no husband: then thou wert so happy as to have a father, and now thy son is so miserable, as he can find none: yea, than thou wert a friend to many, but now thou findest not one that will be so to thee: and which is worse, thou hast not wherewithal to be so to thyself. Alas, alas, thou hast no house to go to, no friend to trust to, no meat for thyself, nor milk for thy child: therefore poor josselina (quoth she) how happy should we both be, if thou wert buried, and he unborn.  
She would have finished her speech, but that tears interrupted her words, and sighs cut her tears in pieces.  
By this time her Babe falls asleep, but her griefs are so great, and her sorrows so infinite, as she cannot close her eyes, nor yet be so much beholding either to Morpheus or Death to do it for her; which perceiving, as also that the Moon was enveloped in a cloud, and that the Stars begin to deny her the comfort and lustre of their sight, she fearing to be overtaken with rain, and perceiving a thick Wood a pretty way off from her, she takes her Babe, and as fast as her weak and wearied legs could perform (bitterly weeping and sighing) hies thither for shelter; but heaven proves more kind to her then earth: for lo, both the Moon and Stars assist and comfort her in this her sorrowful journey. Being come to the Wood (which indeed was farther off then she thought) she began to be weary, and there making a bed of leaves (which at that season of the year fell abundantly from the Trees) she thereon for awhiles rested herself, but sleep she could not: and now if any thing in the world afforded her comfort, it was to see that her infant slept prettily, though not sound: but here if her eyes craved rest, so her stomach craved meat: for it was now midnight, and she had eaten nothing since noon: so pulling off her upper coat, she wraps and covers her child as hot as she could, who being fast asleep, and laying it on the bed of leaves, she goes from tree to hedge, and gathers Blacke-berries, slows, and wild Chessnuts, wherewith in stead of better Viands, she satisfied her hunger, and now she sees herself on the top of a Hill, at whose foot she perceived a River, and a great stony Bridge over it, the which she knew, as also that there was a little Village near about a mile beyond it, which indeed in the midst of her miseries afforded her some comfort. So back she hies to her child, which she finds out by its crying, it wanting not only his nipple but his Nurse, and so with many kisses takes it up in her arms, and hies towards the bridge, and from thence to the Village, which she now remembers is termed Villepont, where she arrives at five of the clock in the morning, and lodged herself in a very poor Inn, being extremely glad, and infinitely joyful that she had recovered so good a harbour.  
But money she hath none to pay her expenses, and to lie in Inns upon credit, is to be ill attended, and worse looked on: so she is enforced, yea, fain to sell away her Quaives, her bands, and her upper coat, to discharge her present occasions. Poor josselina, how happy hadst thou been, if thou hadst had as much wit and chastity, as beauty, or rather more chastity, and less beauty! But it is now too late to remedy it, though never to repent it.  
josselina knowing Villepont to be but seven leagues from Durency (the Parish where she was borne) is irresolute whether to stay here, or to go thither. Want of means persuades her to the first: but knowing that Mortaigne's love was turned to hatred, and that it was dangerous for her to be near his incensed mother, she resolves to stay in Villepont, and to write to her kinsfolks and friends to assi●…t her in this her misery and necessity. In the mean time she is enforced to content herself with a poor little out-chamber, where there is neither chimney nor window, but only a small loop whereinto the Sun scarce ever entered, and yet she is extremely well contented and glad hereof.  
But wealth finds many friends, and poverty none: and yet, sith diversity of fortunes is the true touchstone of friendship, we may therefore more properly and truly term those our friends, who assist us in our necessity, and not who seem to pleasure us in our prosperity: for those are real friends, but these verbal: those will perform more than they promise, and these promise much, and perform nothing.  
But josselina is so wretched and unfortunate, as she finds neither the one nor the other to assist her in this her misery: yea so far she is to receive either means or promises; as nothing is sent her, nor none will see her; so as miserable necessity enforceth her to report and divulge the misfortune of her fortune, and to complain to all the world of Mortaigne's treachery, and of his Mother Calintha's cruelty; yea she threatens to send him his son, sith he will not afford her wherewith to maintain it.  
This is not so secretly carried in Villepont, but De Vassye and Varina his daughter have news hereof in La Palisse, which occasioneth her to grow cold in her affection, and he in his respect to Mortaigne, so as all things decline, and there is little hope or appearance, that this match shall go forward. Mortaigne is two clear-sighted, to be blind herein, yea he presently knows, from what point of the Compass this wind cometh, and is fully possessed, that josselina is the cause of these alterations and storms: he is exceedingly enraged and inflamed hereat, and gives such way to his passion and choler, as these obstacles must be removed, and he vows to destroy both josselina and her son. A bloody resolution, not beseeming either a Christian, or a Gentleman: for was it not enough for him to rob josselina of her honour, and to put a rape on her chastity and virtue, but he must likewise bereave her of her life, and so add Murder to his lust? Alas, what a base Gentleman is this? yea, how far degenerates he from true Gentility, to be so cruel to her that hath been so kind to him? But the Devil suggesteth to his thoughts, and they to his heart, that Varina is fair, and that there is no way nor hope left to obtain her, before josselina and her brat be dispatched. Now if grace could not persuade him from being so cruel to josselina: (yet me thinks) nature should have withheld him from being so inhuman to his own son: but his faith is so weak towards God, and the devil is so strong with him, that he cannot be removed or withdrawn from his bloody resolution, only he altereth the manner thereof: for whereas he resolved first to destroy the Mother, than the child, now he will first dispatch the child, than the Mother. O Heavens, why should earth produce so bloody and prodigious a monster!  
Now the better to dissemble his malice, he thinks to reclaim and pacify josselina, and so gives order that she and her child be lodged in a better Inn in the same village of Villepont, and signifies her that he hath gotten a Nurse, and hath provided maintenance for his son, and that shortly he will send his Lackey for him, but withal, that she must keep this very secret, because he will not have his mother Calintha acquainted therewith. josselina rejoiceth, and seems to be revived at this pleasing news: yea, she begins to forget her former misery, and flatters herself with this hope, that fortune will again smile on her. So within three days, Mortaigne sends his Lackey, La Verdure to her for the babe: the which with many kisses and ●…eares she delivereth him, hoping that Mortaigne his father would be careful of his maintenance, and not so much as once dreaming, or conceiving that he had any intent to murder it. But she shall find the contrary; for henceforth she shall never see her babe, nor her babe her.  
La Verdure (the Lackey) following his Master's command, is not four Leagues from Villepont, before, like a damnable miscreant, he strangles it, and wrapping it in a Linen cloth (which he had purposely brought with him) throws it into the River Lignon; but he shall pay dear for Murdering of this sweet and innocent babe.  
But it is not enough: for Mortaigne's devilish malice and revenge will not be quenched or satisfied, till he see the Mother follow the fortune of the son: to which end he agrees with her Oast La Palma, and his aforesaid Lackey La Verdure, to stifle her in her bed. The which, for two hundred franks they perform, and bury her in his garden, she being sound sleeping, and poor soul, not so much as once dreaming of this her mournful and lamentable end. What Tigers or monsters of nature are these; to commit so damnable a Murder, as if there were no God in heaven to detect them, nor earth nor hell to punish them?  
But we shall see the contrary: yea, we shall see both the Murder, and the Murderers revealed and discovered by an extraordinary means; wherein God's providence and glory will most miraculously resplend and shine.  
As soon as La Verdure and La Palma had Murdered our harmless josselina, they both post away to Durency, aswell to acquaint Mortaigne herewith, as also to receive their money (whereof the one half was paid them, and the other due.) This news is so pleasing to him, as he cheerfully lays down his promise: and so they both frolic it in the village, La Verdure making no haste home to his Master Mortaigne, not La Palma to his old wife Isabel.  
In the mean time (a month being passed away) Mortaigne, hoping the way clear, and all the rubs removed, that hindered him from obtaining his fair mistress Varina; he procures his father De Coucye, and other of his friends to ride to La Palisse: hoping to finish the match betwixt La Varina and himself: But he and they are enforced to see themselves deceived of their hopes. For De Vassy and his daughter having heard that josselina and her son were conveyed away, and could no more be heard of, they (suspecting, and fearing that which indeed was fall'n out) in plain terms, give Mortaigne the refusal, who galled to the heart herewith, doth now hang down his head, and see his former bloody errors and crimes; but it is two late, for the Lord hath bend his bow, and his Arrow is ready to Revenge them.  
La Palma understanding of Mortaigne's arrival from La Palisse, thinks it high time for him to leave Durency, and to return home to Villepont to his wife Isabel, who being an old woman, and he a young man; was not only impatient, but jealous of his long stay (which was well near five weeks) and the rather for that he departed, as she thought, in company of josselina: who because she was young and fair, she vehemently suspected, he had since entertained and stayed with But this jealousy of hers, God makes his instrument to discover this execrable Murder.  
For La Palma coming home, his wife Isabel (as we have heard) being incensed with anger, and inflamed with jealousy, gives him this bitter entertainment and welcome: Lafoy Palma (quoth she) you were very unkind, so soon to forsake your Whore josselina. La Palma being pierced to the quick with this bitter speech of his wife, like a lewd fellow, gave her first the lie, and then termed her whore in speaking it. She hath fire in her looks, and he thunder in his speeches. So after many bitter and scandalous injuries banded one to the other, she adds rage to her words, and he a box on the ear to his choler, where with he felled her as dead to the ground; yea, the servants, and all that beheld it, cry out amain, as if her soul had already taken her last farewell of her body. At this tumult the neighbours assemble, and deeming Isabel dead, they lay hands on La Palma her husband, and carry him before the Procurer, fiscal of La Palisse, who was then in their Village of Villepont, who without further examination commits him to prison, and so goes in person to visit Isabel, who by this time is a little recovered, but not freed from the danger of death: She relates him all that had passed betwixt her husband and herself: as also of his departure with josselina, and of his long stay in Durency; adding withal, that he hath heretofore many times beaten her, and now she hopes, that this blow will not go unpunished: yea, her rage, or rather Gods providence carries her so fatre, as she constantly avers to the Magistrate, that if josselina be not her husband's strumpet, she constantly believes he is her Murderer: and to conclude, saith, that her servantmayd jaqueta can say more.  
jaqueta examined, saith, that the night before her Master's departure for Durency, he was at midnight in Iosselina's Chamber, together with one Lafoy Verdure a Lackey, and that since josselina was neither seen nor heard of; and being farther demanded if she knew whose Lackey La Verdure was, she answered, he was Mounsieur Mortaignes' Lackey, who was son to Mounsieur de Coucy. The Procurer fiscal, confidering their several depositions, doth shrewdly suspect there is more in the wind than is yet discovered: he leaves Isabel, and goes to her husband in prison, and after he had sharply checked him for beating his wife, he inquires and chargeth him with these two points; First, why he and La Verdure were in Iosselina's Chamber at midnight? and secondly, what was become of her, sith since that time she hath neither been seen nor heard of.  
La Palma is terrified and amazed with these demands (and far the more, because he lest expected them) the which apparently appeared in the alteration of his colour and complexion, which commonly betrays an inward perturbation of the mind and heart. He answereth not punctually to those points demanded of him: but runs on with many bitter invectives against the rage and jealousy of his wife: and then being by the Procurer bid answer to those two points he formerly demanded of him: he, after many frivolous and extravagant speeches, denies that either he or La Verdure were in Iosselina's Chamber, and that he neither saw her departure, nor knew what was become of her, and withal prays the Proeurer fiscal to free and release him of his imprisonment: but he shall not escape at so cheap a rate.  
For the Procurer, being very familiar with Mounsieur de Vassye his Colleague and fellow-Iudge of La Palisse, remembered that he had formerly heard him speak of this Mounsieur Mortaigne, who lately sought his daughter La Varina in marriage; as also of his entertaining and rejecting this josselina, a Farmer's daughter of Durency, by whom he had a base son: and now considering that at such an unseasonable hour his Lackey La Verdure should be in her Chamber in La Palma's house, and La Palma himself in his company, and she never since seen or heard of, he thinks there is some fire hid and covered in these embers, and that there is some deeper mystery in this business, which as yet was not revealed.  
Wherefore, like a wise Magistrate, he holds it fit, the same night to send La Palma privately to La Palisse, as also his wife Isabel and jaqueta for witnesses, and rides thither himself, to sit upon his process, with whom the Lieutenant of that jurisdiction joined; but for Mounsieur de Vassye the Seneschal, he (for the regard he bore to Mortaigne, because he vehemently suspected he had a deep and chief hand in this business) would not be present, but purposely absented himself at a house of his in the Country: the next morn La Palma is examined, as also the two witnesses, and jaqueta is confronted with him, who stands firm to her former disposition: But he slatly denies all. The Procurer and the Lieutenant adjudge him to the Rack. He endureth the first torment, but at the second confesseth that he and La Verdure had stifled, and murdered josselina in her bed, in his own house, and had buried her in his Garden, and that they were set a work and hired to do it by Mounsieur Mortaigne, who gave them two hundred Frankes to effect it.  
Lo here by the mercy and providence of God, La Palma's malice to his wife Isabel, and her jealousy to him, hath discovered and brought to light this cruel and bloody Murder, which was so secretly contrived and so cunningly and devilishly acted upon the body of josselina: But hers being discovered, let us likewise see how that of her harmless and innocent Babe is likewise brought to light. The two judges themselves ride all night to Villepont, they search the Garden, and find the dead body of josselina, having no other Winding-sheet but her own smock. They send away the Provost to apprehend Mortaigne and his Lackey for this Murder, who meets La Verdure by the way, and seizes Mortaigne in his bed.  
They are severally brought to La Palisse, and first La Verdure is confronted with La Palma, who denies all: but they present his feet to the fire, and then he confesseth not only the Mu●…ther of josselina, but likewise that of her infant son, whom he first strangled, and then threw into the River Lignon: and this, said he, he did at the request of his Master Mortaigne, of whom for his part and labour, he received one hundred Frankes.  
We have here found two of these Murderers: and now what resteth there, but that the third, who is the Author, and as it were the capital great wheel of these bloody Tragedies, be produced and brought to this Arraignment? The Procurer and Lieutenant repair again to the Prison, and charge Mortaigne with these two bloody Murders: he knows it is in vain to deny it, sith he is sure his two execrable agents have already revealed it: therefore he ashamed at the remembrance of his cruel and unnatural crimes, doth with many tears very sorrowfully and penitently confess all.  
It is a happiness for him to repent these Murders; but it had been a far greater, if he had never contrived and committed them: yea, the judges are amazed to hear the cruelty hereof, and the people to know it, and both send their praises and thankfulness to God, that he hath thus detected and brought them to light on earth.  
And now comes the Catastrophe of their own Tragedies, wherein every one of these Malefactors receives condign punishment for their several offences.  
La Palma is condemned to be hanged and burnt: Lafoy Verdure to be broken on the Wheel, and his body to be thrown into the River Lignon: and Mortaigne, though the last in rank, yet the first in offence, to be broken on the Wheel, his body burnt, and his ashes thrown into the air: which Sentence, in the sight of a great multitude of Spectators, was on a Market day accordingly executed and performed in La Palisse.  
And this was the bloody end of Mortaigne, and his two hellish instruments, for murdering innocent josselina, and her silly and tender infant: May all Maidens learn by her example to preserve their chastities: and men, by La Verdure's and La Palma's, not to be drawn to shed innocent blood for the lucre of wealth and money; and by Mortaignes, to be less lascivious, inhuman, and bloody: thereby to prevent so execrable a life, and so infamous a death.  
One thing I may not omit: Lafoy Palma on the Ladder extremely cursed the malice of his wife Isabel, who (he said) was the author of his death: and no less did La Verdure on the Wheel by his Master Mortaigne; but both of them were so desperately irreligious, as neither of them considered that it was their former sins, and the malice of the Devil, to whom they gave too much ear, that was the cause thereof.  
And for Mortaigne, after he had informed the world, that he extremely grieved, that his judges had not given him the death of a Gentleman, which was to have been beheaded, he with many tears bewailed his infinite ingratitude, cruelty, and unnaturalness, both towards josselina, as also his and her young son: yet he prayed the world in general to pray that God would forgive it him; and likewise requested the Executioner to dispatch him quickly out of this life; because he confessed he was unworthy to live longer.  
Now let us glorify our Creator and Redeemer, who continually makes a strict inquisition for blood, and a curious and miraculous inquiry for Murder: yea, let us both fear him with love, and love him with fear, sith he is as impartial in his justice, as in distributing his mercies.   

GOD'S REVENGE AGAINST THE CRYING AND EXEcrable sin of Murder.  
HISTORY IU.  
Beatrice-Ioana, to marry Alsemero causeth the Flores to murder Alonso Piracquo, who was a sutter to her. Alsemero marries her, and finding the Flores and her in adultery, kills them both. Tomaso Piracquo Challengeth Alsemero for his Brother's death. Alsemero kills him treacherously in the field, and is beheaded for the same, and his body thrown into the Sea: At his execution he confesseth, that his wife and de Flores Murdered Alonso Piracquo: their bodies are taken up out of their graves, then burnt, and their ashes thrown into the air.  
Sigh in the day of judgement we shall answer at God's great Tribunal, for every lewd thought our hearts conceive, and idle words our tongues utter, how then shall we dare appear (much less think to scape) when we defile our bodies with the pollution of adultery, and taint our souls with the innocent blood of our Christian brethren? when, I say, with beastly lust and adultery, we unsanctify our sanctified bodies, who are the receptacles and Temples of the holy Ghost, and with high and presumptuous hands, stab at the Majesty of God, by Murdering of man, who is his Image? This is not the Ladder to scale heaven, but the shortest way to ride post to hell: for how can we give ourselves to God, when in the heat of lust and fume of Revenge, we sell our hearts to the Devil? But did we ever love God for his Mercy, or fear him for his justice, we would then not only hate these sins in ourselves, but detest them in others: for these are crying and capital offences, seen in heaven, and by the Sword of his Magistrates brought forth and punished here on earth. A lamentable and mournful example whereof, I here produce to your view, but not to your imitation: may we all read it to the reformation of our lives, to the comfort of our souls, and to the eternal glory of the most Sacred and Individual Trinity.  
IN Valentia (an ancient and famous City of Spain) there dwelled one Don Pedro de Alsemero, a Noble young Cavalier, whose father (Don Ivan Alsemero) being slain by the Hollanders in the Sea fight at Gibraltar, he resolved to addict himself to Naval and sea actions, thereby to make himself capable to revenge his father's death: a brave resolution, worthy the affection of a son, and the Generosity of a Gentleman!  
To which end he makes two voyages to the West-Indies, from whence he returns flourishing and rich, which so spread the sails of his Ambition, and hoisted his fame from top to top gallant, that his courage growing with his years, he thought no attempt dangerous enough, if honourable, nor no honour enough glorious, except achieved and purchased by danger. In the actions of Alarache and Mamora, he showed many noble proofs and testimonies of his valour and prowess, the which he confirmed and made good by the receipt of eleven several wounds, which as marks and Trophies of Honour made him famous in Castille. Boiling thus in the heat of his youthful blood, and contemplating often on the death of his father, he resolves to go to Validolyd, and to imply some Grando either to the King or to the Duke of Lerma, his great favourite, to procure him a Captain's place, and a company under the Archduke Albertus, who at that time made bloody wars against the Netherlanders, thereby to draw them to obedience: But as he began this suit, a general truce of both sides laid aside Arms, which (by the mediation of England and France) was shortly followed by a peace, as a Mother by the daughter: Which was concluded at the Hage by his Excellency of Nassaw and Marquis Spinola, being chief Commissioners of either party. Alsemero seeing his hopes frustrated, that the keys of peace had now shut up the Temple of War, and that Muskets, Pikes, and corslets, that were wont to grace the fields, where now rusting by the walls, he is irresolute what course to take, resembling those fishes who delight to live in cataracts and troubled waters, but die in those that are still and quiet: For he spurns at the pleasures of the Court, and refuseth to haunt and frequent the companies of Ladies: And so not affecting, but rather disdaining the pomp, bravery and vanity of Courtiers, he withdraws himself from Validolyd to Valentia, with a noble and generous intent to seek wars abroad, sith he could find none at home, where being arrived, although he were often invited into the companies of the most noble and honourable Ladies both of the City and Country: Yet his thoughts ran still on the wars, in which Heroic and illustrious profession, he conceived his chiefest delight and felicity: and so taking order for his lands and affairs, he resolves to see Malta that inexpugnable Rampire of Mars, the glory of Christendom, and the terror of Turkey, to see if he could gain any place of command and honour either in that Island, or in their Galleys; or if not, he would from thence into Transilvania, Hungary, and Germany, to enrich his judgement and experience, by remarking the strength of their Castles and Cities, their orders and discipline in war, the Potency of their Princes, the nature of their Laws and customs, and all other matters worthy the observation both of a Traveller and a Soldier: and so building many castles in the air, he comes to Alicant, hoping to find passage there for Naples, and from thence to ship himself upon the Neapolitan Galleys for Malta.  
There is nothing so vain as our thoughts, nor so uncertain as our hopes: for commonly they deceive us, or rather we ourselves in relying on them, not that God is any way unjust: (for to think so, were impiety) but that our hopes take false objects, and have no true foundation, and to imagine the contrary, were folly: the which Alsemero finds true: for here the wind doth oppose him, his thoughts fight and vanquish themselves, yea the providence of God doth cross him in his intended purposes, and gives way to that he lest intendeth.  
For coming one morning to our Lady's Church at Mass, and being on his knees in his devotion, he espies a young Gentlewoman likewise on hers next to him who being young, tender and fair, he thorough her thin veil discovered all the perfections of a delicate and sweet beauty, she espies him feasting on the dainties of her pure and fresh cheeks; and tilting with the invisible lances of his eyes, to hers, he is instantly ravished and vanquished with the pleasing object of this Angelical countenance, and now he can no more resist either the power or passion of love.  
This Gentlewoman (whose name as yet we know not) is young and fair, and cannot refrain from blushing, and admiring to see him admire and blush at her. Alsemero dies in conceit with impatiency, that he cannot enjoy the happiness and means to speak with her, but he sees it in vain to attempt it, because she is engaged in the company of many Ladies, and he of many Cavaliers: But Mass being ended, he inquires of a good fellow Priest, who walked by, what she was and whether she frequented that Church, and at what hour. The Priest informs him, that she is Don Diego de Vermandero's daughter: he being Captain of the Castle of that City, that her name was Dona Beatrice-Ioana, and that she is every morning in that Church and Place, and near about the same hour.  
Alsemero hath the sweetness of her beauty so deeply engraven in his thoughts, and imprinted in his heart, that he vows Beatrice-Ioana is his Mistress, and he her servant: yea, here his warlike resolutions have end, and strike sail. And now he leaves Bellona to adore Venus, and forsakes Mars, to follow Cupid: yea, so fervent is his flame, and so violent is his passion, as he can neither give nor take truce of his thoughts, till he be again made happy with her sight, and blessed with her presence.  
The next morn (as Lovers love not much rest) Alsemero is stirring very timely, and hoping to find his Mistress: no other Church will please him but our Ladies, nor place, but where he first and last saw her: but she is more zealous than himself; For she is first in the Church, and on her knees to her devotion, whom Alsemero gladly espying, he kneels next to her: and having hardly the patience to let pass one poor quarter of an hour (he resolving as yet to conceal his name) like a fond Lover, whose greatest glory is in compliments and Courting his Mistress, he board's her thus:  
Fair Lady, it seems, that these two mornings my devotions have been more powerful and acceptable then heretofore; sith I have had the felicity to be placed next so fair and so sweet a Nymph as yourself, whose excellent beauty hath so suddenly captivated mine eyes, and so secretly ravished my heart, that he which heretofore rejected, cannot now resist the power of love; and therefore having ended my devotion I beseech you excuse me, if I begin to pray you to take pity of me: sith my flame is so fervent, and my affection is so passionate, as either I must live yours, or not dye mine own.  
Beatrice-Ioana could not refrain from blushing under her veil, to see an unknown Cavalier board her in these terms in the Church: and as she gave attentive ear to his speech, so she could not for a while refrain from glancing her eye upon the spruceness of his person, and the sumptuousness of his apparel: but at last, accusing her own silence, because she would give him no cause to condemn it, she with a modest grace, and a graceful modesty, returns him this answer:  
Sir, as your devotions can neither be pleasing to God, nor profitable to your soul, if in this place you account it a felicity to enjoy the sight of so mean a Gentlewoman as myself, so I cannot repute it to affection but flattery, that this poor beauty of mine (which you unjustly paint forth in rich praises) should have power either to captivate the eyes, or which is more, to ravish the heart of so noble a Cavalier as yourself. Such victories are reserved for those Ladies, who are as much your equal, as I your inferior: and therefore directing your zeal to them, if they find your affection such as you profess to me, no doubt but regarding your many virtues and merits, they will in honour grant you that favour which I in modesty am constrained to deny you.  
Alsemero (though a novice in the art of Love) was not so ignorant and cowardly to be put off with her first repulse and refusal, but rather seeing that the perfections of her mind corresponded with those of her beauty, he resolves now to make trial of his wit and tongue, as heretofore he had done of his courage and sword: and so joins with her thus:  
It is a pretty Ambition in you, sweet Lady, to disparage your beauty, that thereby it may seem the fairer; as the Sun, who appears brighter by reason of the night's obscurity: and all things are best, and more perfectly discerned by their contraries: but I cannot commend, and therefore not excuse your policy, or rather your disrespect, to slight and post me over from yourself, whom I love, to those Ladies I neither know nor desire, which in effect is to give me a cloud for juno. No, no, it is only to you and to no other that I present and dedicate my service: and therefore it will be an ingratitude as unworthy my receiving, as your giving, that I should be the object of your discourtesy: sith you are that of my affection.  
To these speeches of Alsemero, Beatrice▪ joana returns this reply:  
It is not for poor Gentlewomen of my rank and complexion, either to be ambitious, or politic, except it be to keep themselves from the snares of such Caviliers as yourself, who (for the most part) under colour of affection, aim to erect the trophies of your desires upon the tombs of our dishonours: only I so much hate ingratitude, as you being to me a stranger, charity and common courtesy commands me to thank you for the proffer of your service: the which I can no other way either deserve or requite, except in my devotions and prayers to God, for your glory and prosperity on earth.  
As she had ended this her speech, the Priest ends his Mass; when Alsemero arising, advanced to lift her up from kneeling, and so with his hat in his hand, (sequestering her from the crowd of people, who now began to depart the Church) he speaks to her to this effect:  
Fair Lady, as I know you to be the Lady Beatrice-Ioana, daughter to the noble Knight Don Diego de Vermanderos, Captain of the Castle of this City: so I being a stranger to you, I admire that you offer so voluntary an injury to your judgement and my intents, as to pervert my affection and speeches to a contrary sense: but my innocence hath this consolation, that my heart is pledge for my tongue, and my deeds shall make my words real. In the mean time, sith you will give me no place in your heart, I beseech you lend me one in your Coach, and be at least so courteous, as to honour me, in accepting my company to conduct you home to your father's Castle.  
Beatrice-Ioana, calling to mind the freeness of her speeches, and the sharpness of his answer, not blushing for joy, but now looking pale for sorrow, reputes herself of her error, the which she salves up the best she could in this Reply:  
Noble Sir, when I am acquainted as well with your heart as with your speeches, I shall then not only repent, but recant mine error, in judging yourself by others; in the mean time, if I have any way wronged your merits and virtues, to give you some part of satisfaction, if you please to grace me with your company to the Castle, (although it be not the custom of Alicant) I do most kindly and thankfully accept thereof: when Alsemero giving her many thanks, and kissing his hand, he takes her by the arm, and so conducts her from the Church to her Coach.  
It is both a grief and a scandal to any true Christians heart, that the Church or-ordained for thanks giving and prayer unto God, should be made a Stews, or at least, a place for men to meet and court Ladies: but in all parts of the Christian world, where the Roman religion reigneth, this sinful custom is frequently practised, especially in Italy and Spain, where, for the most part, men love their Courtesans better than their God: and it were a happiness for France, if her popish Churches were freed of thisabomination, and her people of this impiety. But again to our History.  
We will purposely omit the conference which Alsemero and Beatrice-Ioana had in the Coach, and allow them by this time arrived to the Castle: where first herself, than the Captain her father, thank him for his honour and courtesy: in requital whereof, he showed him the rarities and strength of his Castle, and after some speeches and compliments between them, he was so happy as to kiss Beatrice-Ioana, but had not the felicity to entertain her: and so he departs, his Lackey attending him with his Jennet to the counterscarp. So home he rides to his lodging, where, whiles the wind holds contrary, we will a little leave him to his thoughts, and they to resolve in what sort he might contrive his suit for the obtaining of his new and fair Mistress Beatrice joana, and likewise herself, to muse upon the speeches and extraordinary courtesy, which this unknown Cavalier afforded her, and begin to speak of Don Alonso P●…racquo, a rich Cavalier of the City, who unknown to Alsemero, was his rival and competitor, in likewise seeking and courting Boatrice-Ioana for his Mistress and wife.  
This Piracquo being rich both in lands and money, and descended of one of the chiefest and noblest Families of Alicant, by Profession a Courtier, and indeed (to give him his due) a Cavalier endued with many brave qualities and perfections, was so highly beloved, respected and esteemed in that City, as the very fairest and noblest young Ladies were, with much respect and affection, proffered him in marriage by their parents: but there was none either so precious or pleasing to his eye, as was our Beatrice joana, whom he observed for beauty to excel others, and for Majesty and grace to surpass herself, and indeed he could not refrain from loving her, nor be persuaded or drawn to affect any other: so as he settled his resolution either to have her to his wife, or not to be the husband of any. Yea, he is so earnest in his suit, as scarce any one day passeth, but he is at the Castle.  
Vermandero thinks himself much honoured of him, in seeking his daughter, yea, he receives him lovingly, and entertains him courteously; as knowing it greatly for her preferment, and advancement: and so gives Piracquo many testimonies of his favour, and many hopes that he shall prevail and obtain his Mistress. But Beatrice-Ioana stands not so affected to him, rather she receives him coldly; and when he begins his suit to her, she turns the deaf ear, and never answereth him, but in general terms: only not peremptorily to disobey her parents, she seems to be pleased with his company, and yet secretly in her heart wisheth him farther from her.  
But Piracquo flattering himself in his hope, and as much doting on Beatrice-Ioana's beauty, as he relies on her father's constant affection to him, he is so far from giving over his suit to her, as he continueth it with more earnestness and importunity, and vows that he will forsake his life ere his Mistress: but sometimes we speak true, when we think we jest: yet he finds her one and the same: for although she were not yet acquainted with Alsemero, yet she made it the thirteenth Article of her Creed, that the supreme power had ordained her another husband, and not Piracquo: yea, at that very instant the remembrance of Alsemero quite defaced that of Piracquo, so that she wholly refused her heart to the last, of purpose to reserve and give it to the first: as the sequel will show.  
Now by this time Vermandero had notice, and was secretly informed of Alsemero's affection to his daughter, and withal, that she liked him far better than Piracquo: which news was indeed very distasteful and displeasing to him, because he perfectly knew that Piracquo's means far exceed that of Alsemero. Whereupon considering that he had given his consent, and in a manner engaged his promise to Piracquo: he, to prevent the hopes, and to frustrate the attempts of Alsemero, leaves his Castle to the command of Don Hugo de Valmarino his son, and taking his daughter Beatrice-Ioana with him, he in his Coach very suddenly and secretly goes to Briamata: a fair house of his, ten leagues from Alicant: where he means to sojourn, until he had concluded and solemnised the match betwixt them: But he shall never be so happy, as to see it effected.  
At the news of Beatrice-Ioana's departure, Alsemero is extremely perplexed and sorrowful, knowing not whether it proceed from herself, her father, or both; yea, this his grief is augmented, when he thinks on the suddenness thereof, which he fears may be performed for his respect and consideration: the small acquaintance and familiarity he hath had with her, makes that he cannot condemn her of unkindness: yet sith he was not thought worthy to have notice of her departure, he again hath no reason to hope, much less to assure himself of her affection towards him: he knows not how to resolve these doubts, nor what to think or do in a matter of this nature and importance: for thus he reasoneth with himself; if he ride to Briamata, he may perchance offend the father; if he stay at Alicant, displease the daughter: and although he be rather willing to run the hazard of his envy, then of her affection, yet he holds it safer to be authorised by her pleasure, and to steer his course by the compass of her commands: He therefore bethinks himself of a means to avoid these extremes, and so finds out a Channel to pass free betwixt that Sylla and this Carybdis; which is, to visit her by letters: he sees more reason to embrace, then to reject this invention, and so providing himself of a confident messenger, his heart commands his pen to signify her these few lines:  
ALSEMERO to BEATRICE-IOANA.  
AS long as you were in Alicant, I deemed it a beaven upon earth, and being bound for Malta, a thousand times blessed that contrary wind which kept me from embarking and sailing from you: yea, so sweetly did I affect, and so dear honour your beauty, as I entered into a res●…lution with myself, to end my voyage ere I began it, and to begin another, which I fear will end me. If you demand, or desire to know what this second voyage is, know, fair Mistress●…, that my thoughts are so honourable, and my affection so religious, that it is the seeking of your favour, and the obtaining of yourself to my wife, whereon not only my fortunes, but my life depends. But how shall I hope for this honour, or flatter myself with the obtaining of so great a felicity, when I see you have not only left me, but which is worse, as I understand, the City for my sake? F●…ire Beatrice-Ioana, if your cruelty will make me thus miserable, I have no other consolation left me to sweeten the bitterness of my grief and misfortune, but a confident hope, that death will as speedily deprive me of my days, as you have of my joys.  
ALSEMERO.  
I know not whether it more grieved Beatrice-Ioana to leave Alicant, without taking her leave of Alsemero, than she doth now rejoice to receive this his Letter: for as that plunged her thoughts in the hell of discontent, so this raiseth them to the heaven of joy: and as than she had cause to doubt of his affection, so now she hath not not only reason to flatter, but to assure herself thereof: and therefore, though she will not seem at first to grant him his desire, yet she is resolved to return him an answer, that may give as well life to his hopes, as praise to her modesty. Her Letter is thus:  
BEATRICE-IOANA to ALSEMERO.  
AS I have many reasons to be incredulous, and not one to induce me to believe, that so poor a beauty of mine, should have power to stop so brave a Cavalier (as yourself) from ending so honourable a Voyage as your first, or to persuade you to one so simple as your second; so I cannot but admire, that you in your Letter seek me for your Wife, when in your heart, I presume, you lest desire it: and whereas you allege your life and fortunes depend on my favour; I think you write it purposely, either to make trial of your own wit, or of my indiscretion, by endeavouring to see whether I will believe that which exceeds all belief; now as it true, that I have left Alicant, so it is as true, that I left it not any way to afflict you, but rather to obey my father: for this I pray believe, that although I cannot be kind, yet I will never be cruel to you: Live therefore your own friend, and I will never dye your enemy.  
BEATRICE-IOANA.  
This Letter of Beatrice joana, gives Alsemero much despair, and little hope: yet though he have reason to condemn her unkindness, he cannot but approve her modesty and discretion, which doth as much comfort as that afflict him: so his thoughts are irresolute, and withal so variable, as he knows not whether he should advance his hand, or withdraw his pen again, to write to his Mistress. But at last, knowing that the excellency of her Beauty, and the dignity of her Virtues deserve a second Letter: he hoping it may obtain and effect that which his first could not, calls for paper, and thereon traceth these few lines:  
ALSEMERO to BEATRICE-IOANA.  
YOu have as much reason to assure yourself of my affection, as I to doubt of yours: and if Words and Letters, Tears and Vows, are not capable to make you believe the sincerity of my zeal, and the honour of my affection: what resteth, but that I wish you could dive as deeply into my heart, as my heart hath into your beauty, to the end you might be both Witness and judge, if under heaven I desire any thing so much on earth, as to be crowned with the felicity to see Beatrice-Ioana my wife, and Alsemero her husband? But why should I strive to persuade that, which you resolve not to believe, or flatter myself with any hope, sith I see I must be so unfortunate to despair? I will therefore henceforth cease to write, but never to love: and sith it is impossible for me to live, I will prepare myself to die, that the World may know, I have lost a most fair Mistress in you, and you a most faithful and constant Servant in me.  
ALSEMERO.  
Beatrice-Ioana seeing Alsemero's constant affection, holds it now rather discretion, than immodesty to accept both his service and self, yea, her heart so delights in the greeablenesse of his person, and triumphs in the contemplation of his virtues, that she either wisheth herself in Alicant with him, or he in Briamata with her: but considering her affection to Alsemero by her Father's hatred, and her hatred to Piracquo, by his affection; she thinks it high time to inform Alsemero with what impatiency they both endeavour to obtain her favour and consent, hoping that his discretion will interpose and find means to stop the progress of these their importunities, and to withdraw her father's inclination from Piracquo, to bestow it on himself: but all this while she thinks her silence is an injury to Alsemero, and therefore no longer to be uncourteous to him, who is so kind to her, she very secretly conveys him this Letter:  
BEATRICE-IOANA to ALSEMERO.  
AS it is not for Earth to resist Heaven, nor for our wills to contradict God's providence, so I cannot deny, but now acknowledge, that if ever I affected any man, it is yourself: for your Letters, protestations, and vows, but chiefly your merits, and the hope, or rather the assurance of your fidelity, hath won my heart, from myself to give it you: but there are some important considerations, and reasons, that enforce me to crave your secrecy herein, and to request you, as soon as conveniently you may, to come privately hither to me: for I shall never give content to my thoughts, nor satisfaction to my mind, till I am made joyful with your sight, and happy with your presence. In the mean time manage this affection of mine with care and discretion, and whiles you resolve to make Alicant your Malta, I will expect and attend your coming with much longing and impatiency. To Briamata.  
BEATRICE-IOANA.  
It is for no others but for Lovers to judge how welcome this Letter was to Alsemero, who a thousand times kissed it, and as often blessed the hand that wrote it: he had, as we have formerly understood, been twice in the Indies; but now, in his conceit, he hath found a far richer treasure in Spain, I mean his Beatrice-Ioana, whom he esteems the joy of his life, and the life of his joy: but she will not prove so. He is so enamoured of her beauty, and so desirous to have the felicity of her presence, as the Wind coming good, the Ship sets sail for Malta, and he (to give a colour for his stay) feigns himself sick, fetcheth back his Trunks, and remaineth in Alicant: and so burning with desire to see his sweetly dear and dear sweet Mistress, he dispatched away his confident Messenger to Briamata in the morning, to advertise her that he will not fail to be with her that night at eleven of the clock.  
Beatrice joana is ravished with the joy of this news, and so provides for his coming. Alsemero takes the benefit of the night, and she gives him the advantage of a Postern door, which answers to a Garden, where Diaphanta her Wayting-gentlewoman attends his arrival. He comes: she conducts him secretly thorough a private Gallery into Beatrice-Ioana's Chamber; where (richly apparelled) she very courteously and respectfully receives him. At the beginning of their meeting they want no kisses; which they second with compliments, and many loving conferences, wherein she relates him Piracquo's importunate suit to her, and her father's earnestness, yea, in a manner, his constraint, to see the Match concluded betwixt them; he being for that purpose there, in her father's house: Again, after she hath alleged and shown him the entireness of her affection to himself, with whom she is resolved to live and dye, she lets fall some dark and ambiguous speeches, tending to this effect, that before Piracquo be in another world, there is no hope for Alsemero to enjoy her for his wife in this. Lo here the first plot and design of a lamentable and execrable murder: which we shall shortly see acted and committed.  
There needs but half a word to a sharp and quick understanding. Alsemero knows it is the violence of her affection to him, that leads her to this disrespect and hatred to Piracquo, and because her content is his, yea, rather it is for his sake, that she will forsake Piracquo, to live and die with him; Passion and affection blinding his judgement, and beauty triumphing and giving a law to his Conscience: he freely proffereth himself to his Mistress, vowing, that he will shortly send him a Challenge, and fight with him; yea, had he a thousand lives, as he hath but one, he is ready, if she please, to expose and sacrifice them all at her command and service. Beatrice-Ioana thanks him kindly for his affection and zeal, the which she saith she holds redoubled by the freeness of his proffer: but being loath that he should hazard his own life, in seeking that of another, she conjures him by all the love he bears her, neither directly nor indirectly to intermeddle with Piracquo: but that he repose and build upon her affection and constancy: not doubting, but she will so prevail with her father, that he shall shortly change his opinion, and no more persuade her to affect Piracquo, whom she resolutely affirms, neither life nor death shall enforce her to marry. And to conclude, although she affirm, his presence is dearer to her then her life; yet the better and sooner to compass their desires, she prays him to leave Alicant, and for a while to return to Valentia, not doubting but time may work that, which perchance haste, or importunity may never. Thus passing over their kisses, and the rest of their amorous conference, he assured of her love, and she of his affection, he returns for Alicant, packs up his baggage, which he sends before, and within less than four days, takes his journey for Valentia: where we will leave him a while, to relate other accidents and occurrences: which (like Rivers into the Ocean) fall within the compass of this History.  
This meeting, and part of Alsemero's and Beatrice-Ioana's conference at her father's house of Briamata, was not so secretly carried and concealed, but some curious or treacherous person near him, or her, overhear and reveal it: which makes her father Vermandero fume and bite the lip; but he conceals it from Piracquo: and they still continue their intelligence and familiarity: Vermandero telling him plainly, that a little more time shall work and finish his desire; and that sith his request cannot prevail with his daughter, his commands shall. But he shall miss of his aim.  
There is not so great distance from Briamata to Alicant, but some of the noblest of the city are advertised thereof: and one among the rest, in great zeal and affection to Piracquo, secretly acquaints Don Thomaso Piracquo his younger brother therewith, being then in the city of Alicant: who hearing of this news, whereof he imagined his brother was ignorant, loath that he should any longer persever in his present error, and to prevent his future disgrace, he like a faithful and honest brother, takes occasion from Alicant to write him this ensuing letter to Briamata:  
THOMASO to ALONSO PIRACQVO.  
BEing more jealous of your prosperity, then of mine own; and knowing it many times falls out, that Lovers lose the clearness and solidity of their judgement, in gazing and contemplating on the Roses and Lilies of their Mistress' beauties: I desirous to prevent your disgrace, thought myself bound to signify you, that I here understand by the report of those, whose speeches bear their persuasions with them, that your suit to Beatrice-Ioana is in vain, and she unworthy of your affection, because she hath already contracted herself to Alsemero your Rival: I am as sorry to be the Herald of this news, as glad and confident, that as she hath matched your inferiors, so you are reserved for her better: Wherefore Sir, recall your thoughts, tempt not impossibilities, but consider that the shortest errors are best; and though you love her well, yet think that at your pleasure you may find variety of Beauties, whereunto hers deserves not the honour to do homage. I could give no truce to my thoughts, till I had advertised you hereof, and I hope either the name of a brother, or your own generosity, will easily procure pardon for my presumption.  
THOMASO PIRACQVO.  
Piracquo, notwithstanding this his Brother's Letter of counsel and advice, is so far from retiring in his suit, as he rather advanceth with more violence and zeal: and as many men's judgements are dazzled and obscured a little before their danger and misfortune, when indeed they have most need to have them sound and clear: so he is not capable to be dissuaded from researching his Mistress, but rather resembleth those Sailors, who are resolute to endure a storm, in hope of fair weather: but he had found more security and less danger, if he had embraced and followed the counsel that his brother gave him. For Beatrice-Ioana seeing she could not obtain her desire in marrying Alsemero, ere Piracquo were removed, doth now confirm that which formerly she had resolved on, to make him away, in what manner, or at what rate soever. And now, after she had ruminated, and run over many bloody designs: the devil, who never flies from those that follow him, proffers her an invention as execrable as damnable. There is a gallant young Gentleman, of the Garrison of the Castle, who follows her father, that to her knowledge doth deeply honour, and dear affect her: yea, she knows, that at her request he will not stick to murder Piracquo: his name is Signior Antonio de Flores: she is resolute in her rage, and approves him to be a fit instrument to execute her will.  
Now, as soon as Vermandero understands of Alsemero's departure to Valentia, he with his daughter and Piracquo returns from Briamata to Alicant: where, within three days of their arrival, Beatrice-Ioana, boiling still in her revenge to Piracquo, which neither the air of the Country nor City could quench or wipe off, she sends for the Flores, and with many flattering smiles, and sugared speeches, acquaints him with her purpose and desire, making him many promises of kindness and courtesies, if he will perform it.  
De Flores having a long time loved Beatrice-ioava, is exceeding glad of this news, yea, feeding his hopes with the air of her promises, he is so caught and entangled in the snares of her beauty, that he freely promiseth to dispatch Piracquo; and so they first consult, and then agree upon the manner how, which forthwith we shall see performed: to which end, de Flores insinuates himself fairly into Piracquo's company and familiarity as he comes to the castle; where watching his hellish opportunity, he one day hearing Piracquo commend the thickness and strength of the Walls, told him that the strength of that Castle consisted not in the Walls, but in the Casemates that were stored with good Ordnance to scour the ditches. Piracquo very courteously prays de Flores to be a means that he may go down and see the Casemates. De Flores like a bloody Faukner, seeing Piracquo already come to his lure, tells him it is now dinner time, and the bell upon ringing: but if he please, he himself will after dinner accompany him, and show him all the strength and rarities of the Castle. He thanks the Flores for this courtesy, and accepts hereof, with promise to go. So he hies in to dinner, and de Flores pretending some business, walks in the Court.  
Whiles Piracquo is at dinner with Vermandero, de Flores is providing him of a bloody banquet in the East Casmate, where, of purpose he goes, and hides a naked sword and poniard behind the door. Now dinner being ended, Piracquo finds out the Flores, and summons him of his promise: who tells him he is ready to wait on him: so away they go from the Walls to the Ravellins, Sconces and Bulwarks, and from thence by a Postern to the Ditches: and so in again to the Casemates, whereof they have already viewed three, and are now going to the last, which is the Theatre, whereon we shall presently see acted a mournful and bloody Tragedy. At the descent hereof De Flores puts off his Rapier, and leaves it behind him, treacherously informing Piracquo that the descent is narrow and craggy. See here the policy and villainy of this devilish and treacherous miscreant.  
Piracquo, not doubting nor dreaming of any treason, follows his example, and so casts off his Rapier: De Flores leads the way, and he follows him; but, alas poor Gentleman, he shall never return with his life: they enter the Vault of the Casemate; De Flores opens the door, and throws it back, thereby to hide his sword and Poniard. He stoops and looks thorough a Porthole, and tells him, that that Piece doth thoroughly scour the Ditch. Piracquo stoops likewise down to view it, when (O grief to think thereon!) De Flores steps for his Weapons, and with his Poniard stabs him thorough the back, and swiftly redoubling blow upon blow, kills him dead at his feet, and without going farther, buries him there, right under the ruins of an old wall, whereof that Casemate was built. Lo here the first part of this mournful and bloody Tragedy.  
De Flores (like a graceless villain) having dispatched this sorrowful business, speedily acquaints Beatrice-Ioana herewith, who (miserable wretch) doth hereat infinitely rejoice, and thanks him with many kisses; and the better to conceal this their vild and bloody Murder, as also to cast a mist before people's conceits and judgements, she bids him, by some secret means, to cause reports to be spread: first, that Piracquo was seen gone forth the Castle gate; then, that in the City he was seen take boat, and went (as it was thought) to take the air of the sea. But this wit of theirs shall prove folly: for though men as yet see not this Murder, yet God in his due time will both detect and punish it.  
By this time Piracquo is found wanting, both in the City and Castle; so these aforesaid reports run for currant, all tongues prattle hereof; Vermandero knows not what to say, nor Piracquo's brother and friends what to do herein: they every hour and minute expect news of him, but their hopes bring them no comfort; and amongst the rest, our devilish Beatrice-Ioana seems exceedingly to grieve and mourn hereat. Don Thomaso Piracquo with the rest of his friends, search every corner of the City, and send scouts, both by land and sea, to have news of him. Vermandero the Captain of the Castle doth the like, and vows, that next his own son, he loved Piracquo before any man of the world: yea, not only his friends, but generally all those who knew him, exceedingly weep and bewail the absence and loss of this Cavalier: for they think sure he is drowned in the sea.  
Now in the midst of this sorrow, and of these tears, Beatrice-Ioana doth secretly advertise her Lover Alsemero hereof, but in such palliating terms, that thereby she may delude and carry away his judgement from imagining that she had the least shadow or finger herein: and withal prays him to make no longer stay in Valentia, but to come away to her to Alicant. Alsemero wonders at this news, and to please his fair Mistress, believes part thereof, but will never believe all; but he is so inflamed with her beauty, as her remembrance wipes away that of Piracquo; when letting pass a little time, he makes his preparations for Alicant: but first he sends the chiefest of his parents to Vermandero, to demand his daughter Beatrice-Ioana in marriage for him, and then comes himself in person, and in discreet and honourable manner courts her Parents privately, and makes show to seek her publicly.  
In fine, after many conferences, meetings, and compliments, as Alsemero hath heretofore won the affection of Beatrice-Ioana, so now at last he obtains likewise the favour and consent of Vermandero her father. And here our two Lovers, to their exceeding great content, and infinite joy, are united, and by the bond of marriage, of two persons made one, their Nuptials being solemnised in the Castle of Alicant with much Pomp, State, and Bravery.  
Having heretofore heard the conference that passed betwixt Alsemero and Beatrice-Ioana in the Church; having likewise seen the amorous Letters that past betwixt them, from Alicant to Briamata, and from Briamata to Alicant; and now considering the pomp and glory of their Nuptials, who would imagine that any averse accident could alter the sweetness and tranquillity of their affections, or that the Sunshine of their joys should so soon be eclipsed, and overtaken with a storm? But God is as just as secret in his decrees.  
For this married couple had scarce lived three months in the pleasures of Wedlock (which if virtuously observed is the sweetest earthly joy) but Alsemero, like a fond husband, becomes jealous of his wife; so as he curbs and restrains her of her liberty, and would hardly permit her to confer or converse with, yea, far less, to see any man: but this is not the way to teach a woman chastity: for if fair words, good example, and sweet admonitions cannot prevail, threatenings and imprisoning in a Chamber will never; yea, the experience thereof is daily seen, both in England, France, and Germany, where generally the Women use (but not abuse) their liberty and freedom, granted them by their husbands, with much civility, affection, and respect.  
Beatrice-Ioana bites the lip at this her husband's discourtesy: she vows she is as much deceived in his love, as he in his jealousy, and that she is as unworthy of his suspicion, as he of her affection; he watcheth her every where, and sets Spies over her in every corner: yea, his jealousy is become so violent, as he deems her unchaste with many, yet knows not with whom: but this tree of jealousy never brings forth good fruit. She complains hereof to her father, and prays him to be a means to appease and calm this tempest, which threatens the Shipwreck, not only of her content, but (it may be) of her life. Vermandero bears himself discreetly herein; but he may as soon place another Sun in the Firmament, as root out this fearful frenzy out of Alsemero's head: for this his paternal admonition is so far from drawing him to hearken to reason, as it produceth contrary effects; for now Alsemero, to prevent his shame, and secure his fear, suddenly provides a Coach, and so carries home his wife from Alicant to Valentia. This sudden departure grieves Vermandero, and galls Beatrice-Ioana to the heart, who now looks no longer on her husband with affection, but with disdain and envy. Many days are not past, but her father resolves to send to Valentia, to know how matters stand betwixt his daughter and her husband: he makes choice of De Flores to ride thither, and sends Letters to them both.  
De Flores is extremely joyful of this occasion, to see his old Mistress Beatrice-Ioana, whom he loves dearer than his life: he comes to Valentia, and finding Alsemero abroad, and she at home, delivers her her father's Letter, and salutes and kisseth her, with many amorous embrace and dalliances (which modesty holds unworthy of relation) she acquaints him with her husband's ingratitude; he rather rejoices than grieves hereat, and now revives his old suit, and redoubleth his new kisses: she considering what he hath done for her service, and joining therewith her husband's jealousy, not only engageth herself to him for the time present, but for the future, and bids him visit her often. But they both shall pay dear for this familiarity and pleasure.  
Alsemero comes home, receives his father's Letter, sets a pleasing face on his discontented heart, and bids him welcome: And so the next day writes back to his father Vermandero, and dispatcheth De Flores; who for that time takes his leave of them both, and returns for Alicant.  
He is no sooner departed, but Alsemero is by one of his Spies, a Waiting gentlewoman of his Wives, whom he had corrupted with money, advertised that there past many amorous kisses, and dalliances between her Mistress and De Flores: yea, she reveals all that ever she saw or heard: for she passed not to be false to her Lady, so she were true to her Lord and Master. And indeed this Wayting-gentlewoman was that Diaphanta, of whom we have formerly made mention, for conducting of Alsemero to her Lady's chamber at Briamata. Alsemero is all fire at this news, he consults not with judgement, but with passion; and so rather like a devil then a man, flies to his Wife's chamber, wherein furiously rushing, he with his sword drawn in his hand, to her great terror and amazement, delivers her these words.  
Minion (quoth he) upon thy life tell me what familiarity there hath now past betwixt De Flores and thyself: whereat she, fetching many sighs, and shedding many tears, answers him, that by her part of heaven, her thoughts, speeches, and actions have no way exceeded the bounds of honour and chastity towards him; and that De Flores never attempted any courtesy, but such as a brother may show to his own natural sister. Then, quoth he, whence proceeds this your familiarity? Whereat she grows pale, and withal silent. Which her husband espying, Dispatch, quoth he, and tell me the truth, or else this sword of mine shall instantly find a passage to thy heart. When lo, the providence of God so ordained it, that she is reduced to this exigent and extremity, as she must be a witness against herself, and in seeking to conceal her whoredom, must discover her Murder; the which she doth in these words:  
Know Alsemero, that sith thou wilt enforce me to show thee the true cause of my chaste familiarity with De Flores, that I am much bound to him, and thyself more: for he it was, that at my request, dispatched Piracquo, without the which (as thou well knowest) I could never have enjoyed thee for my husband, nor thou me for thy wife: And so she reveals him the whole circumstance of that cruel Murder, as we have formerly understood; the which she conjures and prays him to conceal, sith no less than De Flores and her own life depended thereon, and that she will dye a thousand deaths, before consent to defile his bed, or to violate her oath and promise given him in marriage.  
Alsemero both wondering and grieving at this lamentable news, says little, but thinks the more; and although he had reason and appearance to believe, that she who commits Murder, will not stick to commit Adultery, yet upon his Wife's solemn oaths and protestations, he forgets what is past; only he strictly chargeth her, no more to see, or admit De Flores into her company; or if the contrary, he vows he will so sharply be revenged of her, as he will make her an example to all posterity.  
But Beatrice-Ioana, notwithstanding her husband's speeches, continueth her intelligence with De Flores; yea, her husband no sooner rides abroad, but he is at Valentia with her; and they are become so impudent, as what they did before secretly, they now in a manner do publicly, or at least, with Chamber-doores open. Diaphanta knowing this to be a great scandal, as well to her Master's honour, as house, again informs him thereof; who vows to take a most sharp revenge of this their infamy and indignity, as indeed he doth: for he bethinks himself (thereby to effect it) of an invention, as worthy of his jealousy, as of their first crime of Murder, and of their second of Adultery: he enjoineth Diaphanta to lay wait for the very hour that De Flores arrives from Alicant to Valentia, which she doth; when instantly pretending to his Wife a journey in the Country, he very secretly and silently having his Rapier and Poniard, and a case of Pistols ready cha●…ged in his pocket (seeming to take Horse) husheth himself up privately in his Study, which was next adjoining, and within his Bedchamber.  
Beatrice-Ioana, thinking her husband two or three Leagues off, sends away for De Flores, who comes instantly to her: they fall to their kisses and embrace, she rejoicing extremely for his arrival, and he for her husband Alsemero's departure: she relates him the cruelty and indignity her husband hath showed and offered her, the which De Flores understands with much contempt and choler, as also with many threats. Alsemero hears all, but doth neither speak, cough, sneeze, nor spit. So from words they ●…all to their beasily pleasures, when Alsemero no longer able to contain himself, much less to be accessary to this his shame, and their villainy, throws off the Door, and violently rusheth forth; when finding them on his Bed, in the midst of their adultery, he first dischargeth his Pistols on them, and then with his Sword and Poniard runs them thorough, and stabs them with so many deep and wide wounds, that they have not so much power or time to speak a word, but there lie weltering and wallowing in their blood, whiles their souls fly to another world, to relate what horrible and beastly crimes their bodies have committed in this. Thus by the providence of God, in the second Tragedy of our History, we see our two Murderers murdered, and Piracquo's innocent blood revenged in the guiltiness of theirs.  
Alsemero, having finished this bloody business, leaves his Pistols on the Table, as also his Sword and Poniard all bloody as they were; and without covering or removing the breathless bodies of these two wretched miscreants, he shuts his Chamber door, and is so far from flying for the fact, as he takes his Coach, and goes directly to the Criminal judge himself, and reveals what he had done; but conceals the Murder of Piracquo. The judge is astonished and amazed at the report of this mournful and pitiful accident: he takes Alsemero with him, returns to his house, and finds those two dead bodies fresh smoking and reeking in their blood: the news hereof is spread in all the City. The whole people of Valentia flock thither to be eye-witnesses of these two murdered persons; where some behold them with pity, others with joy, but all with astonishment and admiration, and no less do those of Alicant, where this news is speedily posted; but all their griefs are nothing to those of Don Diego de Vermandero's (Beatrice-Ioana's father) who infinitely and extremely grieves, partly for the death, but specially for the crime of his daughter.  
The judge presently commits Alsemero prisoner in another of his own Chambers, and so examining Diaphanta upon her oath, concerning the familiarity betwixt De Flores and Beatrice-Ioana: she affirms constantly, that now and many times before, she saw them commit adultery: and that she it was that first advertised Alsemero her Master hereof. Whereupon, after a second examination of Alsemero, they, upon mature deliberation, acquit him of this fact: so he is freed, and the dead bodies carried away and buried.  
But although this earthly judge have acquitted Alsemero of this fact, yet the judge of judges, the great God of Heaven, who seeth not only our heart, but our thoughts, not only our actions, but our intents, hath this and something else to lay to his charge: for he (in his sacred providence, and divine justice) doth both remember and observe, first how ready and willing Alsemero was to engage himself to Beatrice-Ioana to kill Piracquo: then, though he consented not to his Murder, yet how he concealed it, and brought it not to public arraignment and punishment, whereby the dead body of Piracquo might receive a more honourable and Christian like Sepulchre: and if these crimes of his be not capable to deserve revenge and chastisement, Lo, he is entering into a new, wilful, and premeditated Murder, and doth so dishonourably and treacheroubly perform it, as we shall shortly see him lose his life upon an infamous Scaffold, where he shall find no heart to pity him, nor eye to bewail him.  
If we would be so ignorant, we cannot be so malicious to forget that loving and courteous Letter, which Don Thomaso Piracquo wrote his Brother Alonso Piracquo from Alicant to Briamata, to withdraw himself from his suit to Beatrice-Ioana; and although his affection and jealousy to prevent his Brother's disgrace, was then the chief occasion of that his Letter, yet sith he was since disastrously and misfortunately bereft of him, of that dear and sweet Brother of his, whom he ever held and esteemed far dearer than his life, his thoughts, like so many lines, concur in this Centre, from whence he cannot be otherwise conceited or drawn, but that Beatrice-Ioana and Absemero had a hand, and were at least accessaries, if not authors of his loss: upon the foundation of which belief he raiseth this resolution, that he is not worthy to be a Gentleman, nor of the degree and title of a Brother, if he crave not satisfaction for that irreparable loss which he sustaineth in that of his Brother; and the sooner is he drawn thereunto, because he believes, that as Alsemero was ordained of old to chastise Beatrice-Ioana, so he was by the same Power reserved to be revenged of Alsemero. Whereupon, although it be not the custom of Spain to fight Duels (as desiring rather the death of their enemies then of their friends) he resolves to fight with him; and to that end, understanding Alsemero to be then in Alicant, sends him this Challenge:  
THOMASO PIRACQVO to ALSEMERO.  
IT is with too much assurance, that I fear Beatrice-Ioana's vanity, and your rashness, hath bereft me of a Brother, whom I ever esteemed and prized far dearer than myself: I were unworthy to converse with the World, much less to bear the honour and degree of a Gentleman, if I should not seek satisfaction for his death, with the hazard of mine own life: for if a Friend be bound to perform the like courtesy and duty to his Friend, how much more a Brother to his Brother? Your Sword hath chastised Beatrice-Ioana's error, and I must see whether mine be reserved to correct yours. As you are yourself, meet me at the foot of Glisseran hill to morrow at five in the morning without Seconds, and it shall be at your choice, either to use your Sword on Horseback, or your Rapier on foot.  
THOMASO PIRACQVO.  
Alsemero accepts this Challenge, and promiseth that he and his Rapier will not fail to meet him; yet as he one way wondereth at Piracquo's valour and resolution, so another way he considereth the great loss he hath received in that of his Brother, and the justness of his quarrel against him; who although he were not accessary to his Murder, yet he is, in concealing the cruelty thereof: and indeed this villainy makes him lose his accustomed courage, and think of a most base cowardice, and treacherous stratagem: But this dishonourable resolution and design of his shall receive an infamous recompense, and a reward and punishment as bitter as just.  
They meet at the hour and place appointed: Piracquo is first in the Field, and Alsemero stays not long after; but he hath two small Pistols charged in his pockets, which in killing his enemy shall ruin himself. They draw, and as they approach, Alsemero throws away his Rapier, and with his hat in his hand prays Piracquo to hear him in his just defence, and that he is ready to join with him to revenge his Brother's Murderers. Piracquo being as courteous as courageous, and as honourable as valiant, likewise throws away his Rapier, and with his Hat in his hand comes to meet him: but it is a folly to unarm ourselves in our enemy's presence; for it is better and fitter that he stand to our courtesy, than we to his: when Piracquo fearing nothing less than Treason, Als●…mero draws out his Pistols, and dischargeth then, the first thorough his head, and the second thorough his breast; of which two wounds he speaking only thus, O Villain, O Traitor! falls down dead at his feet. Lo here the third bloody part of this History.  
It is a lamentable part for any one to commit Murder: but for a Gentleman to destroy another in this base and cruel manner, this exceeds all baseness and cruelty itself: yea, it makes him ●…s u●…worthy of his honour, as worthy of a Halter.  
The news of this bloody ●…ct rattles in the streets of Alicant, as Thunder in the Firmament: Piracquo's Chi●…gion being an eyewitness hereof reports the death of his Master, and the treachery of Alsemero: all Alicant is amazed hereat, they extol Thomaso Piracquo's valour, and his singular affection to his dead Brother, and both detest & curse the treachery and mem●…ry of Alsemero. The criminal judges are advertized hereof, who speedily send post after him: but he is mounted on a swift Genner, and like Bellerophon on his winged Pegasus doth rather fly then gallop: but his haste is in vain, for the justice of the Lord will both stop his Horse, and arrest him. He is not recovered half way from Alicant towards Valentia, but his Horse stumbles and breaks his fore-leg, and Alsemero his right arm; he is amazed, perplexed, and enraged hereat, and knows not what to do, or whither to fly for safety: for he sees no bush nor hedge to hide him, nor lane to save him; and now he reputes himself of his fact, but it is too late: his Horse failing him, he trusteth to his legs, and so throwing off his cloak, runs as speedily as he may: but the foulness of his fact doth still so affright him, and terrify his conscience, as he is afraid of his own shadow, looks still back, imagining that every stone he sees is a Sergeant come to arrest him; yea, his thoughts, like so many Bloodhounds, pursue and follow him, swearing exceedingly, partly through his labour, but especially through the affliction and perturbation of his mind; yea, every point of a minute he both expecteth and fears his apprehension.  
Neither is his fear or expectation vain; for lo, he at last perceives four come galloping after him as fast as their Horses can drive. So they finding first his poor Horse, and now espying his miserable self, he sees he is environed of all sides, and thinks the earth hath brought forth Cadmean men to apprehend him; yet remembering himself a Gentleman, and withal a Soldier, he resolves rather to sell his life dear in that place, then to be made a Spectacle upon an infamous Scaffold: but this courage and resolution shall neither prevail, or rescue him.  
He to this effect draws his Rapier, the which the four Sergeants will him to yield, and render up to the King's laws and justice: but he is resolute to defend himself: They threaten him with their Pistols; but their sight do as little amaze him, as their report and bullets. So they alight from their Horses, and environ him with their Swords, and having hurt two of them, and performed the part of a desperate Gladiator, the third joining with him, they break his Rapier within a foot of the Hilt, whereat he yields himself. Alsemero thus taken, is the same night brought back to Alicant, in whose Gates and Streets a wonderful concourse of people assemble to see him pass, who as much pity his person, as execrate and condemn his fact.  
The Senate is assembled, and Alsemero brought to appear, who considering the heinousness of his treacherous and bloody fact; which the Devil had caused him to commit, he stays for no witnesses, but accuseth himself of this Murder, the which from point to point he confesseth; and so they adjudge him to lose his head: but this is too honourable a death for a Gentleman who hath so treacherously and basely dishonoured and blemished his Gentility. As he is on the Scaffold, preparing himself to dye, and seeing no farther hope of life, but the image of death before his eyes, knowing it no time now, either to dissemble with God, or to fear the Law, he, to the amazement of all the world, tells the people, that although he killed Don Thomaso Piracquo, yet he had no hand in the Murder of his brother Don Alonso, whom (he said) De Flores, at the instigation of his wicked and wretched wife Beatrice-Ioana, had murdered and buried in the East Casemate of the Castle; and withal affirmed, that if he were guilty in any thing concerning that Murder, it was only in concealing it, which he had done till then, and whereof (he said) he now most heartily repent himself, as being unwilling any longer to charge his soul with it, sith he was ready to leave this world, and to go to another, and so besought them all to pray unto God to forgive him, whose sacred Majesty, he confessed, he had highly and infinitely offended; and wished them all to beware, and fly the temptations of the Devil, and to become better Christians by his example.  
The judges advertised hereof, cause his head to be strucken off for murdering of Don Thomaso Piracquo; and his body to be thrown into the Sea, for concealing that of Don Alonso; which was accordingly executed: and from the place of Execution they immediately go to the Castle, and so to the East Casemate, where causing the stones to be removed, they find the mournful murdered body of Don Alonso Piracquo, which they give to his kinsfolks to receive a more honourable Burial, according to his rank and degree: and from thence they return to the Churches, where the Bodies of De Flores and Beatrice-Ioana were interred (after they were brought back from Valentia) the which, for their horrible Murder, they at the common place of Execution cause to be burned, and their ashes to be thrown into the air, as unworthy to have any resting place on earth, which they had so cruelly stained and polluted with innocent blood.  
Lo here the just punishment of God against these devilish and bloody Murderers! at the sight of whose executions, all that infinite number of people that were Spectators, universally laud and praise the Majesty of God, for purging the earth of such unnatural and bloody Monsters.   

GOD'S REVENGE AGAINST THE CRYING AND EXEcrable sin of Murder.  
HISTORY V.  
Alibius murthereth his Wife Merilla: he is discovered, first by Bernardo, then by Emilia his own daughter: so he is apprehended and hanged for the Fact.  
HOw far are they from having peace with God, and all his creatures, when they lay violent hands on their own wives: yea, when they murder them in their beds, in stead of reposing their secrets and affections in ●…heir bosoms! These are hellish resolutions, and infernal stratagems, that nature neither allows, nor grace approves. For besides the Union betwixt God and his Church, there is none so absolute and perfect on earth, as is that of Man and Wife: for as this world hath made them two persons, so God hath conjoined and made them one; and therefore what madness, nay what cruelty is it to be so cruel to those, who (if not ourselves) are at least our second selves? Charity (the daughter of heaven) teacheth us to love all the world, but especi●…lly those who are our kinsfolks or friends. Religion (the mother of Charity) steps a degree farther, and enjoineth us to love those who hate us; yea, these likewise are not only the rules of nature, but the precepts of grace: therefore to kill those who love us, and to dep●…ive those of life, who (did occasion present) are ready to sacrifice theirs for the preservation of ours, it must needs proceed rather from a monster then a man, or rather from a devil then a monster: but such devils and such monsters are but too rife and common in these our sinful times. And amongst others, I here produce one for ex●…mple, who for that cruel and inhuman fact of his, by the justice of God, was justly rewarded with a halter. And may all those, who perpetrate the like crime, partitipate of the same, or of a worse punishment.  
IN the Parish of Spreare, some fifteen miles distant from the beautiful and noble City of Brescia (in the Territories of the Venetians) there dwelled a poor country man, termed Alibius, who could vaunt of no other wealth left him by his deceased parents, but that he was a man of a comely stature and proportion, and withal, that they were of an honest fame and reputation: so if his virtues had answered theirs, his poverty had never proved so pernicious and fatal an enemy to him, as to ruin his fortunes with his life, and his life with his fortunes: or had the vices of his soul not contaminated or stained the perfections of his body, my pen had slept in silence, and his History laid raked up in the dust of his grave: but sith his actions have exceeded the bounds both of nature and grace, yea, sith he hath learned of the Devil to imbath his hands in poison, and to imbrue them in innocent blood, I (encouraged by the connivency and silence of others) not out of any want of charity to the memory of dead Alibius, but in detestation of his bloody resolution and actions, and chiefly and especially to the comfort and instruction of the living, who may abhor his crime by the sight of his punishment: I have adventured and resolved to give this a place among the rest of my tragical Histories, that Italy, as well as Brescia, and Spreare (and peradventure the whole Christian world with Italy) may understand thereof.  
This Alibius, as soon as he had attained the age of five and twenty years, married an honest Maiden, termed Merilla, being a Farmer's daughter of the same Parish of Spreare, with whom he had but small means, and she (to speak truth) but little wit, and less beauty; yet she was neither so poor, but that she deserved a good husband, nor so hard favoured, but she might content an honest one. And indeed, had Alibius his care and industry answered Merilla's providence and frugality, or his lustful eye not strayed either beyond his vow given her in marriage, or her indifferent beauty, this Match might have proved as fortunate, as it hath since succeeded miserable and ruinous.  
For Alibius, whose thoughts flew a pitch above his birth, rank, and means, had not lived many years in wedlock, till his prodigality and vanity had wasted and dissipated the greatest part of that small estate he had; so as necessity looking now on him, because formerly he disdained to look on it, knowing better how to play, than work, or rather not how to work, but play; and seeing that his present means could not maintain him, nor his future hopes promise it, he as a true truant, and a perfect prodigal, disdaining to want when he hath it, and when he hath it not, sets up this lewd and unthrifty resolution with himself, to set all at six and seven. But this prodigal humour of his doth as much grieve his Wife, as delight him: for now she sees that her spinning at home could neither serve nor satisfy his expenses abroad, and that all her care and labour was by far too little to maintain his vanity; which she (poor good woman) perceiving, yea, more than so, contrary to her hopes, now feeling, she with fair words, and secret and sweet persuasions endeavoureth to reclaim him from it; but this course of hers works a contrary effect: for if before he played the prodigal in her absence, now he plays the Tyrant in her presence: for he not only rejoiceth, and stops his ears against her counsel, but rates and reviles her with vild and contemptuous speeches, such as indeed are infinitely unfit either for a husband to give, or a wife ro receive. And this, as I have been informed, was the first distaste betwixt Alibius and Merilla.  
But we need not go far for a Second: There is no pestilent Infection, nor infectious Pestilence to that of haunting and frequenting bad company; for it is a rock, wherein many have suffered Shipwreck; it is a Fountain that sends forth many poisoned streams to those that taste or drink thereof; yea, it is a Tree, whose fruit is by so much the more bitter to the stomach, as it seems pleasing to the palate, like Pills of poison candied in Sugar: and as that which most delights, most confounds the sense; so use breeding an habit, and habit a second nature, vicious company, whom we take to be our dearest friends, do in fine prove our most dangerous enemies, and so much the more dangerous, sith when we would forsake them, we cannot; which our Alibius will at last find true in himself: yea, we shall see him enforced to acknowledge it, as having bought and purchased it with a woeful and lamentable experience: for now he begins to love Swearing, Whoredom, and Drunkenness, that before he hated; and to hate the Gospel of Christ, and the Professors thereof, that before he loved. A most wretched exchange, where we take from our souls, to give to our senses; and a woeful bargain, where we sell God, to buy the Devil.  
Poor Merilla grieving to see that she could not unsee these his ungodly courses, as also that it not only consumed the small remainder of his means, but likewise lost his friends, and darkened and eclipsed his reputation, thinks it not only a part of her duty, but of her affection to him, to request some virtuous friend, or godly neighbour of theirs to deal with him herein, thereby to endeavour to persuade him from these his irregular and profane courses: But as those who are sick, are so deprived of their taste, as they cannot discern between sweet and bitter; So Alibius, sick of the Lethargy of these his enormous and dissolute Vices, was so far from relishing this wholesome counsel, as he not only rejected it, but scoffed and reviled the party who gave it him: and it being not so secretly (or peradventure not so wisely) managed, but he coming to understand it proceeded from his wife Merilla, he took it so passionately and outrageously, to see his follies revealed by her, who was bound to conceal them, as most uncivilly and inhumanely checking her, he in the heat of his displeasure and revenge, some months forsakes her company, and many her bed; whereat, such was her tender affection to him, and his disrespect to her, as I know not whether she more grieved, or he rejoiced.  
The motives of his third distaste to his Wife, were grounded upon her barrenness and sterility; as if it were in her power to give him a Child, when God's pleasure and providence was to give none to her, without considering that the barrenness and fruitfulness of a woman comes all from the Lord, or without remembering that some Children are borne for a curse, as others for a blessing to their parents: or as if his earthly vanity could teach Gods secret Divinity, what were fittest for him, and yet these reasons cannot prevail against his unreasonable self; and therefore this, amongst the rest of his distastes, he, or rather the Devil for him, throws in against his Wife: That if he had a Child, he should be a good husband, and not before: as if he desired and sought some pretext and colour, though never so unjust and ungodly, to cover his vices and prodigality; or in the eyes of the World to bolster out and apologise his jarring and squaring with his Wife: yea, his impudency was grown to the height of this impiety, that he often affirmed, his Wife was the cause of his poverty; for if she would give him no Child, God would give him no prosperity.  
Now, as all women by nature generally desire Children; so it is a great affliction (I will not say a curse) to them, if they have none. But these unjust speeches of Alibius, do justly and infinitely afflict his Wife Merilla, who (that no farther discord might trouble the harmony of their wedlock) sends her tears to earth, and her prayers to heaven, that her Blessed Saviour would be pleased to bless her with a Child; when God, seeing his profane hypocrisy, which he will revenge, and understanding her religious zeal, which he will reward, out of the inestimable treasure of his Mercy and providence, grants her her request, and him his desire: so as in short time she sees herself the mother, and him the father of a young daughter, termed Emelia.  
The fourth reason of his distaste of his Wife, was, that seeing time run on in his swift career, and his prodigality still remaining, as also that his mask of his Wife's sterility was taken away; he that was heretofore so desirous of a child, now thinks this one to be one too many, because (saith he) he can no way endure the crying and trouble thereof. But is there any thing so unnatural or ridiculous as this? Now, if he murmur at this his child, during her infancy, he will much more storm at her, when she comes up to riper years: and observing that her mother doth subtract from his prodigality, to add to her maintenance, this doth again extremely vex and afflict him: so that his child, whom he pretended should be the cause of his joy and prosperity, is now that of his grief; and as he thinks, of his farther poverty and misery: the which, poor Merilla his wife, to her unspeakable and ineffable grief, palpably perceiveth, aswell in his uncharitable and malicious speeches, banded to her for her daughter Emelia's sake, as to Emelia for her sake: But what know we, whether God hath purposely sent this daughter, to revenge the injuries and wrongs that her father intendeth to her Mother?  
His fifth, and (as yet) his last distaste against his wife, proceeds from his observing that her beauty is withered and decayed; not that heretofore he knew her fair: but that she is not so fair now, as when he first married her: as if time and age had not power to wither the blossoms of our youth, as the Sun hath to daver the freshest Roses and Lilies. But as all his former distastes towards his wife, bewray his inclination to prodigality and profaneness: so this last of his doth manifestly discover his addiction to lust, and his affection to Whoredom: for it is impossible for our wives to seem foul in our eyes, except there be some other seems fairer: as blackness seems blacker when it is compared and paralleled with whiteness: and this indeed is the Vulture and Viper that sticks so close to his breast, and so near to his heart, yea, this is his darling and bosom sin that will strangle him, when it makes greatest show to kiss and embrace him.  
Alibius, powerfully solicited by these five several distastes conceived against his wife Merilla, who poor woman rides at an Anchor in the tranquillity of her innocency, whiles he (in the heat and height of his youth) floated in the Ocean of his voluptuousness and sensuality, but especially provoked by his own poverty and penury; who now began to appear to him in a lean and miserable shape: he leaves his wife and family, and betakes himself to the service of Gentlemen; thinking thereby to stop the current of his prodigality, and to find out the invention and means, futurely to get that which formerly he had expended: which resolution of his had been indeed commendable, if the integrity of his heart had been answerable to the sweetness of his tongue: but we shall see the contrary, and find by his example, that Snakes always lurk under the fairest and greenest leaves.  
During which time, he serves some Gentlemen of worth and quality, but one of especial account and reputation; not distant above three small miles from the City of Brescia, who being an excellent Housekeeper, and a good member of the commonweal, there Alibius (had he had as much Grace as Vanity, or as much Religion as impiety) might have forgotten his old vices, and have learned new Virtues: but if he delighted to become excellent in any thing, it was first to be a perfect Carver and Waiter, then to be decent in his apparel; and last of all, to be smooth in his speeches, and affable and pleasing in his compliments, without any regard at all, either to reform the vanity of his thoughts, or to control his dissolute and dangerous actions.  
Having thus pastaway many years abroad in service, and very seldom or never either seen Spreare, or visited his Merilla and Emelia: he at last seeing of the one side, that age began to Snow on his head; and that the greatest wealth of a Servingman, was, to have only a new Livery, and a full belly, to have many verbal, but no real friends, resolved to leave his service, as also his wife and daughter in Spreare: and so to travel to Venice, hoping there in some honest place, and employment, to serve the Signiory, or at least some one of the Magnificoes or Clarissimo's: but then considering the charge of the journey, the weakness of his purse, and the uncertainty of his advancement and preferment, he resolves for a time to sojourn in Brescia; and to watch if any occasion or accident presented, whereby he might repair and raise his fortunes.  
He had not long lived in this City (which for antiquity, beauty, situation, wealth and fidelity (after Venice itself) gives not the hand to any of her sister Cities of that state:) but his eyes (as the lustful sentynells of his heart) espy so many beauties, as he began to loathe his own wife Merilla, and to wish her in another world, that he might have another wife in this. Lo, here the devil begins with him anew to persuade him to hate his wife.  
Abiding thus in Brescia, it fell out that he, who bore the silver rod in token of honour, and justice (or rather of honour to justice) before the podestate or chief Magistrate of this City died: and to this Office Alibius (because he knew himself a grave and personal man) aspired: and what through the respect of his gravity, through his smooth tongue, and fair speeches: but especially by making many friends to the Podestate and Senators, he at last obtained it: a place indeed, more honourable than profitable, and yet worth at least one hundred Zechines, per annum, besides his diet. This preferment makes Alibius look aloft, and so he scorns his poor wife Merilla, as if there were no parity and sympathy betwixt her rags and his robes: yea, he would not see Spreare, nor suffer her to see Brescia, and the devil was so busy with him, or he with the devil, that in hope of a richer and fairer wife, he resolves to poison her according as he heretofore had many times thought and premeditated: and that which egged and threw him on, with more violence and precipitation, was a proud conceit of himself, and of his much dignity and preferment. But as poverty many times befalls us for our good, so sometimes, wealth and prosperity bring us misfortune and misery.  
Not long after, another accident falls out, which doth likewise much rejoice him: An honest Citizen of Brescia, of his own name, though no way his kinsman, dies, (and as since it hath been shrewdly imagined, not without vehement suspicion of poison) leaving a rich widow, named Philatea: and for the familiarity and good conceit he had of our Alibius, as also induced thereunto through his hypocrital show of honesty and piety, makes him sole overseer of his will: so neatly and smoothly did our Alibius work and insinuate himself into his favour: But the mask of this his hypocrisy shall be soon pulled off.  
Alibius seeing Philatea young, rich and fair, he looks on her more often then on her husband's testament: and so wishing his wife Merilla in his adopted kinsman's grave, and himself in Philatea's bed, he bends his purposes and intents that way, as so many lines that run to their Centre: yea, so strongly hath the devil possessed him with these hellish designs and bloody resolutions, as his love to Philatea, defacing his respect to Merilla, he sees her a block in his way, and a stop to his preferment, and so concludes that she must he remooved and dispatched: to which effect, to draw his sinful contemplation into bloody action, he rides over to Spreare to her; and under colour of tender love and affection, he in Milk, Wine, and roasted Apples, gives her poison; when seeing it would not work his desired effect, he after takes an occasion, purposely to quarrel with her, and so very lamentably (in presence of their daughter Emelia) reviles and beats her, and returns to Brescia, still hoping that the poison yet might operate, and disperse itself in her veins, and that shortly he should hear news of her death. Lo here Alibius his first attempt in seeking to murder his Wife.  
In this mean time he lays close siege to Philatea's Chastity, who not so honest as fair, is soon drawn to sin, and prostitutes herself to his beastly pleasure, and having no regard to her reputation, conscience, or soul, consents to this bitter-sweet sin of Adultery; the which lascivious familiarity is so long continued betwixt them, till at last Philatea's strait Bodies become too small, and her Apron too short for her; when seeing it high time to provide for her fame, she acquaints Alibius herewith, and asks his advice, whether she shall marry with one of her servants: Alibius meaning to keep the Farm for himself, whereof he had already taken possession, bids her not to take care for a husband, but to be of good comfort, and that far within her time, he would provide a place for her to lay down her great belly; yea, so secret, as her own heart could either wish or desire.  
But if our miserable Alibius were before resolved to murder his poor harmless Wife Merilla, this news, and these speeches of Philatea, sets him all on fire; and so (having consulted with the Devil) he vows she shall not live: to which end, he provides himself of stronger poison, and in a dark night (when as he flatters himself with hope, that the Heavens were so unjust and inhuman to conspire with him in the Murder of his Wife) he takes horse in the East Suburb of Brescia, and so rides toward Spreare.  
But see the justice, and withal the providence and mercy of our indulgent God! who vouchsafed, and yet resolved to restrain and divert him from this his bloody enterprise, by an accident as strange as true: for a mile out of Brescia, as Alibius rides by the common place of execution, his Horse stumbles, and falls under him right against it, with which fall his shoulder is out of joint. Oh what a caveat was this for Alibius, if he had had the least spark of grace to have made good use hereof! But the Devil had bewitched his understanding and judgement: for he could see by no other eyes, but by those of revenge and blood.  
Arriving at his house at Spreare, he, contrary to his hopes, finds his daughter Emelia with her mother (who by this time was married likewise to a poor Country man of Spreare) whose sight and presence was, for that time, a stop to the execution of her father's poisoning design on her mother; for he feared that she had formerly discovered and suspected this his purpose and resolution, as indeed she had: wherefore he forbore to administer it, only because he would not lose all his labour, he again quarrels with his Wife, and after he had reviled her with many scandalous and contumelious speeches, he in the presence of his (mournful) daughter, doth exceedingly beat her; who (weeping to see her mother weep) infinitely grieved to be an eyewitness of this inhuman and barbarous cruelty of her father: And so for that time Alibius again permitted his Wife to live: But this will prove no pardon, but only a short reprivall for her.  
Returning again to Brescia, it is not long before Philatea doth again importune him to provide for the concealing and salving of her shame, alleging that her time drew on, and that it was more than time to provide her a husband. Alibius, at these her second assummons, begins to look about, and resolves at what rate, or in what manner soever, now to send his Wife into another world; yet (as I think, or ever understood) conceals his purpose from Philatea. Miserable wretch! had he not participated more of the nature of a Tiger, than a man, or of a Devil then a Tiger, he would never have laid violent hands on his own Wife, whom earth and heaven had made flesh of his flesh, and of two bodies one; yea, or had he had so much grace to have considered, that the silver wand he bore before the Podestate, was for the scourging and punishing of sin: Me thinks it should have made him more charitable, and not so bloody to attempt it. But what will not lust enterprise, and Revenge execute, if we neither fear God with our hearts, nor love him with our souls?  
Preseverance in Grace and virtue is excellent, but in sin lamentable. Alibius hath had years and time enough to wipe away his cruelty towards his wife: but the longer he lives, the deeper root it takes in him, yea, he will neither give the flower of his youth, nor the bran of his age to God, but that to pleasure, this to Revenge and Murder, and both to the devil: for now he is resolute to finish this mournful and bloody Tragedy, that he hath so long desired, and so often attempted: and now indeed the fatal time approacheth, wherein innocent Merilla, by the Murderous hand of her husband, must be sent out of this World to see a better.  
Alibius having waited on the Podestate to supper, takes horse, a little before the gates of the City were shut; and having his former poison in his pocket, away he rides to Spreare: but to act his villainy with the greater secrecy, he masketh and disguiseth himself: approaching his house, he in the next Meadow ties up his horse to a tree, and so knocks at door. Poor Merilla his wife was in bed and a sleep with (a little Girl) her Grandchild, named Pomerea, the daughter of her daughter Emelia, whom, without a Candle, she sends down to open the door, assuring herself (as indeed it proved too true for her) that it was her husband Alibius. Pomere●… opening the door, lets one in, but whom she knows not: and then for fear retires to the kitchen, which she shuts fast on her. So Alibius mounts to his wife's Chamber, and after some words gives her a potion (some say of milk) bitterly sugared with poison, and forceth it down her: who poor soul is amazed hereat, and with her weak strength cries out for help, but in vain. He being devilishly resolved now to make sure work, takes a billet out of the Chimney, and so dispatcheth and kills her in her bed (without giving her any time to commend her soul unto God) and so very hastily rusheth forth the door.  
Pomerea, fearing that which was happened, lights a candle, and ascends up the Chamber, where she sees the lamentable spectacle of her Murdered Grandmother, hot, reeking and smoking in her bed: whereat she is amazed, and makes most woeful cries and mournful lamentations: when wring her hands, and bitterly sighing and weeping, she knows not what to do, or what not to do in this her bitter and wretched perplexity, in which mean time Alibius going for his horse, finds only the halter: for his horse is grazing in the Meadow: he diligently seeks him, but cannot a long time set sight of him; which indeed doth much astonish and amaze him: but at last he finds him, and so gallops away to Brescia: where the better to delude the World, and to cast a mist before their eyes, he is again die six of the Clock in the morning waiting upon the Podestate, and conducting him to the Domo, or Cathedral Church of that City. But this policy of his shall not prevent his detection and punishment.  
In this mean time, Pomerea runs to the nearest neighbours, and divulgeth the Murder of her Grandmother. Many of the neighbours flock thither, to see this bloody and woeful spectacle: the Corrigadors of Spreare are acquainted herewith: they send for Surgeons, who visit the dead body, and report she is both poisoned and beaten to death: they examine poor Pomerea, who relates what she sees and knows: the●… send every where to search for the Murderer. By this time the news hereof comes to Brescia. Alibius (like a counterfeit miscreant) is all in tears, yea, he showeth such living affection to the memory of his dead wife, as he sends every where to find out the Murderer. But God will not have him escape, for in due time we shall see him brought forth and appear to the world in his colours.  
Alibius, notwithstanding his tears in his eyes, having still a hell in his conscience, is afraid, lest Emelia his daughter (measuring the subsequent by the antecedent) hold him to be her mother's Murderer; and because the Corrigadors of Spreare (suspecting her) have taken sureties for her appearance: he, the better to insinuate with her, useth her with more than wont courtesy and affabillity, imagining, that if her mouth were stopped, he needed not fear any others tongue: But this politic sleight of his shall not prevail.  
Now by little and little, Time, (the consumer of all things) begins to were away the crying rumour of this Murder: and so Alibius thinking himself secure, ere three months be fully expired, forgetting Merilla, takes Philatea to his second wife: which being known in Brescia, many curious heads of that City (though not upon any substantial ground, but only out of presumptive circumstances) vehemently suspect that Alibius had a deep hand in the Murder of his late wife Merilla: but they dare not speak it aloud, because he was well beloved both of the Podestate himself (for that year being) and generally of all the Senators.  
But as Murder pierceth the Clouds, and cries for revenge from Heaven, so we shall see this of Alibius, miraculously discovered, and e'er long, severely punished: for when he thought the storm past, and saw the Skies clear, when, I say, he imagined that all rumours and tongues were hushed up in silence, and that he thought on nothing else, but to pass his time sweetly and voluptuously with his new and fair wife Philatea, then, when all other means and instruments wanted, to bring this his obscure and bloody fact to light: Lo, by the Divine providence of God, we shall see Alibius himself be the cause, and instrument of his own discovery.  
For after he had married Philatea (which I take to be the first light of suspecting him of his wife Merilla's Murder) (if my information be true, as I confidently believe it is) this is the second: Alibius under the pretext of other business, sends for one Bernardo, of the parish of Spreare, to come to him to Brescia. Now, for our better light and information herein, as also for the more orderly contriving of this History, we must understand, that this Bernardo was an old associate and dissolute companion of Alibius: whom (as it is well known by those who knew them) he had many times used and made his stickler and agent in many of his former lewd courses and enterprises: not that I any way think he had any hand in the present Murder of Merilla: for then (I know) such is the Candour and Wisdom of the Corrigadors of Spreare, and such is the clear judgement and zeal of the Senators of Brescia to justice, that he had never escaped, but had been apprehended and brought to his trial.  
We must farther understand, that this Bernardo was likewise a companion of Emelia's husband: yea, scarce any one day past, but they were known and seen together in tippling houses, and other such lewd and vicious places, whereas drink was still a most treacherous and unsecret Secretary.  
It may be that what Merilla told her husband privately, he discovered it publicly to Bernardo: who coming (as we have formerly heard) to Brescia, after his conference with Alibius, he fell to his old vain of tippling and carousing, and there without the North gate of Brescia (which looks towards Bergamo) having more money than wit, and more wine than money, in the midst of his cups, told he was a Contadyne, or Countryman of Spreare: that he knew Alibius as great as now he bore himself, and that he Murdered his poor wife in the Country, to have this fine one in the City. Which speeches of his he reiterated and repeated often: yea, so often, as they fell not to the ground, but some of his ●…ewd companions took notice thereof; and one amongst the rest, being inwardly acquainted with Alibius, went and secretly advertised him hereof: who (underhand) sends away for Bernardo where he was, and wrought so with him, as since that time he was never seen in Brescia. But this report of his remained behind him.  
A second light which Alibius gave to the discovery of this his Murder, was, that thinking the way clear, and all suspicion vanished, he converted his affection into contempt, and his courtesy to disrespect and unkindness towards his daughter Emelia, by taking away the greatest part of that small means he gave her towards her maintenance: which uncharitable and unnatural part of his, threw this poor woman into so bitter a perplexity, as knowing in her conscience that her father was her Mother's Murderer, she exceedingly apprehended and feared, lest he would attempt to dispatch her likewise: the which she far the more doubted, because her father had bailed her, but not as yet freed her from her appearance before the Corrigadors of Spreare. But here, as simple as she was, she enters into many considerations with herself; that to accuse her father, would be as great a disobedience in her, as it was a cruelty in him to Murder her mother. She is a long time in esolute, either to advance or retire in this her purpose and enterprise: and here she consults betwixt nature and grace, betwixt the Laws of Earth and heaven, what she should do, or how she should bear herself in a matter of so unnatural a nature. It grieves her to be the means of her father's death, of whom she had received her being: and yet she sorroweth not to reveal the murderer of her mother, of whom she enjoyed her life. But though sense and nature cannot, yet Reason and Religion will reconcile, and clear these doubts: yea, evaporate those mists, and disperse these clouds from our eyes, and makes us see clear, that Earth may not conceal Murder, sith God receives glory both in the detection and punishment thereof  
Some will say, this daughter did ill to accuse her father. But who will not affirm that he did far worse, to Murder her mother? Neither was it a delight, but a torment to her, to effect it: for she enters into this resolution with tears, and persevereth therein with sighs and lamentations: but if she were at first resolute herein, this resolution of hers is exceedingly confirmed, when she sees her father so suddenly married, and her mother in law ready to lay down her great belly, especially when she heare●… the reports of his suspicion bruited in Brescia. So now she can no longer contain herself, but goes to the next Corrigador, and reveals him, that her father Alibius was the Murderer of her mother Merilla.  
The Corrigador being a wise and grave Gentleman, wondering at this lamentable news, retains Emelia in his house, and writes away to the Podestate of Brescia hereof: who receives this news on a Saturday at night. The Sunday morning he acquaints the Perfect and chiefest Senators thereof: who repair to his house. The probabilities and circumstances are strong against Alibius. So they all conclude to imprison him: he is at the door, ruffling in his guarded gown and velvet cap, with his silver wand in his hand (as if he were fitter to check others then to be controlled himself:) waiting to conduct the Podestate to the Domo. Alibius little dreams how near he is to danger, or danger to him: he is by an Isbiere or Serjeant called in to speak with the Podestate: and although his conscience inwardly torment him, yet he puts a good (or at least a brazen) countenance on all, and so very cheerfully comes before him: at his first arrival, his velvet cap and silver wand (those dignified marks of honour and justice) are taken from him, and consequently his office: (because these are rewards only proper to virtue, and not to vice) he is examined by those worthy Magistrates, who bear gravity in their looks, wisdom in their speeches, and justice in their actions. Alibius hath many smooth words, for the defence of his crime, which with the aid and varnish of his graceful gesture, he strives to extenuate and palliate, but in vain: for he hath to do with those Magistrates, who cannot be deluded, or carried away, either with the sugar of a lie, or the charm of an evasion. So they commit him close prisoner, where he hath both time and leisure to think on the foulness of his fact, and the unnaturalness and barbarism of his cruelty.  
The Monday following, the Corrigadors of Spreare send Emelia to Brescia, where, the next day the Podestate, Perfect and Senators examine her: they first exhort her to consider, that she speaks before God: and although Alibius be her earthly father, yet he is her heavenly: they conjure and swear her to speak the truth, and no more: and because they see her a simple illiterated woman, they inform her what the virtue and nature of an oath is. When Emelia falling on her knees, wring her hands, and steadfastly looking up towards heaven, she (bitterly weeping & sighing) for a pretty while, had not the power to utter a word: The Perfect with mild exhortations and speeches encourageth her to speak, when with many tears and inrerrupted sighs, she at last proffereth these words, My father hath often beaten my Mother, and even laid her for dead: and at other times, he hath given her poison, and he it is and no other that hath now Murdered her. One of the Senators, (some say it was the Podestate, who as much favoured Alibius, as hated his crime:) bade Emelia look to her conscience, and her conscience to God, and withal to consider, that as Merilla was her Mother, so Alibius was her Father. Whereat she bitterly weeping, again said, that what she had already spoken was true, as she hoped to enjoy any part of heaven. So they binding her to give evidence at the great Court of the Province, which some four months after was to be held in the Castle of their City, they dismiss her.  
In which mean time Alibius is visited in prison by divers of his acquaintance: yea, some of the chiefest Senators themselves afford him that honour and charity, they deal with him about his crime: but in vain, for he takes heaven and earth to witness, that he is innocent, yea, he seems to be so religious and conscionable in his speeches, as he drew many of inferior rank and understanding to believe, that his accusation was not true, and his imprisonment unjust and false. But God will shortly unmask his hypocrisy, and to his shame and confusion, lay open and discover to the whole World, his unnatural and bloody cruelty.  
And now the time is come, that the Duke and Seignory of Venice are used to depute and send forth Criminal judges, to descend and pass thorough the provinces of their territories and dominions: to sit upon all capital malefactors, and to punish them according to their deserts. A custom indeed held famous, not only in the Christian, but in the whole universal world: and whereby the Venetian Sat doth undoubtedly receive both glory, vigour, and life, sith it not only preserveth their peace, and propagateth their tranquillity; but also rooteth out and exterminateth all those that (by their lewd and dissolute actions) seek to impugn and infringe it.  
Thus these high and Honourable judges (being in number two for every division) having dispatched their business (or rather that of the Signories) in Milan, Vincensa, Virona and Bergamo, are now arrived in Brescia, in the Castle whereof, (which is both beautiful and conspicuous to the eye) they keep their Forum and Tribunal. And because this City is exempted from the Province, as being particularly endowed with a peculiar jurisdiction, and honoured with many honourable privileges and prerogatives: therefore (Merilla being Murdered in the Province) Alibius is fetched out of his first prison, and by one of the chiefest and gravest Senators deputed for that purpose by the Podestate, and Senate, conducted and conveyed to the Castle, there to be arraigned by those two great judges: and although this aforesaid Senator was so wise and religious, as he seemed to have the art of persuasion in his speeches: yet by the way, using his best oratory and charity to draw Alibius from denial, to confession, and from that to contrition and repentance, his heart was still so perverse and obdurate, as he notwithstanding persevered in his wilful obstinacy, and peremptorily continued and stood upon the points of his innocency, and justification. So strong was the Devil yet with him:  
But whiles an infinite number of spectators gaze on Alibius as he is in the Castle: and he cheerfully and carelessly conversed with some of his acquaintance, as if the innocency of his conscience were such, as his heart felt no grief nor perturbation: Lo, he is called to his arraignment, whereunto that World of people, who were then in the Castle, flock and concur.  
His thoughts are so vain, and his vanity so ambitious, as he comes to the bar in a black beaten Satin suit, with a fair Gown, and a spruce set Ruff, having both the hair of his head and his long grey beard neatly kombed and cut, yea, with so pleasant a look, and so confident a demeanour, as if he were to receive, not the sentence of his guiltiness and death, but that of his innocency and enlargement. These honourable judge's cause his Indictment to be read, wherein his poisoning and Murdering of his wife, is branched and depainted out in all its circumstances, whereat his courage and confidence is yet (notwithstanding) so great, as by his looks he seems no way moved, much less astonished or afflicted: the witnesses are produced: first, his own daughter Emelia, who with tears in her eyes stands firm to her former disposition, that he had often beaten her Mother almost to death, and now had killed and poisoned her; agreeing in every point with her disposition given to the Podestate and Perfect of Brescia: which to refel, her father Alibius, with many plausible and sugared speeches, tells his judges, that his daughter is incensed or lunatic; or else that she purposely seeks his life, to enjoy that small means he hath after his death, and so runs on in a most extravagant and impertinent apology for himself, with many invective and scandalous speeches against her, and concludes, that he was never owner of any poison.  
His judges, out of their honourable inclination, and zeal to sacred justice, permit him to speak without interruption: when having ended, they begin to show him the foulness of his fact: yea, like heavenly Orators, they paint him out the devilish nature & monstrous crime of Murder: the which they say he redoubleth by denying it, not withstanding that they have evidence as clear as the Sun to convince him thereof: and so they call for two Apothecaries boys, who severally affirm, they sold him Ratsbane at two several times.  
But the devil is still so strong with Alibius, as though his conscience doth hereat afflict and torment him: yet, there is no change nor sign thereof, either seen in his countenance, or discerned in his speeches, but still he persevers in his obstinacy; and in a bravery pretends to wipe off the Apothecary's boys evidence with this poor evasion, that he bought and used it only to poison Rats: And so again with many smooth words, humble crouches, and hypocritical compliments, he useth the prime of his subtlety and invention to make it appear to his judges, that he had no way imbrued his hands in the blood of his wife: But this will not avail him, for he is before Lynce-eyed judges, whose integrity and wisdom can pierce thorough the foggy mists of excuses, and the obscure Clouds of his farfetched shifts, and cunninglycompacted evasions.  
And now to close and wind up this History, after the jury impanelled had amply heard, aswell the witnesses against Alibius, as his defence for himself: and that all the world could testify that his judges gave him a fair trial, they return and report him guilty of Murdering his wife Merilla; whereat he is put off the bar, and so for that time sent back to his prison: and yet the heat of his obstinacy being hereat no way cooled, the edge of his deny all any way rebated, nor the obdurateness of his heart, the least thing mollified: he, by the way as he passeth, beating his breast, and sometimes out-spreading his arms, saith, it is not his crime, but the malice of his Devilish daughter that hath cast him away: yea, although many of his compassionate and Christian friends do now now again in prison work and persuade him to confession, by aleadging him, that God is as merciful to the repentant, as severe to the impenitent and obstinate, yet, all this will not prevail.  
The second morn after his conviction, he is brought again from his prison, to the Castle, and so to the bar, to receive his judgement, where one of the two most honourable judges show him:  
That it is his harkening to the Devil, and his forsaking of God, that hath brought him to this misery; paints and points him out his dissolute life, his frequenting of bad company, his prodigality and adultery: but above all, his masked hypocrisy, which he saith, in thinking to deceive God, hath now deceived himself: yea, in heavenly and religious speeches, informs him how merciful and indulgent God is to repentant sinners: that he must now cast off his thoughts from earth, and ascend and mount them to heaven, and no longer to think of his body, but of his soul; and so after a learned and Christianlike speech, as well for the instruction of the living as the consolation of Alibius, who was now to prepare himself to dye: he pronounceth, that for his execrable Murder committed on his own wife Merilla, he should hang till he were dead: and so besought the Lord to be merciful to his soul.  
And now is Alibius again returned to his prison, but still remaineth obstinate and perverse, affirming to all the World. that as he hath lived, so he will dye innocently: But God will not suffer him to dye, without confessing and repenting this his bloody and unnatural Murder.  
These his grave and religious judges, out of an honourable and Christian charity, send him Divines, to prepare his body to the death of this world, and his soul to the life of that to come: they deal most effectually, powerfully and religiously with him in prison: and although they found, that the devil had strongly ensnared and charmed him, yea, and as it were, hardened his heart to his perdition: yet God, out of his infinite and ineffable mercies, addeth both power and grace to their speeches, and exhortations, so as his eyes being opened, and his heart pierced and mollified: they at last so prevail with him, that being terrified with God's justice, and encouraged and comforted with his mercies: he with tears, sighs and groans confesseth this murder of his wife, and not only bitterly reputes it, but also doth thank these Godly Divines, for their charity, care, and zeal for the preservation and saving of his soul, and doth upon his knees beseech them to pray unto the Lord to forgive him.  
We have seen Alibius Murder his wife Merilla: we have seen his apprehension, imprisonment, trial, conviction, and condemnation, for this his execrable and bloody fact: wherein we may observe how the justice of God still triumpheth o'er the temptation and malice of the Devil, and how Murder, though never so secretly acted, and concealed, will at last be detected and punished. What resteth there now, but that after we have hereby made good use of this example, we see Alibius fetched from his prison, and conveyed to the place of execution: (whereat (as we have heard) he formerly stumbled in jest, but must now in earnest) where, although it were timely in the morn, (as having the favour to dye alone, and at least three hours before the other condemned malefactors) an infinite number of the Citizens of Brescia, (of all ranks and of both sexes) assembled to see Alibius take his last farewell of this World.  
At his ascending up the ladder, his fair grey beard and comely presence drew pity from the hearts, and tears from the eyes of the greatest part of the spectators, to see that the Devil had so strongly enchanted and seduced him to lay violent hands on his wife, and to see so grave and so proper an aged man thus misfortunately and untimely cast away.  
His speech at his end was brief and short; only he freely confessed his crime, and with infinite sighs and tears besought the world to pray for his soul: he lamented the Vanity of his youth, and the dissoluteness of his age: told them, that his neglect of prayer to God, and his too much confidence in the devil, had brought him to this shameful end; and therefore besought them again and again to beware by his example: and so having solemnly freed his second wife Philatea from being any way acquainted or accessary with the murder of his first wife Merilla: he recommending his soul into the hands of his Redeemer, died as penitently as he had lived dissolutely and profanely.  
And thus was the life and death of Alibius: the which I was the more willingly induced to publish, partly, because I was an eyewitness, both of his arraignment and death, (as I returned from my travels,) but more especially, in hope that his example and History may prove to be as great a consolation to the Godly, as a terror to the unrighteous.  
To God be all Glory and praise.   
FINIS.   

THE TRIUMPHS OF GOD'S REVENGE AGAINST THE CRYING AND Execrable Sin of Murder.  
Expressed In thirty several Tragical Histories, (digested into six Books) which contain great variety of mournful and memorable Accidents, Amorous, Moral, and Divine.  
Book II.  
Written by JOHN REYNOLDS.  
VERITAS TEMPORE PATET OCCULTA  
RS   printer's or publisher's device 
LONDON, Printed by Aug. Mathewes for WILLIAM LEE, and are to be sold at his shop in Fleetstreet, at the sign of the Turks Head, near the Mitre Tavern.  
1634.   

TO THE RIGHT HONOURABLE AND TRULY NOBLE, RICHARD Lord Buckhurst, Earl of Dorset, and Lord Lieutenant of his Majesty's County of Sussex.  
RIGHT HONOURABLE,  
Out of a resolution, whether more bold or zealous, I know not, I have adventured this second Book of my Tragical Histories to the World, under your Honour's Patronage and protection: Neither need I go far to yield either your Honour, or the World, a reason of this my Presumption and Ambition, sith your Virtue's innobling your Blood, as much as your Nobility illustrates your Virtues, was the first motive which drew me hereunto: for whiles many others endeavour to be great, your Honour (resembling yourself) not only endeavours, but strives to be good; as well knowing that Goodness is the glory and essence, yea the life, and as I may say, the soul of Greatness; and that betwixt Greatness and Goodness there is this difference and disparity▪ that, makes us famous, this, immortal; that, beloved of men, this, of God; that, accompanieth us only to our Graves, and this, to Heaven. My second prevailing Motive in this my Dedication proceeded from the respect of my particular duty, (as my first was solely derived from the consideration of your own general and generous Virtue's) for having the honour to retain to your Noble Brother, Sir Edward Sackvile Knight, to whom, for many singular respects, and (immerited) favours (whiles I am myself) jowe not only my service, but myself; I therein hold me obliged and bound to proffer and impart this part of my Labours to your Honour, as the first public testimony of my zeal and service, eternally devoted and consecrated to the Illustrious Name and Family of the Sackeviles; whereof Gods Divine providence hath made your Honour chief Heir and Pillar. The drift and scope of these Histories are to inform the World how Gods Revenge still fights and triumphs against the crying and execrable sin of (wilful and premeditated) Murder, which in these our (impure and profane) times, is so fatally and frequently coincident to unregenerate Christians; which Scarlet and bloody Crime is infallibly met with, and rewarded by God's sharp and severe punishments; having purposely published and divulged them to my dear Country of England, that they may serve (though not by the way of comparison, yet of application) as the sight of julius Caesar's bloody Robe (showed by Marcus Antonius to the Romans in Campo Martio, when he there pronounced his funeral Oration) thereby to make his Murder and Murderers in the greater horror and execration with the people. The Histories of themselves are as different, as their effects and accidents: their Scenes being wilfully and sinfully laid in diverse parts of Christendom beyond the seas, and the Tragedies unfortunately perpetrated and personated by those, who more adhering to impiety, than Grace, and to Satan, than God, made shipwreck, if not of their souls with their bodies, I am sure of their lives with their fortunes, and of their fortunes with their lives. They themselves (or rather their sins) first brought the Materials, I, only the collection, illustration, and polishing of these their deplorable Histories, which are penned in so low a sphere of speech, and so inelegant a phrase, as they can no way merit the Honour of your perusal, much less of your judgement, and least of all, of your Noble protection and Patronage.  
Howsoever, my hopes (led and marshaled by the premises) do as it were flatter me, that your perfections will wink at my imperfections, and your curiosity at my ignorance and presumption, in deigning permit this my rude Pamphlet, to salute and pilgrimage the World, under the authentical passport of your Honour's favour; who of herself is composed of so poor metal (or rather dross) as without the pure gold of your Honourable Name, it would run a hazard, not to pass currant with the curious wits, and censures of this our (too curious and too censorious) age; whereof could I rest assured, I should then not only rejoice, but triumph in this my happiness, as so richly exceeding the proportion of my poor Labours and merits, that I could not aspire to a greater honour, nor desire a sweeter felicity: And so recommending this my imperfect Pamphlet to your favour, my unworthy self to your pardon, and your Honour, your Noble Countess, and the sweet young Lady your Daughter, to God's best favours and mercies, I will assume the confidence and constancy to remain  
Your Honours in all humility and service. JOHN REYNOLDS.   

THE GROUNDS, AND CONTENTS OF these HISTORIES.  

HISTORY VI Victorina causeth Sypontus to stab and murder her first Husband Souranza, and she herself poisoneth Fassino her second: so they both being miraculously detected and convicted of these their cruel Murders, he is beheaded, and she hanged and burnt for the same.  
HISTORY VII. Catalina causeth her Waiting Maid Ausilva two several times attempt to poison her own Sister Berinthia; wherein failing, she afterwards makes an Empiric, termed Sarmiata, poison her said Maid Ansilva: Catalina is killed with a Thunder bolt, and Sarmiata hanged for poisoning Ansilva. Antonio steals Berinthia away by her own consent; whereupon her Brother Sebastiano fights with Antonio, and kills him in a Duel: Berinthia in revenge hereof, afterwards murthereth her Brother Sebastiano; she is adjudged to be immured betwixt two Walls, and there languisheth and dies.  
HISTORY VIII. Belluile treacherously murthereth Poligny in the street. Laurieta, Poligny's Mistress, betrayeth Belluile to her Chamber, and there in revenge shoots him thorough the body with ae Pistol, when assisted by her waiting-maid Lucilla, they likewise give him many wounds with a Poniard, and so murder him▪ Lucilla flying for this fact, is drowned in a Lake, and Laurieta is taken and hanged and burnt for the same.  
HISTORY IX. jacomo de Castelnovo lustfully falls in love with his daughter in law Perina, his own son Francisco de Castelnovo's Wife; whom to enjoy, he causeth jerantha first to poison his own Lady Fidelia, and then his said son Francisco de Castelnovo: in revenge whereof, Perina treacherously murthereth him in his bed. jerantha, ready to dye in travel of child, confesseth her two Murders; for the which she is hanged and burnt▪ Perina hath her right hand cut off, and is condemned to perpetual imprisonment, where she sorrowfully dies.  
HISTORY X. Bertolini seeks Paulina in marriage, but she loves Sturio, and not himself: he prays her Brother Brellati, his dear friend, to solicit her for him, which he doth, but cannot prevail; whereupon Bertolini lets fall some disgraceful speeches, both against her honour, and his reputation: for which Brellati challengeth the Field of him, where Bertolini kills him, and he flies for the same. Sturio seeks to marry her, but his father will not consent there. ●…nto, and conveys him away secretly: for which two disasters, Paulina dies for sorrow. Sturio finds out Bertolini, and sends him a Challenge, and having him at his mercy, gives him his life at his request: he afterwards very treacherously kills Sturio with a Petrone●… in the Street from a Window: he is taken for this second Murder, his two hands cut off, the●… beheaded, and his body thrown into the River.    

THE TRIUMPHS OF GOD'S REVENGE AGAINST THE CRYING, AND EXECRABLE sin of Murder.  

HISTORY VI.  
Victorina causeth Sypontus to stab and murder her first Husband Souranza, and she herself poisoneth Fassino her second: so they both being miraculously detected and convicted of these their cruel Murders, he is beheaded, and she hanged and burnt for the same.  
WHere Lust takes up our desires, and Revenge and Murder seizeth on our resolutions, it is the true way to make us wretched in this life, and our souls miserable in that to come: for if Chastity and Charity (the two precious Virtues and ornaments of a Christian) steer not our actions on Earth, how shall (nay, how can) we hope to arrive to the harbour of Heaven? or if we aband on these celestial Virtues, to follow and embrace those infernal Vices, what do we but take ourselves from felicity to misery, and consequently give ourselves from God to Satan? But did we seriously (and not trivially) consider that there is a Heaven to reward the Righteous, and a hell to punish the ungodly, we would neither defile our hearts, nor pollute our souls with the thought, much less with the action of such beastly and inhuman crimes: but in this sinful age of ours, the number is but too great of lascivious and impious Christians, who delight in the affection and practice thereof: among whom I here represent the History of an execrable Gentlewoman, and her wretched and unfortunate Lover, who were both borne to honour, and not to infamy: had they had as much grace to secure their lives, as vanity and impiety to ruin them. The History is bloody, and therefore mournful: but if we detest their crimes, we need not fear their punishments: for God is as gracious and propitious to protect the innocent, as just and severe to chastise the guilty.  
IN Italy, the beauty of Europe, and in the City of Venice (the glory of Italy, the Nymph of the Sea, and the pearl and diamond of the world) in the latter years of the reign of noble Leonardo Donato, who, as Duke, sat to the helm of that potent and powerful Estate) so famous for banishing the jesuits, and for opposing himself against the intrusion and fulminations of Pope Paulus Quintus, in the just defence and maintenance of the prerogatives and privileges of the signory) There was at that time a gentleman, a younger brother, yet of well near fifty years old, of the noble Fa mily of the Beraldi, named Signior jacomo Beraldi, who dwelled above the Rialto Bridge (that famous Master piece of Architecture) upon the Canalla Grando, who in the April of his youth took to Wife the Dona Lucia, daughter to Signior Lorenzo Bursso, a Gentleman of Milan, by whom he had seven Children, four Sons, and three Daughters; so as his Wife and he esteeming themselves happy in their Issue, passed away their time in much content and felicity: but God (for some secret and sacred reasons to his Divine Majesty best known) converting his smiles into frowns, within the space of seven years, takes away six of their Children, so as their eldest daughter only remained living, being a young Gentlewoman of some eighteen years old; named Dona Victoryna.  
This young Gentlewoman, being noble, rich, and fair (three powerful and attractive Adamants to draw the affections of many Cavaliers) according to her desert, had divers Gallants who sought her in Marriage: but she was of nature proud, choleric, disdainful, and malicious; Vices enough to ruin both a beauty and a fortune: but of all her suitors and servants, he whom she best loved and affected, was one Signior Sypontus, a Gentleman of the City, who was more noble than rich, and yet more debauched and vicious then noble; but otherwise a very proper young Gallant: but the perfections of the body are nothing to be compared to the excellent qualities and endowments of the mind, for those are but the varnishes and shadows of a meet men, but these the perfections and excellencies of a wise man, and therein noble; sith indeed wisdom is one of the truest degrees, and most essential parts of Nobility. Now if Victoryna love Sypontus, with no less reciprocal flame and zeal doth Sypontus affect Victoryna: for as his eyes behold the delicacy of her personage, and the sweetness of her beauty; so his heart loves either, and adores both: yea, so deep an impression hath she engraven in his thoughts and contemplations, that he is never merry till he see her, nor pleased till he enjoy the felicity of her company; which Victorina rejoiceth to see, and observes with infinite content and delectation. Sypontus thus entangled in the snares of Victorina's beauty, and she likewise in those of his perfections, he resolves to court her, and seek her in Marriage, which he performs with much affection, zeal, and constancy, leaving no industry, care, curiosity, or cost unattempted, to enrich and crown his desires with the precious and inestimable treasures of her love. I should make this short discourse swell into an ample History, to particularise, or punctually relate the Letters, Sonnets, Presents, Meetings, Dance, Music, and Banquets, which passed 'twixt these two Lovers, and wherewith Sypontus entertained his dear Mistress Victoryna: I will therefore purposely omit it, and cover myself with this excuse, which may satisfy my Reader, to consider that Sypontus (as before) was an Italian, whose custom and nature rather exceed, then come short, in all amorous ceremonies and compliments: And therefore again to resume my History, I must briefly declare, that after the protraction and recess of a years time Victorina consenteth to Sypontus, to be his Wife, so far forth as he can obtain those of her father and mother: a fit and virtuous answer of a daughter, wherein I know not whether she bewray more modesty and discretion in herself, or respect and obedience to her parents.  
Sypontus' infinitely pleased with this sweet news and delightful melody, is as it were ravished and rapt up into heaven wirh joy, when flattering himself with this poor hope, that as Victoryna was courteous, so he should find her parents kind to him; he, with much respect and honour, repairs to Beraldi and Lucia, and in fair and discreet terms acquaints them with his long affection to their daughter Victoryna; whom (with as much earnestness as humility) he prays to bestow her on him for his wife: but this old Couple are as much displeased at Sypontus his motion, as their Daughter Victoryna rejoiceth thereat, and so they return him their denial in stead of their consent; only in general terms they thank him for his love and honour, and certify him that they have otherwise disposed of their daughter. Sypontus bi●…es the lip, and Victorina hangs her head at this their bitter and distasteful answer: but he is too generous and amorous to be put off with this first repulse. Whereupn he employs his Parents and kinsfolks (whereof some were of the chiefest rank of Senators and Magnificoes) to draw Beraldi and Lucia to consent to this Match; but in vain: for they are deaf to those requests, and resolute in their denial, grounding their refusal upon Sypontus his poverty: for they see he is become poor; because in the last transmarine Wars, the Turks took from his father and himself most of his Lands and Possessions near Scuttari in Dalmatia: and therefore they resolve to provide a richer husband for their Daughter. The iniquity of our times are as strange as lamentable: for in matters of Marriage, parents, without due regard either to the natures or affections of their children, still prefer gold before grace, and many times Riches before Virtue and Nobility, which concur and meet in one personage: but divers of these Marriages, in the end, find either shame, misery, or repentance, and sometimes all.  
Sypontus' storms as much as Victoryna grieves at his refusal: but to frustrate that, and provide for this, Beraldi deals with Signior jovan Baptista Souranza to marry his daughter Victorina, who is a Gentleman of a good house, but far richer than Sypontus'; but withal far different in age: for Sypontus is but twenty eight years old, and Souranza near threescore. So as gold playing the chiefest part in this contract, Souranza is sure of Victoryna for his wife, ere he know her, or hardly hath seen her. Beraldi advertizeth his daughter of his will and pleasure herein: so Souranza sees her with affection and joy, and she him with disdain and grief: and thus this old Lover the first time entertains his young Mistress with kisses, and she him with tears. He is no sooner departed, but Victorina very sorrowfully and pensively throws herself to her Parent●… feet, and with showers of tears very earnestly and passionately beseeches them, that they will not enforce her to marry Souranza, whom (she affirms) she cannot love, much less obey, prays them to consider what a misery, nay, what a hell it will be to her thoughts and self, to have him in her bed, and Sypontus in her heart. When she could no further proceed, because her sighs cut her words in pieces, and so grief daunting her heart, and her fear to Souranza, and affection to Sypontus, casting a milk-white Veil over her Vermilion cheeks, she sinks to the earth in a fainting cold swoone: when her hardhearted and cruel parents (more with astonishment than commiseration and pity) step to her ass●…stance, and again bring her to her senses: who not forgetting where her speeches ended, she remembers to begin and continue them thus: O my dear Parents, name not Souranza for my husband, but if you will needs give me one, then by all that blood of yours, which streameth in all the veins of my body, of two let me enjoy one, either Sypontus, or my Grave; he the beginner of my joys, or this the ender of all my miseries and sorrows; neither is it disobedience in me, but fear of cruelty in your seves, that throws me on the exigent of this request and resolution: whereon I pray, consider by the bonds of nature, and not by the rules of avarice and inhumanity. But her father and mother (without any respect to her youth and tears, or regard to her affection and prayers) love Souranza's wealth so well, as as they will hate Sypontus his poverty, and in it himself: and therefore checking Victoryna for her folly, and taxing her of indiscretion, their command and authority gives a law to her obedience and desires: And to conclude, they are so bitter, and withal, so cruel to her, that within few days they violently enforce her to marry Souranza. But this enforced Match will produce repentance and misery of all sides.  
As it is a duty in children to honour and obey their parents, so it is no less in parents carefully to regard, and tenderly to affect their children: but in Matches that are concluded with wealth without affection, there Parents ought proceed with judgement, not with passion, with persuasion, not with force: for can there be any hell upon earth comparable to that of a discontented bed, or is it not a grief to Parents, through their cruelty, to see their children live in despair in stead of hope, in affliction in stead of joy; and to dye miserably, whereas they might have lived pleasantly and prosperously? 'tis true that young folk's affections are not still well grounded, but for want of advice and counsel many times meet with misery for felicity: yet sith Marriage is a Contract, not for a day, but for ever, not for an hour, but for the term and lease of our lives; therefore Parents, in matching their children, should be rather charitable then greedy for the world, and rather compassionate then ridged: but enough of this, and again to our History.  
We have seen Victorina, with an unwilling willingness, enforced to marry Souranza: we shall not go far●…e, before we see what sharp calamities and bitter afflictions and miseries this Match produceth: The argument and cause briefly is thus; Victorina lies with her husband Souranza, but cannot love him: from whence (as so many lines from their centre) spring forth many mournsull and disastrous accidents: the little ring of Matrimony encloseth many great and weighty considerations, and among others this is not one of the least: disparity in years makes no true harmony in affections; for there is no affinity 'twixt january and May, and it is a matter, though not impossible, yet difficult for youth and age to sympathise: Soranza's best performance of the rites and duties of Marriage, is but desire; yea, his age cannot sufficiently estimate, much less reward the dainties of Victorina's youth; for he is more superstitious than amorous, as delighting rather to kiss an Image in the Church, than his wife in his bed, and not to betray the truth. I must crave leave of modesty, to aver that she finds little difference 'twixt a Maid and a Wife, so as her lust outbraving her chastity, and sensuality trampling her virtues and honour under foot, whereas her affection should look from Sypontus to Souranza, both she and it chose look from Souranza to Sypontus. Dissembling pleasures, which strangle when they seem to embrace and kiss us, bitter Pills candid in Sugar, Cordials to the sense, but Corrosives to the soul! Yea, Victorina in forgetting her modesty, will not remember her vow in Marriage; for had she been as virtuous as young, or as chaste as fair, it had not only been her virtue, but her duty, to have smothered the defects, and concealed the imperfections and impotency of her old husband: Chastity would have persuaded her to this, but incontinency and lust draw her to a contrary resolution.  
Sypontus likewise storms and grieves at this unwished and unequal Match of old Souranza with his young and fair Victorina; yea, he hates him so much, and loves her so tenderly and dear, as he would, but cannot prevent it: for (as before) they are married; and he in stead of the Laurel is enforced to wear the Willow: but his grief finds this comfort, and her discontent this consolation, that sith Victoryna is not his Wife, she is his Mistress; and sith Sypontus is not her Husband, he is her Servant, or (to use the Venetian phrase) she is his Courtizana, and he her Enamorata: but such leagues and contracts of vicious affections seldom make happy ends; for as they begin in lust, so commonly they terminate in infamy and misery. Sypontus often familiarizeth with Victoryna, yea, their familiarity is such, as I in modesty will not report, sith in chastity I cannot, and although they bear their affections and pleasures secret, yet custom breeding a habit, and that a second nature, Souranza is now no sooner abroad, but Sypontus is at home, so as in effect Souranza is but the shadow, and Sypontus the substance of Victoryna's husband: but these lascivious Lovers shall pay dear for their affections; Sypontus for entertaining and keeping another man's Wife, and Victoryna for breaking her vow in wedlock to her husband, in defiling his bed, and contaminating her body with the foul sin of Adultery.  
It had been good & safe for them, if they had not begun these their beastly pleasures, but to give no end to them, must needs prove dangerous & ruinous: to commit this sin of Adultery is odious, but to persevere therein, is most abominable before God: the reason hereof is as true as pregnant; for if the reward of a single sin be death, the redoubling thereof must needs be double damnation: but as it is the nature of Adultery to be accompanied and waited on by other sins, so Victoryna is not only content to love Sypontus, but she makes a farther progression in impiety, and will needs hate her husband Souranza; who poor honest Gentleman, sick with the Gout, and a Cough of the Lungs, is now distasteful, and which is worse, odious to her: so that she which should be a cordial to his age, his age is now a corrosive to her youth, and she so far forgets both herself and her duty, as she rather contemns than loves him, and as he rejoiceth in her sight, so she delights in nothing so much as in his absence, and Sypontus' presence: she makes her discontents and malice to her husband known to Sypontus, who doth pity, but will not remedy them: all her speeches tend to wish herself in another world, or her husband not in this. Sypontus is not ignorant whereat she aims; but although he enjoy the wife, yet he cannot find in his heart, but is too conscientious to murder the husband: had he remained in the constancy of this resolution, he had been happy, and not so miserable and unfortunate to end his days with shame and infamy. But now behold, an unexpected accident draws and throws him on headlong to perpetrate this execrable Murder, for (as the Gentry and Nobility of Venice are for the most part Merchants) so Sypontus receiveth sudden and sorrowful news of two great losses befallen him, in the Levant Seas, in two several ships, the one coming from All●…po, taken by the Turkish Pirates of Rhodes, the other from Alexandria, taken, as is supposed, by one of the Duke of Ossunas Neopolitan Galleys, scouring the Lands of the Archipelagus, in which two Vessels he lost at least seventy thousand Zeckynes, it being the two third parts of his whole estate: and now to maintain his greatness, and bear up his port and reputation, knowing Souranza to be infinitely rich, and his wife Victorina young, amorous, and fair, he agrees with the devil, and so resolves to murder him, and then to marry her; which he knows she above any earthly matter chiefly desires. Lo here the foundation and project of a Murder, as lamentable as execrable! Necessi●…y in base spirits may be a powerful, but in those more virtuous and noble, it should never be a pernicious and prodigious counsellor: for there is as much generosity and fortitude in supporting poverty with patience, as there is covetousness in being ambitious to purchase wealth with infamy.  
At the next interview and meeting of Sypontus and Victorina, she like a bad woman, a wicked wife, and a wretched creature, redoubleth him her complaints and discontents against her husband; and because Sypontus knows it wisdom to strike whiles the Iron is hot, as also that Time must be taken by the forelock, he like a wretched Politician lays hold of this occasion and opportunity, and so consenteth to the Murder of her husband, when from this bloody resolution, they pass to the manner how to effect it: they consult on this lamentable business. Victorina (industrious in her malice) proposeth to poison him, and so to bury him in her little garden: but Sypontus dislikes this project, and proffers her to murder him in his Gondola, as he comes from Luifizina: whereon they agree. So some ten days after, Victorina advertiseth him, that her husband is to go to his house of pleasure in the Country, near Milan, on the bank of the River Brenta, where he is only to stay three days. Sypontus embraceth this occasion, and continually wantonizing with his wife in his absence, promiseth her to meet her husband at his return, and then to dispatch him; which news with a longing desire this miserable Courtesan Victorina attends him with as much impatience as impudency. Sypontus' in the mean time (in favour of twice ten Zeckynes) is prepared of two wicked Gondoliers or Watermen, who deeply vow and swear to conceal this Murder. So the precise day of Souranza's departure from his Country house being come, Sypontus, not to fail of his promise to Victorina, in the execution of his bloody and damnable attempt, takes his Gondola, and hovers in the direct passage betwixt Lucifizina and Venice, for Souranza his arrival, who, poor harmless Gentleman, loved his young wife so tenderly and dear, as he thought this short time long that he had wanted from her: but he hath seen his last of her, and allasse, alas, he shall see an end of himself: for about five of the clock in the evening (it being Summer time) his usual hour of return, he takes Gondola at Lucifizina, for Venice, and near midway 'twixt both, Sypontus espies him, and the sooner, because it being hot weather, and no wind stirring, Souranza had caused his curtains to be withdrawn. Sypontus (inflamed with boiling malice and Revenge) with all possible celerity makes towards his Gondola, the which disguised and masked he enters, and there with his Poniard very devilishly stabs him three several times at the heart, when falling down to his feet, he most barbarously cut of his beard, and nose (that he might not be known) and so throws him into the Sea; as also his Waterman after him, that they might tell no tales: when having finished these execrable Murders, he with his Gondola, with all possible speed hies first to Murano, and so lands by the Patriarchy, from thence by the Arsenal, and so to his own house behind Saint Servi's Church, thereby to cast a fairer varnish on this villainy, by landing and coming into the City another way, when being arrived at his house, he that night by a confident servant of his, sends Victoryna this Letter.  
SYPONTUS to VICTORYNA.  
Fair and dear Victoryna, I have begun, and ended a business, which infinitely imports thy good, and my content: the party hath drunk his fill of White and Claret, and is now gone to his eternal rest: so a little time, I hope, will wipe off thy old tears, and confirm thy new joys: be but as affectionate, as I secret, and as secret, as till death I will be affectionate, and thou needst neither fear my fortunes, nor doubt thine own: judge what I would do to enjoy thee and for thy sake, sith I have already undertaken and acted a business of this nature: we must for a time refrain each others company, that we may the sooner meet, and embrace, withmore content, and less danger.  
SYPONTUS.  
Victoryna infinitely rejoiceth at this news, and the better to cloak her malice, under the veil of secrecy, she laments and complains to her father of her husband's long absence. Souranza's Parents are by Beraldi acquainted herewith, they begin to find the time of his stay very long, and now resolve to send his nephew, Scignior Andrea Souranza up the river Brenta, to know the cause thereof: he passeth and repasseth the Sluice of Lucifizina, and brings word that he departed thence for Venice, in a Gondola, four days since: Victoryna his wife grieves, and weeps at his absence, so do his own Parents and friends, who enqui●…e of all sides, but find comfort or news from none what is become of him. And here, Reader, before thy curiosity carry thee further, I conjure thee to stand astonished and wonder, at the inscrutable and wonderful judgement of God, in the detection of this Murder. For Fishermen some eight days casting out their nets betwixt the Lands of La Lazareto and Saint George Majore, bring up this dead body of Murdered Souranza, being well apparelled: but chiefly for their own discharge, they bring the dead corpse to Venice, and lan●… him at Saint Marks stairs; where they extend and expose his body to be known of passengers: now behold further Gods miraculous providence, in the discovery and finding out hereof: for amongst the numberless number of spectators and walkers, who daily and almost hourly frequent and adorn that famous Burse and incomparable P●…lace, it happened that Andrea Souranza cast his eye on this dead and sea-withered body: on whom he looks with as much steadfastness as curiosity, as if Nature had made his living body a part of that dead; or as if his hot blood had some sympathy and affinity with that of the dead personage, which long since the coldness of the Sea had congealed and frozen: but at last espying a red spot in his neck (under his right ear) that he brought into the world with him, and which all the influence and virtue of the water of the Sea had not power to deface and wash away: as also observing a wart over his left eyelid, which Nature had given his birth, and his youth his age: he passionately cries out before the world, that it is the body of his Uncle, Seig●…ior jovan Baptista Souranza: so it is visited by his Parents and friends, and known to be the same: so they carry him to an adjoining house, and there divesting it naked, find that he hath t●…ree several wounds in his body, either of a Sword or Poniard, which gives matter of talk, and administereth cause of admiration in all the City: so they bury him honourably according to his rank and degree, and all knowing him to be Murdered, infinitely bewail his untimely, and lament his mournful death: but especially his wife Victoryna, who having formerly played the strumpet, than the Murderess, now takes on the mask, and assumes the representation of an Hypocrite; outwardly seeming to dye for sorrow, when God, and her foul ulcerated conscience knows, that inwardly her heart leaps for joy, thus to be deprived and freed of her old husband. Yea, and the more to blear the eyes, and eclipse the judgement of the world, for casting the least shadow of suspicion on her for this unnatural Murder: she and her whole family take on black and mourning Attire, and for herself in two months after, never goes forth her house, except to the Church where her husband was buried: where her Hppocrisie is so infinitely feigned, and dissembling, that she is often observed to bedew and wash his Tomb with her tears: but these Crocodile tears of hers, and these her false and treacherous sorrows shall not avail her: for although God's divine and sacred Majesty be merciful in his justice, yet he is so just in his mercies, as neither the politic secrecy of Sypontus, nor the Hypocritical sorrows of Victoryna, for this cruel Murder, shall go either unmasked or unpunished: but in their due appointed time, they shall be brought forth in their colours, and made public examples, as well of infamy, as destruction for the same: the manner is thus:  
The deceased Signior jovan Souranza hath a younger brother, named Signior Hi●…ronymo Souranza: who having carefully and curiously observed, that his sister in law Victoryna, never perfectly nor dear loved his brother her husband, and that she was neither so familiar, nor dutiful to him, as it behooved her, during the term of her marriage: which partly he attributed to the disparity of their years, in respect of the frozennesse of his age, and the heat and freshness of her youth. He began vehemently to suspect her of this Murder, which he often revolved and ruminated in his mind, as if the suggestion and persuasion thereof, not only boar probability but truth with it: to which end, as the affection of a true friend (much more of a brother) should pass beyond the Grave, and not remain entombed, and buried in the dust thereof, he is resolved to put his best wits and invention upon the tenter-hookes, to discover and reveal the same: to which end, he breaks with Victorina's Gentlewoman, who waited on her in her Chamber, and who indeed was his own Niece Felicia, to know what Gentlewomen chiefly frequented her Lady. Felicia informs her Uncle, that Signyor Sypontus is many nights with her, that there is much affection and familiarity between them, and that he sends her many Letters. Her Uncle glad-of this glimmering light, which he hopes will produce a greater and perfecter, conjures her to intercept some of his Letters, for the more effectual discovery of his brother, and her Uncle's death. So Felicia promiseth her best care and fidelity herein, and shortly effecteth it: for in few days after, being sent by her Lady Victoryna to a Casket of hers, to fetch her a new pair of Romish Gloves, she opening an Ivory Box, therein finds a Letter; which she reads, and seeing it signed by Sypontus, she thinks it no sin to be false to her Lady, and true to her Uncle, and so very secretly and safely sends it him; which indeed was the very Letter we have formerly seen and read: and now is his jealousy and suspicion confirmed. So vowing and Sacrificing Revenge to his dead and Murdered brother, away he goes to three chief judges of the forty, who sit on criminal causes, and very passionately accuseth Sypontus and Victoryna for the Murder, committed on the person of his Brother Signior jovan Baptista Souranza, at Sea: whereupon they are both committed prisoners, but sequestered in several Chambers. Sypontus is first examined, than Victoryna: they both very constantly deny the Murder, and with many sugared words, and subtle evasions, intimate and insinuate, their innocencies therein: so the next day the judges produce Sypontus his own Letter; the sight whereof extremely afflicteth and vexeth him: but he is constant in his denial, and resolute in that constancy, and so takes on a brazen face; and with many asseverations and imprecations, again and again denies it, averring it is not his hand, but a mere imposture and invention of his enemies, who have counterfeited it, purposely to procure his ruin and destruction: yet inwardly to himself he feareth all is discovered, and that there is no means left him to escape death, whose Image and form he now too apparently and fatally sees before his eyes. So he is sent back to his prison, and his judges in the interim consult on his fact; where he is no sooner arrived, but bolting his Chamber privately to himself, he considering that either Victoryna, or some for her, had betrayed him by his own Letter, he in the bitter fury of choler and passion, throws away his Hat, now crosseth his arms, and then beats his breast, and stamping with his feet, at last very low to himself bandeth forth these speeches:  
And is it possible, that I must now lose my life through Victoryna her folly and treachery, into whose hands I reposed both my secrets and it? Have I done what I have done for her her sake, and is this the requital she gives me? And sith there is no other witness, must mine own Letter be produced in justice against me? What will I not do? what have I not done for her sake? Woe is me, that I should live to be rewarded with this monstrous and inhuman ingratitude; when for sorrow and indignation, not able to contain himself, he takes Pen and Paper, and writes Victoryna this ensuing Letter.  
SIPONTUS to VICTORYNA.  
IS it possible that thy affection to me hath been all this while seigned, and that thou, whom I trusted with all my secrets, art now become the only woman of the world to betray me? I have hazarded my life for thy sake, and must I now be so unfortunate and wretched, to lose it through thy treacherrie? When I bore matters with such care and secrecy, that no witness whatsoever could be produced against me, ●…ust mine own Letter, which was safely delivered thee, be brought forth to convict me of my crime, and so to incur death, which otherwise I had avoided? Is this thy reward of my love? Is this thy recompense of my affection? O Victoryna, Victoryna! Such is my tender esteem of thy sweet youth and beauty, that had I enjoyed a thousaend lives, I would haeve reputed myself happy, to have lost them all for thy sake and service: and having but one, wilt thou be so cruel to deprive me thereof? But that my loyalty and my affection may shine in thy malice; take this for thy comfort, that as I have ever lived, so I will now dye thy true Servant and faithful Lover.  
SYPONTUS.  
But observe here the error of Sypontus his judgement: for whiles he imputes i●… to Victoryna's treachery, that this his Letter will occasion his death; he is so irreligious and impious, as he looks not up to heaven, to consider that the detection thereof proceeds from God's immediate finger and providence. No: No. For the devil yet holds his thoughts so fast captivated and entangled in the snares of Victoryna's beauty, as he hath not yet the grace to look from his crime, to his repentance; nor consequently from Earth to Heaven: but like a profane Libertine and unregenerate person, being within a small point of time near his end, he yet thinks not of his soul, nor of God, but only dallies away the remainder of his hours, in the miserable contemplation of his fond affection and beastly sensuality.  
By this time Victoryna hath received his Letter; at the news and reading whereof, such is the passion of her frenzy, which she (though unjustly) terms love: that she is all in tears, sighs, and lamentable exclamations: she knows it impossible for any other of the world to be the revealer of Sypontus his Letter, but only her Maid Felicia, whom in her uncharitable Revenge, she curseth to the pit of hell: but that which adds a greater torment to her torments, and a more sensible degree of affliction to her miserable sorrows, is, to see that her Sypontus (whom by many degrees she loves far dearer than her life) finisterly snspecteth her fidelity towards him: yea so far, as he not only calls her affection but her treachery in question: and this indeed seems to drown her in her tears. But yet notwithstanding so fervent is her love towards him, as the fear of his death draws her to a resolution of her own: so if Sypontus die, she vows she will be her own accuser, and so not live, but die with him. Strange effects of love, or rather of folly, sith love being irregular, and taking false objects, (in its true character) is not love, but folly: to which end, calling for ink and paper, she bitterly weeping, indites and sends him these few lines, in answer of his.  
VICTORYNA to SYPONTUS.  
I Were the most wretched and ingratefullest Lady of the world; yea a Lady who should not then deserve either to see or live in the world, if Victoryna should any way prove treacherous to Sypontus, who hath still been so true and kind to her. But believe me, Dear Sypontus, and I speak it in presence of God, upon peril of my soul, I am as innocent as that witch, that devil, my maid Felicia is guilty of the producing of thy Letter; which I fear will prove thy death, and rejoice that in it, it shall likewise prove mine. For to clear myself of ingratitude & treachery, as I have lived, so I will dye wiyh thee: that as we mutually participated the joys of life, so we may the torments of death: for although thy Letter accuse me not of my Husband Souranza's Murder, yet that my affection may shine in my loyalty, and that in my affection, I will not survive, but die with thee: for I will accuse myself to my judges, not only as accessary, but as author of that Murder: and this resolution of mine I write thee with tears, and will shortly seal it with my blood:  
VICTORYNA.  
Sypontus, in the midst of his perplexities and sorrows, receives this Letter from Victoryna, the sweetness of whose affection and constancy, much revives his joy, and comforteth him. For now her innocency defaceth his suspicion of her ingratitude and treachery: and withal he plainly sees, and truly believes, that it was Felicia, not Victoryna, who brought this Letter to Light. But when he descends to the latter part of her Letter, and finds her resolution to dye with him, than he condemns his former error in taxing her, and in requital, loves her so tenderly and dear, that he vows he will be so far from accusing her, as accessary of her husband's Murder, as both the Rack, and his death shall clear and proclaim her innocency. Had the ground of these servant and reciprocal affections of Victoryna and Sypontus, been laid in virtue, as they were in vice; or in chastely, and not in lust and adultery, they would have given cause to the whole world, as justly to praise, as now to dispraise them, and then to have been as ambitious of their imitation, as now of their contempt and detestation.  
So Sypontus (as before) having fully and definitively resolved not to accuse, but to clear Victoryna of this Murder, as also that he would dye alone, and leave her youth and beauty to the enjoying of many more earthly pleasures: he expecting hourly to be sent for before his judges, to sit upon his torment or death, thinking himself bound both in affection and honour, to signify Victoryna his pleasure herein, he craves his ●…aylors absence, and with much affection and passion, writes her this his last Letter:  
SIPONTUS to VICTORYNA.  
SWeet Victoryna, thy Letter hath given me so full satisfaction, as I repent me of my rash credulity, conceived against thy affection and constancy, and now lay the fault of the discovery of my Letter, where it is, and aught to be, on Felicia, not on thyself. It is with a sorrowful, but true presage, that I foresee, my life hastens to her period: the Rack is already prepared for my torments, and I hourly expect when I shall be fetch't to receive them, which for thy sake I will embrace and suffer, with as much constancy as patience: I will deny mine own guiltiness the first time, but not the second: but in my torments and death I will acquit thee of thine, with as true a resolution, as Earth expects to lose me, and I hope to find Heaven. Therefore all the by bonds of love and affection that ever hath been between us, I first pray, then conjure thee to change thy resolution, and to stand on thine innocency. For if thou wilt, or desirest to gratify me with thy last affection and courtesy at my death; let me bear this one content and joy to my grave, that Victoryna will live for Sypontus his sake, though Sypontus dye for hers.  
SYPONTUS.  
He had no sooner sent away this his Letter to Victoryna, but he himself is sent for to appear before his judges, who upon his second examination and denial, adjudge him to the Rack; which he endures with admirable patience and constancy. Yea, he cannot be drawn to confess, but stands firm in his denial, and not only clears himself, but also acquits Victoryna: Hieronym●… Souranza doth notwithstanding earnestly follow and solicit the judges, and God, out of his immense mercy and profound providence so ordaineth, that their consciences suggest and prompt them, that Sypontus is the actor of this execrable Murder. Wherefore the next day they administer him double torment: when lo, his resolution and strength failing him, he acknowledgeth the letter his, and confesseth it was himself that had Murdered Signior jovan Baptista Souranza: but withal protesteth constantly that Victoryna is innocent, and no way accessary hereunto. The judges rejoice at Sypontus his confession, as much as they grieve at the foulness of his fact: and so, although they were also desirous to hang him, yet considering he was a Venetian Gentleman, (and consequently had a great voice in the great Counsel of the Seignory) they adjudge him the next day to lose his head, betwixt the two Columes at Saint Marks Place, and so for that night send him back to his prison, to prepare himself to dye. Sypontus is no sooner departed from them, but they consult on Victoryna, whether she were guilty, or innocent of her husband Souranza's Murder, but they differ in opinion: some would likewise have her Racked: but others of them more advised and modest, reply that Sypontus his Letter intimated only his affection to Victoryna, but no way her malice to her dead husband Souranza, nor that she was any way guilty or accessary to his Murder: so they resolve to forbear her, and not to put her to the torment, except Sypontus accuse her at his execution. Now the very night that he was to die the next morn, he infinitely desires his jailor to permit him to confer with Victoryna, and to take his last leave of her, which is denied him, as having received command from authority to the contrary; whereat extremely grieving, he is called away by some Divines, whom the charity of that grave Senate send him, to prepare and direct his soul, in her passage and transmigration to Heaven. So passing the night in tears and prayers for the foulness of his crime, the morn being come, and nine of the clock strucken, he is brought to the scaffold, where a world of people concur and flock from all parts of the City, to see this wretched and unfortunate Gentleman act the last Scene and part of his life upon this infamous Theatre. here Sypontus freely confesseth his foul Murder of Souranza, but is yet so vain and wretched, as he takes it to his death, that Victoryna is absolutely innocent hereof: he seems to be very repentant and sorrowful for all his sins in general, and for this Murder in particular.  
For expiation and reward hereof, his head is severed from his body: a just recompense and punishment for so vicious and bloody a Gentleman, who adhering to adultery more than chastity, to revenge then charity, and to the devil than God, forgot himself so far, as to commit this execrable and lamentable Murder.  
Now, the order and Decorum of our History, leads us from dead Sypontus, to living Victoryna, who, I know not whether more grieve at his death, or rejoice, that on the Rack and scaffold he hath acquitted her of her husband's Murder. In a word, it is remarkable to behold the vanity and inconstancy of this female Monster: for contrary to her vows, and repugnant to her Letters and tears, Sypontus is no sooner dead, but her affection towards him dies with him: yea, his blood is scarce fo soon cold, as her zeal and friendship: for she now holds it a pure folly to cast away her youth and life, if she may preserve the one, and save the other; and therefore resolves to try her best art and wit, to make her innocence pass currant with her judges: yea, so desirous and ambitious is she to live, as her female heart hath drawn on this masculine fortitude and generosity, that if occasion present, she will constantly both outdare and outbrave the torments of the Rack, thereby to prevent her death.  
Some three days after Sypontus was executed, the judges again sit and consult on Victoryna, but finding no evidence nor witness to accuse her, they at first are of opinion to discharge and free her: only they deem it requisite to terrify, but not to torment her with the Rack, before they give her her liberty: whereunto they all agree. So they send for her, and threaten her with the Rack: but she vows, that all the torments of the world shall never enforce her to confess an untruth, and that she never had the least suspicion that Sypontus was guilty of this execrable Murder of her husband: her judges will not yet believe her; so they cause her to be carried to the Rack: whereunto she very cheerfully and patiently permits herself to be fastened, bidding the Executioner do his worst: which constancy of hers, her judges seeing and hearing, they, in pity and commiseration, as well of her youth and beauty, as to her descent, and the tears and prayers of venerable old Beraldi her father, cause her to be loosed, and so in open Court acquit and discharge her.  
Here we see this wretched Courtesans Victoryna acquitted of her judges for her husband's Murder, so as triumphing more in her good fortune, than her innocence, she now thinks the storm of her punishment past and o'erblown, and that no fu●…e can possibly be reserved for her, or she for it: but her hopes will deceive her: for although she have made her peace with Earth, yet she hath not with Heaven; and although she have deluded the eyes of her judges, yet she shall not those of God; but when his appointed hour, and her due time is come, than her crimes and sins, her adultery and Murder shall draw down vengeance from heaven to her confusion. In the mean time we shall see this Monster, and disgrace of her sex, make such bad use of her former danger, as she will again add blood to blood, and Murder to Murder; but God will reserve not only the rod of his wrath for her correction, but the full viols of his indignation for her confusion; as the sequel will show thee.  
Six months are scarce passed, since the Murder of her husband Souranza, and the execution of her Enamorata Sypontus, but she hath already quite forgotten these two mournful and tragical accidents: and which is more, she is so frolic and youthful, as she hath thrown off her mourning attire, and drawn on her rich apparel and glittering jewels, whereof the curiosity of the nobler sort of Gentlemen and Ladies of the City take exact observation: and although Beraldi and Lucia, her fathe●… and mother, herein tax her of indiscretion and immodesty, yet she thinks he●… self exempt of their commands, and therefore will do it, out of the ambitious privilege of her own uncontrollable authority and wilfulness. Besides, her thought are so youthful, and her carriage so light, as notwithstanding she came (as it were but now from burying of her first husband, yet she is resolved without delay, t●… have a second: her father and mother check her of levity and incivility in embracing this resolution: but in vain: for her impudency returns them this immodest answer, that she will not trifle away her time, but marry. They advise her to be cautious, and to do nothing rashly in this her second match, that the misfortune an●… scandal of her first may no more reflect on her. But she will make choice for he●… self by the eyes of her youth, and not by those of their age; by those of her own●… fancy, and not by these of their election. Her husband Souranza died rich, both 〈◊〉 lands and moneys, and his Widow Victoryna, without any opposition, enjoyeth all: 〈◊〉 she needs not look out for Suitors, for there are Gallants enough who sue and seek●… her: but of them all, he whom she best and chiefly affecteth, is one Signior Loudvicus Fassino, a very neat and proper young Gentleman of the City, rich, and we●… descended; his parents and kinsmen for the most part being Clarissimo's and Senator●… and all of them Gentlemen of Venice; and him Victoryna desires, and resolves to mak●… her husband, grounding her chiefest reason and affection on this resolution and foundation, that as Souranza was too old for her, so Fassino was young enough, and therefore fit to be her husband, and she his wife, measuring him wholly by his exterio●… personage, and not so much as once prying either into his vices or virtues. Fassin●… who carried a vicious and pernicious heart under a pleasing gesture and tongue, an●… loving Victoryna's wealth more than her beauty, observing her affection and respect t●… him, seeks, courts, and wins her. Her Parents understanding hereof, as also th●… Fassino is a vicious and debauched Gentleman, with all their possible power and authority, they seek to divert their daughter from him. But she is deaf to their requests, and resolved, that as she followed the stream of their commands in her first match, so she will now the current of her own pleasures and affections in this her second: and so, to the wonder of Venice, and the grief of all her parents and friends, before she had above ten days conferred with Fassino, she marries him. But this match shall not succeed according to their desires: for Victoryna shall shortly repent it, and Fassino as soon rue and smart for it; sith it is a maxim, that sudden affections prove seldom prosperous: for if they have not time to settle and take root, they are incident as soon to fade as flourish, especially if they are contracted and grounded more for lust then love, and more for wealth then virtue.  
The first month of this marriage, Fassino keeps good correspondence and observance with his wife, but thencefoorth he breaks Pale, and rangeth: for the truth is, although he were but a young Gentleman, yet (which is lamentable) he was an old whoremaster: which lascivious profession of his, threatens the ruin, not only of his health, but of his fortune and reputation: so now, when he should be at home, he is abroad: yea, not only by day, but by night, that upon the whole, Victoryna is more a widow then a wife: at which unlooked and unwished for news, she not only bites the lip, but very often puts finger in her eye and weeps: for it gripes & grieves her at heart, to see herself thus slighted, neglected, and abused by Fassino, whom, of all the Gallants of the City, she had elected and chosen for her husband: she is infinitely grieved hereat, and yet her grief and sorrow infinitely exceeds her jealousy: and now as graceless as she is, she thinks God hath purposely sent her this lascivious Fassino for her second husband, as a just plague and punishment, to revenge her adultery committed against Souranza her first: so, had she had more grace, and less vanity and impiety, she would have made better use of this consideration, and not so ●…oone forgotten it, and in it, herself.  
Now as it is the nature of jealousy, to have more eyes than Argus, and so to pry and see every where: Victoryna, her curiosity, or rather her malice herein, finds out, that her Husband Fassino familiarly frequenteth and useth the company of many Courtesans, especially of the Lady Paleriana, one of the most famous and reputed beauties of Venice: and this news indeed strikes her at the very gall with sorrow and ●…exation; fain she would reform and remedy this vice of her husband, but how she knows not, for she sees little or no hope to reclaim him, sith he not only tenderly loves Paleriana, but which is worse, she apparently sees, that for her sake, he ●…ontemnes herself and her company: for when he comes home, he hath no delight 〈◊〉 her, but only in his Lute or Books, which is but to pass his melancholy, for his Lady Paleriana's absence, till he again revisit her: so as wholly neglected, and as I ●…ay truly say, almost forsaken of her husband, she knows not what to do, nor how 〈◊〉 bear herself in those furious storms of her grief, and miserable tempest of her ●…ealousie. But of two different courses to reclaim him from this his sin of whore●…ome, she takes the worst: for in stead of counselling and distwading her Hus●…and, she torments him with a thousand scandalous and injurious speeches: but ●…is, in stead of quenching, doth but only bring oil to the flame of his lust: for if ●…ee repaired home to her seldom before, now he scarce at all comes near her: 〈◊〉 as she is a Wife, yet no Wife: and hath a Husband, yet no Husband: but this is ●…ot the way to reclaim him, for fair speeches and sweet exhortations may prevail, ●…hen choler cannot.  
And now it is, that this wretched and execrable Lady again assumes bloody reso●…ions against her second Husband, as she had formerly done against her first, vowing that he shall die, ere she will live to be thus contemned and abused of him: yea, her hot love to him is so soon grown cold, and her servant affection already so frozen, that now she thinks on nothing else but how to be revenged, and to be rid of him; and is so impious and graceless, as she cares not how, nor in what manner soever she send him from this world to another: for the devil hath drawn a resolution from her, or rather she from the devil, that here he shall not much longer live. Good God! what an impious and wretched fury of hell will Victoryna prove herself here on Earth? for the blood and life of one husband cannot quench the thirst of her lust and revenge, but she must and will imbrue her hands in that of two: as if it were not enough for her to troth, but that she will needs gallop and ride post to hell. O what pity is it to see a Lady so wretched and execrable! O what an execrable wretchedness is it, to see a Lady so inhuman, and so devoid of pity! But the devil is strong with her, because her faith is weak with God: therefore she will advance, she will not retire in this her bloody design and resolution. Wherefore we shall shortly see Fassino his adultery punished with death, by his wife Victoryna's revenge; and this murder of hers justy rewarded and revenged with the punishment of her own: the bloodier our actions are, the severer Gods judgements, and the sharper his revenge will be.  
Of all sorts and degrees of inhuman and violent deaths, this wretched Lady Victoryna thinks poison the surest, and yet the most secret to dispatch her husband. This invention came immediately from the devil, and is only practised by his members: of which number she will desperately and damnably make herself one: her lust and revenge, like miserable Advocates, and fatal Orators, persuade her to this execrable attempt, wherein by cutting off her husband's life, she shall find that she likewise casts away her own. So neither Grace nor Nature prevailing, she sends for an Apothecary, named Augustino; and when she hath conjured, and he promised his secrecy, she acquaints him, that her new husband Fassino keeps Courtesans to her nose, and daily and hourly offereth her many other insupportable abuses and disgraces; in requital and revenge whereof she is resolved to poison him, and prays him to undertake and perform it, and that she will reward him with three hundred Zekynes for his labour.  
Of all professions and faculties, there are good and bad: Augustino loves God too well, herein to obey the devil: he hath too much grace, to be so impious and graceless, and vows, that he will not buy gold at so dear a rate, as the price of blood; so as a good Christian, and true child of God, he not only refuseth Victoryna's motion and proffer, but in religious terms seeks to divert and persuade her from this her bloody attempt. But she is resolute in her malice, and wilful in her revenge, and therefore will perform it herself, sith this Augustino will not: so (by a second hand) she procures poison from a strange Empiric, whereof the City of Venice, more than other of Italy, aboundeth: so she only waits for an opportunity, which very shortly, though, alas, too too soon, presents itself; the manner thus:  
It is impossible that Fassino his dissolute life, and extreme deboshing can keep him long from sickness; for this punishment is always incident and hereditary to that sin. He complains thereof to his wife Victoryna, who receives this news rather with gladness, than commiseration and pity: and so taking his bed, he prays her to make him some comfortable hot broth for his stomach: which news she hears, and embraceth inwardly with joy, outwardly with disdain. For albeit she lays hold of this opportunity to poison him, yet she dissembles her malice; and the better to colour her villainy, because she knows it the smother and shorter way to be revenged in poisoning him, she will not make the broth herself, but commands her maid Felicia to do it, (of whom we have formerly spoken, in the discovery of Sypontus his Letter to her Uncle Hieronymo Souranza:) which treacherous office of hers, our malicious and devilish Victoryna her Lady and Mistress, hath now a plot in her head, to requite with an execrable and hellish recompense: for whiles Felicia is boiling of the broth, her Lady Victoryna trips to her chamber and closet, and fetcheth out the poison, enveloped in a paper, whereof she takes two parts and brings down with her, and whiles she had purposely sent Felicia from the fire, she runs and throws it into the broth, which for the present no whit altered the colour thereof: so Fassino calling for it, this poor innocent Gentlewoman Felicia, (not suspecting or dreaming of poison) gives it him, which (as ignorant thereof) he sups up; and this was about nine or ten of the clock in the morning.  
Now whiles Felicia is acting this mournful Tragedy in Fassino his chamber, her Lady Victoryna is acting another in hers; for she takes the other third part of the poison, and secretly opening Felicia's trunk, puts it into a painted box which she found therein, and so locks it again, hoping (though indeed with a wretched and hellish hope) that her hu●…band being dead, his body opened, and the poison found in her trunk, she would give out that Felicia had poisoned him with broth that morn, and this found in her chest, would make her guilty of the murder; for the which she knew she must needs die. See, see, the devilish double malice of this wretched Lady Victoryna, as well to her husband Fassino, as her maid Felicia! But as finely as the devil hath taught her to spin the thread of this her malice and revenge, yet though her plot have taken effect and hold of her husband, nevertheless she shall in the end fail of hers to innocent Felicia: in the interim, though to the eyes of the world it seem at first to succeed according to her desires by the buy, yet it shall not in the main: but that murder, and this treason of Victoryna shall not go long either undetected, or unpunished.  
This poison working in Fassino his stomach and body, begins by degrees to cut off his vital spirits, so as his strength fails him, his red cheeks already look pale and earthly, and his body infinitely swells: he calls for his wife Victoryna, who with all haste and expedition tells her secretly, that he fears, Felicia hath poisoned him with the broth she gave him in the morning; and so requesteth her to send for his Parents and friends to be present at his death, for live he could not. Victoryna, like a dissembling she-devil, tears her hair for anger, and for mere sorrow seems to drown herself in her tears at this news, kisseth and fawns on her husband, and in all possible haste sends away of all sides for his kinsfolks and friends, who hastily repair thither, and find Fassino almost dead: so they, with tears, inquire his sickness; when with open voice his wife Victoryna cries out, that her wretched maid Felicia had with broth, that morn, poisoned him; which Fassino his memory and tongue yet serve him to confess and aver, word for word, as his wife Victoryna had related them: whereat they are all sorrowful, and weep, and then, and there cause Felicia to be apprehended and shut fast in a chamber; who (poor harmless young Gentlewoman) is amazed at the terror and strangeness of this news, and cries out and weeps so bitterly, as she seems to melt herself into tears, only she knows herself innocent, and yet fears that this malice and revenge proceeds to her from her Lady Victoryna. Whiles Felicia is thus under sure keeping, her Master Fassino dies: which news is soon dispersed and divulged abroad, to the grief and admiration of the whole City. The next morn the criminal judges are advertised hereof, who repair to Fassino his house, who by this time is dead, & there see his breathless carcase, which they o●…daine to be opened: the poison is apparently found on his stomach, in its natural & pristine colour; when examining first Fassino, than Victoryna's parents, they report Fassino his own words uttered a little before his death, that Felicia had that morn poisoned him with broth: which is averred by Victoryna, who saith, she saw her give it him. So they send away poor Felicia to priso●…, but yet with a vehement suspicion, that this poisoned arrow came out of Victoryna her own quiver, which they the sooner believe, in respect of her former troubles, and ●…spicion for the murder of her first husband Souranza: So the judge's return and b●…ake themselves, that very instant, to their Tribunal of justice, in the Duke's Palace of Saint Marks: where they send for Felicia, who is brought them, unaccompanied of any: for as misfortune would, both her Uncle Hieronymo, and her Cousin Andrea 〈◊〉, w●…re then at Corfu, employed in some public affairs for the Seignory. The Iudge●… examine Felicia, concerning the broth and poison she gave her Master. She bitterly sighing and weeping, confesseth the broth, but denies the poison; vowing by h●…r part and hope of heaven, she never touched nor kn●…w what poison was, and desired no favour of them, if it were found or proov●…d against he●…; withal, she acquaints them, that she fears it is a trick of malice and revenge, clapped on her by her Lady Victoryna, for the discovery of Sypontus his letter. And to speak truth, the judges in their hearts partly adhere and concur with her in this opinion: they demand her whether her Lady Victoryna touched this broth, either by the fire, or the bed? She, according to the truth, answers, that to her knowledge or sight, she touched it not, nor no other but herself. So they send her again to prison, and retur●…e speedily to Fassino his house; where committing Victoryna to a sure guard, they ascend her chamber and closet, search all her trunks, caskets and boxes, for poison, but find none: and the like they do to Felicia's trunks, which they break open, she having the key; and in a box find a quantity of the same poison, whereby it was apparent she absolutely poisoned her Master Fassino. The judges having thus found out and revealed, as they thought, the true author of this murder, they descend, again examine Victoryna, and so acquit her. Poor Felicia is advertised hereof; whereat she is amazed and astonished, and thinks that some witch or devil cast it there for her destruction. She is again sent for before her judges, who produce the poison found in her trunk: she denies both the poison and the murder, with many sighs and tears: so they adjudge her to the rack, wh●…ch torment she suffereth with much patience and constancy; notwithstanding, her judges considering that she made and gave Fassino the broth, that none touched it but herself, that he died of it, and that they found the remainder of the poison in her trunk, they think her the murderer; so they pronounce sentence, that the next morn she shall be hanged at Saint Marks place. She poor soul is returned to her prison; she bewails her misfortune thus to die, and be cast away innocently, taxing her judges of injustice, as her soul is ready to answer it to God.  
All Venice prattleth of this cruel murder committed by this young Gentlewoman; but for her Lady Victoryna, she triumphs and laughs like a Gipsy, to see how with one stone she hath given two strokes, and how one poor drug hath freed her this day of her husband Fassino, and will to morrow of Felicia, of whom she rejoiceth in herself, that now she hath cried quittance for the discovery of Sypontus his Letter, which procured his death: but her hopes may deceive her, or rather, the devil will deceive both her and her hopes too. How true or false, righteous or sinful our actions be, God in his due time will make them appear in their naked colours, and reward those with glory, and these with shame.  
The next morn, according to the laudable custom of Venice, the mourners of the Seignory accompany our sorrowful Felicia to the place of execution, where she modestly ascendeth the ladder, with much silence, pensiveness & affliction: at the sight of whose youth and beauty, most of that great infinity of Spectators cannot refrain from tears, and commiserating and pitying, that so sweet a young Gentlewoman should come to so infamous and untimely a death: when Felicia lifting up her hands, and erecting her eyes and heart towards heaven, she briefly speaks to this effect: Sheetakes Heaven & earth to witness, that she is innocent of the poisoning of her Master Fassino, and ignorant how that poison should be brought into her Trunk; that as her knowledge cannot accuse, so her Conscience will not acquit her Lady Victorina of that fact, only she leaves the detection and judgement thereof to God, that being ready to forsake the world, si●…h the world is resolved to forsake her, she as much triumphs in her innocence, as grieves at her misfortune: and that she may not only appear in Earth, but be found in Heaven a true Christian, she first forgives her Lady Victorina, and her judges, and then beseecheth God to forgive her all her sins, whereunto she humbly and heartily prays all that are present, to add their prayers to hers: and so she begins to take off her band, and to prepare herself to die.  
Now, Christian Reader, what humane wisdom, or earthly capacity would here conceive or think, that there were any sublunary means left for this comfortless Gentlewoman Felicia, either to hope for life, or to flatter herself that she could avoid death? But lo, as the children of God cannot fall, because he is the defender of the innocent, and the protector of the righteous, therefore we shall see to our comforts, and find to God's glory, that this innocent young Gentlewoman shall be miraculously freed of her dangers, and punishment, and her inveterate arch enemy Victoryna brought in her stead, to receive this shameful death, in expiation of the horrible murders of her two husbands, which God will now discover, and make apparent to the eyes of the world: for as the Friars and Nuns prepare Felicia, to take her last farewell of this world, and so to shut up her life in the direful and mournful Catastrophe of her death; Behold, by the providence and mercy of God, the Apothecary Augustino (of whom this ou●… history hath formerly made an honest and religious mention) arrives from Cape ●…stria: and having left his ship at Malmocco, lands in a Gondola at Saint Marks stairs; when knowing and seeing an execution towards, he thrusts himself in amongst the crowd of people: where beholding so young and so fair a Gentlewoman, ready to die: he demands of those next by him, what she was, and her crime: when being answered, that her name was Felicia, a waiting Gentlewoman to the Lady ●…orina, who had poysoved her Master Fassino: at the very first report of the 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 Victoryna, and her husband Fassino, Augustino his blood flasheth up in his face, and his heart began to beat within him, when demanding if no other were accessary to this murder: he was informed, that her Lady Victoryna was vehemently suspected thereof: but she was cleared, and only Felicia, this young Gentlewoman found guilty thereof: which words were no sooner delivered him, but God putting into his heart and remembrance, that this Lady Vectorina would have formerly seduced him for three hundred Zeckynes, to have poisoned her husband Fassino, he confidently believing this young Gentlewoman innocent hereof, with all possible speed, as fast as his legs could drive, he runs up to the Southeast part of the corner of the Gallery of the Duke's Palace, where the Officers sit to see execution done; the which he requesteth for that time to stop, because he hath something to say concerning the murder of Signior Fassino. Whereupon they call out to the Executioner to forbear: which b●…ed inf●… admiration in all the Spectators, as wondering at the cause and reason thereof, when in constant and discreet terms, Augustino informs the judges, that he thinks 〈◊〉 innocent, and her Lady Victoryna guilty of this murder, and so 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 ●…m ●…er, time, and place where Victorina herself seduced him to poison her 〈◊〉 F●…no, how she proffered him three hundred Zeckynes to perform it, which he refused, and to the utmost of his power, sought to dissuade her from thi●… bloody and execrable business. The judges are astonished at the strangeness of this news, which they begin confidently to believe, and so bless the hour of Augustino's arrival, that hath withheld them from spilling the innocent blood of Felicia, when commanding her from the place of execution, to her prison, they instantly give order for the Lady Victoryna's apprehension, who already had built trophies and triumphs of joy in her heart, to see that all her bloody designs so well succeeded. But now is the Lords apppointed time come, wherein all her cruel Murders, whoredom, treachery, and hypocrisy, shall be brought to light and punished: yea, now it shall no longer be in her power, or in that of the devil, her Schoolmaster & Seducer, either to diminish the least part of her punishment, or to add the least moment or point of time to her life. She is all in tears at her apprehension, but they rather engender envy, then pity in her judges: And so from the delights and pleasures of her house, she is hastily conveyed to prison.  
Her judges, in honour to the sacred dignity of justice (the Queen of Earth, and the daughter of Heaven) confront her with Augustino, who avers his former deposition, as constantly in her face, as she denies it impudently in his. But this will not prevail her: for now God hath made the probabilities, or rather the sight of her crime too apparent. So without any regard to her prayers, tears, or exclamations, they adj●…dge her to the Rack, where the tenderness of her limbs, the sharpness of her torments, but especially the griefs and pinches of her conscience, make her acquit Felicia, acknowledge Augustino his evidence, and condemn herself to be the author both of her first husbands stabbing, as also her seconds poisoning: her judges as much praise God for her confession, as they detest and are astonished at the falseness of these her horrible crimes. So with much joy they first free innocent Felicia of her unjust imprisonment; and then knowing it pity that so wretched a Lady as Victoryna should live any longer, they, for her abominable cruelties and inhumanities', condemn her the next morn to be hanged and burnt on Saint Marks Place. At the knowledge and divulging of which news, as her father, mother, and kinsfolks extremely grieve, so all Venice bless and glorify God, first, that innocent Felicia is saved, and guilty Victoryna detected and condemned to the shame and punishment of a deserved death.  
The same night the Priests and Friars deal with her about the state of her soul, and its pilgrimage and transmigration to heaven: they find that her youth, lust, and revenge hath taken a strange possession of the devil, and he in them: for she still loves the memory of Sypontus, and envies and detests that of her two husbands, Souranza and Fassino: but they deal effectually with her, and in their speeches depainting her forth the joys of heaven, and the torments of hell, they at last happily prevail, and so make her forsake the vanity and impiety of these her passions, by relishing the sweet shown of God's mercies: so the next morn she is brought to her execution; where the world expecting to hear much matter from her, she is very pensive and contemplative, and says little, only she prays Felicia to forgive her; as also all the Parents of her two Husbands, Souranza and Fassino, and likewise of Sypontus; but chiefly she invokes God her Saviour and Redeemer, to pardon these her horrible sins of adultery and murder, and beseecheth all that are present to pray for her soul; and so according to her sentence, she is first hanged, then burnt: whereat all that great affluence and concourse of people praise the providence and justice of God, in cutting off this female monster and shame of her sex Victoryna: whose tragical and mournful History may we all read and remember, with detestation, that the example hereof be our forewarning and caveat, not to trust in the deceivable lusts of the flesh, and the treacherous tentations of the devil, but to rely on the mercies and promises of God which will never fail his elect, but will assuredly make them happy in their lives, blessed in their deaths, and constantly glorious in their resurrections.   

GOD'S REVENGE AGAINST THE CRYING AND EXEcrable sin of Murder.  
HISTORY VII.  
Catalina causeth her Waiting Maid Ansilva two several times attempt to poison her twne Sister Berinthia; wherein failing, she afterwards makes an Empiric, termed Sarmiata, poison her said Maid Ansilva: Catalina is killed with a Thunderbolt, and Sarmiata hanged for poisoning Ansilva. Antonio steals Berinthia away by her own consent▪ whereupon her Brother Sebastiano fights with Antonio, and kills him in a Duel: Berinthia in revenge hereof, afterwards murthereth her Brother Sebastiano; she is adjudged to be immured betwixt two Walls, and there languisheth and dies.  
HOw foolishly and impiously doth our malice betray ourselves, or the devil our souls, when we maliciously betray others? for we are as far from Grace as Wisdom, when we permit either irregular affection, or unlawful passion, to hale us on to choler, choler to revenge, and revenge to Murder: Nay, how exempt are we of Religion, and devoid of all Christian piety and charity, when our thoughts are so eclipsed, and our judgements darkened, when our consciences are so defiled, and our souls so polluted with revenge, that the eldest sister seeks to poison her younger, and this younger afterwards murthereth her own and only brother, because in a Duel he had formerly slain her Lover? Alas, alas, these are bloody accidents, which not only fight against Grace, but Nature, not only against earth, but Heaven, and not only against our souls, but against God; neither are these the only Tragedies that our ensuing History reporteth and relateth: for we shall therein farther see a wretched Wayting-gentlewoman poisoned by her more wretched Lady and Mistress, together with her execrable Agent, a bloody and graceless Empiric: and all justly revenged, and severely punished by the sword of God's wrath and indignation. Wherein the Christian Reader may observe, as well to God's glory, as his own consolation, that never pretended or actual Murders were either contrived more secretly, perpetrated more closely, detected more miraculously, or punished more strangely and severely: so as if the devil have not fully possessed our hearts and souls, or if our thoughts and resolutions do yet retain the least spark of Grace and Christianity, we shall fly their crimes by the sight and fear of their punishments, refetch our wand'ring and erroneous senses, from hell to earth, purposely to erraise them from Earth to Heaven; and so religiously to give and consecrate, both them, and ourselves, and souls, from sin to righteousness, and consequently (with as much felicity as glory) from Satan to God.  
THere dwelled in the City of Avero in Portugal, an ancient Nobleman, termed Don Gasper de Vilarezo, rich in either quality of earthly greatness, as well of blood as revenues, who was nearly allied to the marquis of Denia (in Spain) as marrying a Niece of his named Dona Alphanta, a Lady exquisitely endued with the ornaments of Nature, and the perfections of Grace: for she was both fair and virtuous, that adding lustre to these, and these returning and reflecting embellishment to that, which made her infinitely beloved of her husband Vilarezo, and exceedingly honoured of all those who had the honour to know her; and to crown the felicity of their affections and marriage, they had three hopeful children, one son, and two daughters: he termed Don Sebastiano, and they the Donas, Catalina, and Berinthia: He having attained his fifteenth year, was by his Father made Page to Count Manriques de Lopez, and continually followed him at Court, and they from their tenth to their thirteenth years, lived sometimes at Coimbra, otherwhiles at Lisbon, but commonly at Avero with their Parents, who so carefully trained them up in those qualities and perfections, requisite for Ladies of their rank, as they were no sooner seen, but admired of all who saw them.  
But before we make a farther progression in this History, (thereby the better to unfold and anatomize it) I hold it rather necessary then impertinent, that we take a cursory, though not a curious survey of both these young Lady's perfections and imperfections, of their vices and virtues, their beauty and deformity: that as objects are best known by the opposition of their contraries: so by the way of comparison we may distinguish how to know, and know how to distinguish of the disparity of these two sisters, in their inclinations, affections, and delineations.  
Catalina was somewhat short of stature, but corpulent of body: Berinthia tall, but slender: Catalina was of taint and complexion, more brown than fair: Berinthia not brown, but sweetly fair, or fairly sweet: Catalina had a disdainful, Berinthia a gracious eye: Catalina was proud, Berinthia humble. In a word, Catalina was of humour extremely imperious, ambitious, and revengeful, and Berinthia modestly courteous, gracious and religious. So these two young Ladies growing now to be capable of marriage, many gallant Cavaliers of Avero become Servants and Suitors to them, as well in respect of their Father's Nobility and wealth, as for their own beauties and virtues: yea, their fame is generally so spread, that from Lisbon, and most of the chiefest Cities of Portugal, divers Nobles and Knights resort to their Father Don Vilarezo's house, to proffer up their affections to the dignity and merits of his daughters. But his age finding their youth too young to be acquainted with the secrets and mysteries of marriage▪ puts them all off, either in general terms, or honourable excuses, as holding the matching of his daughters of so eminent and important consideration, as he thinks it fit he should advisedly consult, and not rashly conclude them: which affection and care of Parents to their Children, is still as honourable as commendable.  
Don Sebastiano their brother, being often both at Madrid, Vallidolyd and Lisbon, becomes very intimately and singularly acquainted with Don Antonio de Rivere●…, a noble and rich young Cavalier, by birth likewise a Portugal, of the City of Elvas, who was first and chief Gentleman to the Duke of Bragansa; and the better to unite and perpetuate their familiarity, he proffers him his eldest sister in marriage, and prays him at his first conveniency, to ride over to Avero to see her, offering himself to accompany him in this journey, and to second him in that enterprise, as well towards his father as sister. Don Antonio very kindly and thankfully listeneth to Don Sebastiano's courteous and affectionate proffer; and knowing it so far from the least disparagement, as it was a great happiness and honour for him to match himself in so noble a Family, they assign a day for that journey, against when, Don Antonio makes ready his preparatives and train in all respects answerable to his rank and generosity. They arrive at Avero, where Don Gasper de Vilarezo, for his own worth, and his son's report, receives Don Antonio honourably, and entertains him courteously: he visiteth and saluteth, first the mother, than the two young Ladies her daughters: and although he cannot dislike Catalina, yet so precious and amiable is sweet Ber●…nthia in 〈◊〉 eye, as he no sooner sees, but loves her: yea, her piercing eye, her vermilion ch●…ke, and delicate stature, act such wonders in his heart, as he secretly proclaims himself her Servant, and publicly she his Mistress: to which end he takes time and opportunity at advantage, and so reveals her so much in terms, that intimate the servency of his zeal, and endear the zeal of his affection and constancy. Berinthia entertains his motion and speeches with many blushes, which now and then cast a roseate veil o'er the milk-white lilies of her complexion; and to speak truth, if Antonio be enamoured of Berinthia, no less is she of him: so as not only their eyes, but their contemp●…tions and hearts seem already to sympathise, and burn in the flame of an equal affection. In a word, by stealth he courts her often. And not ●…o de●…aine my Reader in the intricate Labyrinth of the whole passages of their loves, Antonio for this time finds Berinthia in this resolution, that as she hath not the will to grant, so she hath not the power to deny his suit: the rest, time will produce.  
But so powerfully do the beauty and virtues of sweet Berinthia work in 〈◊〉 his affections, that impatient of delays, he finds out her father and mother, and in due terms (requisite for him to give, and they receive) demands their daughter Berinthia in marriage. Vilarezo thanking Antonio for this honour, replies, that of his two daughters, he thinks Berinthia his younger as unworthy of him, as Catalina his eldest worthily bestowed on him. Antonio answers, that as he cannot deny but Catalina is fair, yet he must confess that Berinthia is more beautiful to his eye, and more pleasing to his thoughts. Vilarezo lastly replies, that he will first match Catalina, ere Berinthia, and that he is as content to give him the first, as not as yet resolved to dispose of the second: and so for this time, they on these terms depart, Vilarezo taking Antonio and his son Sebastiano with him to hunt a Stag, whereof his adjacent Forest hath plenty. But whiles Antonio his body pursues the Stag, his thoughts are flying after the beauty of his dear and fair Berinthia; who as the Paragon of Beauty and Nature, sits Empress, and Queene-Regent in the Court of his contemplations and affections: he is wounded at the heart with Vilarezo his answer, and Berinthia to the gall, when he certified her of her father's resolution, only modesty (that sweet companion, and precious ornament of Virgins) to the extremity of her power, endeavoured to keep A●…tonio from perceiving or suspecting so much. Antonio prays his dear friend Sebastiano to persuade his father to give him his sister Berinthia to wife: he performs the true part of a true friend and a Gentleman, but in vain: for his father Vilarezo is resolute, first to marry Catalina; when Antonio, not of power so soon to leave the sight and presence of his sweet Berinthia, must invent some matter for his stay. And indeed as Love is the whetstone of wit to give an edge to Invention; so Antonio, to in●…oy the presence of his fair Berinthia, is enforced to make show that he neglects her, and affe●…teth Catalina: and so converseth often with her; but still in general terms, wherea●… he builds many castles of hope and content, in the air of her thoughts. For i●… Berinthia loved Antonio, no less doth Catalina; strange effects of affection, where two sisters deeply and dear love one Gentleman, and when but one, and peradventure neither of them shall enjoy him.  
But as Catalina is the pretext, so Berinthia is both the sole object and cause of Antonio's stay, whom he courts and layeth close siege to, as often as opportunity makes him happy in the desired happiness and felicity of her company: She gives him blushes for his sighs, and sometimes (although a man) the fervency of his affection was such, as he cannot refrain from returning her tears for her blushes: when albeit love persuades him to stay longer in Avero, yet discretion calls and commands him away to Lisbon: and all the fruit of his journey that he shall carry thither with him, is this, that for enjoying of fair Berinthia to his wife, he conceives far more reason to hope, then to despair. Next death, there is no second affliction so grievous or bitter to Lovers, as separation and parting: this Berinthia feels, but will not acknowledge; and this Antonio acknowledgeth, because feels. After Supper, taking her to a window, he secretly prays her to honour him with the acceptance of a poor Scarf, and plain pair of Gloves (which notwithstanding were infinitely rich, and wonderfully fair) in token of his affection; and she, the morn of his departure, by Diego his Page, sends him a Handkerchief, curiously wrought with hearts and flames of silk and gold, in sign of her thankfulness: he promiseth Berinthia to write, and see her shortly; and Catalina entreats him to be no stranger to Avero. To Catalina he gives many words, but few kisses; to Berinthia many kisses, but more tears: His departure makes Berinthia sad, as grieving at his absence; and Catalina joyful, as hoping of his return: Catalina triumphs for joy, hoping that Antonio shall be her husband; and Berinthia now begins to look pale with sorrow, fearing she shall not be so happy to be his wife. By this time breakfast is served in, when Sebastiano comes, takes Antonio and his two sisters, and carries them to the Parlour, where Vilarezo and his wife Alphanta attend Antonio's coming. They all sit down; and although their fare be curious, yet Antonio's eyes feed and feast upon more curious dainties; as the sparkling eyes, flaxen hair, and vermilion cheeks of Berinthia's incomparable beauty, which is observed of all parts, except of Berinthia, who is so secret and cautious in her carriage, as although her affection, yet her discretion will not permit her modesty either to observe or see it. Breakfast ended, Antonio taking Vilarezo, and his wife Alphanta apart, first gives them infinite thanks for his honourable and courteous entertainment, and then very earnestly again prays them not to reject his suit for their daughter Berinthia. Vilarezo and his wife pray Antonio to excuse his bad reception, which they know comes many ways short of his deserts and merits, and also request him to embrace their motion for their daughter Catalina. Thus after many other compliments, he takes his congee of Vilarezo, kisseth his wife and two daughters, first Catalina, than Berinthia, who though last in years, yet is the first Lady in his desires and thoughts, and the only Queen of his affections. So they are as it were enforced to make a virtue of necessity, and to take a short farewell, in stead of a more solemn, which either of them wished, and both desired; but their eyes dictate to their hearts, what their tongues cannot express: and so Antonio and Sebastiano take Coach, and away for Lisbon, Antonio as much triumphing in the beauty of his fair Berinthia, as his friend Sebastiano grieves, that of his two Sisters, Antonio would not accept of Catalina, nor his father consent to give him Berinthia for his wife: notwithstanding, they confirm their familiarity and friendship with many interchangeable and reciprocal protestations; that sith they cannot be brothers, they will live and die dear and intimate friends: but I fear the contrary.  
Being arrived at Lisbon, Antonio feels strange alterations in his thoughts and passions. For now he is so entangled in the fetters of Berinthia's beauty and virtues, that he will see no other object but her Idea, nor (almost) speak of any Lady, but of herself; and in these his amorous contemplations he both rejoiceth and triumpheth; but again remembering the assurance of Vilarezo his refusal, and the incertainty of Berinthia's affection and consent, his hopes are nipped in their blossoms, and his joys as soon fade as flourish; he wisheth that Avero were Lisbon, and either himself in Avero with Berinthia, or she in Lisbon with him. To attempt the one, he holds it as great a folly, as a vanity to wish the other: But he bethinks himself of a remedy for this his perplexity, and reputes himself obliged in the bonds, as well of respect, as love, to write to his fair Berinthia: and then again he fears that it will find a difficult passage and access to her, because of her Father's distaste, and Sister's jealousy: but the Sun of his affection doth soon dispel and dissipate these doubts, or rather disperse them as clouds before the wind: and now to prevent those who might attempt to intercept his Letters, he bethinks himself of an invention, as worthy, as commendable in a Lover: he writes Berinthia a letter, and accompanying it with a rich Diamond, sends it her by Diego his own Page to Avero, whom purposely and feignedly he causeth to arm himself with this pretext and colour, that he is in love with Ansilva the Lady Catalina's waiting Gentlewoman, and hath now gotten leave of his Master to come to Avero to seek her in marriage: where after some fifteen days he arrives, and very secretly delivers his Master's Ring and Letter to Berinthia, who (sweet Lady) was then tossed with the wind of fear, and the waves of sorrow, that in all this time she heard not from Antonio, doubting indeed lest the change of air, places, and objects might have power to change his affection, when now blushing for joy, as much as before she looked pale for sorrow, she takes the Ring and Letter, and kissing both, secretly flies to her Chamber, when bolting the door, she with as much affection as impatience breaking up the seals, therein finds these lines:  
ANTONIO to BERINTHIA  
SWeet Berinthia, wert thou as courteous as fair, thou wouldst rest as confident of my affections, as I do of thy beauty, and then as much rejoice in that, as I triumph in this: but as my tongue lately wanted power, so now doth my pen art, to inform thee, how dear I love thy beauty, and honour thy virtues: so as could thy thoughts pry into mine, or my heart be so happy to dictate to thine, those should know, and this see, that Antonio is ambitious of no other earthly felicity, then either to live thy husband, or dye thy Martyr. Think with thyself, how far thou undervaluest, and unrequitest my zeal, when I will despair of loving Catalina, and yet cannot hope that Berinthia will affect me: only therefore in thee (sweet Lady) it remains, either to crown my joys by thy consent, or to immortalize my torments by thy refusal: he pleased therefore, fair Berinthia, to signify me thy resolution, that I may know my doom, and prepare myself, either to wed thee or my grave.  
ANTONIO.  
Berinthia having again and again perused and oreread this Letter, gives it a thousand kisses for his sake who wrote and sent it her, and so very secretly locks it up in her Casket, as also the Diamond, and now attends an opportunity to confer privately with Diego, when he will resolve to return to his Master at Lisbon, that she may return him an answer, though not so sweet as he expects, yet not so bitter as he fears: in the mean time Diego delivereth her father Vilarezo his Master's letter, in favour of his (pretended) suit to Ansilva, as also in thankfulness of his entertainment, without naming either Catalina, or Berinthia his daughters, or once mentioning his return to Avero: whereat Vilarezo grieves, and Catalina bites the lip. But Berinthia cannot but smile to see Antonio his invention, for the safe delivery of his letters, nor yet refrain from laughing in herself, to see how cunningly his Page Diego courts Ansilva: for he makes such demonstration of love to her, and she is so enamoured of him, that Catalina thinks a short time will finish this match, but he and her sister Berinthia know the contrary. Diego at the end of three days is desirous to depart, and Berinthia extremely glad of his resolution to stay no longer: so she takes herself to her chamber, and writes this letter to her Antonio in answer of his.  
BERINTHIA to ANTONIO.  
HAd I not been more courteous to thee, than I am fair in myself, thou hadst not tasted so much of my affection, nor I so many of my father's frowns: and although thy tongue and pen have acquainted me with thy rich zeal intended and devoted to my poor merits, yet judge with thyself, whether it be fit for me to requite thee with observance; or him that gave me my being with disobedience. As I desire not to have thee dye my Martyr, so my father will not permit thee to live my husband: and yet, as it is out of my power to remedy the first, so it is not impossible for time to effect and compass the last; not that I resolve to give thee too much hope; rather that I aim to take away some of thy despair, to the end that I may find thee as constant in thy affection, as thou me sincere in my constancy. My sister's jealousy of me, and my father's distaste of thee, invite thee to manage this favour of mine with as much secrecy as circumspection.  
BERINTHIA.  
Having folded up and sealed her Letter, she finds out Diego, and beckons him to follow her to the garden; where, in one of the Bowers she delivers him this letter, together with a Rose of Opales, the which in token of her love, she conjures him with safety and speed to deliver to his Master Don Antonio. Diego having his dispatch of Berinthia, soon gives Ansilva hers, promising to return some three weeks after; at which time he prays her to expect him: when thanking Vilarezo for his kind entertainment, and he bidding him tell his Master he would be glad to see him in Avero, he leaps to horse, and so posts away for Lisbon.  
I cannot relate with what incredible and infinite joy Antonio receives this Letter and Ring from Berinthia: and to write the truth, I think the letter scarce contained so many syllables, as he often read it over and kissed it: he sees Berinthia's modesty resplend and shine in her affection, and her affection in her modesty towards him, wherein he glories in that, rejoiceth in this, and triumphs in both: but although he be sure of her affection, yet he is not of himself; for he sees her Letter containeth many verbal compliments, but all of them not one real promise: and therefore he cannot repute his tranquillity and felicity complete, ere he be crowned with this happiness: besides, he fears that his absence and her father's presence, may in tract of time by degrees cool the fervency of Berinthia's affection; and yet then, he as soon checks his own timidity, in conceiving the least suspicion of her constancy: now he thinks to acquaint his intimate friend and her dear brother Sebastiano with their affections, but then he condemns that opinion, and revokes it as erroneous and dangerous, and contrary to the rules of love, in sailing without the compass of Berinthia's advice and commands, by the which he holds it both safety and discretion to steer his course and actions: Again, he so infinitely and earnestly longs to resee his dear and sweet Mistress, as he resolves to ride over again to Avero: but the obstinacy of Vilarezo, and the jealousy of Catalina, make him end that journey ere he began it. In this perplexity and contestation of reasons, he is irresolute what, or what not to do; but in fine, considering that delays are dangerous in matters of this nature, he packs up his baggage, and taking his farewell of Sebastiano, under pretext of his health, leaves Lisbon and the Duke his Lord and Master, and retires to his own home at Elvas, (where his father dying some three years before, had left him sole heir to many rich Manors and Possessions) purposely hereby to be near to Avero, that he might give order for all things, and let slip no occasion in the process and prosecution of his affection. The second day after his arrival to Elvas, it being wellnear a month since he sent his first, and till than his last Letter to Berinthia, he now again dispatcheth his Page Diego with his second Letter to her, by whom he sends her a chain of rich pearl, and a pair of gold bracelets richly enameled. Diego's arrival is pleasing to Ansilva, but extremely joyful to Berinthia; only it nipped Catalina's hopes, because she could not understand by him any certain resolution or assurance of his Masters coming thither. Diego hath no sooner saluted his Ansilva, but (as his more important business) he seeks means to speak with Berinthia, which she herself proffereth him: he delivers her his Master's tokens and letter, which sh●…e very joyfully receiveth, and so trips away to her chamber; where opening the seals, she therein finds these words:  
ANTONIO to BERINTHIA  
IT is impossible for my pen to express the joys my heart received at the reading of thy Letter: and as I dispraise not thy obedience to thy Father, so I infinitely both praise and prise thy affection to me: a thousand times I kissed thy lines, and as often blessed the hand that wrote them; and although they gave me hope for despair, yet, not to dissemble, these hopes have brought me doubt, and that doubt, fear; not that thou lovest me, for that were to disparage ●…y judgement, in seeking to profane thy affection, but that thou wilt not please to accept of my promise, nor to return me thine: wherein if thou weigh the fervency of my love, I hope thou wilt not tax the incredulity of my fear; for till I am so happy, not only to hope, but to assure myself that Berinthia will be Antonio's, as Antonio is already Berinthia's, I must needs fear, and therefore cannot truly rejoice. I have left Lisbon, to reside at Elvas; therefore fair and dear Lady, I beseech thee destinate me, dispose my service, and command both. I long to enjoy the felicity of thy presence: for I take heaven to witness, thy absence is my hell upon earth.  
ANTONIO.  
Berinthia having read this Letter, she approoves of Antonio's fear, and attributes it to the fervency and sincerity of his affection: she esteems herself infinitely happy in her good fortune, and choice of so brave a Cavalier for her servant, whom she hopes a little time will make her husband; to which end she will no longer feed him with delays, but now resolves, by his Page Diego at his return to signify him so much: and in a word, to send him her heart, as she hath already received his. But she knows not what the Interim of this time will bring forth.  
Pass we from Berinthia to her Sister Catalina, whose affection is likewise such to Antonio, as by this time she hath persuaded and induced her Father Vilarezo to write him a Letter in her behalf by Diego, thereby to draw his resolution, whether he intent to seek her for his wife or no; or at least to invite him to Avero. And although his affection to her sister Berinthia be kept from her, yet she not only suspects, but fears it. Glad she is of the opportunity of Diego his being there, to convey her Father's Letter to his Master: and yet that joy of hers is soon dissolved into grief, because all this time he never vouchsafed to write to her: her affection to him flattereth her still with hope, and yet her judgement in herself still suggesteth her despair; for she hath always the image of this conceit in her imagination, that Antonio loves her Sister Berinthia, and not herself: her suspicion makes her subtle, and so she deals with Ansilva, to draw the truth here of from Diego, who having learned his lesson, acteth his part well, and I know not, whether with more fidelity or discretion, flatly denies it: but lo, here betides an accident, which betrays the whole mystery and History of their affections. On a Sunday morning, when Berinthia was descended to the garden to gather flowers, against her going to Church with her Father and Mother, her Sister Catalina rusheth into her Chamber, to seek the History of Cervantez, which the day before she had lent her; and not finding it either on the Table, or the Window, seeks in the pocket of her gown, that she wore the day before; and there unwittingly, and unexpectedly finds the last Letter that Antonio had sent her; whereby she perceived, it was in vain for her to hope to enjoy Antonio, sith she now apparently saw that he was her sister Berinthia's, and she his. Catalina is hereat both sorrowful and glad; sorrowful, that she should lose Antonio, and glad that she had found his Letter. And now to show her affection to him, and her malice to her sister, she will try her wits, to see whether she can frustrate Berinthia, and so obtain Antonio for herself. The passions of men may easily be found out and detected, but the secrets and malice of women difficultly. To which end Catalina shows this letter to her Father, who exceedingly storms hereat, and with many checks and frowns curbs Berinthia of her liberty, and resolves in his first letter to Antonio, to forbid hi●… his house, and her company, except he will leave Berinthia, and take Catalina: and suspecting that his Page Diego's courting of Ansilva, was but only a policy and colour, thereby to convey Letters betwixt his daughter Berinthia and his Master; he once thought to give him his Congee, and prohibit him his house, had not Catalina prayed the contrary, who would no way displease her wayting-Gentlewoman Ansilva, because she was to use her aid and assistance in a matter of great importance: the unlocking and dilating whereof is thus:  
Catalina her affection to Antonio, and consequently her malice to her sister Berinthi●… is so violent, that as her father hath bereft her of a great part of her liberty, so she is so bloody and cruel, as she vows to deprive her of her life: a hellish resolution i●… any woman, but a most unnatural and damnable attempt of one Sister to another but wanting Faith, which is the foundation and bulwark; and Religion, which is the preservative and Antidote of our souls, she runs so wilfully hoodwinked from God to the devil, as she will advance, and disdains to retire, till her malicious and jealous thirst be quenched with her sister's blood: to which end she persuades and bribe's Ansilva with a hundred ducats, to poison her sister Berinthia, and promiseth her so much more, when she hath effected it: whereunto this wretched and execrable young waiting Gentlewoman consenteth, and in brief, promiseth to perform it: But God hath otherwise decreed and ordained. To which end she sends into the City for some strong poison by an unknown messenger, which is instantly brought her in a small galley pot. But let us here both admire and wonder at God's miraculous discovery and prevention thereof: For that very night, when Ansilva had determinately resolved to have poisoned the Lady Berinthia, Diego seeks out his Mistress Ansilva, and finds her solitarily alone in one of the close over-shadowed Bowers of the garden, whom he salutes and entertain; with many amorous discourses, and more kisses; in the midst whereof his nose fell suddenly on bleeding, whereat he admired, and she grieved; till at last having bloodied all his own handkerchief, Ansilva rusheth hastily t●… her pocket for hers for him, which suddenly drawing forth, her affection to Diego having made her quite forget her poison, she with her handkerchief draws out the galley-pot, which falling on the floor of the bower, (that was paved with square stones) it immediately burst in pieces; when Diego's Spaniel licking up the poison, instantly swelled, and died before them. Whereat Diego grew amazed, but far more Ansilva, who blushing with shame, & then growing pale for fear, could not invent either what to say or do, at the strangeness and suddenness of this accident. Diego presseth her to know for whom this poison was provided, and of whom she had it, Her answers are variable, and are so far from agreeing, as they contradict each other, which breeds in her the more fear, and in him astonishment. He conjures her by all the bonds of their affection, to discover it, with many millions of protestations professeth it shall dye with him; he adds vows to his requests, oaths to his vows, and kisses to his oaths, so as maids can difficultly conceal any thing from their Lovers; but especially fearing that he might peradventure suspect that this poison was meant and intended him: she at last vanquished with his importunacy, and this consideration, discovereth (as we have formerly understood) that her Lady Catalina had won her, therewith to poison her sister Berinthia, because she suspected she was better beloved of his Master Don Antonio then herself. Diego is infinitely astonished at the strangeness of this news, and like a true and faithful Page to his Master, having drawn this worm from Ansilva's nose, and this news from her tongue, under colour to seek a remedy to stop his blood, giving her many kisses, and promising her his speedy return, he leaves her in the garden, and so very speedily finds out Berinthia, to whom (with as much truth as curiosity) he from point to point reveals it, praying her to be careful not to receive any thing, either from Catalina, or Ansilva, and withal to write, for the next morn he will hie to Elvas, to reveal it to his Master. Berinthia trembles at the report of this strange and unexpected news: so having first thanked God for the discovery of this poison, and her Sister's malice, she promiseth him a Letter to his Master, and heartily thanks him for his fidelity and affection towards her, the which she voweth to requite; and for a pledge and earnest thereof, draws off a Diamond from her finger, and gives it him for this good office.  
No sooner hath Aurora leapt from the watery bed of Thetis, and Phoebus discovered his golden beams in the azured Firmament of Heaven, but Diego causeth his Horse to be made ready, and tells Ansilva, that his father hath sent for him to meet him at la Secco, and that he will not fail to be back with her within three days, being ready to depart.  
He, under colour of giving order for his horse, leaves her, and steals into Berinthia's Chamber, whom (poor Lady) fear would not permit to take any rest or sleep that night, the which she had partly worn out and employed in writing her mind to her dear Antonio, and knowing herself not safe in Avero with her father and sister, she resolved to commit her honour and her life into his protection: yea, she had no sooner finished and sealed her Letter to that effect, but Diego comes and knocks softly at her chamber door. Berinthia in her night gown and attire is ready for him: she admits him, commends his care, gives him her Letter to his Master, and prays him to use all possible diligence in his return: and so having received all her commands, he secretly descends the stairs; and taking leave of Vilarezo, and lastly, kissing his Mistress Ansilva, he leaps to horse, rides the first Stage, there leaves his Jennet, and takes Poast.  
Leave we Diego posting towards Elvas, and come we to Catalina, whose malice finding no rest, nor her revenge remedy, she that very morn, as soon as Ansilva came into her chamber, demands whether she be prepared to perform her own promise, and her hopes? She answereth her Lady, that less than three days shall effect it, and give a period to all her sister Berinthia's. Whereat she is exceedingly glad, but all this while ignorant what Diego hath seen, and Berinthia knows to this effect. Ansilva presuming on Diego his sidelity, and building on his secrecy; and therefore less suspecting his journey to Eluas, remains still so graceless and impious in her bloody resolution, as she now not only presumes, but assures herself that Berinthia is near the ebb of her days, and the setting of her life: and therefore like an execrable Agent of the Devil, she hath now made ready and provided herself of a second poisoned potion, which she no way doubts but shall send her to her last sleep. But this female Monster, this bloody shee-Empericke may be deceived in her art.  
In the interim of which time Diego arrives at Eluas, and finds out his Master, to whom he very hastily delivers Berinthia's Letter; the which Antonio having kissed, breaks off the seals, and there, contrary to his hopes, but not to his desires, reads these lines:  
BERINTHIA to ANTONIO.  
MY sister Catalina's malice is so extreme to me, sith my affection is such to thee, as she degenerates not only from Grace, but Nature, and seeks to bereave me of my life. This bearer, thy Page, who I pray'love for my sake, sith he, under God, hath now preserved me for thine, will more fully and particularly acquaint thee with the manner thereof. So, sith there is no safety for me in my Father's house, into whose arms and protection shall I throw myself, but only into thine, of whose true and sincere affection I am so constant and confident, as I rest assured thou wilt show thyself thy self, in preserving my life with mine honour, and mine honour with my life? It is no point of disobedience in me to my Father, but of dear respect 〈◊〉 mine own life; and therefore to thee, for, and by whom I live, that makes me so earnestly desire both thy assistance and sight, sith the first will lead me from despair, the second to hope and joy, and both to content; till when, fear and love, with much impatiency, make m●… think hours years, and minutes months.  
BERINTHIA.  
Antonio is amazed at this strange and unexpected news, and curiously gathers all the circumstances thereof from his Page, when love, fear, hope, sorrow, and joy act their severalll parts, as well in his heart as countenance; when prising Berinthia's life and safety a thousand times before his own, he with great expedition dispatcheth away Diego the same night to Avero, with this ensuing letter, which he commands him deliver his Mistress Berinthia, with all possible speed and secrecy.  
ANTONIO to BERINTHIA.  
AS the Sun, breaking forth of an obscure cloud, shines the clearer, so doth thy true affection to me, in that damnable malice of thy Sister Caralina to thyself for my sake, in such sort, as I know not whether I more rejoice at the one, then detest the other. Having therefore first thanked God for thy happy and miraculous preservation, I next commend my Page, as the second cause of the discovery thereof: and this fidelity of his shall neither be forgotten or unrequited. Think how tedious time is to me, sith I blame and envy this short Letter of mine, for taking up and usurping any part thereof, till I enjoy the honour to see thee, and the felicity to assist thee. I return it thee Post by Diego, who brought me thine; and my Coachman tells me, I shall rather fly then run towards thee. Let the precise hour, I beseech thee, be on Monday night at twelve of the clock, when I will await thyself, and expect thy commands at the Postern of thy Father's Arbour: where, let the light of the candle be my signet, and the report of my Pistol shall be thine. I am throwing away my pen, were it not to signify thee, that my sword shall protect thy life, and mine honour preserve thine: as also that Antonio thinks himself the most unfortunate man of the world, till Berinthia be impaled in his arms, or he encloystered in hers.  
ANTONIO.  
Whiles Diego is posting to Avero, Antonio his Master is preparing to follow him, taking (the next morn) his Coach with six horses, and three resolute Gentlemen his friends to assist him, with each his Rapier and case of Pistols. Diego first arrives at Avero, yea, a day and two nights before him. Ansilva checks him for his long stay; and Berinthia a thousand times thanks him for his speedy return. He delivers her his Master's Letter, and prays her to prepare herself against the prefixed hour. She reads her Antonio's Letter with much joy and comfort, which her looks testify, and her heart proclaimeth to her thoughts: she will not be slack or backwards in a matter which so deeply imports her welfare and content; and so with all possible secrecy packs up the chiefest of her apparel and jewels in a small trunk, or casket, and wisheth the hour come, that she were either in Antonio's arms, or he in hers: and for Diego, he casteth so subtle a mist & veil before Ansilva's eyes, as it is impossible either for her, or her Lady Catalina to perceive any thing. But lo, a second treachery is provided, to effect that which the first could not: and indeed, which went near to have performed it, had not God miraculously and indulgently reached forth his hand to prevent it: for Catalina still persevers in her inveterate and deadly malice towards her sister Berinthia, as if God had not yet taught her, or rather, that she would not learn the way from Satan; or Grace instructed and directed her from the impiety of so foul a sin, as the murdering of her own and only sister. For the very night that Antonio had promised and assigned to fetch Berinthia, as she had by times retired herself to her chamber, under colour to go to bed, and ready to put on her night abiliments, in comes Ansilva, sent by her good and kind (or rather wicked and cruel) sister, with a sweet Posset, (or rather a deadly poison in her hand, in a silver covered cup) telling her, that her Lady had drunk the one half, and sent her the other, it being (as she affirmed) very cold and refreshing for the liver, against the hotness of the weather. But Berinthia being forewarned, is armed by her former danger; yet she seems joyful thereof, and so accepts it, returning her sister Catalina thanks, saying, she will drink it ere she go to bed; only she prays Ansilva first to fetch her prayer book and gloves, which in the morn she had left in her sister's chamber. So whiles she is wanting, she privately pours it into a silver basin in her Study, and washing the cup three or four several times, she fills some Almond milk therein; and Ansilva being returned, takes the said cup, and prays her to tell her Sister, that she drinks it to her health, and withal, gives her the good night: and so likewise doth Ansilva to her. But what a good night thought she in her heart and conscience, when she knew Berinthia should never see day more? So away she trips to her Lady Catalina, who demands her if the business be dispatched, and her sister gone to her rest? Who replies, she hath drunk her last, and is gone to her eternal rest. But they are both deceived in their malicious Arithmetic: For although Catalina extremely rejoice in the confident and assured death of her sister, yet God ordaineth, that their bloody hopes shall deceive them: as mark the sequel, and you shall see how.  
About an hour after Ansilva's departure, by Berinthia's order and appointment, in wonderful secret sort in comes Diego to her Chamber, to await the hour of his Master's arrival, and to assist her in her escape and departure. Berinthia acquaints him with the potion her Sister Catalina had right now sent her by Ansilva: he is astonished at this news, as being assured it was poison, and humbly prays her to make proof hereof on Catalina's Parrot, which that afternoon she had brought with her into her Chamber: and so by her consent Diego takes the Parrot, and with a spoon forceth some down its throat: who poor harmless bird, immediately swells and dies before them. They both wonder hereat, and Berinthia at one instant both grieves and rejoiceth, grieves at her Sister Catalina's malice and cruelty, and rejoiceth for her happy deliverance: first praising God as the Author, then thanking Diego as the instrument thereof: and so they throw the remainder of the poison out at the window, and lay the dead Parrot on the table. And now Berinthia attending and awaiting the hour of her happiness, which is that of her Antonio's arrival, and of her own departure, with as much desire as impatiency; Diego often looking on the hourglass, and Berinthia a thousand times on her Watch. So at last with a longing, longing desire, the joyful hour of twelve is come, wherein Antonio arrives: he sees the happy light of her candle, and she hears the sweet music of his Pistol, which reviveth and ravisheth these two Lovers, in the heaven of unexpressable joy and content, when all things being hushed up in silence, and every person of the house sound sleeping, Diego softly takes up the small trunk, and Berinthia as secretly follows him: and so they wonderful privately slip into the first Court, and from thence to the postern door of the garden, where Antonio with a thousand kisses receives her in his arms, having no other light but the lustre of her eyes to light them: for the Moon, that bright Cynthia, had conspired and consented to Berinthia's escape, and therefore purposely withdrawn her brightness by hiding and invelloping herself in the darkness of an obscure cloud. Antonio locking this sweet prize, this his dear and swee●… Berinthia in his arms, he with the three Gentlemen his friends, conduct her to the end of the street; and Diego following them with the Casket, where they all privately and silently take Coach, and having opened the City gate with a silver key, away they speed for Eluas with all possible celerity; but I write with grief, that as these affections of Antonio and Berinthia begin in joy, so (I fear) they will end in as much sorrow and misery.  
Leave we them now in their journey for Eluas: and return we to Avero to bloody Catalina, and wretched Ansilva, who lying remote from Berinthia's Chamber, could not possibly hear so much as the least step of her descent and departure: although their malice were so extreme as to write the truth, they all that night could not sleep for joy that Berinthia was dispatched: so they prepare themselves against the morn, to hear some pitiful out-cries in the house for Berinthia's death: but seeing it near ten of the clock, and no rumour nor stir heard, they both (as they were accustomed) went into her Chamber, thinking to feast their eyes upon the lamentable object of this breathless Gentlewoman: but contrary to their bloody hopes, they find the nest, I mean the bed, empty, and Berinthia not dead, but escaped and flown away: Only Catalina, in stead of her Sister, finds her own Parrot dead on the table: they are astonished at this news, and look fearfully and desperately each on other. Ansilva for her part protests and vows, that she saw Berinthia drink the poison. But finding Berinthia's small trunk wanting, and hearing Diego gone, than Catalina knows for certain, that she was escaped, and her poisoning plot detected and prevented. So they give the alarm in the house, and she goes directly and acquaints her Father, Mother, and Brother of her Sister Berinthia's flight, but speaks not a word of the poison, or of the Parrots death. Vilarezo grieves to see himself robbed of his daughter, and Sebastiano of his Sister: but when they understand that Diego was gone with her, than they are confidently assured, that Antonio hath carried her away, which is confirmed them by the Porter of the City, who told them, that 'twixt twelve and one, a Coach with a Lady, and four Cavaliers, and a Page (drawn by six horses) past the gate very speedily. Vilarezo and his son Sebastiano storm at this affront and disgrace: they consult what to do herein: so first they resolve to send one to Elvas, to know yea or no, whether Berinthia be there with Antonio? The messenger sent, returns, and assures them thereof, as also, that Antonio is retired from Elvas, to a Castle of his without the walls of the City, where it is reported he keeps the Lady Berinthia with much honour and respect. Had old Vilarezo had his health and strength, he would himself in person have undertaken this journey, but being sick of the Gout, he sends his son Sebastiano to Elvas, accompanied with six resolute Gentlemen, his near allies and friends, to draw reason of Antonio for this affront and disgrace, and so either by Law, Force, Policy, or persuasion, to bring back Berinthia. Sebastiano knowing Berinthia to be his Sister, and Antonio his former ancient and intimate friend, with a kind of unwilling willingness accepts of this journey: he comes to Elvas, and finds his former intelligence true, he repairs to Antonio's Castle, accompanied with his six associates. Antonio admits them all into the first Court, and only two more of them into the second; where he salutes them kindly, and bids them all welcome to his Castle. Sebastiano lays before him the foulness of his fact, in stealing away his Sister in that clandestine and base manner, the scandal which he hath laid upon her, and consequently on all their family and blood, tells him that his father and himself are resolved to have her again at what price soever; and therefore conjures him, by the respect of his own honour, and by the consideration and remembrance of all their former friendship, to deliver him his Sister Berinthia. Antonio answereth Sebastiano, that it was an honourable affection, and no base respect which led him to assist his Sister Berinthia in her flight and escape: that he never was nor would be a just scandal either to her, her family, or blood; that his malicious Sister Catalina was the author and cause thereof, who by her waiting Gentlewoman Ansilva had twice sought to poison her: and therefore, sith he could not deliver her with her own safety, and his honour and conscience, he was resolved to protect her in his Castle, against any whosoever, that should seek either to enforce or offend her.  
Sebastiano is perplexed at this strange news, and wondereth at Antonio's resolution: so do the two Gentlemen with him: he desires Antonio that he may see and speak with his Sister Berinthia; the which he freely and honourably grants: and so taking him by the hand, they enter the Hall: where Berinthia having notice hereof (accompanied with two of Antonio his Sisters) as soon comes, and with a cheerful countenance advanceth towards her Brother: he salutes her, and she first him, than the other two Gentlemen her Cousins. Sebastiano prays Antonio, that he may confer apart with his Sister. Antonio replies, that his Sister Berinthia's pleasure shall ever be his. She willingly consents hereeunto, when he taking her by the hand, conducts her to the farthest window, and there shows her her disobedience to her Father, her dishonour to herself, and grief to her friends, for this her unadvised and rash flight, and so persuades her to return: and that if she intent to marry Antonio, this is not the way, but rather a course as irregular as shameful. His Sister Berithia delivers him at full the cause of her departure, and very constantly confirms what An●… had formerly told him of her Sister Catalina's two several attempts to poison her by her waiting Gentlewoman Ansilva, though with more ample circumstance and dilation: and to testify the truth, Diego is produced, who vows and protests the same. Sebastiano checks her of folly and cruelty, shows her, that in seeking to wrong others, she only wrongs herself; that in inventing and casting a feigned crime on her Sister Catalina, she makes her own conspicuous and true; that she hath no safety but in her return: whereunto with many reasons he seeks to persuade and induce her.  
His Sister Berinthia again answereth him, that there is no safety for her in Avero, and that she cannot expect greater than she finds in Elvas: she prays him to think charitably and honourably of her departure: and if ever her Father will love her, she requests him not to hate, but to love Antonio, whose Castle she finds a Sanctuary, both for her honour and life; taking God and his Angels, her conscience and soul to witness, that her Sister Catalina's crime is true and not feigned. Sebastiano seeing Antonio resolute, and his Sister wilful and obstinate, begins to take leave, telling her, that he will leave her to her folly, that to her shame, and her shame to her repentance, and so concludes to go into the City, to resolve on what he hath to do, for her good and his own honour. Antonio prays him to dine in his Castle with his Sister: but he refuseth it, saith he hath given the first breach to their friendship, and his own honour, which he shall repent, if not repair, and so departs. Being come into the City, he consults this business with the Gentlemen his associates, and both himself and they are of opinion to send one post to acquaint his Father herewith, and so to crave his pleasure and resolution, how he shall bear himself herein. It is ever an excellent point both of wisdom and discretion, for a son to steer his actions by the compass of his Father's commands. His cousin Villandras undertakes this journey to Avero. Old Vilarezo is perplexed and grieved at this report, and in stead of comfort, receives more affliction, his care, curiosity, passion and grief: severally examineth first Catalina, than Ansilva, who (like thiefs in a fair, or murderers in a Forest) he finds equally constant in their denial, being so devoid of grace, and replete of impiety, as they confirm and maintain their innocencies with many bitter oaths and asseverations: so he returns Villandras to Elvas, with this Letter to his son Sebastiano.  
VILAREZO to SEBASTIANO.  
I Commend thy wisdom, as much as I dispraise Antonio's resolution, and grieve at thy Sister Berinthia's folly and disobedience: I have carefully and curiously examined the two parties, whom I find as innocent as constant in the true denial of their falsely objected crimes: I have consulted with Nature and Honour, how herein I might be directed by them, and consequently, thou by me; so they suggest me this advice, and I advise thee this resolution, either by the Law of the kingdom, or by that of thy sword, with expedition to return me my Daughter, thy Sister Berinthia, and let not the Oratory either of Antonio's tongue, or her tears persuade thee to the contrary: for then as she is guilty of our dishonours, so we shall be accessary to hers: Let me understand the proceeding herein, and according as occasion shall present, if my sickness and weakness will not leave me, I notwithstanding will leave Avero, to see Elvas.  
VILAREZO.  
Whiles Sebastiano is consulting how to free his Sister Berinthia from the power of Antonio, speak we a little of Catalina, who (as skilful in subtlety as malice) seeing her treachery and bloody intents revealed, thinks it now high time to make away and poison Ansilva; grounding her resolution on this maxim, both of policy and estate, That dead folks do neither harm, nor tell tales. Behold here the justice and providence of God! she, who laid snares for others, must now be taken in them herself: a punishment which the sin of this wretched Gentlewoman finds, because deserveth: there is no vice nor malice, but have their pretexts and colours. Catalina finds fault with too or three red pimples that Ansilva hath in her face, which she will have taken away. She sends for an Empiric, one Pedro Sarmiata, and proffereth him one hundred Ducats to poison her, which like a limb of the devil he undertakes; and infusing poison in some potions, he administereth it her: she the very next day dies: a fit reward and punishment for so graceless and bloody a Gentlewoman, who (as we have formerly seen) made no religion nor conscience, to attempt two several times to poison the fair and virtuous Berinthia.  
Whiles this Tragedy is acting at Avero, Sebastiano begins to act another in Elvas, but a thousand times less impious, and more honourable: For having received his Father's order by Villandras, he now sends him into the Castle, to take Antonio's, and Berinthia's last resolution; he is admitted to them: Villandras directs his speech first to Berinthia, then to Antonio, to whom he relateth his message, and Sebastiano's pleasure. Berinthia returns him this answer: Cousin Villandras, recommend me courteously to my brother Sebastiano, and tell him, my first answer and resolution is, and shall be my last. And (quoth Antonio) I pray ye likewise inform him from me, that Berinthia's will is my law, and her resolution mine, and that I will be as careful, as willing and ready, to lose my life in defence and preservation of hers. Villandras returns, and acquaints Sebastiano with this their last resolutions; from which he allegeth it is impossible for them to be dissuaded or diverted. Sebastiano is beaten with two contrary and irresolute winds, what to do in a business of this nature, either to recover his sister by Law, or by Arms: by Law, he holds it a course both cowardly and prejudicial: by Arms, he sees he must kill himself or his friend: to undertake the first, would be the laughter of Antonio; and not to attempt the second, the shame of all Portugal and Spain: he therefore prefers generosity before reason, and passion above judgement, and so resolves to fight with Antonio: to which end he makes choice of his Cousin Villandras for his Second, and the next morn sends him to the Castle with this Challenge:  
SEBASTIANO TO ANTONIO.  
I Must either return my Sister Berinthia to Avero, or lose my life here at Elvas: for I had rather dye, then live to see her dishonour, sith hers is mine: neither do I first infringe or violate the bonds of our familiarity, rather thyself, sith thou art both the author and cause thereof: wherefore of two things resolve on one: Either before to morrow morning six of the clock render me my Sister Berinthia, or else at that hour meet me on foot, with thy Second, in the square green Meadow under thine own Castle, where the choice of two single Rapiers shall await or attend thee. If thou art honourable, thou wilt grant my first; if generous, not deny my second request.  
SEBASTIANO.  
Antonio receives this Challenge, bears it privately, from all the world, especially from his sweet Berinthia, who (poor Lady) little imagines or suspects her brother and lover are rushing forth for her sake: He returns this answer by Villandras, that he cannot grant Sebastiano his first request, nor will not deny him his second. So he chooseth a Cousin-germane of his, a valiant young Gentleman, termed Don Belasco, who willingly and freely engageth himself in this quarrel. So he and Villandras that night (with as much friendship as secrecy) meet in the City, and resolve on the Rapiers; and other ceremonies requisite in Duels. The morn appears, when our Combatants leap from their beds to the field; where, a little before six (being the appointed hour) all parties appear: the Seconds perform their office in visiting the Principals, who cast off their doublers and draw, and so traversing their ground, they, with judgement and generosity, fall to their business; at the first close, Antonio is wounded in the right arm, and Sebastiano in the left side, which glanced on a rib: at the second, Sebastiano wounds Antonio 'twixt the breast and shoulder, a little above his right pap, and he him clean thorough the body, of a large and dangerous wound, whence issued forth abundance of blood: so they divide themselves and take breath: They again fall to it, and at this third close, Sebastiano repays Antonio with a mournful and fatal interest: for he runs him thorough the body on the left side, a little below the heart; whereof staggering, he falls, and so Sebastiano dispatcheth him, and nails him to the ground stark dead. Villandras congratulates with him for his victory, which Sebastiano with much modesty, ascribes to the power and providence of God, and not to the weakness of his own arm. Bellasco is no way daunted with the misfortune and death of his Principal, but rather like a generous Gentleman and valiant Second, resolves to sell it dear to Villandras. They are not long unsheathing of their Rapiers: for as soon as Bellasco hath covered up Antonio with his cloak, they approach at their very first meeting. Bellasco slightly hurts Villandras in the right shoulder, and Villandras him thorough the body and reynes with a fatal wound, wherewith his sword fell from him, and he to the ground; when fearing and presaging his death, he with a faint language begs his life of Villandras, who at the sight and hearing hereof, throws away his own Rapier, and stoops to assist him. But in vain; for it is not in his power to give him his life: for by this time he is dead, and his soul departed to another world. This tragical news is soon known and bruited in Elvas, whereof the Criminal judges of that City remit Sebastiano with as much ease, as Villandras with difficulty (in favour of money and friends) and obtain their pardons. And now the news hereof likewise flies to Antonio's Castle, where his dead body, and that of Bellasco, are speedily conveyed and brought, to the grief and sorrow of all those of the Castle, who bitterly weep for the disaster of their Lord and Master. But all these tears are nothing to those of Antonio's two sisters; nor theirs any thing, in comparison of these of our sweet Berinthia, who is no sooner advertised hereof, but she falls to the ground with sorrow, and there wrings her hands, beats her breast, and tears off her hair, in such mournful and pitiful sort, that Cruelty herself could not refrain from tears, to see the numberless infinity of hers: Counsel, advice, persuasion cannot persuade her to give a moderation to her mourning, or limits to her sorrows: for they are so violent, as their extremity exceeds all excess. She will see the dead body of her dear Antonio; all those of the Castle are not capable to divert her eyes from this woeful and pitiful object; at the sight whereof she falls to the ground on her knees, and gives his breathless body a thousand kisses: yea, she washeth his sweet cheeks with a whole deluge and inundation of her salt tears: she cannot speak for sighing, nor utter a word for weeping; only wring her hands, she at last breathed forth these mournful and passionate speeches: O my dear Antonio, my sweet and dear Antonio, Antonio, would God my death had ransomed and preventhine, O my Antonio, my Antonio.  
Leave we Berinthia to her passionate sorrows, and sorrowful passions, from which her brother Sebastiano will soon awake her; who by this time, as Victor and Conqueror, is come to the Castle gate, and demands her, where he sees himself refused, and the draw-bridges and approaches drawn up, and rampired with Barricadoes: he craves aid of the Criminal judges, who send the Provost with an armed company of Soldiers: so they force the Castle gate with a Petard, where sorrowful Berinthia is delivered into the hands of her joyful and rejoicing brother Sebastiano, who with sweet persuasions and advice seeks to exhale and dry up her tears: but her affection is so great, as she is not capable of consolation. In a word, she cannot look on her Brother with the eye of affection, but of revenge and indignation; yea, she wisheth herself metamorphosed from a Virgin to a man, that she might be revenged of her Brother for the death of her dear Lover Antonio. Sebastiano leaving the dead bodies of Antonio and Belasco to their Graves, takes Coach with his incensed and sorrowful Sister Berinthia; and so leaves Elus and returns towards Avero: where his Father Vilarezo and his Mother Alphanta welcome him home with praise, and their Daughter Berinthia with checks and frowns, who (the best she may) smothers her discontents; but yet vows to be revenged of her Brother, for killing the life of her joy, and joy of her life, Antonio. But all vows of this bloody nature and quality are better broken then kept, which if Berinthia had had the grace to have considered, and made good use of, doubtless her hand had proved more joyful, and not so fatal and miserable.  
Come we now to Catalina, who seeing the object of her affection, Antonio, dead, and her Sister Berinthia returned, who, for his sake, was that of her living malice, she secretly confesseth her fault to her sister, in seeking formerly twice to have poisoned her by Ansilva, craves pardon of her, vowing henceforth to convert her malice to affection, and so reconciles herself to her; whereunto her Sister Berinthia willingly condescendeth. Catalina hath made her peace with her Sister, but she hath not contracted and concluded it with God for Ansilva's death. Earth may forget this Murder, but Heaven will not. God's judgements are as just as secret, and as true as wonderful; for he hath a thousand means to punish us, when we think ourselves safe and furthest from punishment: which our wretched Catalina, and her execrable Empiric Sarmiata shall see verified in themselves. For the smoke of this their bloody Crime of Murder hath pierced the Vaults and Windows of Heaven, and is ascended to the Nostrils of the Lord, who hath now bend his Bow, and made ready his Arrows to revenge and punish them. The manner is thus:  
A Sister of Ansilva's, named Isabel, is to be married in Avero, who invites the Ladies Catalina and Berinthia to her Wedding. Berinthia is too sorrowful to be so merry, as desirous rather to go to her own Grave, then to any others Nuptials: so she stays at home, only her Sister Catalina takes Coach, with an intent to accompany the Bridewoman to Church: but see the Providence and justice of God, how it surpriseth and overtakes this wtetched Gentlewoman Catalina! for as she was in her way, the Sun is instantly eclipsed, and the Skies overcast, and so a terrible and fearful Thunderbolt pierceth her thorough the breast, and lays her near dead in her Coach: her Wayting-mayds and Coachman having no hurt, are yet amazed at this strange and dismal accident; so they think it fit to return. Catalina is for a time speechless, he Parents are as it were dead with grief and sorrow hereat, she is committed to her bed, and searched, and all her body above her waist is found coal-black: the best Physicians and Chirurgeons are sent for, they see her death-strooken with that Planet, and therefore adjudge their skill but vain: her strength and senses fall from her, which Catalina having the happiness to perceive, and grace to feel, will no longer be seduced with the devils temptations. The Divines prepare her soul for Heaven, and now she will no longer dissemble with man or God; she will not charge her conscience with so foul a Crime as Murder, the which she knows will prove a stop to the fruition of her felicity. She confesseth, she twice procured her Wayting-gentlewoman Ansilva to poison her Sister Berinthia; and since that, she hath given Sarmiata one hundred Ducats to poison the said Ansilva, which he performed, and whereof she humbly begs pardon of all the world, and religiously of God, whom she beseecheth to be merciful to her soul: and so, though she lived profanely and impiously, yet she died repentantly and religiously. Vilarezo and Alphanta, her old parents, grieve and storm at her death, but more extremely at the manner thereof, and especially at the confession of her bloody crimes, as well towards living Berinthia, as dead Ansilva, only their Daughter Berinthia is silent hereat; glad, that she is freed of an enemy, sorrowful, to have lost a Sister: they are infinitely vexed to publish their daughter Catalina's crimes, yet they are enforced to it, that thereby this Sarmiata, this Agent of Hell, may receive condign punishment for his bloody offence here on earth. So they acquaint the Criminal judges hereof, who decree order and power for his apprehension. Sarmiata is revelling and feasting at Isabella's wedding; to which he is apppointed and requested to furnish the Sweetmeats for the Banquets: but he little thinks what sour sauce there is providing for him. We are never nearest danger, then when we think ourselves furthest from it: and although his sinful security was such, as the Devil had made him forget his murder of Ansilva, yet God will, and doth remember it; and lo, here comes his storm, here his apprehension, and presently his punishment. By this time the news of Catalina's sudden death (but not of her secret confession) is published in Avero, and arrived at the Bridehouse, which gives both astonishment and grief to all the world; but especially to Sarmiata, whose heart and conscience now rings him many thundering peals of fear, terror, and despair: his bloody thoughts pursue him like so many bloudhounds, and because he hath forsaken God, therefore the devil will not forsake him; he counselleth him to fly, and to provide for his safety; but what safety so unsecure, dangerous, or miserable for a Christian, as to throw himself into the Devil's protection? Sarmiata hereon fearing that Catalina had revealed his poisoning of Ansilva, very secretly steals away his Cloak, and so slips down to a Postern door of the little Court, hoping to escape; but he is deceived of his hopes: for the eye of God's providence finds him out. The House is beleaguered for him by Officers, who apprehend him as he is issuing forth, and so commit him close prisoner. In the afternoon the judges examine him upon the poisoning of Ansilva, and the receipt of one hundred Ducats, to effect it, from Catalina, which she at her death confessed. He adds sin to sin, and denies it with many impious oaths and fearful imprecations; but they avail him nothing: his judges censure him to the Rack, where, upon the first torment he confesseth it, but with so graceless an impudency, as he rather rejoiceth than grieves hereat: where we may observe how strongly the Devil sticks to him, and how closely he is bewitched to the Devil: so for reparation of this foul crime of his, he is condemned to be hanged, which the next morn is performed right against Vilarezo his house, at a Gallows purposely erected; and which is worse than all the rest, as this lewd villain Sarmiata lived profanely, so he died as desperately, without repenting his bloody fact, or imploring pardon or mercy of God for the same. O miserable example! O fearful end! O bloody and damnable miscreant! We have seen the Theatre of this History gored with great variety of blood, the mournful and lamentable spectacle whereof is capable to make any Christian heart relent into pity, compassion, and tears. But this is not all, we shall yet see more, not that it any way increaseth our terror, but rather our consolation, sith thereby we may observe that Murder comes from Satan, and its punishment from God.  
Catalina's confession and death is not capable to deface or wash away Berinthia's malice and revenge to her brother Sebastiano, for killing of her dear and sweet Love Antonio. Other Tragedies are past, but this as yet not acted, but to come: Lo now at last (though indeed too too soon) it comes on the Stage. The remembrance of Antonio and his affection is still fresh in her youthful thoughts and contemplations, yea, his dead Idea is always present and living in her heart and breast: 'tis true, Sebastiano is her brother; 'tis as true she saith, that if he had not killed Antonio, Antonio had been her husband. Again she considereth, that as Antonio's life preserved hers from death; so her life hath been the cause of his: and as he lost his life for her sake, why should not she likewise leave hers for his? or rather, why should she permit him to live, who hath bereft her of him? But her living affection to her dead friend is so violent, and withal so prejudicated and revengeful, as she neither can, nor will see her Brother, who killed him, but with malice and indignation. In stead of consulting with nature and grace, she only converseth with choler and passion; yea, she is so miserably transported in her rage, and so outrageously wilful in her resolution, as she shuts the door of her heart to the two former virtues, to whom she should open it, and openeth it to the two latter vices, against whom she should shut it. A misery equally ominous and fatal, where Reason is not the Mistress of our Passions, and Religion the Queen of our Reason. She sees this bloody attempt of hers, whereinto she is entering, is sinful and impious; and yet her faith is so weak towards God, and the Devil so strong with her, as she is constant to advance, and resolute not to retire therein. Oh that Berinthia's former Virtues should be disgraced with so foul a Vice! and oh that a face so sweetly fair should be accompanied and linked with a heart so cruelly barbarous, so bloodily inhuman! for what can she hope from this a●…mpt in killing her brother, but likewise to ruin herself? nay, had she had any spark of wit or grace left her, she should consider, that for this foul offence her body shall receive punishment in this world, and her soul, without repentance, in that to come: but she cannot erect her eyes to heaven, she is all set on revenge; so the Devil hath plotted the Murder of her brother Sebastiano, and she, like a most wretched and inhuman sister, will speedily act it. The manner is thus; (the which I cannot remember without grief, nor pen without tears) She provides herself of a long and sharp knife, the which, some ten days after the death o●… 〈◊〉 sister Catalina, 'twixt four and five of the clock in the morning, she hides in o●… of her sleeves; and the better to cover and overvaile her villainy, she in the same hand takes her Lute, and so enters her brother's Chamber, and finds him sleeping, being a pretty way distant from hers, and his Page Philippo in a lower Chamber under him, resolving that if she had found him waking, she would play on her Lute, and affirm, she came to give him the good morrow. But Sebastiano his fortune, or rather his misfortune was such, that he was then sound sleeping, without dreaming, or once thinking what should befall him; when his wretched and execrable sister Berinthia, stalks close to him, and laying her Lute softly on the window, draws out her devilish knife forth her sleeve, and as a she-devil incarnate, cuts his throat, to the end he might neither cry nor speak; and so, though with a female hand, yet with a masculine courage, she (with as much malice as haste) gives him seven several wounds thorough the body, and as near the heart as she could▪ whereof he twice turning himself in his bed, n●… ver sprawled more: and then taking up her Lute, and leaving him reeking in his blood, she after this her hellish fact, hies herself to her Chamber.  
This cruel Murder is not so closely perpetrated and acted, but Philippo, Sebastiano's page, hears some extraordinary stirring & struggling in his Master's chamber, & so leaps out of his bed, & taking his cloak on his shoulders, & his Rapier in his hand, he a●…ends the Stay●…; where Berinthia hath not made so grea●… speed▪ but he sees h●…●…ing her Chamber, and throwing her door after her: whence running to his Master's Chamber, he finds the door open, and his Master most cruelly murdered in his bed, of eight several wounds; at which bloody and lamentable spectacle he makes many bitter and pitiful outcries, whereat all the house is in alarm, and the folks and servants repair thither of all sides. By this time Berinthia hath shifted her outward Taffata gown, sprinkled all with blood, and wrapped her bloody knife close in it, and for the more secrecy, throws it into her Closestool, and so awayts the coming up of her Father and Mother, whom the mournful echo and sorrowful news of their son Sebastiano's cruel m●…ther, had with an ocean of tears wafted to his Chamber, with whom Berinthia likewise, all blubbered with tears, enters. They are all amazed at the sight of this bloody and breathless corpse, and wring their hands, Father, Mother, Daughter, and Servants look one on another in this calamity, and at this sorrowful disaster. They search every Chamber, Vault, and Door of the House, and find no body, nor print of drops of blood whatsoever; when Philippo the Page cries out, that he fears it is the Lady Berinthia, who hath murdered her Brother, and his Master Sebastiano, for that he saw her flying to her Chamber as he ascended the Stairs. Vilarezo and Alphanta his wife are doubly amazed at this report, but graceless Berinthia is no way daunted or astonished hereat, but affirms, she likewise heard some stirring in her Brother's Chamber, which made her arise and come to the Stayr●… head, where seeing Philippo, she being in her night attire, modesty made her retire to her Chamber. They all believe the sugar of her words, and the circumstance of her excuse; yet they will not proclaim her innocence, till they have searched her Chamber, and all her Trunks, where they find no Knife, Stiletto, Dagger, or any other offe●…sive Weapon; and so her Father and Mother acquit her: but God will not. Notwithstanding they must advertise the Criminal judges of this lamentable and blo●… die murder of their son, which they do. So they arrive, visit the dead body, and cause all the House to be searched: but as soon as they heard Philippo's speeches and suspicion of Berinthia, then, considering her affection to Antonio, and her brother Sebastiano's killing of him at Elvas, they attribute this to be her fact, as proceeding from passionate revenge; when the sequel and circumstances thereof being apparent in themselves, the●…●…t regarding her Father's prayers, her Mother's requests, and her own tears, seiz●… her, and so send and commit her close Prisoner: where, wretched Gentlewoman, she hath a whole night left and given her, to see and consider the foulness of her fact, and to prepare herself to her answer: which whether it will breed in her confession or denial, obstinacy or repentance, as yet I know not. So from her imprisonment, come we to her answer.  
Avero rings with the news of this foul and bloody Murder. All bewail, all lament the death of Sebastiano, as a Gentleman, who was truly noble, truly generous: but his Father Vilarezo and Mother Alphanta seem to drown themselves in their tears, at these mournful accidents, strange crosses, and unheard of afflictions of theirs▪ For though they will not believe, yet they deeply fear, that their daughter Berinthia was the murderer of her brother Sebastiano: and as affection seems to di●…ert them from this opinion, so reason indeavoureth to persuade and confirm them in the contrary. The next mo●…e the judges sit, and send for Berinthia, who comes accompanied with her parents, and many of her kinsfolks: they again examine her, and confront her with Philippo; she is firm in her denial, and her judges find circu●…tances, but no probability nor witness against her, sufficient to convict her of this crime; yet directed by the finger of God, they condemn her to the Rack. One of her judges pitying her descent, youth, and beauty, as much as he detests this Murder, entreats that her Chamber may be first curiously searched, ere she exposed to the Rack. This advice and request is heard and followed with approbation. He, and two other Officers, accompanied with some of her friends, repair to Vilarezo his house, and Berinthia her Chamber; they leave no place, Trunk, Chest, or Box unsearched: yea, their curiosity, or to say truer, their zeal and fidelity to justice descends so low, as to visit her Close-stool, which, for want of the key, they break open; and behold the providence and justice of God! here they find Berinthia's bloody Gown, and therein very closely wrapped up that hellish Knife, wherewith she perpetrated this inhuman murder on her only brother. They praise and glorify God for the discovery hereof, and so return to their Tribunal of justice, bringing these bloody evidences with them, which Berinthia might all this while have removed, if God, to his glory, and her shame, had not all this time purposely blinded the eyes of her judgement to the contrary. At the sight hereof she, without any torment, confesseth the Murder, and with many tears reputes herself of it; adding withal, that her affection to Antonio led her to this revenge on her brother: and therefore beseecheth her judges to have compassion on her youth. But the foulness of her fact, in those grave and just personages, wipes off the fairness of her request: So they consult, and pronounce Sentence against her, That for expiation of this her cruel murder on the person of her brother, she the next morn shall be hanged in the public Market place. So all praise God for the detection of this lamentable Murder, and for the condemnation of this execrable Murderess: and those, who before looked on her youth and beauty with pity, now behold her foul crime with hatred and detestation; and as they applaud the sincerity of her former affection to Antonio, so they far more detest and condemn this her inhuman cruelty to her own brother Sebastiano. But what grief is there comparable to that of her Father and Mother? whose age, content, and patience is not only battered, but razed down with the several assaults of affliction; so as they wish themselves buried, or that their Children had been unborn: for it is rather a torment then a grief to them, that they, whom they hoped would have been props and comforts to their age, should now prove instruments and subjects to shorten their days, and consequently to draw their age to the miseries of an untimely and sorrowful grave. But although they have tasted a world of grief and anxiety, first for the death of their Daughter Catalina, and then of their only Son Sebastiano; yet it pierceth them to the h●…rt and gall, that this their last Daughter and Child Berinthia should pass by the passage of a halter, and end her days upon so ignominious and shameful a Stage as the Gallows; which would add a blemish to the lustre of their blood and posterity, that time could never have power either to wipe off, or wash away: which to prevent, Vilarezo and his wife Alphanta use all their friends and mortal powers, towards the judges, to convert their Daughter's Sentence into a less shameful and more honourable death. So although the Gallows be erected, Berinthia prepared to dye, and a world of people, yea, in a manner, the whole people of Avero concurred and seated to see her now take her last farewell of the world; yet the importunacy and misery of her parents, her own descent, youth, and beauty, as also her end●…ered affection and servant love to her Lover Antonio, at last obtain compassion and favour of her judges. So they revoke and change their former decree, and sweeten the rigour thereof with one more honourable and mild, and less sharp, bitter, and shameful, and definitively adjudge her to be immured up betwixt two walls, and there with a slender diet to end the remainder of her days. And this Sentence is speedily put in execution; whereat her parents, friends, and acquaintance, yea, all that knew her, very bitterly grieve and lament; and far the more, in respect they cannot be permitted to see or visit her, or she them; only the Physicians and Divines have admittance and access to her, those, to provide earthly physic for her body; and these, spiritual for her soul. And in this lamentable estate she is very penitent and repentant for all her sins in general, and for this her vile murder of her Brother in particular: yea, a little imprisonment, or rather the spirit of God hath opened the eyes of her faith, who now defying the Devil who had seduced and drawn her hereunto, she makes her peace with God, and assures herself, that her true repentance hath made hers with him. So, unaccustomed to be penned up in so straight and dark a Mew, the yellow jaundice, and a burning Fever surprise her: and so she ends her miserable days.  
Lo, these are the bitter fruits of Revenge and Murder, which the undertakers (by the just judgement of God) are enforced to taste and swallow down, when in the heat of their youth, and height of their impiety they least dream or think thereof: by the sight of which great effusion of blood, yea, by all these varieties of mournful and fatal accidents, if we will divorce our thoughts from Hell to Earth, and wed our contemplations and affections from Earth to Heaven, we shall then, as true Christians, and sons of the eternal God, run the race of our mortality in peace in this world, and consequently be rewarded with a glorious Crown of immortal felicity in that to come.   

GOD'S REVENGE AGAINST THE CRYING AND EXEcrable sin of Murder.  
HISTORY VIII.  
Belluile treacherously murthereth Poligny in the street. Laurieta, Poligny's Mistress, betrayeth Belluile to her Chamber, and there in revenge shoots him thorough the body with a Pistol, when assisted by her waiting-maid Lucilla, they likewise give him many wounds with a Poniard, and so murder him. Lucilla flying for this fact, is drowned in a Lake, and Laurieta is taken, hanged and burnt for the same.  
IT is an infallible Maxim, that if we open our hearts to sin, we shut them to godliness; for as soon as we follow Satan, God flies from us, because we first fled from him: but that his mercy may shine in our ingratitude, he by his servants, his holy Spirit, and himself, seeks all means to reclaim us, as well from the vanity of our thoughts, as from the profaneness and impurity of our actions: but if we become obstinate and obdurate in our transgressions, and so like Heathens, fall from vice to vice; whereas we should as Christians, grow up from virtue to virtue; than it is not he, but ourselves that make ship wrack both of ourselves and souls; of ourselves in this life, of our souls in that to come; than which no misery can be so great, none so unfortunate and miserable. It is true, the best of God's children are subject to sin; but to delight and persevere therein, is the true way as well to hell as death. All have not the gift of pure and chaste thoughts, neither can we so conserve or sanctify our bodies, but that concupiscence may, and will sometimes assail us (or rather the devil in it) but to pollute them with fornication, and to transform them from the Temples of the holy Ghost, to the members of a harlot, this, though corrupt Nature seem to allow or tolerate, yet Grace doth not only deny, but detest. But as one sin is seldom without another, either at her heels or elbow; so too too often it falls out, that M●…rther accompanieth Fornication and Adultery: as if one of these foul crimes were not enough to make us miserable, but that in stead of going, we will needs ride post to hell. A woeful Precedent, and lamentable and mournful Example whereof, I here produce to the view of the world, in three unfortunate personages, in a lascivious Lady, and two lewd and debauched young Gentlemen, who all very lamentably cast themselves away upon the Sylla of Fornication, and the Charybdis of Murder: for they found the fruits and end of their beastly pleasures far more bitter, than their beginning was sweet: yea, and because at first they would not look on repentance, at last shame looks on them, and they, when it is too late, both on a miserable shame, and a shameful misery. May we all read it to God's glory, and consequently to the reformation of our lives, and the consolation and salvation of our own souls.  
IN the beautiful City of Avignion, (seated in the Kingdom of France, and in the Province of Provence) being the Capital of the Duchy of Venissa, belonging to the Pope, and wherein for the term of wellnear eighty years, they held their Pontifical See, there dwelled a young Gentlewoman of some twenty years of age, termed Madamoyselle Laurieta, whose father and mother being dead, was left alone to herself, their only child and heir, being richer in beauty than lands, and endued with many excellent qualities and perfections, which gave grace and lustre to her beauty, as her beauty did to them: For she spoke the Latin and Italian tongue perfect, was very expert and excellent in singing, dancing, music, painting, and the like, which made her famous in that City. But as there needs but one vice to eclipse and drown many virtues; so this fair Laurieta was more beautiful than chaste, and not half so modest as lascivious. It is as great a happiness for children to enjoy their Parents, as a misery to want them: For Laurieta's Father and Mother had been infinitely careful and curious to train her up in the School of Virtue and Piety, and wherein her youth had (during the term of their lives) made a happy entrance, and as I may say, a fortunate and glorious progression: But when God, the great Moderator, and sovereign judge of the world, had in his eternal Decree and sacred Providence taken them out of this world, than Laurieta was left to the wide world, and to the vanity thereof, without guide or governor, exposed to the variety of the fortunes, or rather the misfortunes of the times, as a Ship without Pilot ●…r Helm, subject to the mercy of every merciless wind and wave of the Sea: yea, and then it was that she forgot her former modesty and chastity, and now began to adore the Shrines of Venus and Cupid, by polluting and prostituting her body to the beastly pleasures of lust and for●…cation, wherein (it grieves me to relate) she took a great delight and felicity. But she shall pay dear for this bitter-sweet vice of hers: yea, and though it seem to begin in content and pleasure, yet we shall assuredly see it end in shame, repentance and misery: for this sin of Whoredom betrays, when it seems to delight us, and strangleth, when it makes greatest show to embrace us: so sweet and pure virtues, are modesty and chastity; so foul and fatal vices▪ are concupiscence and lust. But he with whom she was most familiar, and to whom she imparted the greatest part of her favours, was to one Monsieur de Belluile, a proper young Gentleman, dwelling near the City of Arles, by birth and extraction, noble, but otherwise more rich than wise: who coming to Avignion, no sooner saw Laurieta, but he both gloried in the sight of her singular, and triumphed in the contemplation of her exquisite and incomparable beauty, making that his best content, and this his sweetest felicity; that, his sovereign good; and this, his heaven upon earth: so as losing himself in the labyrinth of her beauty, and as it were drowning his thoughts in the sea of his concupiscence and sensuality, he spends not only his whole time, but a great part of his wealth, in wantonizing and entertaining her: a vicious and foul fault, not only peculiar to Belluile, but incident and fatal to too many Gallants, as well of most parts of Christendom in general, as of France in particular; it being indeed a disastrous and dangerous rock, whereon many inconsiderate and wretched Gentlemen have suffered shipwreck, not only of their reputations, healths and estates, but many times of thei●… lives.  
In the mean time, Laurieta (more jealous of her same, then careful to preserve her chastity) is advertised, that Belluile is not content to cull the dainties of her beauty and youth, but he forgets himself and his discretion so far, as to vaunt thereof, by letting fall some speeches, tending to the blemish and disparagement of her honour: so as vain and lascivious as she is, yet the touching of this string, affords her harsh and distasteful melody: For she will seek to cover her shame by her hypocrisy and so resolves to make him know the foulness of his offence, in that of his baseness and ingratitude. To which end, at her first interview and meeting of him, she not only checks him for it, but forbids and banisheth him her company: which indeed had been a just cause and opportunity for him to have converted his lust into chastity, and his folly into repentance. But he is too dissolute and vicious, to be so happily reclaimed from Laurieta; and therefore he is resolved, not only to justify his innocence, but thereby also to persevere in his sin: He is acquainted with many Gentlemen, who forgetting themselves, conceive a felicity and glory, to erect the trophies of their vanities upon the disparagement of Lady's honours: yea, he seems to be so far from being guilty of this error, as he taxeth and condemns others, in being guilty or accessary thereunto. So, although his Mistress Laurieta remain still coy, strange and haggard to him, yet he persevereth in his affection to her; who at last judging of his innocence by his constancy; and of that, by his many letters and presents which he still sent her; as also observing that she had no firm grounds, nor could produce any pregnant or valable witnesses of this report; she again exchangeth her frowns into smiles, and so receives and entertains him into her favour, only with this premonition and caution, That if ever hereafter she heard of his folly or ingratitude in this kind, she would never look him in the face, except with contempt and detestation. So these their disjointed affections, as well by oaths as protestations, are again confirmed and cemented: but such lustful contracts, and lascivious familiarities and sympathies, seldom or never make prosperous ends.  
Now to give form and life to this History: Not long after, a brave young Gentleman of Mompillier, named Monsieur de Poligny, having some occasion, comes to Avignion, who frequenting their public Balls or Dance, no sooner saw our fair and beautiful Laurieta, but he falls in love with her, and salutes and courts her: and from thencefoorth deems her so fair, as he useth all means to become her servant, but not in the way of honour and Marriage, rather with a purpose to make her his Courtesan then his Wife. But he sees himself deceived in the irregular passion of his affection: for Laurieta is averse, and will not be either tractable or flexible to his desires: so as his suit is vain, and she so deaf to his requests, as neither his prayers, sighs, Letters, nor Presents are capable to purchase her favour. Poligny infinitely grieves heereat, which notwithstanding makes the flame of his lust rather increase then diminish: so as after much pensiveness, he begins to beat his wits, and to awaken his invention, how he may crown his desires by enjoying Laurieta, when lo, an occasion presenteth itself to him unexpected.  
Madamoyselle la Palaisiere, a rich young Gentlewoman near Pont Saint Esprit, living in Avignion, and seeing Poligny at the dancing, doth exceedingly fall in love with him; yea, ●…hee so admires the sweetness of his favour, and the excellency of his personage, as she rejoiceth in nothing so much; and to write the truth, in nothing else but in his company: so as, had not modesty withheld her, she would have proved her own Advocate, and have informed him thereof herself. Poligny receives so many secret signs and testimonies of her affection, by private glances and the like, as he cannot be ignorant thereof: but his love, or rather his lust to Laurieta, hath so absolutely taken up his heart and thoughts, as it hath left no place nor corner for la Palaisiere: so as here we may observe and remark a different commixture, and disparity of affections. Poligny loves Laurieta, and not she him: lafoy Palaisiere affects Poligny, and not he her: what these passions and occurrences will produce, we shall shortly see.  
La Palaisiere, having her heart pierced thorough with the love of Poligny, knowing him to be Laurieta's servant, and she the Mistress of Belluile, either out of her affection, or jealousy, or both, resolves at next meeting to acquaint Poligny with it, thereby purposely to withdraw his affection from her to herself: The occasion is proffered, and opportunity seems to favour and second her desires. Some three days after, the Jesuits (who as the Mountebanks and Panders of Kingdoms and Estates, leave no invention, nor Ceremony unattempted, to seduce and bewitch the affections of the world) cause their Scholars to act a Comedy in their College in this City, whereat all the Nobility and Gentry of the City and adjacent Country assemble and meet. Thither comes Poligny, hoping to see Laurieta, and la Palaisiere to see Poligny: but Laurieta that day is sick, and Belluile stays with her to comfort her. So first comes Poligny, and seeing he could not see his Laurieta, sits down pensively: then comes la Palaisiere, and seeing Poligny a far off, prays her brother, who conducted her, to place her near him. Poligny can do no less than salute her, and she triumphing in her good fortune, takes the advantage of this occasion, and in sweet and sugared terms (after many pauses, sighs and blushes) gives him to understand, that she knew his affection to Laurieta, and withal, that Belluile and no other was her servant and favourite. This speech of hers strikes Poligny to the quick; so as thereat he not only bites the lip, but hangs his head: yea, this unexpected news, as also Be●…uile and Laurieta's absence, so nettle him, and frame such a Chimaera of extravagant passions in his heart and thoughts, as he could not have the patience to sit ou●… the Comedy, but feigning himself sick, departs to his Chamber: where a thousand jealousies engendered of his affection, perplex and torment him; when remembering la Palaisieres speeches, and being infinitely desirous to know the truth of Belluile his affection to Laurieta, and of hers to him, he sees no means, nor person so fit to reveal the same, as Lucilla, Laurieta's waiting-maid. This Lucilla, Poligny wins with gold, in consideration whereof, she reveals him all, how Belluile was her chiefest Minion and Favourite: and yet, for some words he the other day in ignorance or Wine, let fall to the prejudice of her honour, she was like to cashier and discard him. Lucilla having thus forgotten her own fidelity, in bewraying the dishonour of her Mistress; Poligny understanding Belluile to be a coward of his hands, though not of his tongue; and in a word, not to be so complete a Gallant as he supposed him, he of a subtle and malicious invention resolves to work on him; and so conceives a plot, which we shall see presently put in execution and acted: he very politicly puts a good face on all his discontents and passions: and although Laurieta would not see him, yet he fairly intrudes himself into Belluile's company, and of purpose becomes familiar with him. So they very often meet: for they sense, dance, ride, vault and hunt together: so as at last none are so great Consorts and Cammerades as they. But Poligny thinking every hour a year, before he had played his prize, makes a party at Tennis with Belluile for a collation, and beats him; and so taking two Gentlemen, La Fontaine, and Borelles, his friends with them, away they go●… all four to a Tavern. Poligny as secret as malicious in this his plot, in the midst of their mirth speaks thus to Belluile, Sir, quoth he, I am sorry for your loss of this Collation: but if it please you to honour me with your company to morrow to Orange, a City which I much desire to see, I will pay you the dinner in requital thereof. Belluile very readily and willingly consents hereunto, and La Fontaine and Borell●… vow they will likewise have their share, both of the journey and dinner. So the next morn they all take horse for Orange: but first Belluile gives his Mistress Laurieta the good morrow, and acquaints her with his journey. They view this old City, the ancient patrimony and Principality of the Illustrious Princes of Orange, from whence they derive their name: where Poligny having given order for the dinner, away they go, visit the Castle, and salute the deputed Governor thereof Monsieur ●…osberghe; they see the part of the Amphitheatre yet standing, the Cathedral Church, the double Wall of the City, and the old Roman Arch not far off, with all other remarkable objects and monuments; and by this time the Cook and their stomaches tax them of their long stay. So they return to their Inn, fall to their Viands, and like frolic Gentlemen, wash them down with store of Claret: and now Poligny, as mal●…cious in heart, as pleasant in countenance and conversation, here casts forth his lure and snare to surprise and entangle Belluile. O quoth he, how happy the Gentlemen of Italy are to us of France, sith after dinner every one goes freely to his Courtesan without controlment! I know not, quoth la Fontaine, what Orange is, but I think Avignion is not destitute of good fellow W●…nches, who make Venus their queen, and Cupid their god. Surely no, replies Belluile, for I am confident, that for jews and Courtesans, for the greatness of it, it may compare with the best City of Italy: for from the Lady to the Kitchenmaid I dare say they'll all prove tractable. Nay, quoth Borelles, except still our holy Sisters the Nuns. Not I faith, quoth he, nor my Mistress neither. Indeed, replies Poligny, if I knew you had a Mistress of that complexion, I would adventure a glass of Claret to her health. When Belluile (out of a fantastic French humour) affirmed he had a Mistress, whose beauty was so excellent, as he knew he could not receive shame to name her; and if you please to honour herself and me with her health, I proclaim that Madamoyselle Laurieta is my Mistress, and myself her servant.  
Of wise and Christian Gentlemen, what profane speeches and debauched tabletalk are these they use here, as if their glory consisted in their shame, or their best virtues were to be discovered in the worst of vices? For howsoever the Viands they did eat, may preserve the health of their bodies, yet this dissolute communication of theirs must needs poison and destroy that of their souls: for as they should praise God in the receipt of the one; so chose they incense and displease his sacred Majesty in giving him the other: yea, this is so far from Christianity and heaven, as it is the high and true way to Atheism and hell: for whores and healths, instead of prayer and thanksgiving, are the prodigious and certain forerunners of a seared conscience, and the dangerous and execrable symptoms of a leprous soul.  
Birds are taken by their feet, and men by their tongues. Belluile having so basely and sottishly abused himself in the disparaging of his Mistress Laurieta, Poligny hath his errand, for which he purposely came to Orange. So dinner ended, they very pleasantly return for Avignion. That night Poligny cannot sleep for joy, or rather for revenge: For now he presumes to know how to work himself into Laurieta's favour, by unhorsing Belluile. It is a dishonest and base part to betray our friend, and under the cloak of friendship and familiarity, to harbour and retain malice against them: but this irregular and violent passion of love in young and unstayed judgements, many times bears down all other respects and considerations. For if Religion and Conscience be contemned, what hope is there that either honesty be regarded, or friendship observed, sith it is the only cement and sinews thereof? But Poligny is as resolute as malicious in his purpose; and therefore the next morn by his Lackey, sends the Lady Laurieta this Letter:  
POLIGNY to LAURIETA.  
IT is out of sincere affection to thee, and not out of premeditated malice to Belluile, that I pres●…me to signify thee, how lately in my presence at Orange his tongue let fall some words that tended to the prejudice and disparagement of thine honour: whereof I know it is not only the part, but the duty of a true Gentleman, to be rather curious in preserving, than any way ingrate●…ll in revealing thereof. Neither do I attempt to send thee this news, thereby to insi●…ate, for draw thee to affect me the more, or him the less: only sith it is contrary to my complexion and nature, to permit any Lady to be wronged in my presence; how much less thyself, t●… whom I not owe my service, but my life. If thou wilt not approve my zeal, yet thou hast all the reason of the world to pardon my presumption: and to make my letter real, what my pen affirms to Laurieta, my sword is ready to confirm to Belluile.  
POLIGNY.  
In the extremity and excess of those three different passions, grief, choler and astonishment, Laurieta receives and reads this Letter, and like a dissolute Gentlewoman, being more careful of her reputation to the world, then of her soul towards God, she knows not whether she have more cause and reason either to approve Poligny's affection, or to condemn Belluiles' folly: it grieves her to the heart to have bestowed her favours on so base and ingrateful a Gentleman as Belluile; vows she will make him repent it, and is resolute that this vanity and folly of his, shall cost him dear; yea, she is so impatient in these her fumes of grief and revenge, that she thought once with all expedition to have sent for Belluile, to make him as well see the fruits of his own ingratitude, as to taste the effects of her revenge and indignation: but she holds it requisite and fit, and herself in a manner bound first to thank Poligny for his courtesy, by returning him a Letter in answer of his, which she speedily dispatcheth him by his own Lackey, to this effect:  
LAURIETA to POLIGNY.  
I Know not whether thou hast showed me a truer testimony of thy discretion and affection, then Belluile of his envy and folly. But as I rest infinitely obliged to thee for thy care of my reputation; so I resolve shortly to make him know what he deserves in attempting to eclipse and disparage it. Now as I grieve not, so I must confess I cannot refrain from sorrowing, at this his undeserved slander: for as mine innocence defends me from the first, so my sex cannot exempt me from the second; and look what disparity there is betwixt thy generosity and his baseness, so much there is betwixt the whiteness of my chastity, and the foulness of h●… aspersion. I rest so confident of the truth of thy pen, as I desire no confirmation of thy Sword; and I flatter not, rather assure myself, that sith Belluile was so indiscreet to wrong me, he will neither have the wit or courage to right himself. I return thee many hearty thanks for this kind office and courtesy of thine; the which though I cannot requite, yet I will not only endeavour, but strive to deserve.  
LAURIETA.  
Whiles Poligny receives Laureta's Letter with much content, and many kisses, as triumphing to see how he hath baffled Belluile by working him out, and consequently himself into her favour, we will for a while leave him, to consider whether the end of his treachery to Belluile will prove as fortunate and pleasing to him, as the beginning promiseth. And in the mean time we will a little speak of Laurieta, to see what course and resolution she means to hold and observe with Belluile. It is not enough that she hath written Poligny a Letter, but her envy and contempt towards Belluile is so implacable, as she with much haste and secrecy sends for him: her requests to him are commands; yea, he needs no other spurs but those of his lust, and of her beauty, to make him rather fly, then post to her presence; when not so much as once dre●…ing of his former foolish speeches delivered against his Mistress Laurieta, muc●…●…se of Boligny's treason conspired and acted against him, he thinks to kiss her, ●…om so often he hath formerly kissed; but his hopes and her disdain deceive hi●… for she peremptorily slights him; when having fire in her looks, and thunder in her speeches, she chargeth him with this scandal delivered by him at O●…nge, in presence of Polig●…y, against her honour and chastity. And is this (quoth she) the reward a Lady shall deserve and receive by imparting her favours to a Gentleman? and is this the part of a Gentleman, to erect the Trophies of his glory upon his Mistress disgrace? or are these the fruits of thy sighs and tears, or the effects of thy requests, oaths, and Letters? Yea, such was then her furious rage, and devilish revenge, as she was provided of a Stiletto, to have there stabbed him to the heart in her Chamber, had not her Waiting maid Lucilla, with her best oratory and persuasion, powerfully diverted her to the contrary, by alleging her the imminency of the danger, which the foulness and heinousness of that fact brought her into. Belluile is amazed at this news, when now proving as profane to God, as before he was base and ●…efull to Laurieta, he, with many oaths and imprecations, denies these speeches, and this slander; and with much passion protesteth of his innocence. But this will not sat●…fie Laurieta; for to make his shame the more notorious in his guiltiness, she prod●…ceth him Poligny's Letter; whereat Belluile hangs the head, and seems to let fall the plumes, not only of his Pride, but of his courage and justification; yet he bitterly and vehemently persevereth in his denial: but all this is not capable to appease or content Laurieta; and which is worst of all, nothing can possibly do it, except he make good her honour, and his own innocence, by a combat or Duel against Poligny. So Belluile sees himself driven to a narrow and a shrewd push: He hath wronged Laurieta, and knows not how to right her: Poligny hath wronged him, and there is no way left for him to right himself, but by challenging and fight with Poligny. But he loves Laurieta dear, and therefore must resolve to fight, or lose her. As for his own part, to give him his true character and description, he is rather a City swaggerer, than a Field soldier, loves rather to have a fair Sword, than a good one, and to wear it only for show, not for use; he is ambitious of nothing more, then to be reputed rather than found valiant: In a word, for a Tave●…e quarrel, or a Stews brawl he is excellent; but to meet his enemy in the field with a naked Sword, that doth not only daunt, but terrify him. The greatest comfort and consolation he finds in this his perplexity, is, that he knows he hath many fellows and companions, who are as white-livered and as very cowards as himself: of which numbers, he flattereth himself with this poor base hope, that it is not impossible for Poligny to be one. But what is this to give satisfaction to Laurieta, except it may show himself to be Belluile, but not a Gentleman? But all these considerations notwithstanding, he loves Laurieta so tenderly and dear, as not daring see her, till he had met Poligny, he plucks up his spirits, and infusing more mettle and courage into his resolutions then accustomed, resolves to fight with him: to which end, having at length fitted himself of an excellent Rapier, whose temper (with as much truth as laughter) I confess was far better than that of his heart, he, by his Lackey some three days after, sends Poligny this Challenge.  
BELLVILE to POLIGNY.  
THy malice and treachery to me is as odious as remarkable; for whiles I sought to che●… thy friendship, it hath purposely been thy delight and ambition to betray mine, in thr●…ing the apple of discord betwixt the Lady thou wottest of, and myself, upon the p●…ynt of her ●…nour; for whose defence and preservation I owe not only my service, but my life: which err●…, or rather crime of thine, though thy affection to her may seem to allow, yet my reputation to the world cannot, and my Rapier will not. Therefore, sith I have been the undeserved object of thy malice, find it not strange, that I justly repute and hold thee the cause of my envy; which 〈◊〉 receive no other satisfaction or reconcilement, but that to morrow at five in the morn thou 〈◊〉 me without Seconds, on the Bridge by the iron stump (the limits 'twixt the King and the P●…) with thy single Rapier, where I will attend thee with another; of which two take thou the 〈◊〉 and give me the refusal. Sleep not too much this night, for in the morn I doubt not 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 send thee to thine eternal rest.  
BELLVILE.  
Poligny receives this challenge, and admires to see Belluiles' resolution, from which all former reports could never draw assurance; it is not fear that casts his head in●… these doubts, or these doubts into his head: for he is too generous to be a dastard▪ and too Eagle-bred to turn Craven; for rejoicing in having made Belluile swallow a Gudgeon, and triumphing in presuming himself seated in the throne of Laurieta's favour, makes him as resolute to receive this Challenge, as willing and ready to perform it; only the remembrance that Belluile sent it him by a Lackey, and not by 〈◊〉 Gentleman, throws him into as much disdain as choler: but he resembling himself, passeth over this respect without respect, and so bids the Lackey tell his Master▪ that he will not fail to meet him at the hour and place appointed.  
The night doth, or should bring counsel: Belluile wisheth his Challenge unse●…▪ but it being out of his hands, it is out of his power to revoke or recall it. Poligny is 〈◊〉 a contrary temper, and glad in his acceptance thereof, desires that his Sword were 〈◊〉 action, as well as his courage in contemplation. So out-passing the night, which B●…uile passeth over with as much fear, as Poligny with generosity, the Curtains of the night being withdrawn, and the day appearing, ere five have strucken, Belluile notwithstanding is first on the Bridge, and Poligny immediately after him: they are without Seconds, and therefore they briefly unbrace, but not uncase their Doubl●…s, Belluile will be valorous in words; and so according to his challenge, and the right of Duels, offereth Poligny the sight and choice of his Rapier. Poligny is too brave to dye in his debt, upon the point of honour and magnanimity, and therefore gives him his, a●… contented with the refusal. So (courtesy for a while contending with valour) they both assume and accept of their own Rapiers; when dividing themselves, they joyn●… with resolution and fury. At first coming up, Poligny gives Belluile the first wound in his right Shoulder, without receiving any, whereat he is more affrighted than Poligny rejoiced; at the second, he receives another wound in the left side, but is not yet so happy to see, or assure himself, that his Rapier hath once touched Poligny's body, or which is less, his clothes: whereupon, considering Poligny's generosity, and comparing the bad grounds of his quarrel with the faintness and baseness of his courage, he throws off his Sword, prays Poligny to desist; for he holds himself satisfied. When Poligny disdaining to taint his honour with the least shadow of dishonour, in receiving Belluiles' shame, gives him the happiness and fruition of h●… life: and so they part. Lo here the first fruits of their foolish and lascivious affections to Laurieta: but I fear the second will prove more bitter and bloody▪ Belluile going home with his shame and repentance, and Poligny with his honour and glory, they hush themselves up in silence, Poligny at his Chamber, and Belluile at his Surgeon's house to dress his wounds, hoping that as they in their fight saw no body, so that none had seen them; but they are deceived: for two Soldiers from the Castle walls not only espy them fight, but know them. So they divulge it in the City, whereof Laurieta being advertised, she sends a confident Gentleman, a cousin german of hers, to find out Belluile and to know the truth and issue of his combat; but indeed his cowardice hath purchased him so much shame, as he will not be seen, much less spoken withal: which Lauricta understanding, begins conceive that the two Soldier's report was true, and that undoubtedly he and Poligny had met and fought in her behalf: whereupon guessing at the truth, that Poligny had given Belluile the foil, she was once of opinion to have written to Poligny, to be informed of the particulars and success of their combat, which so much imported as well her honour as her content. But Poligny's affection prevents her curiosity: for as she was calling for pen and paper, he in person ascends the stairs to her Chamber, where, after a complemental and courteous salute, he informs her (as we have formerly understood) that he hath given Belluile two wounds for her sake, and now his life for his own. She demands if he himself were not hurt; he answers, No. At both which good news she infinitely rejoiceth, and in token of her thankfulness permits him to gather many kisses, as well from the roses of her cheeks, as the cherries of her lips: and so from thenceforth he vows to be her professed servant; and she promiseth him to be, though not his Mistress, yet at least his friend. And here they unite and combine their affections: but that contract, and this familiarity, written only in vice, and sealed in lust, we shall shortly see canceled and annihilated, with as much pity, as infamy and misery, as the sequel of this History will show and demonstrate.  
Whiles thus Laurieta and Poligny are triumphing in Belluiles' foil, and their own familiarity and affection, how is it possible but he must infinitely grieve for his loss of Laurieta, and la Palaisiere as much sorrow to see herself deprived and out of hope of her Poligny? But they brook their afflictions and passions with variable resolutions; for while la Palaisiere is imbathing herself in her tears and discontents, Belluile is resolute to quench his revenge in Poligny's blood. For forgetting as well his God as his soul, his honour as himself, he intends to do it by the buy, and not by the main, by execrable treachery, not by magnanimous generosity; yea, the devil is so strong with his faith because that is so weak with his Saviour and Redeemer, as shutting the doors of his humanity and charity, he opens them to Choler, Revenge, and Murder; yea, and henceforth he is so enraged, and his looks are so ghastly and distracted▪ as if his thoughts were conducting and encouraging his hands to perpetrate some bloody stratagem and design: which is observed and doubted by his chiefest familiars and intimate friends, as also by la Palaisiere, whose company he sometimes frequents, not so much out of affection to her, as for consolation from her to himself, sith we are subject both to hope and believe that our afflictions are partly eased and diminished by the sight and relation of that of others, as sympathising and participating with them; first in their flames of love, then of grief and sorrow, in being disdained of those we love. Neither could Belluile so cunningly or closely rake up the fiery sparks of his malice ●…nd revenge, under the embers of silence and secrecy, but her affection to Poligny, and ●…ealousie of his good, made her so tender▪ eared, and sharp-sighted, as she overheard ●…ome words that either in jest o●… earnest ●…ell from Belluile's ●…ongue, whereby it was ap●…arent to her, that he intended no good, but portended a secret fatal malice to him, ●…ich a little time might too too soon and une●…pectedly discover: whe●…upon her love to Poligny was so dear and honourable, although he were so firmly entangled in the beauty of Laurieta, as he would not vouchsafe, rather disdained to love herself, that she thought the discovery of Belluiles' malice to Poligny, so much imported Poligny's good, as she held herself bound, as well in duty as affection, to reveal and relate it him; which she doth in this Letter:  
LA PALAISIERE to POLIGNY.  
TO testify thee now the constancy of my affection with ink, as I have formerly done the fervency thereof with tears, know, thou hast some cause to fear, and I to doubt, that Belluile hath some dangerous project, or bloody design to put in execution, against his honour, and thy life; and as I reveal it thee out of my care, so look thou prevent it out of thine own discretion, lest he bereave thee of thy life, as thou hast done him of his Laurieta, if thou slight this my advice, as thou hast already my affection: yet as I remain witness of the purity of the last, so will these lines bear testimony to the world of the candour and sincerity of the first. Neither do I presume to send them thee out of any irregular ambition, to purchase the honour of thy favour, but only to let thee know that my affection is both powerful and capable to shine thorough the clouds of thy disdain, and that the obscurity of that neither hath defaced the lustre, nor can eclipse the resplendency of this. Regard therefore thine own safety, albeit tho●… will't not respect my content, and although thou please not give me the honour to be thy Mistress, yet I will take the ambition and resolution to live and dye thine handmaid.  
LA PALAISIERE.  
Poligny breaking up the seals of this Letter, laughs to see la Palaisieres affection, and to understand Belluiles' malice; and being besotted with Laurieta, he lost both his wit and judgement in the sight and contemplation of her beauty, yea, he is grown so fond in his affection, and respect towards her, as he is arrived to the Meridian of this simplicity, to deem it a kind of treason to conceal any secret from her: to which end, he shows her lafoy Palaisieres Letter, which he makes his pastime, and she her May-game; yea, so vain is her folly, and so foolish her vanity, to see the passages and events of these their passions, as she not only exceeds the decorum of discretion, but of modesty in her laughter: and which is more, when she again considereth how Belluile loves herself, and not she him, lafoy Palaisiere Poligny, and not he her, it makes her redouble her mirth and exhilaration in such sort, as she seems to burst with the violence and excess thereof: but this mirth of hers shall be shortly waited and attended on with misery and mourning. But Poligny notwithstanding sees himself doubly obliged to la Palaisiere, as well for her affection to him, as her care of him, and so holds himself obliged in either of these respects and considerations, to requite her with a Letter: the which now unknown to Laurieta, he writes, and sends her to this effect:  
POLIGNY to LA PALAISIERE.  
IT is not the least of my joys, that Belluile cannot bear me so much malice, as thou dost affection. 'tis true, I have not deserved thy love, 'tis more true, I have not merited his hatred▪ for that proceeds from heaven, as a divine iufluence, this from hell, as an infernal frenzy▪ 〈◊〉 will not feed thee with hope, neither can he give me despair: for (not to dissemble) it i●… 〈◊〉 likely I may l●…ve ●…hee, as impossible I shall fear him: he may have the will to do 〈◊〉 hurt, I wish 〈◊〉 were in my power to do thee good; neither can he be more malicious to perform me that, than I will be ambitious to confirm thee this: his malice I entertain with much contempt, thy kind advice and sincere affection with infinite thanks: for when I consider thy Letter, I cannot rightly express or define, whether he begin to hate me, or I to love thee more. I doubt not but to make his deeds prove words to me, and I beseech thee fear not, but my words shall prove deeds to thee: for I am as confident shortly to salute fair la Palaisiere, as careless when I meet foolish Belluile.  
POLIGNY.  
Having thus dispeeded her his Letter, the vanity of his thoughts, and the beastliness of his concupiscence and sensuality, not only surpriseth his reason, but captivates his judgement; so as Laurieta's sight defacing Belluiles' memory, he thinks so much on her affection, as he respects not his malice: but this Vice and that error shall cost him dear. For whiles he is feasting his eyes on the dainties and rarities of Laurieta's beauty, Belluiles heart hath agreed with the devil to prepare him a bloody Banquet: Grace cannot contain him within her limits; therefore Impiety dallies so long with him, and he with Impiety, that at last this bloody sentence is passed in the court of his hellish resolutions, That Poligny must dye. The devil's assistance is never wanting in such infernal stratagems: for this is an infallible maxim, as remarkable as ruinous, That he always makes us fertile, not barren to do evil, never to do good. At first Belluile thinks on poison or Pistol to dispatch Poligny: but he finds the first too difficult to attempt; the second, too public to perform. Sometimes he is of opinion to ascend his Chamber, and murder him in his bed; then to shoot him ou●… at window as he passeth the street: but to conclude, understanding that he often comes very late in the night from Laurieta, he thinks it best to run him thorough with his Rapier, as he issueth forth her house. And to make short, hereon he resolves.  
Now to put the better colour on his villainy, he retires himself from Avignion, and lives privately some six days in Orange, giving it out, that he was gone to the City of Aix in Provence, where, at that famous court of Parliament he had a Process for a title of Land, shortly to be adjudged; and so in a dark night, taking none but his Lackey with him, he being disguised, in favour of money, passeth the gate of Avignion, and giving his horse to his Lackey, being secretly informed that Poligny was with Laurieta, he goes directly to her door, and there at the corner of a little street stands with his Rapier drawn under his cloak, with a revenging and greedy desire of blood to await Poligny's coming forth. The Clock striking one, the door is opened, and Poligny secretly issueth forth without candle, having purposely sent away his Lackey, who had then unwittingly carried away his Master's Rapier with him. He is no sooner in the street, but Bellnile, as a murderous villain, rusheth forth, and so like a limb of the Devil, sheaths his Rapier in his breast; when Poligny more hurt then amazed, and wanting his Sword, but not courage, indeavoureth by struggling to close with his assassinate; and so cries out for assi●…ance: but the dead of the night favoureth his butcherly attempt, when withdrawing his Sword, he redoubleth his cruelty, and so again runs him in at the small of the belly, thorough the reins, whereat he presently falls down dead to his feet, having the power to groan and cry, but not to utter a word. Which Belluile espying, and knowing him dispatched, runs to his horse, which his Lackey held ready at the corner of the next street, and so rides to the same gate he entered, which was kept ready for him; which passing, he with all expedition drives away for Orange: from whence, the next morn before day, he takes post for Aix, the better to conceal and o'er▪ veil this damnable Murder of his. But this policy of his shall deceive his hopes, and return him a fatal reward and interest. For although he can blear the eyes of men, yet he neither can, nor shall those of God, who in his due time will out of his sacred justice repay and punish him with confusion.  
By this time the street and neighbours have taken the alarm of this tragical accident: so Candles and Torches come from every where, only Laurieta having played the Whore before, will see me now (though falsely) to play the honest woman: for she, to cover her shame, will not discover that herself or any of her house are stirring: and so although she understood this news, and privately and bitterly wept thereat, yet she keeps fast her doors and, like an ingrateful strumpet will permit none of her servants for a long time to descend. The Criminal judge and Precedent of the Ciiy is advertised of this Murder. The dead Gentleman is known to be Mounsieur Poligny, and being beloved, he is exceedingly bewailed of all who knew him, and inquiry and search is made of all sides, and the Lieutenant Criminal shows himself wise, because honest, and curious, because wise in the perquisition of this blo●…dy Murder: but as yet time will not, or rather God, who is the Creator and giver of time, is not as yet pleased to bring it to light; only Laurieta knew, and la Palasiere suspected, and all those who were of the counsel of the one, or the acquaintance of the other, do likewise both fear and suspect, that only Belluile was the bloody and execrable author thereof; but to report or divulge so much, although they dare, they will not.  
As for la Palasiere, her thoughts are taken up and preoccupated with two several passions: for as she grieves at Poligny's death, so she rejoiceth that she hath no hand, nor was any way accessary to his Murder; rather, that if he had sailed by the compass of her advice, he had undoubtedly avoided the shipwreck of his life, and prevented the misfortune of his death; what to think of Belluile she knows not, b●… if he were her friend before, he hath now made and proclaimed himself her e●…my, by killing her dear and only friend Poligny: and therefore is resolved, that as she could never perfectly b●…ooke his company, so now this bloody fact shall make her detest both it and him. But let us a little leave her, and descend to speak of L●…rieta, to see how she brooks the murder of her intimate friend Poligny: for sith she●… assuredly knows and believes that this cruel Murder was performed by no other, b●… by her professed enemy Belluile, or by some of his bloody agents, love and revenge conspire to act two different Scenes upon the Theatre of her heart: for in memory and deep affection to her Poligny, her pearled tears and mournful sighs infinitely deplore and bewail his disastrous end; so as sorrow withering the roses of her cheeks, and grief making her cast off her glittering, to take on mournful attire, she could not refrain from giving all Avignion notice how pleasing Poligny's life was to her, by the excess of her lamentations and afflictions demonstrated for his death; o●… if her sighs found any consolation, or her tears recess or truce, it was administered her by her revenge, which she conceived and intended towards Belluile, for this his bloody fact. So as consulting with Choler, not with Reason, with Nature, no●… with Grace, with Satan, not with God, she vows to be sharply revenged of him, and to make him pay dear for this his base and treacherous Murder; yea, the fumes and fury of her revenge are so implacable, and transport her resolutions to so bloody an impetuosity, that resembling her sex and self, she inhumanely and sacrilegiously darts forth an oath, which her heart sends to her soul, and her soul from Earth to Hell, that if the means find not her, she will infallibly find out the means to quench and dry up her tears for Poligny's death, in the blood of Belluile: which, sith she is so devoid of reason, religion, and grace, I fear we shall shortly see her attempt and perform. But leaving her in Avignion, let us find out Belluile in Aix, who is a Gentleman so profane in his life, and debauched in his actions and conversations, as in stead of repenting he triumphs at this his Murder; yea, he is become so impious and impudent, as he grieves not thereat, but only that he had not sooner dispatched his rival Poligny: but the better to delude the world, that neither his hand or sword were guilty in sending Poligny from this world in a bloody winding sheet, his thoughts like so many hounds pursuing his conscience, and his conscience his soul, he thinks himself not safe in Aix, where the sharp-sighted Precedents, and Counsellors of that illustrious Senate of Parliament might at last accuse and find him out for the Author of this bloody Murder; and therefore leaves both it and Provence, and so rides to the City of Lions, accompanied with none but his two Lackeys, who, to write the truth, act●…d no part in Poligny's mournful Tragedy; neither doth he yet think himself safe there: but within a month after the Murder, thinking directly and securely to fly from the eyes and hands of justice, thereby to avoid the storm of his punishment, he again takes horse for that great City and Forest Paris, where he hoped the infinite number of People, Streets, Coaches, and Horses would not only secure his fear, but prevent his danger, and that here, as in a secure Sanctuary and safe harbour, he might quietly ride at anchor in all peace and tranquillity: but (as before) the time is not yet come of his punishment; for it may be, God, out of his inscrutable will and Divine providence, will, when he best pleaseth, return him from whence he came, and by some extraordinary accident make him there feel the foulness of his fact, in the sharpness and suddenness of his punishment; which, as a fierce gust and bitter storm, shall then surprise him, when he lest suspects or dreams thereof. But in this interim of his residence, he forgets his new fact of Murder, to remember his old sins of Concupiscence and Whoredom; and so rather like a lascivious Courtier, than a civil moral Christian, he cannot see the Church for the Stews, nor the Preachers or Priests for Panders and Strumpets. But this vanity of his shall cost him dear, and he shall be so miserable to feel the punishment, sith he will not be so happy to seek the means to avoid it: for now six months having exhausted and dissipated the greatest part of his gold, and his credit coming short of his hopes, it seems the air of Paris is displeasing to him, sith he cannot be agreeable to it; and therefore (necessity giving a law to the vanity of his desires) he begins to loathe the I'll of France, to love the Province of Provence, and to leave Paris to see Avignion. And now it is, that the devil, that subtle and fatal seducer, steps in, and at one time bewitching both his reason and judgement, presents him afresh with the freshness and delicacy of Laurieta's beauty, which so enkindleth and revives the sparks of his affection, that lay raked up in the ashes of silence, as he vows there is no beauty to hers; and if he chance espy any fair Ladies, either at Court, or in the City, he presently affirmeth, and infinitely protesteth, they come far short of his Laurieta's delicacy, perfection, and grace; so as his purse tyrannising o'er his ambition, and his concupiscence o'er his judgement, he not so much as once dreaming of the implacable hatred she formerly bo●…e him, and thinking it impossible for her to conceive, much less to know that he murdered Poligny, he is constant and resolute to reseeke the felicity to live in her favour and affection, or to dye in the pursuit thereof; but that will prove as impossible, as this apparent and feasable. So as absence adding fire to his lust, and excellency to her beauty, he is resolute to send one of his Lackeys to Avignion; partly to return with money, and so to meet him at Lions, Mo●…lins, or Nevers; but more especially, in great secrecy to deliver a Letter to his fa re and sweet L●…urieta, and to bring him back her answer, as if he were still at Paris, and not in his journey downwards. When meaning as yet to conceal his Murder of Poligny, he calling for pen and paper, traceth her thereon these lines:  
BELLVILE to LAURIETA.  
IF Poligny had but the thousandth part as truly respected me, as I dear loved thee, thou hadst not so soon cast me out of thy favour, nor God so suddenly him out of this world: but I know not whether more to bewail my unfortunacie occasioned by thy cruelty, or his misery engendered through his own treachery. And indeed, as I grieve at that, so I sorrow at this; for although ●…ee died mine enemy, yet in despite of his malice and death, I will live his friend: and if thou lovedst him, as I think thou didst, I wish I might fight with his Murderer for his own sake, and kill him for thine. I may say thy affection and beauty deserved his better, though dare not affirm I am reserved to be made happy in enjoying of either, much less of both, and least of all, of thyself; and yet I must confess, that if our births and qualities were known, I should go as near to be thy equal as he infinitely came short of being mine. What, or what not, I have performed for thy sake, is best known to myself, sith thou disdainest to know it: but if thou wilt please to abandon thy disdain, than my affection and the truth will inform thee, that I have ever constantly resolved to die thy Servant, though thou have sworn never to live my Mistress. So that could I but as happily regain thy affection and favour, as I have unjustly and unfortunately lost it, Belluile would qu●…ckely forsake Paris to see Avignion, and abandon all the beauties of the world, to continue his homage and service to that of his only fair and sweet Laurieta.  
BELLVILE.  
With this his Letter he sends a Diamond Ring from his finger, and so dispatcheth his Lackey, who is not long before he arrive at Avignion, where very secretly he delivers Laurieta his Master's Token and Letter; and treacherous fury as she is, she kisseth both, and breaking off the Seals, reads the contents, whereat she infinitely seems to rejoice, and so questioneth with the Lackey about his Master's return; who being taught his Lesson, told her that that depended on her pleasure, sith hers was his, and withal prays her for an answer; for that two days hence he was again to return to his Master for Paris: the which she promiseth. The Lackey gone, she cannot refrain from laughing, yea, she leaps for joy, to see how Belluile is again so besotted, to throw himself into her favour and mercy, and to observe how willing and forward he was to run hoodwinked to his untimely death and destruction: for the Devil hath fortified her in her former bloody resolution; so that hap what will, she vows she will not fail to kill Belluile, because he had slain her Poligny, and already she wisheth him in Avignion, that she might see an end to this her wished and desired Tragedy. In the mean time she prepares her hypocritical and treacherous Letter, and a rich Watchet Scarf embroidered with flames of silver. So his Lackey repaireth to her, to whom she delivereth both, with remembrance of her best love to his Master, and that she hoped shortly to see him in Avignion. The Lackey being provided of his Master's Gold, and this Scarf and Letter, trips away speedily for Lions, where he finds his Master privately hushed up in a friend's house, expecting his return; he is glad of his own gold, but more of Laurieta's Letter, when thinking every minute a year before he had read it, he hastily breaking off the seals, finds these lines therein contained:  
LAURIETA to BELLVILE.  
AS I acknowledge I loved Poligny, so I confess I never hated thee; and if his treacherous insinuation were too prevalent with my credulity, I beseech thee attribute it to my indiscretion, as being a woman, and not to my inconstancy, as being thy friend: for if he died thine enemy, let it suffice that I live thine handmaid, and that as he was not reserved for me, so I hope I am wholly for thyself. How far he was my inferior, I will not inquire, only it is both my content and honour, that thou please vouchsafe to repute me thy equal. I am so far from disdaining, as I infinitely desire to know what thou hast done for my sake, that I may requite thy love with kisses, and make my thanks wipe off the conceit of my ingratitude. As for my affection, it was never lost to thee, nor shall ever be found but of thee. To conclude, I wish that our little Avignion were thy great Paris, and if ●…y love be as unfeigned as mine is firm, let my Belluile make haste to see his Laurieta, who hath vowed to rejoice a thousand times more at his return, than ever she grieved at Poligny's death.  
LAURIETA.  
At the reading of this her Letter he is beyond himself, yea beyond the Moon for joy; so as he wisheth nothing so much, as himself in her arms, or she in his. So he fits himself with a couple of good horses, puts his Lackeys into new Suits, and knowing that time and his absence had washed away the remembrance of Poligny's murder, he speeds away for Avignion; where the first night of his arrival he privately visiteth Laurieta, 'twixt whom there is nothing but kisses and embrace; yea, she so treacherously and sweetly lulles him ●…leepe with the Siren melody of her deceitful speeches, as she prays him to visit her often, and that a little time shall crown him with the fruits of his desire: so for that night they part. The n●…xt day he repairs to her again, when amidst the confluence of many millions of kisses, she prays and conjures him to discover her what he hath done for her sake; when he tying her by oath to secrecy, and she swearing it, he relates her that it was hims●…fe, that in affection to her had slain Poligny, as he issued forth her lodging: when having wrested and extorted this mystery from him, it confirms her malice▪ and hasteneth on her resolution of his death, which his lascivious thoughts have neither ●…he grace to foresee, nor the reason to prevent: she espies he hath still a Pistol with him, and desires to know why he bears it; who answereth her, it is to defend himself from his enemies▪ and that he will never go without it. So again they fall to their kisses, and he to his requests of a further and sweeter favour of her; which she for that time again denies him, adding withal, that if he will come to her after dinner to morrow, she will so dispose of matters, as his pleasure shall be hers, and she will not be her own, but his. So being surprised and ravish●…d with the ecstasy of a thousand sweet approaching pleasures, he returns to his Chamber, and she to her malice: where whiles he gluts himself with his hope of delight, she doth no less with her desire of revenge. And now ruminating on the manner of his death, she thinks nothing so fit or easy to dispatch him, as his own Pistol: and so thinking she should need her waiting-maid Lucilla's assistance (of whom this our History hath formerly made mention) she acquaints her with her purpose, the next day to murder Belluile in her Chamber: and so with the lure of gold, and many fair promises, draws her to consent hereunto, and injoines her to be provided of a good Poniard under her gown for the same purpose, if need should require; which Lucilla promiseth. Now this night, as Belluile could not sleep for joy, so could not Laurieta for revenge, who is so weighed down to malice and murder, as she wisheth the hour come for her to reduce her devilish contemplation into bloody action. But this hour shall come too soon for them both: for as Lovers are impatient of delays, so Belluile hath no sooner dined, but taking his horse and two Lackeys, he says he will take the air of the fields that afternoon, but will first call in and see his Mistress Laurieta. So he alights at her door, and without the least fear of danger or apprehension of death, very joyfully ascends Lauriet●…'s chamber; who, dissembling wretch as she is, very kindly meets and receives him: and the better to smother and dissemble her murderous intent, is not only prodigal in taking but in giving him kisses. Belluile, like a dissolute and lascivious Gentleman, whispers Laurieta in her ear, that he is come to receive the fruits of his hopes, and of her promise and courtesy: when considering that his horse and two Lackeys were at door, she returns him this in his ear, that she is wholly his, and that it is out of her power to deny or refuse him any thing, only she prays him to send away his Lackeys, because their familiarity needed no witnesses. Thus whiles he calls them up, to bid them carry away his horse to the gate that leads to Marseilles, and there to await his coming, Laurieta steps to her waiting-maid Lucilla, and bids her make ready her Poniard, and stand close to her: for now (quoth she) the hour is come that I will be revenged of Belluile for my Poligny's death: the which she had no sooner spoken, but Belluile returns to her; when redoubling his kisses, he little, or rather not at all fearing he was so near death, or death him, being ready to retire himself to a withdrawing Chamber, which Laurieta treacherously informed him she had purposely provided for him, he takes his Pistol, and lays it on the Table of the outer Chamber, wherein they then were; which she espying, as the instrument she infinitely desired to finger, takes it in her hand, and prays him to show her how to shoot it off: so taking it from her, he told her, if she pleased, he would discharge it before her, for her sake. Why (quoth she) is it charged? Yea, replies Belluile, with a single bullet. Nay then (quoth Laurieta) put in one bullet more, and if you can espy any Crow out of the window, either on the house or Church top, if it please you, I will play the man, and shoot at it for your sake: When poor Belluile, desirous to please her in any thing, looks out the window, and espies two Crows on the cross of the Augustine Friars Church, which he very joyfully relates Laurieta; and so at her request claps in a second bullet more: for (quoth ●…he) if I strike not both, I will be sure to pay one; and so prays him to lean out at window, to see how near she could feather them: which (miserable Gentleman) he performing, the Pistol being bend, she behind him dischargeth it directly in his own reins. Whereat he amazedly staggering, Lucilla seconding her bloody Mistress, steps to him, and with her Poniard gives him five or six wounds thorough the body; so as without speaking or groaning, he falls dead at their feet. Whereat Laurieta triumphing and leaping for joy, uttereth these bloody and profane speeches: O Poligny, whiles thou art in heaven, thus have I done in earth for thy sake, and in revenge of thy cruel death! Which having performed, they more cruelly than cruelty herself, drag his breathless carcase, reeking in his blood, down the stairs, into a low obscure Cellar, where making a shallow grave, they there bury him in his clothes, and so pile up a great quantity of Billets on him; as if that wooden monument had power to conceal their Murder, and his body from the eyes and suspicion of all the world. Good God! what devils incarnate, and infernal Furies are these, thus to imbrue their hands in the blood of this Gentleman? But as close as they act and contrive this their bloody and inhuman Murder on earth, yet heaven will both detect and revenge it: for when they least dream thereof, God's wrath and vengeance will surprise them, to their utter confusion and destruction, and it may be sooner than they are aware of.  
For the two Lackeys having stayed at the City gate with their Master's horse till night, they return and seek him at Laurieta's house, where they left him; Laurieta informs them he stayed not an hour after them, and since she saw him not; which news doth infinitely afflict and vex them. But they return to his lodging, and like dutiful and faithful servants, betwixt hope and fear, await his return that night, and all the next day; but in vain. And now they begin to be amazed at his long and unaccustomed absence, and so consult this important business to some Gentlemen, their Master's confident and intimate friends; who together with them repair to Laurieta's house, and again and again demand her for Mounsieur de Belluile: but they find her constant in her first answer, and yet guided by the finger and providence of God, they bewray a kind of perturbation in her looks, and discover some distraction and extavagancie in her speeches: whereupon calling to their minds her former discourtesy to him for Poligny's sake, and his fight with him on the Bridge for hers, as also this sudden and violent suspected murder of him, they suspect and fear there is more in the wind then as yet they know; and so acquaint the Criminal judges herewith, who as wise Senators, having severally examined both her and her Maid Lucilla, and Belluile's Lackeys, they conclude to imprison Laurieta; which is instantly performed: whereat she is extremely amazed and terrified; but howsoever, she is resolute to deny all, and constant to stand upon her justification and innocence. So her judges adjudge her to the torments of the Rack, which (with a masculine, yea, with a hellish fortitude) she endureth, without revealing the least shadow, either of fear or guiltiness; but they detain her still prisoner, and hope that God will make time discover the Murder of Belluile; for eight days being now past, they are become confident that he is not in this world, but in another. In the mean time her bloody waiting-maid Lucilla hath continual recourse to her Lady Laurieta in prison, where, like impious and profane wretches, they interchangeably swear secrecy each to other, sith on either's discovery depends no less than both their deaths.  
Whiles this news is generally divulged in Avignion, Provence, Dauphin, and Langue●…k, and no news at all to be had or gathered of Belluile, La Palaisiere, who shined with as many virtues as L●…urieta was obscured with Vices, out of compassion and Christian charity, some three weeks after visiteth Laurieta in prison, although she partly believed and knew, that she never affected or loved her▪ when aiming to add consolation to her afflictions, as God would have it, Laurieta, out of her ignorance or folly, returns lafoy 〈◊〉 this unlooked for answer: That herself was as innocent of Belluile's death, as she was of Poligny's. Which words being overheard by some curious head of the company, were instantly carried and reported to the Criminal judges, who instantly cause lafoy Palaisiere to be apprehended and brought before them, whom they examine upon Poligny's death; which doth no way aff●…ight or afflict her, because her conscience was untainted, and herself as innocent as innocence herself thereof. They deal further with her, to understand the passages of former businesses betwixt herself, Po●…gny, and Belluile. She gives them a true and faithful account thereof, yea, and relates them as much and no more, than this History hath formerly related us; and to verify and confirm her speeches, like a discreet young Gentlewoman, she gives them the keys of a Trunk of hers, wherein she saith is her copy of a Letter she wrote to Poligny, and his answer again to her, which she prays them to send for, for her better clearing and discharge. The judges send speedily away for these Letters, which are found, produced, and read, directly concurring with the true circumstance of her former deposition: whereupon with much applause and commendation they acquit and discharge her. But if lafoy Palaisiers Virtues have cleared her, Laurieta's Vices (which the judges begin to smell out by Poligny's Letter) do the more narrowly and straight imprison her; and yet knowing that la Palasiere neither had, nor could any way accuse her, for either of these two Murders, she sets a good face on her bad heart, and so very bravely frollikes it in prison, and to speak truth, with far more joy, and less fear than heretofore: but to check and overthrow these vain triumphs of hers in their birth, and to ni●… them in their b●…ds, news is brought her that her Waiting maid Lucilla is secretly fled; which her judge's understanding, they now more vehemently than ever heretofore suspect, that (without doubt) Laurieta was the author, and her Maid Lucilla the accessary of Belluile's Murder: and so they set all the city and country for her apprehension. And this news indeed makes Laurieta fear that she will i●…allibly be taken, which doth afflict and ama●…e her, and indeed here at she cannot refrain from biting her lip, and hanging down her head. But see the miraculous and just judgement of the Lord, upon this wretched and bloody Lucilla! for she, for fear flying, as it is supposed, that night from Avignion to Orange, to her parents, was there drowned, and the next morn found and taken up dead in one of the Fenny Lakes betwixt the two Cities. Which news being reported to Laurieta, she again converts her fear into hope, and sorrows into joys, as knowing well that dead bodies can tell no tales. But the wisdom and integrity of the judges, by the apparency of Laurieta's crime in that of her Wayting-mayds flight, again command her to be racked: but the devil is yet so strong with her, and she with the devil, that she again endures the cruelty of these torments with a wonderful patience, with an admirable constancy and resolution, and so courageously and stoutly denying her crime, and peremptorily maintaining her innocence and justification, her judges, led by the consideration of the sharpness and bitterness of her torments, as also that they could find no direct proof or substantial evidence against her, begin to conceive and imagine that it might be the waiting-maid, and not the Mistress, that had sent Belluile into another world; and so resolve, the week following, if they heard nothing in the mean time to accuse Laurieta, to release and acquit her: which Laurieta understanding, the torments which her limbs and body feel are nothing in respect of those contentments and joys her heart and thoughts conceive; and already building castles and triumphs in her hea●… and contemplations, for the hope and joy of her speedy enlargement, she, in her appare●… and behaviour, flaunts it out far braver than before. But she hath not yet made he●… peace with her judges, neither have they pronounced her Quieta est. And alas, how foolishly and ignorantly doth the vanity of her hopes deceive and betray her, when●… the foulness of her soul, and contamination of her conscience, every hour and minute prompt her, that God, the judge of judges, who hath seen, will in his good time and pleasure both detect and punish as well her whoredom as her murder, in he●… death! And lo, here comes both the cause and the manner thereof, wherein God's providence and justice do miraculously resplend and shine.  
For Laurieta being indebted to her Landlord Mounsieur de Riehcourt, as well for a whole years rend, as for three hundred Livres in money, which he had lent her, being impatient of her delays, but more of her disgrace, le's out that part of his house, which she held of him, to the Dean of Carpentras, who for his health's sake came to sojourn that Winter in Avignion; and despairing of her enlargement, and to satisfy himself, begins to sell away her householdstuff, yea, to the very Billets which she had in her Cellar, which he retains for himself; whereof when his servants came to clear the Cellar, they removing the last Billets, find the earth newly removed and opened in the length and proportion of a Grave: whereof wondering, they presently inform their Master, who viewing the same, as God would have it, he instantly apprehended and believed, that Laurieta had undoubtedly killed Belluile, and there buried him: when not permitting his servants to remove the least jot of earth, he as a discreet and honest Citizen, with all possible celerity trips away to the Criminal judges, and acquaints them herewith; who concurring with Richcourt in his opinion and belief, they dispeed themselves to his house and Cellar, where causing the new opened earth to be removed, behold, they find the miserable dead body of Belluile there inhumanely thrown in and buried in his clothes, which causing to be taken off, thereby to search his body, they find himshot into the reins with two Pistol bullets, and his body stabbed and p●…erced with six several wounds of a Rapier or Poniard: they are amazed at this pitiful and lamentable spectacle; and so resting confident it could be no other but Laurieta and her Maid Lucilla, that had committed this cruel Murder, they very privately and secretly cause Belluiles dead body to be conveyed to the prison, and there, when Laurieta lest dreamt thereof, expose it to her sight, and in rough terms charge and cry out upon her for this Murder; but this monster of nature, and she-devil of her sex, hath yet her heart so obdurated with revenge, and her soul so p'erclouded and benumbed with impiety, as she is nothing daunted or terrified with the sight hereof; but with many fearful imprecations and asseverations stands peremptorily in her innocence, and out of the heat of her malice and choler terms them devils or witches, that are her accusers. But her judges, who can no longer be deluded with her vows, nor will no more give ear to her perfidious oaths, command to have her Paps seared off with hot burning Pincers, thereby to vindicate the truth of her cruel murder, from the falsehood of her impious and impudent denial thereof. Whereat amazed and astonished, and seeing this cruel torment ready to be inflicted and presented her, God was so indulgent to her sins, and so merciful to her soul, as the devil flying from her, and she from his temptations, she raining down many rivulets and showers of tears from her eyes, and evaporating many volleys of sighs from her heart, throwing herself down on her knees to the earth, and lifting up her eyes and hands unto Heaven, with much bewailing and bitterness, she at last confesseth to her judges, that she and her waiting-maid Lucilla were the murderers of Belluile, and for the which she said, that through her humble contrition and hearty repentance, she hoped that God would pardon her soul in the life to come, though she knew they would not her body in this. Whereupon the judges, in horror and execration of her inhuman and bloody crime, pronounce sentence of death upon her, and condemn her the next day after dinner, first to be hanged, then burnt in the same street, right against her lodging, Monsieur de Richcourts' house; and likewise, sith Lucilla was both an accessary and actor in this bloody Tragedy, that her body should be taken up out of her Grave, and likewise burnt with hers in the same fire: which accordingly was executed in the presence of an infinite number of people both of the Citizens, and adjacent neighbours of Avignion; Laurieta uttering upon the Ladder a short, but a most Christian and penitent speech to the people, tending first to dissuade them all by her example from those foul and crying sins of whoredom, revenge, and murder; and then to request and persuade them, that they would assist her with their religious and devout prayers in her soul's passage and flight towards Heaven: yet adding withal, that as her crime, so her grief was redoubled, because as she had killed Belluile for Poligny's sake, so she was sure that Belluile had killed Poligny for hers.  
And thus, Christian Reader, were the dissolute lives and mournful deaths of these two unfortunate Gentlemen, Poligny and Belluile, and of this lascivious and bloody Cur●…izan Laurieta, and her waiting-maid Lucilla. A tragical History, worthy both of our observation and detestation; and indeed, these are the bitter fruits of Lust, Whore●…ome, and Revenge, and the inseparable companions which infallibly await and attend them; the very sight and consideration whereof are capable, not only to administer consolation to the righteous, but to strike terror to the ungodly. O therefore, that we may all beware by these their fatal and dangerous sins: for this is the only perfect and true way to prevent and avoid their punishments.   

GOD'S REVENGE AGAINST THE CRYING AND EXEcrable sin of Murder.  
HISTORY IX.  
jacomo de Castelnovo justfully falls in love with his daughter in law Perina, his own son Francisco de Castelnovo's Wife; whom to enjoy, he causeth jerantha first to poison his own Lady Fidelia, and then his said son Francisco de Castelnovo: in revenge whereof, Perina treacherously murthereth him in his bed. jerantha, ready to dye in travel of child, confesseth her two Murders; for the which she is banged and burnt. Perina hath her right hand cut off, and is condemned to perpetual imprisonment, where she sorrowfully languisheth and dies.  
We need not send our curiosity (or our curiosity us) to seek Tigers and Monsters in Africa; for Europe hath but too many, who are so cruel and inhuman, not only to imbrue, but to imbath themselves in the innocent blood of their Christian brethren. And as Religion prohibits us to kill, and commands us to love our enemies; with what audacious and profane impiety dare we then murder our friends, nay those of our own blood, and who are the greatest part of ourselves? And although Italy have lately afforded many tragical precedents, and fearful Examples of this nature (whe●…of I have given some to my former, and reserved others to my future books) yet in my conceit it hath produced none more bloody and inhuman than this, whether we respect the Murders or the persons. For here we shall see a wretched and execrable old man so besotted in lust, and flaming in malice and revenge, as being both a husband and a father, he by a hellish young Gentlewoman (his strumpet) poyson●…th both his own wife and his own son: It was his vanity which first enkindled the fire of his lust; it is then his Impiety which gives way to the Devil to blow the coals thereto, and so to convert it into Murder. O that Sin should so triumph o'er Grace, and not Grace o'er Sin! O that Age and Nature should not teach us to be less bloody, and more compassionate and charitable! And alas, alas, by Poison, that drug of the Devil, who first brought the damnable invention thereof from hell, to be practised here on earth only by his agents and members! We shall likewise see him killed by his daughter in law, for formerly poisoning of her husband: Lust seduced him to perpetra●…e those; Affection, or rather bloody Revenge, drew her on to perform this, and consequently to her punishment due for the same. Had they had more Grace and Religion, they would not have been so inhuman; but falling from that, no marvel if they fell to be so wretched and miserable: for if we die well, we seldom live ill; if live ill, we usually never die well: for it is the end that crowns the beginning, not the beginning the end. Therefore if we will be happy in our lives, and blessed in our deaths, we must follow Virtue, and fly from Vice, love Chastity and Charity, and hate Lust and Envy, prefer Heaven before Earth, our Souls before our Bodies, and defy Satan, with a holy resolution both to fear and love God.  
SAvoy is the Country, and Nice the City (seated upon the Mediterrane●…m Sea, being the strongest Bulwark against France; and the best For●…resse and Key of Italy) where the Scene of this ensuing Tragical History is laid: the which to refetch from the Head-spring and Fountain of its original, it must carry our curiosity and understanding over those famous Mountains, the Alpes, and from thence to the City of Saint john de Mauriena; where of late and fresh memory dwelled an aged Gentleman, of rich revenues and great wealth, named Signior Antonio de Arconeto, who had newly by his deceased Wife, the Lady Eleanora de Bibanti, two Children, to wit, a Son, and a Daughter; that, named Signior Alexandro, and this, the Lady Perina; a little different in years, for he was eighteen, and she but fifteen; but more in qualities and conditions, for he was by nature perverse and choleric, but she, mild, courteous, and gracious: Again, they differed much in the lineaments and proportion of their bodies; for Alexandro, like his Father, was short, crook-backt, and hard-favoured; and Perina resembling her mother, tall, straight-wasted, and fair: so as it being a principle and Maxim in Nature, that parents (for the most part) love those Children best, who best resemble them; as the mother Eleanora preferred Perina in her affection before Alexandro, so chose their father Arconeto did Alexandro before Perina. But as God had called Eleanora out of this life, and left her husband Arconeto to survive her; so Alexandro's joy proved his sister Perina's mise●…y and affliction for he was so happy to see himself tenderly cherished and affected, and she so unfortunate to perceive herself slighted and disrespected of her father: wherein, as I praise Arconeto's intimate love to his son, so I cannot but discommend, and withal pity his immerited and unnatural neglect to his daughter: wherein, as Alexandro triumphed in the one, judge judicious Reader, if Perina had not cause enough to grieve and lament at the other. But as the drift and scope of this History looks another way, so for my part, who have u●…dertaken to pen it, it is the least of my intent 〈◊〉 purpose to give instructions and direction, how parents should bear themselves in their affections towards their children; only, because I may not here too palpably bewray mine ignorance in my silence, I hope, nay, I am confident, that with as much truth a●… safety I may conclude, it is a happiness both for parens and children, where parents bear their aff●…ctions equally to their children: for loving one, and hating another, the joy of the one proves oftentimes the others sorrow; and in giving that too muc●… hope, we many times administer this too much cause of despair; or if the inclinations and aff●…ctions of parents be more narrowly tied, and strictly linked to prefer and love one child above the other, yet sith they are the equal issue of their loins, and we the only parents of their youth, we should be as well cautious in the distribution of our favours, a in the demonstration of our disrespects towards them. But enough of this digression; and now again to our H●…story.  
As Alexandro grows up in years, so he doth in ambition and ostentation: for if he play the Brav●…sho abroad among Gentlemen and Ladies, so authorizd by his father's hatred of his sister, he at home becomes a petty tyrant to her; yea, his carriage is so stern and imperious towards her, as if she were rather his slave then his sister, or his laundres and handmaid, than any part of himself, which notwithstanding it was both a daily grief to her heart, and a continual torment to her thoughts, yet Perina's sweet perfections, and gracious virtues and behaviour, make her digest and brook all with wonderful constancy, and an admirable patience: for well she knows that if she should complain 〈◊〉 her father of her brother's unkindness towards her, she should thereby reap no other remedy and redress but this, that the one would laugh, and the other triumph thereat; and that the issue thereof would prove her complaints to be the May game of the one, and mocking-stock of the other. But God hath ordained briefly to ease her of a great part of her undeserved discontents and afflictions: for lo, her brother Alexandro, debauching and surfeiting at a Banquet at Susa, returns home, surprised of a hot pestilent Fever, which notwithstanding the care of his Father, or the art of his expertest Physicians, he in three days is taken out of this life.  
And now guided by the light of nature, and the instinct of common sense and reason, who would not surmise or think, but that Arconeto, having buried his son Alexandro, should now love his only daughter and child Perina far dearer and tenderer than before. But alas, nothing less: for he is not so kind, and therefore she cannot be so happy; yea, which is worse, although his words be her commands, and his pleasure her law, yet he contemns both her and her obedience, and never looks on her with love and affection, but still with disdain and envy: yea, in a word, his distaste is so extreme and bitter against her, as he is never best pleased, then when she is furthest from him; so as her absence may delight and content him, but her presence cannot. Which unnatural disrespect; and unjust cruelty of her father towards her, doth so nip the joys of her youth, and the blossoms of her health and beauty, as, poor young Gentlewoman, she becomes infinite melancholy, and extreme weak and sickly; which being observed and pitied of all her kinsfolks and friends, as being her Father's only child, and heir to all his Lands and Riches, an Aunt of hers, being her mother's sister, and likewise her Godmother, termed the Lady Dominica, a Widow-woman of the same City; works so with her brother in law Arconeto, that he is content to permit his daughter Perina to reside and dwell with her: whereat, as the Aunt is not a little glad, so the Niece beyond measure infinitely rejoiceth, and triumphs thereat, both hoping that her absence may, and will procure her father's affection, which her presence could not; and that having more liberty and less bondage, she might again in a short time recover her former health and content; or else that God, out of his divine providence, and pleasure in heaven, might call and allot her out some gallant Husband here on earth, with whom, in the contents and pleasures of Marriage, she might end her future days in as much tranquillity and felicity, as she had formerly lived in discontent and affliction: and indeed the events, though not in the first, yet in the two last points, answereth their expectations.  
The Lady Dominica hath formerly contracted a Daughter of hers, named Dona Bertha, to a Cavalier of the City of Nice, termed Signior Bartholome●… Spelassi, by descent noble, and of good revenues and wealth. And now the appointed time is come for their Marriage: to which end, up comes Spelassi from Nice to Saint john de Mauriene, assisted and followed by many gallant young Gentlemen of his kinsfolks and friends, and, in a word, with a Train well befitting his rank and quality, where these Nuptials are solemnised with great variety of pomp and pleasure; as Feasting, Dancing, Masks, Running at the Ring, and the like: for in these amorous and Courtlike Revels, the Savoyards' (as participating both of the French and Italian humours) take a singular delight and felicity: But as many times one Wedding occasioneth and produceth another, so Fortune, or to speak more properly and truly, God ordained, that the Lady Dominica appointed her Niece Perina, to conduct the Bridegroom her Son in law, Spelassi, to the Church; and he had allotted one of the noblest and eminent Cavaliers that came with him, named Signior Francisco de Castelnovo, to perform the same ceremony to his Bride the Dona Bertha, being a Knight of Malta, native of the City of Nice, and son and heir to Signior jacomo de Castel●…o, a very an●… fe●…t and rich Baron of Savoy. Now as Perina was a most beautiful and ●…aire young Lady, so was our young Castelnovo a very proper and gallant Cavalier; and sith the occasion of this Marriage, and the fortunacie and opportunity of their united office, by a kind of destinated and happy privilege, authorised each to be familiar in the others company and presence: so, as Lovers begin to court first in jest, then in earnest, the hearts and breasts of this sweet young couple are in the end equally surprised with the flame of affection; yea, his personage and dancing, and her beauty and singing, mutually enkindle this fire of love in their thoughts and contemplations, which either imagineth, and both perceive and understand, by the dumb Oratory and silent Rhetoric of their eyes: Which Castelnovo knowing her descent and quality answerable to his, he intends to seek her in Marriage. When not any longer to surpress or conceal their affections, they after dinner dancing in company of divers others in the garden, he singleth the Lady Perina, his new Mistress, apart in a Bower closely overvailed with Vines, Cicamores, and Cypress Trees, and there 'twixt sighs and words, reveals his deep affection to her. But to avoid the prolixious relation of this their Garden ente●…view and conference, although at first Perina's modesty (the sweetest ornament and virtue of a Lady) was such, as she not only kept herself, but likewise her affections to herself, yet her courteous and thankful answers, waited and seconded by many delicious blushes, and amorous sighs, although not publicly, yet privately informed her I over Castelnovo, that she likewise loved him: so as during the term of fifteen days, which Spelassi and he remained in Saint john de Mauriene, he never l●…ft courting her, till he had obtained her affection, and consent to be his wife; drawn thereunto by these two attractive and seducing reasons: First, that Castelnovo was a gallant and proper Cavalier, as also her equal in descent and means; and than that she should live in Nice with a Husband who dear loved her, and no longer in Saint john de Mauriene with a Father who extremely hated her: Neither can these our young Lovers bear their affections so secret, but the whole company, especially the Lady Dominica her Aunt perceives it, and deeming it a fit Match for her Niece, rejoiceth thereat. Castelnovo secretly acquaints her therewith, and entreats her best assistance therein towards her brother Arconeto; which she promiseth, and forthwith attempteth: when Castelnovo, taking time at advantage, seconds her in his suit for the Daughter, to her old Father.  
Now her Father Arconeto (degenerating from the natural affection of a Father towards his Daughter) is so willing to depart with her to any Husband, that he may no more see her, nor be troubled with her presence, as thinking a far worse Match good enough, he thinks this infinitely too good for her; and so at the least shadow of the very first motion consents thereunto: which not only banisheth Perina's old grief, but confirmeth Castelnovo's new joys; yea they, like two sweet and virtuous Lovers, so extremely rejoice and triumph thereat, as he riding home post to Nice, to acquaint his own Father Signior jacomo de Castelnovo therewith, and swiftly returning again to Saint john de Mauriene with his consent and approbation, this Marriage of Castelnovo and Perina is there almost as soon solemnised, as that of Spelassi and Bertha, though indeed more obscure, and with far less pomp and bravery, in resp●…ct of the perverseness and distaste of her froward old Father Arconeto. So fifteen days being expired since Spelassi and Castelnovo their first departure from Nice, they leave Saint john de Mauriene, to return and conduct their Bride's home to Nice, robbing that, to enrich this City with two such beautiful and gallant Ladies, as were Bertha and Perina.  
Now the better to add life and form to this History, or rather to approach the more material and essential parts thereof, we must here leave to speak of Spelassi and Bertha, and wholly tie our thoughts and curiosity to Castelnovo and Perina, two principal and unfortunate Personatours, who both have mournful parts to act upon the Stage and Theatre of Nice: for this Marriage of theirs is not begun with the tenth part of so many joys, as we shall shortly see it waited and attended on, yea, dissolved and finished both with tears and blood.  
Castelnovo having brought home his fair and dear Perina to Nice, she is very honourably welcomed, and courteously received and entertained of his old Father, Signior jacomo de Castelnovo, and of the Lady Fidelia his Mother, and so are all her kinsfolks and friends who accompany her; yea, there wants no feasting nor revelling in Nice, to testify how much they congratulate and rejoice at their sons good fortune and happiness. And for Castelnovo and Perina themselves, why they are so ravished in the content, and drowned in the joys and delights of Marriage, as though they have two bodies, yet they have but o●…e heart, desire, and affection; yea, they are so extremely in love each with other, as they believe there is no Heaven upon earth, to that of each others presence. But they shall be deceived herein: for there are Tragical storms arising, to trouble the serenity of this Marriage, and the felicity and tranquillity of these affections.  
For it is both with grief and shame, that I must be so immodest, and therefore unfortunate to relate, that the old Baron jacomo de Castelnovo, aged of some threescore and eight years, hath so far forgotten his God and himself, his conscience and his soul, grace and nature, religion and humanity, as gazing on the fresh and delicious beauty of our sweet Lady Perina, his own son's wife, he gives the reigns both of his obscene desires, and inordinate affections, to lust after her. O how my heart trembles, to think how he that is white with the snow of a venerable age, should now lasciviously idolatrise to beauty! how he that hath (as it were) one foot in his grave, should lustfully desire to have the other in his Son's bed! how he that hath his veins dried up and withered, and nothing living in him but desire, should yet of all the beauties of the world, desire only to enjoy that of his Son's wife! how he, that hath scarce any time left him to be repentant and sorrowful for his old sins, will now anew make himself guilty of these foul sins of Adultery, and I may in a manner say of Incest! how he that hath not given the flower of his youth, will yet still lasciviously and wilfully refuse to bestow the bran of his age on his God! Alas miserable Castelnovo, wrerched old man, or rather lubritious and beastly Lecher, thus to drown thy thoughts in the hell of concupiscence and adultery, when it were far fitter thou shouldest lift them up to heaven, in the sacrifice of prayer, and other pious and religious contemplations! But all this will not prevail to stop the current of his voluptuousness, and the progression of his sensuality: for without respect of his God, or regard of his soul, he is resolute in his desires to make a strumpet of his Daughter in Law, and to make his Son's wife his whore: but God will deceive his hopes, and prevent his villainy.  
Now the better, and sooner to draw her to his lascivious desires, he is wonderful courteous and affable to her, still walking and talking with her, yea, and many times kissing her, whereof both her Husband and self are infinitely joyful, but espeally Perina, because she finds a great alteration in her fortune, in that her Father in Law Castelnovo proves as courteous to her, as her own Father Arconeto is cruel. But poor innocent soul, and sweet and chaste Lady, little dost thou either dream, o●… think on his lascivious intent against thine honour and chastity. Old Castelnovo wallowing in the filthiness, and burning in the fire of his new lust, and losing himself and his thoughts in the Labyrinth of his Daughter in law Perina's beauty, he thinks on nothing so much, nay, on nothing else, but how to obtain her to his lascivious will: but not daring, or rather fearing to acquaint her with his inordinate and beastly purpose, whiles his son her husband is at home present with her, he forgeth and frames a plot, both unnatural and treacherous, to make him embrace and follow the Wars in waiting on the Duke Charles Emanuel, or the Prince Amadee Victor his son and heir, who with their warlike troops were resolute to expel the Duke of Feria, Viceroy of Milan, with his Spanish Regiments out of Vercele, Casall, and the other Towns of Piedmont, to which end his lustful affection to Perina made him eloquent in persuading, and powerful in drawing her husband to this Martial action, so full of honour and glory; adding that his honour, and the service of his Prince and Country, called him to the Field, and that he should not wholly drown himself in the beauty of his young Wife, and the pleasures of Marriage. His son Castelnovo not at all suspecting, or dreaming what a dangerous Snake lay lurking under the green leaves of his father's sugared speeches and persuasions, like a noble and generous Knight as he was, needs no other advocate but his own honour and Martial disposition to imba●…ke him in these Wars: and although the beauty, requests, and tears of his young Lady were vehement solicitors to divert him, yet he is resolute to leave her for three or four months. And so making ready his arms, train, horses and preparatives, he giving her many kisses, and she returning him a world of sighs and tears, leaves Nice, and so finds out the Duke and his Army in Piedmont; where for a little time we will leave him.  
It is a question very disputable, and which by my weak capacity and judgemt cannot well be decided, whether this departure of young Custelnovo to the Wars, made his father more glad, or his wife sorrowful: for as she was all in tears, so was he in mirth and jollity, being so vain in his lust, and s●… lustful in his vanity, as 〈◊〉 trimmes up his beard, and goes nearer and withal more youthful in his apparel then accustomed; yea, his lust had so metamorphosed him, as if it had a profane influence, and secret power to renew old age in him. But alas, alas, what perfection of chastity can we expect or hope for in youth, when we see no better signs and fr●…s in one of threescore and eight years? But I will follow the stream of our History, though indeed the relation of this old lascivious Lechers Lust and Vanity to his daughter in law Perina, equally afflict me with grief and pity to publish it.  
I am then constrained to write and aver, that although mere shame and unnaturalness do as yet withhold this wretched father's tongue, from vomiting forth his adulterated lust to his fair and chaste daughter in law Perina, yet his lust is so immodestly lascivious, as he cannot keep himself out of her company, nor being in it, refrain from kissing her: but to see the innocence, and observe the purity of her thoughts, she nevertheless not so much as any way suspects or dreams of his lascivious intent, although indeed she thinks this courtesy of his somewhat exceeds the privilege of a Father, and the duty of a Daughter; but measuring this by the cruelty of her own Father, she, poor silly soul, thinks herself in this respect now as happy, as heretofore she was miserable. Only the absence of her dear husband Castelnovo doth both torture and torment her, and the more, for that he is in the Field at Wars; when, God knoweth, she desireth and wisheth he should be at home with her in peace.  
But whiles Perina looks from Savoy to Piedmont, from Nice to Vercelli, and from herself to her Lord and Husband, her other self, we must not forget, because o●… History will remember, her Mother in law Fidelia, which now we must admit and re-conduct to act her part upon the Theatre hereof: who observing her Husband's immodest and unwise familiarity demonstrated to the young Lady Perina, her sonne●… Wife, as also his alteration in humours and apparel; but chiefly his unaccustome●… distraction and sighs in his rest and repose; she, more out of virtuous wisdom then foolish jealousy, ay mes at his vain lust towards this young Lady her Daughter in law: whereat she both admires with grief, and wonders with the anxiety of affliction and sorrow, to see her old Husband, in the winter of his age, so so●…ish and beastly to lust after his own sons young Wife, to see that no respect of heaven, no regard of conscience, nor apprehension of damnation and hell, had the grace or power, either to kill these lascivious thoughts in their conception, or to ●…rangle them in their birth, to fee that he who was ready to go to his bed of death, should now (like the Salamander in the fire) be burning with desire, to go to that of Lust and Adultery, and to see him foe devoyde of piety, as he must needs join Incest with Adultery, as if one of these beastly sins alone were not enough enormous and prodigious to make his life miserable and his death wretched. And although she have cause enough of sorrow in herself, yet when she thinks of her Husband's age, and Daughter's youth, of his lust, and her chastity, and which is more, of the most degenerate and unnatural part of a Father, to seek to pollute and defile his own Son's bed, and consequently his own honour. This indeed goes near her, and this, and only this makes her look on him, both with envy and pity: but her age having taught her to love discretion, and to hate and disdain jealousic, she bears this as patiently as she may, till at last seeking and finding out a fit opportunity, she both with tears in her eyes, and grief in her speeches, very secretly checks him for these his inordinate and lascivious desires towards the young Lady Perina, their Daughter in law.  
But as it is the nature of sin so to betray and inveigle our judgements, that we flatter ourselves with a false conceit, none can perceive it in us; so this old lecher her Husband, thinking that he had danced in a net, from the jealousy and suspicion of all the world, in thus affecting his Son's wife, he like a lewd and wretched old varlet, is so far from relishing these his old wife's speeches and exhortations, or from being reclaimed thereby, as he disdaineth both them and her, and from henceforth is so imperious, and withal bitter to her, as he never looks on her with affection, but envy: which nevertheless she (as a modest wife, and grave Matron) holds it a part not only of her love, but of her duty, by sweet speeches, and soft means of persuasion, to divert him from this fond and lascivious humour of his. But observe the vanity of his lasciviousness, and the impiety of his thoughts and resolutions: for all her prayers and persuasions serve only rather to set, then rebate the edge of his lust, and rather bring oil to increase, than water to quench the flame of his immodest and irregular affection, so as seeing that she stood in the way of obtaining his beastly pleasures, he, like a profane and barbarous Husband, terms her no more his wife, but his Medea; and which is worse, he, out of the heat both of his lust and choler, vows he will soon remove her from this world to another.  
And here the devil, ambitious and desirous of nothing so much, as to fill up the emyty rooms of his vast and infernal kingdom, by miserable and execrable degrees takes possession first of his thoughts, then of his heart, and lastly of his soul; so as being constant in his indignation and choler, and resolute in this his impious and bloody revenge, he means to dispatch and murder her, who for the term of forty two years had been his most loving wife, and faithful bedfellow: but withal he will act it so privately, as not having as yet discovered his affection to his daughter Perina, he will therefore conceal both from her and all the world the Murder of this his wife Fidelia, except only to those graceless and execrable Agents he meant employ in this mournful and bloody business.  
To which end (with a hellish ratiocination) ruminating and revolving on the manner thereof, he having run over the circumstances of many violent and tragical deaths, at last resolves to poison her; and deems none so fit to undertake it, as her own Wayting-gentlewoman jerantha: the which authorised by his former lascivious dalliance with her, as also in favour of five hundred Ducats, that he will give her, he is confident she will undertake and finish; neither doth he fail in his bloody hopes. For what with the honey of his flattering speeches, and the sugar of his Gold, she, like an infernal Fury, and a very Monster of her sex, most ingratefully and inhumanely consents thereunto; so as putting poison into White-broth, which some mornings she was accustomed to make and give her Lady, it spreading into her veins, and exhaling the radical humour of her life and strength, within eight days carries this aged and virtuous Matron to her Grave, and her soul to Heaven. But her Murderers shall pay dear for this her untimely end.  
The Lady Perina, and all the Lady Fidelia's kinsfolks and friends infinitely lament and bewail her death; and indeed so doth the whole City of Nice, where for her descent and virtues she is infinitely beloved and affected: but all these tears of theirs are nothing in comparison of those of her wicked and execrable Husband Castelnovo, who, although he inwardly rejoice, yet he outwardly seems to be exceedingly afflicted and dejected. But as he hath heretofore acted the part of a Murderer, and now of an hypocrite; yet, have we but a little patience, and we shall see that detected, this unmasked, and both panished.  
Whiles this mournful Tragedy is acted in Nice, the mediation of the French King and Pope reconcile the differences, give end to the Wars, and conclude peace betwixt Spain and Savoy. So home returns the Duke of Feria, to Milan; the noble Duke of Savoy, and the generous Princes his Sons, to Turin; the Marshal de Desdiguieres, and the Baron of Terms into France; and consequently home comes our Knight Castelnovo to Nice: where thinking to rejoice with his young wife, he is so unfortunate to mourn for the death of his old mother; but God knows, that neither of them know the least spark or shadow of her cruel and untimely Murder, and less, the cause thereof. Now for his lascivious and bloody father, albeit, to cast a veil before his thoughts, and his intents and actions, he publicly mourns for his wife's death, and rejoiceth for his Son's return; yet chose he privately mourns for this, and rejoiceth for that. But to leave the remembrance of Fidelia, to assume that of our Perina; I know not whether she grieved more at her Husband's absence, or rejoice at his presence, sith her affection to him was so tender and fervent, as in her heart and soul she esteemed that as much her hell, as this her heaven upon earth: but these joys of hers are but fires of straw, or flattering Sunshines, which are suddenly either washed away with a shower, or eclipsed and banished by a Tempest: for whiles her hopes flatter her belief of her Husbands continual stay and residence with her, her Father in law's lust to her, foreseeing and considering that it was impossible to think to obtain her at home, ere her Husband, his Son, were again employed and sent abroad, makes all his thoughts aim, and care and industry tend that way, as if time had no power to make him repent the former murder of his wife, or Grace influence to renounce the future defiling and dishonouring of his Daughter in law.  
But he is as constant in his lust to her, as resolute in his dispatching and sending away of him; only he must find out some pregnant, virtuous, and honourable pretext and colour for the effecting of his design and resolution, because he well knows his Son Castelnovo is as wise and generous in himself, as amorous of his beautiful young Lady Perina: but his lust, which is the cause of his resolution, or rather his vanity, which is the author of his lust, at one time suggests him these two several employments for his Son: either to send him into France with the Prince Major, who was larely contracted, and shortly to espouse MadameChristiene the Kings second Sister; or else under the insinuation of some great Pensions and Offices that were shortly to be disposed of in Malta, again to send him back thither: and his harping on these two strings, was the only music and melody which he now gave his Son; who after he had a month or two at most, recreated himself in the sweet company of his dear and sweet wife Perina, he lest of all aiming whereat his father aimed, by his absence again gives way, and consents to his desires of his departure: only the choice of these two different employments is yet questionable and unresolved of 'twixt the father and the son. For as the son's curiosity desireth to see the Court of France, which as yet he hath not seen; so his father's lust and malice is to have his return honourably to Malta, from whence he hath formerly received his honour of Knighthood, and there to obtain a Pension during the term of his life. The son imbrace●…h the pleasures of the journey of France, before the profit and honour of the Voyage of Malta. But ●…he father aiming at other ends, prefers this of Malta before that of France; so as time working an impression in his thoughts, and his father's desire a kind of natural command in his will, and of filial obedience in his resolution, he at last resolves on Malta. But as neither of these two enterprises of young Castelnovo is pleasing, but distasteful to his young and fair Lady Perina; So if her affliction and misery be such, as of the two her husband must needs attempt and prosecute one, then sith he may go into France by land, and cannot too Malta, but by sea, she at last, with an enforced willingness (sympathising with his first inclination) likewise desireth that the object of his journey, and the period of his Voyage be France, and not Malta; as relying rather in hearing from him to stand at the speed and fidelity of a Post, then at the inconstancy of the winds, and the mercy of the seas. So all things prepared and ready for his Voyage, Perina importunately begging, and her husband Castelnovo confidently promising his speedy return, she conducting him over the Hill to Villafranca in her Coach, they there, with many re●…ocall kisses, fighes and tears, take leave each of other; he embarking himself upon a French Galley, bound from Marseilles to Malta, (which stopped there accidentally) and she committing him to the auspicious favour of the wind and sea, very sorrowfully returns for Nice.  
Thus leaving the son floating and wasting on the seas, let us again return to his unnatural and beastly father, who seeing his wife gone to Heaven, and his son to Malta, and all things hitherto to succeed according to his lascivious desires, doth now assure himself, that either by fair or soul means he will reap his pleasure of his beautiful daughter in law Perina. To which end he gives her the sole government and superintendance of his house, with intent and hope the sooner to govern, and surer to command her: and so forgetting modesty, and his lust giving a law to his conscience, fifteen days are scarce passed, till finding her in her chamber playing on her Lute, he, after some pauses, coughs, and kisses, betrays and vomitteth her forth his fervent affection and desire.  
But for mine own part, I highly disdain to pollute and vilify this History with the obscene and lascivious speeches, wherewith this old lecher Castelnovo courts this young Lady Perina his daughter in law, as holding them as unworthy of my relation, as of my Readers knowledge; of my modest pen, as of their chaste ears, only judging of their nature and quality by their effects. The beastliness and unexpectedness thereof, first made Perina extremely blush for shame and choler, and then immediately again look pale with grief and disdain; when not able to brook, or hearken to his lewd speeches, much less his hateful presence, she, in the defence and preservation of her chastity, which she preferred before her life, giving him a sharp a●…swer, and a bitter denial, and grieving to see a father so graceless and impio●…s, to s●…ke to defile his own son's bed in her dishonour, she throws away 〈◊〉 L●…; and so very hastily and cholericly abandoneth his presence, and her own chamber. At which he bites his lip for rage, and hangs down his head for indignation. But at last, sin and the devil reigning in him, makes that he will not take this her first repulse for his last answer and denial: but resolute to persevere in his lubricity, he in every walk, garden and room, frequents and haunts her as her ghost, as thinking to obtain that from her through his importunity, which he could not by his persuasion: but this his impudency shall not prevail.  
Now as his sinful motion infinitely grieved her, so his perseverance and importunacy therein doth doubly afflict and torment her: how to appease this storm, to quench the fire of his lust, and deface the remembrance and feeling of her grief, she knows not. For alas, alas, she is so unhappy, as her own father Arconeto, and her Aunt Dominica are at St. john de Mauriene, her sweet and dear husband in Malta, and her mother in law, the Lady Fidelia in heaven; so as she hath no intimate nor secret familiars, nor any bosom friend to reveal these her sorrows and afflictions. Once she thought to steal away from Nice, so to pass the Mountains, and to fly back to Saint john de Mauriene: but again considering the dishonour, and withal, the danger to undertake this journey, as also the cold reception and entertainment she should there find of her own hard hearted father, who would rather deride than pity her afflictions: she altereth this her resolution, and so resolves a little longer to stay in Nice, hoping and praying, that God would rectify her father in law Castelnovo's judgement, and reform the errors of his lascivious thoughts and desires. And so for her part, hating the father as much as she loved the son her husband, he could not be more prodigal of his lewd speeches and tentations to her, than she was of her sighs and tears to understand and repel them. A thousand times she wisheth herself in Malta, with the Knight her husband, or he in Nice with her: and could her body so soon have flown or sailed thither as her thoughts, he had long since enjoyed the happiness of her presence, and she the felicity of his father's absence. But 〈◊〉 she is two miserable to be so fortunate, she hath yet this consolation left her to sweeten the bitterness of her afflictions, and this hope to revive and comfort her against her despair, that her Letter may procure his speedy return from Malta to Nice, Whereon resolving, although the occasion and grounds thereof were as strange as shameful, she secretly steals to her chamber, and locking her door to her, takes her pen and paper, and rather with tears then Ink, writes him these few lines:  
PERINA to CASTELNOVO.  
ALthough mine eyes and heart can better weep and sigh forth mine afflictions, than my pe●… depaint them, yet I should infinitely wrong thee in myself, and myself in thee, if I inform thee not by this my Letter (the secret Ambassador of my heart) that my affection deserves, and mine honour requires thy speedy return to me; I would unlock thee this mystery, and make it more obvious and apparent to the eye of thine understanding, but that mine own modesty, and another's shame commands my pen to silence herein. And again, my tears so confusedly and mournfully interrupt my sighs, they my tears, and both my pen, as although I have the will, yet I wan●… the power to enlarge thee. 〈◊〉 Only my dear Castelnovo, if ever thy Perina were dear to thee, make her happy with thy sight, who deems herself not only miserable, but accursed in thy absence. For till Nice be thy Malta, Heaven may, Earth cannot rejoice me.  
PERINA.  
Having written this her Letter, she finds a confident and intimate friend of her husbands, a Gentleman named Signior Benedetto Sabia, who undertakes the safe conveyance, and secret delivery thereof into Malta to Castelnovo: so giving it him with store of gold, to defray the charge of his journey, as also a pair of gold bracelets for a token to her Knight and husband, he imbarkes for Genova, so to Naples, and from thence in a Neapolitan Galley, arrives in short time, to the renowned and famous I'll of Malia, the inexpugnable Bulwark of Christendom, and the curb and bridle of audacious insulting Turkey, where finding out the Knight Signior Francisco de Castelnovo, he effectually and fairly delivers him his Lady's letter, bracelets, and message, who withdrawing himself to a window, hath no sooner broken up the seals and read the letter, but he is at first much perplexed at the unexpected news thereof: he reads it o'er again and again, and finds it so obscure, as he cannot gather or conceive her meaning therein, but at last construing it only to be a wile and fetch of her affection, to re-fetch and call him home to Nice to her: he loathe as yet to lose and abandon his hopes of preferment in that Island, which now the great Master hath promised him, dispatcheth Sabia back for Nice, and plucking off a rich Emerald from his finger, delivers it him for his Lady Perina, as a token of his dear and fervent affection, and with it a letter in answer of hers.  
In the Interim of Sabia his absence to Malta, our old lascivious Baron Castelnovo is not idle in Nice, in still seeking to draw our Lady Perina to his adulterous desire, and will, yea, he is become so obscene in his requests and speeches, as they not only exceed chastity, but civility: so as she (poor Lady) can find no truce, nor obtain any intermission from these his beastly solicitations; but resolving still to preserve her honour with her life, her pure chastity shines clearer in the midst of these his impure temptations, than the Sun doth, being environed and encompassed with many obs●…e clouds: but she thinks every hour a year, before she see her Knight Cas●… safely returned from Malta, when lo, Sabia arriving at Villafranca, trips over to Ni●…, and understanding Perina privately bolted up in her Chamber, he repairs to her, and there delivers her, her Knight Castelnovo's Ring and Letter, although not himself; when tearing off the Seals, she therein finds these words:  
CASTELNOVO to PERINA.  
MY fair and dear Perina, the knowledge of thy sighs and tears the more affliict and grieve me, in respect I am ignorant whence they proceed, or what occasioned them: 'tis true, thy affection deserves my return, and the preservation of thine honour, not only to request, b●… to require and command it: but I am so assured of that, and so confidem of this, ●…s I know th●… wilt carry the first to thy grave, and the second to heaven. So, if any one since my departure have salne in love with thy beauty, thou must not find it strange, much less grieve thera●…, sith the excellency thereof hath power, not only to captivate one but many: yea, the considera●…on thereof should rather rejoice, then afflict thee, sith whatsoever he be, the sha●… in the end will remain his, and the glory thine. But dear and sweet Lady, I think thine honour is only the pretex●…, and thy affection the cause, so earnestly to desire my return: whereunto I would willingly consent, but that the daily expectance of my prefermen●… must a li●…le longer de●…aine me here: ●…nely this is my resolution, and I pray let i●… be thy assuraance, I will dispa●…ch my affairs here with all possible expedition, and shall never think ●…y self happy, till I re-i●…barke from Malta, and land at Nice.  
CASTELNOVO.  
Having o're-read her Letter, she, the better to dissemble her secret passions and griefs, very courteously confers with Sabia: of whom having for that time thankfully taken her leave, she for mere sorrow and affliction, throws herself on her bed, from thence on the floor, to see her hopes deceived of her husband's return; and now she knows neither what to say or do in this her misery and perplexity: for she sees that her father in law's obstinacy, and consequently her sorrows grow from bad to worse, that he is so far from reclaiming, as he is resolute in his lascivious and beastly solicitations: So that seeing his fair speeches and entreaties cannot prevail with her, he exchangeth his resolution and former language, and so adds threats to his requests, and frowns to his smiles, as if force should extort and obtain that, which fair means could not, yea, and sometimes he intermingleth and administereth her such heart-killing menaces, as she hath now reason not only to doubt of his lust, but also to fear his revenge: which considering, she, as well to preserve her honour, as to provide for the safety of her life, will once again prove the kindness of her own unkind father Arconeto, and so determineth to leave Nice, and to fly unto Sa●…nt john de Mauriene: now to assist her and accompany her in this her secret escape, she thinks none so fit as Sabia, who for her husband's affection, and her own virtues, willingly consenteth to her: so she preparing her apparel, and he her train, they in a dark night (when pale faced Cynthia enveloped herself in a multitude of black and obscure clouds, purposely to assist and favour her in this her laudable and honourable flight) take horse, and so with great expedition pass the Mountains, and recover Sain●… john de Mauriene; where though she be not truly welcome to her own father Arconet●…, yet her honour and her life are truly secured from the lust and revenge of he●… lascivious father in law Castelnovo: nevertheless the cause and manner of her escape, but chiefly the consideration of her husband's absence in the passage of this business, doth still so bitterly afflict her, as she is become pale and sickly: whereupon she is resolute, once again to send back Sabia to Malta to her knight and husband, with▪ second letter, in hope it may effect and procure his return, which her first could not: and so calling for pen and paper, she traceth thereon these few lines:  
PERINA to CASTELNOVO.  
Sigh thou wilt not leave Malta, to see Nice for my sake, I have left Nice, to live or rather to dye in Saint john de Mauriene for thine: 'tis true, my affection hath desired thy return, which thou hast not granted me: 'tis as true, that one, to whom Nature hath given a prime and singular interest in thee, and thee in him, hath sought the defloration of mine honour, which my heart and duty have denied him. Thou art confident of my affection to thee: if thi●… had been so faithful and s●…rvent to myself, neither sea nor land had had power to separate 〈◊〉 If any prefermen be dearer to thee then my life, stay in Malta: or if my life be dearer the●… it, then return to Saint john de Mauriene, where thou mayest find me, for in Nice I will not be found of thee. Hadst thou not purposely mistaken the cause for the pretext in my importunity of thy return, I would have digested it with far more content, and less affliction: but sith neither ●…y ●…tion, or honour hath power to ●…ffect it, at least let the regard of my life, sith that will not accompany me, if thou any longer absent thyself from me: make therefore haste to see thy Pe●…ina, if ever thou think to see her again; and let her bear this one content to her grave, that she may disclose thee a secret, which, but to thyself, she will conceal from all the world.  
PERINA.  
Whiles Sabia is again speeding toward Malta with Perina's second Letter to her husband Castelnovo, we will a little speak of old Castelnovo the father, who seeing his daughter in law Perina fled, and consequently his hopes with her, he is extremely perplexed and afflicted hereat: All the house and City is sought for her, and he himself breaks off the locks of her Chamber door, where he finds the nest, but the bird flown away, her bed, but not herself: so as his thoughts doubly torment and astonish him, first to be frustrated of his hopes and desires to enjoy her, then, because she will bewray his lascivious suit and affection to her Husband his son, which of all sides will procure him not only shame, but infamy; yea, now it is, although before he would not, that he sees his error, and vanity, in attempting to make shipwreck of her honour and chastity, which is the Glory, and should be the Palladium of Ladies: but it is too late to recover her again: And therefore although he know how to repent, yet he is ignorant how to remedy or redeem it, sith his attempt and enterprise was not only odious to God, but infamous to men, opposite to Grace, and repugnant and contradictory to Nature. Besides, this his lustful folly proceeding from himself, looks two ways, and hath a double reflection, first on Perina the wife, then on Castelnovo her husband, and his own son, who, he is assured will be all fire hereat; yea, this crime of his is of so high and so beastly a nature, as he knows not what to say to him, or how to look him in the face, when he shall arrive from Malta, which his guilty conscience tells him will be shortly; neither doth the Calculation or Arithmetic of his fear deceive him: for by this time is Sabia again arrived at Malta, where he delivers Castelnovo his wife's second Letter; the which doth so nettle and sting his heart to the quick, at the bitter and unexpected news it relates, as he esteems himself no longer himself, because he is not with his dear wife, who is the one half, yea, the greatest part of himself. Wherefore, admiring who in Nice, yea, in his father's house should be so impudently laseivious, to seek to blemish his honour, in that of his Ladies, he, making her sighs and tears his, with all expedition and haste provides for his departure from Malta; and yet his love, his fear, or both conducing and concurring in one, makes him instantly resolve to dispatch and return Sabia, as the harbinger to proclaim his coming: the which he doth, and chargeth him with this Letter to his fair wife, and dear Lady Perina:  
CASTELNOVO to PERINA.  
THy sudden departure from Nice to Saint john de Mauriene doth equally afflict and amaze me: I burn with desire, to know as well the Author, as the Cause thereof, that I ●…ay likewise know how to right thee, in revenging myself of him. I have thought it fit to re●…rne Signior Sabia again to thee, as soon as he arrived to me, being ready within two days to embark as timely as himself; so that if wind and Sea hate me not too much, in more ●…ving and favouring him, I am confident to bring and deliver thee myself, as soon as he shall be this my Letter: and judge whether I speak it from my heart and soul, sith the estimation ●…f thy love, and the preservation of thine honour make me already deem minutes months, ●…nd hours' years, till my presence be made happy with thine. I come, fair Perina, sweet wife ●…nd dear Lady, I come; and if Heaven prove propitious to my most religious prayers and ●…sires here on Earth, ●…ur meeting shall be shortly as sweet and happy, as our parting was bitter ●…d sorrowful.  
CASTELNOVO.  
So according to this his Letter, as first Sabia imbarkes from Malta to Nice, before him, so he likewise arrives at Genova the day after he did at Nice, from whence posting o'er the Mountains, he arrives at Saint john de Mauriene, where, at his father in law Arconeto's house, he finds his dear and sweet Lady Perina, who every minute of time, with much impatient longing and desire, expected his arrival (as having the night before received his second and last Letter by Sabia, which advertised her thereof) so like true and faithful Turtle Doves, esteeming each others presence their most sovereign felicity they fall to their billing and kisses, to inform themselves how sweet this their happy meeting was each to other. And here our Knight Castelnovo cannot be so curious or hasty to inquire, as his Lady Perina was to relate the cause of her sudden departure from Nice to Saint john de Mauriene, occasioned by the unnatural lust and lasciviousness of his Father (as we have formerly understood) the which, with many sighs and tears, she depaints forth to him in all its circumstances and colours. He is amazed at this strange and unexpected news, and far the more to think that his own father should (in the winter of his age) attempt or seek to defile his honour and bed, in the person of this his fair and chaste Lady Perina: he wondereth to see so little grace in so many years, and that if Nature had not, yet Religion should have had power to banish these lascivious thoughts from his heart and memory: so with out-spred arms he tenderly embraceth and kisseth her, highly extolling her chastity, and applauding the discreet carriage of her escape: being himself resolute to stay in Saint I●… de Mauriene with her father Arconeto, and not to return to Nice to his own father Castelnovo. But he shall as soon infringe as make this his resolution; for by this time his father understanding of his Sons return from Malta, to Saint john de Mauri●… and knowing that his Lady Perina had not failed to bewray him his lascivious suit and desire, attempted against her honour, as also grieving at the remembrance of his for●…er folly and future shame, in knowing what a foul seandall both it and his son's absen●… would procure and engender him, he resolves to confess his crime, and so by the mediation of a persuasive and satisfying Letter, to endeavour to reclaim them again fr●… Saint john de Mauriene to Nice: when calling for pen and paper, he writes these se●… ensuing lines, and sends them his Son by a Gentleman of his:  
CASTELNOVO to his Son CASTELNOVO.  
I Am as glad of thy arrival from Malta, as sorrowful for thy absence from Nice: and f●… to deny is to redouble our errors and imperfections, I will not go further than myself to fi●… the cause thereof, sith I know that my lascivious and graceless attempt against the honour of 〈◊〉 chaste Lady, hath drawn thee to this resolution: but now I write it to my future comfort, 〈◊〉 much as I conceived it to my former shame, that Grace hath vanquished Nature, and 〈◊〉 gion lust in me: so as I am at present not only sorrowful, but repentant for that crime of mi●… which I no more remember but with horror, nor think of, but with detestation. My soul 〈◊〉 made my peace with God, and my heart desires to recontract it both with thyself and her; 〈◊〉 as I hope he will forget it, so I beseech you both to forgive it me, being ready to confirm 〈◊〉 my reconciliation as well with my tongue as pen: Wherefore sith thou art the sole prop of my 〈◊〉 and comfort of my life, make me not so unfortunate or miserable, to be taxed with the sca●… of my shame, and thy absence; but bring back thy Lady with thee: for here I profess be●… Heaven and Earth, that I will henceforth as much honour her for her chastity, as heretos●… lasciviously sought to betray and violate it.  
CASTELNOVO.  
This virtuous and religious Letter of the Father prevails with the Son, and his fair and chaste Lady; so as their secrecies and discretions hush up this business in silence, and within eight days they both return from Saint john de Mauriene to Nice: where they are conrteously welcomed, and respectively received and entertained of their father, whose contrition for his former folly is outwardly so great, as he hath tears in his eyes at the remembrance thereof: so as making good the promise of his Letter, he very penitently and sorrowfully implores their pardon and remission; which they instantly grant him with as much willingness as alacrity. So the report and thought hereof is obscured and vanished, as if it had never been; and all things and parties so reconciled, as to common sense nothing in the world is capable to trouble the tranquillity of this reconciliation and atonement. But alas, alas, we shall very briefly see the contrary: For old Castelnovo the Father, notwithstanding all these religious promises, and sincere shows of repentance and tears, is so far from being the man he seems to be, as although he have made his peace with his son and Daughter, yet, ay me, I write it with grief, he hath not with his conscience, nor his conscience with God: for although he have a chaste and religious tongue, yet he still retaineth a lascivious and adulterate heart; yea, he is so far from conversion and reformation, as the new sight and review of the Lady Perina's fresh and delicate beauty doth revive those sparks, and refresh those flames of his lust, which seemed to be raked up in the embers of her absence. And what is this, but to be a Christian in show, and a miscreant in effect? to hide a foul soul under a fair face? and to make Religion and Hypocrisy, a fatal and miserable cloak for his villainy? But though he dissemble with God, yet we shall see, and he find, that God will not dissemble with him; and in thinking to b●…tray God, Satan in the end will betray him. The manner is thus:  
As he resumes his old suit, and newly burns in love and lustful desire, to erect the Trophies of his lascivious and incestuous pleasures upon the ruins of his Daughter in law's chastity and honour; so he likewise sees it impossible to think to perform, or hope to accomplish it, as long as his son her husband lives: and therefore, losing his judgement either in the Labyrinth of her beauty, or in the turbulent Ocean of his own concupiscence and lust, he, contrary to the rules of Grace, and the laws and principles of nature, swaps a bargain with the Devil to poison him. To which end, to show himself the monster of men, and the bloodiest precedent of a most degenerate Father, which this, or many precedentages ever produced or afforded, he hath again recourse to his Hellish Agent jerantha, in favour of five hundred Ducats, to send the Son into Heaven after the Mother, and to make him equal with her, as in nature, so in (the dissolution thereof) death: A bloody design, and mournful project, which we shall presently be enforced to see acted upon the Theatre of this History.  
But jerantha is at first so repentant for the death of the Mother, as she will not consent to that of the Son. And had she continued in this religious resolution, she had lived more fortunately, and not died so miserably and shamefully, as we shall briefly see. For our old Lecher Castelnovo, her Master, seeing his Gold could not this second time prevail with jerantha, being equally inflamed as well with lust to Perina, as with malice and revenge to his Son Castelnovo her husband, he is so implacable therein, as he promiseth to marry her, if she will attempt and perform it. So although his first battery failed, yet his second doth not: For the Devil had ●…ade her so ambitious of Greatness and Honour, that of a simple waiting Gentlewoman to become a great Lady, she consents hereunto; and, which is a thousand pities to report, within less than six days performs it; when (God knows) the innocence of this harmless young Gentleman his son never dreamt or suspected it.  
At the sight of this his sudden death, his Lady Perina is ready to dye for grief; yea to drown herself in the Ocean and deluge of her tears; tearing her hair, and striving to deface the excellency of her beauty, with a kind of careless neglect, as if she were resolute not to survive him. And if the Lady Perina bewrayed many deplorable demonstrations of sorrow for the death of her husband, no less, doth his father Castelnovo for that of his son; only their griefs (comformable to their passions) are diametrically different and opposite: for hers were fervent and true, as proceeding from the sincerity of her affection; and his hypocritical and feigned, as derived from the profundity of his malice and revenge towards him. And not to transgress from the Decorum and truth of our History, old Castelnovo could not so artificially bear and overvaile his sorrows for his Son's death, but (the premises considered) our young afflicted widow and Lady vehemently suspecteth he hath a hand therein; and likewise partly believes that jerantha is likewise accessary and engaged therein, in respect she looks more aloft, and is grown more familiar with her Lord and Master then before. And indeed as her sorrows increase her jealousy, so her jealousy throws her into a passionate and violent resolution of Revenge, both against him and her, if she can be futurely assured that they had Murdered and poisoned the Knight her husband.  
Now to be assured hereof, she thus reasoneth with herself; that if her Father in law were the Murderer of his Son her husband, his malice and hatred to him proceeded from his beastly lust to herself; and that he now dispatched, he would again shortly revive and renew his old lascivious suit to her: which if he did, she vows to take a sharp and cruel Revenge of him, which she will limit with no less than his death. And indeed we shall not go far to see the event and truth answer her suspicion. For within a month or two after her husband was laid in his untimely grave, his old lustful and lascivious father doth again burst and vomit forth his beastly solicitations against her chastity and honour: which observing, she somewhat disdainfully and coily puts him off, but yet not so passionately nor chollerickely as before, only of purpose to make him the more eager in his pursuit, thereby the better to draw him to her lure, that she might perpetrate her malice, and act her Revenge on him, and so make his death the object of her rage and indignation, as his lust and malice were the cause of the sorrows of her life. But unfortunate and miserable Lady, what a bloody and hellish enterprise dost thou engage thyself in, and why hath thy affection so blinded thy conscience and soul, to make thyself the author and actor of so mournful and bloody a Tragedy? For alas alas, sweet Perina, I know not whether more to commend thy affection to thy husband, or condemn thy cruel malice intended to his father. For O grief! O pity! where are thy virtues, where is thy Religion, where thy conscience, thy soul, thy God, thus to give thyself over to the hellish tentations of Satan? Thou which heretofore fled'st from adultery, wilt thou now follow Murder? or because thy heart would not be accessary to that, shall thy soul be now so irreligious and impious, to be guilty of this? But as her father in law is resolute in his lust towards her, so is she likewise in her revenge towards him, and far the more, in that she perceives Ierantha's great belly sufficiently proclaims that she hath played the strumpet; and which is worse, she fears, with her execrable and wretched Father in Law: so as now no longer able to stop the furious and impetuous current of her revenge, she is so graceless and bloody, as she vows first to dispatch the Lord and Master, than the Wayting-Gentlewoman, as her thoughts and soul suggest her they had done first the Mother, than the Son: so impious are her thoughts, so inhuman and bloody her resolutions.  
Now in the interim of this time the old Lecher her father is again become impudent and importunate in his suit. so our wretched Lady Perina degenerating from her former virtues, and indeed from herself, she, after many requests and solicitations, very feignedly seems to yield, and strike sail to his desire; but indeed with a bloody intent to dispatch him out of this world. So having concluded this sinful fatal Match, there wants nothing but the finishing and accomplishing thereof: only they differ in the manner and circumstances: the Father is desirous to go to the Daughter in law's bed, the Daughter to the Father in laws; but both conclude that the night, and not the day shall give end to this lascivious and beastly business; his reason is, to avoid the jealousy and rage of jerantha, whom now, although she be near her time of deliverance; he refuseth to marry her; but the Lady Perina's if, that she may pollute and stain his own bed with his blood, and not hers; but especially, because she may have the fitter means to stab and murder him: and hereon they conclude. To which end, not only the night, but the hour is apppointed betwixt them: which being come, and Castelnovo in bed, burning with impatience and desire for her arrival, he thinking on nothing but his beastly pleasures, nor she, but on her cruel malice and revenge: she softly enters his chamber, but not in her night, but her day attire, having a Pisa Poniard close in her fleeve; when having bolted his Chamber door, because none should divert her from this her bloody design; she approaching his bed, and he lifting himself up purposely to welcome and kiss her, she seeing his breast open and naked, like an incensed fury, draws out her Poniard, and uttering these words: Thou wretched Whoremaster and Murderer, this life of mine own honour, and the death of my dear Knight and husband, thy some. And so stabbing him at the heart with many blows she kills him stark dead, and leaves him reeking in his hot blood, without giving him time to speak a word; only he fetched a screek and groan or two, as his soul took her last farewell of his body. Which being overheard of the servants of the house, they ascend his chamber, and find our inhuman Perina issuing forth, all gored with the effusion of his blood, having the bloody Poniard, which was the fatal Instrument of this cruel Murder in her hand. They are amazed at this bloody and mournful spectacle: so they seize on her, and the report hereof flying thorough the City, the Criminal judges that night cause her to be imprisoned for the fact, which she is resolved no way to deny, but to acknowledge, as rather glorying then grieving thereat.  
jerantha, at the very first understanding hereof, vehemently suspects that her two poisoning Murders will now come to light; and so, as great as her belly is, she, to provide for her safety, very secretly steals away to a dear friends house of hers in the City, which now from all parts rattleth and resoundeth of this cruel and unnatural Murder; yea, it likewise passeth the Alpes, and is speedily bruited and known in Saint john de Mauriene, where although her father Arconeto would never heretofore affect her, yet he now exceedingly grieves at this her bloody attempt and imminent danger: but her irregular affection, and inhuman revenge, will not as yet permit her conscience to inform and show her the heinousness of her cruel and bloody fact. But God will be more merciful to her and her soul.  
Some two days after she is arraigned for the same, where she freely confesseth-it, having nothing to allege for her excuse, but that she perfectly knew, that her Father in law Castenovo and his Strumpet jerantha had at least poisoned the Knight her husband, if not likewise the Lady Fidelia his mother; the which although they had some reason and ground to suspect, because of Ierantha's sudden slight, yet sith this could no way diminish, or extenuate her Murder of her Father in law, they condemn our unfortunate Lady Perina to be hanged, and so resend her to prison, to prepare herself to dye. But the advice of some, and the friendship and compassion of others, as pitying her youth and beauty, and commending her chastity and affection to her Knight and Husband, counsel and persuade her to appeal from the Sentence of the Court of Nice, to the Senate of Chambery (which is the Sovereign and Capital of Savoy) whither we shall shortly see her conducted and brought.  
In which mean time let us observe the wonderful justice and providence of God showed likewise upon this execrable Wayting-gentlewoman jerantha, for so cruelly poisoning the Lady Fidelia, and the Knight Castelnovo her Son; who, although search were every where made for her, yet she having hushed herself up privately, albeit her bloody thoughts and guilty conscience for the same continually torture and torment her, yet she is so impious and graceless, as she no way fears the danger of the law, and much less the severe tempest of God's indignation and revenge, which now notwithstanding in the midst of her security will, according to her bloody deserts and crimes, suddenly surprise and overtake her: for now this accident of her Lord Castelnovo's Murder, and of the Lady Perina's imprisonment, or to speak more properly and truly, of God's sacred decree and divine judgement, throws her into the sharp and bitter pains of travel for child; with whose heart-killing gripes and convulsions, she is so miserably tortured and tormented, as she herself, her Mid. wife, and all the women near her, judge and think it impossible for her to escape death: when seeing no hope of life, and that already her pangs and torments had made her but as it were the very image and anatomy of death, she begins to look from Sin to repentance from Earth to Heaven, and from Satan to God; and so taking on and assuming Christian resolution, she will not charge her soul with the concealing of this single Adultery, much less of her double Murders; but very penitently confesseth all, a●… well it, as them; and so commits herself to the unparallelled and merciless mercies of her pains and torments, hoping they will speedily send her from this world to a better. But her Adultery and Murders are such odious and execrable crimes in God sight, as he will free her from these dangers of childbirth, and because worthy, will reserve her for a shameful and infamous death. So she is fafely delivered of a young son, who is more fair than happy, as being the offspring of lascivious parents, and the issue of an adulterous bed; and by God's providence and her own confession, she, for these her beastly and bloody crimes, is the second day committed to prison, and the third hanged and burnt in Nice, and her ashes thrown into the air. A just reward and punishment for so hellish and inhuman a Gentlewoman; who, though otherwise she showed many testimonies and signs of Repentance at her end, yet her crime were so foul and odious to the World, as at her death she was so miserable as she found not one spectator, either to weep for her, or to lament, or condol●… with her.  
And now to shut up this History, let us carry our curiosities and expectations fro●… Nice to Chambery, and from dead jerantha to our living Perina, where that grave and illustrious Senate, in consideration of her famous chastity, and singular affection to th●… Knight her husband, as also her noble parentage and tender years, they moderat●… the Sentence of Nice, for murdering her Father in law Castelnovo, and so in stead of hanging, adjudge her there to have her right hand cut off, and herself to perpetual imprisonment in Nice; where Gods sacred justice for this her bloody Murder, and the remembrance of her dead husband, and living sorrows, so sharply torment and afflict her, as she lived not long in Prison, but exceedingly pined away of a languishing Consumption: and so very sorrowfully and repentantly ended her days, being exceedingly lamented of her kinsfolks, and pitied of all her acquaintance; and, had not her affection been blinded, and her rage and Revenge too much triumphed o'er her thoughts and resolutions, she had lived as happy, as she died miserable; and have served for as great a grace and Ornament to her Country, as jerantha and old Castelnovo her father in law were a scandal and shame.  
Thus we see how God's revenging justice still meets with Murder. O that we may read this History with fear, and profit thereby in reformation, that dying to sin, and living to righteousness, we may peaceably dye in this World, and gloriously live and reign in that to come.   

GOD'S REVENGE AGAINST THE CRYING AND EXEcrable sin of Murder.  
HISTORY X.  
Bertolini seeks Paulina in marriage, but she loves Sturio, and not himself: he prays her Brother Brellati, his dear friend, to solicit her for him, which he doth, but cannot prevail; whereupon Bertolini lets fall some disgraceful speeches, both against her honour, and his reputation: for which Brellati challengeth the Field of him, where Bertolini kills him, and he flies for the same. Sturio seeks to marry her, but his father will not consent thereunto, and so conveys him away secretly: for which two disasters, Paulina dies for sorrow. Sturio finds out Bertolini, and sends him a Challenge, and having him at his mer cie, gives him his life at his request: he afterwards very treacherously kills Sturio with a Petronel in the Street from a Window: he is taken for this second Murder, his two hands cut off, then beheaded, and his body thrown into the River.  
ALbeit, that Valour be requisite in a Gentleman, (and one of his most essential virtues and proper ornaments) yet sith Charity is the true mark and character of a Christian, we should not rashly resolve to hazard the loss of our lives for the preservation of the mere title, and vain point of our honour, but rather religiously endeavour to save our souls in that of our own lives, as also of those of our Christian brethren: for in Duels and single Combats, (which though the heat of youth and revenge seem to allow, yet, reason will not, and Religion cannot) did we only hazard our bodies, and not our souls, than our warrant to fight, were in earth as just, as now the hazarding of our souls and bodies is odious and distasteful to Heaven, sith in seeking to deface man the creature, we assuredly attempt to strike and stab at the Majesty of God the Creator: but if there be any colour or shadow of honour to kill our adversary, for the preservation of the vain point of our honour, what an ignoble ingratitude, and damnable impiety is it, for a Gentleman likewise treacherously to kill another, of whom he hath formerly received his life? yea as Grace fights against this former sort of fight, so both Grace and Nature impugn and detest this second sort of Murder: A woeful and mournful precedent whereof, I here represent in the person of a base and wretched Gentleman, whose irregular affection to a Lady, first slew her brother in the field; and execrable revenge to her lover, next drew him treacherously to Murder him in the street; and consequently, to his own condign punishment, and shameful death for the same. May all such bloody Murderers still meet with such ends, and may his miserable and infamous death premonish all other Gentlemen, to live and become more charitable, and less bloody by his example.  
THe friendship and familiarity betwixt Signior john Battista Bertolini, and Signior Leonardo Brellati, two noble young Gentlemen, native and resident of the City of Rome, was (without intermission) so entire and intimate, for the space of six whole years, which led them from their years of fourteen to twenty, as it seemed they had but one heart in two bodies, and that it was impossible for either of them to be truly merry, if the other were absent: and surely, many were the reasons which laid the foundation of this friendship; for as they were equal in years, so their ●…atures and complexions resembled, and their humours and inclinations sympathized: likewise they were ancient schoole-fellows, and near neighbours: for their parents both dwelled betwixt the Palaces of the too Cardinals, Farnesis and Caponius: or if there were any disparity in their dignities and worths, it consisted only in this, Bertolini's parents were richer than Brellati's, but Brellati was more Nobly descended than Bertolini: which notwithstanding could no way impeach or hinder the progress of their friendship, but rather it flourished with the time: so as they increasing in years, they likewise did in affection, as if they were ambitious of nothing so much in this world, as not only to imitate, but to surpass the friendship of Orestes and Pylades, and of Damon and P●…thias: whereof, all who knew them and their parents; yea, all that part and division of Rome, took deep and singular notice: but to show that they were men, and not Angels, and consequently subject to frailty not inherent to perfection, that earth was not heaven, nor Rome the shadow thereof; have we but a little patience, we shall shortly see, the thread of this friendship cut off, the props and fortifications thereof razed, battered and said level with the ground, yea, we shall see time, change with time, friendship turned into enmity, fellows to foes, love to loathing, courtesy to cruelty, and in a word, life to death: as observe the sequel of this History, and it will briefly inform ye how.  
Bertolini sees that Brellati hath a fair and delicate sister, named Dona Paulina, somewhat younger than himself, and yet not so young, but that the clock of her age hath strucken eighteen, and therefore proclaimed her at least capable, if not desirous of marriage, and although he be a novice in the Art of love, yet Nature hath made him so good a Scholar in the principles and rudiments thereof, as he sees her fair, and therefore must love her; rich in the excellency and delicacy of beauty, and therefore is resolute to love her, and only her: for gazing on the influence and splendour of her piercing eyes, he cannot behold them without wonder, and then prying and contemplating on the roseate and lily tincture of her cheeks, he cannot see these without admiration, nor refrain from admiring them without affection: but again, remarking the slenderness of her body, and the sweetness of her virtues, and seeing her as gracious as fair, and that her inward perfections added as much lustre to her exterior beauty, as this reflected ornament and decoration to these, he, as young as he was, vows himself her servant, and withal swore, that either she, or his grave, must be his wife and Mistress.  
Bertolini thus surprised and nettled with the beauty of his dear sweet, and sweetly fair, Paulina, he is enforced to neglect a great part of his accompanying the brother, thereby to court the sister: so he many times purposely forsakes Brellati to follow Paulina, and delights in nothing so much as in her presence, and (in that regard) in his absence, not that it was possible, in his conceit and imagination, for him any way to hate him, in loving her; rather, that in general terms he must love Brellati for Paulina's sake; and in particular, only affect her for his own. And as his wealth and ambition made him confident he should obtain her for his wife: so he in fair, amorous, and honourable terms, as well by his own solicitations, Letters, promises, and presents, as by those of his parents, seeks her in marriage: yea, and when these could not suffice, he, to show himself as true as fervent a lover, adds sighs, tears, prayers, and oaths. But all these solicitors serve only to betray and deceive his hopes: for if Bertolini were extremely desirous to marry Paulina, she is as resolute not to match him: which discords in affection, seldom or never make any true harmony in minds.  
His wealth deceiving him, he hath recourse to her only brother, and his best and dearest friend Brellati, to whom he relates the profundity and fervency of his affection to his sister Paulina, acquaints him with his suit, and her denial; his attempt, and her repulse therein; and by the power and bonds of all their former friendship and familiarity, entreats and conjures him to become his orator and advocate towards her, in his behalf; whose smiles, he allegeth, are his life, and frowns, his death. Brellati having his generosity and judgement blinded with the respect of Bertolini his wealth, as also of the affection he bore him; all other considerations laid apart, like a better friend to him, than a brother to his sister Paulina, promiseth him his best furtherance and assistance in the process of this his affection: and so with his truest Oratory, best Eloquence, and sweetest Persuasion, begins to deal effectually with her herein. But as our hopes are subject and incident to deceive us, so Bertolini and Brellati come far too short of theirs: for Paulina in absolute and downright terms, prays her brother to inform and resolve Bertolini, that she hath otherways settled and engaged her affection: and therefore prays him to seek another Mistress, sith she hath found another Lover and Servant, with whom she means to live and die. Her bro●…er (for his friend's sake) is extremely sorrowful hereat, and prays his sister to name him her servant: she binds him by oath to secrecy. So he swearing, she informs him it is Signior Paulus Sturio, a very ancient Noble man of the City. He tells her, he is a Gentleman more Noble than rich: and she replies, that Bertolini is more rich than Noble; and therefore she will refuse him, and marry Sturio. He is obstinate in his requests, as she resolute in her denial. So having performed the part of a friend for his friend, and commending the nobility and virtues of Sturio, as much as he pitied the weakness of his estate and wealth, he leaves his sister to her affection and designs: and so with an unwilling willingness (without any extenuation) delivers his friend Bertolini her definitive answer; yet performs his promise to his sister, in concealing Sturio his name.  
Bertolini is all in fire and choler at this news, and begins no longer to look on his friend Brellati with the eyes of affection, but of contempt and indignation: and so consulting with his passion, not with his judgement; with rage, and not with reason; as immoderate anger seldom looks right, commonly squinteyed; he in the heat of his wrath, and height of his revenge, very much neglects and slights him, yea and most uncivilly and abruptly departs from him, as if he were no longer worthy of the bare compliment of farewell. Which Brellati well observes, and in observing, remembers, and in remembering, grieves at, sith Bertolini was his most intimate and dearest friend; and in whose behalf, did occasion present, he was ready, not only to sacrifice his best service, but his best life. Lo here the first breach and violation, which Bertolini gives to their friendship: but the second is not far behind: For in the next company he meets, which was some two days after, walking in Cardinal Farnesis his Galleries in presence of some four or five other Gentlemen, both of his and of Brellati's acquaintance, he forgot himself so much, as some demanding for his consort Brellati, he cholericly replied, that he was a base and beggarly Gentleman; and therefore henceforth disdained his company, and that his sister Paulina was a lascivious and dissembling strumpet. But although the fire of his choler had foolishly banded forth these speeches in the air, yet they fell not to the ground; but some of the company then present, that very night report them to Brellati. It is impossible for my pen to relate how passionately and tenderly he takes it: yea his affliction and grief herein is far the more redoubled, in that (contrary to his desires and wishes) he is assured his sister Paulina is likewise acquainted with the vanity and injustice of these speeches: the conceit and remembrance whereof, make her enraged and sorrowful eyes pour forth many rivulets and rivers of tears, upon the Roses and Lilies of her beauty. But as she is two impatient to relish this scandalous affront and disparagement: so her brother Brellati is too generous and noble to digest it; whereof burning to know the truth, and resolving, if he found it true, sharply to revenge it on Bertolini, he passeth away the night in restless and distracted slumbers: And so the very next morn taking his Sword and Lackey with him, he goes to Bertolini his father's house, and meeting first with him, demands of him for his son Signior john Battista Bertolini. His father informs him, he is in the Garden very solitarily walking, and prays Brellati to go to him; who needing not many requests, entereth, and with his hat in his hand approacheth him. Bertolini doth the like, and meets him half way: when he being pale for anger, and Bertolini blushing for shame, he prays him to exempt the Garden of his servants, because he hath something to reveal and impart him in secret, which needeth no witnesses: when Bertolini commanding his servants to depart, Brellati chargeth him with these disgraceful speeches, vomited forth two days since, against his honour; as also that of his only dear sister Paulina, in Cardinal Farnesis his Palace, in presence of Signior Alessandro Fontani, Signior Rhanutio Pluvinio, and Signior Antonio Voltomari (which words we have formerly understood.)  
Bertolini is no way dismayed or daunted hereat, either in courage or complexion: and so losing his honour in his indiscretion, or rather burying his discretion in his dishonour; he with fire in his looks; and thunder in his speeches, tells Brellati that he confesseth these speeches his; adding withal, that what his tongue hath affirmed, his sword shall be ready to make good and justify; whereon they cover: When Brellati demanding of him if this were his last resolution, he told him yea. Then (quoth he) I pray expect mine shortly: and so without giving each other the good morrow, they part; Brellati still leaving Bertolini in his father's Garden. His sister Paulina having notice of her brothers speaking with Bertolini, very curiously and carefully awaits his return; when rushing into his Chamber, she, with tears, and sighs, demands him of the issue of his conference with Bertolini, and whether he were so impudent to deliver these dishonourable and base speeches both of herself and him. But her brother, like a true noble Roman, is too generous and brave to acquaint her with his design and resolution: and so in general terms prays her, not to afflict herself at these speeches, and that this difference will be very shortly decided and ended, to her honour, and his own content. Brother (quoth she) if you will not right mine honour, and vindicate the unspotted purity of my reputation, I am sure that my true Lover Signior Paulus Sturio will, though with the hazard and loss of his own life, had he but the least notice thereof. He shall not need, sister, quoth he: for a day or two will reconcile and finish this business: and so for that time he leaves his sister Paulina, and shuts himself up in his chamber; where, not long able to contain himself against the insolency and baseness of Bertolini, he calls for pen and paper, and more respecting his honour then his life, writes him this challenge; the which immediately after dinner he sends him, by Signior Valerio, a confident Gentleman his follower.  
BRELLATI to BERTOLINI.  
THy scandalous reports, like thyself, are so base, and I and my sister so honourably descended and bred, as I doubt not, but the disgrace and disparagement, which thou hast unjustly offered us, will as justly retort and fall on thyself. And to the end thou mayst find, that my Sword is purposely reserved to correct and chastise thy tongue, as thou art a Roman, and a Gentleman, meet me single to morrow at five in the morn, without Port Populi, in the next field behind Cardinal Borromeo's Palace; and there I will give thee the choice of two good Rapiers and Poniards, and gladly accept of the refusal, to draw reason of thee for those wrongs wherewith thou hast injuriously and maliciously traduced us: and to write thee the truth, as I desire, so I can receive no other satisfaction but this, whereunto thy malice invites, and my honour obligeth me.  
BRELLATI.  
Valerio performs his part well, and fairly working and screwing himself into Bertolini's presence, very secretly delivers him his Master's challenge. Bertolini not ignorant, but conjecturing what it means, breaks off the Seals: and at the perusal thereof, though his cause be unjust and dishonourable, yet in his countenance and speeches, he shows much constancy, fortitude, and resolution; when considering they were to fight single, and that therefore Valerio could be no second, he deeming his Master had concealed this secret business from him, contents himself to give him only this answer: Tell your Master Signior Brellati from me, that I will not fail to meet him, according to his desire and appointment. And so Valerio takes his leave, and departs: when finding out his Master, he reports him Bertolini's answer: whereat he is so far from being any way paid or daunted, as he infinitely rejoiceth thereat. In the mean time, he is curious in preparing two singular good Rapiers and Poniards of equal length, hilts, and temper. And thus with much impatient patience (as Revenge is an enemy to sleep) they not out-sleepe, but outwatch the night. So the morn and day stealing and breaking into their windows, they are no sooner out of their beds, but into the field; their Surgeons awaiting their arrivals by the Pyramids, in the place of Populi, by which of necessity they were to pass: when, tying up their horses to the hedges, like resolute Gentlemen, they throw off their doublets, commanding their Surgeons not to stir from their stations; when, disdaining words, they both draw, and fall to deeds thus:  
Brellati presenteth the first thrust, and Bertolini gives him the first wound in his left shoulder; whereat he is inflamed; and so returns Bertolini the interest of a most dangerous one, on his right side; but it touched neither his bowels nor quayse. They cry again: so Brellati again wounds Bertolini in his left hand, when his Rapier running thorough his sinews and Arteries, he is no longer able to hold his Poniard; but despite his resolution and courage, it falls out of his hand; which unlooked for disaster doth much perplex and afflict him. But Brellati is two generous and noble, to blemish or taint his honour, by taking any advantage of this his adversaries misfortune: and so, to clear his doubts and scruples, very valiantly and bravely throws away his own Poniard to the hedge, that they might be as equal in weapons, as courage. But Bertolini will basely requite this courtesy. They retire and take breath; and so traversing their grounds, thereby to take the benefit of the Sun, they again join: at the first close of this second meeting Brellati runs Bertolini into the right flank, when withdrawing his Rapier, and leaping back to put himself upon his defensive guard and posture, his foot slipping, he could not prevent falling to the ground; when Bertolini following him close, and being eager in his pursuit, and bloodthirsty in his revenge, he forgetting Brellati's former courtesy, and working upon the fortune of his misfortune, right then and there nailed him to the ground, and so redoubling his thrust, acted a perpetual divorce betwixt his body and soul: when Brellati's Chirurgeon shedding tears on his dead Master, and beginning to take order for his decent conveyance into the City, Bertolini takes up his Chirurgeon behind him, and so with all possible speed and celerity (the better to avoid the danger of the law) posts o'er the fields, and comes into Mount Cavallo Gate, and so husheth himself up privately in a friend's house of his, near his fathers.  
All Rome begins to echo forth and resound this Murder, and far the more, because Bertolini and Brellati were so dear and intimate friends: but as good news comes always lame, and bad rides post, so within one hour of Brellati's Murder, the news thereof is brought first to his Father, then to his Sister Paulina; whereat he grieves, and she storms, he sorroweth, and she weeps and laments, and in a word, the Father would, but cannot, and the Daughter can, but will not be comforted, at this sad and mournful Tragedy. Neither must we forget, but remember Signior Paulus Sturio, who loving Paulina a thousand times dearer than his own life, is no sooner acquainted, but afflicted with this news of Brellati his death, as being his dear friend, and which is more, the only brother of his dearest and only Mistress Paulina; so as Lovers and friends being best known and discerned in calamities and afflictions, he repairs to her, condoles with her, and useth his chiefest art and zeal, not only to participate, but wholly to deprive her of her sorrows; yea, to prove himself a constant friend and a faithful lover to her, he proffereth her, not only his service, but his life, as well to right her honour, as to revenge her brother's death on Bertolini: but this affection and persuasion of Sturio is not capable to wipe off, or exhale his Lady Paulina's tears.  
But again to Bertolini, who is so far from contrition and repentance of this his bloody fact, as like a profane miscreant, and debauched and dissolute Gentleman, he triumphs and glories therein; yea, his impudency is become so ignorant, and his ignorance so sottish, as he began to enter into a resolution again to court and seek Paulina for his wife, without respecting or regarding either the public danger of the Law, or that of Paulina's private revenge; for sure her brother's death had thrown her into such violent passions of grief, and extremities of sorrow, as if his folly had made her so happy, doubtless her revenge would have made him more miserable: but God had taught her rage more reason, and her malice and cruelty not so much impiety; yea, it pleased his Divine Majesty not so soon to call him to an account, and punish him for this his bloody fact; but reserving him for a future shame and punishment, being affrighted with a tumultuous rumour and alarm of a general search to be made that night for his apprehension, he very subtly, in a Capuchins habit, passeth Saint john de Lateran's Gate, and there having Poast-horses laid for him, he as swift as the wind gallops away for Naples, and embarking himself for Sicily, passeth the Pharre of Messina, lands at that City, and so rides up for Palermo, where he thinks himself safe. But having not made his peace with God, where ever he fly, God will in due time find him out, when he least dreams thereof. ●…ut although the power and influence of time be so predominate to deface the actions and accidents of time; yet 〈◊〉 can give no truce to her tears, nor will she administer any consolation to her sorrows for her brother's death: And if ever, now it is that Sturio resembling himself, begins to make her sorrows his: for having deeply rooted and settled his affection on Paulina, and naturally engraven her beauty and picture in the very centre of his heart and thoughts, he begins to make his private affection to her public, and so having already won her heart from herself, he now endeavoureth to win her from her friends, and then to marry her. But old Signior Sturio his father, is no sooner advertised of Brellati his death, of Bertolini's flight, and of his son's affection and intent to take Paulina to wife, but disdaining he should match so low, and withal so poor, as also fearing that this might likewise engage his son in some quarrel betwixt him and Bertolini, he resolves privately to convey him away out of Rome, in some retired or obscure place, from whence he should not return, till his absence had cooled and extenuated the heat of his affection to Paulina, and of his malice and Revenge to Bertolini: to which end, three weeks are scarce passed, but taking his son with him in his Coach, under colour to take the air in the fields of Rome, beyond Saint Paul's Church, he having given the Coach man his lesson, commands him to drive away, and having two Braves or Ruffians with him, they dispose or rather enforce the humour of his son Sturio to patience, as despite himself, they carry him to Naples, where a Brigantine being purposely prepared, he shippeth over his son for the Island of Capri, or Caprea where long since, Seiar●… his ambition caused Tiberius to sojourn, whiles he played the petty King, and domineered as Emperor at Rome in his absence) and gives him to the keeping and guard of Signior Alphonsus Drissa, Captain of that Island; with request and charge not to permit him to return, for the main, for the term of one whole year, without his express order to the contrary.  
It is for none but for Lovers to judge, ●…ow tenderly Sturio and his sweet Lady Paulina grieve at the news of this their sudden and unexpected separation: yea, their sighs and tears are so infinite for this their disaster, as all the words of the world are not capable to express them. As for Paulina, she had so long and so bitterly wept for her brother's death, as it was a mere cruelty of sorrow, to enforce her to play any farther part in sorrow, for the departure and captivity of her Lover Sturio: but her afflictions falling in, each on the neck of other (in imitation of the waves of the sea, occasioned by the breath and blast of Boreas) threaten her not only with present sickness, but with approaching death. Again she understands of Bertolini's safety and prosperity in Cicilia, where he triumphs in his victory, for killing her brother Brellati; and like a base Gentleman, continually erects his Trophies of detraction upon the ruins and tomb of her honour: and these considerations (like reserved afflictions) again newly afflict and torment her: so as having lost her jewel and her joy, her brother and her Lover, Brellati and Sturio, she begins to be extreme sick, weak, and faint; yea, the Roses of her cheeks are transformed to Lilies; the relucent lustre of her eyes, to dimness and obscurity; and to use but a word, not only her heart, but her tongue begins to fail, and to strike sail to immoderate sorrow and disconsolation. Her parents and friends grieve hereat, and far the more, in respect they know not how to remedy it; and for herself, if she enjoy any comfort in this life, it is only in hope that she shall shortly leave it, to enjoy that of a better. Thus whiles sorrow, ●…tion and sickness make haste to sp●… out the thread and web of her life, if her griefs are extreme and insupportable in Rome, no less are those of her Lover Sturio in Caprea: for it ●…rets him to the heart and gall, to see how his father hath bereft and betrayed him of his Mistress Paulina's presence, the only content and felicity which this life or earth could afford him; a thousand times he wisheth himself with her, and as often kisseth her remembrance and Idea; and then, as their affections, so their malice concurring and sympathising, he again wisheth that he may be so happy to fight with Bertolini for the disgrace of his Lady Paulina, and she for the death of her brother Brellati, and in that affection and this revenge, he with much affliction and no comfort, passeth away many bitter days and torments, in the misery of this his enforced exile and banishment: and although his curiosity, affection, or subtlety could never crown him with the happiness or felicity to free himself of his guards and captivity, and so to steal away from that Island in some Foist or Galley for the main; yet understanding that two days after there was one bound for the Port of Civita Vetcha, he, to testify his affection, constancy, and torments to his dear and fair Paulina, taketh occasion to write her a Letter to Rome, the which, that it might come the safer to her own hands, he encloseth in another, to an intimate dear friend of his. The tenor of his Letter was thus:  
STURIO to PAULINA.  
I Know not whether I more grieve at my absence from thee, then at the manner thereof; yet sure I am, that both conjoined, make me in this Island of Caprea feel the torments, not of a feigned Purgatory, but of a true Hell. It was my purpose to condole with thee for the untimely death of thy Brother; it is now not only my resolution, but my practice, to mourn with myself for thy banishment, or rather with thee for mine; and when my sorrows have most need of consolation, than again that consolation finds most cause of sorrow: for thinking of Bertolini, me thinks I see thy false disparagement on his malicious tongue, and thy Brother Brellati his true death on his bloody Sword; and yet have neither the honour or happiness to revenge either, and which is worse, not be permitted to know where he is, that I may revenge them: but I wish I were only incident and obliged tosupport this affliction, conditionally then wert exempt thereof, or that I might know the limits and period of our absence, thereby to hope for an end and remedy thereof, which now I can find no motives to know, nor cause to hope. O that I have often envied Leander's happiness! And if Love could make impossibilities possible, the Mediterranean Sea should long since have been my Hellespont, my Body my Bark, my arms my ●…res, to have wafied me from my Abydos, to thy Sestos, from my Caprea, to thy Rome, to thee sweet Paulina, my only fair and dear Hero. And although the constancy and fervency of my love to thee, suggest me many inventions to escape the misery of my exile, yet the Argus eyes of my Father's malice, in that of my Guardians jealousy, cannot be enchanted or lulled asle●…e with the melody of so unfortunate a Mercury as myself: but time shall shortly act and finish that which impatience cannot, till when, dear and sweet Paulina, retain me in thy thoughts, as I do thee in my heart and memory; and doubt not but a few weeks will make us at happy, as we are now miserable.  
STURIO.  
Paulina, in the midst of her furrows and sickness, receives this Letter from her best and dearest friend Sturio, and although she rejoice to hear of his health and welfare in Caprea, yet she is more glad, that the extremity of her-sickenesse and weakness inform her, she shall shortly dye in Rome: for vanquished with afflictions, and overcome with variety of grief and discontents, she in conceit already hath left this world, and is by this time half way in her progress and pilgrimage towards Heaven, yet in love to her dear Sturio, who wrote her this kind Letter, she will not be so unkind, but will kiss it for his sake that sent it her; and peradventure if she had been so happy, that he might have been the bearer and deliverer thereof himself, or that he had borne and delivered himself to her in stead of his Letter, he might then have given some comfort to her sorrows, and some consolation to her discontents and afflictions, whereas now seeing him exiled, and mewed up in Caprea, without any appearance of return, she sees she hath more reason to fly to her old despair, then to any new hope; and so wisheth the desired hour were at last come, wherein she might give her last farewell to this world: but again perusing and over reading his Letter, she finds it full fraught with love and affection towards her; and therefore disdaining to prove ingrateful to any, especially to Sturio, who is so kind and courteous to her, calls for pen and paper, and by his own conveyance returns him this Answer:  
PAULINA to STURIO.  
I Cannot rightly define whether the receipt of thy Letter made me more glad, or the contents sorrowful: for as I infinitely rejoiced to understand thou wert living, so I extremely grieved to hear there was no certainty of thy releasement and return. Whether or no Caprea be thy Purgatory, I know not, but sure I am, Rome is my Hell, sith I cannot be there with thee, nor thou here with me; and as I lamented with sighs, I could not dye with my Brother so I grieve with tears, that I cannot live with thee: but why write I of living, when his mournful Tragedy, and thy disastrous exile hath made me more ready to dye then live, or rather not fit to live, but die? for despairing of thy return, how can I hope for comfort, sith it only lived in thy presence, as my heart and joy did in thee? As for Bertolini's folly to me, and crime to my Brother, if thy Sword punish him not, God's just revenge will, and wishing this as a woman, as a Christian, I pardon and forgive him; and so I pray do thou for my sake, if thou wilt not that of my dead Brothers. Could prayers or wishes have effected thy return to me, my tears had long since been thy Hellespont and Mediterranean Sea, and my sighs had filled the Sails of thy desires and resolutions, to have past Ostia, floated up Tiber, and landed at Rippa to me: But alas, alas! here in remembering Hero's felicity and joy, I cannot forget my sorrows and afflictions: for as Leander lived in her arms, so I cannot be so fortunate, either to live or dye in my Sturio's; and if now, as a skilful Mercury, thou couldst inveigle the eyes both of thy Father's malice, and Guardians jealousy, yet that happiness would come too late, and out of season for me: for before thou shalt have plotted thy flight and escape from Caprea to Rome, I shall have acted and finished mine from Rome to Heaven. I would send thee more lines, but that my weak hand and feeble fingers have not the power, though the will, any longer to retain my pen. Heaven will make us happy, though Earth cannot; therefore my dear Sturio, let this be our last and best consolation, as these joys are temporary and transitory, so those will be permanent and eternal.  
PAULINA.  
This Letter of Paulina to Sturio meets with a speedy passage from Rome to Caprea, who receiving it, and thinking to have found her in her true and perfect health, with much joy and affection breaks up the seals thereof; when, contrary to his hope and expectation, understanding of her sickness and approach to death, he tenderly and bitterly weeps at his own misfortune, in her discontent and disaster; yea, he passionately and sorrowfully bewails his Father's cruelty, in thus banishing him from her sight and presence, from the contemplation of whose beauty, and from his innate affection to her, the Fates and Destinies cannot banish him. But alas unfortunate Sturio! the news of thy Paulina's sickness is but the Prologue to the ensuing sorrows and afflictions that are ready to befall and surprise thee: for the news of her death shall shortly follow her Letter; and if that drew tears from thine eyes, this shall drown thine eyes in the Ocean of thy Tears: neither shall he stay long to feel the miserable impetuosity 〈◊〉 ●…is mournful Storm. For scarce twenty days are past, after the writing of her Letter to Sturio, but Paulina, languishing with Grief, Despair, Sorrow and Sickness, as a female Love-Martyr, takes her last leave and farewell of this world in Rome; it being not in the power or affection of her parents, any longer to divert her from paying this her last due and tribute unto Nature, sith we all have our Lives lent, not given us; and therefore as we receive, so must we repay them to our Creator and Redeemer, of whom we have first received them.  
Old Sturio is as glad in Rome for the death of Paulina, as her Parents grieve thereat; and now it is that he intends to be as happy and joyful in his Son's presence, as he hath formerly made himself sorrowful in occasioning his absence: whereupon, with all expedition, he dispatcheth a Servant of his to Caprea, with a Letter, to signify his Son thereof, and consequently, to recall him. This news of Paulina's Death-infinitely afflicts and torments our Sturio; for she being the Queen of his affections, and the sovereign Goddess of his delights and desires, he resembleth himself, and so like a true Lover, as he is, acteth a wonderful mournful part of sorrow for her unwished and unexpected Death: he is no longer himself; nay, such was his living affection to Paulina, and such is his immoderate sorrow for her death, as he will not be himself, because she is gone, who was the greatest and chiefest part of himself. But as wounds cannot be cured, ere searched; so passion transporting his thoughts beyond reason, and revenge beyond passion, he, for the time present, forsakes the effect, to follow the cause, and so hath no other object before his eyes and thoughts, but that of Bertolini's killing of her Brother Brellati, and this of his Father's unkind banishing of him from Rome to Caprea: wherefore, that he may outlive his sorrows, and apply a Lenitive to his Corrosive, he vows to revenge both. The manner is thus: That, as his Father deceived his hopes in carrying him from Rome to Caprea; so he will deceive those of his said Father, in carrying himself from Caprea to Sicily, there to find out Bertolini, and to fight with him. It is not the point of Honour, much less, judgement, and least of all, Religion, that precipitates and throws him on this bloody, and therefore uncharitable resolution: but it is the vanity of his thoughts, and his living affection to his dead Mistress Paulina, which gives life and birth to it: for he (trampling on all dissuasion and opposition) finding a Galley of Naples, bound from Caprea to Sicily, very secretly imbarkes himself in her, and contemning the impetuosity of the Winds, and the merciless mercy of the Seas, lands at Palermo, where hushing himself up the first night privately in his Inn, and informing himself that Bertolini was in that City, he, the next morn, by his Lackey, sends him this Challenge:  
STURIO to BERTOLINI.  
HAving killed my dear Paulina in the scandal of her honour, and the death of her Brother Brellati, my afflictions and sorrows to survive her, make me contemn mine own life, to seek thine: to which purpose, I have left Caprea, to find Sicily, and in it thyself. Wherefore, as thou art Bertolini, fail not to meet me this Evening 'twixt five and six of the Clock in the next Meadow, behind the Carthusians Monastery; where myself, assisted only with a Chirurgeon, and the choice of two single Rapiers, will expect and attend thee. Thy Generosity invites thee, and my Affection and Honour obligeth me, to be the only Guests of this bloody Banquet.  
STURIO.  
Bertolini receives and reads this Challenge, which, to write the truth, is not so pleasing to him, as was that of Brellati: he sees himself and his Honour engaged to fight, and knows not how to exempt and free himself thereof. For, first, he considereth that the ground of his Defence and Quarrel is not good, sith he knew in his soul and conscience, that Paulina was as chaste, as fair, & that he had wronged himself, in seeking to wrong and scandalise her; then, that he perfectly understood Sturio was valiant and generous, yea, and very expert and skilful in handling his Weapons; and withal, that single Combats were variable, and only constant in unconstancy: so that he beg●…n not only to doubt, but fear, that as he had killed Brellati, so Sturio was reserved to kill him: but again, considering that his birth and blood was noble, it chose so inc●…red and animated his courage, and inflamed, and set an edge on his Generosity, as with a kind of unwilling willingness he accepts of Sturio's Challenge; and so bade his Lackey tell his Master from him, that he would not fail to meet him, to give him his welcome to Palermo. The Clock strikes five, and long before six, our two young Gentlemen come ride into the Field; where, giving their Horses to their Chirurgeons, with command not to stir, till their due●…y and office call them, they both draw; and so approach each other: but although this fury of theirs begin in blood, yet it shall not here end in death. At first coming up, Sturio wards Bertolini's thrust, and runs him into the right Flank, of a deep wound, at the second, he wounds him again in the neck, which draws much blood from him neither is the third meetingmore propitious, or less fatal to him: for Sturio, without receiving any touch or scar, gives him a third wound 'twixt his small ribs; whereat his courage feareth, and his strength fainteth; when willing to save his life, though with the loss of his honour, he throws away his Rapier, and with his Hat in hand, begs his life of Sturio; and with as much truth as integrity, confesseth and voweth that he is infinitely sorrowful and repentant for the scandal, delivered against the honour of his most fair and chaste Lady Paulina, for the which he craves pardon and remission. Sturio is astonished at this unexpected and cowardly act of Bertolini: whereat he bites his lip, but I know not whether more with disdain then anger; only at first the remembrance of Brellati and Paulina's deaths, for the present make him inexorable to his reque●… and submission: but at last, making reason give a law to choler, and Religion to Revenge, and considering that he was more than a Man, sith a Christian, as also that the lustre of his blood and extraction, had distinguished him from the vulgar, and so made him honourable and noble, he, not as a cruel Tiger but as a generous Lion, disdaineth to blemish his reputation and valour, in killing a disarmed man; and so his honour outbraving his valour and revenge, he as a truly noble Gentleman, giveth Bertolini his life, as holding himself satisfied, by having righted the honour of his dead Mistress Paulina, in Bertolini's confession and contrition. So they sheath up their Swords, and like loving fri●…nds, return together into the City: where Sturio prepareth for his departure, and Bertolini betakes himself to have his wounds dressed and cured.  
This Combat, or Duel, is not so secretly carried betwixt them and their Chirurgeons, but all Palermo resounds and prattles thereof; and which is more, this news speedily sails from Sicily to Naples, and from thence rides post to Rome, where Sturio and Bertolini likewise in short space arrive; but first comes Sturio, than Bertolini, whose Father by this time hath obtained his Pardon for killing of Brellati. The Nobility and Gentry of Rome speak diversely and differently of our two late returned Gallant: some, ●…t of reason, highly applaud Sturio's fight with Bertolini, occasioned through his affection to his dead Mistress Paulina; and then his humanity and courtesy showed and extended him, in giving him his life: others, out of the errors of youth and vanity, tax and condemn him for not dispatching and killing him: again, many extol Bertolini's valour in kill Brellati, but all taunt and tax him for his Cowardice, in not fight it out with Sturio; and, which is worse, for disgracefully begging and receiving his life of him. Bertolini finds this scandal thrown and retorted on him, to be very distasteful and dishonourable; in so much as he cannot relish it, but with discontent, nor digest it, but with extreme indignation and choler: which throws him so violently on the execrable humour of revenge, as he vows to make Sturio pay dear for giving two much liberty to his tongue, to the prejudice of his honour and reputation. Puffed up thus with these three execrable humours and vices, disdain, envy and revenge, whereof the least is great and capable enough to ruin both a fortune and a life, he, out of a wretched resolution, (unworthy the generosity of a Gentleman) not only forgets Sturio his singular courtesy in giving him his life, when it lay in his power and pleasure to take it from him, but also remembreth, and in that remembrance resolveth to repay him with the ungrateful requital, and mournful interest of depriving him of his. O extreme ingratitude! O uncharitable and base resolution! Yea, he is so devoid of reason, and the purity of his soul and conscience so contaminated and vilified with the contemplation and object of blood, as he gives way thereto, and resolves thereon; yea, permits it to forsake God, of purpose wilfully to follow the Devil: yea, his thoughts are so surprised and taken up with this execrable and hellish resolution of Murder, as he thinks of nothing else but of the means and manner how to dispatch Sturio; and so to send him in a bloody winding-sheet, from this life to another. To fight with him again in the field, he dares not, to assassinate and murder him in his bed, he cannot, sith he must pass five or six several chambers, ere he can come at his; and to pistol him in the open street, though it be less difficult, yet he finds it most dangerous, sith he sees Sturio still went better followed and accompanied then himself, as indeed being more eminent of birth, and noble of extraction than himself. But he shall want no invention to accomplish and bring this his bloody resolution to pass: for if he fail thereof, the Devil is still at his elbow to prompt and instruct him therein; yea, his impiety is grown so strong with the Devil, and his faith so weak with God, as now having turned over the records of his revenge, he at last resolves to shoot Sturio from a Window, with a Petronel, as he passeth the street: and upon the attempt and finishing of this hellish stratagem and bloody Tragedy, the Devil and he strike hands, and conclude it; the contriving and perpetrating where of shall in the end strangle him, because he was so profane and graceless, as he would not strangle the first conceit thereof in their births and conceptions.  
But leave we here Bertolini ruminating on his intended bloody crime of Murder, and come we a little to speak of poor unfortunate Sturio, who not dreaming of his malice, much less of his ungrateful and bloody revenge intended against him, like a mournful and disconsolate constant Lover, is thinking on nothing so much, as on the living beauty and Idea of his dead Paulina: and although he knew it as palpable folly to bewray his immoderate sorrows, as discretion to conceal them; yet their impetuosity and fervency give such a predominating law to his resolutions, as he cannot refrain from often stealing into Sancta Maria de Rotunda's Church, where she was buried, and there secretly bedews her Tomb, and washes her Sepulchre with his tears: an act and ceremony of Lovers, which though affection authorise, yet Religion doth neither justify, nor can approve. All the care of his father and friends is to seek how to purge his pensiveness, and to wipe off his melancholy sorrows and sorrowful melancholiness: to which end they proffer him great variety of noble and beautiful Ladies in Marriage, hoping that the sight and presence of a new beauty would deface the memory and absence of an old: but their policy proves vain; for Sturio will be as constant in his sorrows for his sweet Paulina's death, as he was in his affection to her whiles she lived; and therefore, although their power enforce him to see divers, yet his will can never be drawn, or enforced to love any, as having inviolably contracted himself to this definitive resolution, that sith he could not be Paulina's husband, he will never wed himself to any other wife than his Grave.  
And here I begin to write rather with tears, than Ink, when I apprehend and consider how soon our poor and innocent Sturio shall ●…ee by the bloody hand of Bertolini laid in his unfortunate and untimely Grave. Ah Sturio, Sturio, hadst thou been more vindictive, and less generous and compassionate, thou hadst prevented thy death by kill Bertolini, when thy valour in Caprea formerly reduced and exposed him to the mercy of thy Sword; or if thou hadst believed this Maxim, that dead men can never offend or hurt, thou needst not have relied and trusted upon the false promises of an incensed and irreconciliable enemy: but what shall I say? It was not thy honour, but Bertolini's infamy, which hasteneth and procureth thy death. O that thou shouldest be so true a friend to thine enemy, and he prove so deadly an enemy to thee his true friend! Sturio gave Bertolini his life, and Bertolini in requital will give Sturio his death: but such monstrous and bloody ingratitude will never go unpunished of God; for as it is odious to Earth, so it is execrable to Heaven: But I must be so unfortunate to bring this deplorable Tragedy upon the Theatre of this History. A misery of miseries, that we are many times nearest our ends, when we think ourselves farthest from them; and (not to rush into the sacred and secret closet of God's inscrutable providence) I can find no other pregnant reason thereof, either in Divinity or Nature, but that at all times, and in all places, we should be still prepared and ready for death, ere death for us, and not protracting or procrastinating the hour thereof; but that whensoever it shall please God to call us to him, or himself to us, that (like good Christians) death may still find us always armed to meet, never unprovided to encounter it.  
But Bertolini is so obstinate in his malice, and so wretchedly implacable in his revenge, as understanding that Sturio is accustomed to go to his morning's Mass at the English College, he provides both himself and his Petronel charged with a brace of Bullets; or rather the Devil provides both the Bullets, the Petronel, and himself: and so, watching the advantage of his hour and time, on a Monday morning, a little after the Cardinals, Farnesis and Caponius, were ridden with their trains to the Consistory, putting himself into an unknown house betwixt the said English College and the Palace of Farnesis, he having his Cock bend, and seeing Sturio coming in the street, upon his prancing Barbary Horse and Foot-cloth, like a graceless and bloody villain (having neither the fear of God, nor the salvation or damnation of his soul before his eyes, nor once imagining that he shoots at the Majesty of God the Creator, in killing and defacing Man, his Image and Creature) le's fly at him, and the Devil had made him so curious and expert a Marksman, as both the Bullets pierce the trunk of his breast; with which mortal wounds our innocent Sturio, no longer able to sit his Horse, tumbles down dead to the ground, without having the power to utter a word, but only to breathe forth two or three lamentable and deadly groans. And this was the unfortunate and mournful end of this noble Gentleman Sturio, which I cannot relate without sighs, nor remember without tears.  
This bloody Tragedy acted on so brave a Gallant, in the very bowels and heart of Rome, doth extremely amaze, and draw all the Spectators to lamentation and mourning, and his two servants, who walked by his Horse side, are so busy in lifting him up, and rubbing the temples of their dead Master; as they forget the research and inquiry for his murderer: but the Assistants, and standers by, hearing the report of the Piece, and not only seeing the smoke in the window and air, but this noble Gentleman dead in the street, they ascend the house, find the Petronel on the Table, 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 fled upon a sw●… Spanish Jennet, by the back door, they of the house affirming with tears, that they knew not the Gentleman that did it, neither was it i●… their powers to stop or prevent his escape.  
This Fatal and mournful news dispersed and spread o'er the City of Rome; the Serjea●…s and Captain's guard are busy to find out the Murderer, who by this time they know to be Signior Bertolini: but being gallantly mounted, he speeds away thorough the stree●…s amain, and is so far from despair, as he makes no doubt but to recover the Lateran Gate, and to escape this his second danger, as fortunately as he ●…id his first, by flying into the Kingdom of Naples: but his hopes shall deceive him; for if he bought Brellati's Mu●…her ●…t an easy rate, God hath now ordained and decreed that he shall pay dear for this his second of Sturio: and ●…o, here the impetuous storm of God's just revenge and indignation now befalls him, when he least fears or thinks thereof. The manner thus:  
As he was swiftly galloping thorough Campo de 〈◊〉 (the public place where the Pope (that Antichrist of Rome) burns the children of God, for the profession of his glorious Gospel) and being at the farther end thereof, with an intent to draw towards the back side of the Capitol, behold, two Brick layers building of a house upon a Scaffold, two Stories high in the street, as Bertolini passed, both the Scaffold and the two Brick layers fell down upon him, and his horse, and so beat them both to the ground: but as yet the news of Sturio's Murder was not arrived thither; so as danger and fear making Bertolini forget the hurt of his fall, he again riseth up, and calls for his horse, which was speedily brought him: so leaping into the Saddle, he spurs away, with as much celerity as his Jennet could possibly drive under him. But if he have escaped this first judgement of God, he shall not the second; for having past the Capitol and the Amphitheatre, his Jennet ●…twixt that and the Lateran, fell under him, which putting his shoulder out of joint, the poor afflicted Beast could not r●… with his Master, who by this time is more afflicted and grieved then the harmless Jennet he rides upon. Whereupon being amazed, and fearing that the search would instantly follow and surprise him, he leaving his horse, betakes himself to his ow●… heels: and so with much terror both of mind and conscience, he knows not whither to go, or where to hide himself, but at last considering that the greate●… dangers have need of the least distraction, and most discretion, he thinks to 〈◊〉 on his right hand to Horta Farnesis, or the Gardens and Orchards which belong ●…o that illustrious Family: but then again fearing to meet with a wooden face, in stead of finding an open door, he leaves that resolution, and (as fast as his legs and feet can bear him) flies on his left hand up towards Nero's Tower (so famous for that Emperor's infamy, in standing thereon, when he delighted to see all Rome on fire) and here in the ruins and demolitions of an infinite number of Palaces, Churches, and other stupendious buildings, our murderous Bertolini hides and h●…sheth up himself, hoping if the day were passed, to escape, and recover some secret friend's house by night.  
But God is too just to let this his cruel fact pass unrevenged, and this bloody Murderer unpunished: for he hath scarce been there half an hour, but he is known there, found out, and hemmed in of all sides by the captain's Guard, armed with Partisans and Pistols. here Bertolini considering himself a Roman Gentleman, would fain have made some resistance with his Rapier: but seeing their numbers to increase, and himself alone, as also that it would f●…rther augment his crime, and exasperate his judges against him; he at th●…r first 〈◊〉 delivereth up his Rapier, and yields, and rendereth himself into their hands, who presently convey him to prison, where he shall have but little time to think of his heinous and bloody Murders, ere we shall see him brought forth and arraigned before his judges: but in the Interim all Rome is possessed and informed hereof.  
So the second morn of Bertolini his imprisonment, he is fetched before his judges, where at first the Devil is so strong with him, as he once thought to have denied this Murder of Sturio: but God proving more merciful to his soul, he upon his judge's grave and religious remonstrances, with many sighs and tears freely confesseth it, humbly beseeching them to take pity of his young years, and that it was only the heat of youth, and the vanity of his ambitious honour, which had thus betrayed and seduced his soul to perpetrate this cruel and impious Murder, and for the which he extremely and bitterly repent himself.  
But the arrow of God's wrath and Revenge is now fully bend against Bertolini, as his bullets were against Sturio: so as his sacred Majesty, causing his judges to resemble themselves, they are deaf to his requests, and tell him, it is not his youth or his ambition, but the Devil that hath seduced and drawn him to perform this bloody Murder: and so for expiation thereof, they, in consideration he is a Roman Gentleman, nobly descended, will not hang him, but adjudge his two hands to be cut off before the house where he shot at Sturio, and then to be beheaded at the common place of execution, at the foot of Saint Angelo's bridge, his head to be set upon a pole, over Saint john de Lateran's gate, and his body to be thrown into Tiber: which the next day was accordingly executed in presence of many thousand people of both sexes, and of all ranks, notwithstanding the importunate solicitations which his father made to Cardinal Borghese (the Pope Paulus Quintus Nephew) to the contrary, who was too noble and generous to assist him in so base and ignoble a Murder.  
And these were the lives and deaths of these three unfortunate Roman Gentlemen, Brellati, Sturio, and Bertolini, and of that beautiful, chaste, and sorrowful Lady Paulina. And here to conclude and shut up this their mournful History; I have been informed that the curious wits of Rome made many exquisite Epitaphs upon the deaths of Sturio and Paulina, as also that Bertolini made a religious and most Christian speech at his end, of which I must confess I was not so happy to recover the sight, or copies of either: for if I had, I would not have failed to have inserted, and placed them at the end of this their History, to have served as a grace and ornament thereunto, in interlacing my prose with others verses, for the better delight and recreation of my Reader. But I must (justly) crave excuse herein: for my curiosity sought them, though my unfortunacie found them not. And because I wholly aim rather to profit then please my Reader, let us forget the shadows, to remember the substance, and so look from the Map, to the Moral of this History: that the foul example of Bertolini's crime of Murder, and the justness of his punishment, may make us less bloody, and more compassionate and charitable to our Christian brethren, and consequently more pious towards God, of whom we all bear the living Image, and true and lively character.   
FINIS.   

THE TRIUMPHS OF GOD'S REVENGE AGAINST THE CRYING AND Execrable Sin of Murder.  
Expressed In thirty several Tragical Histories, (digested into six Books) which contain great variety of mournful and memorable Accidents, Amorous, Moral, Divine.  
Book III.  
Written by JOHN REYNOLDS.  
LONDON, ¶ Printed by john Haviland for WILLIAM LEE, and are to be sold at his shop in Fleetstreet, at the sign of the Turks Head, near the Mitre Tavern.  
1634.   

TO THE RIGHT HONOURABLE, AND truly worthy of all honour, WILLIAM Earl of Pembroke, Lo. Chamberlain to his Majesty, Knight of the thrice Noble Order of the Garter, and one of the Lords of his most Honourable Privy Council.  
RIGHT HONOURABLE,  
IT is not your Dignities, but your Virtues; not your Greatness, but your Goodness which first conjured my affection, than commanded my resolution to direct these (foreign) Tragical Histories to your Honour's protection and patronage; For whiles others (sailing with the corrupt Tide and Current of the times) not only admire, but adore the exterior parts of men, their Fortunes, I, for my part, both honour and reverence their interior qualities and ornaments, Piety, Fidelity, Generosity, (three Daughters of Heaven, embleming and personating the three Heavenly Graces on Earth, Faith, Hope, Charity) who transport and convey our Memories as far as the limits of Time, and a degree beyond it, and (on the wings of Truth) mount our Fames ●…rom Earth to Heaven, from Envy to Glory, and from Mortality to Eternity. Not but that I every way respect and honour that blood which is Noble, but that I yet more dearly honour and deeply affect those Virtues which have a secret, and (as I may justly say) a sacred power in them to ennoble Nobility, both which transcendent Privileges, finding hand in hand cheerfully to march, and really to sympathise in your Ho. (sith upon the resplendent lustre of your actions, Envy is not capable to insinuate a blemish, nor Detraction of power to introduce or enforce a disparagement) was the sole prevailing motive of this my Zeal and Ambition. And when I consider that the Morality, Ends and Punishments of these foul and crying sins of Murder, which my two former Books (of this Nature) have already related and divulged to the world, have not only been approved, but applauded of our most Excellent and Sacred King, (as only aiming at God's glory, and our own reformation and p●…ervation) I rather hope than despair, that this Third (wherein the just revenge of God, the Great and Supreme King of Kings, is no less apparent and conspicuous) will be accepted and received of your Ho. Again, it fights against Murder, which not only seeks to slay Humanity, but therein to murder Religion, which is the Life and Soul thereof. It denounceth war against Nature and Grace, against the Divine Ordinances of Heaven, and the Coactive and penal Laws of Earth, whereby they are established and maintained, as being the Cymment and Sinews, the Veins and Arteries of Monarchies and Common weals; as also against the Majesty of God, and the Crowns and Dignities of Sovereign Kings and Princes, his Royal Deputies and Vice-gerents here on earth, sith thereby he loseth souls, and these subjects; yea, so general and so prodigious a progression doth this scarlet sin of premeditated and wilful murder make in the universal World, and with so bloody a deluge and inundation, it not only washes, but (as it were) drowns the face of the Christian, that we have now far truer cause to cry out, and juster reason to exclaim, than did Quintus Catulus (so many centuries of years since) O with whom, or where shall we live in safety, sith in wars we kill those who are armed, and in Peace, who are unarmed? Yea, your Ho. who (with a happy constancy, and constant happiness) is still a professed Champion for Charity against Envy, and a tutelary Protector for Virtue against Vice, (whiles divers great ones of the World make it not only their practice, but their glory to perform the contrary) will, I hope, run over these mournful Histories, (and the several accidents they relate) with your eye of pity, and spirit of compassion; and therein with a religious joy, and pious insultation, not only admire the Providence, but applaud and magnify the justice of God, in so timely curting off these Monsters of Nature, and bloody Butchers of Mankind, with these their condign punishments and deserved deaths: In which Hope and Confidence, this Book is no more mine, but your Honours, and no less is he who collected and penned it; and that my Name may futurely oblige me to make this present promise of my pen real; Whiles many others (in a virtuous emulation) contend to deserve the Honour of your Favour, and strive to purchase the felicity of your Commands, none shall do it with more Integrity and less Vanity, than  
Your Honours truly devoted JOHN REYNOLDS.   

The Grounds and Contents of these Histories.  

History XI. De Salez killeth Vaumarti●… in a Duel; Lafoy Hay causeth Michaelle to poison La Frange; De Salez loves La Hay, and because his father Argentier will not consent that he marry her, stifleth him in his bed, and then takes her to his wife; she turns Strumpet, and cuts his throat; as he is dying, he accuseth her of this bloody fact, and himself for murdering his father Argentier: so his dead body is hanged to the Gallows, then burnt; Lafoy Hay confesseth this murder, and likewise that she caused Michaelle to poison La Frange: she hath her right hand cut off, and is then burnt alive; Michaelle is broken on the wheel, and his dead body thrown into the River.  
History XII. Albemare causeth Pedro and Leonardo to murder Baretano, and he after marrieth Clara, whom Baretano first sought to marry: He causeth his man Valerio to poison Pedro in prison, and by a letter which Leonardo sent him, Clara perceives that her husband Albemare had hired and caused Pedro and Leonardo to murder her first love Baretano: which letter she reveals to the judge; so he is hanged, and likewise Valerio and Leonardo for these their bloody crimes.  
History XIII. La Vasselay poisoneth her wayting-maid Gratiana, because she is jealous that her husband De Merson is dishonest with her; whereupon he lives from her: In revenge whereof, she causeth his man La Villete to murder him in a Wood, and then marries him in requital. The said La Villete a year after riding thorough the same Wood, his Horse falls with him, and almost kills him; when he confesseth the murder of his master De Merson, and accuseth his wife La Vasselay to be the cause thereof: So for these their bloody crimes, he is hanged, and she burnt alive.  
History XIV. Fidelia and Caelestina cause Carpi and Monteleone, with their two lackeys, Lorenzo and Anselmo, to murder their father Captain Benevente, which they perform. Monteleone and his Laquay Anselmo are drowned, Fidelia hangs herself, Lorenzo is hanged for a robbery, and on the Gallows confesseth the murdering of Benevente; Carpi hath his right hand, than his head cut off; Caelestina is beheaded and her body burnt.  
History XV. Maurice like a bloody villain, and domnable son, throws his Mother Christina into a Well, and drowns her: the same hand and arm of his wherewith he did it, rots away from his body; and being discrazed of his wits in Prison, he there confesseth this foul and inhuman murder, for the which he is hanged.    

GOD'S REVENGE AGAINST THE CRYING AND Execrable Sin of Murder.  

History XI.  
De Salez killeth Vaumartin in a Duel; Lafoy Hay causeth Michaelle to poison La Frange; De Salez loves La Hay, and because his father Argentier will not consent that he marry her, stifleth him in his bed, and then takes her to his wife; she turns Strumpet, and cuts his throat; as he is dying, he accuseth her of this bloody fact, and himself for murdering his father Argentier: so his dead body is hanged to the gallows, then burnt; Lafoy Hay confesseth this murder, and likewise that she caused Michaelle to poison La Frange: she hath her right hand cut off, and is then burnt alive; Michaelle is broken on the wheel, and his dead body thrown into the River.  
ALthough our perverse Nature, and rebellious thoughts may for a while make us esteem Envy to be no Vice, and Murder a Virtue; yet if we will erect the eyes of our Faith, and so look from ourselves to our souls, from Earth to Heaven, and from Satan to God, we shall then assuredly find, that hating our Christian Brother, we hate Christ who made us Brothers: and murdering him, that we maliciously and presumptuously attempt to recrucify Christ, by whom we must, without whom we cannot be saved. But if we will turn Atheists, and believe there is a Heaven, but no God; or Devils, and say there is a God, but no Heaven, than that uncharitable Tenent of Envy may be held lawful, and this bloody position of Murder, practised, because privileged, else not. Wherefore let us who are Christians resend this devilish doctrine, and doctrine of Devils, to Hell from whence it first came, and to the Devil himself who first broached and invented it: sith we cannot profess it without making ourselves Agents, nor perpetrate it, without becoming his very limbs and members, in regard they will infallibly prove the woeful forerunners of our misery, and the wretched Heralds of our perdition: as the bloody Actors of this ensuing mournful History will make good, and instance to us in themselves when the severe judgements and punishments of God befell them so suddenly, as it was too late for them either to revoke or bewail the enormity of these their foul and infernal crimes.  
THolouse (as well for greatness as state, the third city and Court of Parliament of France) is the place wherein we shall understand, there was lately committed and perpetrated, a tragical History, which hath many mournful and bloody dependences; the which to branch forth, and depaint in their naked colours, we must understand, that therein lived a Counsellor of that famous Court (being a rich Gentleman well descended) termed Monsieur de Argentier, whose wife being deceased, left him father only to one hopeful son, of the age of two and twenty years, termed Monsieur de Salez, who being wholly addicted to the wars (from which martial Profession it was impossible for his old father to divert and withdraw him) he procured him an Ensigns place under Monsieur de Roquelaure, whom he served in the Adriaticke Sea, under the Noble and Generous Venetians, who then stood rather jealous than fearful of the power and greatness of Spain; but the Chimaera of that war (after the term of three or four years) being vanished and blown away, and consequently betwixt those two mighty Estates, a new Peace contracted and concluded, (although the old had not been actually broken and delacerated) home returns Monsieur de Roquelaure, for Gascogny, and with him De Salez for Lang●…edoc and Tholouse, where he is received of his father with much content and joy, not that he was contented to see his son profess these Military courses (which only affords the smoke of Honour, and not the solidity of profit) but rather that he exceedingly rejoiced to see him return therefrom; and from whence, if he cannot hope that his requests will solely divert him, yet he is resolved and assured that his Commands both will and shall. To which end, (as any humour is soon subject to be expelled and defaced by its contrary) so the old Counsellor, having as much judgement and Providence in his head, as his son hath Vanity in his thoughts, and Rashness in his resolutions, doth both request, and command him to leave the war for Peace, Arms for Love, the Camp for the City, and his Captain for a Wife, and so no longer to march and fight under the Banners of Mars and Bellona, but under the Standarts of Venus and Hymeneus; to which effect, he proffers him the choice of many rich and fair young Gentlewomen of the Country to his wife; but especially (and with far more earnestness than any other) to an exceeding rich match in the City, which was a young Gentlewoman termed La Frange, being the only child of Monsieur de Clugny, one of the most famous and richest Precedents of that Court, young of years, as being but sixteen, or seventeen, but withal deformed both in favour and body, for she was of a brown and sour complexion, and not only a Dwarf in stature, but also exceedingly crooke-backed, and yet beyond measure very amorous, and desirous of a Husband: only the endowments of her mind most richly recompensed, and made satisfaction for the defects of her body: for she had an active and nimble wit, a sweet and sugared tongue, a rich Memory, and a powerful and happy judgement, and was indeed an excellent Dancer, and Singer, and withal a most perfect and exquisite Musician: But as yet De Salez warlike and generous resolution could not be so soon made flexible, to embrace the motion of a wife, and so he returns his denial in stead of his consent: but his wise old father Argentier, being therefore the more curious of his son De Salez his prosperity and welfare, because he apparently saw he no way regarded, but every way neglected it himself; (his sons exorbitant resolution notwithstanding) although he knew that Madamoyselle La Frange had many noble Suitors, who sought her in marriage: yet relying upon his ancient acquaintance and familiarity with the Precedent de Clugny, as also that that daughter of his, and this his Son were of both parties their only children. He taking time at advantage, breaks with him about this match: whereunto De Clugny hearkens rather with delight than distaste: for if there were any disparity in the dignity of their Offices, he well knows, that Argentiers blood and wealth did at least equalise, if not exceed his; or if he conceited any scruple in his thoughts, which impugned or imposed it, it was only because De Salez was a Soldier, and not a Lawyer, and consequently delighted to use his Sword before his Pen, and to wear and prefer a Scarlet cloak before a Black. But then again, these repugnant and averse reasons were as soon buried, as borne, and defaced, as conceived and engraven in him; when he considered that he himself in his adolescency was of the same humour and inclination, and therefore that Experience had made him a Precedent to himself, that Time was both the reformer and refiner of manners, and that (in all well borne and well bred spirits) the Precepts of a father, and the sweet conversation and counsel of a wife, had power to metamorphose the conditions of a young husband; whereupon the old fathers often meet and consult hereon, and so being fully agreed on all conditions, they likewise appoint a solemn meeting for their children, but the effect and issue of this their interview, will not corespond and answer their desires.  
La Frange (as we have formerly said) being deformed and crook-backt, was no way agreeable but displeasing to De Salez, but he being a tall, and neat timbered Gentleman, of a fair and feminine complexion, she instantly most tenderly affected, and dear loved him. In a word, I must request the curiosity of the Reader briefly to be informed and advertised, that as she beheld him with the eyes of Love and Desire, so did he her with those of contempt and disdain, she building castles of content in the air of her thoughts and hopes, that Heaven would make him her husband; and he rasing both her and her memory out of that of his contemplations, vowing that Earth should never make her his wife. Thus though the Parents have already shut up the Contract, yet their children shall never live to celebrate the Nuptials, for we shall see diversity of tragical accidents which are providing, and almost ready to oppose and impugn it. Parents think to be the causes, but God will still be the Author of Marriages: for if his sacred and divine Majesty make them not first in Heaven, they shall never see them solemnised nor consummated on Earth.  
And here, to make an orderly progression in this History, th●… Reader must likewise understand, that of all other of La Franges' Suitors, none sought her with so much importunity and impatiency, as the Baron of Vaumartin, (whose chiefest house and lands lay betwixt Aiguemortes and Narbone) a Nobleman of some thirty years old, who (like many others of his stamp and rank) had spent the greatest part of his youth and means in Paris, in lasciviously debaushing and revelling with the Parisian Ladies and Dames: so that the vanity of his pleasures and expenses making his lands fly away piecemeal, and the devasting and fall of his trees and woods, making the rest of his Manors shake, (an example and precedent for all other debaushed Gallants to observe and beware of) he leaves Paris with curses, and his bitter-sweet sins with repentance; and so (to repair his errors, and to redeem his lost time, & decayed estate) he comes home to Langue●…oc, where hearing in Tholouse of the Precedent de Clugny's great wealth which he must solely leave to his only child and daughter La Frange, who was now marriageable, he resolves to set all his other business and designs apart, and so to lay siege and seek her of her father and self in marriage. Now to take the better direction, and observation of this History, we must likewise understand that this Baron of Vaumartin was of a swart complexion, a dwarf of stature, and every way as crook-backt as La Frange, which the more slattered him in his hopes, and egged him on in his pursuit, hoping indeed (though with as much Vanity as Ignorance) that this their corporal resemblance would the sooner induce and draw her to affect him: but his Arithmetic, or rather his judgement will deceive him: for it is conformity of Humours and Inclinations, and not of faces and bodies, which breeds and inflames a sympathy in affections. But he is resolute in his research, and so better loving the father's wealth, than the daughter's Beauty, he well assisted and followed (with a train and equipage worthy of his birth, and her merits) first seeks the daughter of her father, than herself of herself. As for the old Precedent de Clugny, he hath heard of his debauched pranks and riots in Paris, and therefore vows that his wealth gotten with wisdom, and purchased with providence, study, and care in his Age, shall never pay for the obscene pleasures and vicious prodigalities of his Youth: and so with many verbal compliments (resolving that he shall never triumph in the conquest of his daughter) he in general terms puts him off. As for La Frange herself, the sweetness of De Salez complexion and personage is so deeply imprinted in her heart and thoughts, that it is impossible for Vaumartin to find any admittance or entrance; for she speaks of none but de Salez, thinks of none but of de Salez, nor wisheth herself with any but with de Salez. Again, she wonders at Vaumartins' simplicity, in seeking her for his wife: for if she hate deformity in herself, how is it either likely or possible that she can love it in her husband? No, no; though the Salez will not love La Frange, yet Lafoy Frange must and will love de Salez, and none but him; and therefore sith de Salez his sweet feature is a pearl in her eye, needs must Vaumartin be an eyesore to her; yea, and if modesty will permit me to speak or write an immodest truth, her heart doth so burn and flame in love to de Salez, that both day and night she many times with sighs, sometimes with tears, wisheth herself either impaled in his arms, or he encloistered in hers. Now by this time Vaumartin hath full notice and advertisement of her affection devoted to none but to de Salez, as also his slighting and disdaining her: Whereupon encouraged by this, and dishartened by that, he leaves no cost, care, or curiosity (either in gifts, dancing, music, or banquets) unattempted, to crown his wants, rather than his desires and pleasures, with this though deformed, yet rich heir La Frange: so leaving him to his vain suit in courting her, speak we a little of the Salez, that sith he will not affect La Frange, we may yet observe and discover which way he intends to shape the course of his affections and resolutions.  
For albeit he had formerly addicted himself and resolutions to be a professed Soldier, yet Peace calling him home now to Pleasure, and that to effeminacy, a fatal and dangerous vice, which in the iniquity of these our times and depraved manners not only most insensibly creeps into common Soldiers and Commanders, but also into all Armies, and into many Estates and Kingdoms, still to the disparagement of their glory, and sometime to the price of their ruin, and peril of their subversion; he began to let his Colours hang dusty, and his Pike and Par●…zan r●…stie by the walls, and to frequent the company of Ladies, which the old Counsellor his father observes with joy, hoping that in the end he shall draw him to affect and marry La Frange: but these hopes of his will prove vain, and this hi●… joy will soon be exchanged into sorrow, and metamorphosed into affliction and misery: for that his son is partly resolved to marry, 'tis true, but as true it is, that he is fully resolved never to love, much less to marry La Frange.  
Now we must understand, that in Tholouse there dwelled a Merchant of Silks, or as we in England say, a Silkman, termed Monsieur de Soulange, rather reputed rich of others, than known so of himself; and yet being an old widower, to the end the sooner to get him a new wife, he puts a good face on his estate, and maintains himself, family, and house, with great pomp and expenses, having no son, but three fair daughters, all marriageable; & yet (out of ambition, and in emulation of the Gentry) severally known and styled by their titles, not by their names, as Mesdamoyselles de Marsy, La pre Verte, and La Hay, all famous for their beauties, and indeed for the pureness and excellency thereof justly reputed & held the prime Birds of the city, and yet the youngest of them La Hay was the Phoenix of all the three: for she was so sweetly fair, and fairly sweet of complexion, as she drew all eyes to do homage to hers; so as it was almost impossible for any man to look on her without loving her, or to gaze on her without desiring her: for her body was so straight and slender, and the roses of her cheeks so deliciously gracing the lilies, and the lilies the roses, that the greatest Gallant either of the City or Country, held himself not only happy, but honoured with the felicity of her presence and company. But in one word, to give these three sisters their true characters, the Marsy and lafoy Preverte were far more virtuous than Lafoy Hay, though La Hay were far fairer than they: for as Religion and Piety was their chiefest delight and exercise, as more desirous to embellish their souls than their bodies; so wanton pleasure and vain lasciviousness was hers, as rather delighting to please and adorn her body than her soul, they being more virtuous than fair, she more fair than virtuous, different inclinations and resolutions; these as happy and blessed, as hers wretched and impious: their actions might have been a Precedent, yea a Pilot to have conducted her fame as well to the Temple of Honour, as to the harbour of immortal glory, & of glorious immortality: but she vows she will prove a Precedent to herself, and her pleasure shall be a Pilot to her will, although she miss the Temple of Honour, to find out that of beastly concupiscence; and the harbour of immortal glory, to suffer shipwreck upon the shelves of inglo●…ious infamy, and the rocks of infamous perdition.  
To this Monsieur de Soulanges house, the beauties of his three daughters, but especially that of La Hay, and withal her pleasing and tractable affability, invites many young Gentlemen, and the eminentst Citizens, who there pass their time in courting and conversing, in dancing, singing, and the like, whereunto the Youth of France more than any other people of the world are most licentiously addicted; and as things are best discerned and distinguished by their contraries, so the virtues of De Marsy and La Preverte were made more apparent by La Hayes vices; and her lust and whoredoms were more palpably notorious in their chastity. O that so sweet a creature should be subject to so foul a sin, and that Beauty the best gift (and as I may say the gold) of Nature, should be thus vilified and pollute●… with the beastly pleasures of carnal concupiscence and obscene sensuality! For aye me, I write it with as much grief to myself, as shame to her, she was too prodigal of her favours; for she imparted them liberally unto some for love, but unto most for money, not caring to whom she prostituted her body, so they filled her purse, thereby to support her pride, and maintain the excess and vanity of her bravery; and yet she was so subtle and cautious therein, that although she were a professed Courtesan, she would nevertheless publicly seem a pure and unspotted Virgin; and the better to fortify her fame, and to make the reputation of her Chastity pass currant with the world, she would swear all those to conceal her favours, on whomsoever she imparted and bestowed them: but if this lascivious subtlety of hers have power to blear the eyes of the world, how can this her beastly sin of fornication be unseen of God, when the windows, walls, and beams of her chamber, yea her very bed whereon she hath acted her whoredoms, shall one day give in evidence, and serve as witnesses against her; yea, and be petitioners on earth, that God will requite and reward them with vengeance and confusion from Heaven.  
Now, among the rest of those debauched Gentlemen, who devoted their lascivious service, and sacrificed their fond affections to La Hays beauty, in comes our De Salez to enrol himself one; who, feasting and surfeiting his eyes on the delicacies of her fresh and sweet complexion, leaves his own father's house, to frequent hers; yea his desires are so lustfully inflamed with her beauty, as with his best art and policy he lies close siege to her chastity, and with many gifts, requests and oaths, seeks to endear▪ her to his desires and pleasure: But see the subtlety of this lascivious young Courtesan; for knowing De Salez deeply in love with her, and to be the only child of his father, and he one of the richest Councillors of Tholouse, she conceives a plot in her head, to go a fishing to make him her husband, and so bears herself wonderful modest and coy, casting a cloak and veil of chastity over her unchaste desires and actions, as if she were now a virgin, yea a Saint to him, though heretofore she had many times played the Strumpet with others: but her denial doth rather inflame, than quench the fire of his lust, so as making many assaults to raze down the defences of her refusal, that he may enter and take possession of her heart and favour, his best Art and Oratory proves vain; for she outwardly retires her affection, thereby the better inwardly to advance and finish her purposes: so this repulse of hers makes him hang his head, and become pensive and melancholy; the true signs and symptoms of a foolish and fantastical lover, as in effect we shall shortly see the Salez will prove himself: for the colder she is in affection to him, the hotter is he in lust with her, forgetting the wars, yea, his discretion, himself and all, to crown his desires in enjoying her: the which she well observing, begins to triumph in her good fortune, as thinking him already fairly come to the hook, and so hopes that if the line of his folly and her good fortune and wit hold, she will soon make him her husband, and herself his wife: For having formerly met with many knaves in others, she now begins to rest confident either to find, or make a fool of him, thereby to serve as a veil to over-veile her whoredoms: He pleads hard to her for love; she replies, it is impossible to find love in lust: He vows he will die her servant, she swears she will never live his strumpet: He protesteth that she shall share of his estate, she tells him plainly that she had rather live a poor Wife, than die a rich Courtesan: He replies, that he adores her beauty; she answers, that she knows no other, but that he only seeks to profane and defile it. And here, with more facility to make him swallow either a Gull, a Gudgeon, or both, she by stealth permits him to cull some kisses, as well from the cherries of her lips, as the roses of her cheeks: and in the Interim like an hypocritical and dissembling quean, reads him many lectures on the pureness of Chastity, and the foulness of Lust, on the blessedness of Marriage, and the wretched estate of Fornication: Profane and impious giglot, whose speeches are perfumed with Virtue, and yet her actions stink, and are polluted and infected with Vice: dissembling Siren, who casts forth bitter sweet enchanting tunes and charms to please the sense, and yet purposely to poison the soul; pills of wormwood candid in sugar, honey to the palate, but gall to the stomach; A fatal rock whereon many inconsiderate and debauched young Gentlemen have unfortunately suffered shipwreck, a wretched Gulf and Labyrinth, which contains all variety of endless miseries and calamities, whereunto whosoever enters with pleasure, is sure to retire with tears, curses, and repentance; A plague sent us from heaven in our age, for a just guerdon and recompense of the sins and folly of our youth. And into this intr●…cate Labyrinth and bottomless Gulf of misery and calamity, is our rash and lustful young Gallant, cheerfully entering and steering his course, without either the Star of hope, or compass of felicity and safety, bearing out top and top Gallant, yea (as I may say) with all the sails of his folly bearing; and with the Flag Ensign and Pendants of his obscene and lascivious desires, playing and dallying in the Air of La Hayes fatal and infectious beauty; which hath so solely surprised his judgement, captivated his thoughts, and eclipsed his discretion, as in her absence and presence he extols aswell her Virtues as her beauty to the Skies: vowing that she is so fair a Nymph, and so pure a Virgin, as she deserves rather to be his wife, than his Strumpet, or rather not his strumpet but his wife: And so two months being past since he first frequented her, and sought to seduce and obtain her to his lascivious desires; and seeing (dissembling quean as she is) that therein she bore herself infinitely chaste and modest, and that it was impossible for him to observe or remark any other inclination or testimony, either in her word or carriage, his wits are so besotted and in tangled in the fetters of her beauty, that he prefers her sweet feature and complexion, a thousand times before La Franges, deformed; and vows that he had rather die La Hayes slave, than ever live to be La Franges husband: But this folly of his in the end shall cost him dear, and so lead him to another, far more unnatural, and as I may justly say, damnable: But we must proceed orderly in this History, and do therefore reserve that part till anon.  
By this time the sly subtlety, & seeming chaste behaviour of La Hay, hath acted wonders in De Salez heart so as she now hopes confidently, and shortly to play her prize in surprising him, for he is extremely amorous besotted, and as I may say, drunk with the love of herself and beauty: so on a Sunday, as she returned from Vespres, he repairs ●…o her father's house to see her, whom he finds in her chamber alone, waiting and attending him: having porposely dighted herself in a rich new Gown and Petticoat, and trimmed and adorned herself in her gayest and most curious attier, thereby with more ease and facility to draw him to her lure: So as her beauty being both seconded, and graced by her apparel, she so ravished his heart, and delighted his senses, as he cannot refrain from kissing her; but this honey of her lips, will in the end prove poison to his heart: And here again he lays close siege to her chastity, but still she gives him the repulse and refusal, as if she were a Diana, and no Venus: He vows he doth affect, and will ever honour her; And she, that if he honour her, will still affect him: In the way of Love, quoth he, I am wholly yours; and quoth she, in that Honour I will not be mine own but yours: I will quoth he in all affection both live and die your servant; and replies she, In all chastity, I will live to die your handmaid: He affirms, he cannot be more hers in heart, than he is; nor I quoth she, less yours in lust, than I am: It is quoth he my Love which makes me report so much; and quoth she it is my Fear which makes me affirm no less: Why, quoth he, should my love procure your Fear? My fear, quoth she, is wholly engendered and derived from your lust, but not from your Love: I pray express yourself, quoth he; she replies, my blushes may, but my tongue dares not, Quoth he, did your affection equalise mine, Lafoy Hay would accept of De Salez, and not refuse him, Nay quoth she, did De Salez know how infinite mine exceeds his, he would not refuse La Hay, but accept of her: Why quoth he, de Salez desires none but Lafoy Hay, Nor quoth she, Lafoy Hay any in the world but de Salez: Whereupon the Salez being provoked with his own lust, and animated and encouraged by her sweet speeches, he very joyfully (yet falsely) flattering himself with the conquest of her favour and consent, ●…huts the door, & like amost lascivious and dissolute Gentleman, takes her in his arms, & strives to convey her to the bed, resolving there to enrich himself with more than kisses, yea, to reap the fruit of his beastly pleasures and obscene and brutish desires; but his hopes shall deceive him: For although Lafoy Hay be a Courtesan in heart, yet she will not be so in tongue, especially now, where to get herself a rich husband, it behoves her to play her prize in Chastity, as if she were as virtuous, as fair, and as chaste as lovely; Wherefore exclaiming, and storming at this his lascivious attempt and enterprise, leveled at the defloration and shipwreck of her Honour, she with a violent power, and an enraged violence, unskrewes herself forth his arms, and with a world of hypocritical sighs and tears, flies to his Poniard, which he had thrown on the table, and unsheathing it, vows that she will be a second Lucretia, and that if she cannot kill him before he have defiled and deflowered her, yet that she will assuredly murder herself after; because she is fully resolved, that her chastity shall out live her, not she her chastity; A religious and Honourable resolution of hers, if it had proceeded from a chaste and sanctified heart, but alas, nothing less; for she speaks it out of subtlety, not out of Virtue, out of Policy, no way out of Piety: de Salez by this time having wholly lost his judgement in the sweet and ●…o seat garden of her delicious complexion; vows that he is now as deeply in love with her chastity, as formerly with her beauty. When seeking to appease her Choler, and to pacify her Indignation, as also to give truce to his own thoughts, & content to his desires; he swears he is so far from intending her any dishonour, as he is resolved to do her all the honour of the world: Yea so far, as if she please, he is ready to accept her for his wife, protesting, that of all the maidens of the world, he is desirous to be husband to none but herself, and that the fault shall be hers, if he make not his words deeds. La Hay having her thoughts tickled with delight, to hear the pleasant melody of these his sugared speeches, doth thereat presently bury her sighs, and dry up her tears: when throwing a way the poniard, and making him a most respectful courtesy, and grateful reverence, she with extended arms runs to him, and hangs about his neck, vowing that she loves no man in the world but himself; and in consenting to be her husband, she will till death yield, not only to be his faithful wife in attending his pleasures, but his observant handmaid, to receive and obey his commands: and so they interchangeably greet each other with thanks and kisses. But yet she knowing that his father Argintier was both rich and eminent, and her own poor and of a far inferior rank, she is so politic and subtle in the managing of this her affection, as she is resolved to make sure work, and to do nothing by halves: so as knowing that words are but wind, and what the Salez promiseth her now, he may either forget or deny to morrow, she intends to catch at opportunities forelock, and so with a sweet and ingenious insinuation, draws him to give her a Diamond Ring in token of marriage, and she in exchange returns him a small gold bracelet, which she wore upon her arm next her heart. And yet again considering, that his father would very difficultly (or never) be drawn to consent to this match, she can give no true content to her desires, nor satisfaction to her fear, before she have united and linked him to her, in a more stricter and firmer bond of assurance; when not only feasting, but as it were surfeiting him with variety of kisses, she bethinks herself of a Policy, as worthy of her wit for attempting, as of his folly for performing: for directing him her speech (which she accompanied with many amorous, yet dissembling smiles) she told him she would futurely exced him in constancy, and now outbrave him in affection; when taking pen and paper, she writes him a fair promise, and firm assurance of herself unto him (in the manner of a Contract) and to make it the more powerful and authentical, subscribes her name and sign to it, and betwixt sighs and blushing, she delivers it him; no way doubting, but rather assuring herself, that he would requite her with the like courtesy and obligation, as indeed the event answereth her desires and wishes: For De Salez having now no power left him to see by his own eyes, I mean, by those of his judgement, but only by these of his intemperate passion, and passionate affection, he is so far from descrying (much less from suspecting) her policy, as very simply and sottishly he attributes it to the fervency of her affection, the which he interprets and entertains, I know not whether with more joy, or delectaion; and so vowing not to dye her debtor for Courtesy, he very rashly, and inconsiderately writes another to the same effect, and flies so far from wit or discretion, as to show himself her superior in affection, as well as in sex, he purposely cuts his finger, and so firmes his name thereunto with his own blood, and then with a million of kisses delivers it her, vowing that her pleasure shall be his law in the accomplishing thereof: only he prays her for a time to be secret and silent herein, for that he fears he shall hardly draw his Father to consent hereunto, the which she very courteously grants him: and so he triumphing in her beauty, and she in his wealth, he in her youth, and she in his simplicity, they for that time part, not doubting but they shall shortly reap the fruits of their matrimonial desires and wishes; for till then, she swears (though with an equivocating reservation to forswear herself) she will live a most pure and unspotted Virgin, and that as the least of her affection and courtesy towards him, shall be smiles, so the most shall be kisses.  
But this (affection or rather folly) of De Salez, in contracting himself to La Hay, is not so secretly borne, but as her former unchastity was a general argument of talk to the whole city of Tholouse: so now this of her subtlety and good fortune, is that of its universal prattling and admiration, occasioned and redoubled by the opposite considerations of Argentiers known wealth, and de Soulanges supposed poverty? and again of de Salez supposed chastity, and of de la Hayes notoriously known whore domes. And as Fame is still so tattling a goddess, that events and accidents of this nature can hardly be concealed, and difficulty suppressed and smaothered: so by this time contrary to the expectations and hopes of our two young Lovers, the old Councillor Argentier hath notice of this unlookedfor news, and of this unwished for familiarity betwixt his son, and that strumpet La Hay, when considering the great opposition betewixt de Clugny's Nobility and wealth and de Soulanges mean extraction and poverty; as also by a true and uncontroleable Antithises, comparing the foul and enormous vices of La Hay with the sweet and resplendent virtues of La Frange; he (as much disdaining that match, as desiring this for his son, very hastily sends for him into the Arbour, where purposely attending him, he with lightning in his looks, and thunder in his speeches, lays before him the simplicity, and the sottishne sse of his resolution, in preferring Lafoy Hay before La Frange, a strumpet before a virgin, and a Pedlar's brat, before a rich gentleman's only daughter and heir, shows him the infamy of the first, and the glory of the last match; there his unavoidable misery, here his assured happiness; in the first his utter ruin and shipwreck, and in the last, his infallible prosperity and felicity: and so intermixing threats with tears, with a passionate paternal affection, he endeavoreth to persuade him to leave La Hay, and to marry La Frange; or if not, he vows and swears wholly to disinherit him, and from thenceforth never repute or esteem him for his son.  
But de Salez his foolish vanity, and vain affection in himself towards his new contracted Love Lafoy Hay, is so great, and consequently his filial obedience to his father so small, as not withstanding this his wholesome advice and counsel, he is still resolute and constant to prefer La Hay before La Frange, the beauty of the one, before the deformity of the other, his own content before his fathers, and Soulanges estate and birth before the great wealth and noble extraction of De Clugny: but this rashness, indiscretion, and ingratitude of his will cost him dear.  
Now if Argentier have perfect intelligence and curious notice of his son's familiarity with that fair yet lewd Courtesan Lafoy Hay, no less hath la Frange, who poor soul is so deeply enamoured of de Salez, as the very first news and conceit, that another should enjoy him, and not herself, for very grief and sorrow, she seems to drown herself in the deluge of her tears. His father is choleric thereat, she mournful, he incensed, she afflicted, he enraged, & she perplexed and tormented, his passions and anger proceeds from suspicion, that he shall so soon find a daughter in law in lafoy Hay; her sighs and tears from fear, that she shall so soon lose her Love though not her Lover, his son de Salez. Again, the argument of his choler, is lafoy Hayes unchastity and poverty, and the cause of her disconsolation, de Salez his wealth and virtues: likewise she sees that Argentier hath no reason to hope, that his son will marry herself, such is her deformity, and again, that he hath all the reasons of the world, as well to doubt, as fear, that he will wed lafoy Hay, such is her beauty: But sith de Salez will bear no more respect to his father, nor affection to la Frange, leave we therefore his father Argentiers passions, and la Franges' perplexities, to be appeased and qualified by Time, or rather by God, the Author and giver of Time, who out of his allseeing providence and sacred pleasure, only knows in Heaven, how best to dispose and manage the actions of earth; and so come we to other unexpected occurrents and events, which like so many enterjecting, and intervening points, are contained within the circumference of this History.  
I have so long insisted on the affections of the Salez and la Hay, as but to the judicious and temperate Reader it would seem to appear, that the Baron of Vaumartin, hath wholly forgotten to remember his to his Lady La Frange: But to put that doubt out of question, and this question out of doubt, we shall see him return too too soon, to act a part not so religious and honourable, as bloody, upon the Theatre of this History: For by this time both his creditors and his debts are grown so clamorous, and his reputation and lands so near forfeited, for want of disingaging, as to secure the one, and provide for the other, he knows no other invention not means but to gain La Frange to his wife: when as it were, provoked and precipitated on by the necessity of this exigent, his thoughts leave heaven to fly to hell, and consequently fly from God to Satan, to consult how either by the buy, or the main he may obtain her; yea, though with the peril and hazard of his own life, to cut off theirs, who seek therein to prevent his desires and designs. In which hellish ratiocynation, he as devoid of Reason, as that is exempt either of Grace or Piety, thus reasoneth with himself: De Clugny hates me, for seeking to marry his daughter, and that time may remedy for me; but which is worst of all, she loves De Salez, and seeks and desires to marry him, and this I must remedy in time, if I ever expect to obtain or enjoy her; and so resolves to make him away: but is as yet irresolute how to perpetrate, and in what manner to finish so execrable a business. But this is not only the voice of his malice, but the sentence of his revenge, that De Salez must die: wretched Vaumartin, unworthy to bear the name of a man, much less of a Baron, but least of all of a Christian, in that because De Salez hates La Frange, and she loves him, that therefore thou wilt not love but hate him; or because she loves him, and not thyself, that therefore thou wilt kill him, that she may love thee. See, see, rash and inconsiderate Nobleman, how treacherously the Devil hath hood winked, yea inveigled thy judgement, and besotted thy senses, to kill one that loves thee, to kill I say, a Gentleman who hath not offended thee, but is every way thy friend, no way thine enemy: or if thou think it wisdom, that covetousness must redeem thy former prodigality, alas, alas, canst thou yet be so cruel to think it either lawful or religious, that future murder should either occasion or authorise it: But the Devil hath so far prevailed with his impious resolutions, that again he resolves, De Salez must die: and yet thou thinkest poison as unworthy of him, as he is worthy of thy sword; so had thy last resolution been answerable to thy first, assure thyself thou hadst made thyself more happy, and not so miserable: for as poisoning was the invention of the devil, and is practised by none but his agents; so this dishonourable point of honour to fight Duels, was never instituted by God, nor professed by those who really profess his Gospel: yea, it is not only truly to dishonour God, in seeking falsely to preserve our own Honour and reputation, but we assuredly stab at the Majesty of the Creator, in seeking to deface man his creature; and to use but a word, as it is repugnant both to Nature and Grace, so though it begin in the heat of passion and pleasure, it many times terminates in Repentance, but still in true Infamy and misery.  
But Vaumartins' faith being so strong with Satan, and so weak with his Saviour, he will not take a law from Religion to give to his Envy, but rather takes one from his Envy to give to his Religion; and so very profanely and rashly by his Lackey La Rose, sends De Salez this Challenge:  
VAUMARTIN to DE SALEZ.  
IF thou seek the cause of my malice, thou mayest find it in the Lady La Franges' affection to thee, and hatred to myself: wherefore hold it not strange, that I now command my pen to invite thee and thy sword to meet me to morrow on horseback without Seconds, 'twixt five and six in the morning, behind the jacobins garden. Love and Valour thou knowest, are never capable of much expostulation; as desirous rather to be tried in action, than seen in words. Could that sweet Lady, (who will not be mine, because thou ar●… hers) have affected me more, or thee les●…e, we might have proved as true friends, as now our reputations conjure us either to live or dye, Honourable Enemies.  
VAUMARTIN.  
De Salez having received and read this Challenge, doth not a little wonder at the Baron of Vaumartins' strange passion and resolution, in sending it him, especially, sith he knows that the motives and grounds of his malice were so unjust and frivolous: so, how to answer him, as yet he knows not; for as his Generosity one way invites him to fight, so his discretion another way persuades him from it: But considering the poor esteem he makes either of the Lady La Frange, or her affection, thinking it folly to fight without cause, and to hazard his life without reason, he calls for pen and paper, and as a wise, yet valiant Gentleman, by his own Lackey, returns the Baron of Vaumartin this answer:  
DE SALEZ to VAUMARTIN.  
I Have seen many Challenges, but none of the Nature of thine now sent me: for t●… write thee the truth, the grounds and foundations thereof are unjust, false, or both: for bring but the eyes of thy judgement, and not of thy passion, to be judge and Umpire betwixt us, and thou shalt both see and find, that I not only disclaim the Lady La Franges' affection, but herself; sith I appertain to another, and she shall never to me. I here show thee my love through this true Prospective of my heart; which if it will not satisfy thy malice, then know that my weak Valour is neither capable nor desirous of further expostulation than that my Sword is as willing to bring thee deeds, as thy Pen was to send me words: for either single, or with Second, either on foot or horseback, I will still be ready to give reason to those, who will not relish, nor receive any but their own: and in this resolution of mine, I know I shall either live with Reputation, or dye with Honour.  
DE SALEZ.  
Vaumartin having received and perused this letter of refusal from De Salez, he out of the heat of his passion, and height of his folly, reputes it rather to cowardice, than discretion in him; and so his courage and revenge the more insulting and inflamed thereat, he bending his brows (as if Contempt and Envy sat wreathed in the furrows thereof) very speedily again returns him his Lackey, with this rash answer:  
VAUMARTIN to DE SALEZ.  
THy Answer gives me no satisfaction, sith I know that to deny thy affection to the Lady la Frange, is to deny the light of the Sun in his brightest and hottest Meridian; neither are the grounds or foundations of my Challenge either unjust or false, as thou in thy false Prospective endeavourest to make me see or believe: for being ignorant who is thy Mistress, I know thou resolvest to make no Lady of the world thy wife but La Frange, so as I cannot rightly define whether thy proceeding with me be more subtle or malicious, or to what end thou shouldest attempt the one, or practise the other towards me, unless out of a premeditated resolution and purpose, thereby to make thy glory the more apparent and conspicuous in my shame: Wherefore sith thy friendship is false to me, I must, nay I will see if thy valour will prove true to thyself, and whether the effects of thy Sword be as great in substance, as the vanity of thy Pen depaints them, in show, and ostentation: So my Challenge is still my Resolution, and the performance thereof must be thine, except thou resolve to live with as much Infamy, as the conclusion of thy Letter promiseth thou art ready to die with reputation and Honour.  
VAUMARTIN.  
De Salez having received and run over this Letter, and seeing that Vaumartin was still wilful and resolute to fight, thinks that he should degenerate from himself, his Blood, and Profession, if he did not now accept and answer this his Challenge: wherefore calling for Vaumartins' Lackey, he rounds him thus in his ear, Tell thy Master, that if I live, I will not fail to break fast with him timely in the morning, according to his expectation. Thus we see these two inconsiderate Gentlemen agreed, their match concluded, and nothing but the night to hinder them from fight, as if their glory consisted in their shame, and as if Nature had never taught them how to preserve their lives, nor Grace, their souls.  
So the Morn peeping forth through the windows of Heaven, as soon as the Sun with his glistering beams began to salute the woods and mountains, our two resolute Champions bravely mounted with each his Chirurgeon, are in the field at the assigned Rendevo●…s, and first comes Vaumartin, and then immediately De Salez, when their Surgeons performing the duty and office of Seconds, being some hundred paces distant, they give spurs to their Steeds, and so drawing their swords, swiftly part, like two flashes of lightning each towards other. At their first meeting, de Salez gives Vaumartin the first hurt in the right shoulder, and he de Salez another in requital, in the right side of the neck: when being both good Cavaliers, (and well near as equal in years as courages) they turn short, and then fall to it again with bravery and resolution, when again Vaumartin runs the Salez through his left arm of a deep and wide wound, and he only slightly cuts his shirt upon his ribs, giving him only a raze or scar, but as yet both free from any danger of death, so they mutually consent to breath: but their ambitions and courages of both sides, are so exasperated and inflamed, as although they are all bloody, yet this will not suffice: so they fall to it again, and in this close de Salez his horse stumbles with him; whereat Vaumartin, (though a dwarf in stature, yet not in Valour and Policy) taking the advantage of this accident, gives him first a lick o'er his pate, and then runs him at the short ribs: but the Salez raining up his horse, proved favourable to him; for by that means Vaumartins' sword met and glanced on a rib, without doing him any farther hurt. De Salez seeing the redoubling of his wounds, begins to redouble his courage, and disdaining thus to be outbraved and beaten by a Pigmy, he lies home at Vaumartin, and at their very next close, runs him thorough the body, of a deep and mortal wound, a little above his navel: whereat his sword presently falls out of his hand to the ground, and he immediately likewise from his horse stark dead, without having the grace or happiness, either to call on, or to name God. O what pity, what misery is it, that a Christian should die like a beast, having neither power to pray, nor felicity to repent. Thus we see the Challenger killed, and he who would have murdered a stranger, murdered himself by a stranger: a Lesson to teach others to beware, by the Tragical and mournful end of this rash Nobleman. De Salez seeing Vaumartin dead, praiseth God for his victory; and so leaving his breathless corpse to his sorrowful Chirurgeon, he gallops away to the next Village, where he causeth his wounds to be dressed, and from thence provides for his safety.  
All Tholouse rings and resounds of this disastrous and Tragical accident: De Clugny is glad, that De Salez hath escaped death, yet sorrowful that Vaumartin is killed, in respect he fears he undertook this quarrel for his daughter La Franges' sake: who hearing that De Salez wounds are no way mortal, infinitely rejoiceth, and triumpheth thereat, flattering herself (though with this false hope) that he affected her far more dearer than he made show of, or else that he would never have fought with Vaumartin for her sake, nor have killed him but for his own. And thus, though humanity made her grieve for Vaumartins' death, yet that grief of hers was as suddenly converted into joy, when she saw he received it by the hand of De Salez, whom she respected and af●…cted more dearer than all the Gentlemen of the world. Now, as for his father Argentier, the life of his son likewise wiped off the remembrance of Vaumartins' death, and yet it grieved him inwardly, that he to whom he gave life, should give death to another: and far the more, in that this unfortunate accident must now enforce him to beg pardon from that grave Court of Parliament, for this murder perpetrated by his son, sith he had formerly so often pleaded for justice against others, for the like crime and offence; But all these joys of Argent●…r, De Clugny, and his daughter L●… Frange, are nothing to those of La Hay for the life and victory of her dear De Salez: leaping as it were for mere content and pleasure, that she should shortly see, and enjoy him for her husband, and that God hath both reserved and preserved him to crown her with the sweetness of this desired felicity.  
Thus while La Frange and La Hay triumph and congratulate the return of De Salez, so Argentier publicly, and D●… Clugny privately, employ there chiefest power, friends, and authority, to procure his pardon first from the King, then from the Parliament, whereof they are two famous members. Which ●…t l●…st, (by the means and favour of the Duke of Ventadour) they obtain: So this murder of his, is remitted in Earth, but I f●…re me, will not be forgotten in Heaven: for though men be inconstant in their decrees, yet God will be firm and upright, aswell in the distribution, as execution of his judgements. Men as they are men may err, but as they are Christians they should not; but God (either to please or displease them) neither can nor will.  
De Salez no sooner hath escaped this danger, but forgetting his former follies, and his father's advice and house, he again, in a manner voluntarily imprisoneth himself with his mistress La Hay in hers; whereat as his father storms, so De Clugny and La, Frange bit the lip: hoping that this good office in procuring him his pardon, would more strictly have united him to herself, and consequently sequestered him from Lafoy Hay; but nothing less, for he sings his old tune, and will rather run the hazard of his father's displea●…ure, than leave La Hay to take La Frange: whereat his father Argentier reneweth his choler, and revives his indignation against him, as desiring nothing so much in this life, as to see him married to La Frange, but he shall never live to see it; for there are to many disastrous accidents preparing to cross and prevent it:  
Whiles these things happen in Tholouse, there betides an unexpected and unwished business, which must call away Argentier to Paris: For the Lords of the Privy counsel of France, having received some informations and grievances against the body of the Court of Parliament of Tholouse; command them speedily to send up some Deputies to answer such matters as shall be objected against them: whereupon, the gravity and wisdom of that Court, in obedience to their superiors, elect two Precedents and four Counselors to undertake that journey and business among whom De Clugny is chosen for one of the Precedents, and Argentier for one of the Counselors: as indeed their integrity and profound Wisdom and Experience had made them eminent in that Court. As for de Clugny at his importunate request (made to the Court) he was dispensed with, from that journey; by alleging that his age and sickness made him altogether unfit to undertake it: but all the evasions and excuses, which Argentier could make, could not exempt him, but he must needs see Paris. But first, before his departure he had a long and serious conference with de Clugny, how to effect the so long desired match of his son and daughter, the finishing whereof was referred till his return from Paris, which sweet news infinitely rejoiced and delighted the young Lady Lafoy Frange, and the immediate night before he was to take Coach, he calls his son de Salez to him, and with a persuasive and powerful speech, requested him in his absence to love La Frange, which he in plain terms protested and vowed to his father, he could not, than he conjures him, never to marry La Hay, which likewise he would not grant; and to conclude, sith his father could not prevail in the two former, he commanded him upon his blessing, that he would never marry any wife whatsoever without his consent, the which indeed the Salez could not deny, but faithfully promised his father; yea, and bound it with an oath, yet still hoping, that it was as possible for him to draw his father to consent he should marry La Hay, as it was as impossible for his father ever to persuade him to marry La Frange: and so that night the father takes leave of the son, and he the next morning of his father, wishing him a prosperous journey, and a speedy return: who suspecting, and fearing, that in his absence, contrary to his requests and prayers, his Son would only abandon Lafoy Erange, to frequent La Hay; he being arrived to the City of Tours, thought himself bound in Nature, aswell for his own content, as his son's tranquillity and prosperity; again, to signify him his mind in some few lines of advice and counsel, and to send it him by the ordinary Carrier of Tholouse which was then in that City, bound thither from Paris: his letter spoke thus.  
〈◊〉 to DE SALEZ.  
IT is out of a fatherly, and (as I may say) a religious care of thy good, that I now send thee these few ensuing lines, for thy Youth cannot see that which my Age knows, how many miseries are subject, to wait and attend on Vice, and how many blessings on Virtue; if La Frange be not fair, yet she is comely, not contemptible: but sith her defects of Nature are so richly recompensed with the Ornaments of Fortune, and the excellencies of Grace; why should thy affection prefer La Hay before her, who hath nothing but a painted face to overvaile the deformity of her other vices? If thou wil●… leave a Saint to marry a strumpet, then take La Hay, and forsake La Frange; but if thou wilt forsake a strumpet to take a Saint, then marry La Frange and leave La Hay, for look what difference there is between their births, thou shalt find ten times more between the chastity of the one, and the levity of the other: If thou espouse the first, thou shalt find Content and Honour; if the second shame and repentance: ●…or I know not whether La Frange will bring thee more happiness, or La Hay misery. This letter shall serve as a witness betwixt God, myself, and thee; that if thou perform me not thy promise and oath, I will deny thee my blessing, and deprieve thee of my lands.  
ARGENTIER.  
De Salez having received this his father's letter in Tholouse, exceedingly grieves to see him disgrace his mistress, by the scandalous name of a strumpet, which he knows she is not, and therefore will never believe it; yea, he vows, that if it were any other in the world, who had offered him that intolerable affront, he would revenge it, though with the price and peril of his life, Lafoy Hay perceives this discontent and alteration of mirth in him, but from what point of the Compass this wind proceeds, she neither knows, nor as yet can conceive: but withal, determineth to make the discovery thereof her greatest Ambition, and not her least Care; which she now well knows it behoves her to do, sith she finds De Salez less free, and more reserved and pensive in her speeches than accustomed: But when in vain she had hereunto used many smiles and fe●…ches, lo●… here falls out an unlooked for accident, which betrays her the very pith and quintessence of the Mystery: For on a time, when he lay slumbering on the table, she as accustomed, diving into his pockets for sweet meats, or rather for gold (of both which, he many times went well furnished) she finds his fathers (aforesaid) letter, which she knew by the direction; and so flying into another chamber, and bolting the door after her, she there reads it both with grief and choler; when stung to the quick, and bitten to the heart and gall, to see her reputation and Honour thus traduced and scandalised by the father of her pretended husband; she with tears and interjected sighs and groans, flies back to De Salez, and holding the letter in her hand, like a dissembling and impious strumpet as she was, there shows it him, taketh Heaven and Earth to bear witness of her innocency, and of the irreparable and extreme wrong his father hath offered her, in seeking to eclipse the Glory of her chastity, which she swears she will bear pure and unspotted, not only to his bed, but to her own grave. But Alas, alas, these are the effects and passions of dissimulation, not of truth; of her profaneness, not of her piety, which time will make apparent to De Salez; though now her beauty and tears be so predominate with his judgement and folly, as he cannot, because he will not see it: So being still as constant in his ●…ottishnesse, as she in her hypocrisy; he gives her many sweet kisses, and with a Catalogue of sugared words, seeks to appease and comfort her, whom he hath far more reason to excerate and curse. But for her part, her heart is not so afflicted, for remembering herself, still her ●…its are her own, and so remembering the conclusion of the letter, and fearing that De Sal●…z his promise and oath to his father, might infringe and contradict his to her, she tells him, that her love is so fervent and infinite towards him, as she can give no intermission, nor truce to her tears, before he reveal her his oath and promise, which his father's letter informed her he had formerly made him.  
De Salez seeing himself put to so strict an exigent and push, doth both blush for shame, and again look pale for anger, when for a small time, irresolute how to bear himself in a matter of this different Nature, wherein he must either violate his obedience to his father, or infringe his fidelity and honour to his mistress; he at last (consenting with folly, not with discretion, and with Vanity, nor with judgement) doth so adore her beauty, and commiserate her tears, as he sottishly reveals her his oath, given his father (Verbatim as we have formerly understood it) adding withal, that she hath far more reason to rejoice, than grieve hereat; That a little time shall cancel his said late promise and oath to his father, and confirm his former to her: For sweet La Hay (quoth he) come what come will, two months shall never pass, ere I marry thee, when sealing his speeches with many kisses, our hypocritical afflicted Gentlewoman is presently again come to herself, and in all outward appearance, her discontents are removed, her choler pacified, her tears exhaled, and her sighs evaporated and blown away.  
But all this is false, like herself, and treacherous like her beauty; For this letter of Argentier to his son, and his promise and oath to his father, hath acted such wonders in her heart, and imprinted such extravagancies in her thoughts, as she cannot easily remove or supplant it, nor difficultly forget or deface it, whatsoever she speak or make show of to the contrary, for thus she reasoneth with herself: That 〈◊〉 whoredoms are already revealed to Argentier, and for any thing she knows, ●…y likewise be discovered to his son, how closely soever she either act or conceal them. That La Franges' descent, wealth, and virtues, will in the end overprise and weigh down her mean extraction, poverty and beauty; and in the end, that the wisdom of the father, will infallibly triumph o'er the folly of the son, except her policy interpose, and her vigilency prevent it; which to prevent and effect, she sees no other obstacle to her content, nor bar to her pre●…erment, but only La Frange: for, quoth she, if La Frange shine in the firmament of De Salez affection, Lafoy Hay must set; or if Lafoy Hay will shine, Lafoy Frange must set: again, if she fall not, I cannot stand, and if she stand, I must needs fall; and as the sky is not capable of two suns, so both of us cannot shine in the Horizon of his heart and thoughts at once: except thus, that La Hay may live to see La Frange his wife, and herself his strumpet, when burning with false zeal to De Salez, and true inveterate malice to La Frange, she forgetting God, swaps a bargain with the devil, that La Frange must first go to her grave, ere Lafoy Hay come to his bed, and so resolves to sacrifice her as a Victim to her malice and jealousy, and to send her out of this world in an untimely and bloody Coffin, Hellish Aphoris●…es, Infernal Pos●…ions, odious to Earth, and execrable to Heaven.  
For wretched and impious strumpet, wilt thou needs not only gallop, but fly to hell, and so redouble thy crimes purposely to redouble thy torments; as first of whoredom, then of murder: Wretched, yea thrice wretched woman, how darest thou see earth, or think of heaven; when thy acted crimes are so odious, and thy pretended ones so monstrous, as thou deservest to be shut forth of the one, and spewed out of the other: For alas, consider what this poor Gentlewoman hath done to thee, that thou shouldest do this to her; She bears the image of God, and wilt thou therefore bear that of the devil to destroy her: Ah me, where is thy religion, thy conscience, thy soul; that thou wilt thus hellishly imbathe thy hands in her blood, and imbrue thy heart in her murder: If it be not that her virtues cry fie on thy Vices, thou hast no reason in Nature, and less in Grace, to attempt a deed so Tragical, an act so inhuman and execrable: But rest assured, that if thou proceed and finish this infernal and bloody stratagem of thine, although thou chance go unpunished of men; yet the Lord (in his due time) will find thee out, and both severely scourge and sharply revenge and chastise thee.  
The effects of malice, and revenge in men, are finite; in women infinite, theirs may have bounds and ends, but these none, or at least, seldom and difficultly: for having once conceived these two monsters in their fantasies and brains, they long till they are delivered and disburdened of them; and so to bring their abortive issue to perfection, they (for the most part) are sharp and severe in their designs, and sudden and malicious in their executions, hating all delays, so it be not to do evil: So this our bloody and vi●…ious Strumpet Lafoy Hay, is resolute to advance, and not to retire in this dyabolicall business of hers. Of all kind of violent deaths, she thinks none either so sure and secret as poison; whether she consider the manner, or the matter: If the Devil himself had not invented this unparaleld cruelty, his agents and members had never known how to have administered and practised it. But having resolved on the drug and ingredient, she now bethinks herself of some hellish Empiric or Factor of Hell, to apply and give it her, and her inveterate and implacable hatred making her curious in the research and inquiry thereof: she is at last advertised, that there is an old Italian Empiric in Mompellier: termed S. Brnard●… Michaele, who is his Arts master in that infernal profession, when wholly concealing this mystery and business from De Salez, she by a second means, (with promise of store of gold) sends away for Michaele from Mompellier: who in hope thereof, packs up his drugs and trinkets, and within three days arrives at Tholouse; where she thinks no where so fit and secret as the Church to consult and resolve on this bloody business, the hour is eight the next morn, and the place the Cordeliers, (or Grey Fri●…s) Church, appointed and agreed on betwixt them, where they both meet. but she (the better to disguise herself, and to blear the eyes of the world) wraps herself about in a great furred cloak, and muffles herself up with a large coif of velvet, and a rich taffeta scarf over it, as if she were some grave and reverend old Matron: so being brought to each others presence, they being both on their knees, he to his Book, and she to her Beads, she proposeth him the poisoning of La Frange, daughter to the Precedent de Clugny, for the which she promiseth to give him three hundred crowns of the Sun to perform it; whereof he shall now have one in hand, and the other two when he hath dispatched her. Michaele like a limb of the Devil, being deeply in love, and alured with this gold, undertakes it; when swearing secrecy, and withal to perform it within ten days, she gives him the hundred crowns tied up in her handkerchief, and so for that time they part.  
Good God, what profane Christians, what monsters of Nature, and Devils incarnate by profession are these, thus to pollute and defile the Church ordained for prayer, with the price and sale of innocent blood, a most prodigious and hellish impiety, since there is no sin so odious or execrable to God, as that which is masked with piety, and overvayled with the cloak of sanctity? And what a damnable young strumpet, and old villain are they, in so holy a place to treat and conclude so hellish a business? But beware, for the sword and arrow of God's just revenge, and revenging Justice, threatens ye with no less, then utter confusion and destruction.  
La Hay infinitely glad of this agreement, returns from the Church, and Michaele as glad of her gold, (being informed of La Franges' deformity, and to lose no time) trips away towards Precedent de Clugny his house, taking that for a fit occasion to assay to make his daughter become his Patient, and he her Empiric: who fleeringly insinuating, and screwing himself into his knowledge and acquaintance, (in which profession the Empirics and Mountebanks of Italy, come no way short, but rather exceed all other Nations of the world) he proffers him his best service and skill, to redress and reform the body of the young Lady his daughter, adding withal (thereby to add the more belief and credit to his speeches) that he is so far from despairing or doubting, as he is very confident thereof: and in the phrases and mysteries of his profession, gives him in outward appearance many inward and plausible reasons to induce him to believe it. The good old Precedent who preferring the cure of his daughter before any other earthly respect; having heard of Micha●…les fame: begins to relish his reasons, and yet not ignorant that the Mountebanks and Charletans of Italy, are Cousin Germane to the Alchemists of France, who promise to make gold of dross, and yet only bring forth dross for gold, he holds it fit to take a consultation of the learnedst Physicians, and expert Surgeons of the City, whereunto Michaele willingly consents, so they sit, being six in number, Michaele delivers them his reasons to redress the deformity of this young Lady's body (the Precedent her father being present) whose reasons are heard, and controverted of all sides betwixt them, the conclusion is, four are of opinion that this cure is repugnant to the grounds of Physic, and the principles of Chirurgery, and therefore impossible to be effected: the other two are of a contrary judgement, and held it feasable, and that many times God blesseth the Art and labours of a man, not only beyond expectation, but also beyond hope and reason: so De Clugny seeing that these two with Michaele were three against four, he in respect of the tender care and affection he bore his daughter, resolves to employ him, and gives him an hundred double pistolets in hand to attempt it; with promise of as much more when he hath performed it; whereof this miscreant and hellish Empiric Michaele being exceedingly glad, he betakes himself to this business, visits the young Lady, who promiseth him to reduble her father's sum, if he make her body strait: when to reduce his impious contemplation, into inf●…rnall action, he outwardly applieth plasters and cerecloths to her body, and inwardly administereth her pills and potions; and (O grief to write it) therein infuseth deadly poison; which he knows at the end of ten days will assuredly make a divorce between her body and soul; and so send that to the death of this world, and this to the life of that to come: So this sweet and innocent Lady (wishing good to herself, and hurt to none in the wor●…d) first finds a giddiness and swimming in her head; and within some six days after (in which time the poison had dispersed itself throughout all the veins and pores of her body) many sharp gripes, and bitter throws and convulsions, whereat her father grieves, and she weeps; only that graceless villain her Empiric, bids them be of good comfort, and that the more pain and grief she suffered, the better and speedier hope there was of her cure; but yet inwardly in his devilish heart, knows that the poison effectually operated and wrought with her as he desired and expected, and that by these infallible signs and simptomes, his patient drew near towards the period of her end. Whereupon he repairs secretly to Lafoy Hay, and bids her provide the rest of his money; for that La Frange could not possibly live two days to an end, whereat she triumphing and rejoicing with much alacrity, againg promiseth it him: and indeed the hellish Art of this execrable Empiric doth not now deceive him, though in the end the malice of the devil his Doctor will: For just as the tenth day was expired, this harmless sweet young Lady dies, to the incomparable and unspeakable grief of the good old Precedent her father; for that she was the staff of his age, and the chief and only comfort of his life, who disconsolatly and mournfully seemed to drown himself in his tears hereat, cursing the hour that he first saw this accursed Empiric Michaele, who had robbed him of his only joy and delight, of his dear and sweet daughter La Frange. But this murderous Michaele having learned of the devil to fear no colours, means not to step a foot from Tholouse, and so sends privately for L●… Hay, of whom he craves the performance of her promise, for that (quoth he) he had performed his. Why (quoth La Hay) is that crookbackt dwarf La Frange dead? She is gone (quoth Michaele) to her eternal rest: when Lafoy Hay not able to retain herself for excess of joy, runs to him, gives him the other hundred crowns, together with many kisses, which take (quoth she) as a pledge of my continual good will towards thee, when again swearing secrecy, they both take leave each of other and part.  
The news of La Franges' death, ratl●…th and resoundeth over all Tholouse, her kinsfolks grieve at it, her friends lament it, and all who either know her, or her fame, bewail it, only De Salez, and execrable La Hay excepted, who knowing her to have been the only stop and hindrance of their marriage, they are so ravished with joy heereat, as they seem to contest and envy each other, who shall first bring the news hereof each to other: yea, the excess of De Salez his joy is as boundless, as that of La Hayes delight, so that he seems to fly to her to her father's house, where she with out-spread arms receives and entertains him; and there they mutually congratulate each other for this her death, he affirming and she believing, that La Frange being gone to heaven, it shall not be long ere the Church make them man and wife on earth. In the mean time, he being wholly ignorant of her poisoning, and yet the old Precedent her father, and the rest of her friends suspecting it, they cause her body to be opened: and although they find no direct poison, yet remarking a little kind of yellow tincture on her heart and liver, as also some show thereof through her frozen veins: They cause Michaele to be apprehended and imprisoned, and so procure a Decree from the Parliament to have him racked: At the news whereof, La Hay is extremely tormented and perplexed, as well foreseeing and knowing, that her life lay at the mercy of his tongue: wherefore to fortify his secrecy, and thereby to secure her own fear and danger, she by a confident friend of his, sends him a hundred French crowns more, and promiseth him to give him a rich Diamond worth as much again; who (as before) being extremely covetous, and the Devil (resembling himself) still ha●…ping to him on that string which most delights him, his heart is so devilishly obdurated, and his fortitude so armed and prepared, as his patience and constancy not only endures, but outbraves the cruelty of his torments; and so he is acquitted of this his pretended crime: but he hath not as yet made his peace with God.  
And now is De Salez resolved to make a Journey to Paris, to draw his father's consent that he may marry La Hay, but the wisdom of the father shall anticipate the folly of the Son, for he having heard in Paris of La Franges' death, and still fearing, that because of his frequent familiarity with that strumpet La Hay, he will in the end marry her. He in Paris buys a Captain's place for him in the Regiment of the King's Guard, and likewise dealt with a very rich Counsellor of that Court of Parliament, named Monsieur de Brianson, that his son may marry his eldest daughter: Madamoyselle de Plessis, a very sweet and fair young Gentlewoman; and the old folks are already agreed on all conditions, only it rests, that the young, sees and loves; To which end Argentier writes away with all speed to Tholouse for his son De Sal●…z to come up to him, who before he had received his father's letter, (as we have formerly understood) was ready to undertake that Journey: Lafoy Hay infinitely fearful and jealous to lose her pray, with Crocodile tears in her eyes, and Hyena aspects in her looks, informs De Salez, that she feareth that his father hath provided a wife for him in Paris, but he vows and swears to her, that neither his father, nor the whole world, shall make him marry any other than herself, and so after many embraces and kisses, he takes horse and leaves Tholouse.  
Being arrived at Paris, his father very joyfully bids him welcome, and refers to confer with him till the next morning; but such is De Salez rashness and folly, as he hath no sooner supped in company of his father, but he prays to speak with him. When the servants voiding the chamber, he earnestly and humbly beseeching him, sith that La Frange is dead, he will now be pleased that he may marry La Hay, whom, quoth he, I only affect and love before all the maids of the world: His father exceedingly incensed hereat, vows that he had rather see him fairly buried in his grave, and that of all the females of the world, he shall not marry La Hay: and so for that night they betake themselves to their beds, the father grieves with his son's folly, the son with his father's averseness: The next morn Argentier calls for his son. When the doors shut, he bids him shut his eyes to his foolish familiarity with La Hay: and now to open them to the preferment, he hath purchased him, and so relates him how he hath procured him the honour of a Captain's place, in the Regiments of the King's Guard, as also a very fair young Gentlewoman for his wife, termed Madamoyselle de Plessis, the eldest daughter of Monsieur de Brianson, one of the richest Counselors of Paris: But De Salez having his eyes and thoughts wholly fixed on La Hay, with a discontented look, returns his father this perverse and disobedient reply.  
That he will not accept of the Captain's place, nor once see De Plessis, but that he is constantly resolved, either to wed La Hay, or his grave, whereat his father is so extremely incensed, as with much passion and choler, he commands him henceforth, not to dare so much as to name him La Hay, swearing by his Saviour, that if he for his obstinacy and disobedience, he will disinherit him, as indeed he might, having himself purchased three parts of his lands and revenues, through his care and industry in his profession, and so much discontent and cholle●…, leaves in his Coleagues of Tholouse, who are already waiting and attending his coming.  
De Salez is all on fire at this his father's bitter resolution against him, and storms and fumes, not only beyond the bonds of reason, religion, and humanity; but also beyond himself. For sith La Hay is his sole delight and joy, and that his father hath vowed he shall never marry her, his affection to her, makes him resolve to dispatch his father, yea, his head conceives such murderous thoughts, and his heart attracts, and assumes such degenerate and devilish blood against him, that like an execrable wretch, and a hellish son, disdaining to take Counsel from God, and therefore taking it from the devil his bloody Tutor and Abettor, he vows he will forthwith rid his hands of his father, and that he will therefore send him into another world, because he would give him no content in this.  
Oh wretched monster of Nature, Limb of the devil, nay a very devil thyself, thus to resolve to take his life from him that gave thee thine; Fowl stain of mankind, bloody Paracydious miscreant, can no respect either of thy natural and filial obedience to thy kind and dear father, or of his white hairs, and venerable old age, restrain thee? or no consideration of thy consceince or thy soul, of heaven or hell deter thee from this bloody inhuman, and damnable design of thine, in laying violent hands on him? O me, where are thy thoughts, where thy senses; where thy heart, thy soul, to act so execrable and infernal a Tragedy, on him with whom thou hadst not been: on thy father, whom by the laws of Heaven and Earth, thou oughtest both to love, honour, reverence and obey.  
But De Salez being resolute in this inhuman rage, and implacable malice and fury, watcheth how he may take time at advantage, to effect and finish this his bloody business, and one a night after supper, hearing his old father complain that he found himself not well, and commanding his Clerk De Buissie, very early in the next morning to carry his water to Doctor Salepin, a famous Physician, whose chamber was far off, in the place Maubert, he himself lying in Grennelles street: De Salez thinks this a fit opportunity to dispatch his father, the which, O a thousand griefs and pities to speak off, he accordingly performeth. For the morn appearing, his father having sent away his Clerk with his water, and betaking himself to sleep till his return. His watchful and murderous son, having purposely made himself ready; and through the key hole and crannies of his Chamber door, espying his father sleeping, he intends that this shall be his last sleep: When softly stealing into his Chamber, he (encouraged and animated by the devil) and approaching his bed, as exempt of fear or grace without any more delay or circumstance, stifles his father betwixt tow pillows; when leaving him breathless in his bed, his face exposed to the air, and the door shut, goes down, gives the master of the house, the good morrow, and so trips away as fast as he can, to the sign of the swan within Saint Honnoryes Gate; and from thence rides away to Saint Clow, (two leagues distant from Paris) to see Gondyes' gardens, fountains, and house wherein that execrable and damnable jacabine Friar, jaques Clement murdered Henry the third king of France, but with an intent to return to his father's lodging immediately after dinner, and to plead ignorance of the fact, and withal if occasion serve to stand upon his innocency, and justification, as indeed he did. Now his father's Clerk De Buissye, returning in the morning from Doctor Salepin, entering his master's chamber, finds him stark dead; and almost cold in his bed: whereat he makes many bitter outcries. and grievous exclamations: the man of the house hereat ascends the chamber, infinitely laments, grieves at this sorrowful accident and spectacle; Vows to De ●…uissye that he saw none whosoever in his house, much less in his master's chamber, and that his son Mounsieur De Salez departed as soon as he himself: they search his body, and find it no way wounded, so they believe and resove that some angue hath carried him away; Yet they hold it rather wisdom than folly to acquaint the Lieutenant criminal therewith; fearing lest he might after suspect either violence or poison: So he comes, confers with his son De Salez, with his Clerk De Buissye, and with the man of the house, he visits the deadbody, finds only his head somewhat swollen, which his Physicians affirm, may be his striving and struggling with death. When the Lieutenant out of his zeal and integrity to Justice: having informed himself of Doctor Salepin, of De Buissyes' being with him, as also from Saint Clou of his son De Salez, being there timely in the morning, and withal, that his Trunks were all safe, and nothing wanting; they banish all suspicion, and without farther enquiry, of doubt, commend the dead corpse to the grave: Whose funeral with exterior show of extreme grief and sorrow De Salez performs in Par●…, with all Decency and Decorum, answerable in all respects to his father's rank and quality. But we shall shortly see this mask of his devilish hypocrisy pulled off, and this inhuman paraside of his, both shamefully, and sharply revenged, by the just judgement and finger of God: The manner is thus.  
This harmless and innocent old father Argentier, is no sooner laid in his untimely grave, but his bloody and execrable son De Salez, within eight days after leaves Paris, and returns to Tholouse; where already this sorrowful news is dispersed and divulged, being for his virtues and integrity of life, generally bewailed of the whole City, only graceless and impudent La Hay triumphs hereat, and her very heart and thoughts dance for joy hereof: she welcomes home her De Salez, with a world of sweet and sugared kisses; who as glad of her presence, returns her them with a plentiful and prodigal interest; but his lustful love to her is so fervent, and his folly in himself so perverse and obstinate; as he hath scarce the patience, much less the respect and modesty to wear blacks for his father's six weeks, but casts them off; takes on gaudy, and scarlet apparel, and very solemnly marries La Hay: Whereby in respect of the inequality of their descents and means: but especially, of her whorish conditions; he makes himself the laughter and May-game of all Tholouse.  
But good God, what a prodigious and hellish match is this, sith man and wife, and both are Murderers; O execrable and miserable wretches, O bloody and impious miscreants, for sure if this marriage of yours prove happy, I may boldly and truly say, there will never any prove unfortunate and miserable: For Alas, alas, what do those impious and damnable crimes of theirs deserve and portend, but misery, ruin, and confusion of all sides? neither shall the curiosity of our enquiry carry us far, before we see it surprise and befall them.  
For before they had been fully married three months, De Salez reaping his desires, and feasting himself with the pleasures of her youth; he directly, contrary to his hops and expectation, is in forced to see and know, that which before he would have thought never to have known or seen: for thinking his wife to have been a modest and chaste Diana, he now sees she is a debauched Layis: ●…ea, his misery is so great, as he needs no spectacle to see, that she daily makes him a Knight of the forked order; and almost every hour, despite of his care and jealousy, claps a cuckoos feather in his hat: which to prevent and remedy, he first administereth requests and persuasions, and then comblaines to her father; But these are too weak reasons and too gentle motives, to prevail with so insatiable a strumpet; so as he is constrained to add threats to his requests, and in the end blows to his threats. But as it is impossible for the Leopard to change his skin, and the Aethiopian his hue, so de Salez sees it labour lost to think to reclaim his wife from her beastly sin of adultery, wherein (notwithstanding all that possible he can do) she takes such a delight and habit, as by this time she is grown so extremely impudent, as when her husband is at home, she is abroad ranging; and he is no sooner abroad, but she is instantly at home revelling with her ruffians: Yea, she is grown to that height of obscenity, as she contemns and sleights her husband; that whether he be abroad or at home, she will play the whore before his face with open doors: which although it be too late for him to remedy, yet it bites him to the heart, and grieves him to the gall: and now it is that he a thousand times thinks of his father's advice and council in forsaking her; and as often wisheth he had followed it. Now it is that his unnatural murdering of his father, thunder's forth horror, terror, and repentance to his foul and guilty conscience; and now it is that he wisheth from his heart and soul, that he had been blind when he first saw her, and fairly laid in his grave before he first lay with her in bed. But these his complaints and griefs, bring him only vexation and misery instead of comfort; for now he utterly despairs, and sees no hope of his wife's reformation: Whereupon he resolves to divorce himself from her, and to that end takes counsel thereon: but it is not so secretly managed by him, but the strumpet his wife hath present notice and inkling thereof, whereupon seeing her husband exceeding rich, both in lands, coin, plate, and other rich householdstuff, she vows not to quite her great jointure share and interest hereof thus. But before he had enrolled his suit in the Spiritual Court, or any way vented his own shame, and his wife's infamy in public, she like a true Courtesan, and debaushed strumpet as she was, vows to prevent him that would prevent her, and to send him to his death, that would seek to divorce her; and in respect of his jealousy and malice, that as she had formerly poisoned La Frange for her husband's sake, so she would now murder him for her own.  
But miserable and execrable wretch, Oh to what a monstroves heigh and huge sum will all these thy beastly sins, and bloody enormities arise and amount unto? But Lust, malice, and Revenge like three infernal furies, so possess and preoccupate her senses, as she will not retire, till she hath sent her husband into another world in a bloody winding-sheet. To which end, watching the time when most of her servants were gone abroad to gather in the Vintage, she softly opening her husband's chamber door, steals in, and finding him sound sleeping approacheth his bed, when drawing forth a razor from her sleeve, which she had purposely provided, she with an implacable and damnable malice steps to him, and cuts his throat, speaking only these words to herself: Lo here the reward of thy jealousy; when throwing the knife, and her outward Taffeta Gown into the house of office, she leaving him weltering in his blood, very secretly conveys herself through the Gallery to the Garden, where her waiting- Gentlewoman attends her, and so hies away to the Church, thinking with a wretched impiety to cloak this her second murder, as her former, under the veil of religion and piety: but her hopes, and the Devil that gave them her, will now deceive her.  
De Salez, her husband striving and struggling for life against the pangs of death: fear and haste (contrary to her intent and mind) had so made his murderous wife's hand shake and tremble, as she did not so fully cut his throat-boale, but he could yet both cry and groan, which he did very mournfully, and which indeed was soon overheard by a man and a maid-servant of his, who only remained in the house, who hearing their master's voice, and hastily running up, at these his pitiful and lamentable out cries; steping to his assistance, they hear him (with his best power) utter these fearful speeches, That Strumpet my wife hath killed me: O that she-devil my wife hath murdered me. Whereat they cry out at the windows to the neighbours for help, alleging that their master is murdered. The neighbours assemble, and hear him report so much: so they send away for his Confessor, and the Lieutenant Criminal, to both whom he again confesseth, That it is the Strumpet his wife who hath murdered him: And then raising himself up in his bed (with as much strength as his dying wound would permit him) he taking them both by the hands, with infinite signs and tears reveals to them, that he it was, who at the seducing of the Devil, had stifled his father Argentier to death in Paris, that he did it only to marry this whore his murderous wife Lafoy Hay; that the kill of his father, yea the very remembrance thereof infinitely grieves his heart and soul, and for the which he infinitely repenteth himself, and beseecheth the Lord of mercy, in mercy to forgive it him; and likewise prayed all that were present to pray unto God for him: and these were his last words, for now his fleeting and fading breath would permit him to say no more.  
All that were present, are amazed at this lamentable confession of his, to see that he should murder his father, and his execrable wife, well near himself; so they all glorified God for the detection and discovery hereof: But the Lieutenant Criminell, and the Counsellors his Associates step to the window, and consult to have him hanged, whiles he is yet living, for the murdering of his father. But De Salez saves them that labour: for there and then he sinks into his bed, and dies away before them: so they instantly search the house and City for this wretched Murderess Lafoy Hay, whom impious and bloody strumpet they at last find in the Dominican Friars Church at a Sermon, from whence with much obloquy and indignity they drag her to prison, where they charge her with the murder of her husband De Salez, which the Devil as yet will not permit her to confess; but being adjudged by them to the Rack, she at the very first torment confesseth it.  
Upon which several murders, the criminal judges of the Tournells proceed to sentence: so first they adjudge the dead body of De Salez for so inhumanly murdering his father Argentier, to be half a day hanged by the heels to the common gallows, and then to be burnt to ashes, which is accordingly executed: then they adjudge his wife Lafoy Hay, for murdering him, the next day to be strangled, then burnt: so that night some Divines deal with her in prison about the state of her soul, whom they find infinitely obdurated through the vanity of her youth, and the temptations of the Devil; but they work effectually with her, and so at last (by the mercies of God) draw her to contrition and repentance, when willing her not to charge her soul with the concealing of any other crime; and showing her the dangers thereof, she very freely, yet sorrowfully, confesseth; how she it was, that for three hundred crowns had caused the Empiric Michaele to poison La Frange, for the which she told them she was now exceedingly repentant and sorrowful: Whereof the Divines (sith it was not delivered them under the seal of Confession) advertising the Judges, they all wonder at God's providence, to see how all these murders are discovered and burst forth, one in the neck of the other; so they alter her sentence and for these her double murders, they condemn her to have her right hand cut off, and then to be burnt alive: and so they make curious inquiry and research to apprehend this old bloody varlet Michaele.  
In the mean time, that very afternoon, this miserable and murderous Courtesan Lafoy Hay, though to the grief of her sorrowful father and sisters, yet to the joy of all Tholouse, is brought and fastened to her stake, where her hand being first struck off, she with many sighs and tears delivereth these few words: That her crimes were so foul and odious, as she was ashamed to look either God or man in the face: That she was very sorrowful for causing La Frange to be poisoned, as also for murdering of her husband De Salez, whose wealth she only affirmed she loved, but not himself, the which she wholly attributed to the lust and vanity of her youth, to her neglect of prayer and forsaking of God; which made the Devil so strong with her, and she with the Devil: and which was the sole cause and ground of this her miserable ruin and destruction; she with tears and prayers besought the Lord to be good unto her soul; and (lifting up her eyes and hands to Heaven) likewise beseech the whole assembly to pray heartily unto God for her: when recommending her soul into the hands of her Redeemer, the fire being alighted, her body was soon consumed to ashes, whose lamentable, yet just end and punishment, caused a number of spectators to weep, as yet pitying her youth and beauty, as much as they detested the enormity of her crimes.  
And now for this devilish and murderous Empiric Michaele, although as soon as he heard of La Hayes imprisonment, he (to save himself) left Tholouse, and fled towards Castres', disguised in a Friar's habit, with his beard shaved: yet by the care of the Court of Parliament, or rather by the immediate finger and providence of God, he is found out, and brought back to Tholouse, where for poisoning of La Frange, (the which he now without the Rack confesseth) he is adjudged to be broken on the Wheel, there to remain till he be dead, and then his body to be thrown into the River of Garrone: the which the same day is accordingly executed and performed, to the infinite joy of all the spectators: but as he lived an Atheist, so he desperately died a Devil, without any show at all, either of contrition or repentance; only he vomited forth this wretched speech, That because the world had so much to say to him, he would say nothing to the world, but bade the Executioner dispatch him.  
Now by the sight of this mournful and bloody History, the Christian Reader may observe and see how God's revenge doth still triumph against murder, and how he in his due time and providence doth assuredly still detect and punish it. It is a History which may serve to deter and forewarn all young Gentlemen, not to frequent the companies of whores and strumpets; and all sons not to transgress the will of their parents, much less not dare to lay violent hands on them. It is a glass wherein young Gentlewomen and Wives may at life see, what bitter fruits and sharp ends ever attend upon Whoredom and Murder: it is a lively Example for all kind of Empirics and Drugst●…rs whatsoever, to consider how severely God doth infallibly revenge and punish the poisoning of his Saints and children. In a word, it is a Lesson and Caveat for all people, and for all degrees of people, but especially of Christians, (who profess the Gospel of Christ) not only to detest these foul sins of Revenge and Murder in others, but to hate and abhor them in their selves: which that all may endeavour to practice and perform, grant good God, who indeed art the only giver of all goodness.   

GOD'S REVENGE AGAINST THE CRYING AND Execrable Sin of Murder.  
HISTORY XII.  
Albemare causeth Pedro and Leonardo to murder Baretano, and he after marriah Clara, whom Baretano first sought to marry: He causeth his man Valereo to poison Pedro in Prison, and by a letter which Leonardo sent him, Clara perceives that h●… husband Albemare had hired and caused Pedro and Leonardo to murder her first Baretano; which letter she reveals to the judge, so he is hanged, and likewise Valerio and Leonardo for these their bloody crimes.  
WIth what face can we presume to tread on the face of Earth, or dare lift up our eyes to that of Heaven, when our thoughts are so rebellious to conspire, and our hearts and resolutions so cruel to imbrue our hands in the innocent blood of our harmless and Christian brethren? Thoughts they are, which in seeming to please our senses, poison our hearts, (and do therefore truly poison our souls, because they so falsely please our senses,) Resolutions they are, which we cannot conceive or attempt with more inhumanity, than finish with misery. Sith in thinking to send them to their untimely graves, we assuredly send ourselves to our own miserable and infamous ends; whereof in this ensuing History, we shall find many woeful Precedents, and mournful examples, in divers unfortunate and wretched persons, who were borne to happiness, not to infamy; to prosperity, not to misery. If they had so much Grace to secure their lives, as Vanity, and Impiety to ruin them; It is a History purposely p●…duced and penned, for our detestation, not for our imitation: Sith it is a point of (true and happy) wisdom in all men to beware by other men's harms; Read it then with a full intent to profit thyself thereby, and so thou mayest boldly, and safely rest assured, that the sight of their sins and punishments, will prove the reformation of thine own.  
Fruitful, and fair Lombardy is the Country, and the great, populous, and rich City of Milan (the Capital of that Duchy) the place where the Scene of this mournful and Tragical History is lain where perpetrated: The which to refetch from its first spring and Original, thereby the more truly to inform our curiosity, and instruct our knowledge: We must then understand, that long since the Duke of Feria succeeded the Count De Fuentes, as Viceroy of that potent and flourishing Duchy, for King Philip the third of Spain his master: There was native and resident in that City an ancient Nobleman, termed Signior Leonardo Capello, who in his younger years had married a Spanish Lady, and brought her from Spain to Milan; termed Dona Maria de Castiana: He exceeding rich and noble, and she as noble and fair; he by his father's side allied to Cardinal Charles Barromeo (since Sainted by Pope Paul V.) she by her mother to the present Duke of Albucurque, he infinitely honoured for his extraction and wealth: she no less beloved and respected for her beauty and virtues: and although there are but few marriages contracted between the Millanese and Spaniards, and those very seldom prove successful and prosperous, in respect of the antipathy, which (for the most part) is hereditary betwixt the commands of the Spaniards, and the subjection of the Millanese: yet it seemed that this of Capello and Castiana was first instituted in heaven, ere consummated on earth; for so sweetly did their years, humours, and affections conjoin and sympathise, as although thy were two persons, yet I may truly affirm and say, they had but one heart, affection and desire, which was mutually to please, and reciprocally to affect and love each other. And as Marriages cannot be reputed truly happy and fortunate, if they be not blessed and crowned with the blessings of children, (which indeed is not only the sweetest life of humane content, but also the best and sweetest content of our humane life) so they had not been long married, ere God honoured them and their nuptial bed, with a beautiful and delicate and young daughter, termed Dona Clara, the only child of their loins, and heir of their lands and virtues; being indeed the true picture of themselves, and the joyful pledge and seal of their entire and involuable affections; who having overpast her infancy, and obtained the eighteenth year of her age; she was so exquisitely adorned with beauty, and so excellently endued and enriched with virtues; as distinctly for either or jointly for both, she was, and was truly reputed, the Paragon of Nature, the pride of Beauty, the wonder of Milan, the glory of her Sex, and the Phoenix of her Time. And because the purity and perfection of her beauty deserves to be seen through this dim Perspective, and the dignity of her virtues known of the Reader in this my impollished relation. For the first, she was of stature indifferently tall, but exceeding straight and slender: her hair either of a deep Chesnut colour, or rather of a light black, But to which most adhering and inclining fancy might, but curiosity could difficultly distinguish; her complexion and tincture, rather of an amorous and lovely brown, than of a Roseate and Lily die; but yet so sweetly pure, and purely sweet: (and withal rather fat than lean) that no earthly object could more delight and please the eye, or ravish the sense. And for her eyes, those two relucent lamps and starts of love, they were so black and piercing, that they had a secret and imperious influence, to draw all other eyes to gaze and do homage to hers; as if all were bound to love her, and she so modest, as if purposely framed to love none but herself: Neither did her Front, Lips, Neck or Paps any way detract, but every way to add to the perfection of her other excellencies of Nature: For the first seemed to be the Prom●…ntory of the Graces, the second, the Residence of delight and pleasure; The third the Pyramids of State and Majesty; And the fourth the Hills and Valley of love. But leave we the dainties of her body, now to speak of the rarities and excellencies of her mind, which I cannot rightly define, whether the curiosity and care of her parents in her education, or her own ingenious and apt inclination to Virtue and Honour, were more predominant in her: for in either, or rather in both, she was so exquisite and excellent, that in Languages, Singing, Music, Dancing, Wisdom, Temperance, and Modesty, she was so fully complete and rare, that to give her her due, and no more, she could not be paralleled by any young Lady of Lombardy, or Italy, nor equallized but by herself.  
Thus if her noble extraction, and father's wealth made her surmount others, and her delicious sweet beauty and virtues excel herself, no marvel if those Adamants, and these excellencies draw divers of the best Cavaliers and chiefest Gallants both of Milan and Lombardy, to effect and seek her in marriage; and indeed although she be sought by divers of them with much respect and honour, answerable in all regard to her rank and quality; yet nether her parents, or self are so much importuned by any, as by Signior Giovani Albemare, a young noble Gentleman of the city, who was adorned and fortified which these humane privileges, to be well descended, rich, and of some twenty five years old; a match in the eye and censure of the world, yea, and in all outward appearance correspondent and equivalent; if his generous persections and virtues had paralleled hers, or if the candure and sincerity of her affection had not justly transported her thoughts and heart from him, because she had formerly fixed and settled them on another Gentleman, younger of years than Albemare, but in all other respects, as well of Nature, as Fortune, every way his superior, named Signior Alphonsus Baretano, a young Gentleman of one of the noblest families of Milan, of some eighteen years old, whose father was lately deceased, and had left him sole heir to many rich lands and possessions; but (withal) exceedingly entangled in Law, and engaged in many debts and mortgages, where into the vanity and prodigality of his youth had deeply precipitated and ingulphed him: which consequently reflecting and falling on his son, we shall see will prove a hindrance to his marriage, and an obstacle to his content and preferment. But to observe some order and decorum in the conduction and delation of this History, we must briefly be informed, that as of all the Beauties of Lombardy, Albemare only chiefly affected and loved Clara; so of all the Cavaliers of the world, Clara affected and loved no other but Baretano; for as conformity of years, manners, and inclinations, breed a sympathy in affections; so they in their tender youth often frequented one the others company, sometimes at the Dancing, and Music Masters, but many times at Weddings, Feasts, and noble assemblies: being well near as equal in age as in complexion and stature. Again the vicinity of their residence added much to the combining and inflaming of their affections: for they were opposite in nothing but in their mansion houses, from whose galleries & windows many times publicly; but more often by stealth, their eyes could not refrain to tilt at each other, with the invisible lances of love & affection, which bred such a habit, and that habit so powerful a second Nature that it was now become impossible for them not to gaze each on other: so as if the innocency of their purilitie, made them delight in each others sight and company with desire; so now their more riper years enforce them to desire it with delectation: for when as yet they were so young, as they knew not the instinct and influence of Nature (which cannot be taught by amore powerful or ingenious Tu●…ix than herself) yet they never met but kissed, nor kissed, but as if their heart and thoughts check their lips for taking such short farewells each of other: But now when their years had proclaimed them both very capable to march under the Standard of Hymenaeus: This Venus and that Adonis, for so her fresh beauty, and his flourishing youth (with as much right as fame in Milan,) generally entitled them: They felt some pleasure wanting, which as yet they couldnot find; and therefore no marvel, if they desired to find that which they wanted: So as burning in affection each to other, Clara hearing spoken of a husband, infinitely wished that Baretano were hers; and when he heard of a wife, he ardently longed, and fervently desired that Clara were his. Neither can I rightly say, whether he were more affectionate in his constancy to her; or she constant and resolute in her affection to him: so that as heretofore they hardly knew the way to kiss, now time (running on in her swift career) had taught them to desire to marry: and that whereas formerly Baretano only termed Clara his sweet Maid, and she him her dear Friend: Now love had suggested and given them new desires, and therefore new Epithets: for sometimes as well in earnest as in jest, he could not refrain to term her his sweet wife, nor she him her dear husband; and herein there tongues were only but the outward Heralds of their inward hearts, as their hearts were of their more secret and retired desires. And as fervent love, and true discretion, very seldom concur and meet; so although affection made them rich in inventing new inventions to meet and kiss: yet they were so poor, or rather so blind in discretion, as they could not bear their affections in secrisie and silence: but by this time they are bewrayed to their Parents, and divulged to their acquaintance: but if any grieve and storm at this unexpected news, it is first Albemare, than Capello and Castiana, betwixt whom there was a secret promise, and verbal contract, that he and no other should marry their daughter.  
Thus we see that Albemare and Baretano are become Competitors and Rivals in their affections, for either of them affect Clara as the mistress of their thoughts, and both adore her as the Queen Regent of their desires. But as they sympathize in their hopes to purchase her to their wife: So they differ in the means and progress of their resolutions, how to obtain her. For whiles Baretano sues the daughter before her Parents, so doth Albemare the Parents before their daughter: but what effects and ends, these beginnings will produce, ye shall shortly see, and they themselves very soon both feel and find.  
Capello and Castiana (as we have formerly said) with much affliction and grief, understanding of their daughter's affection to Baretano, and reciprocally of his to her, they (with much impatience and passion) relate it to Albemare, whose affection to Clara hath made him so subtle towards them, as although his heart knows this news, yet he makes his tongue deny the knowledge thereof; when protesting of his entire and fervent affection to her: and that he must either wed her or his grave: they consult on their important business, how they may Dethronize Baretano, and inthronize Albemare in the chair and choice of Clara's affection: As for Capello and Castiana, they so highly affect Albemares great and free estate, and so disdainfully hate the intricate encumbrances of Baretano's, as they vow, there resolutions shall Sail by thecompasse of his desires; and he in exchange, that his affections and desires, shall still steer their course by that of their resolutions: So from the matter of their agreement, they proceed to the manner how to effect it; To which end her father and mother single their daughter apart, and in mild and fair terms demand her, what hath passed betwixt her and Baretano, and whether she be so simple and inconsiderate to take so poor a Gentleman for her husband, whose estate is so weak and small, as it cannot well maintain himself, much less her; Clara already prepared and armed by her affection to receive these, or the like speeches from her Parents, having twice or thrice metamorphosed the Lilies of her cheeks into Roses, very temperately and modestly returns them this discreet and respective answer.  
That as she must needs affirm she is confident of Baretano's affection to her, so she must as truly deny, that asyet he had ever motioned her for marriage; which if he had, considering that his birth, means, and virtues were such as every way deserved not only her equal but her superior, she is enforced to reveal them, that she loves him so tenderly and dearly, as if her will and pleasure be not contradicted by theirs, it will be not only her joy but her felicity, to accept and take him for her husband, before all others of the world.  
But this modest answer of hers, they hold too peremptory for a child to give, and Parents to receive; as if it savoured more of irregular zeal to Baretano, than of due respect and obedience to themselves, yet the sooner to devert her from her own desires and resolutions to make her flexible to theirs, they as yet hold it fit, rather to continue mild than imperious towards her, and so by depraving the deserts and debasing the merits of Baretano, to seek to extol and magnify those of Albemare, as if the first were only a foil, and the second a rich Diamond, worthy of her affection and wearing: and indeed so exquisite and excellent a Cavalier, they depaint him to her in the richest frame and pomp of all his praises, aswell of the endowments of mind, as of those of Fortune, that they leave no insinuating Oratory unessayed, nor persuasive attempt unattempted, to make her shake hands with Baretano, and consequently to extend her arms and heart to receive and retain Albemare: But although she were young in years and experience; yet love in this fragrant and flourishing spring of her youth, had so refined her judgement, and indoctrinated and prompted her tongue, that her thoughts commanded and marshaled by her heart, and both by her desires and affection to Baretano, she confusedly intermixing, and interrupting her words with many far fetched broken sighs, again returns her Parents this reply.  
If your age will not, yet my youth or rather my heart informs me, that Baretano as far exceeds Albemare in the privileges of the mind and body, as Albemare doth him in those of Fortune, but that my resolutions and answers, may answer and correspond with my obedience, although I love Baretano, yet I will never hate, rather honour Albemare; but to make him my husband, or myself his wife, if Earth have, I hope Heaven hath not decreed it: And I humbly beseech ye, that this may ●…est your Resolution, as I assuredly think it shall and will remain mine.  
Capello and Castiana (like discreet parents) seeing their daughter Clara wholly wedded (in a manner) to the singularity of her own will; they yet conceive it to be far more requisite to revert her reasons by fairre means, than refute and refel them by force, sith love and discretion hath still reference to that, and this relation still to choler, many times to repentance: whereupon minding her of the blessings which infallibly attend filial obedience; and the miseries and curses which individually wait on contempt and disobedience, hoping that time will effect that which Importunity cannot, they as then leave her to her thoughts, and she them to their care; caring for nothing so much, nay, I may well say, for nothing else, than to see her affection divorced from Baretano, and contracted and wedded to Albemare, who having curious correspondence and intelligence with them, he is ever and anon acertained, not only what hath, but what doth pass betwixt them and their daughter; and withal, is advised by them, to delay no time, but to frequent and haunt her as her Ghost and shadow 〈◊〉 yea, and no more to conceal his affection and suit from her, but to acquaint Milan therewith, sith it was no disparagement, but rather an equal honour for him to match with Clara, and Clara with him. Which concluded betwixt Capello and Castiana, Albemare is so far from rejecting this advice and counsel, as he embraceth it with much joy and delectation, and vows (though with the peril of his life) to persevere and pursue her in marriage: To which end, authorized as well by his own affection, as their authority, Clara is neither abroad nor at home, but he meets her, gives away all time from himself, to give himself to her: so as it seems to the eye of the world, that Capello's house is now become his, and that his daughter Clara likewise shortly shall be: yea, he adds such curiosity to his care, and such care to his affection in courting her, as she cannot be either at Mass, or Vespres, but he is either with her, or near her, and when in solemn pomp or zeal she visits the Domo (or Cathedral Church) of that City, and in it the Shrine of the new Saint Charles, than he waits and attends on her at the Porch stairs, sometimes with his Coach, but many times (as the custom of Milan is) on his Foot-cloth, and prancing Barbary horse, to conduct her home: yea, and not to fail in any Compliment of an accomplished Lover, besides the harmony of his own insinuation and solicitation, he greets her with rich presents, and salutes her with all variety of melodious Music, and mellistuous voices: but all this notwithstanding, although he every way use his best art and industry, and her father and mother their best skill to make her flexible to his desires, and their pleasure; yet she, as having her thoughts fully bend and fixed on her dear and sweet Baretano, looks haggard and averse on Albemare, giving him such general answers, and cold entertainment, as he seeth he hath far more reason to despair than hope to obtain her. Whereupon doubting of her affection, he hath again recourse to her parent's love, who to confirm and seal it him, seeing fair means will not prevail with their daughter, they resolve to use force, and so to add threats to their requests, and choler to their persuasions, to make her abandon Baretano, and embrace Albemare. But if the first prevail not with her, the second cannot; for she now tells them plainly, that she neither can not will affect any man for her husband but Baretano; and yet she is so far from any determinate resolution to marry him, as she affirms, that their will shall be her law, and their pleasure her resolution.  
Whiles thus Albemare in the way of marriage seeks our fair and sweet Clara publicly, no less doth Baretano privately; and although with less vanity and ostentation, yet he hopes with far more fortunacie and success; as grounding his hopes upon these reasons: That in heart and soul Clara is only his, as both in soul and heart he is hers: so he entertains her many times with his Letters, and yet not to show himself a novice in discretion, or a coward in affection, he makingher content his commands, as she did his desires her felicity; he in remote Churches and Chapels, (for whose number Milan exceeds Rome) hath both the happiness and honour privately to meet her, where if they violate the sanctity of the place, in conferring and cherishing their affections, yet they sanctify their affections, in desiring that some Church or Chapel might invest and crown them with the religions honour, and holy dignity of marriage. For having jested of Love heretofore, now like true Lovers, they henceforth resolve to love, not in jest, but in earnest; and as of their two hearts they have already made one, so now they mean and intend to dispose of their bodies, thereby to make one of two: And this is their sole desire, and this, and only this is their chief delight, and most pleasing'st desires and wishes.  
But as it is the nature of Love, for Lovers to desire to see none but themselves, and yet are seen of many: so this their familiarity and frequent meeting is again reported to her father and mother, whereat they murmur with grief, and grieve with discontent and affliction: and now not to subtract, but to add to their vexation, it is resolved between our two young amorous Turtle Doves, Baretano, and his fair Clara, that he should publicly motion them for her in marriage; which he in wonderful fair terms, and orderly Decorum, (as well by his friends as himself) performeth. When contrary to his wishes, but not his expectation, they give him so cold entertainment, and his suit such poor and sharp acceptance, as they (in affection and zeal to Albemare) not only deny him their daughter, but their house: an answer so incivill, and therefore so injust, as might give a testimony of some way of their care, yet no way of their discretion to themselves, or affection to their daughter. And here I must confess, that I can difficultly define, whether this resolution and answer of Capello and Castiana, more delighted Albemare, discontented Baretano, or afflicted Clara: who although in the entrance of their Loves, their hopes seemed to be nipped, and their desires crossed by the frowns of their parents; yet they love each other so tenderly and dearly; as these discontents notwithstanding, they will not retire, but are resolute to advance in the progress of this their chaste and servant affections, and although their commands endeavour to give a law to her obedience, in not permitting her to be frequented of Baretano; yet her obedience is so enforced to take a more stronger of her affection, as despite her parent's malice and jealousy towards them, when they are sweetly sleeping in their beds, then is their daughter Clara waking with Baretano, and he with her; oftentimes walking and talking in the Arboures, and many times kissing and billing in the close galleries of the garden; which they cannot conceal or bear so closely, but her father and mother have exact notice and intelligence thereof by some of their trusty servants, whom they had purposely appointed as Sentinels to espy and discover their meetings. Whereupon (as much in hatred to Baretano as in affection to Albemare) knowing that if the cause be once removed, the effect is subject soon to follow and ensue; they very suddenly and privately send away their daughter from Milan to Modena by Coach, there to be mewed and penned up with the Lady Emelia her Aunt, and besides her waiting Gentlewoman Adriana, none to accompany and conduct her but only Albemare, hoping that a small time, his presence and importunate solitations, would deface the memory of Baretano, to engrave his own in the heart and thoughts of his sweet Clara. Who poor soul, seeing herself exiled and banished from the society of her Baretano's sight and company, wherein under heaven she chiefly and only delighted; she hereat, doth as it were drown herself in the Ocean of her tears; storming as well at the cruelty of her parents, as at her own affliction and misfortune; and no less doth her Baretano for the absence of his sweet Saint and dear Lady Clara: for as their affection, so their afflictions is equal; now mourning as much at each others absence, as formerly they rejoiced and triumphed in their presence. But although the jealousy of Capello and Castiana were very careful to watch and observe Baretano in Milan; and the zeal and affection of Albemares safety to guard, and sweetly to attend on Clara and Modena: Yet as fire surpressed flames forth with more violence, and rivers stopped, overflow with more impetuosity; so despite of the ones vigilancy, and the others jealousy, though Baretano cannot be so happy and blessed to ride over to Modena, to see and salute his Clara: yet love, which is the refiner of inventions and wit, and the polisher of judgement, cannot yet deraine him from visiting her with his letters, the which in respect of the hard access and difficult passage to her, he is enforced to send her by subtle means, and secret messengers; and the better to overshadow the curiosity of his Arts, and the Art of his affection herein, he among many others, makesuse of a Friar and a Hermit, for the conveyance of two letters to Modena; to his Lady: which (as fit agents for such amorous employments) they (with more cunning and fidelity, than zeal, and Religion) safely delivered her, and likewise returned him her answers thereof. And because the fervency of their affections and constancies, each to other, are more lively depainted and represented in these two, than in any other of their letters; therefore I thought myself in a manner bound, here to insert them, to the end to give the better spirit and Grace to their History, and the fuller satisfaction and content to the curiosity of the Reader: That which Baretano sent Clara upon her departure from Milan to Modena by the Friar, spoke thus:  
BARETANO to CLARA.  
HOw justly may I term myself unfortunate, Sith I am enforced to be miserable before I know what belongs to happiness: For if ever I found any content, or Heaven upon Earth, it was only in thy sweet presence; which thy sudden absence and unexpected exile, hath now made, at least, my Purgatory, if not my Hell. Fair Clara judge of thy Baretano by thyself, what a matchless grief it is to my heart, and a heart-killing terror to my thoughts, to see thee made captive to my rival, and that the Fates and thy Parents seem to be so propitious to his desires, and so inexorable and cruel to mine: That I must live alone in Milan without thee, and he alone in Modena with thee: which makes that, I know not, whether I more envy his joy, or lament and pity mine own sorrows and afflictions. But if I have any sense or shadow of comfort in this my calamity, it only consists in this, that as thou carriedst away my heart with thee; so thou wile vouchsafe to return me thine in thy letter by a reciprocal requital and exchange. For if thou neither bring me thyself, nor send me that; I may be sought in Milan, but found no where but in heaven: were I privileged by thy consent, much more authorized by thy command; I would speedily rather fly than post to thee: for Fair and Dear Clara, as thou art my sole joy, and Sovereign felicity, so whiles I breathe this air of life, thy will shall be my law, thy command my Compass, and thy pleasure my resolution.  
BARETANO.  
Her answer returned by the Friar to Baretano at Milan, was to this effect.  
CLARA to BARETANO.  
IT is for none but ourselves to judge how equal we participate and share of misery, in being deprived of each others presence. Thou termest mine absence either thy purgatory, ●…rthy hell, and my afflictions and torments for thine are so great, and withal so infinite, as I have all the equity and reason of the world to repute them not only one, but both: Thou art mistaken in the point of my thraldom, for whiles Albemare vows himself my captive, I disdain to be his, and both vow and triumph to be only Baretanoes: I know not whether I have brought thy heart with me to Modena, but sure I am, I left mine with thee in Milan: If my Parents seem now pleasing and propitious to him, I am yet so far from despair, as I confidently hope the Fates will not prove cruel or inexorable to thee, and in thee to myself: but rather that a little time will change their resolutions and decrees, Sith they cannot our affections and constancy. If Clara be thy sole joy and Sovereign felicity, & no less it Baretano hers! and albeit, I could wish either thou here with myself in Modena, or I there with thee in Milan. Yet such is my aunt Emelias' care, and Albemares jelous●… 〈◊〉 〈◊〉, that wer●… thou in this City thou couldst difficultly see me, but impossibly speak with me; wherefore refrain a while, and let thy journey hither to me be ended ere began; ye●… with this proviso and condition, that the cause thereof, thy affection to me, be began never to be ended: and think that my stay and exile here shall be as short, as either my best Art in myself can invent, or truest zeal to thee suggest. In which Interim let us solace ourselves, and visit each other by the Ambassadors of our hearts, I mean our letters: And this resolve my dear Baretano, that during our absence whiles thou dost feast on my Idea, I will not fail to surfeit on thine.  
CLARA.  
Baretano's other letter sent Clara to Modena by the Pilgrim, was couched and penned in these terms.  
BARETANO to CLARA.  
HAd not thy requests (in thy last letter) granted out a Prohibition against my desires and wishes, I had long since left Milan to have seen Modena, and in it thyself my sweet and dear Lady; but I speak it to my present comfort, and future consolation and joy, that it is excess, not want of affection which infuseth this provident care and careful providence to thy resolutions, to the end that thy return make us as joyful as thy departure sorrowful, and consequently that the last prove as sweet unto our hearts and thoughts, as the first was bitter: And yet believe me dear Clara, that my affection is so entire and fervent to thee, because I know thine is reciprocally so to myself: that I deem it not only capable to make difficult things easy, but which is more, impossibilities possible: For, for thy sake what would I not attempt? and to enjoy thy sight and presence what would I leave unperformed? But if thou wilt not permit me to come to thee to Modena, nor yet speedily resolve to return to me to Milan: Sorrow will then prevent my Joy, and Despair my Hope; For if thou hasten not thy arrival and our interview, sickness will be my death; wert thou as kind as fair, or as affectionate as I am fervent in affection, thou wilt th●… rather suffer me to live with thee, than to die for thee: for in this rest confident, that if thou deny me that request, I cannot Nature this tribute, my affection this homage, or thy beauty this sacrifice.  
BARETANO.  
And Clara her answer hereunto returned to Milan to Baretano; by the foresaid Pilgrim was traced in these words;  
CLARA to BARETANO.  
THe last command of my Parents, and the first resolution of my aunt Emelia, and my suitor Albemare, have now reduced me to so strict a Sequestration (or rather captivity) as only my thoughts, hardly my pen, hath the freedom and power to signify thee so much. But as calms ensue tempests, and sunshine showers, so I beseech thee to brook it with as much patience, as I do with grief; and not only hope, but resolve, that violence is never permanent, and all extremes subject to revolution and change. Wherefore my dear Baretano, consider and think with thyself, that my stay from Milan, and thy prohibition from Modena, hath this twofold excuse, that is in my will, but not as yet in my power to perform; and this will rather hinder, than any way advance the accomplishing of our desires; Sith a little time may effect that with my parents, which I fear importunity will never; neither can thy heart so much long for my sight, or wish for my presence, as my soul doth for thine: Sith to give thee but one word for all, thyself, and only thyself, art both the life of my joy, and the joy of my life. A thousand times a day I wish Modena were Milan, and again, as often that Albemare were metamorphosed into Baretano. Therefore, I am so far from preventing thy joy, as though at the price of my death, I am ready to sacrifice my life for the preservation of thine; as also for the banishing of thy despair: Write me not then of thy sickness, lest thou as scone hear of my death, and I knew not what request to deny thee, sith I have already granted and given thee myself, which is all that either I can give, or thou desire; cherish thyself for my sake, and I will thy remembrance for mine.  
CLARA.  
By these loving Letters of these our Lovers, the Reader may observe and remark, what a firm league, and strict and constant friendship there was contracted and settled betwixt them, and what a hell their absence was each to others thoughts and contemplations: In the mean time, whiles Baretano entertains Clara with Letters, Albemare doth with words, wherein he useth his best Rhetoric and Oratory, to draw her to his desires; and withal, to listen and espy out, if there pass any passages of Letters, or other correspondency betwixt them. Which although Clara her affection to Baretano vow, and her discretion to herself resolve to conceal and obscure from Albemare, yet lo here falls out a sinister and unexpected accident, which will discover and bewray it; yea, and of all sides, and to all parties produce grief, sorrow, choler, and repentance, which in effect (briefly) is thus:  
Clara had reason in her former Letter sent by the Pilgrim, to term this her sequestration in Modena a captivity, sith the bounds of her aunt Emelias' two small Gardens, and the walls of her little Park, were the limits wherein her liberty was confined, and herself as it were, immured: for farther she was not permitted to go, except to the Church with her aunt in her Coach, but still accompanied by Albemare, who left no minutes nor occasions, as well to see her, as to be seen of her. Now to give some truce (though not peace) to her discontents, and thereby somewhat to calm the impetuosity of those tempests, which love had stirred up in her heart and thoughts for the absence of her Baretano, she never better accompanied then when alone, sometime past away, the irksomeness of her time in walking in the Gardens, but many times in the Park close shut, followed only by her waiting Gentlewoman Adriana: for in respect of her aunts unkindness, and Albemares jealousy, she would neither accept of her familiarity, nor of his company. Now to the nearest end of the Park, not far distant from the second Garden, was a curious walk, ranked about with many rows of Sycamore trees, and at the farther end thereof a close oreshadowed Bower; yea, so closely vailed, that the rays of the Sun could neither peep in, to scorch the pureness of her beauty, or to contend with the piercing lustre and resplendancy of her eyes: and to this Bower, in a fair and clear day, Clara (about three of the clock after dinner) repairs, having in her hand to delude the time, the old amorous History of Hero and Leander, which was very lately illustrated, and newly reprinted in Milan and wherein indeed for the conformity of their loves with her own, she took a singular delight to read: but that which gave sweeter music to her thoughts, and felicity to her heart, and mind, were her Baretano's two Letters, (which we have formerly seen) and which as then she had purposely brought with her to survey and peruse; yea, she reads them over again and again; and to write the truth, more oftener than there are words, or I think syllables therein contained: but when she descends to his name, she cannot refrain from kissing it; yea, and such is her tender love to Baretano, as she bedews it with her tears; a thousand times she wished herself with him, or he with her, and bitterly blames the cruelty of her parents, for separating their bodies, sith she not only hoped, but assured herself, that God had conjoined, and united their hearts. But whiles she in the midst of these passionate ecstasies seems to be rapt up into the heaven of joy, at the perusal of these Letters of Brretano; and then again to be plunged into the hell of sorrow, at the consideration and remembrance of his absence, she hears a voice, which she thinks is not far off from her, when looking forth the Bower, and deeming it to be that of her wayting-Gentlewoman, whom she saw somewhat near her gathering of Strawberries, and wild Lilies, she within a flight shot from her, perceives it to be her Lover, (but not her love,) Albemare, who knowing her there in the Bower, and for want of other talk, speaking to the Echo, she guessed by his course, (wherein she was not deceived) that he had an intent to salute and speak with her; which to prevent, because it wholly displeased her, to be cumbered with the company of so unwelcomed a guest as himself; shehastily folds up her letters in her handkerchief, and clapping them (at least as she thought) into the pocket of her gown, takes her book in her hand, and call Adriana, trips away back towards the garden, by the other side of the Park, purposely to eschew and avoid him, as indeed she did.  
Albemare grieves to see Clara's coyness and cruelty toward him, although she were departed forth the Park from him, yet his affection is so fervent to her, as he will needs ascend the Bower, esteeming it not only a kind of content, but ablessing to his thoughts; sith he cannot be where she is, yet to be where she hath been: when thinking to mount the stairs of the bower, he unexpected at the foot thereof, finds the two letters whereof we have formerly spoken, which it seems slipped forth of Clara's handkerceh●…, as she was putting it into her pocket: Albemare taking up the letters, and seeing them directed to his sweet Clara, he betwixt the extremes of love and joy, kisseth them again and again for her sake: when sitting down in the Bower, he betakes himself to read and peruse them, verily expecting and hoping to gather and draw something from them which might tend to advance the process of his affection towards her: But when he had read the first, he was so extream●…ly perplexed and afflicted, as he had hardly the patience to peruse the second, and yet at length hastily & passionately running it over, and seeing by all the circumstances thereof, that it was in vain for him any longer to hope for Clara, sith she was Baretano's, and Baretano hers, he like one Lunatic, stamps with his foot, throws away his hat, tears his hair for very grief and choler, now thinking to tear the letters, and then to offer violence to himself: But when the fumes and flames of this his folly were over blown, and that he had again recalled his wits to take place in theproper seat of his judgement and discretion; then taking up his ●…at, and pulling it down his ears, he leaves the Bower and Park, and so going into the house, shows them the Lady Emelia her aunt, who prays him not to despair, but that Baretano's letters notwithstanding, he himself shall shortly marry her Niece Clara; only she prays him for the two letters, because she affirms, she will to morrow send them to Milan to her father and mother. Wherein he saith, he will take advise of his pillow; when fasting out his supper, he betakes himself to his bed, to see whether he can sleep away those his passions and vexations. And by this time Clara going to lock up these two aforesaid letters in her trunk, she finds her handkerchief, but misseth her letters; whereat blushing for shame, and then again looking pale for sorrow, grief and anger, she speedily sends away Adriana to the Bower, to look them; who returns without them, and then she knows for certain that Albemare hath found them: whereupon for mere grief and anger, feigning herself sick, she withdraws herself to her chamber, and there presently betakes herself to her bed.  
I may well say that Clara and Albemare betake themselves to their beds; but I am sure not to their rest: For grief and love so violently act their several parts in their hearts and thoughts, as sigh they do, but sleep they cannot: Yea their passionsand sorrows are as different as their desires; for as Albemare now grives that he hath found these letters, so doth Clara that she hath lost them; and as he vows not to restore her them, so she neither dares, and yet disdaineth to demand them of him: Yea again, which is more, as their sorrows are different, so are their pretended consolations; at least if I may properly and truly rearme them consolations: For as Clara, although she have lost her Baretano's letters, doth yet rejoice that she still retains the writer and Author thereof engraven and caractered in her heart: so doth Albemare, that now fully knowing Baretano to be his rival, and who by all probability is like to bear his mistress from him, he hath (as he injustly conceives, a just reason to be revenged, and a true occasion to fight with him: but as Clara's comfort and consolation herein proceeds from true affection, so doth the vanity and impiety of this resolution of Albemares from hellish malice, and devilish indignation: yea, although the night doth or should bring counsel, yet as Clara passeth it over only with sighs, so doth Albemare with fumes of revenge against Baretano, vowing that he will in the morn towards Milan, and there try his fortune, either to kill him, or to be killed of him, in a Duel; to which end he is no sooner ready, but he acquaints the Lady Emelia with his intended journey, but not with his resolution to fight with Baretano, and the same he doth to the Empress of his thoughts, and Queen of his desires) Clara, demanding her if she please to command him any service for Milan; who both blushing and paling hereat, her affection to Baretano, having now made her expert in the subtleties of love, she well knows what wind drives Albemare to Milan: and therefore guided by discretion, and not by passion, she returns him this answer: That having neither reason nor desire to command him, she only prays him to remember her humble duty to her Father and mother, and so wisheth his journey prosperous: which answer of hers (being indeed no other than Albemare expected) he yet advanceth to kiss her at parting; which her civility though not her affection granted him; not so much as once dreaming or suspecting that he conceived the least thought or intent to fight with her sweet Baretano, and so he takes horse, having only one servant with him.  
Albemare being arrived at Saint Remie, a small Town within fifteen miles of Milan, he resolves to dine there, which he doth; and to avoid the heat of the day, then betakes himself to sleep an hour or two; being awaked, he commands his man to make ready his horse, and seeing the host of the house in his chamber, inquires of him if there were any Gentelmenin the house riding for Milan, who as soon turns him this unlooke for and unexpected answer; that there was a brave Gentleman in the house named Signior Baretano, who was to ride thither some two hovers hence. Albemare no sooner hears the name of Baretano, but his very heart blood flasheth up in his face, when demanding him again what manner of gentleman was, he told him he was a tall slender young Gentleman, with never a hair on his face, and out of this window quoth he, you may now see him walking in the garden; when Albemare looking forth, sees indeed that it was his very rival Baretano; when enquiring further of the Host what followers he had with him, he told him that then he had none, but sometimes when he came thither, either to take the air, or breathe his horse, he was attendedby two or three, and so the Host leaves him, not once suspecting of any difference between them. Albemare seeing his enemy (because his rival) brought to him, whom he formerly resolved to seek and find out, assumes a base and a bloody resolution to set upon him in the high way disguised, and there to ve●… his own life, to deprive him of his: which to effect he will have no eye witnesses of this his ignoble and treacherous business; and therefore purposely sends away his man to Milan before him, and so slipping into the town, provides himself of a mask or vizard; then takes his horse, and rather like a thief than a Gentleman, lurks behind a Grove (some three miles from Saint Remy) attending Baratano's coming, who poor harmless young Gentleman, harbouring and breathing no other thoughts and wishes than charity to all the world, and pure and fervent affection to his fare and dear Clara, likewise takes his horse, and draws home ward toward Milan, when being arrived to the place where Albemare secretly lay in ambush for him, he furiously and suddenly rusheth forth, and with his Rapier drawn in his hand; runs Baretano into his right arm, who feeling the wound almost as soon as he saw his enemy who gave it him, he is at first as it were amazed hereat; when thinking him by his mask to be a Bandits, who were then very busy in Lombardy, but especially in that Duchy of Milan, he told him that all the coin he had, which was some ten double Pistolsin gold, and two ducats in silver, were at his service, but to fight in his defence he would not: Not quoth he, that he was any way a Coward, but that he affirmed he was lately affianced and engaged to a young Lady: so that he perfecty knew that her affection was so dear and tender towards him, as either the loss or preservation of his life would be that of hers: Albemare galled and touched to the quick with this his heart killing answer to him, is wholly inflamed with choler against him, when rushing towards him, he delivers him these words: Villain it is not thy gold but thy life which I seek, and then straining himself to run Baretano thorough, lo the string of his Mask breaks, where Boretano apparently sees it is his Rival Albemare: whereat such is his tender affection to his sweet and fair Clara, that he who before turned craven, and would not fight for his own sake, is now cheerfully resolved not only to fight, but if occasion require, to dye for hers: and so returning the villain to Albemares throat, he instantly draws, and joins with him: and if Albermare be resolute in fight, no less valiant and courageous is Baretano; for the remembrance of his Clara's sweet Idea, and fresh delicious beauty, infuseth such life to his valour, and such generosity, and animosity to his courage, as he deals his blows roundly, and his thrusts freely, making Albemare know, that his Rapier is of an excellent temper, and yet his heart of a better: And Albemare seeing he must buy his victory dearer than he expected, and disdaining to be outbraved and beaten by a boy, plucks up his best spirits and courage to him, and so likewise behaves himself manfully and valiantly: in such sort, that within less than a quarter of an hour, Baretano hath given him five wounds, and he Baretano three, when the Count of Martingue passing that way in his Coach towards Milan, and seeing two Gentlemen so busily fight, he cries out to his Coachman, to gallop away with all celerity, and so parts them; when seeing them full of blood, sweat, and dust, having his Chirurgeon still in his train with him, he out of an honourable courtesy and charity, entreats and accompanies them to the next house, where he causeth their wounds to be dressed and bound up; when by their apparel seeing them to be Millaneses, is desirous to know their quartel, and proffers his best assistance to reconcile and make them friends: but their hearts are so great, and their malice so implacable, as they both thank the Count for his noble courtesy, but beseech him to pardon them, in obs●…ring their names and quarrel; and yet he is so noble and generous, as he will not so leave them, but seeing them shrewdly wounded (though not he thinks mortally) he for their greater ease and safety, causeth two of his Gentlemen to mount their horses, and takes them both up into his Coach with him, and so brings them within the Gates of Milan, where after they had severally rendered him many thanks for his Courtesy and Honour, he commends them both to their good Fortunes, and so leaves them.  
Baretano and Albemare being thus arrived at Milan, they conceal their fight, and so keep their chambers, till they have secured their wounds; when Albemare visits Capello and his Lady Castiana, and reports to them the health and duty of their daughter, as also her averseness towards him, and withal shows her Baretano's two Letters to her, whereby it is apparent, that she is so wholly his, as he himself is sure never to obtain or enjoy her. Her father and mother at the first seem to hang their heads at this news, and the perusal of the Letters; but at last bid him not despair, but be courageous, for he and only he shall be their son in law. But Albemare considering that for the term of at least six months, he Chameleon-like had only had been fed with the air of these their vain promises, and that he perfectly knew that Clara only intended to marry Baretano, and none but him, his love to her was so tender and fervent, as he cannot conceive the shadow of any hope how to obtain her for his wife in this world, before he have sent Baretano to another; when being constant in his resolution thereof to himself, because he was resolute in his constancy and affection to Clara: no reason, no Religion, not his Conscience, not his Soul, can divert him from this bloody design, from this murderous and therefore damnable project: Feeding therefore on Malice, and boiling with Revenge towards Baretano, he not as a Gentleman, but rather degenerating from the virtue and honour of that honourable degree and quality, bethinks himself eitherby pistol or poison, how he may treacherously dispatch him: whereon ruminating and pondering (as malice and revenge may perchance slumber, but difficultly sleep) the Devil who is never absent in such hellish stratagems and occasions, gives him means, (though by a contrary course) how to dispatch him: For on a day descending the stairs of the Domo, he sees Pedro, and Leonardo, (two Soldiers, or rather Braves of the Castle of Pavia) pass by him, with whom he had been formerly acquainted, but so poorly apparelled, as weighing their bloody humours by their necessity, he (in favour of money) thinks them very fit Agents and Instruments, to murder and make away Baretano, to which end, to play the Practic part as well as the Theoric, and so to reduce this his bloody contemplation into action, he sends his man Valerio after them, and prays them to repair to him in the Cloisters of Borromeos' Palace, for that he hath a business to impart them of great importance for their profits. Valerio overtakes them, delivers them his master's pleasure; who nettled with this word Profit, they repair to the Rendezvous, and meet Albemare; when having refreshed their acquaintance, & he sworn them to secrecy, as he was a wretched and perfidious Gentleman, acquaints them with his desire, some ten days hence to have them murder Signior Baretano in the strect by night, and to give it out, that it was done by some Spaniards of the Viceroy's Guard, and that he will give them an hundred Duckatons in hand, and leave them as much more with his man Valerio, which they shall receive of him, when they have dispatched him; and for his own part, some four or five days hence he will away for Modena, to cast the better varnish and colour that he was innocent thereof, and had no finger at all in the business.  
Pedro and Leonardo seeing that Albemare proffered them gold, which they so much wanted and desired; like two limbs of the Devils, and as a couple of hellish Bloodhounds, not only promise, but swear to him punctually, in all respects to perform his desires, and so they touch their first hundred Duckatons, which being the pledge and price of innocent blood, it will assuredly cost them dear, and draw down vengeance, ruin and confusion on their heads from heaven, when they least think or dream thereof. Albemare having settled this his bloody and mournful business with Pedro and Leonardo, he is again solicited by Capello, and Castiana, to return to their daughter in Modena: whereunto he willingly consehteth; when armed with their Letters to her, wherein they charge her on their commands and blessing, to dispose herself to affect and many him, he within foam days departeth: But having secretly revealed his fight with Baretano to some of Capello his chiefest and most confident servants, they yet love and honour their young Lady Clara so well in her absence, as they send her the true relation and intelligence thereof, which is at Modena a little before Albemare, the which being unknown to him, he is no sooner arrived there, but he salutes first the Aunt Emelia, than her Niece and his Mistress Clara: to whom having delivered her Parents Letters, she stepping aside to the window, reads them; and so returning to him again, gives him this sharp and bitter welcome: My father and mother command me to love thee; but how can I, sith upon the highway, thou basely and treacherously attemptedst to kill my dear Baretano, whom I love a thousand times dearer than the whole world? when with tears in her eyes, and choler in her looks, she very suddenly and passionately ●…ings from him, whereat Emelia wondereth, and he both storms and grieves; and so they betake themselves to their chambers, where Albemare throwing himself on his bed, saith thus to himself▪ Unkind and cruel Clara, if thou take my fight with Baretano thus tenderly, how wilt thou brook the news of his death? On the other side, Clara grieves as much at her Baretano's wounds, as she rejoiceth at his safety and recovery; yea, so tender is her affection to him, as she a thousand times wishes, that the blood he lost, had streamed from her own heart. Again, knowing his wounds free from danger, she cannot but smile, and delight to see his dear and true affection to her, in remembering that he would not fight for his own sake, and yet was ready, yea and valiantly hazarded to lose his life for hers; and in these amorous conceits and contemplations she pensively drives away the time, admiring and wondering that all this while she hears not from her Baretano: But alas, alas! she shall hear too too soon of him, though indeed never more from him: for these execrable wretches, Pedro and Leonardo, some four days after Albemares departure to Modena, they according to their promise and oath given him, like two most bloody and butcherly villains, cruelly assault and murder this harmless and innocent young Gentleman Baretano, in the streets of Milan be night, with no less than seven several wounds, whereof four were clean thorough his body; and so gives it out (as it was formerly concluded) that he was murdered by some Spaniards of the Viceroys Guard: when the same night, they repair to Valerio, acquaint him therewith, receive their other hundred Duckatons, and so provide for their safety in the city but that bloody money, and this cruel murder, will in the end cost them dearer, than either they imagine, or dream of.  
Whiles Milan rattleth with the news of Baretano's bloody and untimely end, as his own friends infinitely lament and grieve, so Capello and his wife Castiana cannot refrain from rejoying the reat, as now assuring themselves that Albemare shall shortly be their son in law: and for Valerio, he with all possible speed writes away thereof to Modena, to his Master, who entertains this news with infinite joy, and delectation, and presently acquaints the Lady Emelia there with; whereat she rejoiceth, and he triumphs but they 〈◊〉 resolve as yet to conc●…le it from Clara, because they know she will even dissolve and melt into tears thereat. But four days after are not fully expired, but her father and mother advertise their daughter Clara, their sister Emelia, and Albemare thereof, by a Gentleman, a servant of theirs, whom they purposely send to Modena, to bring back Clara, and Albemare to Milan. But it is for none but Lovers, to conceive or judge, with what extreme excess of grief and immoderate sorrow our poor Clara understands this heart-piercing news of her Baretano's mournful and sorrowful death: for she is no sooner advertised thereof, but she throws off her attire, tears her hair, and twice following falls to the ground, in a swound, so as Emelia, Albemare, Adriana, and her father's Gentleman can hardly referch and keep life in her: but being come again to her senses, and self; and faintly opening her cloudy eyes to the beams of the Sun, who enamoured of her beauty (as well in pity as love) came to comfort and revive her: she wring her hands, then crossing her arms, and lastly, looking up towards Heaven, betwixt sighing and speaking, breathes forth these mournful, passionate, and affectionate speeches:  
O my Baretano, my sweet and dear Barenano, and shall thy wretched Clara live thou being dead? when the violence of her affection and sorrow making her forget herself, and her God, she secretly unsheathes her knife, and then and there would have stabbed herself to death, had not Albemare and her Aunt Emelia speedily stepped to her assistance, and prevented her, by wresting it from her; when conducting her to the Garden; to take the air, she prays Albemare to leave her, and in his absence often again repeating the name of her dear Baretano, she a thousand times wisheth that her life had ransomed his, vowing that although she were a woman, yet if she knew his murderers, she would fly to their eyes, and tear out their hearts, in mere revenge of this inhuman and cruel death: when her sorrows are so infinite, and her grief so unsupportable, as she cannot long remain in one place, but withdraws herself from the garden to her chamber, whither her Aunt Emelia carefully accompanies her, lies with her that night to comfort her, who poor afflicted young Lady, neither can nor will be comforted: so as the next morning, had not her Aunt powerfully prevented and stopped her, she had then undoubtedly entered the Nunnery of her own name, Saint Clara, and in that retired and obscure life there ended her days in Modena; resolving in true affection and zeal to her dead Baretano, never thenceforth either to see her parents, or Milan: but being diverted and comforted by some Divines, and many Ladies of that City, she brooking her sorrows as patiently as she may, (with much solicitation) after ten days, permits herself to be conveyed home to Milan, where although she were very cheerfully received, and joyfully entertained of her father and mother, yet she likewise went near to have their mewed herself up a spiritual sister in the Nunnery of the Annunciation; but that again she was prevented; whereat grieving, she yet takes on mourning attire, and vows to wear it a whole year for his sake: when to make herself (as she was) both a true Lover, and a true mourner to the memory of her dead Baretano, she oftentimes steals into Saint Euphemia's Church, where he was buried, and there bedews his tomb with tears, living so pensively, and disconsolately, that although she live in the world, yet it seems she neither is, nor long will be of the world.  
But as women are but women, and as a Time is a sovereign remedy for all diseases and sorrows; so about some ten months after, the incessant importunity of her father and mother, and the continual tender respect and observant courtesy of Albemare towards her, make her somewhat neglect and forget the memory of Baretano, and now to look on him with a more pleasing and favourable eye than before. But here (again) a consideration makes her afection die towards Albemare, almost as soon as it begins to live: For why (quoth she) should she affect or love him, who at Saint Remy gave her Baretano three several wounds? But then Love again steps in, and thus pleads with her for Albemare: That he received five wounds, and gave Baretano but three, which made him lose far more blood than Baretano: and yet that this attempt of his was only occasioned through his affection to her, and only for her sake, as loving her dearer than his own life; which again gave her thoughts such satisfaction, as weighed down and vanquished, as well by the power and prayers of her parents, as also by the endless sighs, letters, and presents of Albemare: the year is no sooner expired, and her mourning weeds and attire done away, but to their own hearts content, and the unspeakable joy of their parents, they in Milan (with great pomp and bravery) are very solemnly married. But this marriage of theirs shall not prove so prosperous as they expect and hope: For God in his allseeing Providence, hath decreed to disturb the tranquillity and serenity thereof, and to make them feel the sharp and bitter showers of affliction and misery, which briefly doth thus surprise and befall them.  
Albemare and Clara have hardly been married together a year and quarter, but his hot love begins to wax cold and frozen to her; yea, albeit she affected him truly and tenderly, yet he continually neglecting her, and no longer delighting in the sweetness of her youth, and the freshness of her beauty, his lustful eyes and thoughts carry his lascivious self abroad among Courtesans, when they should be fixed on her, and resident at home with his chaste and fair Lady: so as his infidelity proving her grief and torments, and his vanity and ingratitude her unspeakable affliction and vexation; she with infinite sighs and tears reputes her matching him, and a thousand times wisheth she had been so happy and blessed to have died Baretano's Martyr, and not so unfortunate and accursed to live to see herself Albemares wife: and yet were there any hope of his reformation, she could then prefixbounds to her calamities and sorrows: But seeing that his vices grew with his age, and that every day he became more vicious and unkind to her than other, her hopes are now wholly turned into despair, her mirth into mourning; yea, her inward discontents so apparently bewray themselves, in her outward sorrowful complexion and countenance, that the Roses of her cheeks are metamorphosed into Lilies, and her heart so wholly taken up with anguish, and surprised with sorrow, as she wisheth that her bed were her grave, and herself in Heaven with God; because she could find no comfort here on Earth with her husband: But beyond her expectation, God is providing to redress her grief, and to remedy her afflictions by a very strange and unlooked for accident.  
The Providence and justice of God doth now again refetch bloody Pedro, to act another part upon the Stage and Theatre of this History: For having spent that money lewdly, which he before got damnably of Albemare, his wants are so great, and his necessity so urgent, as having played the murderer before, he makes no conscience nor scruple now to play the thief, and so by night breaks into a Jeweller's shops, named Signior Fiamata, dwelling in the great place before the Domo, and there carries away from him a small Trunk or Casket, wherein were some uncut Sapphires & Emeralds, with some Venice Crystal pendants for Ladies to wear in their ears, and other rich commodities: but Fiamata lying over his shop, and hearing it, and locking his door to him for fear of having his throat cut, gives the outcry and alarm forth the window, which ringing in the streets, makes some of the neighbours, and also the watch approach and assemble; where finding Pedro running with a Casket under his arm, he is presently hemmed in, apprehended and imprisoned, and the Casket took from him, and again restored to Fiamata; when knowing that he shall die for this robbery, as a just punishment and judgement of God, now sent him for formerly murdering of Baretano, he having no other hope to escape death, but by the means of Albemare, he sends early the next morning for his man Valerio, to come to the prison to him, whom he bids to tell his Master Albemare from him, that being sure to be condemned for this robbery of his, if he procure him not his pardon, he will not charge his soul any longer with the murder of Baretano, but will on the ladder reveal, how it was he who hired himself & Leonardo to perform it; Valerio reporting this to his Master, it affrights his thoughts, and terrifies his conscience and courage, to see himself reduced to this misery, that no less than his life must now stand to the mercy of this wretched Varlet Pedro's tongue. But knowing it impossible to obtain a pardon for him, and therefore high time to provide for his own safety, by stopping of Pedro's mouth; he resolves to heave Ossa upon Pelon, or to add murder to murder, and now to poison him in prison, whom he had formerly caused to murder Baretano in the street, to the end he might tell no tales on the ladder, thinking it no ingratitude or sin, but rather a just reward and recompense for his former bloody service; so to feed Pedro with false hopes, thereby to charm his tongue to silence, and to lull his malice asleep, he speedily returns Valerio to prison to him, who bids him fear nothing, for that his master had vowed to get him his pardon, as he shall more effectually hear from him that night; whereat Pedro rejoiceth and triumpheth, telling Valerio that his Master Albemare is the most generous and bravest Cavalier of Lombardy. But to nip his joys in their untimely blossoms, and to disturb the harmony of his false content, that very day as soon as he hath dined, he is tried and arraigned before his Judges; and being apparently convicted and found guilty of this robbery, he is by them adjudged to be hanged the next morn, at a Gibbet purposely to be erected before Fiamata's house, where he committed his delict and crime: which just sentence not only makes his joy strike sail to sorrow, but also his pride and hopes let fall their Peacock's plumes to humility and fear: But his only trust and comfort, yea, his last hopes and refuge is in Albemare, who hearing him to be condemned to be executed the next morning; he is enforced to play his bloody prize that night, and so in the evening sends Valerio to prison to him, with a Capon, and two Fiascoes' (or bottles) of Wine, for him to make merry, informing him that he hath obtained his pardon, and that it is written, and wants nothing but the Viceroy's sign to it, which he shall have to morrow at break of day. But the wine of the one of the bottles was intermixed with strong and deadly poison, which was so cunningly tempered, as it carried no distasteful, but a pleasing relish to the palate; Valerio like an execrable villain, proving as true a servant to his Master, as a rebellious and false one to his God, he punctially performs this fearful and mournful business; and having made Pedro twice drunk, first with his good news, and then with his poisoned wine, he takes leave of him that night, and committing him to his rest, promiseth to be with him very early in the morning with his pardon. When this miserable and beastly profane wretch, never thinking of his danger, or death; of God or his soul; of Heaven or Hell, betakes himself to his bed, where the poison spreading o'er his vitals parts, soon bereave him of his breath, sending his soul from this life and world to another.  
Now the next morning very early as the Gaoler came to his chamber, to bid him prepare to his execution, he finds him dead and cold in his bed; and thus was the miserable end of this bloody and inhuman murderer (and thief) Pedro: who yet for example sake was one whole day hanged by the heels in his shirt, at his appointed place of execution, because his Judges deemed that he had cruelly poisoned and made away himself. And now doth Albemare again rejoice and triumph to see he hath avoided that dangerous shelf and rock whereon he was very likely to have suffered shipwreck, yea, and now he thinks himself so absolutely safe and secure, as he holds it impossible, that either his murdering of Baretano, or his poisoning of Pedro can any way reflect on him, or henceforth produce him any further storms or tempests: but his hopes and joys will deceive him, for God, who is the infallible revenger of innocent blood, will not so leave him, but ere long, when he lest thinks or dreams thereof, not only in his providence detect these his foul crimes, but in his justice severely punish them, and the Readers curiosity shall not go far to see it; for as to a guilty conscience, it is the pleasure of the Lord, that one misery befall him in the neck and nick of the other, so Albemare is no sooner freed of Pedro in Milan, but behold he is afresh entangled and assaulted with Leonardo (his other hired murderer) in Pavia, who having there prodigally rioted away his hundred Duckatons, and also run himself far in debt; his Creditors join together, and so clap him prisoner, where having no other hope for his freedom and liberty, but to rely on Albemare, he writes him a Letter to Milan, wherein he acquaints him with his poverty and misery, and prays him (for the obtaining of his liberty) either to lend or give him fifty Duckatons: Albemare receives this Letter, but forgetting his former service; as also thinking it only a fetch of Leonardo, to fetch him over for so many Duckatons, as God would have it, he very inconsiderately burns this his Letter, and answereth it with silence: but he shall repent it when it will be too late, and out of his power to remedy this his ingratitude and indiscretion.  
Leonardo having at least fifteen days expected an answer from Albemare, and receiving none, he is extremely incensed and enraged to see himself thus slighted and forgotten of him, when exasperated by his misery, and animated by his extreme poverty and indigence, in that he is now enforced to sell away his apparel, and so to unclothe his back, thereby to feed his belly, he intends no more to request and pray him, but now resolves to touch him to the quick, the which he doth in these few lines which he sends him to Milan by a messenger of purpose.  
LEONARDO to ALBEMARE.  
IF my first letter prevailed not with thee for the loan or gift of fifty Ducatons, to free me from this my miserable imprisonment, I make no doubt but this my second will, for being a soldier, I give thee to understand, that I hold it far more generous to hang than starve; sith as a halter is only the beginning of my friends sorrows; so it will likewise be the end of my own miseries: yea, if thou speedily furnish and accomplish not my request, although it cost me my life, I will no longer conceal how thou didst hire Pedro and myself for two hundred Duckatons to give Signior Baretano his death, which at thy request we performed: Think then how near my secrecy concerns thy life, sith when I suffer death, I know thou hast but a short and poor time left thee to survive me: Therefore thank thyself if thy ingratitude turn my affection into contempt, and that into revenge and malice.  
LEONARDO.  
Now although Leonardo mean not as he write, yet this his messenger coming to Milan, and not finding Albemare at his house, he knows not (and is resolute) what to do, either to stay his coming in, or to deliver his Letter to some of his servants: But waiting at his door till late in the evening, and hearing no news of him, he gives it to Valerio, and (without telling him from whom, or whence it came) prays him safely to deliver it to his Master, and that he will repair thither the next morning for an answer. Valerio claps the Letter into his pocket, awaiting his Masters coming: but he is so bad a husband to himself, and so disloyal, and unkind a one to his chaste and fair wife, as he was out all night with his Courtesans, which good and virtuous Lady, even pierceth her heart with grief and sorrow. Now Valerio seeing his Master absent, his coming uncertain, and himself enforced to go forth about his affairs, he placeth the Letter upon a Cupboard near his Master's study, that it might be apparent to his eye when he came in, and so departs.  
But here the mercy and providence of God invites the Christian Reader, to admire and wonder at the strange discovery and detection of this Letter: for as Albemare (more for sport than charity) kept a man-foole of some forty years old in his house, who indeed was so naturally peevish, as not Milan, hardly Italy could match him for simplicity. It so chanced, that this harmless fool gate into the room after Valerio, and saw him put up this Letter on the Cupboard: Now, as Children and Fools may in some sort be termed Cousin germane to Apes, so as soon as Valerio was departed, this fool (no doubt led wholly by the direction and finger of God, rather than by his own proper ignorance and simplicity) gets into the chamber, and taking a stool to ascend the Cupboard, he brings away the Letter, which both in the Hall and yard he tosses and dandles in his hand, as if this new found play gave delight and content to his extravagant and simple thoughts: when, behold our sweet and virtuous Clara coming from Saint Ambrose Church, where she had been to here Vespres, and seeing a fair Letter fast sealed in the fool's hand, she inquires of him from whence he had it? who singing and hopping, and still playing with the Letter, she could get no other answer from him, but That it was his Letter, and that God had sent it him, that God had sent it him: which speeches of his he often redoubled. When Clara weighing his words, and considering out of whose mouth they came, her heart instantly began to grow, and her colour to rise, as if God and her soul prompted her, that she had some interest in that Letter: whereupon snatching it from the fool, whom she left crying in the Hall for the loss thereof: she seeing it directed to her Husband, goes to the Parlour, attended by Adriana, and there sitting down in a chair, and breaking up the seals thereof, she begins to read it; but when she draws towards the conclusion thereof, and finds that it was her husband Albemare's who had caused her dear Lover and Friend Baretano to be murdered: than not able to contain herself for sorrow, she throws herself on the floor, and weeps and sighs so mournfully, as the most obduratest and flintiest heart could not choose but relent into pity to see her: for sometimes she looked up to heaven, and then again dejecting her eyes to earth, now wring her hands, and then crossing her arms, in such disconsolate and afflicted manner, as Adriana could not likewise refrain from tears to behold her: when after a deep and profound silence, she bandying and evaporating many volleys of far fetched sighs into the air, she commanding Adriana forth, the door shut, with the two extremities of passion and sorrow, she alone utters these mournful speeches to herself.  
And shall Clara live to understand, that her Baretano was murdered for her sake, and by her unfortunate husband Albemare? and shall she any more lie in bed with him, who so inhumanely hath lain him in his untimely and bloody grave? And Clara, Clara, wilt thou prove so ungrateful to his memory, and to the tender affection he bore thee, as not to lament, not to seek to revenge this his diastrous and cruel end? when again, her tears interrupting her words, and her sighs her tears; she entering into a further consultation with her thoughts and conscience, her heart and her soul at last cotinues her speech in this manner: O, but unfortunate and wretched Clara, what speakest thou of revenge? for consider with thyself, yea forget not to consider, Baretano was but thy friend, Albemare is thy husband; the first loved thee in hope to marry thee, but thou art married to the second, and therefore thou must love him; and although his ingratitude and infidelity towards thee, make him unworthy of thy affection; yet ye two are but one flesh, and therefore consider, that malice is a bad advocate, and revenge a worse Judge: But here again remembering what a foul and odious crime murder was in the sight of the Lord, that the discovery thereof infinitely tended to his glory and honour, and that the poor Fool was doubtless inspired from heaven, to affirm that God sent the Letter: she knows that her bonds of conscience to her Saviour, must exceed and give a law to those of her duty towards her husband; and therefore preferring Heaven before Earth, and God before her Husband, she immediately calls for her Coach, and goes directly to Baretano's Uncle, Signior Giovan de Montefiore, and with sighs and tears shows him the letter, who formerly, though in vain, had most curiously & exactly hunted to discover the murderers of his Nephew. Montefiore first reads the letter with tears, then with joy; and then turning towards ●…he Lady Clara, he commends her zeal and Christian fortitude towards God, in showing her how much the discovery of this murder tended to his glory, and so presently sends away for the Precedent Criminell; who immediately repairing thither, he acquaints him therewith, shows him the Letter, and prays him to examine the Lady Clara thereon; which with much modesty and equity he doth, and then return, with her to her house, and there likewise examineth the Fool where he had the Letter: who out of his incivility and simplicity, takes the Precedent by the hand, and bringing him to the Cupboard, tells him, Here God sent the Letter, and here I found him: when Valerio being present, and imagining by his Ladies heavy and sorrowful countenance, that this Letter had perhaps brought her into some affliction and danger, he looking on the direction of the Letter, as also on the Seal, he reveals both to the Precedent and his Lady, that he received that Letter from one whom he knew not, and that he left it purposely on the Cupboard for his Master, against his coming. The Precedent being fully satisfied herein, admires at God's providence, revealed in the simplicity of this poor harmless Fool, in bringing this Letter, which brought the murder of Baret●… to light, (when knowing th●… God doth many times raise up the foolish and weak, to confound the wise and mighty things of the world) he presently gr●… out a Commission to apprehend ●…lbemare who being then found in bed with M●…ina, one of the most famous. Beauties, and reputed Courtesans of Milan: He, both astonished and amazed by the just judgements of God, is drawn from his beastly pleasures and adulteries, to prison: where being charged to have hired Pedro and 〈◊〉 to have 〈◊〉 thered Baretano, he stoutly denies it. But Leonardo's Letter being read him▪ 〈◊〉 the●… adjudged to the Rack, his Soul and Conscience ringing him ●…ny 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 of terror, ●…ee there at large 〈◊〉 it: when for this 〈◊〉 and bloody fact of his, he the same afternoon is condemned to be hanged the next morning, at the common place of Execution, which administereth matter of talk, and admiration throwout all Milan; when Sergeants are likewise sent away to Pavia, to bring Leonardo to Milan, who not so much as once dreamt or thought that ever this his letter would have produced him this danger and misery.  
And now Albemare advertised of the manner how this letter of Leonardo was brought to light, (without looking up to Heaven from whence this vengeance justly befell him for his sins) he curseth the cruelty of his wife, the simplicity of the fool, but most bitterly exclaimeth against the remissness and carelessness of his servant Valerio, in not retaining and keeping that letter, which is the only cause of his death: yea, he is so far transported with choler against him, as although he have but a few hours to live, yet he vows he will assuredly cry quittance with him ere he die.  
Now the charity of his Judges send him Divines that night in prison, to prepare and clear his conscience, and to confirm and fortify his soul against the morn, in his last conflict with the world, and her flight and transmigration to heaven; who powerfully and religiously admonishing him, that if he have committed any other notorious offence or crime, he should now do well to reveal it: He likewise there and then confesseth, how he had caused his man Valerio to poison Pedro with wine in prison, the verynight before he was executed: whereupon this bloody and execrable wretch (according to his hellish deserts) is likewise apprehended and imprisoned.  
And now God's mercy and justice brings this unfortunate (because irreligious) Gentleman Albemare, to receive condign punishment for those his two horrible murders, which he had caused to be committed on the persons of Baretano and Pedro, who ascending the ladder in presence of a world of spectators, who flocked from all parts of the City to see him take his last farewell of the world: The sight and remembrance of his foul crimes, having now made him not only sorrowful, but repentant, he briefly delivered these few words.  
He confessed that he had hired Pedro and Leonardo to kill Baretano in the street, and seduced his servant Valerio to poison Pedro in prison; whereof with much grief and contrition he heartily repented himself, and besought the Lord to forgive it him: he likewise besought Leonardo and Valerio to forgive him, in respect he knew he was the cause of their deaths; because he was sure they should not long survive him. He likewise forgave his fool, as being assured, that it was not he in the Letter, but God in him that had revealed the Letter for his just punishment and confusion. And lastly, he with many tears forgave his wife and Lady Clara, whom he affirmed from his heart, was by far too virtuous for so dissolute and vild a husband as himself. He blamed himself for neglecting to love her, and cursed his Queans and Courtesans, as being the chief cause of all his miseries, when requesting all that were present to pray for his soul, he was turned off.  
But his Judges seeing that he had added murder to murder, they held it Justice to add punishment to his punishment; and so he is no sooner cut down, but they cause his body to be burnt, and his ashes to be thrown into the air, which is accordingly performed.  
Now because the Lord in his Justice will punish as well the Agents, as the Authors of murder: whiles Albemare is acting the last Scene and Catastrophe of his Tragedy. His wretched hireling Leonardo, and his execrable servant Valerio are likewise a●…ed, found guilty, and condemned to be hanged for their several murder's o●… 〈◊〉 and ●…ro; and so the very same afternoon they are brought to their Executioners, where Leonardo his former life and profession having made him know better how to sin than repent; he out of a soldierlike bravery, (or rather vanity) thinks rather to terrify death, than that death should terrify him; he begging pardon for his sins in general of God and the world, and then bidding the hangman do his office, he takes his last adieu of the world.  
When immediately Valerio ascends the ladder, who having repentance in his heart, and grief and sorrow in his looks; as near as could be observed and gathered, spoke these words:  
That being poor both in friends and means, the only hope of preferment under his master, made him at his request to poison Pedro in prison; That many times since he hath heartily grieved for it, and now from his very soul reputes himself of it, and beseeching the Lord to forgive it him, That he was as guilty of this murder, as innocent of Baretano's; yea, or of the knowledge thereof, before his Master was imprisoned for the same, and that as this was his first Capital crime, so sith he must nowdie, he rejoiced it was his last, and so praying all servants to beware by his miserable example, not to be seduced to commit murder, either by their masters or the devil; and beseeching all that were present to pray for his soul, he resigning and commending it into the hands of his Redeemer, was likewise turned off.  
And these were the miserable (yet deserved ends) of these bloody murderers; and thus did God's justice and revenge triumph over their crimes, and themselves, by heaping and reigning down confusion on their heads from heaven, when the devil (falsely) made them believe they sat secure; yea, when they least dreamt thereof on earth: Oh that the sight and remembrance of their punishments may restrain and deter us from conspiring and committing the like crimes! so shall we live fortunate, and die happy; whereas they died miserably, because they lived impiously and profanely.  
And here fully to conclude and shut up this History, and therein as I think to give some satisfaction to the curiosity of the Reader, who may perchance desire to know what became after of the fair and virtuous Clara. Why her sorrows were so infinite, and her quality and Nature so sorrowful, as being weary of the world, and as it were weighed down with the incessant vanities, crosses and afflictions thereof: she (notwithstanding the power and persuasions of her parents) assumes her former resolution, to retire & sequester herself from conversing with the world, and so enters into the Nunnery of the Annunciation (so famous in Milan) where for aught I know, or can since understand to the contrary, she yet lives a pensive and solitary sister.   

GOD'S REVENGE AGAINST THE CRYING AND Execrable Sin of Murder.  
HISTORY XIII.  
La Vasselay poisoneth her waiting maid Gratiana, because she is jealous that her husband De Merson is dishonest with her; whereupon he lives from her: In revenge whereof she causeth his man La Villete to murder him in a Wood, and then marries him in requital. The said La Villete a year after riding thorough the same Wood, his horse falls with him, and almost kills him, when he confesseth the murder of his master De Merson, and accuseth his wife La Vasselay to be the cause thereof: So for these their bloody crimes, he is hanged, and she burnt alive.  
HOw falsely, nay, how impiously do we term ourselves Christians, when under that glorious and sanctified Title, we seek to profane and deface the glory of Christ, in cruelly murdering our brethren his members; effects, not of Zeal, but of Rage; not of Piety, but of Madness, invented by the Devil, and perpetrated by none but by his Agents, lamentable effects; yea, I say, bloody and infernal crimes, which still ruin those who contrive, and confound those who finish them: For let us but look from Earth to Heaven, from Satan to God, from Nature to Grace, and from our Hearts to our Souls, and we shall assuredly find it very difficult for us to define, whether Charity be a sweeter Virtue, or Malice a fouler Vice; whether that be more secure, or this pernicious, fatal, & dangerous; whether that be a more apparent testimony of Gods saving Grace towards us, or this of our own inevitable perdition and reprobation. And as it is an odious sin, and displeasing sacrifice in the sight of God, for a stranger to kill another: O then how much more execrable and diabolical must it be, for a Gentlewoman to poison her Waiting-maid, and for a servant to pistol his master to death, at the instigation of the same Gentlewoman his wife: for murders, no less ingrateful and cruel, doth this subsequent History report and relate: wherein we shall see, that God in the Triumphs of his revenging justice, and out of his sacred & secret providence, hath in all points made their punishments as sharp and severe, as their crimes were bloody and deplorable: May we then read it to God's glory, and our own consolation, which we shall assuredly perform, if we hate the like crimes in others, and detest them in ourselves.  
IN the fair and pleasant City of Man's, (being the chief and Capital of the Province of Maine in France, in the very latter years that the Marshal of Boys-Daulphin was Governor thereof, under the present King Lewes XIII. his master) there dwelled a Gentlewoman, (aged of threescore and three years) termed Lafoy Vasselay, being well descended, and left very rich, (as well in lands as moveables) by her late deceased husband monsieur Froyset, who was slain in the behalf of the Queen Mother, in the defence of Pont de Say, assaulted and taken by the King her son. Now although this old widow La Vasselay (in respect of her Age) was far more fit to seek God in the Church, than a new Husband in her bed; yet she is weary of a single life, although it be not fully six months since she hath buried her second husband; (for the Reader must understand, she had formerly buried her first at least five and twenty years before, and is now again resolved to take a third) and albeit she knew that the civility of the widows in France was such, that they seldom marry, but almost never within the term of a whole year; yet her conceit and fancy thinks it not only lawful, but fit to break this too austere custom; and therefore she peremptorily resolves to live a wife, and not to die a widow. But this resolution of hers, were she either in the Summer or the Autumn of her years, had been as excusable and praiseworthy, as now it savoured of undecency and inconstancy, sith she was in the Winter thereof: For Age despite of her Youth, and youthful desires, had thrown snow on her head, and new died the colour of her hair from black to white; yea, she was so far from retaining any signs or relics of an indifferent beauty, as the furrows of her face could not justly show any ruins or demolitions thereof; and yet (forsooth) she will marry again. Now her Birth and wealth, rather than her Virtues and personage, invite many old Widowers, and some rich Gentlemen and Counselors of the famous presidial Court of that City to seek her in marriage; and indeed both for lands and money, none her inferiors, but all at least her equals, and some her betters: But in vain, for the vanity of her thought suggest her, that either she is too young for them, or they too old for her, and therefore she will have none of them: yea, her lust seems so youthfully to give a law to her age, and the lie to her years, as she casts off her mourning attire, decks herself up in gay apparel, powders her hair, paints her face, with a resolution (forsooth) to have no old Dotard, but a young Gallant to her husband, as if therein she wholly placed, not only her content, but her felicity: But we many times see such irregular desires, and such incontinent designs, met with unexpected misery, and unthought of repentance.  
Now during the time that the vain carriage and deportment of this old Gentlewoman and widow La Vasselay, made herself the laughter and byword of all Man's; home comes a young Gentleman of this Country of Maine, termed monsieur De Merson, from his travel in Italy, whose father dwelled betwixt La Vall, and Gravelle, termed monsieur De Manfrelle, being a Gentleman well descended, and rich, and to whom De Merson was second son, who in a years absence in Italy, being purposely sent thither by his father, to enrich his experience and capacity, (which is the true essence and glory of a traveller, thereby to be the more capable to serve his Prince and Country, as also to be a comfort to his age, and a second prop to his house and lineage) he had made such poor and unprofitable use of his travels, as forgetting the obtaining of the language, and all generous exercises, perfections, and qualities, (so requisite and graceful in Gentlemen) he delighted in nothing so much, nay, in nothing else, but to pass his time with Courtesans and strumpets, especially in Venice, Rome, and Naples, where for their sakes, and his lascivious pleasures, he built up the greatest part of his Residence; where he so prodigally spent and exceeded his father's exhibition, as he returns into France, not loaden with Virtues and Experience, but with Vices and Debts; being otherwise ignorant in all things which he should know, and knowing nothing but that wherein he should be ignorant. Only to the end he might thereby set the better counterfeit tincture on himself, and false lustre on his Endowments and Proficiency, he superficially brought away, or rather borrowed some Italian Phrases and compliments, which he thought would not only pass currant with the Gentlemen and Ladies of France, but also draw them into admiration, as well of himself as them: When immediately upon his arrival, that he might the better see and make himself seen of the world, he flaunts it out in brave apparel, both in Lavall, Angiers, and Man's; Yea, there is scarce any great feast or marriage in all those parts, but if he be not invited, yet he purposely invites himself thereat, thereby to make himself the more conspicuous and apparent to the eyes of the world, especially of the Ladies and Gentlewomen, in whose acquaintance and favour he not only endeavours to initiate, but strives to engraft himself: But his old father Manfrelle judiciously observing the vain behaviour, and light deportment and carriage of this his son, he exceedingly grieves thereat, because he had well hoped, that his travels would have returned him as capable and discreet, as now he finds him ignorant, and which is worse, deboshed; sith he well knew that either of these two vices was enough sufficient and powerful, not only to ruin his reputation, but his fortunes.  
Again, to add more sorrows to his grief, and more discontent to his sorrows, for the vanity and levity of this his son, every week, nay, almost every day, brings him in new bills of his debts; a third falling in upon the neck of first and second, and a fourth on the third; which being greater than his estate, or at least his pleasure would permit him to pay, he takes his son De Merson aside, and very sharply checks him for his old and new prodigalities; vows that he will neither sell nor mortgage his lands to discharge his foolish debts; and therefore he bids him look to satisfy them, for that he is resolved not to see, much less to speak with any of his Creditors, how great or small soever the sums be he owes them. This cooling card of Manfrelles makes his son De Merson, not only bite his lips for sorrow, but hang his head for anger and vexation, yea, his folly doth so eclipse and overvaile his judgement herein, as in stead of making good use hereof, he takes a contrary resolution, and so resolves to embrace and follow the worst: for whereas he should have made his pride and prodigality strike sail, and now rather seek to reintegrate himself into his father's favours, than any way futurely attempt to incense or exasperate him against him, he only taking counsel of his Youth, Passions, and Choler, (which as false and treacherous guides, most commonly lead us to misery and repentance:) again precipitates and ingulphs himself afresh in new debts, both with his Usurer, Mercer, and Tailor: and no longer able to digest his father's checks and frowns, he very inconsiderately and ra●…ly packs up his baggage, leaves his house, rides to Man's, and there resolves to pass his time that Winter: partly hoping that his father will discharge his debts in his absence, but more especially to become acquainted with the beauties of that City, thereby to obtain some rich young heir, or old widow for his wife, whose estate and wealth might support his pride, and maintain his excessive prodigality and voluptuousness: and indeed although the two former of these his hopes deceive him; yet he shall shortly find and see, that the third and last will not.  
Living thus in Man's, the bravery of his apparel and equipage, the freeness of his expenses, his comely talk, personage, black beard, and sanguine complexion, makes him as soon acquainted and affected, as known of many Ladies and Gentlewomen, and far the more, because they know his father De Manfrelle, to be a very ancient and rich Gentleman of that Country of Maine, and although he is not his heir, yet in regard he is his second son, as also a Traveller, he was the more honoured and respected of all those he frequented: so that the very fame and name of monsieur de Merson began to be already divulged and known in the City; yea, and because he was a great Balladine, or Dancer, there was no solemn assembly, either public or private, but still De Merson made one; and there was not a reputed beauty, or supposed courteous Lady in Man's, or thereabouts, but such was his vanity, as he soon wrought and insinuated himself into her acquaintance and familiarity, the which he made not only his delight, but his glory. And although that in a small time, the wiser sort of the Gentlemen and Ladies of the City found his wit and experience to come infinitely short of his brave apparel; yet the more illiterate & ignorant of them, (who esteem all men by their lustre, not by their brave worth) as preferring gay apparel, and the comeliness of the body, before the exquisite endowments and perfections of the mind; they hold him in so high a repute & esteem, as they think him to be the most absolute Gallant, not only of Man's, but of all the Country of Maine; so easy it is to captivate the conceits and judgements of those who only build their judgements in their conceits, and not their conceits in judgement.  
And of this rank and number was our old widow La Vasselay, who having many times heard of De Mersons fame, and comely personage, and seen him once at a Sermon, and twice at two several Nuptial feasts, where his skill and agility proved him to be one of the prime dancers, she is so far in love with him, as in her thoughts and heart, she wisheth she had given half her estate, & dowry, conditionally that she were his wife, and he her husband; yea, she is so ravished with the comeliness of his feature, and the sweetness of his complexion and countenance, as all the world is not half so dear to her as De Merson, nor any man whatsoever by many thousand degrees, so delicious to her eye, and pleasing to her heart and soul, as himself. And although she be in the frozen Zone of her age, yet her intemperate lust makes her desires so youthfully intemperate, as forgetting reason and modestle, (that the best virtue of our soul, and this the chiefest ornament of our body) she a thousand times wisheth, that either De Merson were impaled in her arms, or she encloistered in his.  
But doting (yea I may well near truly say) dying old Gentlewoman, is this a time for thee to think of a young husband, when one of thy old feet is as it were in thy grave 〈◊〉 being in thy 〈◊〉 year of threescore and three, art thou yet so fraughted with levity, and exempt of continency, as thou wilt needs seek to marry one of five and twenty? Foolish La Vasselay, if it be not now time, yea high time for thee to sacrifice thy desires to continency, when will it be, if ever be? Didst thou resolve to wed a husband near of thine own age, and so to end the remainder of thy days with him in chaste and holy wedlock, that resolution of thine were as excusable, as this in desiring so young a one, is worthy, not only of blame, but of reprehension, and I may say of pity. Consider, consider with thyself, what a preposterous attempt and enterprise is this of thine, that when thou shouldest finish thy days in devotion and prayer, thou than delightest to begin them in concupiscence and lust. O La Vasselay, mock at those rebellious and treacherous pleasures of the flesh, which seem to mock at thee, yea, to betray thee: and if there be yet any spark of thy youth, which lies burning under the embers of thy age, why if thy chaste thoughts cannot, yet let modesty, or at least piety extinguish them. God hath already given thee two husbands, is it not now therefore time, yea, more than time, for thee to prepare to give thyself to God? Hitherto the chastity of thy youth hath made thee happy, and wilt thou now permit that the lust of thine age make thee unfortunate, or peradventure miserable? and that the purity and candeur of that be distained and polluted by the foulness and obscenity of this? Alas, alas, incontinent & inconsiderate Gentlewoman, of a grave Matron, become not a youthful Giglet; or if thou wilt not suffer the eyes of thy body, at least permit those of thy soul to look from thy painted cheeks, to thy snowwhite hair, who can inform and tell thee, that thou art far fitter for Heaven than earth, sith those pleasures are transitory, and these eternal, for God than a husband, sith he only can make thee blessed, whereas (in reward of thy lascivious lust) this peradventure may be reserved to make thee both unfortunate and wretched.  
But the vanity of this old Gentlewoman's thoughts and desires, do so violently fix and terminate, on the youth & beauty of young, and (as she immodestly terms him) fair De Merson, as the only consideration of her delight and pleasure, weighs down all other respects; so that neither reason nor modesty, advice nor persuasion, can prevail with her resolution, to divert her affection from him; but love him she doth, and (which is repugnant, as well to the instinct of Nature, as to the influence of modesty, and rules of civility) seek him for her husband she will: yea, she is already become so sottish in her affection, and so lasciviously fervent in her desires towards him, that her heart thinks of him by day, her soul by night; that admires him as the very life of her felicity, and thus adores him as the only content and glory of her life: she will not see the greatness of her own estate and wealth, nor consider the smallness of his means and hopes, in that he is not an heir, but a second brother; she will not inquire after his debts and vices, to know what those may be, what these are; she will not think what a preposterous disparity there is betwixt the fire of his youth, and the ice of her age; nor what a world of discontents and afflictions are incident to proceed thereof: she will not consider, that in endowing him with all her wealth, that she thereby impoverisheth many, as well of her own kindred, as of those of her two former husbands, to whom in the right of Nature it more justly and properly belongs; and to conclude and shut up this point, she will not imagine or dream, to how many laughters and scandals of the world she exposeth herself, who will not only call her discretion, but her modesty in question, for matching with so young a Gentleman as De Merson, to whom for age, she may not only well be mother, but (which is more) grandmother: But chose, this foolish old Gentlewoman having sent her wits a woolgathering on his sweet and comely personage; his youth and her affection, like two impetuous torrents, and furious inundations, bear down all other respects and considerations before them: yea, they so submerge her reason, and quite drown her discretion, as she hath no eyes unshut to see the one, nor ears unstopped to hear the other, so that if she desire any thing in the world, it is (as formerly is observed) that she live to see De Merson her husband, and herself his wife: which to effect and accomplish, she knows no better nor fitter Agent to employ herein, than one Mounseir de Pruneau, an ancient Councillor, of the presidial Court of that City, who was the only Councillor both to her last husband and herself, and of whose discretion, integrity and fidelity, she had all the reasons of the world to rest confident and assured.  
Now although the Wisdom and Experience of De Pruneau suggested him what an extreme inequality there was betwixt De Mersons youth, and La Vasselayes age, which he could not more pertinently parallel and compare, than to Winter and Summer, the Spring and the Harvest: and therefore how many afflictions and miseries were subject to attend and wait on such preposterous marriages, whereof he had formerly seen divers lamentable examples, and woeful instances, as well of men as women, who had suffered shipwreck upon that Sylla, and this Charybdis, he like an honest man, and indeed a truer friend to her than she was to herself, produceth some of the former alleged reasons to her consideration, thereby to divert the stream of her ill grounded affection from De Merson, and (in general terms) to convey and conduct it to some elder personage, whose years (and therefore their dispositions and affections) might the better agree and sympathise. But when he sees that her love to De Merson was so firmly and immovably settled, as that it not only appeared to him to be her grief, but her torment to be any way crossed or contradicted therein: then he changeth his language, and because she will not hearken to his advice, he therefore gives way to her resolution, promising her his utmost power, and best endeavours speedily to effect & compass her desires, when taking leave each of other, at last La Vasselay remembering she had forgotten something, calls him again, and prays him that if De Merson be inquisitive to know her direct age, that he subtract away at least ten years thereof: so that whereas she is sixty three, to affirm that she is very little above fifty: whereunto she herself blushing, De Pruneau not able likewise to refrain from smiling, promiseth her to be very mindful thereof. To which end, he (with the first conveniency) finds out De Merson, acquaints him how much he is obliged to Madamoyselle La Vasselay, for her affection to him, lays before him the Nobility of her descent and blood, the greatness of her Estate and means, as also the excellency of her virtues; that fifty years is the most of her age, and that she is not by far so old, as pleasing and lovely; that she affects him above all the men in the world, yea, and desires no man of the world for her husband but himself; and that when he pleaseth, she desires the honour of his company to her house, with many other intimations and insinuations conducing that way.  
De Merson having formerly understood of La Vasselayes rich Estate and Dowry, as also of the truth of her age, he likes the first well, and although he distaste, yet he will dissemble the second: he thanks De Pruneau for his pains, and La Vasselay for her love toward him; promiseth to requite the first, and if her wealth and virtues correspond with his relation to deserve the second; alleging further, that although there be a great inequality in their age, yet sith he is no heir but a second brother, that it is rather likely than impossible for it to be a match betwixt them; and in the mean time to requite part of her affection, he promiseth to Sup with her the night following at her house, where he only desires his company and assistance, that they may the more effectually and secretly consult of this business, which he hopes will so much import, as well her good and his content, as her content and his good; and so for that time they part.  
De Pruneau having received this pleasing and discreet answer from De Merson, he returns with the relation, and repetition thereof to La Vasselay, vows that his exterior feature is no way answerable, but comes far short of his interior Virtues and discretion; and that by all which, he either can collect from his speeches, or gather from his deportment and behaviour, he is in his conceit the most accomplished Gentleman, not only of Maine, but of France; and so bids her prepare her Supper, and herself to entertain him the next night. Which answer of De Mersons, and relation of De Pruneau, is so pleasing to her heart and thoughts, as her age seems to be already ravished with joy at the conceit of his Youth: when thinking every minute a month, and every hour a year, before she be made happy, and her house blessed with his presence, she leaves no cost unspared, or unspent, to make his Entertainment answerable to his welcome: whereof whiles she is not only careful, but curious in providing, let us cursorily speak a word or two how De Merson entertains and digesteth this unexpected motion and affection of La Vasselay.  
He laughs in his sleeve to see her youthful affections so flourishing in this Atumne, nay, in this Winter of her age, as to desire and seek so young a Gentleman as himself for her husband, but he understands she is exceeding rich, and therefore resolves that this virtue is capable to overvalue and ransom that defect and error of hers. He sees that his father will not pay his debts, and that he of himself cannot; that they growing more clamorous, will shortly become scandalous: which will not only directly prevent, but infallibly ruin his fortunes. He considereth how displeasing her age will be to his youth, as also that there is no hell comparable to that of a discontented bed, and then again, his debauched and lustful thoughts, suggest him this remedy: That Man's hath beauties enough for him to recreate himself, and to pass his time with; and that although she have him sometimes in her bed, yet he may have younger lasses and Ladies in his arms, both when, and where he pleaseth: He considereth that rich widows are not so soon found, as sought, not so soon obtained as found; and that if he refuse La Vasselay this day, he may not only repent it to morrow, but perchance all the days of his life; and although his will may, his power shall not be able to repair or redress this error of his, all his life after: He is not ignorant that Gentlewomen of her age and wealth, are subject to be as soon lost as won in a humour: and therefore then lost, because not then won. Again that the elder she is, the sooner she will die, and he then is at liberty to marry as young a Virgin as he pleaseth, and that her wealth would then prove a true prop; and sweet comfort to his age. And to conclude and finish this consultation of his, she is without children to molest and trouble him, and therefore to be desired, she is virtuous, discreet, and of an excellent fame and reputation, and therefore deserves to be accepted and not refused.  
Upon the grounds of which reasons and considerations, he makes good his promise to De Pruneau, and comes the next night both to visit, and sup with La Vasselay; who having purposely decked herself up in her youthful and gayest apparel; receives him, withal demonstrations of affection and joy. At his first arrival he affords her two or three kisses, whereat she infinitely both rejoiceth and triumpheth: and in a word, he finds that his welcome not only exceeds his deserts, but his expectation; and believe me it was worth the observation, to see how superficially his youth looked on her age, and how artificially and ●…stfully her age ga●…ed on his youth. Now, by this time supper is served in, wherein her affection was again discovered him in the curiosity and bounty thereof. Where De Pruneau to give life to their mirth, tells them both, that he hopes this their first meeting and interview will produce effects answerable to both their contents and desires; Whereat De Merson cannot refrain from blushing, nor La Vasselay from smiling: They are all very pleasant and jocund at table, and she to give the better edge and relish to his affection, strives to seem far younger than indeed she is, and then he knows her to be; yea, she doth so cunningly entermixe and dispierce youthful speeches amidst her aged gravity, as if she were not old, or at least, newly made young. Now whiles she feasted her eyes on his fresh countenance and fair complexion, he sends his abread to look on her plate, rich hangings, and householdstuff, wherewith he saw her house was richly and plentifully furnished: Supper ended, and the cloth taken away, they are no sooner fallen from their Viands, but they fall to their talk. De Merson kindly and familiarly taking his new old Mistress in his Arms, as if he had already given her a place in his heart and affections; which makes her beyond herself, both merry and joyful. I will not trouble the Reader with the repetition of what speeches and compliments here passed betwixt them; because in this, and my future Histories I will follow the same Method of brevity which I have proposed and observed in my former. Let then his inquisitive curiosity understand, that they parted very lovingly and affectionately this first time: and De Merson although he were a debauched Gentleman, yet he is not so simple to omit, but rather so well advised to pry into the true depth, and naked truth of her estate; and the rather, for that he hath known many Gentlemen who have been fetched over, and gul●…d in this nature, and in marryinge one widow have matched themselves to two thiefs, and credulously thinking her rich, have in the end found her a very beggar: Whereupon he takes three days respite to resolve, and so with some kisses and many thanks for her affection, and her kind entertainment and great cheer, he for that night takes his leave of her, whose fair carriage and discreet resolution in temporising, La Vasselay applauds, and De Pruneau approves: So De Merson having spent the first and second day insurveying the writings of her Dowry, the Leases of her lands and houses, and the Bonds and Bills of debts due to her, withal her ready Money, Plate, and other moveables: he finds her estate to answer his expectation and her report, and that she is really worth in land, six thousand Francs yearly, and her moveables worth at least eighteen thousand more, he the third day publicly contracts himself to her; and having advertised his father thereof, who likes the wealth better than the widow, within eight days after privately marries her, which administereth cause of speech and wonder in and about Man's: some blaming her of indiscretion and levity, to match so young a Gentleman, others taxing him of folly to marry so old a widow; some extolling and applauding his judgement, in enriching himself with so great an Estate: which would not only deface his debts, secure his youth and age from the storms of want, and the tempests of necessity, but also in the one and the other maintain him richly, prosperously, and gallantly. And others again believing and presaging, that this their great inequality and disparity of years, would either of the one side or other, or both, produce many discontents, and afflictions, instead of hoped-for joys and prosperities. Thus every one speaks differently of this preposterous match, according as their passions and fancies dictate them: but which of all these opinions and judgements speaks truest, we shall not go far to understand and know.  
We have seen the consummation of this marriage, Youth wedded to Age; May to December, and young De Merson to old La Vasselay; in which contract and nuptials, either of them are so vain, and both so irreligious, as caring wholly for the pleasures of their bodies, they have not therein so much as once thought of their souls, or of heaven: Yea, God is not so much as once nominated or remembered of them. All the ends of marriages are only two; God's glory, and the propagation of children; and because they cannot hope for the second, must they therefore needs be so impious, as to forget the first. Ay me, if his youth had attained no more Grace, could her age retain no more goodness; or how can they flatter themselves with any hope, that this marriage of theirs can possible prosper, when only her aim and end therein is lust, and his wealth. If a building can subsist and flourish, which hath a rotten and reeling foundation, than this match of theirs may prosper, otherwise cannot: for what more rotten than the beastly pleasures of her lustful, and yet decayed age, and what more reeling and fickle, than the constant inconstancy of his lascivious youth, which make my thoughts justly fear, and my heart truly presage and apprehend: that repentance, not pleasure; affliction, not joy; misery, not prosperity, is at the heels to attend and follow these their Nuptials: As mark we the sequel and it will briefly inform us how.  
De Merson hath not been married two whole months to La Vassellay, but he begins to repent himself that ever he matched her, for he now sees, though before he would not, that it is impossible for youth to fetch and sympathize with her age, he sees that she hath a discrepit, sickly and decayed body, and that she is never free of the Cough and Rheum, as also of an Issue in her left arm, which is not only displeasing, but loathsome to him. Yea, when she hath taken off her ruff and head attier, and dighted herself in her night habilements, than he vows he is afraid of her Lambskin furred cap and waistcoat; and takes her withered face for a Vizard, or a Comet, which yields no delight but terror to his eyes: swearing that he serves only for a bed-pan to heat her frozen body, which of itself is far colder than a Marble Statue: Yea, he is so far out of love with her, because, to write the truth, he never truly loved her, that her sight is a plague to him, her presence by day a Purgatory, and her company by neight a very Hell.  
But debauched and dissolute Gentleman, these vicious and impious conceits of thine, come immediately from Hell and Satan, and are no way infused in thy thoughts by Heaven, much less inspired in thy heart by God: Consider, consider with thyself; that if La Vasselay be old, yet she is now thy wife, and that whatsoever De Praneau or herself informed thee of fifty years, yet thou knowest she could not be less than sixty three, and more she is not. In which regard marriage (the holy Institution of Heaven) having now made you of two, one; if thou wilt not love her age, at least thou shouldest reverence it; or if thou canst not affect her, thou shouldest not hate her. Hath she imperfections, what woman in the world lives without them? or is she Pestered with diseases, who can be either exempted from them, or prevent them? Thou hast vowed in the Temple of the Lord, and in the presence of him and his people, not only to love, but to honour her: and is thy inconstancy and impiety already such, as forgetting that promise and vow of thine, thou dost now not only dishonour, but despise and contemn her; and that thou only madest that vow purposely to break it: O De Merson, if thou art not capable of Counsel, yet do but believe the truth, and thou wilt find, that if thou wilt not love her, because she is too old to be thy wife; yet thou shouldest respect and regard her, because she is old enough to be thy Grandmother: for as it is incivility not to reverence Age; so it is impiety to disdain and malign it: and if in any man towards a mere stranger, how much more a husband to his own wife? And because it is easier to espy our wife's imperfections, than to find out, or reform our own; if thy wife La Vasselay be guilty of any fault towards thee, it is because she loves thee too well, and affects thee too dear.  
We have scene De Mersons distaste of his wife, La Vasselay: Let us now see how she likes, or rather why she so soon dislikes him: for he bears himself so strangely, and withal, so unkindly towards her, as her desires of his youth comes far short both of her expectation and hopes: for if he lie with her one night, he wanteth six from her; is still abroad, and seldom or never at home with her; yea, he is of such a gadding humour, and ranging disposition, as his thoughts and delights are transported elsewhere, not at home; with other young Dames of Man's, not with herself: and the vanity of his pleasures do so far surprise and captivate him, that he is already become so vicious, as he makes day his night, and night his day, living rather like a volutupous Epicure, than a temperate or Civil Christian: Neither, quoth she, is it jealousy, but truth which makes her pry so narrowly into so lewd and lascivious actions, wherein the further she wades, the more cause she finds both of grief and vexation, which makes her wish, that she had been blind when she first saw him; and either he or herself in Heaven, when they so unfortunately married each other here upon Earth.  
How now fond and foolish old Gentlewoman, are thy joys so soon converted into sorrows, and thy triumphs into tears? why, thou hast just cause to thank none but thyself, for these thy crosses and afflictions; sith thy lustful and lascivious desires were not only the author, but the procurer of them: for hadst thou been more modest, and less wanton, thou mightest have apparently seen, and providently foreseen, that De Mersons youth was too young for thy age, because thy age was too old for his youth; so that hadst thou been then but half so stayed and wise, as now thou art sorrowful: thou needest not now grieve for that which thou canst not redress, nor repent for that which is out of thy power to remedy. But rash and inconsiderate woman, how comes this to pass, that thou art ready to entertain jealousy, when death stands ready to entertain thee? Could all the course of thy former youth be so happy, not to be acquainted with this vice, and doth now thy frozen age think it a virtue to admit and embrace it? Ay me, I grieve to see thy folly, and lament to understand thy madness in this kind: for what is jealousy, but the rage of our thoughts, and brains, the disturber of our peace and tranquillity, the enemy of our peace and happiness, the traitor of our judgement and understanding, the plague of our life, the poison of our hearts, and the very bane and Canker of our souls? jealousy, why, it is the daughter of frenzy, and the mother of madness; it is a vice purposely sent from hell, to make those wretched on earth, who may live fortunate and happy, and yet will not; yea, it is a vice which I know not whether it be more easy to admit, or difficult to expel, being admitted. But Lafoy Vasselay, expel it thou must, at least, if thou think to live fortunate, and not to die miserable. Wert thou as young as aged, thy jealousy might have some colour and excuse in meeting with the censures of the world; whereas now not deserving the one, it cannot receive the other. And as those women are both wise and happy, who wink at the youthful escapes of their husbands: so thy jealousy makes thee both meritorious, and guilty of thy afflictions, because thou wilt be so foolish to espy, and so malicious to remember these of thine. Is De Merson given and addicted to other women? why pardon him, because he is a young man: and as he is thy husband, and thou his wife, believe that he is every way more worthy of thy prayers, than of thine envy.  
Thus we see upon what fatal and ominous terms these late married couple now stand; De Mersons youth scorning and spurning at his wife La Vasselaye's age, and wholly addicting himself to others; and her age growing infinitely jealous of his youth: so that for any thing I see or know to the contrary, these different vices have already taken such deep and dangerous root in them, as they threaten not only the shipwreck of their content, but of their fortunes, if not of their lives.  
Now for us to find out the particular object of La Vasselayes jealousy, as her foolish curiosity hath already the general cause: we must know, that she hath a very proper young Gentlewoman who atends her, of some eighteen years of age, termed Gratiana, of a middle stature, somewhat inclining to fatness, having a fresh sanguine complexion, and bright flaxen hair, she being indeed every way exceeding lovely and fair; and with this Gratiana, she fears her Husband is more familiar than either modesty or chastity can permit; and yet she hath only two poor reasons for this, her credulity and jealousy, and God knows they are poor and weak ones indeed: The first is, that she thinks her own withered face serves only but as a foil, to make Gratiana's fresh beauty seem the more precious and amiable in his eyes. The second is, that she once saw him kiss her in her presence in the garden, when she brought him a handkerchief, which his Page had forgotten to give him. Ridiculous grounds, and trivial reasons, for her to build her fear, or erect her jealousy on, or to invent and raise so foul a scandal and calumny: and yet not to suppress, but to report the whole truth, De Merson was laciviously in love with Gratiana, had often tempted her deflouration, but could never obtain her consent thereunto: for she was as chaste as fair, and impregnable, either to be seduced by his gifts and presents, or to be vanquished and won by his treacherous promises, protestations, and oaths: for she told him plainly and peremptorily, when she saw him begin to grow importunate, and impudent in this his folly, That although she were but a poor Gentleman's daughter, yet she thanked God, that her parents had so virtuously trained her up in the School of Honour, that she would rather dye, than live to be a strumpet to any Gentleman or Prince of the world: which chaste answer, and generous resolution of hers, did then so quench the flames of his lascivious and inordinate affection to her, as thenceforth he exchanged his lust into love towards her, and vowed, that he would both respect and honour her as his sister. Now although they both kept the passage of this business secret from his wife her Mistress, yet notwithstanding, as it is the nature of jealousy, not to hearken to any reason, nor approve of any belief but of her own: therefore she is confident, that he lies with Gratiana more oftener than with herself; which she vows she cannot digest, and will no longer tolerate. To which end, (with a most malicious, and strange kind of treachery) she makes fair weather with Gratiana; and (thinking to cool her hot courage, and to allay the heat of her luxurious blood) looking one day steadfastly in her face, she tells her that she hath need to be let blood, to prevent a Fever: whereunto, although chaste and innocent Gratiana was never formerly let blood, she notwithstanding willingly consents thereunto; which to effect, La Vasselay (like a base mistress and a treacherous stepdame) sends for an Apothecary, named Rennee, gives him a watchword in his ear, to draw at least sixteen ounces of blood from Gratiana, for that she was strongly entered into a burning Fever: But he being as honest as she was treacherous and cruel, told her, that the drawing of so great a quantity of blood from her, might not only impair her health, but endanger her life. But she replies, it was so ordered by a Doctor: whereupon he opens her right arm vein; and as he had near drawn so much from this poor harmless young Gentlewoman, she faints twice in a chair betwixt their arms, and all the cold water they threw in her face, could very hardly refetch her, and keep life in her: this old hard-hearted hag still notwithstanding crying out, that it was not blood enough: having no other reason for this her treachery and cruelty, but that indeed she thought it not enough, or sufficient to quench the unquenchable thirst and flame of her jealousy: of which this is the first effect towards this innocent young Gentlewoman, but we shall not go far to see a second.  
Gratiana is so far from dreaming of her mistress jealousy towards her master, and herself; or from once thinking of this her treacherous letting her blood, as she thanks her, for her affection and care of her health: and now the very next day after De Merson dining at home with his old wife, (which he had not done in many days before) and seeing Gratiana look so white and pale, demands her if she be not well, and then questioneth his wife what ails her Gentlewoman to look so ill, which she seems to put off with a feigned excuse: but withal (as if this care of her husband towards Gratiana, were a true confirmation of their dishonesty, and her jealousy) she retains the memory thereof deeply in her heart and thoughts: yea, it is so frequent, and fixed in her Imaginations, as she cannot, she will not any longer suffer or endure this affection of her husband to Gratiana; nor that Gratiana's youth shall wrong Lafoy Vasselay's age in the rites and duties of marriage. Wherefore casting sad aspects on him, and malignant looks on her, she to please and give satisfaction to her jealousy (which cannot be pleased or satisfied with any thing but revenge) resolves to make her know what it is, for a waiting maid to offend and wrong her mistress in this kind: when not to diminish, but rather to augment and redouble her former cruelty towards her. Her husband riding one day abroad in company of divers other Gentlemen of the City, to hunt Wolves which abound in those vast and spacious woods of Maine: she under pretence of some other business; calls Gratiana alone into her inner chamber, when bolting the door after her, she with meager and pale envy in her looks, and implacable fury and choler in her speeches, chargeth her of dishonesty with her husband; calling her whore, strumpet, and baggage: affirming that the time and hour is now come for her to be revenged of her. Poor Gratiana both amazed and affrighted at this sudden and furious (both unexpected and undefiled alarm of her Mistress, seeing her honour, and (as she thinks and fears) her life called in question; she after a world of sighs and tears, terms her accusers devils and witches, vows by her part in heaven, and upon the peril of her own soul, that she is innocent of that crime whereof she accused her, and that neither indeed or thought, she was ever dishonest, or unchaste with any man of the world, much less with her Master: But this will not satisfy incensed Lafoy Vasselay, neither are these speeches or tears of Gratiana of power to pass current with her jealousy; but reputing them false and counterfeit, she calls in her chambermaid, and cookemaid, when she had purposely led there, and bids them unstrip Gratiana naked to her waist, and to bind her hand and foot to the bed post, which with much repining and pity, they are at last enforced to do. When commanding them forth the chamber and bolting the door after them, she not like a woman, but rather as a fury of hell, flies to poor innocent Gratiana, and with a great burchen rod, doth not only raze but scarify her arms, back and shoulders: when harmless soul, she (though in vain) having no other defensive weapons but her tongue, and her innocency, cries aloud to heaven and earth for succour. But this old hag as full of malice as jealousy, hath no compassion of her cries, nor pity of her sighs: yea, neither the sight of her tears, or blood, (which trickling down her cheeks and shoulders, doth both bedew, and ingraine her smock) are of power to appease her fury and envy, until having spent three rods, and tired and wearied both her arms, she in the heat of her choler, and the height of her revenge; delivers her these bitter and scoffing words. Minion, this, this is the way, yea the only way to cool the heat of thy courage, and to quench the fire of thy lust; When calling in her two maids, she commands them to unbind Gratiana, and to help on her clothes. When triumphing in her cruelty, she furiously departs and leaves them; who cannot refrain from tears, to see how severely and cruelly their Mistress hath handled this her poor Gentlewoman.  
Gratiana the better to remedy these her insupportable and cruel wrongs, holds it discretion to dissemble them, and so providing herself secretly of a horse and man, she the next night steals away; rides to La Ferte, and from thence to her father at Nogent le Retrou, where he was superintendent of the Prince of Condes house and Castle in that Town; and where the Princess Dowager his mother built up the greatest part of her sorrowful residence, whence, whiles he was detained prisoner in the Castle of Boys de Vincennes near Paris: Lafoy Vasselay grieves at this her sudden, and unexcted departure, the which she fears her husband De Merson, and her father Mounsieur De Bremay will take in ill part; wherein she is no way deceived, for the one grieves, and the other storms thereat: yea, when De Merson (through flattery and threats) had drawn from the Chambermaid and Cookmaid, the truth of his wives cruel whipping of Gratiana, as also the cause thereof, her jealousy: He justly incensed and enraged, flies to this his sottish and cruel wife, tells her, that jealousy comes from the devil, whose part he affirms she hath acted, in acting this upon innocent Gratiana, than whom there lives not a chaster maid in the world, That although she were poor, yet, that she was aswell descended as herself. In which regard, if she did not speedily right and redeem her wrongs, and seek means to pacify and recall her, that he would forthwith leave her, yea, and utterly forsake her. which cooling card of his to his wife, makes her look on her former erroneous cruelty towards Gratiana, rather with outward grief, than inward repentance. But seeing that her jealousy must now stoop and strike sail, to her husband's Choler, and that to enjoy his company, she must not be exempted and deprived of hers: she contrary to her desires and will, (which still retains the fumes and flames of jealousy as that doth of revenge) is enforced to make a virtue of necessity, and so to bear up with the time, feigning herself repentant and sorrowful for what she had formerly done to Gratiana: she to reclaim her, buys her so much wrought black Taffeta for a Gown, and so much Crimson Damask for a Petticoat, and with a bracelet of Pearl which she accustomed to wear upon her right arm; she sends it to Nogent to her by La Vilette, a Gentleman of her husbands, and accompanieth it with a letter to her father, Mounsieur de Bremay, which contained these words.  
LA VASSELAY to DE BREMAY.  
HAving vindicated Truth from Error, and metamorphosed jealousy into judgement, I find that I have wronged thy daughter Gratiana, where at I grieve, with contrition, and sorrow with repentance, sith my husband's vows and oaths have fully cleared her Honour and Chastity, which my foolish incredulity and fear, rashly attempted, both to eclipse and disparage: In which regard, praying her to forgive, and thyself to forget that wrong; I earnestly desire her speedy return by this bearer, and ye both shall see, that I never formerly hated her so much, as henceforth I will both love and honour her: I have now sent her some small tokens of my affection; and ere long she shall find greater effects and testimonies thereof; for knowing her to be as chaste as fair; In this De Bremay I request thee to rest confident, that as she is now thy daughter by Nature, so she shall be henceforth mine by adoption.  
LA VASSELAY.  
De Bremay having received this letter, and his daughter Gratiana these kind tokens from her Mistress La Vasselay: his choler, and her grief and sorrow is soon defaced and blown away: so he well satisfied, and she content and pleased, he sends her back from Nogent to Man's by La Villette, by whom he writes this ensuing letter to his Mistress La Vasselay in answer of hers.  
DE BREMAY to LA VASSELAY.  
THy Letter hath given me so much content and satisfaction, as thy undeserved cruelty to my daughter Gratiana did grief and indignation. And had she been guilty of that crime, whereof thy fear made thee jealous, I would for ever have renounced her for my daughter, and deprived her of my sight: for as her Virtues are her best wealth, and her Honour her chiefest revenue: so if she had failed in these or faltered in this, I should then have joined with thee to hate her, as I do now to love her: But her Tears and Oaths have cleared her innocence, and in hers, thy husbands. In which regard, relying upon her own merits, and thy professed kindness; she forgetting, and I forgiving things passed, I now return her thee by thy servant La Villette; hoping that if thou wilt not affect her as thy adopted Daughter, yet that thou wilt tender her as thy obedient and observant handmaid.  
DE BREMAY.  
Gratiana's hopes, and her father's credulity of La Vasselaye's future affection towards her, as also her gifts and promises; so far prevail with them, as she is now returned to her, from Nogent to Man's; But I fear she had done far better to have still remained with her father; for she might consider, and he know, what little safety, and apparent danger, there is to rely upon the favour of an incensed jealousy: Lafoy Vasselay (in all outward show) receives and welcomes Gratiana with many expressions of love, and demonstrations of joy, thereby to please her husband; who indeed likes so well of her return, as he likes his wife the better for procuring it. And now to the eye of the world, and according to humane conceit and sense, all three parties ate reconciled and satisfied, as if Lafoy Vasselay's jealousy had never heretofore offended her husband, nor her cruelty wronged Gratiana: or as if he had never known the one, nor she felt the other. But we shall not go far to see this calm o'ertaken with a tempest, and this Sunshine surprised with a dismal and disastrous shower.  
For three months were not fully expired, since Gratiana's return to Man's, but Lafoy Vasselayes old jealousy of her, and her husband De Merson, which seemed to be suppressed and extinguished, doth now flash and flame forth anew with more violence and impetuosity; yea, he cannot look on Gratiana, much less to speak to her, but presently this old jealous Beldame in her heart and thoughts, proclaims them guilty of Adultery: whereat she indiscreetly suffers herself to be so far transported with Indignation and Envy, as she vows she will no longer tolerate or digest it. And now it is, that like a fury of hell she first assumes damnable and execrable resolutions, not only against the Innocency, but against the life of innocent and harmless Gratiana; who poor soul is the nearer her danger, in respect she holds herself farthest from it: yea, this jealous old Hag, this Fury, nay, this she-Devill La Vasselay, hath not only consulted, but determined and concluded with her bloody thoughts, that she will speedily send Gratiana into another world; because her youth shall no longer abuse and wrong her age in this. When forgetting herself, her soul, and her God, thereby purposely to please her senses, her jealousy, and her Tutor the Devil, she vows, that no respect of reason nor Religion, no consideration of Heaven or Hell, shall be capable to divert her from dispatching her: yea, and as if she not only rejoiced, but glorified in this her pernicious and bloody design, she thinks every hour a year before she hath performed it: To which end, providing herself of strong poison; and watching, and catching at the very first opportunity, as soon as ever Gratiana found herself not well, she under a colour of much affection and care to her, makes her some white broth, wherein infusing and intermixing the aforesaid poison, she (gracelesly and cruelly) gives it her, the which within six days fainting and languishing, makes a perpetual divorce and separation betwixt her soul and her body, leaving this to descend to earth, and that to ascend to heaven, to draw down vengeance to this hellish and execrable La Vasselay, for so inhumanly and cruelly murdering this her harmless and innocent waiting Gentlewoman Gratiana.  
De Merson understanding of Gratiana's death, almost as soon as of her sickness, he very sorrowfully bites the lip thereat: for considering this accident in its true nature, his thoughts suggest him, and his heart and soul prompts him, that his wife La Vasselay had undoubtedly occasioned her death, and so metamorphosed her jealousy into murder; yea, and notwithstanding the fair and sorrowful show which she puts thereon to the contrary, yet the premises considered, he is very confident in this his belief and fear: when grieving at the cruelty of this disaster, and abhorring the author of so monstrous and bloody a fact; the very sight of this his old wretched wife is odious, and the remembrance of this her cruel crime, detestable and execrable unto him. Again, when he considereth Gratiana's beauty and chastity, and that she was sent to her untimely grave for his sake, this doth not only redouble his sorrows, but infinitely augment and increase his afflictions: so that beginning to fear his wife's envy, as much as he hated her jealousy, in that it was not only possible, but likely, that it might also futurely extend, and reflect on him, as well as it already had on harmless and innocent Gratiana, he assumes a resolution to leave and forsake her, the which we shall shortly see him put in execution; when the better to curb and vex her, he secretly packs up all her Bills, Bonds, Leaves, and Conveyances, as also, all her Money, Plate, jewels, and richest householdstuff; and so giving out a prohibition to all the Tenants, not to dare to pay her any rent, he allowing her only a bare maintenance, very suddenly (when she least expected or dreamt thereof) takes horse, and rides home to his fathers, where he resolves, to make the greatest part of his residence; and all the rears and prayers of his wife, are not of power to reclaim or retain him.  
La Vasselay seeing the unkindness of her Husband De Merson, in making her a widow, almost as soon as a wife; as also his ingratitude, in depriving her of the use and fruition of her own estate and means, and leaving her so poor an allowance, as could scarce warrant her a competent maintenance, she is almost ready to die for mere grief and sorrow thereof, but how to remedy it, she knows not: And now she reputes her folly and indiscretion, in matching her aged self to so young a man as De Merson: now she doth not only accuse, but condemn her own jealousy, which drew herto this foul fact of murdering her harmless, and as she now believes, her innocent Wayting-maid Gratiana; for which, this ingrateful departure, and hard usage of her husband, is but the least, and as she terms it, but the forerunner of greater punishments, which God hath ordained and reserved for her: yea, it is not only a grief to her thoughts, but a vexation to her heart and soul, to see herself made the mockingstocke and laughter of all Man's, and Maine, who rather excuse her husband's youth, than any way pity or commiserate herage; and to see that the friends of her prosperity turn their backs and faces to her, in her affliction and poverty: and if she have any hope yet left, to assist and comfort her in these her calamities, it is by endeavouring to reconcile and reclaim her husband to her by Letters: when taking pen and paper, she within a month of his departure, sends him these few lines:  
LA VASSELAY to DE MERSON.  
SInce at thy request I both recanted my jealousy to thyself, and repented my cruelty to my maid Gratiana, what have I committed or done, that should deserve this thy ingrateful, and as I may truly say, Heart killing departure? for having made a most exact Scrutiny in my thoughts and soul, either of them inform me, and both assure me, that the freeness and fervency of my affection, towards thee, deserved not so cruel, but a far more courteous requital. If my Age be any way displeasing to thy youth, yet deprive me not of the felicity of thy sight and presence, wherein I not only delight, but glory. And although I can be content that thou surfeit with my wealth, yet make me not so miserable, as to starve both in and for thy presence. If any have given thee any sinister or false impressions, either of myself or actions; why if thy affection to me will not deface them, at least let thy pity: Yea, return my sweet and dear Husband, and what errors or faults soever thou sayest I have committed, I will not only redeem them with kisses, but with tears.  
LA VASSELAY.  
De Merson having received this his wife's Letter, it works such poor effects in his affection, as he doth rather rejoice then commiserate her estate and sorrows; yea, he so sleights her and her remembrance, as once he hadthought to have answered her Letter with silence; but at last he (some eight days after) returns her this answer:  
DE MERSON to LA VASSELAY.  
What hope can I have of thy Affection, when I see thou art inviolably constant to thy jealousy; and if the Scrutiny of thy thoughts and soul be as true as thou pretendest, yet I fear that this jealousy of thine, is not the greatest, but the least of thy crimes. Thou writest to me, that I give a cruel requital to thy affection, but pray God, thou have not given a more sharp and inhuman one to Gratiana's service and Chastity: Neither is it thy Age, but thy Imperfections and Vices, which are both displeasing and o dious to my youth: for I could brook that with as much patience, as I can digest these with impossibilities. If thou want means, I will grant thee more; but for my presence, I have many reasons to deny thee. I know none but thyself, which hath given me any impressions of thy actions; and if those were false, they would prove thy true happiness, as now they do thy misery, which, my affection doth pity, though cannot redress. It is but in vain for thee, either to expect or hope for my return; and sith thy faults and errors are best known to thyself, let thy repentance redeem them towards God: for neither thy kisses nor tears, can or shall to me.  
DE MERSON.  
This Letter of De Merson to his wife La Vasselay, is so far from comforting, as it doth most extremely afflict her: And although his discontents be such, as she sees it almost impossible to reconcile and reclaim him: yet being exceedingly perplexed and grieved with this her solitary and discontented life, she yet hopes that a second Letter may obtain that of him, which her first could not: when six months time being now slipped away since his departure, she feigning herself sick, writes unto him again to this effect.  
LA VASSELAY to DE MERSON.  
THy absence hath so deprived my joys, and engendered my sorrows, that Sickness threatens my life to be near her period: So among a world of discontents, let me yet bear this one Content to my grave, that I may once more see thee, whom so tenderly I both desire, and long to see: and if I cannot be so happy as to live, at the least make me so fortunate, as to dye in thine Arms: which I know not whether it be a greater Charity fo●… thee to grant, or a Cruelty to deny me this request of mine: For my Dear De Merson, if thou wilt not be pleased to be my Husband, yet be not offended to remember that I am thy Wife; and withal, that as I desire thy return, so that I have not deserved thy departure: But if thou wilt still be inexorable to my requests, these Lines of mine, which I write thee rather with Tears then Ink, shall bear witness betwixt thyself and me, of my Kindness, of thy Cruelty, and how my Life sought thy Affection, though my Death could neither find, nor obtain it.  
LA VASSELAY.  
De Merson reads this Letter with laughter; yea, he is so insensible of her Lines, Requests, and Tears, as if another had sent him news of her Death, as she herself did of her Sickness, it had been far more pleasing, and better welcome to him. But thinking how to gall her to the quick, to the end he might henceforth save her the labour to write him any more Letters, and himself to receive and peruse them, he returns her this sharp and bitter answer:  
DE MERSON to LA VASSELAY.  
IT is thy Error, not my Absence, which hath exchanged thy joys into Sorrows; and if thy life draw near her period, they cannot be far from theirs. My sight is a poor content for thee to bear to thy grave, sith as a Christian, thou shouldest delight to see none but thy Saviour, nor be Ambitious to live in any arms but his: and if thou hold not this to be Charity, I know others cannot repute it Cruelty. That I am thy Husband I grant, and that thou art my Wife, I not deny: But yet I fear thy heart knows, though thy Pen affirms the contrary, that I have far more reason for my departure, than thou to desire my return. And if thou wilt yet know more, if the Ink wherewith thou writest thy Letter be Tears, pray God thou didst not bedeawe Gratiana's Winding-sheete and Coffin, both with her Tears, and Blood: for hadst thou not been cruel, yea, inhuman to her, I would never have been unkind to thee: And to conclude, live as happy, as I fear her death will make thee dye miserable.  
DE MERSON.  
The receipt and perusal of this Letter doth not only grieve but afflict and torment La Vasselay: for the very remembrance of De Merson his suspicion and apprehension, that she had a hand in the death of Gratiana, doth as it were pierce her heart, as well with fear as sorrow: for as her poverty lay before at his mercy, so now she knows doth her life; and that sith he will not love her, he may chance so malign und hate her, as to reveal it. Whereupon to secure her fear, and to warrant the safety of her life, she soon exchangeth her love into hatred, and her affection and jealousy, into envy towards him; yea, her enraged and incensed thoughts, engender and imprint such bloody designs of revenge in her heart, as abandoning the fear and grace of God, she impiously concludes a match with the Devil, to dispatch and murder him; and from which bloody and damnable design, no regard of God, or her Soul, nor respect of Heaven or Hell, can or shall divert her: when overpassing a small parcel of time, wherein she ruminated and pondered, how she should send him from this life to another: at last her malicious curiosity makes her thoughts fall on La Villette, being his Gentleman; who still followed him, as holding him a fit Agent to attempt, and instrument to finish this bloody business, which so much imported her content and safety; grounding her reasons upon the greatness of his heart and mind, and the weakness of his purse and means; as if poverty were a sufficient cause and privilege to commit so treacherous and bloody a fact: When knowing him to be then in Man's, receiving up his Master's Rents, she sends for him; to whom (the door bolted) she tells him she is to request his secrecy in a business which infinitely tends to his good. He promiseth it her: but she will have him swear thereunto, which he doth: when with sighs and tears making a bitter invective, and recapitulation of her Husband, his master undeserved indignity and cruelty towards her; she then and there makes a proposition to him, to murder him for her; and that she will give him a thousand crowns to effect it. La Ville●…te s●…eing the greatness of the danger, in that of the crime, seems not only discontented, but amazed hereat: for although he love gold well, yet he will not purchase it at so dear a rate, and base and damnable a price, as that of his master's blood: when seeing she could not prevail, she again puts him in mind of his oath to secrecy; which he again vows never to infringe or violate: and withal, like a good servant, seeks to dissuade and divert her from such bloody thoughts and attempts. Had Lafoy Villette remained in the purity and candeur of this his Religious and Christian Resolution, not to imbrue or distain his hands in the innocent blood of his Master, it would have made him as happy, as we shall shortly see him miserable in attempting and executing the contrary: for as a propension and resolution to Virtue, breeds not only Honour, but safety; so the contrary effects thereof, produce not only shame, but misery. To foresee sin, is a pious wisdom; but to prevent and eschew it, is always a most wise and blessed piety.  
And whereas Time should rather decrease then increase, and rather root out, then plant Malice in our thoughts, and Envy in our Resolutions; yet directly contrary, that of La Vasselay to her husband De Merson, doth not dye, but live, will not fade but flourish: for a month or two more being run out, and expired, and La Villette again in Man's, her malice unto her husband is soinveterate and implacable, as she again sends for him to her house, where (in great secrecy and intended affection) she tells him, that if he will murder his master, she within six months will marry him in requital, and not only live his faithful wife, but die his obedient and constant handmaid. Now although her first proffer of a thousand crowns could not procure of La Villette, these her sugared speeches, which she intermixeth with kisses, and the consideration of so many thousands, which her estate not only promiseth, but assureth, doth; so as forgetting his former virtue, to remember his future vice, he (like a damnable villain) swears to her to effect it: which wretched Verbal contract; they interchangeably seal with oaths and kisses, which (if they had had any fear of God, or care of their salvations) they should have detested with horror, and abhorred with detestation: neither will his malice (or the Devil the Author thereof) give him leave to protract or defer it: for having resolved to murder him as he rides abroad; his master on a time being invited to a general hunting, by the Baron of Saint Susanna (son and heir to Mounsieur de Varennes) at his said Town of Susanna, as he came riding homewards towards his Father's house of Manfrelle, he in the midst of a great wood, near unto the small village of Saint Georges, riding behind his master, dischargeth his Pistol, loaden with a brace of bullets thorough his reynes, which makes him instantly fall off dead from his horse to the ground. When this hellish servant La Villette, seeing his master devoid of breath, and grovelling and weltering in his blood, he having acted the part of a sinful Devil in committing this cruel murder, now resolves to assume, and represent that of a subtle Hypocrite in concealing it: when determining to report that they were both assaulted, and his master slain by thiefs; he to make all his actions conduce and look that way, chargeth his Pistol again with another brace of bullets, and shoots thorough his own hat, gives himself a cut o'er his left hand, and then breaks his Rapier, takes his own Pistol, and his Master's Rapier, and throws it into a Pond close adjoining; takes likewise his master's purse and watch forth his pocket, and hides it secretly: and then the more cunningly and knavishly to blear and deceive the eyes of the world thereby to make this his hypocrisy pass the currenter, he having purposely provided himself of two small cords; with the one he binds both his own feet, and with the other (by a pretty sleight) slips therein his arms behind his back, and then setting himself against a tree, he very pitifully weeps, groans, and cries out upon the thiefs and murderers of his Master De Merson: when three Gentlemen of Britain, travelling that way toward Paris, repair to his assistance, whom they find out by his cries: to whom he relates that five thiefs had assaulted his master and himself, that he fought in the defence as long as his sword held; that his master was killed with a Pistol, then robbed, and himself shot thorough, and wounded, and bound as they saw. When these three British Gentlemen, grieving at this mournful accident, and bloody spectacle, they instantly cut the cords wherewith he was bound, and so having conveyed the dead corpse to the next Cottage, they run up and down the wood to find out these thiefs and murderers, but in vain: so La Villette having thanked these Gentlemen for their affection and charity toward his dead master, and living self: He with a wonderful exterior show of sorrow, takes care for the speedy and decent transporting home of his breathless Master to Manfrelle: where his mournful Father receives, and buries him with infinite grief, lamentation, and tears.  
In the mean time, this murderous La Villette gives private intelligence thereof to the bloody La Vasselay, who although she inwardly receives this news with extreme content and joy, to see herself freed of so unkind and ingrateful a husband; yet publicly to the eye of the world (thereby the better to delude and deceive the world) she contrariwise takes on blacks, seeming to be exceedingly mournful, pensive, and sorrowful thereat: but God will shortly discover the falsehood of these her tears,; and in the triumphs of his revenge; pull off the mask of this her dissembling and treacherous Hypocrisy: For as Man's, Lavall, Angiers, and all the adjacent Towns and Countries, grieve at this lamentable murder of De Merson: so they as much admire and wonder to see his old widow La Vasselay so shortly married and espoused to his Gentleman La Villette, whose Nuptials are celebrated and consummared far within the term of six months after. For the curious wits of these Cities and Countries, considering what a preposterous course and resolution thi●… was for her to marry her husband's man, and withal, so soon; as also that there was none other present but himself, when his Master De Merson was murdered, it is umbragious; and leaves a spice of fear, and sting of suspicion in their heads; that there was more in the wind than was yet known, and therefore knowing no more, they defer the detection thereof, to the providence and pleasure of God, who best, yea, who only knows in Heaven, how to conduct and manage the actions here below on Earth: and now indeed the very time is come, that the Lord will no longer permit these their cruel and bloody murders to be concealed, but will bring them forth to receive condign punishment; and for want of other evidence, and witnesses, they themselves, shall be witnesses against themselves. And although La Va●…elay's poisoning of Gratiana, and La Villette pistolling of his master De Merson, were cunningly contrived, and secretly perpetrated; yet we shall see the last of these bloody murder's occasion the discovery and detection of the first, and both of them most severely and sharply punished for these their bloody crimes and horrible offences. The manner is thus.  
These two execrable wretches, La Villette, and La Vasselay have not lived married above some seven or eight months, but he being deeply in Law with Mounsieur De Manfrelle, his Predecessors father, for the detention of some lands and writings, he takes an occasion to ride home to his house of Manfrelle to him, to confer of the differences, and by the way falls into the company of some Merchants of Lavall, and Vittry, who were returning from the fair of Chartres: when riding together for the space of almost a whole day's journey; the secret providence, and sacred pleasure of God had so ordained, that La Vi●…ettes horse who bore him quietly and safely before, on a Sunday, first goes backwards in despite of his spur or switch, and then ●…anding an end on his two hind legs, falls quite back with him, and almost breaks the bulk and trunk of his body: when having hardly the power to speak, his breath failing him, and hec seeing no way but death for him, and the hideous image thereof apparently before his eyes, the Spirit of God doth so operate with his sinnefell soul, as he there confesseth how his wicked wife La Vasselay had caused him to murder his master De Merson, whom he shot to death with his Pistol; that she first seduced him with a thousand Crowns to perform it, which he refused; but then her consent to marry him, made him not only attempt, but finish that bloody business, whereof now from his very heart and soul he repented himself, and beseeched the Lord to forgive it him.  
But here before the Readers curiosity carry him further, let me in the name and fear of God, both request and conjure him, to stand amazed, and wonder with me, at his sacred providence, and inscrutable wisdom and judgement, which most miraculously concurres and shines in this accident, and especially in three essential and most apparent circumstances thereof: For it was on the very same horse, the same day twelve month, and in the very same wood, and place, where this execrable wretch La Villette formerly murdered his master De Merson: Famous, and notorious circumstances, which deserve to be observed, and remarked of all the children of God; yea, and to be imprinted and engraven in their hearts and memories, thereby to deter us from the like crimes of murder.  
Now these honest Merchants of Lavall, and Vittry (as much in charity to La Villettes life, as in execration of that confessed murder of his Master De Merson) convey him to an Inn in S●…int Gorges, when expecting every minute, that he would dye in their hands, they send away post to advertise the presidial Court of Man's hereof, (within whose jurisdiction Saint Gorges was) who speedily command La Villette to 〈◊〉 ●…ght thither to them alive or dead: But God reserved him from that natural, to 〈◊〉 more infamous death, and made him live till he came thither; where again he confesseth this his foul murder of his master De Merson, and likewise accuseth La Vasselay to be the sole instigator thereof, as we have formerly heard and understood. Whereupon he is no sooner examined, but this bloody old Hag is likewise imprisoned: who with many asseverations and tears, denies, and retorts this foul crime from herself to him. But her judges are too wise to believe the weakness and invalidity of this her foolish justification: So whiles they are consulting on her; De Bre●… having notice of all these accidents, but especially, of La Vasselay's imprisonment; he (still apprehending and fearing, that she undoubtedly was the death of his daughter Gratio●…a) takes Post from Nogent to Man's, where he accuseth her thereof to the Cryminell judges, of the presidial Court: who upon these her double accusation, adjudge her to the Rack, when at the very first torment thereof, she at last (preferring the life of her soul, before that of her body) confesseth herself to be the Actor of her first crime of Murder, and the Author of the second: when, and whereupon the judges (resembling themselves) in detestation, and for expiation of these her foul crimes, condemn him to be hanged, and she to be burnt alive; which the next day, at the common place of execution (near the Halles in Man's, is accordingly executed, in the presence, and to the content of a world of people of that City, who as much abhor the enormity of these their bloody crimes, as they rejoice ●…nd glorify God, for this their (not so severe, as deserved) punishments.  
As for La Villette he (like an impious Christian) said little else, but that which he had formerly spoken and delivered in the wood, at the receiving of his fall: only he said, That he had well hoped, that his great wealth which he had with La Vasselay, would have sheltered and preserved him from this infamous death for murdering her Husband, and his master, De Merson.  
But as for this bloody Beldame, and wretched old Fury, La Vasselay, she was content to grieve at Gratiana's death, though not to lament or pity that of her Husband De Mersons: yea, and although she seemed to blame her jealousy towards her; yet her age was so wretchedly instructed in piety, as she could not find in her heart either to make an Apology, or any way to seem repentant for her inhuman cruelty towards him: For as she demanded pardon of De Bremay for poisoning his daughterso she spoke not a word tending that way, to Manfrelle, for causing his son 〈◊〉 pistolled; only in particular terms, she re quested God to forgive the vanity of her youth; and in general ones, the world to forget the offences and crimes of her age: And so conjuring all old Widows and Wives, to beware by her mournful and execrable example; her flames and prayers made expiation for the offence of her body, and her soul mounted and fled to Heaven, to crave remission and pardon of God, who was the only Creator of the one, and Redeemer of the other.  
And such were the deplorable, yet deserved ends of this bloody, and wretched couple, La Vasselay and La Villette, for so cruelly murdering harmless Gratiana, and innocent De Merson: And thus did Gods allseeing, and sacred Justice, justly triumph o'er these their crying and execrable crimes. O that their examples may engender and propagate our reformation; and that the reading of this their lamentable History, may teach us, not only how to meditate thereon, but also how to amend thereby.   

GOD'S REVENGE AGAINST THE CRYING AND Execrable Sin of Murder.  
HISTORY XIV.  
Fidelia and Caelestina cause Carpi and Monteleone, with their two lackeys, Lorenzo and Anselmo, to murder their Father Captain Benevente, which they perform. Monteleone, and his Laquay Anfelmo are drowned, Fidelia hangs herself, Lorenzo is hanged for a robbery, and on the gallows confesseth the murdering of Benevente, Carpi hath his right hand then his head cut off; Caelestina is beheade●… and her body burnt.  
OUr best parts being our Virtues, and our chief and Sovereign Virtue, the purity and sanctity of ourselves; how can we neglect those, or not regard this, except we resolve to see ourselves miserable in this life, and our souls wretched in that to come: and as charity is the cement of our other virtues, so envy (her opposite) is the subversion of this our charity; from whence flows rage, revenge, and many times murder, (her frequent (and almost) her inseparable companions:) but of all degrees of malice and envy, can there be any so inhuman and diabolical, ●…s for two graceless daughters to plot the death of their own father; and to seduce and obtain their two lovers to act and perform it: whereof in this ensuing History, we shall see a most barbarous and bloody precedent, as also their condign punish●…nts afflicted on them for the same. In the reading whereof, O that we may have the grace by the sight of these their 〈◊〉 crimes and punishments, to reform and prevent our own; that we may look on their cruelty with charity, on their rage with rea●…on, on their errors with compassion, on their desperation, with pity, and on their 〈◊〉 wi●…h p●…; that the meditation and contemplation thereof, may terrify ou●… 〈◊〉; qu●…ch both the fire of our lust, and the flames of our revenge; so shall our faiths be fortified, our passions reform, our affections purified, and our actions eternally both blessed and sanctified: to which end, I have written and divulged it. So Christian Reader, if thou make this thy end in perusing it, thou wilt then not fail to receive comfort thereby: and therefore fail not to give God the Glory.  
MAny years since the Duke of Ossuna (under the command of Spain) was made Viceroy of the Noble Kingdom of Naples, the which he governed with much reputation and honour, although his fortunes or actions (how justly or unjustly I know not) have since suffered and received an Eclipse. In the City of Otranto, within the Province of Apulia, there dwelled an ancient rich and valiant Gentleman, (nobly descended) termed Captain Benevente, who by his deceased Lady Sophia Elia●…ora, (Niece to the Duke of Piombin●…,) had left him two daughters and a son, he termed Signior Richardo Alcasero, they two, the Ladies Fidelia and Caelestina, names indeed, which they will no way deserve; but from whom they will solely descent and derogate, through their hellish vices, and inhuman dispositions to blood and murder: we may grace our names, but our names cannot grace us. Alcasero lives not at home with his father, but for the most part at Naples, as a chief Gentleman retaining to the Viceroy: where he profiteth so well in riding and tilting (a noble virtue and exercise, (beyond all other Italians) natural and hereditary to the Neopolitans,) that he purchased the name of a bold and brave Cavalier, but for Fidelia and Caelestina, the clocks of their youth having struck twenty, and eighteen, the Captain their father, (thinking it dangerous to have Ladies of their years and descent far from him) keeps them at home, that his care might provide them good husbands, and his eye prevent them from matching with others. It is as great a blessing in children to have loving Parents, as for them to have obedient children; and had their obedience answered his affection, and their duty his providence: we had not seen the Theatre of this their History so be sprinkled, and gored with such great effusion of blood.  
This Captain Benevente their father, (for his blood, wealth, and generosity) was beloved and honoured of all the Nobility of Apulia, and for his many services, both by sea and land, was held in so great esteem in Otranto, that his house was an Academy, where all the Gallants both of City and Country resorted to back great Horses, to run at the Ring, and to practise other such Courtly and Martial Exercises, whereunto this old Captain, as well in his age, as youth, was exceedingly addicted: so as the beauty of his two daughters, Fidelia, and Caelestina could not be long, either unseen, or unadmired,: for they grew so perfectly fair, of so sweet complexions, and proper statures, that they were justly reputed and held to be the Paragons of Beauty, not only of Apulia, but of Italy: so as beauty being the Gold and Diamonds of Nature; this of theirs (so sweet in its influence, and so excellent and delicious in that sweetness) drew all men's eyes to love them, many men's hearts to adore them: so had they been as rich in Virtue, as in Beauty, they had lived more fortunate, and neither their friends nor enemies should have lived to have seen them die so miserably; for now that proves their ruin, which might have been their glory. They are both of them sought in marriage, by many Barons and Caviliers, as well at home as abroad, but the Captain their father will not give care, nor hearken to any, nor once permit that such motion be moved him: They are so immodest, as they grieve hereat, and are so extremely sorrowful, to see that a few years passed away, makes their Beauties rather fade than flourish: where Virtue graceth not Beauty, as well as Beauty, Virtue, it is often 〈◊〉 presage and forerunner of a fortune as fatal, as miserable.  
But as their thoughts were too impatient and immodest, to give way to such incontinent and irrigular conceits; so on the other side, the Captain their father, was too severe, and withal too unkind, I may say, cruel, to hinder them from Marriage, sith their beauty and age had long since made them both meritorious and capable of it: It was in them immodesty; in him, unkindness, to propose such ends, to their desires and resolutions: for as he hath authority to exact obedience from them, so have they likewise reason to expect fatherly affection, and care from him. But he is more affected and addicted to his wealth and covetousness, then inclined to regard his daughter's content; and therefore is fully resolved, not as yet to marry them, which is a resolution better left then embraced, and infringed then kept of him; sith it may bring forth effects contrary both to his hopes and desires. It is commonly dangerous for Parents, to content themselves with their children's discontents: for where Nature is crossed, it many times degenerates, and proves unnatural, as the Cataracts of Nilu●… make it submerge and wash Egypt with her inundation: But Fidelia and Caelestina, will make trial of one invention and conclusion more before they will give way to their distaste, or strike sail to their choler or revenge. They see their father is resolute, and severe in nipping their hopes, and crossing their desires of marriage; and yet they hope, that although they cannot prevail with him, that their brother Alcasero may: to which end, the sooner to obtain and crown their desires with content, they consult together, and so by a confident friend of theirs, send him this Letter to Naples.  
FIDELIA and CAELESTINA to 〈◊〉.  
Despairing of our Father's resolution to marry us, we have no other refuge or recourse, but to thyself, and thy affection, in requesting thee powerfully to solicit him herein that he may not prefer his gold before our content, and consequently his hopes before our despair: neither could our hearts or thoughts persuade us, ●…ither to employ or acquaint any other but thyself with these our desires, which Modesty would have suppressed, but that Truth contradicted and opposed it: for his severity and cruelty is such towards us, that although we are sought in marriage by divers Cavaliers our Superiors, yet he will 〈◊〉 permit us to be seen, much less to be wedded of any. join then thy power to our wishes and prayers, and thy affection to the procuring of our contents; and we then doubt ●…ot, but to be as happy in a Brother, as otherwise we fear, we shall see ourselves unfortunate, yea, miserable in a Father: and as thou canst not forget our descent and Blood; so we zealously pray and beseech thee to remember, if not our Beauty, our Touth.  


FIDELIA.  
CAELESTINA.    
Their Brother receives this their Letter: he is too brave, generous, and courteous, to be unkind to any, especially to young Ladies, & most especially to his si●…ers, whose content he makes and reputes his own. He comes to Otranto, deals effectually with the Captain his father herein, who gives them this answer▪ That he hath provided the Baron of Carpi for Fidelia, and the Knight Bartholomeo Monte-leon●… for Caelestina▪ and that within fifteen days they are to come to Otranto to see them: which news doth exceedingly rejoice first himself, than his sisters: but their joy shall not last long, but be buried as soon as borne. Within the prefixed time these two Noble men come, but they are hateful, and not pleasing to Fidelia and Caelestina; for the Baron of Carpi is crook-backt, and squinteyed, and Monte-leone is ●…ame of one leg. These Lady's value their beauty at too high a rate, to bestow it on such deformed husbands; and although Venus accepteth of Vulcan, yet they will have none of these; because they deem no hell to that of a discontented bed: heretofore they wished for Suitors, and now they wish they were well rid of these; and so sacrificing to their own contents, they set up this resolution in their hearts and souls, that they will rather dye maidens, then live to see themselves wives to such husbands. Their father receives Carpi and Monte-leone courteously, and entertains them nobly, according to their rank and merits: he tells his daughters plainly, that they shall marry these, and none others. Thus the Bark of these their resolutions, are surprised and beaten with two contrary winds: he will be obeyed of his daughters, and they will be commanded of their father in all things, but not in this of their Marriage.  
It is never good for parents, to force the affections of their children in their marriages, sith it is a business which not only lives, but dies with them; but withal, their own wills must neither be their law, nor their guide: for their Parents have, (or at least should have) more experience and judgement than they, to see who are, and who are not fit matches for them: But where authority opposeth affection, or affection, reason, there such marriages are still ushered on with discontent, and waited and attended on with misery. Likewise, there is a great respect and consideration to be observed by Parents, in the inclinations and natures of their children: for some will be persuaded, or reproved with a word, whereas others will become more headstrong and rebellious with menaces and threats. Had this Captain attempted and practised the first, and not the second towards these two Ladies his daughters, peradventure they had never leapt from reason to rage, from obedience to contempt, nor from hope to despair; yea, I dare presume to aver with truth and safety, that we should have seen them all as happy, as I now fear we shall see them miserable.  
But to proceed with their History, they are pressed by the Captain their father, and importuned by the two noble men their Suitors, to finish and confirm these contracts. But Fidelia and Caelestina with a true semblance of distaste, and yet a false show of courtesy, give the denial to their father in particular terms, and to them in general: He storms at their disobedience, and they impute this excuse of theirs, to modesty, rather than unkindness: They flatter themselves with this hope, that sith they are fair, they must be courteous, and cannot be cruel: or if the contrary, that the Captain their father will so manage his daughter's affections, as all things shall sort to their desires and expectations; but they shall come too short of their hopes: for they are neither reserved for the Ladies, nor the Ladies for them: but whiles thus they are busy in advancing the process of their affections, Fidelia and Caelestina attempt a contrary enterprise: for they with tears and prayers, request their brother Alcasero, importunately to solicit their Father in their behalf: that he will not enforce them to marry those whom they cannot affect, much less obey: which like a noble and dear brother he performs with much zeal and persuasion: but he cannot prevail with him, nor bring them any other answer, then that they must and shall marry them, and only them.  
Had this resolution of their father been more courteous and less rigorous towards his daughters, this History of theirs had not deserved so much pity, and compassion, nor would have drawn so many sighs from the hearers, or tears from the Readers: for now seeing their father cruelly resolved to offer violence to their affections, they begin to hate him, because he will not better love them. And here (O here) they enter into devilish machinations, and hellish conspiracies against him: for as he plots their discontents, so do they his destruction. Fidelia and Caelestina see their blood, and cause one, and therefore so they pretend shall be their fortunes: they would reveal their intents and designs each to other; but the fact is so foul and unnatural, as for a whiles they cannot but they need no other Oratory than their own sullen and discontented looks, for either of them may read a whole Lecture of grief and choler in each others eyes, till at length tired with the importunity of their father, and the impatiency of Carpi, and Monteleone: Fidelia as the more audacious of the two, first breaks it to her sister Caelestina, in this manner. That she had rather die, then be compelled to marry one whom she cannot affect: that the Baron of Carpi is not for her, nor she for him; and that sith her father is resolute in this match, (although she be his daughter) she had rather see him laid in his grave, than herself in Carpies bed. There needs not many reasons, to persuade that which we desire, For Caelestina tells her sister plainly, that she (in all points) joins and concurres in opinion with her, adding withal, that the sooner their father is dispatched, the better; because she knows they shall never receive any content on Earth, till he be in Heaven: and so they conclude he shall dye.  
But alas, what hellish and devilish daughters are these, to seek the death of their father, of whom they have received their lives? who ever read of a Parricide more inhumanely cruel, or impiously bloody? so if ever murder went unrevenged, this will not; for we shall see the Authors and Actors thereof most severely punished for the same. Men and women may be secret in their sins, but God will be just in his decrees, and sacred in his judgements: what a religious resolution had it been in them, to have retired, and not advanced in this their damnable attempt; but they are too profane, to have so much pity, and too outrageous to hearken to this religious reason: yea, they are too impious to hearken to Grace, and too revengeful and Bloody minded, to give ear either to Reason, Duty, or Religion. So now like two incensed and implacable furies, they consult how and in what manner they may free themselves of their father: Fidelia proposeth divers degrees and several sorts of murders; but Caelestina likes none of them; in some she finds too much danger, in others too little assurance; and therefore as young as she is, she invents, a plot as strange as subtle, and as malicious & diabolical as strange: she informs her, that to be rid of her father, there cannot be a securer course then to engage the Baron of Carpi, and the Knight of Monteleone to murder him: Fidelia wonders hereat, saying, it will be impossible for them to be drawn to perform it, sith they both know and see, that the Captain their father loves them so well, as will or nill, they must be their husbands. But Caelestina's revengeful plot is further fetched, and more cunningly spun: for she hath not begun it, to leave it raw and unfinished; but is so confident in her devilish industry, as she affirms she will perfect and make it good. Fidelia demands how. Caelestina answereth, That they both must make a feigned and flattering show, to change their distaste, and now to affect Carpi, and Monteleone, whom before they could not: that having in this manner drawn them to their lure, when they attempt to urge marriage, they shall both agree to inform them, that it is impossible for them to obtain it, whiles the Captain their father lives, sith albeit in outward appearance he make a fair show to make them their husbands; yet that he means and intends nothing less; for that he hath given them express charge and command (at any hand) not to love or affect them; which is the main and sole cause, that hath so long withheld them from making sooner demonstrations of their affections towards them: and this (quoth she) will occasion and provoke them to attempt it; adding, that by this means, they may give two strokes with one stone, and so not only be rid of our father, but likewise of Carpi and Monteleone, who peradventure may be apprehended, and executed for the fact; and for our safeguard and security, we will powerfully conjure and swear them to secrecy.  
There is no web finer than that of the Spider, nor treachery subtler than that of a woman, especially if she contemn Charity for Revenge, her Soul for her Body, God for Satan, and consequently Heaven for Hell: how else could this young Lady lodge so revengeful a heart in so sweet a Body, or shroud such bloody conceits and inventions under so fair and so beautiful complexion.  
But the Panther, though his skin be fair, yet his breath is infectious: and we many times see, that the foulest Snake lurks under the greenest and beautifullest leaves. Fidelia gives an attentive ear to this her sisters bloody Stratagem and design: she finds it sure, and the probabilities thereof apparent and easy, and therefore approves of it. So these two beautiful, yet bloody sister's vow, without delay, to set it on foot, and in practice. It is the Nature of Revenge, to look forwards, seldom backwards: but did we measure the beginning by the end, as well as the end by the beginning, our affections would savour of far more Religion, and of far less impiety, and we should then rejoice in that which we must now repent, but cannot remedy. They take time at advantage, and pertinently acquaint Carpi, and Monteleone with it. The passions of affection prove often more powerful than those of Reason, they suffer themselves to be vanquished and led away by the pure beauty and sweet Oratory of these two discontented and treacherous Ladies, without considering what poison lurks under their speeches, and danger under their tongues: They commit a gross and main error, in relying more on the daughter's youth, than the father's gravity; on their verbal, than his real affection; and so they engage themselves to the daughters, in a veryshort time to free them of the Captain their father. It was a base vice in Gentlemen of their rank, to violate the Laws of Hospitality, in so high a degree, as to kill him, who loved them so dear, and entertained them so courteously; and it is strange, that both their humours were so strangely vicious, as to concur and sympathise in the attempt of this execrable murder: But what cannot vice perform, or Ladies procure of their Lovers, at least if they love Beauty better than Virtue, and Pleasure, than Piety.  
Captain Benevente is many times accustomed after dinner to ride to his Vineyard, and now and then to Alpiata, a neighbour village, where he is familiarly (if not too familiarly) acquainted with a Tenant's wife of his, whom he loved in her youth, and cannot forsake in her middle age: perseverance in vice never makes a good end: a single sin is distasteful; but the redoubling thereof, is both hateful and odious to God. Carpi and Monteleone take their two Lackeys, Lorenzo and Anselmo with them, as soon as they know the Captain to be abroad, only accompanied with his confident Gentleman Fiamento; and disguising themselves, they watch him at the corner of the wood; where of necessity he must pass. The event answereth their bloody expectations and desires: they see Benevente and Fiamento approaching, riding a soft trot; when like so many Fiends and Devils, they all four rush forth the thickets, and (without any other form) with their Swords and Pistols, (after some resistance) kill them dead to the ground: but this is not the end of their hellish malice and envy; neither is the unsatiable thirst of their revenge yet quenched: for they take these two murdered bodies (who are a fresh reeking and weltering in their blood) and carry them to a neighbour hill, and so throw them down into a deep quarry full of thick bushes & brambles, whereas they thought no mortal eye should ever have seen them more, and then and there they consult upon their flight. Carpi resolves to take post for Naples, and there for a time to shroud himself among the multitude of the Nobility and Coaches, which grace and adorn that City: And Monte-leone resolves to hie towards Brundisium, with intent, that i●… these murders were revealed, and himself detected and accused, he would there embark himself either for Venice or Malta: but he hath not as yet made his peace and reckoning with God.  
Leave we Carpi and his Laquay posting for Naples, and let us see what accident will speedily befall Monte-leone. It is impossible for murder to go long unpunished; Monte-leone and his Laquay Anselmo shall ere they ride far, see this position verified in themselves: He is provided of two fair Gennets, one for himself, the other for his Laquay, and having taken his leave of Carpi, away he goes for Brundisium; but he hath not ridden past twelve miles before his own horse fell down dead under him, which doth something afflict and amaze him; but this is but the least part of his misery, and but the very beginning of his misfortune; he is enforced to make a virtue of necessity, so he rides his lackeys horse, and he follows him on foot. It is impossible for a guilty conscience to be secured from fear: he rides narrow lanes, and byways, but at last near the Village Blanquettelle he meets with a swift Ford, which is passable for horse, but not for foot: Here Monte-leone is constrained to take up his Laquay Anselmo behind him, which he doth; but being in the midst thereof, the horse stumbles, and falls with both of them under him; which is done so suddenly, that Montel●…e had no time to cast off his Laquay, and so they are both drowned; and have neither the Grace nor power to breathe, or speak a word more.  
God's judgements are secret and inscrutable: had they had time to repent, they had only lost their lives, whereas now it is rather to be feared; than wished, they likewise run the hazard of their souls. But as it is a virtue to think and censure charitably of the dead, so it must needs be a vice to do the contrary. Heretofore they thirsted for blood, and (lo) now they have their fill of water. All Elements are the servants of God, but these two of fire and water, are the most terrible, the most impetuous. We have but one way to come into the world, but divers to go out of it: This is a testimony of our weakness, and of God's power.  
By this time Captain Benevente, and his man Fiamento are found wanting, and no news to be heard of them: his house rings and resounds with sorrow, all his servants and friends mourn and lament for his absence, and his two accursed daughters, they seem to be all in tears hereat: but we shall shortly see this their hypocrisy and dissimulation both detected and revenged. They lay all the Country to purchase news of their father, and speedily by post advertise their brother Alcasero hereof at Naples, who amazed hereat, comes away with all possible speed and expedition: His two sisters and himself wonderfully mourn and lament for the absence of their father; and now seeing five days past and no news of him, they begin to suspect and fear, that he is made away and murdered; ●…nd because Fiamento was alone with him, they suspect him of the fact, which ●…hey are the sooner induced to believe, in regard he is fled, and not to be found: ●…ut they shall soon see the contrary, and that as he was a faithful servant to ●…eir father his master, during his life, so he was a true companion to him in ●…is death. And although Alcasero his son use all possible zeal and industry to ●…de out his father, yet sith Earth cannot, now Heaven will reveal the news ●…d sight of him. For as some neighbouring Gentlemen (his kinsfolks and ●…iends) are hunting of a Stag near Alpiata; they pursue him on horseback some five or six hours, and at last being tired, he runs for refuge and shelter, thorough the bushes and briers, into the same old Quarry, where the dead bodies of Captain Benevente, and his man Fiamento were thrown. The Gentlemen Hunters descend from their horses, and with their Swords drawn, enter purposely to kill the Stag, which they perform; when casting aside their eyes, they see two dead men's bodies, one near the other, whose legs, hands, and faces, the Crows had pitifully mangled and defaced. They are amazed at this mournful and unlooked for spectacle, when approaching to discern them, they by their clothes find, and know them to be Captain Benevente, and his Gentleman Fiamento. They are astonished and amazed hereat; and so one of them rides back post to Otranto, to acquaint Alcasero his son hereof; who melting into tears, returns with him near to Alpiata, where, to his unspeakable grief, he sees the dead bodies both of his father and Fiamento, which before all the Hunters he caused to be searched, and finds that his father (with a Pistol bullet) was shot thorough the head in two places, and run thorough the body with a Rapier in three; and that Fiamento had five deep wounds with a Rapier, and once shot thorough the head. Alcasero, and the whole company grieve and lament at this sorrowful news; they know well that Fiamento did not set upon the Captain his father, and that neither of them had Pistols: and though they might imagine it done by thiefs, yet they were quickly cleared of that jealousy and suspicion, because they find rich Rings on his Master's fingers, and store of gold in his pockets: So they referring the discovery of this bloody and damnable murder to Time, and to God, the Author and giver of Time, Alcasero causeth the dead bodies, first of his father, then of Fiamento to be laid in a Coach, which he had purposely caused to be brought thither; and so accompanied with all the Gentlemen, returns with it to Otranto, where all the whole City lament and bewail his tragical disaster: and because these dead corpse of theirs have received wrong in being so long above ground, Alcasero that night gives them their due burials, interring Fiamento decently, and his father honourably, according as the necessity and strictness of the time would permit him.  
It is now Alcasero's curiosity and care to seek out the murderers of his Father; and for his sisters, they are so irreligious and wretched, as they think to mock God, and delude the world with their immoderate, yet counterfeit mourning; but it proceeds not from their hearts, much less from their souls. The morrow after their Father's burial, they are all three informed, that Monte-leone and his Laquay Anselmo are drowned as they passed the River Blanquettelle, whereat he wonders, and his two sisters rejoice and triumph, especially Caelestina, who now sees herself freed, not only of the Captain her father whom she hated, but also of the Knight Monte-leone her Suitor, whom she could not love: She is so impious and graceless, as she doth rejoice, but will neither repent nor pity at these accidents; yea, she so slightly and trivially passeth over the remembrance of her father's untimely and bloody death, as if murder were no sin, 〈◊〉 that God had ordained no punishment for it: She wears her mourning attire and weeds, more for show than sorrow: for her father was no sooner laid in hi●… grave, but she builds many Castles of pleasure in the air of her extravagant an●… ambitious thoughts, vowing that ere long she will have a Gallant of her own choosing to her husband: but she may come too short of her hopes, and perchance fin●… a halter for her neck, before a wedding Ring for her finger. As for her brothe●… Alcasero, his thoughts are roving and roaming another way: for he finds it strang●… that the Baron of Carpi comes not to condole with him for his father, and 〈◊〉 continue his suit and affection to his sister Fidelia, whereat he both admires and wonders, and not only takes it in ill part, but also begins to suspect, and to cast many doubts and jealousies thereon; and what the issue thereof will be, or what effects it will produce, we shall shortly see. But a month or two being blown away, Carpi hearing no suspicion or talk of him, and thinking all things in a readiness for him to be assured and contracted to his Lady and Mistress Fidelia; he takes a new Laquay, and apparelling him in a contrary Livery, sends him secretly to Otranto with this Letter to her:  
CARPI to FIDELIA.  
THere are some reasons that stay me for not coming to Otranto, to condole with thee for the death of thy Father, which what they are, none can better imagine th●…n thyself: when thy sorrows are overblowne, I will come to thee, in hope to be as joyful in thy presence, as thy absence makes me miserable. I have given thee so true and so real a proof of my affection, as thou shouldest offer mepalpable injustice, and to thyself extreme injury to doubt thereof. For what greater testimony canst thou futurely expect, than to believe I will ever prefer thy love before mine own life: if thy constancy answer mine, Heaven may, but Earth cannot cross our desires. I pray signify me how thy brother stands affected to our affections; thy answers shall have many kisses, and I will ever both honour and bless that hand that writ it.  
CARPI.  
The Laquay comes to Otranto, and finds out Fidelia, to whom (with much care and secrecy) he delivers his Master's Letter, and commends, and requesteth an answer. Fidelia receives the one, and promiseth the other: but she is perplexed and troubled in mind. Here her thoughts make a stand, and consult whether she shall open this Letter or no. Her Conscience hath heretofore yielded to the death of her Father; and now Religion begins to work upon the life of her Conscience, which indeed is that of her Soul. Had she persevered in this course of piety, her repentance might have pleaded for her disobedience, and her contrition redeemed her crime; but she forsakes the Helm that might have steered her to the Port of happiness and safety; and so fills the sails of her resolutions with the wind of despair, which threaten no less than to split the Bark of her life on the rocks of her destruction and death. She now begins to hate company which before she loved, and to love solitariness, which before she hated; yea, the living picture of her dead Father doth so haunt her thoughts, and frequent her imaginations, that wheresoever she is, it is present with her. Remorse, as a Vulture gnaws at her heart and conscience; yea, though nothing do fear her, yet she fears all things. She sees no man running behind her, but she thinks he purposely follows her to drag her to prison: she is afraid of her own shadow, and thinks, that not only every tower, but every house will fall upon her: she will not come into any Boat, nor pass any River, Brooke, or Well, for fear of drowning. This despair of hers causeth her to be cold in her Religion, and frozen in her Prayers, which should be both the preservative and Antidote of the soul: her speeches for the most part are confused and distracted, and her looks; sullen, fearful, and ghastly (the proper signs & symptoms of despair.) Carpi's Laquay having stayed two days in Otranto for his answer, holds it his duty to importune Fidelia to be dispatched, the which that night she promiseth him; and now in a sad & melancholy humour she breaks off Carpi's Letter, and peruseth it; which not only renews, but revives the remembrance of her father's death; whereat she enters into so strange, and so implacable a passion, as she once had thought to have thrown his Letter into the fire, and herself after. Now she is resolved to write back to Carpi, and then presently she changeth her resolution, and vows she will answer him with s●…lence. But the Devil is as subtle as malicious; and so she calls for Pen and Ink, and out of the dregs of discontent, and the gall of despair, writes and returns him this answer:  
FIDELIA to CARPI.  
MY Father's death hath altered my disposition; for I am now wholly addicted to mourning, and not to marriage. I pray trouble not thyself to leave Naples, to c●…me to condole with me in Otranto: for the best comfort that I can receive, is that it is impossible for me to receive any: I never doubted of thy affection, nor will give thee any just cause to suspect, much less to fear mine. If this will not suffice, rest assured I have resolved, that either my grave, or thyself shall be my Husband. How my brother stands affected to thee, is a thing difficult for me to understand or know, sith I am only his Sister, not his Secretary; but in all outward appearance, I think he neither loves thee for my sake, nor myself for thine. Live thou as happy, as I fear I shall die miserable.  
FIDELIA.  
What a fearful Letter is this, either for Fidelia to send, or Carpi to receive: but her distempered and distracted spirits can afford no other; and therefore she dispatcheth away the Laquay with this. And now (as if her thoughts transported her to hell) she cannot be alone, for the Devil is still with her: he appears to her in the shape of an Angel of Light, and proffers her mountains of Wealth, and Worlds of Honour, if she will fall down and adore him. To rebel against God is a sin; but to persevere in our rebellion, is not only a contempt, but a treason in the highest degree against God. The best of God's people are commonly tempted; but those are, and prove the worst, who are overcome with temptation. Fortitude is a principal and sovereign virtue in Christians; and if we vanquish the Devil, it is good for us that he assaulted us, sith those Victories (as well spiritual as temporal) are ever most glorious and honourable, which are achieved with greatest danger. Had Fidelia followed the current of this counsel, and the stream of this advice, she had never been so weak with God, nor so unfaithful to herself, as to destroy herself: but forsaking God, and contemning prayer, which is the true way to the truest felicity, what can she hope for but despair, or expect but destruction? Her brother Alcasero, and many of her kinsfolks, neighbours, and friends (with their best zeal, and possible power) endeavour to persuade and comfort her; they exhort her to read religious books, and continually to pray: She hearkeneth to both these counsels, but neither can, or will not follow either: Her sleeps are but broken slumbers, and her slumbers but distracted dreams; and ever and anon it seems (to the eyes of her mind and body) that the Captain her father doth both speak to her and follow her. In a word, she is weary both of this world, and of her life; yea, despair, or rather the Devil hath reduced her to this extreme misery, and miserable extremity, that she is ready to kiss that hand that would kill her, or that Death which would give her death: She never sees a knife in the hands of another, but she wisheth it in her own heart: her Conscience doth so terribly accuse her, and ●…r thoughts give in such bloody evidence against her conscience and self, for occasioning her father's murder, that she resolves she must die, and therefore disdains to live, And now comes her sister Celestina to her, to persuade and confer with her, but she will prove but a miserable comforter. Fidelia sees her with hatred and detestation, and when she begins to speak, very peremptorily and mournfully cuts off her speeches thus; Ah sister, would we had slipped when we plotted our father's death, for in seeking his ruin, we shall assuredly find out our 〈◊〉: Provide you for your safety, for I am past hope of mine; and so get you out of my sight. I know not whether the beginning of this her speech savoured more of Heaven, than the end thereof doth of Hell: for sure If we pass hope we come too short of salvation; and if we forsake that, this infallibly will forsake us.  
This poor, or rather this miserable Gentlewoman, having always her murdered father before her eyes, (which incessantly haunts her as a ghost, and yet she enforced to follow it as her shadow) is powerfully alured and provoked by the instigation of the Devil, in what manner, or at what rate soever, to dispatch herself, being so wretchedly instructed in faith and piety, and she adds and believes, that the end of her life will prove not only the end of her afflictions, but the beginning of her joys. But O poor Fidelia, with a thousand pities and tears, I both pity and grieve to see thee believe so infernal an Advocate: for what joys either will he, or can he give thee? Why, nothing but bondage for liberty, torments for pleasures, and tortures for delights: or if thou wilt have me show thee whereat his flattering oratory, or sugared insinuation tendeth, it is only to have thee destroy thy body in earth, that (as a triumph and Trophy to the enlargement of his obscure kingdom) he may drag thy body and soul to hell fire. But Fidelia is as constant in her sin, as impious in her resolution; and so (all delays set apart) she seeks the means to destroy herself: she procures poison, and takes it, but the effect and operation thereof answers not her desires. I know not whether she be more impatient to live, than willing to die. We never want invention, seldom means to do evil: a little penknife of hers, shall in her conceit perform that which poison could not: she seeks it, and now remembers it is with her pair of knives in the pocket of her best gown: she flies to her Wardrobe, and so to her pocket, but finds not her knives, only she finds her Naples silk girdle in stead thereof. The Devils instruments are never far to seek; she thinks it as good to strangle her throat, as to cut it: And here comes her mournful and deplorable Tragedy, she returns swiftly to her chamber, bolts the door, and so (which I grieve and tremble to relate) fastens it to the reaster of her bed, and there hangs herself; and as it is faithfully reported, at that very instant, and for the space of an hour, it thundered and lightened so cruelly, as if Heaven and Earth were drawing to an end, that not only the chamber where she hung, but the whole house shaked thereat. The thunder being past, and the skies cleared, dinner is served on the Table, and Alcasero and Caelestina ready to sit, they call for their sister Fidelia, but she is not to be found. One goes to her chamber, and returns, that her key is without side, and the door bolted within, and yet she answers not. They both fly from the Table to her chamber, and call and knock, but no answer. Alcasero commands his men to break open the door, which they do, and there sees his sister Fidelia hanging to the bedsteed stark dead. They cry out as affrighted and amazed at this mournful and pitiful spectacle, and with all speed take her down; but she is breathless, though not cold; and they see all her face and body, which were wont to be as white as snow, now to be coal black, and to stink infinitely. These are the woeful effects, and lamentable fruits both of Despair and Murder; O, may Christians of all ranks, and of both sexes, take heed by Fidelia's mournful & miserable example, and withal remember that murder will still be revenged and punished, especially that which is perpetrated by Children towards their Parents; a sin odious both to God and man, sith it not only opposeth Nature, but Grace; Earth, but heaven.  
No sooner (with grief and mourning) hath Alcasero buried this his natural, yet unnatural ●…ster Fidelia, but as his other sister Caelestina weeps for her death, so she again, rejoiceth that her sister hath no way revealed the great business, which so much concerns her, I mean the murder of the Captain her father. But Time will detect and revenge both it and her. And that we may not seem extravagant in the narration and unfolding of this History, fly we from Otranto to Naples, and leave we the fatal and woeful Tragedy of Fidelia; to speak a little of the Baron of Carpi her Lover, who hath yet a great part to act upon the Theatre of this History.  
He hath no sooner received Fidelia's Letter by his Lackey, but he much wonders and grieves at the contents thereof: he sees her cold in her affection towards him, and hot in despair to herself, and thinks, that as it is in her power to rejoice him with her affection, so it may be in his to comfort her with his presence: but her request and his Conscience inform him, that it is yet too soon to leave Naples to see Otranto; and yet that he may not fail in the compliment and duty of a Lover, he resolves to visit her by Letter, though not in person, and so writes her these few lines.  
CARPI to FIDELIA.  
WEre thy request not my Law, I would see Fidelia to comfort her, and comfort myself to see her: But sith I must be so unfortu●…, as in one Letter to receive two different sorrows, my refusal, and thy despair: what remedy (or Antidote) can I more aptly administer, than Patience to the first, and Prayer to the second. If thou weigh matters aright, I have more occasion of sorrow than thyself, and yet I am so far from despairing, as I hope Time will give thee consolation, and me Content. Endeavour to love thyself, and not to hate me; so shalt thou draw felicity out of affliction, and I security out of danger. I hope thy brother will not follow thy father's steps, his affection to thee, shall be mine to himself: Let thy second Letter give me half so much joy, as thy first did grief, and I shall then triumph at my good fortune, as much as I now lament and pity thine, and in that mine own:  
CARPI.  
He sends this Letter of his to Otranto, by his Lackey Fiesco, who carried his first; but he must go into another world if he mean to deliver it to Fidelia: He comes to Otranto, and repairs to Captain Benevent●… house: whereas he is walking in the second Court. Alcasero being very solitary and pensive at a window, leaning his head on his hand, and deeply and seriously thinking what two fatal disasters were befallen his house, as the loss of his father and sister, he by chance espies this Lackey Fiesco; at whose sight his heart beats, and his blood very suddenly flasheth up in his face: he exceedingly wonders hereat, and attributing every extraordinary motion in himself, a step or degree to the discovery of his father's murder, whereon his thoughts were always fixed, and could never be withdrawn: he sends a Gentleman of his named Plantinus, to inquire whose Lackey it was, and what was his business. Plantinus descends and examineth him, but he is close, and will reveal nothing. He entreats him to enter and taste the Wine, the which he doth; when engaging, and leaving him in the Cellar, he trips up to his Master, and acquaints him with his answer, adding withal, that some fifteen days since he saw him here before. Alcasero commands this Lackey to be brought before him, he examines him, but he will not discover himself; he threatens him with the whip, and imprisonment, but he cannot prevail. It is a virtue in a servant to conceal his master's secrets. Alcasero is angry at his silence and fidelity, yet commends him: he bethinks himself of another course and subtlety, as well knowing that fair words may obtain that which threats cannot; he prays him to dine with his servants, and enjoineth Plantinu●… to bring him to him in the Garden after dinner, the which he doth: Alcasero takes him apart, and tells him, that some fifteen days passed he saw him here: Fiesco answereth him with silence. Alcasero finds much perturbation in his heart, and distraction in his looks and speech; he thinks this boy can reveal something which he ought to know, and therefore thinks to surprise him with a silver hook; he proffers him twenty Ducats, and lays it down before him, to discover himself and his business.  
Gold is, but ought not to be a powerful bait to indiscretion and poverty. It is a small point of small wisdom in Noblemen to commit secrets of importance to those who have too much folly, and too little judgement to conceal them. The sight of this gold doth not only dazzle Fiesco's eyes, but eclipse his fidelity; so he holds it no sin towards God, nor treachery towards his master to reveal it; but takes it, and informs him, that he is the Baron of Carpi his Lackey, who sent him from Naples thither, with a letter from him to the Lady Fidelia his sister. Alcasero grows pale hereat, and is very curious and hasty to see the Letter: Fiesco delivers it him, who steps aside, and reads it: whreon he plucks his hat down his forehead, and so making three or four paces, reads it over again. He is perplexed to know as much as he sees, and grieved, not to see and find as much as he desireth to know: he now confirms his former suspicion of Carpi, and believes that he is a chief Actor or Agent in his father's Tragedy. But he knows it wisdom to use silence in the discovery of a crime of this nature; and therefore calls Fiesco to him, bids him stay that night, and to speak with him in the morning before he depart.  
Alcasero withdraws himself from the Garden to his Closet, and there again peruseth this Letter of Carpi's: he finds it full of suspicion and ambiguities, and perceives it hath a relation to former letters; yea, there is a mystery in this Letter, the which he must unlock and find out ere he be satisfied: for although Carpi be squinteyed, yet he fears he hath looked too right on his father. He flies to Fidelia's Closet, Trunk, and Casket, and finds a former Letter of Carpi's to her, and the copy of one of hers to him; and the perusal of these two Letters are so far from diminishing his suspicion, as it doth augment and increase it; for now he verily believes that Carpi and his sister Fidelia have jointly had a great hand in his father's murder. But all this while he doth not once so much as suspect or imagine that his other sister Caelestina hath played any part in this Tragedy: but Time is the daughter of Truth, as Truth is that of Heaven. In the morn he calls for Fiesco, to whom he gave this farewell: Tell the Baron of Carpi thy Master, that my sister Fidelia is in another world, and not in this, and that shortly I resolve to see him at Naples, and that in the interim I will reserve his Letter. Fiesco departs, but knows, he hath so highly betrayed and wronged his Master, as he dares not see him, and so shows him a fair pair of heels. Such lackeys far better deserve a halter than a Livery. Carpi wonders at his lackeys long stay: In which mean time Alcasero comes to Naples, where he is yet irresolute, whether to accuse Carpi by the order and course of Law, or to fight with him: but he resolves to do both; and that if the Law will not right him for the murder of his father, his sword shall. He goes to the criminal judges, and with much passion and sorrow accuseth the Baron of Carpi for murdering of the Captain Benevente his father; and for proof hereof produceth his two Letters to his sister Fidelia, and the copy of one of hers to him. Whereupon the Judges grant power to apprehend Carpi, so he is taken and constituted prisoner; and now he hath leisure to think on the baseness and foulness of his fact. But he is so far from dejecting himself to sorrow, or addicting himself to repentance, as he puts a brazen face on his looks and speeches, and so peremptorily intends and resolves to deny all. Had he had more grace, or less impiety, he would have made better use of this his imprisonment, and have shown himself at least humble, if not sorrowful, for his offence and crime. But he holds it wisdom in greatest dangers to show most courage and resolution, and so makes himself fit to grapple and encounter with all accidents and occurrences whatsoever.  
Men may palliate their sins, but God will find them out, and display them in their naked colours. Alcasero is an importunate solicitor to the Judges to draw and hasten on Carpi his arraignment: But they (resembling themselves) proceed therein modestly and gravely: they consult, and consider the three Letters: they find conjectural sentences enough to accuse, but no solid proof to condemn him: they hold, that their opinions ought not to be swayed with the wind of every presumption, and that it is not fit so trivially to set the life of a man at six and seven. Besides, as they approve of Alcasero his affection to his father, so they dislike of his impetuosity and vehemency towards Carpi. They all resolve to lay the Sword of justice in the balance of Equity, and then ordain that Carpi shall be racked, to see whether they can draw more light from his tongue, than from his pen. But he endures these his tortures and torments with wonderful constancy; and still denies all. Had his cause been more religious and humane, and not so bloody, this fortitude and courage of his had been as praiseworthy, as now it is odious and execrable. The Court by sentence (pronounced in open Senate) acquit and clear Carpi of this murder; whereat Alcasero exceedingly repines and murmurs.  
It is not enough that Carpi hath now escaped this danger; for Alcasero remains still constant in his conceit, that he is the murderer of his father, and therefore vows and resolves to fight with him: He le's pass some six week's time, till he be sound of his limbs, and then resolves to send him a challenge. Had Carpi been innocent, it had been more honourable and requisite, that he had challenged Alcasero, than Alcasero him: but his cause being unjust, and his conscience fearful, he dares not run the hazard, to be desirous or ambitious to fight with Alcasero: the which if he had attempted, Alcasero will anticipate and prevent him; who making Plantinus his second, he out of the ashes of his sorrow, and the fire of his revenge, sends him to Carpi with this Billet of Defiance.  
ALCACERO to DE CARPI.  
ALthough the Law have cleared thee for the murder of my Father, yet my Conscience cannot, and my Rapier will not. I should be a monster of Nature, not to seek revenge for his death, of whom I have received my life. Could I give peace to my thoughts, or unthink the cause of my disaster, I would not seek to bereave thee of thylife, with the hazard of mine own. But finding this not only difficult, but impossible, pardon me if I request thee to meet me single, at eight of the clock after supper, at the West end of the Common Vineyard, where I will attend thee with a couple of Rapiers, the choice whereof shall be thine, and the refusal mine: or if thou wilt make use of a second, he shall not depart without meeting one to exchange a thrust or two with him.  
ALCASERO.  
Whiles the Baron of Carpi is triumphing to see how he hath bleared the eyes of his Judges, and so freed himself from the fears and danger of death, behold, Plantinus finds him out, and delivers him Alcasero his Challenge. He takes it, and with a variable countenance reads it, whereat he finds a reluctation and combat, not only in his thoughts, but his Conscience; whether he should accept or refuse it. His Honour bids him do the first; but his Conscience wills him to perform the second: it were better to be borne a Clown than a Coward. Besides if he should refuse to fight with Alcasero, he upon the matter makes himself guilty of the Captain his father's death. He knows he hath an unjust cause in hand, but he prefers his Honour before his Li●…e, when setting a good face upon his resolution, he adresseth himself to Plantinus thus:  
Sir, I presume you know this business: for I take you to be Alcasero's Second. He hath (replied Plantinus) done me the honour to make choice of me, in stead of a more worthy. Well (quoth the Baron of Carpi) tell thy master from me, That although I have not deserved his malice, yet that I accept his challenge, and will perform it, only I must fight single, because I am at present unprovided of a Second. Plantinus (as full of Valour as Fidelity) prays him, that he may not see his hopes and desires frustrated, but that he may enjoy part of the feast. But Carpi gives him this answer, which he bids him take for his last resolution: That he will hazard himself, but not his friend. So Plantinus returns with joy to his master, and discontent to himself: when nothing proving of power, to quench the fire of these two gentlemen's courage and revenge, they meet at the time and place appointed. Carpi fights with passion and vehemency; Alcasero with judgement and discretion. Carpi looks red and fiery with choler, and Alcasero pale and ghastly, not for fear of his cause, but for the remembrance of his sorrows: and to conclude and shut up this combat in the issue thereof, justice is not now pleased to show the effects of her power and influence; nor God that of his Justice, only it is reserved for another time, and for a more shameful manner: so Carpi hath the best of the day, for he is only hurt in his right hand, and scared over both his lips, as if the providence and pleasure of God had ordained, that that hand which committed the murder, and that mouth which denied it, should be purposely punished and no part else. As for Alcasero, he had five several wounds, whereof one being thorough the body, made Carpi believe it was mortal, and the rather, for that he fell therewith speechless to the ground: so leaving him grovelling and weltering in his blood, he departs, resting very confident, that he was at his very last gasp of life, and point of death. But Carpi his Chirurgeon (being more humane and charitable than his master) leaps over the next hedge, and comes to his assistance: He leans him against a bank, binds up his wounds, and wraps him in his cloak, and so runs to a Litter, which he saw near him, and prays the Lady that was in it, that she would vouchsafe to take in Don Alcasero, who was there extremely and dangerously wounded: and this did Carpi his Chirurgeon perform, in the absence of Alcasero's own Chirurgeon; who out of some distaste or forgetfulness, came not at the hour and place assigned, according to his promise. It was the Lady Marguerita Esperia, who out of her noble and charitable zeal to wounded Alcasero, presently descended her Litter, commanding her servants to lay him in softly, and to convey him to his lodging, and she herself is pleased to stay in the fields till her servants return it her. It was a courtesy, and a charity worthy of so Honourable a Lady as herself: and in regard whereof, I hold it fit, to give her remembrance and name a place in this History. All Naples, yea, the whole Kingdom rings of this combat; the Baron of Carpi and Alcasero are (jointly) highly commended and extolled for the same; the last for his affection and zeal to his dead father; the first, for giving Alcasero his life, when it was in his power and pleasure to have taken it from him. But God will not permit Alcasero to die of these wounds, but will rather have him live to see Carpi die before him, though in a far more ignoble and shameful manner.  
As soon as Alcasero's wounds are cured, and he pretty well recovered, he leaves Naples, and returns to Otranto, where his sister Caelestina did as much shake and tremble at the imprisonment of the Baron of Carpi, as she now rejoices at his liberty; especially, sith she is assured, that he hath no way accused her, nor used her name for the death and murder of her father, which indeed makes her far more pleasant and merry than before, and within six months after marries with Signior Alonso Loudovici, whom she ever from her youth had loved and affected, and with whom she lives in great pleasure, state, and pomp; and no less doth her brother Alcasero, who for the courtesy which Dona Marguerita Esperia showed him when he was so dangerously wounded, in requital thereof doth now marry the fair Beatina, her only daughter, with whom he lives in the highest content and felicity, as any Gentleman of Italy, or of the whole world can either desire or wish.  
But this Sunshine of Carpi's prosperity, and Caelestina's happiness and glory shall not last long: for there is a storm breaking forth, which threateneth no less than the utter ruin, as well of their fortunes as lives. Where men cannot, God will both detect and punish murders; yea, by such secret means and instruments, as we least suspect or imagine. They are infallible Maxims, that we are never less secured, than when we think ourselves secure; nor nearer danger, than when we esteem ourselves farthest from it. And if any be so incredulous, or as I may say, so irreligious, as not to believe it, have they but a little patience, and they shall instantly see it verified and made good in the Baron of Carpi, and the Lady Caelestina, who thinking themselves now safe and free from all adverse fortunes, and fatal accidents whatsoever, and enjoying all those contents and pleasures, which their hearts could either desire or wish to enjoy, or which the world could prostitute or present them; they in a moment shall be bereft of their delights and glory, and enforced to end their days on a base scaffold, with much shame, infamy, and misery. The manner is thus:  
God many times beyond our hopes and expectations, doth square out the rule of his Justice, according to that of his will: all men are to be accountable to him for their actions, but he to none for his decrees and resolutions: it is in him to order, in us to obey; yea, many times he reprives us, but yet with no intent to pardon us. Curiosity in matters of Faith and Religion, proves not only folly but impiety: for as we are men, we must look up to God, but as we are Christians, we must not look beyond him. He oftentimes makes great offenders accuse themselves for want of others to accuse them; and when he pleaseth, he will punish one sin by another, the which we shall now see verified in Lorenzo▪ the Baron of Carpi his Laquay; that wretched and bloody Lorenzo, who as we have formerly heard, assisted this his Master to murder Captain Benevente and Fiamento, near Alpiata; who ever since being countenanced and authorized by his Master's favour, in respect of this his foul fact, wherein his bloody and murderous hand was deeply and jointly imbrued with him; he from that time becomes so debauched and dissolute in his service, as he spends all that possible he can procure or get, yea, and runs likewise extremely in debt, not only with all his friends, but also with all those whom he knows will trust him: so as his wants being extremely urgent, and enforced to see himself reduced to a miserable indigence and poverty. He being one day sent by the Baron his Master to the Senate house with a Letter to his Councillor, he there in the throng and crowd of people cut a purse from a Gentlewoman's side, wherein was some five and twenty Ducketons in Gold, was taken with the manner, and apprehended, and imprisoned for the fact, and the next morn his Process was made, he found guilty, and condemned to be hanged: So he is dealt withal by a couple of Friars in prison, who prepare his soul for Heaven: He sees the foulness of his former life, and reputes it. The Baron of Carpi his Master, no sooner understands this news, but he shakes and trembles, fearing lest this his Laquay should reveal the murder of the Captain and his man: whereupon he resolveth to fly; but considering again, that if his Laquay accuse him not, his very flight will proclaim and make him guilty: he stays, and as he thinks, resolves of a better course. He goes to the prison, and deals with his Laquay to be secret in the business he wots of; protesting and promising him, that in consideration thereof, he will enrich his mother and brothers. Lorenzo tells him, that he need not fear; for as he hath lived, so he will die his faithful servant: But we shall see him have more grace, than to keep so graceless a promise. Carpi flattering himself with the fidelity and affection of his Laquay, resolves to stay in the City: but he shall shortly repent his confidence. He was formerly betrayed by Fiesco, which me thinks should have made him more cautious and wise, and not so simple to entrust and repose his life on the incertain mercy of Lorenzo's tongue: but God's Revenge draws near him, and consequently he near his end; for he neither can nor shall avoid the judgement of Heaven.  
Lorenzo on the gallows, will not charge his soul with this foul and execrable sin of murder: but Grace now operating with his soul, as much as formerly Satan did with his heart, he confesseth, that he, and the Baron of Carpi his Master, together with the Knight Monte-leone, and his Laquay Anselmo, murdered the Captain Benevente, and his man Fiamento, and threw them into the Quarry, the which he takes to his death is true: and so using some Christianlike speeches of repentance and sorrow, he is hanged.  
Lorenzo is no sooner turned over, but the Criminal judges advertised of his speeches delivered at his death, they command the Baron of Carpi his lodging to be beleaguered, where he is found in his study, and so apprehended, and committed prisoner, where fear makes him look pale; so as the Peacock's plumes both of his pride and courage strike sail. He is again put to the Rack, and now the second time he reveals his foul and bloody murder, and in every point acknowledgeth Lorenzo's accusation of him to be true: So he is condemned, first to have his right hand cut off, and then his head, notwithstanding that many great friends of his sue to the Viceroy for his pardon. The night before he was to die the next morn, one of his Judges was sent to him to prison, to persuade him to discover all his complices in that murder, besides Monte-leone and his Laquay Anselmo; yea, there are likewise some Divines present, who with many religious exhortations persuade him to it: So Grace prevails with Nature, and Righteousness with Impiety and sin in him; that he is now no longer himself, for contrition and repentance hath reform him; he will rather disrespect Caelestina, than displease God: whereupon he affirms, that she and her deceased sister Fidelia, drew him and Monte-leone to murder their father, and his man Fiamento, and that if it had not been for their allurements and requests, they had never attempted either the beginning or end of so bloody a business: and thus making himself ready for Heaven, and grieving at nothing on Earth, but at the remembrance of his foul fact, he in the sight of many thousand people, doth now lose his head.  
This Tragedy is no sooner acted and finished in Naples, but the Judges of this City send away post to those of Otranto, to seize on the Lady Caelestina, (who in the absence of her husband for the most part lived there:) A Lady whom I could pity for her youth and beauty, did not the foulness of her fact so foully disparage and blemish it. She is at that instant at a Nobleman's house, at the solemnity of his daughter's marriage, where she is apprehended, imprisoned, and accused to be the author and plotter of the Captain her father's death; neither can her tears or prayers exempt her from this affliction and misery. She was once of opinion to deny it, but understanding that the Baron of Carpi and his Laquay Lorenzo were already executed for the same in Naples, she with a world of tears freely confesseth it, and confirms as much as Carpi affirmed: whereupon in expiation of this her inhuman Parricide, she is condemned to have her head cut off, her body burnt, and her ashes thrown into the air; for a milder death, and a less punishment the Lord will not (out of his Justice) inflict upon her, for this her horrible crime, and barbarous cruelty committed on the person of her own father, or at least seducing and occasioning it to be committed on him; and it is not in her husband's possible power to exempt or free her hereof. Being sent back that night to prison, she passeth it over (or in very truth the greatest part thereof) in prayer, still grieving for her sins, and mourning for this her bloody offence and crime; and the next morn being brought to her execution, when she ascended the scaffold, she was very humble, sorrowful, and repentant, and with many showers of tears requested her brother Alcasero and all her kinsfolks to forgive her, for occasioning and consenting to her father's death, and generally all the world to pray for her; when her sighs and tears so sorrowfully interrupted and silenced her tongue, as she recommending her soul into the hands of her Rede●…mer, whom she had so heinously offended, she with great humility and contrition, kneeling on her knees, and lifting up her eyes and hands towards heaven, the Executioner with his sword made a double divorce betwixt her head and her body, her body and her soul; and then the fire (as if incensed at so fiery a spirit) consumed her to ashes, and her ashes were thrown into the air, to teach her, and all the world by her example, that so inhuman and bloody a daughter, deserved not either to tread on the face of this Earth, or to breathe this air of life.  
She was lamented of all who either knew or saw her, not that she should die, but that she should first deserve, then suffer so shameful and wretched a death: and yet she was far happier than her sister Fidelia, for she despaired, and this confidently hoped for remission and salvation. Thus albeit this wretched and execrable young Gentlewoman lived impiously, yet she died Christianly: wherefore let us think on that with detestation, and on this with charity. And here we see how severely the murder of Captain Benevente was by God's just revenge punished, not only in his two daughters who plotted it, but also in the two Noblemen and their two lackeys who acted it. Such attempts and crimes, deserve such ends and punishments, and infallibly find them. The only way therefore for Christians to avoid the one, and contemn the other, is with sanctified hearts, and unpolluted hands, still to pray to God for his Grace, continually to affect prayer, and incessantly to practise piety in our thoughts, and godliness in our resolutions and actions, the which if we be careful and conscionable to perform, God will then shroud us under the wings of his favour, and so preserve and protect us with his mercy and providence, as we shall have no cause to fear either Hell or Satan.   

GOD'S REVENGE AGAINST THE CRYING AND Execrable Sin of Murder.  
HISTORY XV.  
Maurice like a bloody villain, and damnable son, throws his Mother Christina into a Well and drowns her: the same hand and arm of his wherewith he did it rots away from his body; and being discrased of his wits in Prison, he there confesseth his foul and inhuman murder, for the which he is hanged.  
IF we did not wilfully make ourselves miserable, God is so indulgent and merciful to us, as he would make us more happy; but when with high and presumptuous hands we violate the Laws of Nature and Grace, of Earth and Heaven, in murdering through Envy those, whom through Duty and affection we are bound to obey, honour, cherish, and preserve: than it is no marvel, because we first forsook God, that he after abandoneth us to ourselves, and sins, and to the fruits thereof, Calamity, Misery, Infamy, and Perdition; and that we may see humane cruelty to be justly met with and punished by God's upright and divine Justice, Lo here in this ensuing History we shall see a wretched son kill his harmless and dear mother. A very fearful and lamentable Parricide, a most cruel and execrable fact, for the which we shall see him rewarded with condign punishment, and with a sharp and infamous death, although not half so deplorable as deserved. It is a bitter and bloody History, the relation and remembrance whereof, in the most barbarous and flinty hearts is capable, not only to engender compassion, but compunction; yea, not only contrition but tears, at least if we have any place left in us for Pity, or room for Piety; the which if we have, doubtless the end of our reading will not only bless, but crown the beginning, and the beginning the end thereof.  
Upon the North-east side of the Lake Leman, vulgarly known and called the Lake of Geneva, (because it pays its full tribute, and makes its chiefest Rendezvous before that City, whereof it invironeth at least one third part.) There stands a pretty small and strong town, distant a little day's journey from it, termed Morges, which properly belongs to the jurisdiction of Berne, one of the chiefest Cantons of that warlike people and Country of Switzerland, wherein of very late years, and recent memory, there dwelled a rich and honest Burger, or Burgemaster (for of Gentry those parts and people are not, because they will not be capable) named Martin Halsenorfe, who by his wife Christina Snuytsaren, had one only child a son, named Maurice Halsenorfe, now of some fourteen year old; whose father although he were by profession a soldier, and enroled a Lieutenant to one of those Auxiliary Bands of that Country which are in pay to the French King; yet nevertheless his chiefest ambition and care was, to make this son of his a scholar, because the Ignorance and illiterature of his own age, made him to repent it in himself, and therefore to provide a remedy thereof in his son's youth, sith he now knew and saw, that a man without learning, was either as a body without a soul, or a soul without knowledge and reason, which are her chiefest virtues, and most sacred Ornaments and Excellencies: So he brings him up to their own Grammar School in Morges, where in some three or four years his affection and care to study, makes him so good a Proficient, as he becomes not only skilful, but perfect therein, and almost as capable to teach his Schoolmaster, as he was to instruct him: yea, and to add the better Grace to the Grace of that Art, he was of so mild and so modest a carriage, and the blossoms of his youth were so sweetly watered with the Heavenly dew of Virtue and Piety, as if his manners and himself were wholly composed thereof; so that for Learning and Goodness he was, and was justly reputed, not only the Mirror, but the Phoenix of all the youth of Morges; and as he esteemed himself happy in his Parents, so they reciprocally hold themselves, not only happy, but blessed in this their son; but because the inherent corruption of our Nature, and the perverseness and multiplicity of our sins are such, as they cannot promise us any true joy, much less assured and permanent felicity: so the Sunshine of this their Temporary content, equally divided in thirds betwixt the Father, Mother, and Son, will shortly receive a great Eclipse, and a fatal disaster, which will be to them so much the more bitter and mournful, sith both the cause and effects thereof were of each of them unthought of, of them all unexpected.  
For God in his sa●…red decree and providence, seeing Martin Halsenorfe the father, his strength arrived at his full Meridian and height, and his days to their full number and period: He, as he sat at dinner jocund and merry with his wife and son, is suddenly taken with a deadly swoone, which presently deprives his body of this life, and sends his soul to enjoy the sweet felicity and sacred joy and immortality of the life to come: A Document which may teach us not to rely upon the rotten privileges and strength of youth, but so to prepare our lives, that death at all places, and in all times, maystill find us armed and ready to encounter it. A Document which may teach us with the erected eyes, as well of our faith as body, so to look from Earth to Heaven, that our souls be not only ready, but willing to forsake this stinking Tabernacle and prison of our mortality, to fly and be admitted into Heaven, that Heavenly jerusalem, and Celestial City, where they may enjoy the blessed Communion of the Saints, and the greatest blessings of all joys, and the most sovereign joy of all blessings, then to see our Creator and Saviour, God the Father, and Christ jesus his Son face to face, wherein indeed all the joys and blessings of our souls are comprised and included.  
The death of Halsenorfe the father, is not only the Argument, but the cause of his widow Christin●…'s grief, of his son Maurice his sorrow, of her tears and groans, of his sighs and afflictions; yea, and not to derrogate from the Truth, I may step a degree farther and say, that this his death is a fatal herald, and mournful har●…inger, which p●…rtends and prepares both of them many disastrous calamities, and woeful miseries, the which in a manner are almost ready to surprise and befall them.  
This sorrowful widow being thus deprived of her dear Husband, who was both her comfort and her joy, her stay and her Protector, her Head and her glory; although he left her a good Estate, sufficient enough to warrant her against the fear of poverty, and to secure herself against the apprehension of worldly Indigence; and wherewithal to maintain both her and her son, with somewhat more than an indifferent competency: yet she saw her friends forsake her, and her Husbands familiar acquaintance abandon her▪ as if their friendship died with him, and that their remembrance of him was wholly raked up, and buried in the dust of his grave. A most ingrateful disease and iniquity of our time, rather to be pitied than cured, and reproved than reform, so fading & inconstant are the unfriendly friendships of the world, who for the most part are grounded on profit, not on Honour, on avarice, not on Virtue, on their own gold, not on the want of their Christian neighbours and brethren: But enough of this, and again to our History.  
Now if Christina (for only by that name I will henceforth entitle her) have any comfort or consolation left her, to sweeten the bitterness of her Husband's death, it is only to see him survive and live in her son Maurice, in whose virtues and years, her hopes likewise begin again to bud forth and flourish; when remembering what an earnest care and desire her husband had to see him a Scholar, as she inherits his goods, so she will assume and inherit that resolution of his: and although she love her son's sight, and affect his presence tenderly and dear, yet she can give no peace to her thoughts, nor take any truce of her resolutions, till she send him from Morges to the University of Losanna, some three leagues distant thence, there to perfect his studies and learning, the seeds whereof already so hopefully blossomed forth, and fructified in him. To which end, her deepest affection and care having harkened out one Deodatus Varesius, a Bachelor of Divinity of that University, whom fame (though indeed most falsely) had informed her to be an expert Scholar, and an excellent Christian, she agrees with him; when allowing her son an honest exhibition, and furnishing him with Books, a Gown, and all other necessaries, she sends him away to Losanna, charging him at his departure to be careful of his Learning, carriage, and actions, and above all, to make piety and godliness in his life and conversation, the Regent of all his studies; when with tears of natural affection, they take leave each of other.  
Maurice being arrived at Losanna, finds out his Tutor Varesius, who receives and welcomes this his Pupil courteously and kindly: but, alas, the hopes of Christina the mother, are extremely deceived in the virtues of Varesis; because his Vices will instantly deceive both the merits and expectation of her Son, or rather change nature and qualities in him, and thereby shortly make him as vicious in Losanna, as formerly he was virtuous in Morg●…: for I write with grief and pity, that to define the truth aright, it was difficult to say, whether he were more learned or debauched, a more perfect Scholar, or profane Christian: for albeit the dignity of his Bachelorship of Theology, did hide many of his dissolute pranks, and obscene imperfections, yet his exorbitant deportment and industry could not so closely overvaile and obscure them, but his intemperate affection to drinking, and beastly inclination to drunkenness, began now to become obvious and apparent to the eyes and Heads of his College, yea, to the whole University: A most pernicious and swinish Vice, indeed too too much incident and sub●…ect to these people the Swissers; but if it had been immured and confined within these Rocks and Mountains of Germany, it had proved not only a happiness, but a blessing to the other Western parts of the Christian world, where it spreads its infection like an uncontrollable and incurable Gangrene, yea, like a most contagious and fatal pestilence: so as in Varesius there was nothing more incongruous and different, than his doctrine and his life, his profession and conversation, his Theory and his Practice, his knowledge and his will. But if the head-springs and ●…onntaines be corrupted with this vice and drunkenness, no marvel if the Rivers and Streams of Commonweals be infected and poisoned therewith; yea, if it be not debarred, but have admittance and residence in the Schools and Classes of Universities, from which Nurses and Gardens of the Muses, both the Church and State fetch their chiefest Ornaments and Members; how can we expect to see it rooted out from the more illiterate Commons, whose gross ignorance makes them far more capable to learn Vice, than Virtue; or rather Vice, and not Virtue; sith there is no shorter nor truer art to learn it, than of their Art Masters, because the example and precedent of ill doings in our Teachers and Superiors, doth not only plant, but engraff and root it, not only privilege, but as it were authorise it in us, still with a fatal impetvosity, with a dangerous violence, and pernicious event and issue: for if remedies be not to be found in learned Phisiti●…ns, it is then in vain to seek them in the rude and unlearned people; and if the Pr●…ceptor himself be not sanctified, it is rather to be feared than doubted, that his Disciple will not. This (yea this) is a most mournful and fatal rock, whereon divers virtuous and religious parents have even wept themselves to death, to see their children suffer shipwreck: yea this beastly and brutish sin of Drunkenness, is still the Devil's Usher and Pander to all other sins; and therefore how cautious and careful ought the Heads of Schools and Universities be, to expel and root it out from themselves, and to hate and detest it in others, sith in the remiss winking thereat, I may (with as much truth as safety) affirm, that toleration is confirmation; and connivency, cruelty; as we shall not go far to see it made good, and verified in this ensuing mournful History; the which in exacting Ink from my Pen, doth likewise command blood from my heart, and tears from mine eyes, to anatomize and unfold it.  
Difficultly hath Maurice been three months in Losanna with Varesius, but his virtues are eclipsed and drowned in vice; yea, he not only thinks, but holds it a virtue to make himself culpable and guilty of this his Tutor's Vice of Drunkenness, wherein within less than three months he proves so expert, or indeed so execrable a Scholar in his beastly Art, as both day and night, he makes it not only his practice, but his delight, and not only his delight, but his glory. He who before was so temperate in his drink and conversation in Morges, as for the most part he wholly drank water, not wine; now he is so viciously metamorphosed in Losanna, as chose, he only drinks wine, no water; yea, and which is lamentable to remember, and deplorable to observe in this young ●…choller, he drinks (or to write truer, devours it) so excessively, as his Cups are become his Books; his Carousing, his Learning; the Tavern, his Study; and Drunkenness the only Art he professeth: which filthy and in●…ous disease, spreading from the Praeceptor to the Pupil, from old Varesius to yo●…g Maurice, hath so surprised the one, and seized on the other, as it threatens the disparagement of the first his reputation, and the shipwreck of the seconds fortunes, and it may be of his life.  
Now Varesius, who will not be ashamed to pity this beastly Vice in himself, doth yet pity it with shame to behold it in his Scholar Maurice, and yet hath neither the Grace to reform it in himself, nor the will or power to reprove it in him; but in stead of stopping and preventing it, doth in all things give way to the current and torrent of this swinish sin, which inevitably draws after it these threefold diseases and miseries: The poison of our bodies, the consumption of our purses, and the Moth and Canker of our reputations; or if you will, these three not far different from the three former: The bane of our wits, the enemy of our health and life, and the consumer of our Estates and friends: And within the compass of one whole year, to all those diseases and miseries doth the drunkenness of our debauched young Scholar Maurice subject and reduce him; so as it being the nature of sin (not checked and vanquished with repentance) rather to grow than wither, to flourish than fade or decay with our age: the longer Maurice lived in Losanna, the deeper root this beastly vice of drunkenness took in him, and he the dearer affection to it, so as that competent exhibition which his mother yearly allowed him, became incompatible with this his excessive prodigality and intemperancy: Yea, his extreme superfluity in this kind, was without intermission so frequent, as three quarters of his years pension could not discharge one of his expenses and debts, so strong a habit (converted now to a second Nature) had this bewitching beastly sin of drunkenness exacted and gotten of him, as if this were his felicity, and that he only triumphed to become a slave to this his slavish appetite, and swinish profession, which to support and maintain, he not only feeds, but surfeits his mother wirh variety of subtle and insinuating Letters, thereby to draw divers sums of monies from her, as indeed he doth; some under pretext of his necessity to buy new books, which he affirmed he wanted; others under pretence of his weakness and sickness, and such like colourable excuses: which unthrifty prodigality of his, doth as fast empty her purse and store, as her industrious frugality can possibly fill them; whereof having all the reasons of the world to become sensible, she at last making her judgement consult with her affection, begins now to fear, that her son was become less virtuous, and more debauched than she hoped of, and that these his letters and petitions for money, were but only tricks to deceive the hopes, and betray the confidence she reposed in his virtuous carriage, and godly inclination; whereof being in fine informed and certified, from such Students and Burghers of Losanna, whom she had set as Sentinels, to have Argus, yea, 〈◊〉 eyes over his actions and deportments, she at last with few thanks to his Tutor Varesius, many complaints and exclamations to her son, and inexpressable grief and sorrow to herself, cal●… and commands him home from Losanna to Morges, where with much bitterness and secrecy, she taxes and rates him for his drunkenness and prodigality, in that he had vainly spent in one year, more than either his father or herself could collect or gather up in many.  
But see the lewd subtlety, and wretched deceit fullness of this dissolute son towards this his dear and tender mother: for then and there seasoning his speeches with virtue, and his behaviour with obedience ●…nd ●…iety▪ he modestly seems not only to tax her credulity, conceived against the candeur and integrity of his actions, but also with a kind of ●…acite choler, to malign and tra●…ce those who unjustly and falsely had cast so foul an aspersion on his virtues and innocency; and the better to make those his speeches, and this his Apologi●… and justification pass current with his mother, his discretion now prescribes so fair a Law to his ●…ty, and his reason to his intemper●…te & irregular desires, as to the eye of the world, and to her more curious and observant ●…udgement, he seems to be the very picture and statue of Virtue, although God and his soul soul and conscience well knows, that he is the true, essential, and real 〈◊〉 of Vice▪ and the better to cloak and overvaile this his dissimulation from the eyes of God and his mother, although he continue to take his Cups by night, yet in Morg●… and especially in his mother's house and sight, he casts them off by day; and the better and more firmly to reintegrate himself into her approbation and ●…aw o●…▪ he mornings and evenings is seen at his prayers, and spends the greatest part of his time in hearing and frequenting of Sermons, the which affords such sweet content to her conceits and thoughts, as she reputes herself of her unkindness towards him, and not only acquits him of his drunkenness, prodigality, and dissoluteness, but also accuseth his accusers, whom she now as much condemns for Envy and Malice towards her Son, as she highly (and as she thinks justly) applaud●… him for his religious piety towards God.  
But sith Hypocrisy is worse than Profaneness, as making us rather Devil●… than Saints; or indeed not Saints but Devils; and that no sacrifice is so odious, nor object so hateful to God, as he who denies and dissembleth it in his looks, and yet professeth and practiseth it in his heart and soul: so we shall see to ou●… grief, and this wretched Hypocrit●… find to his misery, that thinking to deceive God, he shall in the end deceive himself; and in attempting to betray his mother through his false Virtue, his true Vice will at last betray him, and make him as miserable, as he flattereth himself it will make him fortunate.  
Now the better to root and confirm this opinion of his temperancy in his mother's conceits and mind, and so the more secretly to overvaile his excessive affection and addiction to Drunkenness, he under the pretence of some necessary and profitable occasions, gets leave of her, sometimes to ride over to Berne, So●…ure, Fribourge, Apensall, and other capital towns of the Cantons, where he falls afresh to his cups, and there continually both day and night swills his brains, and stuffs up his belly with wine, as if he took no other delight or glory, but to drown his wit and learning with his money, and his health with both; and yet again when he returns to Morges, he makes such fair weather with his mother, and casts so temperate a cloak and colour on his speeches and actions, as if it were impossible for him to drink more than would suffice Nature, or to desire more than would merely quench his thirst. And thus by his hypocritical policy, having again wrought himself into his mother's good opinion and favour, as also some store of money out of her purse and coffers; he with a feigned show of Humility and discretion, takes leave of her, and to perfect his studies and learning, returns again to Losanna, where he is no sooner arrived, but upon his new return, he finds out his old carousing companions, who like so many pestilent Vipers, and contagious Moths and Caterpillars, are viciously, and therefore fatally resolved, not only to eat out the bottom of his p●…se, but also the heart of his happiness, and as I may justly term it, to devour the very foul of his felicity: and with these tippling brats of Bacchus, doth our lewd and debauched Scholar, Maurice, continually drink drunk, not only forgetting his learning but himself; and which is worse, his God, having neither the power to remember to repent, or grace to pray, nor to remember any thing but his cups; so beastly is he inclined, so swinishly and viciously is he affected and addicted; and what doth this either prognosticate, presage, or promise to produce in him, but inevitable affliction, misery, and ruin of all sides?  
As the shortest errors are best, so those Vices which have longest perseverance and predominance in us, prove still the most pernicious and dangerous: It is nothing to crush a Serpent in the egg, but if we permit it to grow to a Serpent, it may then crush us: a plant may be removed with ease, but an old tree difficultly: To fall from sin to repentance, is as great a happiness, as it is a misery to fall from repentance to sin; and indeed to use but one word for the affirmation and confirmation of this truth, there can no greater misery befall us, than to think ourselves happy, when (through our sins) we are miserable.  
Here in Losanna Maurice esteems this his beastly sin of drunkenness to be a Virtue not a Vice in him; yea, in paying for all shots and reckonings in Taverns, he sottishly and foolishly thinks it the shortest and truest way to be beloved and honoured (though indeed to be contemned) of all; and therefore without fear or wit, yea, without the l●…st spark of Grace, or shadow of consideration, his stomach (like the Devil's sponge) and his insatiable throat (like a bottomless gulf) so devours his wine, and his wine his money, as that which should be the Argument of his glory, he makes the cause of his shame; and his money which should fortify his reputation, he converts and turns to ruin it. But as poverty (in a just revenge of our Vanity) rejoiceth to look on us, because we first disdained, either to look on, or regard it; so he having spent the fragrant Summer of his folly and prodigality, in wasting the monies his mother gave him, in wine; now the deprivation thereof makes him feel the frosty Winter of that want, which he can better remember than remedy, rather repent than redress. The Fellows and Students of his College look on him and his drunkenness, some with the eyes of pity, others with those of joy, according as their friendship or malice, their Charity or Envy either conduct their passions, or transport and steer their resolutions and inclinations. As for his Tutor Varesius, how can he possible seek or reclaim this his Pupil from Vic●… to virtue, when he is so wretchedly dissolute, as by the public vote and voice of the University, he himself is already wholly and solely relapsed from Virtue to Vice.  
In which respect this vicious young Student Maurice, having neither Virtue nor Tutor, money nor credit, discretion nor friend to secure him from the shelves of Indigence, or the rocks of Poverty and Misery, whereon he is rashly and wilfully rushing; he like a true debauched Scholar, or indeed as a Master of Art in the Art of deboshednesse, first sells away his books, than his gown and clothes, and next his bed, being desirous to want any thing but wine; and confidently (though vainly and foolishly) assured, that if he have wine enough, that then he wants nothing. A miserable consideration and condition, a wretched estate and resolution, only tending and conducing to direful misery, and to deplorable poverty and desolation.  
But to replenish his purse, to repair his credit and apparel, and to continue his cups and drunkenness, he hath no other hope●… or re●…ge, than again to cast himself on the affection and courtesy of his mother whom he revisits with several Letters, which are only so many humble insinuating petitions, again to draw and wrest monies from her. But he is deceived in his hopes and expectation, or at least they distinctly and severally, and his mother jointly with them conspire to deceive him. For I write it with grief, because (by an uncontrollable relation of the truth) she dictates it to my pen with tears; that as well by all those of Morges, who came from Losanna, as by all those of Losanna who came to Morges, she is most certainly and sorrowfully advertised of her sons debauched and dissolute life, of his neglect of Learning, and too frequent affecting and following of drunkenness, of the sale of his clothes, bed, and books; of the irreparable loss, both of his time, monies, and reputation; and withal, how the dregges and fumes of wine hath metamorphosed his countenance, and not graced, but filthily disgraced it with many fiery Rubies, and flaming Carbunkles; as also how it hath stuffed and bombasted up his belly and body, as if the dropsy and he contended who should first seize each on other; and therefore she being (with a mournful unwillingness) enforced, not only to take notice, but sorrowfully to rest assured and confident of these diasterous premises, the infallible predictions and Symptoms of her Sons utter ruin and subversion: She peremptorily and absolutely refuseth his requests, answereth his Letters with many sharp complaints, and bitter exclamations against his foul sin of Drunkenness▪ which threatens no less than the ruin both of his Reputation, Friends, Learning, Fortune, and Life, if not of his Soul.  
Maurice, seeing himself wholly abandoned of his Mother, he knows not how to live, nor yet how to provide the means to maintain life, which not only surpriseth his thoughts, but amazeth and appaleth his cogitations with fear; yea, he takes this discourtesy of hers so near at heart, and withal is so extremely impatient to see himself forsaken of her, whom he knows the Laws of Nature hath commanded to affect and cherish: as forgetting himself to be her Son, and she his Mother; yea forgetting himself to be a man, and which is more, a Christian; his wants and Vices so far transport him beyond the bounds of Reason and Religion, of Nature and Grace, as he impiously and execrably degenerates from them all, and secretly vows to his heart and soul, or to say truer to the Devil: (who in●…hanteth the one, and infecteth and intoxicateth the other) that he will speedily send her into another world in a bloody Coffin, if she will no relieve his wants and maintain him as her Son in this. So alas here it is, that he first gives way to the Devil to take possession of his thoughts and heart, and here it is, that he first assumes bad blood, and suggests bloody designs, against the safety and life of his dear and innocent Mother. When like a miserable wretch, and a wretched and impious villain, his thoughts and studies (like so many lines running to their centre) are now in continual action and motion▪ how to finish and bring this deplorable Tragical business to an end: yea the better to ●…eed this his 〈◊〉 bloody appetite, and to quench the quenchless thirst of his Matracidious revenge, he forgets all other projects and affairs; to follow and hasten on this; which (to give one word for all) takes up both his study and his time in Losanna, casting away his books which would seem to divert him from it, as if he courted Pluto not Apollo; Proserpina not Pallas; Erynnis not Urania; the Furies not the Muses: and as afflictions seldom come alone, but many times (as the waves of the sea) fall one in the neck of another; so to make him rather advance than retire, in the execution of this his unnatural and damnable attempt, his excessive and frequent drunkenness makes him so notoriously apparent to the Heads of the University in general, and of his own College in particular, that they give him his Congee, and (without lending any ear to his Apology or Justification) expel him thence. So that being now destitute of all friends and means, he is enforced to see himself reduced to this point of misery, that he must either beg or starve, which to prevent (because he as much disdains the first, as he is resolved to provide a remedy for the second) he leaves Losanna (where his vices and debts have made the stones too hot for him) and on foot goes home to his Mother to Morges, hoping that his presence may prevail more with her than his absence; and his tongue make that easy, which his pen (in his Letters) found not only difficult but impossible.  
Being arrived at Morges, his loving and indulgent Mother receives him with tears, not of joy, but of grief, for his drunkenness hath so deformed his face and body, as at the first sight she difficultly knew him to be her son; and although he take pains to conceal that beastly vice of his, and so to plaster and varnish it over with a feigned show of repentance and reformation; yet she sees to her affliction, and observes to her misery, that he loves his Cups better than his life, and that as soon as she once turns her back from him, he falls close to them, and so tipleth and carouseth from Morning to Night. Three days are scarce past before he makes two requests to her, the one for new clothes, the other for money; when to the end that her wisdom might shine in her affection, as well as her affection in her wisdom, she cheerfully grants him the first, but peremptorily denies him the second, because she well knows it would be so much cast away on him, sith he would instantly cast it away on Wine; and to write the truth, the grant of his apparel doth not so much content him, as the refusal of ●…er money doth both afflict and inflame him: He is all in choler hereat, and the fumes of revenge doth so implacably take up & seize upon his thoughts, and they on it, as now without the fear of God, or care of his soul, he like a damnable villain, and an execrable Son, swaps a bargain with the Devil, to destroy and make away his mother: Hellish resolutions, and infernal conceits, which will not only strangle those who embrace, but confound those who follow them: his impiety made him formerly assume this bloody fact, and now his necessity & want of money (in that he cannot as it were drown himself in the excess of drunkenness) enforceth him to a resolution to finish it. His faith is so weak towards God, and so strong with the Devil, as he will not retire with Grace, but advance with impiety, to see as well the end, as the beginning of this bloody business: He consults hereon with his delight, not with his reason; with his will, not with his Conscience; with his heart, not with his soul. He sees he hath no money, and knows, or at least believes, that his mother hath enough, and therefore concludes, that if she were once dead, it were impossible that his life should want any. So these two wretched Councillors, Covetousness and Drunkenness, (or rather Covetousness to maintain his Drunkenness) like two infernal fiends and furies, haule him on headlong to perpetrate this bloody and mournful murder of his dear and tender Mother, the end whereof, will bring him as much true misery and infamy, as the beginning doth flatter and promise him false content and happiness; his youth hath no regard to her age, and less to her Life, neither will he vouchsafe to remember, that he first received his of her: yea, all the blood which flows in his heart, and streams in his veins and body, cannot any way have the power to prompt him, that it is derived and descended from hers. And if Morges will not divert him, Losanna should; if his years cannot instruct him, yet his books might; and if Nature prevailed not with his heart, yet me thinks Grace should with his Conscience, to represent him the foulness of this attempt, and the unnatural cruelty thereof, in resolving to imbrue his diabolical hands in her innocent blood; or if the influence of these earthly considerations could not allay the heat of his malice, or quench the fire of his revenge towards her, yet me thinks looking from profaneness to piety, from Earth to Heaven; from the time present to the future; from the corruption of his Body, to the immortality of his Soul; from Sin to Righteousness, from Revenge to Religion, and consequently from Satan to God, he should hate this bloody design and project of his as much as now he loves it, and seek the preservation of his Mother, with as much obedience and affection, as now he contrives and pursues her untimely end with impiety and detestation. But his Vices will still triumph over his Virtues; and therefore it is rather to be feared than doubted, that they will in the end make him too miserable, ever to see himself so happy.  
Miserable Maurice therefore, (as the shame of his time, the disgrace of his sex, and a prodigious monster of Nature) having hellishly resolved on the matter, now with a devilish fortitude and hellish assurance passeth on to the manner of her Tragedy. He will not give ear to God, who seeks to divert him from it, but will hearken to the devil, who useth his best Oratory to persuade and entice him to it. But as the devil is malicious in his subtlety, so should we be both wise and cautious in our credulity; for if we believe him, he will betray us; but if we believe God, we shall then betray him: he is impatient of delays, yea, his malice is so bloody, and his revenge so cruel, as he thinks every hour a year, till he hath sent her from Earth to Heaven. He proposeth unto himself divers ways to murder her, and the devil who is never absent, but present in such hellish occasions, makes him as well industrious as undictive and implacable in the contriving and finishing thereof. Now he thinks to cut her throat as she is in bed: Then to poison her at table, either in her meat or drink. Then again he is of opinion to hire some to kill her as she is walking in her vineyards; or else to cause two Watermen to drown her, as she is taking the air in a Boat on the Lake, which twice or thrice weekly she is accustomed to do; but yet still he is irresolute, either which, or which not to resolve on, till at last after a weeks dilatory protaction, having with a fatal and infernal ratiotination banded and rebanded these several bloody projects in his brains and contemplations, he rejecteth them all, as more fuller of difficulty and apparent danger, than of warrantable safety, when considering there was a deep Well in the outer yard, adjoining to the Garden, he holds it fittest for his purpose to drown her therein, whereon the devil and he strikes hands, and set up their rest and period.  
Whiles thus this gracious mother Christina endeavours with her best care and Prayers to divert her graceless son Maurice from this his intemperate and beastly sin of Drunkenness, he (as if he were no part of her, but rather a limb of the Devil) with a monstrous and inhuman ingratitude, sets his inventions and brains on the tenter-hookes, to espy out the occasion and time to dispatch her. When burning with a flaming desire, to quench the insatiable thirst of his revenge in her blood, he (taking time and opportunity at advantage) seeing all his mother's people abroad to gather in the Vintage, the Well open, and she with a Prayer book in her hand, walking in the Garden next adjoining, the Devil infuseth such courage to his heart, his heart such cruelty and inhumanity to his resolutions, that all things seemed then to conspire to see an end to this his so long desired and affected business of murdering and dispatching his mother, he taking on him the part of a madman, whom it seemed sorrow had suddenly afflicted, and grief distracted, he with his hat in his hand, hastily and furiously rusheth into the Garden to his mother, and cries out to her, that there is one of the neighbour's children fallen into the well, which he espied from his chamber window: whereunto (harmless good woman) she adding belief to his false and perfidious speeches; and being (beyond herself) afflicted and amazed with this sudden and sorrowful news, she throws away her Book, and hand in hand with him, (her sighs interrupting her words, and her tears her sighs) she (as if pity added wings to her feet) trips away to the well, both to see this mournful spectacle, and chiefly to know, if it any way lay in her possible care to assist, or power to preserve the said child from death: when bringing her to the well, he better like a fury, than a man, and rather resembling a mere Devil, than a son, fasteneth his left hand on the well-post; and as she looks into the profundity thereof, he with his right hand tips and throws her in; and so without any more doing, claps down the cover thereof; when rejoicing in his heart that he had sent her to death, because he sees and knows it now, not in the power of the whole world to save her life. He (the better to overvaile this his impious villainy, and to obscure this his barbarous and bloody fact) ascends her chamber, breaks open her cupboards, trunks, and chests, takes away most of her money, and silver plate, which he privately hides away for his own behoof and use, and so scattereth a few pieces of money, and some of her clothes and apparel in the floor, thereby subtly to insinuate and intimate to the world, that it were thiefs who had robbed and drowned his mother; when stealing a horse out of the stable, he with much secrecy gets him out of the back door, which he leaves open, and from thence rides away to his mother's people in the Vineyards; to whom he relates he hath been all that morn abroad to take the air, and is now come to pass the remainder of the day with them, and to be merry: to which end (in his mother's name) he sends for wine from the skirts of the town; and so (as well men as maids) they carouse and frolic it till towards night, and then they all return home, where they find both doors open, his mother their Mistress wanting; and no creature whatsoever in the house, whereat they much admire and wonder. So the servants and himself seek and call her in the Orchards and Gardens, but in vain, for they find no news of her; when the maids one way, and he and the man-servants another way, seek her as well in the rooms and chambers, as in the streets and neighbours houses, where she is accustomed to frequent, but to no purpose; for they can neither see nor hear of her; till at length the maidens rushing into her bedchamber, they find her Cupboard, Chests, and Trunks broken open, and some of her money and apparel strewed here and there on the floor; whereat amazed, they lamentably cry out at the windows, that thiefs have been there and robbed their Mistress her Chests and Trunks: which Maurice and the man-servants of the house overhearing, they ascend, and admire at the sight thereof; neither doth his outward fears, or their inward apprehensions, stop or stay at the mere loss of the goods, but they jointly apprehend, and fear the absence of his mother, and their Mistress Christina, and are already become jealous and umbragious of her safety, and very fearful, that the thiefs have offered her some violence and cruelty. Whereupon late at night, hearing no news of her, her son (because chiefly interested in this disastrous accident) goes and acquaints the Bailiff of Morges, and the rest of the Criminal Officers therewith, who on all sides inquire for her, and make a secret and curious search in the town, to find out the thiefs; and in the mean time (together with Maurice and the servants) leave not a room nor place of the house unsought for her: but their diligence proves vain, for they can purchase no news of her, much less of the thiefs. They remain in the house all night, and they all with sorrowful and watchful eyes, every minute of an hour, expect her, or news of her. Eight of the clock the next day strikes, but as yet she is not so much as seen or heard of: So they again, in presence of the Bailiff, revisit and search all places and corners both in the House, Gardens, Orchyards, and Yards; but still to no effect or purpose: when behold the sacred and secret providence of God, in revealing her to be drowned in the well, not only beyond the expectation, but also beyond the belief of all that were present: for as they are in the midst of their doubts and fears, yea in the very depth of their research and perquisition, lo, one of the servant Maids, named Hester, who was nearest in the favour, and dearest in the affection of her Mistress, having that very instant mornng taken a nap of an hour's sleep, or thereabouts in a chair, starts suddenly out of her sleep and rest, trips to them, and says, she then and there dreamt, that her Mistress Christina, was cast into the well and drowned; the which she affirmed with many words, and more sighs, out-cries, and tears; which piercing into the ears and thoughts of the Bailiff and Servants, and into the very heart and Conscience of this our execrable Maurice, they look pale with grief and amazement, and he straineth the highest key of his Art and policy to keep his cheeks from blushing for shame thereat, and the better to hood wink their eyes and judgements, from the least spark or shadow of this his guiltiness herein; he with many showers of hypocritical tears, prays the Bailiff that upon hester's dream and report, the Well may be searched, adding withal, that it was more probable than impossible; that those thiefs who rob his Mother's house, might likewise be so devilishly malicious to murder her and throw her into the Well: which the Bailiff seriously considering, as first the maid's dream, than the Son's request and tears, he instantly in presence of all those of the house, as also of many of the next neighbours whom he had purposely assembled: Caused the Well to be searched and sounded, where the hook taking hold of her clothes, they instantly bring up the dead body of his Mother and their Mistress C●…ristina: the skull of whose head, was lamentably broken, and her brains pitifully dashed out with her fall. All are amazed, her servants grieve, and her hellish Son Maurice weeps and cries more than all the rest at this mournful spectacle. The Bailiff carefully and punctually again examines Hester, if God in her dream revealed her not, the manner how, and the persons who had thus thrown her Mistress into the Well; She answereth negatively according to the truth, that she had already delivered as much as she knew of that mournful business. When Maurice to show his forwardness and zeal, for the detection and finding out of his Mother's murderers, he pretends that he suspects Hester to be accessary, and to have a hand herein. But the Bailiff & common Council of Morges, having neither passion nor partiality to dazzle and inveigle the eyes of their judgement, finding no reason or ground of probability to accuse her, or which might tend or co●…duce that way; They free herwithout farther questioning her, and so (as it hath been formerly remembered) they all concurring in opinion that the thiefs who rob her, had undoubtedly thrown her into the Well: They give leave to Maurice to bury his breathless mother, which he doth with the greatest pomp and decency, requisite as well to her rank and quality, as to his affection and duty; and the better to fan off the least dust or smoke of suspicion, which might any way fall upon the lustre of his Innocency, he at her Funeral (to the eye of the world) sheds many rivulets of tears. But alas what is this to this his foul and execrable sin of murdering his mother; for although it blear the eyes, and inveigle the judgements of the Bailiff and his associates, the Criminal Judges of Morges, yet God the Great and Soveraig●…e Judge of Heaven and Earth, will not be thus deluded, cannot be thus deceived herein. No, no, for albeit he be merciful, yet his Divine Majesty is too Just to let crimes of this hellish nature go either undetected or unpunished.  
We have seen this execrable son so bloody hearted and handed, as with a devilish rage, and inhuman and infernal fury, to drown his own dear and tender Mother; and with as much cruelty as ingratitude, to throw her from the world into a Well, who with many bitter gripes and torments (to the hazard and peril of her life) threw him from her womb into the world: and the providence and Justice of God will not lead the curiosity of the Reader far, before we see this miserable miscreant overtaken with the impetuous storms of God's revenge, and the fiery gusts and tempests of his just indignation for the same, notwithstanding that his subtle malice, and malicious subtlety, have so cunningly contrived, and so secretly acted and compacted it with the devil, that no earthly person, or sublunary eye, can any way accuse, much less convict him thereof; as mark the sequel, and it will briefly and truly inform thee how.  
As soon as he hath buried his Mother, his black mourning apparel doth in his heart and actions work such poor and weak effects of repentance and sorrow for her untimely death, as where divers others lament and grieve, he chose rejoiceth and triumpheth thereat, and by her decease being now become Lord and Master of all, he like a graceless villain falls again to his old carousing companions, and vein of drunkenness, wherein he takes such singular delight and glory, as he makes it not only his pastime and exercise by day, but his practice and recreation by night: And as God hath infinite means and ways to scourge and revenge the enormity of our delicts and crimes, so we shall shortly see for our instruction, and observe for our reformation, that this ungodly and beastly vice of drunkenness of his, which is his most secret bosom and darling sin, will in the end prove a ravenous Vulture to devour, and a fatal Serpent to eat out the bowels, first of his wealth and prosperity, and then of his life; for it not only takes up his time, but his study, in so much as I may as truly aver to my grief, as affirm to his shame, that he leveleth at nothing more, than to make it his felicity, which swinish excess and intemperancy, (as a punishment inseparably incident & infallibly hereditary to that sin) doth within three months make him sell away all his Lands, yea, and the greatest part of his plate and houssholdstuffe; so his drunkenness first, but then chiefly God's Justice and revenge pursuing his foul and inhuman crime of drowning his Mother, makes him of being left rich by her, within a very short time become very extreme poor and miserable; so as he runs deeply into debts, yea, his debts are by this time become so exceedingly urgent and clamorous, as contrary to his hopes and fears, when he lest dreams thereof; he is imprisoned by his Mercer and Draper, for the blacks of his Mother's Funeral, to both whom he is indebted the sum of three hundred crowns, which is far more than either his purse can discharge, or his credit and Estate now satisfy. When abandoned of all his friends, his means spent and consumed, and nothing left him to exercise his patience in Prison, but Despair; nor to comfort him, but the ●…rrours of his bloody and guilty Conscience; He is 〈◊〉 into a stinking Vault or 〈◊〉, where (in horror and detestation of his bloody cri●…) the glori●… 〈◊〉 of Heaven, the Sun, disdains to send his radiant and glittering beams to comfort him; so as he who was before accustomed to fa●…e deliciously, and as it were to swill and drown himself in the best and most curious Wines, now he must content himself only with course bread and water; and yet his misery is so extreme, and that extremity of his so miserable, as he hath hardly enough to maintain and sustainelife: But we shall see that this first affliction of his, will instantly be followed and overtaken by a second.  
〈◊〉 being arrived, he petitioneth his Gaoler (for that day) to have the liberty of the yard, and the freedom of the air, which is granted him, when at night descending the stairs, again to be penned up in his obscure Dungeon, his foot slips, and he receives a fearful fall, whereof the bone of his right arm is broken in two pieces, and having no Chirurgeon to look to it, it p●…trifies and rots, so as for the preserving of his life, he within fifteen days is enforced to have it cut off a little below the shoulder; and this was the very same hand and arm which threw his mother into the Well. A singular act of God's revenging Justice, and Just Revenge shown herein. O that it may be deeply imprinted in out hearts, and engraven in our souls, that the Reader hereof, of what sex or quality soever, may as it were stand amazed at the cosideration of Maurice his impious sin towards God, and of God's due and true revenge and requital thereof in his just judgement and affliction towards him.  
But this is not enough for Maurice to suffer, nor for God to inflict on him for this his bloody and inhuman crime, in murdering his Mother; nor to say the truth, it is but the Prologne to the deplorable, yet deserved punishment, which is immediately ready to surprise and befall him. For to the end, that the truth may inform our curiosity, and our curiosity us, of the Catastrophe of this Tragedy, we must understand, that it was the pleasure and providence of God, that the breaking and cutting away of Maurice his arm, proved the breake-necke of his patience, and the cutting away of his content and judgement. The devil caused him most inhumanely to drown his Mother, the which he might have refused to perpetrate, but would not; and now God in expiation thereof sends him Rage for Reason, Despair for Comfort, and Madness for Sobriety, the which he would fly and eschew, but cannot. He hath committed this execrable crime beyond the rules and Laws of Nature; and therefore God hath ordained, that he should feel many degrees of punishments, and this is not only the Law, but the rule of Grace. Of all degrees of afflictions, madness is the most to be pitied, and the worst to be cured, sith it makes a man go far beyond reason, and therefore to come far too short of himself: it is held by some to be a sickness of the Liver, of others, an over-fuming of the blood, and of others a debility of the brain: But in this ou●… execrable wre●…ched Maurice, it was the infectious 〈◊〉 of his soul, which God sent purposely into his brains, to be revenged of his heart, for so inhumanly drowning his Mother: For although his divine Majesty hath infinite more ways to punish murder, than man hath to commit it▪ ye●…hat he might make the detection of this of wretched Maurice as strange as the complotting and finishing thereof was c●…delly inhuman, and inhumanely cruel, he purposely sends it him; for although since his imprisonment, hunger had so taken down his stomach, and q●…elled his courage, as his former volubility of speech was now reduced to a kind of sorrowful and pensive s●…lence; yet as soon as his 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 senses were 〈◊〉 and captivated with this prodigious Lu●…acy, and 〈◊〉 〈◊〉, than 〈◊〉 fits were so violent, and that violence so implacable, 〈◊〉 h●… 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉, and his words so many uncouth and unheard of rave; so that whosoever either heard or saw him, he might justly conceive and affirm, that he had thunder in his tongue, and lightning in his eyes: For his crime made this his affliction and phrens●…e of his so miserable, so impetuous, as he spoke nonsense perfectly, and looked rather like a Fury than a Man; yea, his foul conscience and polluted soule●…ng him so m●…ny P●…nicke fears and terrors of despair, as he was afraid of all things, and angry with himself, because he could be no more afraid of himself; So as that Dungeon which could imprison his body, was not capable to contain●… his thoughts, much less to immure his fears; and in this miserable plight and perplexity he remained for the space of ten days and nights, without any intermission or hope of remedy, which infinitely disturbed his fellow prisoners, and chiefly his Gaoler, whose ears had never been accustomed to hear such discordant tunes, much less to be taken up with such distasteful and fearful melody.  
He acquaints the common Co●…ell of the town hereof, and importunately ●…olicites them, that they will remove his distracted prisoner Maurice to some more fitter and more convenient place. Who remembering what Maurice had been, and now considering and seeing what he is, they whoheretofore would not be so charitable to relieve his poverty, are yet now so religiously compassionate, as they pity his madness, so they command him from a Dungeon to a Chamber, from his palate of straw to a featherbed, from his bread and water, to wholesome meats and broths; but all this will not suffice; and to show themselves not only good men, but good Christians, they to restore him to his wits and senses, make yet a further progression in charity. They cause him to be conferred with by many good Divines, who are not only eloquent, but powerful to persuade him to pray often, and to practise other Christian duties and offices; but his cries are ●…o outrageous, and his rave so extravagant, as he is as uncapable to relish their reasons, as they are to understand his rage: When the very immediate finger and Providence of God, makes them yet so sensible of his unparrelleled misery, as they are resolved to remove him from his Prison to an Hospital, thereby to take the benefit of the air in the Gardens, Walks, and Fields, hoping that they might prevail with him, to recall his wits, and re-establish his senses in their proper seats of Understanding, and stations of judgement. When here, (oh here) I conjure thee Christian Reader, to stand am●…zed and wonder with me, at the sacred and secret Justice of the Lord, expressed and demonstrated in this accident: For as his under Jailer (by the Magistrates command) takes him by the hand, with an 〈◊〉 to conduct him forth from the Prison to an Hospital, his bloody crime (like so many Bloodhounds) pursuing his guilty Conscience and Soul; his thoughts so informed his knowledge, and his knowledge so confirm his belief▪ that the drowning of his Mother is detected, and th●… they now draw him from his Prison to the place of execution to suffer death for the same. Which apprehensio●… and fear, God putting into his conceits and heart, in despite of his madness, he wanting an accuser, lo●… here he himself both accuseth 〈◊〉 condemneth himsel●… for the same. For the very Image of that conceit 〈◊〉 his 〈◊〉▪ ●…s his fea●… did his frenzy and madness; he in th●… 〈◊〉 of those fi●…s, a●… the height of that Agony and Anxiety, dri●… out 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉▪ 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 my M●…ther in the Well, I have drowned 〈…〉 he suffer you to hang me; I speak it on Earth, and by my part of Heaven, what 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 is true. Which words 〈◊〉 sooner es●…aped his 〈◊〉, ●…ut he ●…nstantly ●…nes again to his out-cries of phre●… and madness▪ 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 ●…d the rest 〈◊〉 ●…ed at these fearful 〈◊〉, and 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉▪ which 〈◊〉 that they attribute to madness, yet they lead him to the Hospital, he still raving and crying as he passeth the streets: But oh! Let us here farther, admire with wonder, and wonder with admiration, at the providence and mercy of God here again miraculously made apparent and manifested in this execrable wretch Maurice, for he who outrageously cried in his prison, and licentiously raved in the street, is no sooner entered into the Hospital, but the pleasure of God had so ordained it, as his Madness fully falls from him, and he absolutely recovereth again his wits and senses, in such firm and settled manner, as if he had never formerly been touched or afflicted therewith.  
His Gaolers make report to the Magistrates, first of his confession of drowning his Mother, and then of his sudden and miraculous recovering of his perfect memory, judgement and senses, as soon as he set foot within the Hospital: Whereupon they as much astonished at the one, as wondering at the other, do instantly repair thither to him, and there arraign and accuse him, for that inhuman and bloody fact of his, whereof his own Evidence and Confession hath now made him guilty. But they take him for another, or at least, he will not be the same man: He denies this horrible and bloody crime of his, with many oaths and asseverations, which they maintain and affirm he hath confessed, says, that they either heard a dream, or saw a Vision, whereof he neither dreamt not thought of, and that he was ready to lose all the blood and life of his body, to find out, and to be revenged of the murderers of his mother.  
But the Magistrates are deaf to his Apology, and considering the violence of his madness by its sudden abandoning him, as also his free and uninforced confession of drowning his Mother; they conceive that God's providence and Justice doth strongly operate in the detection of this foul and inhuman murder; and therefore contemning his requests and oaths, (in the vindication of his innocency) they cause him to be refetched from the Hospital to the Prison, and there adjudge him to the Rack, when although his heart and soul be terrified and affrighted with his apprehension and accusation: Yet the devil is so strong with him, as he cannot yet find in his heart to relent, much less to repent this foul and inhuman crime of his; but considering that he acted it so secretly, as all the world could not produce a witness against himself, except himself, he vows he will be so impious and profane in his fortitude and courage, as to disdain these his torments, and to look on them and his Tormentor, with an eye rather of contempt than fear: But God will be as propitious and indulgent to him, as he is rebellious and refractory to God; for here we shall see both his Conscience and resolutions taught another rule, and prescribed a contrary Law; yea, here we shall behold and observe in him, that now Righteousness shall triumph over Si●…e, Grace over Nature, his Soul over his Body, Heaven over Hell, and GOD over Satan; for at the very first sight of the Rack, the sight and remembrance of his bloody crime makes him shake and tremble extremely, when his soul being illuminated by the resplendent Sun beams of God's mercy, and the foggy mists of Hell and Satan expelled and banished thence, he falls to the ground on his knees, first beats his breast, and then erecting his eyes and hands towards Heaven, he (with a whole deluge of tears) again confesseth, that he had drowned his mother in the Well, from and for the which he humbly craveth remission, both from Earth and Heaven.  
And although there be no doubt but God will forgive his Soul for this his soul murder, yet the Magistrates of Morges, who have Gravity in their looks, Religion in their hearts and speeche●…, and Justice in their actions, will not pardon his body; so in detestation of this his fearful crime, and inhuman parricide, they in the morning condemn him, that very afternoon to be hanged. At the pronouncing of which sentence, as he hath reason to approve the equity of their justice in condemning him to die, so he cannot refrain from grieving at the strictness of the time, which they allot him for his preparation to death. But as soon as we forsake the devil, we make our peace with God.  
All Morges and Losanna rings of this mournful and Tragical news, and in detestation of this mournful, inhuman and bloody crime of our execrable Maurice, they flock from all parts and streets to the place of execution, to see him expiate it by his dearh, and so to take his last farewell of his life.  
The Divines, who are given him for fortifying and assisting his soul, in this her flight and transmigration from Earth to Heaven, have religiously prevailed with him, so as they make him see the foulness of his crime, in the sharpness of his contrition and repentance for the same; yea, he is become so humble and withal so sorrowful, for this his bloody and degenerate offence, as I know not whether he think thereof with more grief, or remember it wirh detestation and repentance. At his ascending the Ladder, most of his Spectators cannot refrain from weeping, and the very sight of their tears proves the Argument of his; as his remembrance of murdering his Mother, was the cause.  
He tells them he grieves at his very soul, for the foulness of his fact, in giving his Mother her death, of whom he had received his life. He affirms, that Drunkenness was not only the root, but the cause of this his beggary and misery, of his crime and punishment and of his debauched life and deserved death, from which with a world of sighs and tears he seeks and endeavours to divert all those who affect and practise that beastly Vice. He declares, that his Mother was too virtuous so soon to go out of the world, and himself too vicious (and wirhall too cruel) any longer to live in it; that the sins of his life had deserved this his shameful death; and although he could not prevent the last, yet, that he heartily and sorrowfully repent the first. He prayed God to be merciful to his soul, and then besought the world to pray unto God for that mercy; when speaking a few words to himself, and sealing them with many tears, and far fetched sighs; he lastly bids the world farewell, when enviting the Executioner to do his Office he is turned over.  
And such was the vicious life, and deserved death of this Execrable Son and bloody Villain Maurice: wherein I must confess, that although his end were shameful and sharp; yet, it was by far too too mild for the foulness of his crime, in so cruelly murdering his dear Mother Christina, whom the Laws both of Nature and Grace commanded him to preserve and cherish: Yea, let all Sons and Daughters of all ages and ranks whatsoever look on this bloody and disastrous example of his, with fear; and fear to commit the like by the sight of his punishment. It is a History worthy, both of our meditation and detestation, whether we cast our eyes on his drunkenness, or fix our thoughts and hearts, on his murder: Those who love and fear God, are happy in their lives, and fortunate in their deaths; but those who will neither fear nor love him, very seldom prove fortunate in the one, never happy in the other; and to the rest of our sins, if we once consent and give way to add that scarlet, and crying one of Murder; that blood which we untimely send to Earth, will in Gods due time draw down vengeance on our Heads from Heaven; Charity is the mark of a Christian, and the shedding of Innocent blood, either that of an Infidel, an Atheist; or a Devil. O therefore let us affect and strive to hate it in others, and so we shall the better know how to detest and abhor it in ourselves, which that we may all know to our comforts, and remember to our consola●…itions, direct us O Lord our God, and so we shall be directed.   
FINIS.   

THE TRIUMPHS OF GOD'S REVENGE AGAINST THE CRYING AND Execrable Sin of Murder.  
Expressed In thirty several Tragical Histories, (digested into six Books) which contain great variety of mournful and memorable Accidents, Amorous, Moral, and Divine.  
Book IU.  
Written by JOHN REYNOLDS.  
LONDON, ¶ Printed by john Haviland for WILLIAM LEE, and are to be sold at his shop in Fleetstreet, at the sign of the Turks-Head, near the Mitre Tavern. 1634.   

TO THE RIGHT HONOURABLE, PHILIP, EARL OF PEMBROKE and Montgomery, Lo. Chamberlain to the King, one of the Lords of his Majesty's most Honourable Privy Counsel, and Knight of the most Noble Order of the Garter.  
RIGHT HONOURABLE;  
HAving formerly dedicated the third Book of these my Tragical Histories (of God's Revenge against Murder) to your Incomparable Lord and Brother, William Earl of Pembroke (who now lives with God) I therefore held myself bound (by the double obligation of my duty and your own generous merits likewise to present this Fourth Book to your Protection and Patronage, because as England, so Europe perfectly knows that you are as true an heir to his Virtues, as to his Fortunes▪ and to his Goodness, as to his Greatness, and that therefore it may properly be said he is not dead, because they (as well as himself) do still survive and live in you, with equal lustre and glory, as having made either a happy Metamorphosis, or a blessed Transmigration into your Noble breast and resolutions, and therefore as it was my sincere respects and zeal to his Honour that then drew me to that ambition; so it is entirely the same which hath now both invited and induced me to this pr●…sumption to your Lordship, having no other ends or object in this my Dedication, but that this book of mine having the honour to be countenanced by so great a personage, and the felicity to be protected by so honourable a Maecenas, may therefore encounter the more safely with the various humours it shall meet with, and abide more securely the different censures of this our too fastidious age.  
How these Histories (or the memorable accidents which they contain and relate) will relish with your Lordship's palate or judgement, I know not; Only because you are a Noble Son of God's Church, and an Excellent Servant to your Prince and Country, I therefore rather hope than presume, that your Honour will at least be pleased to see, if not delight to know and consider, how the Triumphs of God's Revenge and punishments doth herein secretly and providently meet with this crying and scarlet sin of premeditated Murder, and with the bloody and inhuman Perpetrators thereof, who hereby (as so many merciless Butchers, and prodigious Monsters of mankind) do justly make themselves odious to Men, and execrable to God and his Angels.  
God hath (deservedly) honoured your Lordship with the favour of two great Earthly Kings your Sovereigns, as first of our royallKing james, the father, and now of our present most Renowned King Charles his Son, and yet this external Honour and favour of their●… is no way so glorious to you, as that (maugre the reigning vices of the world) you serve the true God of heaven, in the purity of your heart, and fear and adore him in the integrity of your Soul. And to represent you with naked Truth, and not with Eloquence or Adulation. This Heavenly Piety of yours I believe is the prime reason, and true Essential cause of all this your earthly Honour, and sublunary Greatness, and that this is it likewise which doth so rejoice your heart, and enrich and replenish your House with so numerous and Noble an Issue, of hopeful and flourishing Children, who (as so many Olive branches of Virtue, and Syents and Plants of Honour) do both environ your Bed, and surround your Table, and who promise no less than futurely to magnify the blood, and to perpetuate and immortalize the Illustrious Name and Family of the Epirotes, to all Posterity.  
Go on resolutely and constantly (Noble Lord) in your religious Piety to God, and in your Candid and unstained Fidelity to your Prince and Country, that your life may triumph o'er your death, and your Virtues contend to outshine your Fortunes, and that hereafter God (of his best favour and mercy) may make you as blessed and as glorious a Saint in Heaven, as now you are a great Peer and Noble Pillar here on Earth, which none shall pray for with more true zeal, nor desire or wish with more real and unfeigned affection, than  
Your Honours devoted and Most humble Servant, john Reynolds.   

The Grounds and Contents of these Histories.  

History XVI. Idiaques causeth his son Don Ivan to marry Marsillia, and then commits Adultery and Incest with her; She makes her Father in Law Idiaques to poison his old wife Honoria, and likewise makes her own brother De Perez to kill her Chambermaid Mathurina; Don Ivan afterwards kills De Perez in a Duel; Marsillia hath her brai●… dashed out by a horse, and her body is afterwards condemned to be burnt; Idiaques is beheaded; his body consumed to ashes, and thrown into the air.  
History XVII. Harcourt steals away his brother Vimoryes wife Masserina, and keeps her in Adultery; She hireth Tivoly (an Italian Mountebank) to poison La Precoverte, who was Harcourts' wife; Harcourt kills his brother Vimory, and then marries his widow Masserina; Tivoly is hanged for a robbery, and at his execution accuseth Masserina for hiring him to poison La Precoverte, for the which she is likewise hanged; Noel (who was Harcourts' man) on his deathbed suspecteth and accuseth his said Master for killing of his brother Vimory, whereof Harcourt being found guilty, he is broken alive on a wheel for the same.  
History XVIII. Romeo (the Laquay of Borlary) kills Radegonda, the Chamber-m●…id of the Lady Fellisanna in the street, and is hanged for the same; Borlary afterwards hireth Castruchio (an Apothecary) to poison her husband Signior Planeze, for the which Castruchio is hanged, and his body thrown into the River, and Borlari is beheaded, and then burnt.  
History XIX. Beaumarays, and his brother Montaigne kill Champigny, and Marin (his second) in a Duel; Blancheville (the widow of Champigni) in revenge thereof hireth Le Valley (who was servant to Beaumarays) to murder his said Master with a pistol, the which he doth, for the which Le Valley is broken on a wheel, and Blancheville hanged for the same.  
History XX. Lorenzo murthereth his wife Fermia; He some twenty years after (as altogether unknown) robbeth his (and her) son Thomaso, who likewise (not knowing Lorenzo to be his father) 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 him for that robbery, for the which he is hanged.    

GOD'S REVENGE AGAINST THE CRYING AND Execrable Sin of Murder.  

HISTORY XVI.  
Idiaques causeth his son Don Ivan to marry Marsillia, and then commits Adultery and Incest with her; She makes her Father in Law Idiaques to poison his own old wife Honoria; and likewise makes her own brother De Perez to kill her Chambermaid Mathurina; Don Ivan afterwards kills De Perez in a Duel; Marsillia hath her brains dashed out by a horse, and her body is afterwards condemned to be burnt; Idiaques is beheaded, his body likewise consumed to ashes, and thrown into the air.  
LEt Malice be never so secretly contrived, and the shedding of Innocent blood never so wretchedly perpetrated, yet as our Conscience is to us a thousand witnesses, so God is to us a thousand Consciences, first to bring it to light, and then their Authors to deserved punishments for the same, when they least dream or think thereof. For as there is no peace to the wicked, so they shall find no peace or tranquillity here on Earth, either with God, or his creatures, because if they would conceal it, yet the very Fowls of the air, yea, the stones and timbers of their chambers will detect it; For the Earth or Air will give them no breath nor being, but they shall hang between both, because by these their foul and deplorable facts, they have made themselves unworthy of either. A powerful example, and a pitiful precedent whereof we shall behold in this ensuing History, where some wretched miscreants, and graceless creatures, making themselves guilty of those bloody crimes (by the immediate Revenge and Justice of God) received exemplary and condign punishments for the same: May we read it to God's glory, to the comfort of our hearts, and the instruction of our souls.  
IN the City of Santarem which (by tract of time, and corruption of speech) some term Saint Aren, and which (after Lisbon) is one of the richest and best peopled of Portugal; there dwelled a Gentleman of some fifty five years old, nobly descended, and of a great estate and means, named Don Sebastian Idiaques, whose wife and Lady being aged, of well near fifty years, was termed Dona Honoria, and well she deserved that honourable name, for all sorts of Virtues and honours made her youth famous, and her age glorious to all Portugal and Spain. They had lived together in the bonds of Matrimony almost thirty years, with much Honour, content, and felicity, and for the fruits of their affection and marriage, they had two sons and four daughters; but God in his pleasure and Providence (for some reserved reasons best known to his All Divine Majesty) took from Earth to Heaven all their daughters, and one of their sons, so as now they have left them but one son, named Don Ivan, a gallant young Gentleman, of some twenty five years old, of disposition brave and generous, who after his first youthful education under his father, had his chief breeding under the Duke of Braganza, to whom he was first a Page, and then a chief Gentleman retaining to him, whom (in regard of the death of his brother and sisters) his father called home unto him, to be his comfort and consolation, and the prop and stay of his age, as also of the Lady his mother, who had formerly acted a great part in grief, and a mournful one in sorrow for the death of her children; and indeed Don Ivan, this son of theirs, for all regards of Courtship, was held to be a complete Gallant, and one of the prime Cavaliers of Portugal.  
As for Idiaques the father, though in all the course and progress of his life, and in all the life and conduction of his actions, he bewrayed many moral and generous virtues, yet as one discordant string mars the harmony of the best tuned Instrument, and the consent of the sweetest melody and music; and as one foul Vice is naturally subject, and fatally incident to eclipse and drown many rich and fair virtues, so (in this his old age, when time had honoured him with white hairs) he debauched himself so much, and so sottishly sacrificed his irregular affections to heart-killing concupiscence, and his exorbitant desires to soule-destroying adultery, that he very often made himself a false and inconstant husband to his wife, and a true, yea, too true a friend to Courtesans and Strumpets. His virtuous Lady Honoria extremely grieves hereat, that now in his later years he should thus lasciviously forget himself, both towards her, and towards God. She useth all sweet persuasions, prayers and tears, to dissuade and divert him from it, but seeing that all proves vain, and that he rather proves worse then better thereat, her discretion makes her brook it with as much patience as she can, and therefore she seems not to see, or know that whereof (to her grief and discontent) she cannot be ignorant; But here comes an accident which will breed both of them, and their Son Don Ivan misery of all sides.  
Some six leagues from Santarem was a wonderful fair young Gentlewoman being a widow, aged but of Twenty two years, named Dona Marsillia well descended, but by her late deceased Husband left but small means, yet she bears out her port bravely, and maintains herself highly and gallantly; and indeed she is the prime young Lady for beauty in all those parts; Now the base Ambassadors, and Emysaries of Idiaques his beastly and obscene lust (the true Vipers and Cankers of Common weals) give him notice of her, and of her singular beauty, as well foreseeing and knowing that it would be sweet and pleasing news unto him. He visits and courts her, but as young as she is she puts him off with peremptory refusals, and in virtuous and modest terms checks his age for this his lascivious suit and motion to her: But he is as constant in his affection to her, as she is disdainful to him; for his heart is so ensnared and entangled in the fetters of her fresh and delicate beauty, that although she refuse him, yet he will not forsake her; but after many pursuits and visits, she at last well perceiving that he loved her tenderly and dearly, and that he still most importunately frequented her house and company, she as a subtle and cunning young Gentlewoman, tells him plainly and privately, that she will acquaint him with a secret of her heart, and a request of her mind and affection, which if he will cause to be performed, she than vows she will for ever be at his disposing and command; Idiaques thinking that she will crave some sum of money of him, or some yearly pension or annuity; he constantly promiseth to grant and perform her request; so she (taking time at advantage) and first swearing him to secrecy, than (with many smiles and blushes) she tells him, that if ever he think to enjoy her love and herself, he must use the means to marry his son Don Ivan to her, which being effected, she with much pretended show of piety and affection, religiously swears to him, that she will never have the power or will to deny him any thing, but that his requests shall be to her as so many commands, and (but only for himself) if his son Don Ivan be her Husband, she with many imprecations and asseverations swears, that she will sacrifice her best blood and life, rather than distain his bed, or offer him the least shadow of any scandal or dishonour whatsoever. Idiaques wondereth with admiration, and admires with wonder at this her strange proposition, the which he finds so knotty and intricate, as measuring Grace by Nature, his Judgement by his Lust and Concupiscence, and his Soul by his Affections, he knows not what to say or do herein; so he answereth her with more love than wisdom, and for that time leaves her in general term. He goes homes, walks pensively in his Garden, and there consults Pro and Con on this business; fain he would preserve his son's honour, and keep the honour of his bed immaculate, but then the sweet Roses and Lilies of Marsillia's youth and beauty act wonders in his heart, and bears down all other reasons and considerations before it: He visits her again and again, but he finds her inviolably constant in her former resolution. All the favour and courtesy which he can gain from her, are a few extorted kisses, which so inflame and set on fire his aged heart and affections, as at last like a graceless father, he faithfully promiseth her to use his best art and power to procure his son to marry her. To which end he takes him aside, and in the softest and sweetest terms he can devise, paints out Marsillia's praises and Virtues to him in the purest and rarest colours, adding withal, that although she be not exceeding rich, yet that her personage is so exquisite, and her perfections so excellent, as that she every way meriteth to be wife to a Prince. Don Ivan (by what fatal fortune I know not) relisheth this motion of his father, to seek the Lady Marsillia for his wife, with much delight and joy, and far the more and the sooner, in regard he (in divers companies) hath formerly heard the fame of her beauty extolled, and the glory of her Virtues advanced to the Sky, so he takes time of his father to consider hereof, and rides over sometimes with him to Saint Estiene to visit her; He finds her wonderful fair and beautiful, and wonderful coy; of a very sweet and Majestical carriage, and of a delicate and curious speech, fit baits to ensnare the heart, and to betray the judgement of a more solid understanding than that of Don Ivan. She acts her part as wisely as he doth amorously and passionately; For the more she makes show to retire and conceal her affection from him, the more he is provoked to advance and discover his to her; but he cannot be so much enamoured of her beauty, as she is with the great Estate of Lands and Domains whereunto God and his father have made him heir.  
Whiles thus the father privately, and the son publicly are seeking to make Marsillia his wife, the old Lady Honoria the mother, by many strong reasons seeks to divert him from her. She hath perfect notice of her husbands long and often frequenting of Marsillia's house and company, and therefore fearing the vanity of his age, and doubting the frailty of her youth and chastity, her jealousy and judgement at last finds out and concludes, that his familiarity with her is far greater than honour can warrant, or honesty allow of; Upon which foundation she in her discontented looks and silence, betrays unto her son Don Ivan, her constant and resolute averseness from him to marry her, the which she peremptorily and religiously forbids him upon her blessing, adding withal, that if he marry her, there will infallibly more miseries and calamities attend their nuptials, than as yet it is possible for him either to know or conceive; the which she prays him to read in her looks and silence, to remember it when he sees her not, and to take it as the truest advice, and securest Counsel of a dear Mother to her only Son. Don Ivan ruminates on these speeches and advise of his Mother, as if there were some deep abstruse mystery or ambiguous Oracle contained and hidden therein, the which because he hath equal reason as well to fear that this match of his with Marsillia may prove fatal, as to hope and believe that it may prove fortunate, he makes a stand thereat, as vowing to proceed therein with advisement, and not with temereity and precipitation; and so forbears for a month or two to visit her: But the more the Son flies off in his affection from Marsillia, the more doth she do the like from his father in requital, whereat he grieves with discontent, and she seems to bite her lip with sorrow. Idiaques chargeth his son to tell him from whence this his sudden strangeness and unkindness towards Marsillia proceedeth; the which he answereth with a modest excuse, as favouring more of discretion than disobedience, but yet wholly concealeth his Mothets counsel and advise to him from his Father, the which notwithstanding he vehemently suspecteth it proceeds from her and her Jealousy. Marsillia is enraged to see herself deprived of Don Ivan, whom in her ambitious thoughts, hopes, and wishes she had already made her Husband; and howsoever Idiaques his Father seeks to conceal and palliate this business towards her, yet she believes it is his fault, and not his Sons. She lays it to his charge, and knitting her brows, she conjureth him to tell her from whence his Son's unkindness to her proceeds: He tells her, he is confident, that it is his old Mother who hath diverted him from her, whereat she is exceedingly enraged; When seeing this old Lecher so open and plain with her, she soothing him up with many kisses, tells him that this old Beldame his wife must first be in heaven, before he can hope to enjoy her, or she his Son here on Earth; when (being alured and provoked by the treacherous suggestions and bloody temptations of the Devil) she proffers him to visit her, and so to poison her, which he opposeth and contradicteth; and contrary to all reason & sense, and repugnant to all Humanity and Christianity, yea, to Nature and Grace, (as a Husband fitter for the Devil, than for this good old Lady his Wife) he undertakes and promiseth her speedily to perform it himself; yea, the Devil is now so strong with him, and he with the Devil, that because he loves Marsillia, therefore he must hate his own dear wife, and virtuous Lady Honoria, and because he hates her, therefore he must poison her; A lewd part of a man, a fouler one of a Christian, but a most hellish and bloody one of a Husband to his own wife, who ought to be near and dear unto him, as being his own flesh and blood, Yea the other half of himself. He cannot content himself to seek to abuse and betray his Son, but he must also murder the mother, So wanting the fear of God before his eyes, and replete with as much impiety and Cruelty, as he was devoid of all Grace, he is resolute in this his hellish rage and malice against her, and so to please his young Strumpet, he will send this good old Lady his wife to Heaven in a bloody Coffin, so without thinking of Heaven or Hell, or of God, or his soul, he procures strong poison, and acting the part of a fury of Hell, and a member of the Devil, he as a wretched and execrable Husband, administereth it to her in preserved Barbaries, which he saw her usually to love and eat, whereof within three days after she dies, to the extreme grief and sorrow of her Son Don Ivan, who bitterly wept, for this his mother's hasty and unexpected death, but the manner thereof he knows not, and indeed doth no way in the world either doubt or suspect thereof.  
His Father Idiaques makes a counterfeit show of sorrow and mourning to the world, for the death of his wife, but God in his due time will unmask this his wretched hypocrisy, and detect and revenge this his execrable and deplorable murder. Now as soon as Marsillia is advertised of the Lady Honoria's death, she not able to contain her joys, doth infinitely triumph therear, and within less than two months after her burial, Idiaques and Marsillia work so politicly with Don Ivan, as he marries Marsillia although his mothers advise to him in the garden, do still run in his mind and thoughts, and now he brings home his lustful Spouse and Wife to his lewd and lascivious Father's house at Sentarem, where (I write with horror and shame) he most beastly and inhumanly very often commits Adultery and Incest with her, and they act it so close that for the first year or two, his Son Don Ivan, hath no news or inkling thereof, and now Marsillia governeth and rules all, yea her incontinency with her Father Idiaques makes her so audacious and impudent, as she commands not only his house, but himself, and domineers most proudly and imperiously over all his Servants. Her waiting maid Mathurina observes and takes exact and curious notice, of her young Ladies lustful, and unlawful familiarity, with her Father in Law Idiaques, the which her mistress understanding, she extremely beats her for the same; and twice whips her stark naked in her Chamber, and drags her about by her hair, although this poor young Gentlewoman, with a world of tears and prayers, begs her to desist and give over.  
God hath many ways and means to set forth his glory, in detecting of Crimes, and punishing of offenders, yea he is now pleased to make use of this young maiden's discontent and choler against her incensed Lady and Mistress, for we shall see her pay dear for this cruelty and tyranny of hers towards her, for Mathurina, being a Gentlewoman by birth, she takes those blows and severe usage of her Lady in so ill part, and lodgeth it so deeply in her heart and memory, as she vows her revenge shall requite part of that her cruelty and tyranny towards her; Whereupon (with more haste than discretion, and with more malice than fidelity) she in her hot blood, goes to Don Ivan her young master, tells him of this foul business betwixt his young wife and old Father, to the disgrace and shame of nature; and makes him see and know his own dishonour, in their brutish and beastly adultery and incest. Don Ivan extremely grieves hereat, yea he is both amazed and astonished at the report of this unnatural crime as well of his young wife as aged Father. He cannot refrain from choler and tears hereat, to see himself thus infinitely abused by her beauty, and betrayed by his lust; and if it be a beastly, yea a profane part, for one man, and friend to offer it to another, how much more for a father to offer it to his own, yea to his only Son. He expected more goodness from her youth and grace from age, but as his wife hath hereby infringed her vow, and oath of wedlock, so hath his wretched father exceeded and broken those rules and precepts of Nature; yea, he is so nettled with the report, and inflamed with the considetation and memory hereof, that he abhors her infidelity, and in his heart and soul detesteth his inhumanity; so as the knowledge hereof doth so justly incense him against her, and exasperate himself against him; that resolving to right his own honour, as much as they have blemished and ruined it, and there in their own, he scorns to be an eyewitness, much less an accessary of this his shame and their infamy: So he here enters into a discreet and generous consultation with himself, how to bear himself in this strange and dishonourable accident; when perceiving and finding that both his wife and father, had by this their beastly Adultery and Incest, made themselves for ever unworthy of his sight and company; he here for ever disdaining henceforth to see her, or speak with him, very suddenly (upon a second conference, and examination of Mathurina, who stood firmly and virtuously to her former deposition and accusation against them) takes horse and rides away from Santarem to Lisbon, where providing himself of moneys and other necessaries, he takes post for Spain, and there builds up his residence and stay at the Court at Madrid, where we will for a while leave him, to speak of other accidents which fall out in the course of this History.  
Idiaques seeing the sudden departure of his Son, and Marsillia of her Husband, Don Ivan, and being both assured that he had some secret notice and intelligence of their lascivious dalliances and affection, he exceedingly grieves, and she extremely storms thereat, because they know that this foul scandal will wholly reflect and fall upon them; and now by this his sudden and discontented departure from them, will be made notorious and apparent to all the world. But how to remedy it they know not; because he hath neither signified him where he is gone, nor when he will return; the which the more bewrayeth his small respect, and discovereth his implacable displeasure towards them. But as there is no malice and revenge to that of a Woman, so Marsillia assuring herself that it was her Maid Mathurina who (to the prejudice and scandal of her Honour) had unlocked this mystery to her Husband Don Ivan, she enters into so furious a rage, and so outrageous a fury against her, as she provides herself of rods, and intends the next morn ere she be stirring out of her bed, to wreak her fierce anger and indignation upon her: But this sharp and severe resolution of hers, is not so closely carried by her, but Mathurina hath perfect notice thereof, and to prevent this intended correction and cruelty of her incensed Lady and Mistress, she the night before takes horse, and so rides home to the Town of St. Saviour's too her father; and there, from point to point relateth him all which had passed betwixt her Lady and herself, and betwixt her Husband, herself, and her father in Law; and that now disdaining any more to serve her, as her body, so her tongue is at liberty; for she is not, and she will not be sparing to publish her Mistress, and her father in law's shameful familiarity and adultery together. But this indiscretion, and licentious folly of her tongue will cost her far dearer than she thinks of, or expecteth.  
For her late Lady and Mistress, Marsillia, being now perfectly certified of Mathurina's infidelity and treachery towards her in the point of her dishonour and shame, she (to salve up her reputation, and to provide for her fame (will not wholly rely upon her own judgement and discretion herein; but resolves to acquaint Don Alonso De Perez, her own only brother herewith, and to crave his aid and assistance, as also his advice, betwixt whom and herself there was so strict a league and sympathy of affection, that (if reports be true) I write it to their shame, and mine own sorrow, it exceeded the bounds of Nature and Honour, and of Modesty and Chastity; only the presumption hereof is great and pregnant, for if there had not been some extraordinary ties and obligations betwixt them, it is rather to be believed than doubted, that for her sake and service, he would never have so freely exposed himself to such eminent fears and dangers, as we shall immediately see him do; and although (of honour and disposition) he were brave and generous, yet I believe he would not have undertaken it. For the Reader must understand that to this brother of hers, Don Perez, Marsillia speedily acquaints the infidelity and treachery of her Maid Mathurina's tongue against her Fame and Honour, which had so unfortunately occasioned her Husbands, Don Ivans, discontented departure from her. She protesteth most seriously and deeply to him of her and her father in Law Idiaques innocency in this pretended crime and scandal: Tells him that Mathurina is the only author and reporter thereof, and therefore till that base and lewd tongue of hers be eternally stopped and silenced, she shall never enjoy any true content to her heart, or peace to her thoughts and mind either in this world, or this life: When his affection to her makes him to yield such confidence to her speeches, vows, and complaints, that he holds them to be as true as Scripture; yea, and the undoubted Oracles of Truth and Innocency; when to please and satisfy her, he bids her be of good cheer and comfort, and that he will speedily take such order that Mathurina's ●…candalous tongue shall not long eclipse her fame, or any further blemish the lustre of her reputation: When this base and bloody Gentleman, De Perez, to make good this his promise to his execrable Sister, he secretly rides over to St. Saviour's, and there by night waiting near her father's door, when Mathurina would chance to issue forth; he in a dark night espying her (without any more ceremony or further expostulation) runs her thorough the body two several times, whereof poor harmless innocent soul she falls down dead to his feet without once speaking or crying. So De Perez seeing her dispatched, he presently takes horse (which his man there led by him) and posts away ro Santarem, being neither seen nor discovered. And thus this bloody villain most deplorably embrued his guilty hands in the innocent blood of this virtuous young Gentlewoman, who never offended him in thought, word, or deed in all her life; and albeit that her father Signior Pedro de Castello makes curious enquiry and research for the Murderer of his Daughter, yet De Perez (mounted at advantage) hath recovered Santarem in safety. But God will in due time find him out to his shame and confusion; yea, and than when his security and courage little dreams thereof.  
As soon as he comes to Santarem, he acquaints his sister Marsillia of his dispatching of Mathurina, who is infinitely glad thereof, and extremely thank full to him for the same, and now her malice and revenge looks wholly on her Husband Don Ivan, for offering her this unkind and scandalous indignity of his departure, and for tacitly taxing and condemning her of incontinency with his father Idiaques, which her adulterous heart, and incestuous soul and conscience doth inwardly confess and acknowledge, though the perfidiousness and hypocrisy of her false tongue do publicly deny it; yea, with her best art and policy, and with her sweetest smiles and kisses, she hath by this time so exasperated this her bloody brother against him, that (out of his vanity and folly) he profanely vows unto God, and seriously protests and swears unto her. That if he knew where he were, he (for the vindication of her honour and innocence, would ride to him and fight with him, except he would resolve to give him & her some valuable reparation, and honourable satisfaction to the contrary, which he seals and confirms to her with many amorous smiles, and lascivious kisses. But as we are commonly never nearer danger than when we think ourselves farthest from it: So God being as secret in his decrees, as sacred in his resolutions, we shall shortly see De Perez to verify and confirm it in himself; for as in the heat of this his sottish affection to his sister, he is ready to fight with her Husband Don Ivan, if he knew where he was; lo the news of his residence in Madrid, when he lest thinks thereof, is accidentally brought him by a Servant of his own whom he purposely sends to Santarem with these two ensuing letters, The one sent and directed from him to his Father the other to his wife Marsillia That to his Father spoke thus.  
DON IVAN to IDIAQVES.  
WAs there no other woman of the whole world for you to abuse but my wife, and was your faith so weak with God, or you so strong with the Devil, that you must therefore make her your Strumpet, because she was my wife? If Nature would not inform you that I am your Son, yet you are my Father, and it should have taught you to have been more natural to ●…se, more honourable to the world, more respectful to yourself, and more religious to God, and not to have made yourself guilty of these foul crimes of Adultery and Incest with her, the least whereof is so odious to God, and so detestable to men, that I want terms, not tears to express it. For hereby as you have made my shame infinite, so likewise you have made your own infamy eternal, the consideration whereof gives me so much grief, and the remembrance sorrow, that holding you for ever unworthy of my sight, and she of my company, I have therefore left Portugal for Spain, and forsaken Santarem, to live and die here in Madrid. And when hereafter God shall be so merciful to your soul, to let you see that the Winter of your age makes you fitter for your grave than for my bed, and for your winding-sheet, than for my wife, you will then h●…ld this resolution and proceeding of mine towards you as honourable, as this your crime to me is unnatural, the which if you henceforth redeem not with an Ocean of bitter tears, and a world of repentant and religious Prayers to God, I rather fear than doubt, that his Divine Majestywill make you as miserable, as you have made me unfortunate.  
DON IVAN.  
His Letter to his Wife spoke this language.  
DON IVAN to MARSILLIA.  
WHat Devil possessed thy heart with lust, and thy soul with impiety, to make thee violate thy vow which thou gavest me in marriage, by committing those dam●…able sins of Adultery and Incest with my natural father: And if the consideration that I was thy Husband could not in Grace deter thee from it, yet (me thinks) the remembrance that he was my father should in Nature have made thee both to abhor and detest it. And although my tender affection to thee, and filial obedience to him, made me expect more goodness from thy youth, and Grace from his age, yet God is a just judge, and your hearts are true witnesses of these your unnatural crimes and foul ingratitude towards me, which hath cast so great a blemish and scandal on mine honour, and dashed my joys with so many untimely afflictions, and immerited sorrows, that I have abandoned Portugal and Santarem for thy sake, and betake●… myself to live and die in Madrid in Spain for mine; where I will strive to make myself as contented as discontent can make me, and so leave this thy enormous crime, and the punishment thereof to God, in whom thou mayest be happy, but without whom thou wilt assuredly be miserable. And think to what just calamities and miseries thine inordinate lusts, and lascivious desires and delights have already deservedly reduced and exposed thee. Sith henceforth I will no more esteem thee my Wife, or myself thy Husband, and that God will assuredly look●… on thee with an eye of indignation, and the world, of contempt.  
DON IVAN.  
Idiaques having read and perused that Letter of his son, and Marsillia this of her Husband Don Ivan, they are therewith so touched in heart with shame, and stung in conscience with sorrow for their foul crimes of Adultery and Incest, that they blush each at other, and both of them most bitterly curse the name and memory of Mathurina, who was the first author of this report to him, and which so suddenly incensed him, and occasioned his departure. So to bear up their reputations to the world, and their fames to him, they resolve (without either ask leave or pardon of God) to justify their innocence hereof to him, and so to pursue and solicit his return. To which effect they write and return him (by his own servant) their two several Letters in answer of his, whereof that of Idiaques his father carried this message.  
IDIAQVES to DON IVAN.  
THou dost wrong thyself and the truth, God and thy Conscience, and thy wife and me, in so basely taxing us of those foul sins of I●…eest and Adultery, whereof we are as truly innocent, as thou falsely and maliciously deemest us guilty. For I have not abused her nor made her my Strumpet, although not God, but the Devil (in the slanderous tongue of Mathurina) hath made thee to believe so. For Nature hath taught me more Grace and goodness, not so little impiety, for that I know they are sins more ●…dious to God, and detestable to the world, than either thy sorrows can express, or thy anger depaint me. Neither have I made thy shame infinite, or canst thou make my infamy visible, much less eternal, although herein thou show me thy indignation, together with thy disobedience, by leaving Portugal for Spain, and Santarem for Madrid, whereof because thou wilt not make thy duty, I will content myself to make thy discretion judge betwixt us, If thou have not done me more wrong, than either thyself, and the truth right herein, and offered a scandal likewise to thy Wife's honour, who made thy company her chiefest joy, as now she doth thy absence her sharpest misery and affliction. How then can I go to my grave with content, when thou for sakest her bed with malice, and my house with disdain. My innocence in thy accusation hath no way irritated or offended God, and, if therefore with tears and Prayers thou wilt resolve to 〈◊〉 God, thy Wife, and me forgiveness for this thy foul crime, and monstr●… ingratitude towards us, than mine arms shall be as open as ●…ver they have been to receive, and my house to welcome thee, and therein thou shalt make thyself as truly happy, as thou falsely and uncharitably thinkest that God will make me miserable.  
IDIAQVES.  
The answer of his wife Marsillia to him was couched in these terms.  
MARSILLIA to DON IVAN.  
IT 〈◊〉 neither Lust nor the Devil which can make me infringe or violate my Vow given thee in marriage, although thou art as far from the truth as from God to believe it. But how shall I hope that thy tongue will excuse me of these thy pretended foul crimes of Adultery and Incest, when to my astonishment and grief I see thou likewise condemnest thy old father to be guilty thereof with me? And if this be any way affection to me, or obedience to him, let all other Husband's judge, and all Sons define and determine. But to return thee truth for thy falsehood; His age expected and deserved more grace, and my youth and Virtues more affection and goodness from thee, than to have believed those false calumnies and impostures upon the bare report and malicious relation of my handmaid Mathurina, which are now dead with her, and are as false as thy rashness and her revenge makes thee believe them true; for it is neither I nor thy father who have any way blemished thi●… honour, or vanquished thy joys, but rather thyself, and thy too too unkind and hasty departure from Santarem to Madrid, which (to the prejudice of the truth, and of my content and honour) hath occasioned it. For my heart and foul will testify both with me and for me, that my affection and constancy is both as s●…lesse, firm, and true to thee, as thy jealousy is false towards myself, and therefore as thou leavest my pretended crime, so will I thy real ingratitude both to time and to God, and if yet thou wilt be so wilfully cruel to live from me, and consequently not to esteem me thy wife, yet as it is my zeal and duty to beg and pray thee to return to me, so I will make it my Integrity and Conscience still to hold and love thee for my Husband, and so preserving my heart for thee, as I do my soul for God, I hope with assurance and confidence that I shall have no cause to fear either his indignation, or the world, contempt, in regard I have neither merited the one, nor deserved the other.  
MARSILLIA.  
Upon the writing and contents of these two Letters of Idiaques to his son, and of Marsillia to her Husband Don Ivan, the Reader may please to observe and remember with how much policy, and with how little Piety they seek to overvaile and deny these their Adulteries and Incest towards him, thereby to make their actions and themselves appear as innocent, as they are guilty both to him and to God. But God being the Author of Truth, and the Father of Light, and whose Sacred Throne and Tribunal is environed with more glorious Suns than we see glistering Stars in the Firmament; He will one day unmask this their hypocrisy, and bring their foul sins of Adultery and Incest, both to light and punishment. Now as Marsillia is exorbitantly lascivious in her affection to her brother De Perez, and he reciprocally so to her, so with a world of false sighs & tears she shows him her Letter, and ●…er fathers in law Idiaques, which they had sent to her Husband Don Ivan to Madrid, and with ●…y female oaths and asseverations protesteth to him of both their innocence herein, which her brother believes ye●…, her f●…ed sorrows and false tears had so far trenched and gained upon his cruelty, that in contemplation and commiseration of her wrongs, he was then so vain and impious, as once he thought to have carried these two Letters himself into Spain, and there to have fought with Don Ivan for the reparation of his sister's honour. But at last leaving passion to consult with reason, and temerity again to be vanquished and swayed by judgement, first that these Letters of theirs should see Spain, and then to attend his brother in Law Don Ivan his answer to them, and as he shall therein find him either perverse or flexible to his wife's desires, and his father's expectations, he will then accordingly bear himself and his resolutions towards him, and hereon both himself and his sister Marsillia do joyfully determine and conclude. So Don 〈◊〉 own servant returns these two aforesaid Letters from Santarem to Madrid to his Master, who breaking up the seals, and perusing them, he doth not a little wonder at his wife's impudence, and his father's impiety, in so strongly denying these their foul crimes to him: But he is not a little astonished, and withal afflicted and grieved, when he falls upon that point and branch of his wife's Letter, which reports the death of her maid Mathurina, for in his heart and conscience he now verily thinks and believes, that his wife in her inveterate malice and revenge to her, hath caused her to be murdered, and sent her to Heaven in a bloody winding sheet. But alas, if it be so, how to revoke or remedy it he cannot. Once therefore he was minded to have neglected these their Letters, and so to have answered them with perpetual oblivion, and a disdainful silence: But then again considering with himself that this might rather increase than extenuate their hopes of his return, he betakes himself to his Study, where taking pen and paper, he, neglecting his father, traceth his wife this Letter in answer of hers, and again sends it her into Portugal by his own servant, which assureth them of his resolution not to return.  
DON IVAN to MARSILLIA.  
THe receipt of thy second Letter hath not diminished but confirmed and augmented my confidence of my father's shame, and thy infamy, in your foul sins of Adultery and Incest, perpetrated against me, and which is worse, against God, so that I am fully resolved for ever to forsake his house, and thy company, and to live and die here in Madrid, as grief and disconsolation will permit me; For I prise the (unjust) Apology of thy (pretended) Innocence at so low a rate, and value it at so base an esteem, as I disdain it for thy sake, and thyself for thine own. I do as much grieve, as I both doubt and fear, thou rejoicest at thy maid Mathurina's death, and as I am ignorant of the manner, so if my father and thyself have been the cause thereof, you have then all the reasons of the world to believe, that God (who is as just in his resolutions, as sacred in his decrees) will in the end revenge it to his glory, and punish it to your confusion.  
DON IVAN.  
This Letter of his doth inflame his wife with malice and indignation, for now her father and she see these their lustful and lascivious crimes seated and confirmed in his belief, and his stay in Spain fixed in his anger, and eternised in his resolution: When as close as they bear it, yet knowing full well that the world will take notice of it, and ere long make it their public scandal and infamy. He is so devoid of Grace, and she of goodness, that to prevent it, he wisheth his son in Heaven with his mother, and she her old father in law in grave with her young maid Mathurina. But these vain hopes of theirs may deceive them, which as yet they two are not so wise to think of, nor so cautious or religious to consider, but rather more resembling bruit beasts than Christians, they still continue their obscene and incestuous pleasures, the which I take small delight or pleasure to mention in regard of modesty, or to repeat in respect of Nature and Honour. Here Marsillia again repairs to her brother De Perez, as to her Oracle and Champion; she shows him both these two last Letters of her husband to his father and herself, and conjureth his best advice and speediest assistance for the recovering of her honour, in that of her husband's affection and company, or else that she were freed from him, and he out of this life and this world, that so her scandal and wrongs might die with him, and for ever be raked up in the dust of his grave, and buried with him in eternal oblivion and silence. Don Perez (in heart and mind) is so much his sisters, as he is no more himself, when making his affection do homage to her beauty, and his judgement and resolution to pay tribute to his affection, he prays her to refer this charge and business to the care of his discharge; when giving her many kisses, and willing her to read his heart in his eyes, he gives her the good night; and the next morning being impatient of all delays, he takes one Signior Gaspar Lopez, a noble Gentleman, and a valiant intimate friend of his with him, and relating him his intent to fight with his brother Don Ivan, and the cause thereof: They undertake this journey of Spain, and so arrive at Madrid, where Lopez prays Perez to make him his Second in that Duel; De Perez thanks him for this his affection, but tells him he will hazard himself but not his friend; so writing a Challenge to Don Ivan, he seals it up, and requesteth Lopez to deliver it to him, and the same night to return him his answer. Lopez accordingly finds out Don Ivan in his own chamber, and gives it to him in fair and discreet terms, who wondering it came from his brother in law De Perez, but far more to understand that he was now in Madrid, he no way dreaming of a Challenge, but rather thinking that his wife his sister had sent him thither to him to work her reconciliation, and consequently his return to her to Santarem, he hastily breaks up the seals thereof, finds it charged with this language.  
DE PE●…EZ to DON IVAN.  
I Have seen thy inveterate malice to thy Wife my sister, in thy false and scandalous Letters to her, and Portugal hath read it in thy sudden and choleric departure from her into Spain, wherefore considering what she is to thee, and I to her, I hold myself bound (both in Honour and Blood) to make her wrongs and quarrels mine. To which end I have left Santarem to find thee out here in Madrid, purposely to pray thee to meet me to morrow betwixt six and seven in the morning, at the farthest West end of the Prado, with thy Rapier, a confident Gentleman of thy friends, and thy Chirurgeon, without a Second, where thou shalt find me to attend thy coming, and relying upon the equity of my cause, and the ingratitude and infamy of thine, I make no doubt but to teach Don Ivan what it is for him (without ground or truth) to cast a base aspersion and wrongful blemish upon the lustre of his Wife, and my Sister, the Lady Marsillia's honour, whose descent and extraction is as good as thine, and her education and Virtues far more sublime and excellent. Thy generosity obligeth thee to the honourable performance hereof, and mine honour reciprocally to perform this Obligation.  
DE PEREZ  
Don Ivan having received and perused this Challenge of his brother in law De Perez, and finding his furious resolution to exceed his judgement, he knowing himself innocent, his cause good, and his courage and valour every way to be superior to the others, highly disdaining to be outbraved by any Nobleman or Gentleman breathing, in the point of Honour and generosity, he with a cheerful countenance returns Lopez to his brother D●… Perez with this accepting answer.  
DON IVAN to DE PEREZ.  
Mr hatred to Marsillia, and departure from her was justly occasioned through her treachery and infidelity to me, and therefore my Letters to her to that effect are as true as she is false in denying it; notwithstanding sith she is thy sister and my wife, I as much approve of thy affection to her, as I condemn thy temerity to me, and thy indiscretion to thyself, in making her quarrel thine, and by forsaking Santarem, to fight with me here in Madrid. And because thou shalt see and find that I have as much courage as innocency, I therefore accept of thy Challenge, and am so far from learning anypoint of valour of De Perez, as to his shame and my glory, I hope to teach him, that I have no way cast a false aspersion or blemish on the lustre of her reputation, but she on herself, and consequently that I will neither affect her, nor fear thee. For God lending me life, I will to morrow break fast with thee at thine own time and place appointed, where my honour and generosity invites me to come, and thine to meet me.  
DON IVAN.  
These two inconsiderate Gentlemen having thus embarked themselves in the strong resolution of this weak quarrel and rash Duel, which earthly honour cannot as justly approve and allow of, as divine Religion and Christian Piety and charity disavow and execrate. Their malice and revenge each to other is so violent and impetuous, that without any thought either of God or their Souls, or of Heaven or Hell, they pass over the night, if not in watchfulness, yet in broken and distracted slumbers, yea the morn no sooner peeped from Heaven through their windows to their chambers, but they leap from their beds to the Prado, where De Perez with his friend Lopez come first on horseback, and immediately after them Don Ivan in his Coach, with a young Gentleman his friend, termed Don Richardo De Valdona: So these two Duelists disdaining to be tainted with the least spice of dishonour, or shadow of cowardice, they at first sight of each other, throw off their doublets, and in their silk stockings and pumps, with their Rapiers drawn, they without any further compliment or expostulation approach each other; But here before they begin to reduce malicious contemplation into bloody action, I hold it fit to inform my Reader with a circumstance that now past between them, wherein doubtless the Providence of God was most conspicuous and apparent; For as by the Law and custom both of Spain and Portugal, all Rapiers should be of one length, yet De Perez curiously casting his vigilant eye upon that of Don Ivan, either his fear, or his judgement, or both, inform him that that Rapier is longer than his, whereat Don Ivan grieves far more than De Perez can possible either rejoice or wonder, for he is so far from any way blemishing his honour with this, or with any other point or shadow of dishonour, as now he gives his Rapier to measure, and to write the truth, his is found one inch longer than that of De Perez, when biting his lip for anger, he (resembling himself) proffers to fight with that either of Lopez or Valdona, which was sufficient reason for one Gentleman of Honour to give, and for another to take; but when he sees that this proffer of his will neither secure De Perez fear, nor confirm his content, then as a Noble and generous Gallant, he freely exchangeth Rapiers with him, giveth De Perez the longer, and contents himself to fight with the shorter, whereat De Perez rests satisfied, and well he may, sith this action and his receipt thereof, doth as much testify Don Ivans glory, as his own dishonour and shame, and now they again approach each other to fight.  
At their first coming up Don Ivan runs a firm thrust to De Perez breast, but he (bearing it up with his Rapier) runs Don Ivan in the cheek towards his right ear, which draws much blood from him, and he in exchange runs De Perez thorough his shirt sleeve without hurting him: At their second meeting they again close without hurting each other, and so part fair without offering any other violence: At their third assault De Perez runs Don Ivan thorough the brawn of his left arm, who in exchange requites him with a deep wound in his right side, from whence issued much blood, and now they breathe to recover wind, and to the judgements of Lopez and Valdona, (as also of their Surgeons) they hitherto are equal in valour, and almost in fortune; so although these spectators do of both sides earnestly entreat them to desist and give over, yet they cannot, they will not be so easily or so soon reconciled each to other; So after a little pausing and breathing, they (with courage and resolution) fall to it afresh, and at this their fourth encounter Don Perez gives Don Ivan a deep wound in his left shoulder, and he requites him with another in exchange, in the neck; and although by this time their several wounds hath engrained their white shirts with great effusion of their scarlet blood, yet they are so brave, so generous, or rather so inhuman and malicious, that they will not yet give over, as if they meant and resolved rather to make death fear them, than they any way to fear death; But their fifth close will prove more fatal; for now after they had judiciously traversed their ground, thereby to deceive each other of the disadvantage of the Sun, whiles De Perez directs a full thrust to Don Ivans breast, he bravely and skilfully warding it, in requital thereof, runs him clean thorough the body, a little below his right pap, when closing nimbly with him, and pursuing the point of his good fortune, he whips up his heels, and so nails him to the ground, when he had the strength to beg his life of Don Ivan, and God knows he much grieved that it was not then in his power to give it him, for this his last wound being desperately mortal, he presently died thereof, having neither the remembrance to call on God, much less to beg mercy of him for his sinful soul; but as he lived abominably and profanely, so he died miserably and wretchedly: And although I confess it was too great an honour for him to receive his death from so brave a noble Gentleman's hands as Don Ivan, yet it is a most singular providence, and remarkable punishment of God, that he died by the hands of his own lascivious sister's Husband, and which is yet more, by his own sword, as if God had formerly decreed, and purposely ordained, that the self fame sword should give him his death, wherewith so lately and so cruelly he had bereft that harmless innocent young Gentlewoman Mathurina of her life, although in regard of this his foul and lamentable murder, he (with less honour and more infamy) every way deserved to have died rather by a halter than a sword; But God's Providence is as unsearchable as sacred.  
Don Ivan having rendered thanks to God for this his victory, he out of his noble courtesy and humanity, lends Lopez his Coach to transport the dead body of his brother in Law De Perez into the City, and taking his horse in exchange, he by a private way gets home to his lodging. But this their Duel is not so secretly carried, but within three hours after all Madrid rattles thereof; who knowing the Combatants to be both of them noble Gentlemen of Portugal, it gives cause of general talk, and argument of universal envy and admiration in all Spaniards, especially in the nobler sort of Soldiers and Courtiers. When the very day after that Don Ivan had caused this his brother to be decently buried, Lopez repairs to his chamber to him, and in a fair & friendly manner inquires of him if he please to return any Letter of this his friends death, and of his own victory to Santarem to Don Idiaques his father, or the Lady Marsillia his wife, and that his best service herein shall attend and wait on his commands: Don Ivan thanks Lopez for this his courtesy, but tells him that for some reserved reasons he will send no Letter to either of them, but otherwise wisheth him a prosperous return to Portugal; so Don Ivan remains in Madrid, and Lopez returns for Santarem, and there from point to point relates them the issue of that Combat, as the victory of his son Don Ivan, and the death and burial of De Perez, adding withal, that he was so reserved and strange, that he would write to neither of them hereof. At the relation and knowledge of this mournful news, Idiaques cannot refrain from much sorrow, nor Marsillia from bursting forth into bitter tears and lamentations thereat; for seeing her dear and only brother thus slain by the hand of her own unkind Husband; by losing him she knows she hath lost her right arm, and he being dead she knows not to whom to have recourse either for counsel, assistance, or consolation. And yet as much as he sorrows and she grieves at this diasterous accident, they notwithstanding are yet so far from thinking it a blow from Heaven, or from looking either up to God, or down to their own sinful hearts, consciences, and souls for the same, that without making any good use, or drawing any divine or profitable moral thereof, they still continue their beastly pleasures and damnable Adultery and Incest together, as if there were no God to see, nor no deserved torments or misery reserved to punish it. But they and we shall immediately see the contrary.  
To the grief of our hearts, and compunction of our souls, we have in this History seen wretched Idiaques (by the instigation of the devil) to poison his wife the Lady Honoria; and likewise his daughter in Law Marsillia to have caused her brother De Perez to have cruelly murdered her waiting-maid in the street; as also by the Providence of God Don Ivan to have slain the said De Perez in the field, and our curiosity and expectation shall not go far, before we shall see the just Revenge and punishments of God condignly to surprise wretched Idiaques, and graceless Marsillia for the same; for his Divine Justice contending with his Sacred Mercy, it hath at last prevailed against these their ●…le and bloody crimes; so now when they are in the midst, yea, in the height & jollity of all these their soul delights & security, like an unlooked for storm and tempest, 〈◊〉 will suddenly befall them. Life hath but one way to bring us into this world, but death hath infinite to take us from it, and what is this bu●… true argument & reason of God's glory and our misery, of his power, and of our frailty and weakness, and therefore because we are as replete of sin as he is of sanctity, and as subject to imperfections, as all perfections are both properly co-incident and subject to him: It will be an act of moral wisdom, and of religious piety in us, rather to glorify than examine his sacred Providence, and rather to admire than pry into his divine Decrees and resolutions. And because his correction and punishment of all sins, especially of this crying and scarlet sin of Murder, is as Just as secret, and as inscrutable as Just; therefore to 〈◊〉 towards the period of this deplorable History, God is first pleased to exercise and begin his Judgements on miserable Marsillia, and then to finish it in wretched Idiaques. But his divine Majesty is likewise pleased and resolved both to impose and make as great a difference in their punishments, as he found a parity and conformity in their crimes.  
It is Marsillia's pleasure (or to say more truly, the providence and pleasure of God) that she rides from Santarem to Coimbra to visit a sick Gentlewoman her Cousin German, who dwelled there, being only accompanied with her ma●… 〈◊〉 on horseback, and her foot boy Piscator to attend her, and as she comes within a small half league of that town, having sent away her man Andrea before, and her foot boy Piscator being a very little distance behind her, there suddenly sta●…s up a Hare between (or close to) her horse legs, which so amazed her horse, (which was as hot and proud as the Gentlewoman his Mistress whom he bore) as coming off with all four, he throws her to the ground, and kicking her with his hind feet at her fall, he strikes her in the forehead, and so dasheth out her brains; God so ordaining, that she had not the power to speak a word, much less the grace or happiness to repent her of her horrible sins, A dultery, Incest, and Murder. And thus was the lamentable and fearful end which God gave to this graceless young Lady, the which I cannot as yet pass over, without annexing and remembering one remarkable point and circumstance therein, in which the Justice and Mercy of God to both sexes, and all ages and degrees of people, doth miraculously resplend and shine forth; for that very horse which threw and killed her was the very same which she formerly lent to her Brother De Perez, and whereon he rid to Saint Saviour's when he (by her instigation) killed her waiting maid Mathurina. Good God, how just, and wonderful are thy decrees, Dear Lord, how immense and sacred is thy justice.  
But this is but the forerunner, and as it were but the entrance into a further progression of this History. For as her foot boy Piscator, extremely wept and bitterly cried, at the sight of this mournful and tragical death of his Lady and Mistress, God had so decreed and provided, that the next that passed by, and who were sorrowful spectators thereof, were two Corigadors (or Officers of justice) of the City of Coimbra riding that way in their Coach to take the air. Who●… compassion of the deplorable death of this fair unknowen young Gentlewoman, they descend their Coach, and having enquired and understood of her sorrowful Foot boy what she was, they then with much respect and humanity cause 〈◊〉 dead Corpse to be decently laid into their Coach, which they shut, and so mounting their Servants Horses they return again to Coimbra. From whence they send her Man Andrea, in all possible post hast to Santarem to acquaint his Master and her Father in law Don Idiaques with this lamentable death of his daughter in Law Marsillia, and to pray him to repair speedily thither to them to take order for her Burial. Andrea is no sooner departed for his Master, but these two Corigadors consult on the fatality of this accident, and very profitably consider for themselves, that the horse who killed her, and all her apparel and jewels, by the custom and royalty of their City were devolved and forfeited to their jurisdiction; to which effect they cause her rings, chains, and bracelets to be taken from her, and then her pockets likewise to be carefully searched for gold and jewels; so as murder cannot belong concealed or underected; we may therefore here behold the wonderful Providence, and singular Justice of God, for in one of her pockets they find, folded up in a rich cutwork handkerchief, the last Letter which her Husband Don Ivan had written and sent her from Madrid; at the sight of this Letter one of these Corigadors is desirous to have it read publicly, but the other (being more humane and respective to the concealing of Lady's secrets, which many times prove that of their honours) he contradicts it, till at last God enligh●…ing their judgements, and prompting and inspiring their hearts, that the perusal of this Letter might (peradventure) import and report something which might te●…d to his service, and conduce to his glory; they fall then on a 〈◊〉 ●…wixt both their 〈◊〉, and so withdrawing themselves to a pri●… chamber, they there secretly o●…-reade this Letter, where in with admiration and amazement they understand of the obscene Adultery and Incest of Don Idiaques with this his daughter in law Marsillia, which was the cause of her Husband Don Ivan his absence from her in Spain: But at length when they proceed farther therein, and so fall upon these words of Don Ivan to her in this his Letter; I do as much grieve as I both doubt and fear thou rejoicest at thy hand maid Mathurina's death, and as I am ignorant of the manner, so if my father and thyself have been the cause thereof, you have then all the reasons of the world to believe, that God will in the end punish it to your confusion; then (led by the spirit of God) they both concur in one opinion, that this their Adultery, and this Murder of Math●…rina did not only firmly reflect, but equally take hold both on Idiaques and Marsillia, and therefore that this her late deplorable and disastrous end, was only a blow from God, and the very true forerunner, and undoubted Harbinger of his own to come: When resolving to seize and imprison Idiaques as soon as he should arrive thither to Coimbria; They hushing up this Letter and business in their own bosoms, do then hold it fit to send for Marsillia's footman Piscator to come to them, which he speedily doth. They carefully inquire of him if his dead Lady had not sometimes a waiting Gentlewoman named Mathurina, he answered them yes, and that she was lately murdered in the streets of Saint Saviour's, and that her murderers were as yet unknown: They demand of him again whose daughter she was; he informs them that her father is a Gentleman who dwells in Saint Saviour's, and that his name is Signior Pedro de Castello, which being as much as they sought for; putting their servants to watch over this footman, that he might not escape to give the least inkling of their demands to his old Master Idiaques, they presently send away post to Saint Saviour's for Castello, and (in honour to Justice) these two Corigadors as Christian Magistrates, having put all things in order for the vindication of the truth of these deplorable matters, that very night Idiaques arrives at Coimbra, and descends from his Coach to the house of one of these Corigadors, where the dead body of his daughter Marsillia lay; at whose mournful fight, as soon as his passionate grief and sorrow had caused him to shed and sacrifice many rivulets of tears, when he lest dreams or thinks thereof, these two Corigadors cause him to be seized on, and instantlycommit him close prisoner, without acquainting him with the cause hereof; where all that night his guilty heart and conscience (as so many Fiends and Furies) assuring him that it was for poisoning of his own Lady Honoria; there horror and terror, grief and despair, and sorrow, and anguish, do act their several parts upon the Theatre of his soul.  
The next morn Castello (Mathurina's father) likewise arrives to Coimbra, to whom the Corigadors communicate this Letter of Don Ivan to his wife, which he sent her from Spain, wherein they tell him the murder of his daughter Mathurina seems probably and strongly to reflect upon Idiaques, and his daughter in law Marsillia; when they farther acquainting him with her tragical death, as also with his imprisonment; Castello (with a world of tears and cries) exclaims that undoubtedly they were the authors, if not the actors of his daughters lamentable murder, and so very passionately and sorrowfully craves justice of them on Idiaques for the same, which they are as willing to grant and perform, as he to desire: So after dinner in the public Tribunal of Justice, they send for Idiaques legally and juridically there to appear before them; where this sorrowful father (with much passion, and more tears) doth strongly accuse him for the murder committed and perpetrated on his daughter Mathurina; the which Idiaques with many high and stout answers denieth; he allegeth many oily words, and sugared and silken phrases, to justify and Apologise his innocence: Which these Corigadors (led by the finger of God) hold rather to be far more airy than solid, and far more plausible than real or true; so they (still remembering his son Don Ivans Letter to his wife Marsillia) do (without regard to his quality or age) adjudge him to the Rack. The which Idiaques (fearing infinitely more the murder of his own Lady Honoria, than that of Mathurina) endures the tortures and torments thereof, with a fortitude and resolution far beyond his strength and age, and with an admirable constancy stands firmly to the denial of this fact and accusation; so seeing the Rack taken away, and himself from the Rack, he is therefore very confident and joyful, that his danger is likewise o'er past and o'er blown: But these vain hopes of his will yet both deceive, and in the end betray him, for as yet his conscience hath not made peace with God. For the griefs & sorrows of this mournful father for this lamentable murder of his daughter, have now made him both industrious in his solicitation, and religious in this his prosecution against Idiaques towards these Corigadors, to whom again he becomes an earnest, and yet an humble Petitioner, that they will give him eight days time more to fortify his accusation, and that all that time he may still remain prisoner without Bail or Surety; which they finding reasonable, and consonant to all equity and law, they freely grant him. When Castello having God for his Councillor, and whom in a small time Idiaques shall find for his Judge, calling to mind some words of his deceased daughter touching the suspicion of poisoning her old Lady by her Husband, to make way for this match with Don Ivan, he doth no more accuse him for murdering of his daughter Mathurina; but some two days after he frames and presents a new Indictment and accusation to his Judges against him, for poisoning his old wife the Lady Honoria. Which these Judges admiring and wondering at, they then partly; nay almost confidently believe, that there is some great crime, and foul fact in this business against Idiaques, which God will in fine detect and bring to light, by the solicitation and industry of this honest poor Gentleman Castello. So they admit again of his second Indictment against him, and by virtue hereof convent him before them at their Tribunal of Justice.  
Idiaques understanding hereof, his guilty conscience now denounceth such thundering peals of fear and amazement to his appalled heart and trembling soul, as they will give no peace either to himself or them; and the Devil who had ever heretofore promised him his best aid and assistance, now flies from him, and leaves him to stand or fall to himself: And here it is that his courage begins to fail him, and that his fear and shame is almost resolved and ready to proclaim himself guilty of this his last and worst accusation, the poisoning of his own wife the Lady Honoria: But again the hope of life is yet so sweet to him, as the fear of death is displeasing and bitter, and therefore (with a wretched resolution, and a miserable confidence) he again artificially endeavoureth to blear the eyes of these his Judges, with his chiefest Eloquence, and sweetest Oratory; who having given him his full career to speak in his own defence and justification, when they perfectly knew he yet spoke not one valuable word or reason, either to defend or justify himself; Then one of these clear-sighted Corigadors (in the behalf of both of them) returns him this grave reply and pious exhortation.  
That as they have not the will to accuse him, so they have not the means or power to excuse him, for being (at least) accessary to both, or either of these murders, of his Lady Honoria, or Mathurina; that the sudden death of the first, and the violent and untimely one of the last, the voluntary absence of his son Don Ivan in Spain, with his kill of De Perez there, and now the fearful and lamentable end of his daughter in law, Marsillia (whose body is yet unbursed, and her blood scarce cold) left a dangerous reflection, and a pernicious suspicion on his life and actions at least of Adultery and Incest if not of Murder (whereof his Son Don Ivans Letter which he writ to his wife Marsillia which they have there to show, isa most strong and pregnant witness) and that the least of these crimes are capable to ruin a greater personage than himself. That he could cast no mist of delusion before God's eyes, though he artificially endeavoured and laboured to cast a veil before theirs. That the shedding of innocent blood was a crying Sin, which despite of sorcery and of Hell would (in God's due time) draw down vengeance to Earth from Heaven on their Authors. That if he were guilty of his accusation, he had no better plea than confession, nor safer remedy than repentance. That contrition is the true mark, of a true Servant of God, and though we fall to Nature and sin as being men yet we should rise again to grace and righteousness as being Christians. That to deny our Crimes, is to augment them and consequently their punishments, both in Earth, and in Hell, and that he was not a Christian, but an Infidel, who would attempt to save his life with the loss of his soul, with many other religious exhortations concurring and looking that way.  
But all this, notwithstanding, Idiaques his Faith and Conscience, was yet so strong with Satan, and therefore so weak with God, that he left no excuse; policy or evasion uninvented to blear the eyes of these Corigadors, and so to make his innocency to pass current with them▪ But his eloquence and asseverations cannot prevail with the solidity of their judgements, for God will not suffer them to be led away with words nor seduced or deluded with shadows: But from the circumference of circumstances, they now fly to the centre of truth, and to the Author and giver, yea to the life and soul thereof, God. So they again adjudge him to the rack for his second accusation of Murder, as they formerly had done to him for his first. At the pronouncing of which sentence, If we may judge of his heart by his face, he seemed to be much afflicted, appalled and daunted, which his judges perceiving before they expose him to his torments, they in Honour to his Age and quality, but far more to Truth and justice (whom they know to be two Daughters of Heaven) they now hold it a point of Charity and Piety to send him two Divines to his prison to work upon his Conscience and Soul, which they do: And God in the depth of his goodness, and the richness of his mercy, was so mercifully propitious and indulgent to him, that he added such efficacy to their persuasions and power to their exhortations, as at the very sight of the rack, he with tears in his eyes, then and there confessed unto them, That he was innocent of Mathurinaes' murder, but guilty of poisoning his own wife, the Lady Honoria, for the which he said he most heartily and sorrowfully repent himself. Whereupon his judges (and the rest present) admiring with wonder and praising God with admiration for the detection of this his foul bloody and lamentable crime, they pronounce sentence against him. That for expiation thereof, he at eight of the clock the next morning shall have his head cut off at the place of common execution in that Town. When Idiaques, who (yet adhered so much to Sat●…an) that he could never be devested of his mortal sins before he were first deprived of his sinful life, doth yet still flatter himself with some further hope of life, and so he appeals from the judgement and sentence of this Court of Coimbra to that of Santarem, as being native and resident thereof; as also because he committed his murder there for which they (not his competent judges) adjudged him to death: Whereat although the Corigadors of Coimbra for the preservation of the privileges of their Court and Town, do obstinately expose and vehemently contest it, yet at last well knowing, and being conscious with themselves, that smaller Towns and Courts in Portugal are bound and subject to depend of the greater; They therefore making a virtue of necessity, and contenting themselves to give way to that which they cannot remedy, do ordain that Idiaques should be conveyed and tried at Santarem.  
But yet before they suffer him to depart their Town, they in honour to justice, in wisdom to themselves, and in reputation to their Town and Court, do seriously and religiously charge him in the name and fear of God to declare truly to them, whether his unburied Daughter in Law Marsillia were not likewise accessary with him in poisoning his Wife, the Lady Honoria, which at first he strongly denies to them. But then they send away for the two Divines who had formerly dealt with him and his Conscience in Prison, who exhort him to carry a white and candyd soul to Heaven, and threaten him with the torments of Hell fire if he do not. When with sighs and tears, he confesseth that to them, and that it was he himself who administered that poison to his wife, but that his daughter in Law Marsillia bought it for him. So these judges (upon the validity of this free and solemn confession) in detestation of this her lamentable crime, do reverently resolve to second, and glorify God in his judgements towards her, and therefore they presently condemn her dead body to be burnt that afternoon in their market street, the common place of execution, which accordingly is then and there performed in presence of a great concourse of people, who infinitely rejoice that God so miraculously destroyed the life, and their judges the body of so execrable a female Monster.  
By this time we must allow, and imagine that our old Lecher, and new murthere Idiaques (by virtue of his appeal) is brought to his own City of Santarem, and I think either with a ridiculous hope or a profane and impious resolution to see whether God will punish him there with death, or the Devil preserve and save him from it. He hath many friends in this Court, who are both great and powerful, and therefore builds all his hopes of life, on this reeling quicksand, this snow, this nothing, that his great estate of money and lands will undoubtedly act wonders with them for his pardon. But still he hopes, because still the devil deceives him; He is arrived here at Santarem, where this fair City which might heretofore have proved his delight and glory, is now reserved for his shame and appointed and destined for his confusion; They cannot brook the sight, much less the cohabitation and company of such monsters of nature, and devils incarnate of men, who glory in making themselves guilty of these soul sins, and crying crimes, Adultery, Inces●…, Murder. So that Idiaques (who hath made himself a principal of this number, and a monster of Art in these sins) thinking here in Santarem to find more mercy and pity during his life, shall find less of both of them after his death. For the criminal judges of this Court who reverence and honour justice because justice doth daily and reciprocally perform the like to them, do confirm the sentence of Coimbra; that the next morn he shall lose his head, but in detestation and execration of these his foul and bloody crimes, they add this clause and condition thereto, that both his head and body shall be afterwards burnt, and his ashes thrown into the air, which gives maatter of talk and admiration, not only to Santarem but to all Portugal. And thus most pensively and disconsolately is Idiaques reconveyed to his prison where Churchmen are sent him by the judges of that court, to direct his soul in her slight and transsiguration from earth to Heaven whom they find (or at least ●…hey make) very humble, mournful, and repentant. According to which sentence he is the next morning brought to the place of execution, which for the greater example and terror to others, and of ignominy to himself, was before his own house, wherein he had acted and perpetrated all his enormous crimes. Where the scaffold is no sooner erected, but there flock an infinite number of people from all parts of the City, to be spectators of this last scene of his Tragedy. He came to the scaffold (between two Friars) in a suit of black Taffata, a gown of black wrought tough Taffata, and a great white set ruff, which yet could not be whiter than his broad beard: At his ascent on the scaffold, his grave aspect and presence engendered as much sorrow & pity, as his beastly crimes did detestation in the hearts and tongues of the people, to whom (after he had a short time kneeled down and prayed) he made a short speech to this effect.  
That although the poisoning of his own wife, and his adultery with his son's wife, were crimes so odious and execrable, as had made him unworthy any longer either to tread on earth, or to look up unto Heaven, yet although he deserved no favour of his Judges for his body, he humbly repent and begged some of God for his soul, and for the more effectual obtaining thereof, he zealously prayed all those who were present to join their prayers to his. He confessed that it was Marsillia's beauty which first (at the instigation of the devil drew him to that adultery with her, and this poisoning of his own wife Honoria, whereof from his heart and soul, he now affirmed he implored remission of God, of the Law, of his son Don Ivan, and of all the world, and prayed them all to be more godly and less sinful by his example, and so kneeling down, and praying a little while to himself, he rose up, and putting of his gown, ruff, and doublet, which he gave to the Executioner, he binding his head and eyes with his handkerchief, bade him do his office, which he presently performed, and with one blow of the sword, made a perpetual double divorce betwixt his head and his shoulders, his body and his soul; when presently according to his sentence, both his head and his body were then and there burnt and consumed to fire, and his ashes thrown into the air.  
And this was the deplorable life and death of De Perez, Idiaques, and Marsillia, of whom the spectators (according to their several humours and affections) spoke diversely, all condemning the bloody cruelty of De Perez towards innocent Mathurina, and of Idiaques towards his virtuous wife Honoria. Again, some pitied, and others execrated Marsillia's youth, beauty, and lust; but both sexes, and all degrees of people (as so many lines terminating in one Centre) magnified the providence and Justice of God, in so miraculously and condignly cutting off these monsters of nature, and bloody butchers of mankind.  
And if the curiosity of the Reader will yet farther inquire, what afterwards became of Don Ivan; The reports of him are different, for as first I heard that his discontent and grief was so great, yea, so extreme for the death of his Parents and wife, that he cloistered himself up a Capuchin Friar in their Monastery at Madrid: So chose I have since credibly been informed, that he shortly after these disasters left Spain, and still lives in Santarem in Portugal in great honour, welfare, and prosperity; But which of these his resolutions are most inclining and adherent to the truth, it passeth beyond my knowledge, and therefore shall come too short of my affirmation.   

GOD'S REVENGE AGAINST THE CRYING AND Execrable Sin of Murder.  
HISTORY XVII.  
Harcourt steals away Masserina, his brother Vimoryes wife and keeps her in Adultery; She hireth Tivoly (an Italian Mountebank) to poison La Precoverte, who was Harcourts' wife; Harcourt kills his brother Vimory, and then marries his widow Masserina; Tivoly is hanged for a robbery, and at his execution accuseth Masserina for hiring him to poison La Precoverte, for the which she is likewise hanged; Noel (who was Harcourts' man) on his deathbed suspecteth and accuseth his said Master for killing of his brother Vimory, whereof Harcourt being found guilty, he is broken alive on a wheel for the same.  
MAn being the Workmanship, and figurative Image of God, what an odious sin, yea what an execrable crime is it therefore for one (out of the heat of his malice or fumes of his revenge) to poison, or murder another, sith Nature doth strongly impugn, and Grace (with a high hand) infinitely contradict it. Therefore were not our hearts and understandings either wholly deprived of Common sense or our souls of the gracious assistance and favour of God, we would not thus so furiously and profanely make ourselves guilty of these infernal sins, but rather (with our best endeavours) would seek to avoid them as Hell, and (with our most pious resolutions) to hate and detest them as the Devil himself who is the prime Author and Actor thereof, But some such monsters of Nature, and Disciples of Satan there are here on Earth. A fearful and lamentable Example whereof this ensuing History will show us. The which may all good Christians read to God's glory, and remember to the instruction of their Souls.  
THere is a parish termed Saint Symplician a mile from the City of Sens in the Duchy of Burgundy (which is honoured with the title and See of an Archbishop) where (within these few years) there dwelled and died an aged Gentleman, (more Noble by birth, than rich in Estate and Demaynes) termed Monseiur De Vimory, who left only two sons behind him, the eldest named Mon●…eiur D●… Harcourt, and the second Monseiur De Hautemont, who were two very proper young Gentlemen, excellently well bred and qualified, as well in Arts as Arms, or in any other virtue or perfection which was requisite, both to show and approve themselves to be the sons of their father. And (to content my Reader with their characters) Harcourt was tall, but not well favoured, but of a mild and singular good disposition; Hautemont was of a middle stature, neatly timbered, of a sweet and amiable countenance, but by nature hasty and headstrong; Harcourt had a light Aubrnn beard, which (like a Country Gentleman) he wore negligently after the Oval cut; Hautemont had a coal black beard, which (Courtier-like) he wore in form of an invaled Pyramids; Harcourt was thirty two years of age, very chaste and honest; Hautemont was twenty five, but many times given to women, and ready to be debauched and drawn away by any; though but of an indifferent quality and complexion. To Harcourt (the eldest son) their father gave his chiefest Manor house, with eight hundred Crowns of yearly Revenue, and all his Goods and Chattels. To Hautemont (his second son) he gave his second Manor house, worth four hundred Crowns yearly, and fifteen hundred Crowns in his purse, by his Testament: Estates, which though it came short of their blood, yet it exceeded that of most of the Gentlemen their neighbours, and is held in France at least the double, if not the triple of as much here with us in England. So having neither the happiness, or the care to be accompanied with any sister or other brothers, they interchangeably swear a strict league of brotherly love and dear affection each to other, which by their Virtues and Honours they swear shall never receive end, but with the end of their lives: They many times consult together for the conduction and improving of their Estates, which they promise to manage with more frugality than lustre, and with more solid discretion than vain ostentation or superfluity, and not to live in Paris, or to follow the Court, but to build up their residence in the Country. To which end they cut off many unprofitable mouths, both of servants, horses, and hounds, which their father kept. They likewise vow each to other to be wonderful chary and careful in their marriages, as well foreseeing and knowing it to be the greatest part of their earthly felicity or misery. So here we may see and observe many fair promises, rich designs and resolutions, and many sweet covenants voluntarily drawn up between these two brothers, which if they make good and perform, no doubt but the end thereof will be successful and prosperous unto them, or if otherwise, the contrary.  
But before I wade farther in the stream and current of this History, I must first declare, that by the death of Vimory the father, and by the custom of France, we must now wholly abandon and take away the title of Hautemont from the second brother, futurely to give him that of Harcourt the eldest, and that from Harcourt the eldest, to give him that of Vimory their father, for (by the right and virtue of the premised reasons) these are now become their proper names and appellations, which the Reader is prayed to observe and remember.  
A year and half is not fully expired and passed away since their father passed from Earth to Heaven, but the eldest brother Monseiur De Vimory being extremely ambitious and covetous of wealth, and understanding that a rich Counsellor of the Court of Parliament of Dijon, named Monseiur De Basigni was dead, and had left a very rich widow, (of some forty years of age) named Madamoyselle Masserina, he earnestly seeks her in marriage. She is of short stature, corpulent and fat, of a coale-blacke hair, and if fame towards her be a true and not a tattling goddess, she hath, and still is, a lover of Ve●…s, and a Votaress who often sacrificeth to Cupid's lascivious Altars and Shrines. Harcourt is very averse and bitter against this match for his brother. They have many serious consultations hereon: He allegeth him the inequality of her age and birth in comparison of his, her corpulency, the ill getting of her Husband's goods, who was held a corrupt Lawyer, and (as the voice of the world went) who gained his wealth by the tears and curses of many of his ruined and decayed Clients; and when he saw that nothing would prevail to dissuade his brother from her, he rounds him in his ear, that it was spoken and bruited in Diion, that she was not as chaste as rich, nor so continent as covetous; Vimory is all enraged hereat, and chargeth Harcourt his brother to name the reporters of this foul scandal vomited forth (quoth he) against the virtues and honour of chaste Masserina; Harcourt replies, that he speaks it wholly upon fame, no way upon knowledge, much less upon belief; so Vimory being wilfully deaf to his brother's advice and requests, (and preferring Masserina's wealth to her honesty) he marries her. But she is so wise for herself, as first (both by promise and contract) she ties him to this condition; that he shall receive all her rents, which are some twelve hundred Crowns per Annum, she to put her ready money to Use into whose hands she pleaseth, and he also to have the one half of the interest money, but the principal still to remain in her own right, propriety, and possession, and as well in her life as death, to be wholly at her own disposing.  
Not long after Harcourt being at a great wedding (of a Gentleman his Cousin German) at the City of Troy's (in Champagne) he there at the balls (or public dancing) espies a most sweet and beautiful young Gentlewoman, whom he presently fancieth and affects for his wife: He inquires what she is, and finds her to be named Madamoyselle La Precoverte, daughter to an aged Gentleman of that City, termed Monseiur de la Vaquery. Harcourt courts the daughter, seeks the father, finds the first willing, and the second desirous; but at last he plainly and honestly informs Harcourt, that his daughter's chiefest wealth, are her virtues and beauty; that he hath not much land, and less money; that he hath two great suits of Law for store of Lands depending in the Parliament of Diion, which promise him store of money, and that he will futurely impart a great part thereof to him, if he will marry his daughter, the which (for the present) he tells him, he is content to make good & confirm to him both by bond & contract. Harcourt loves his fair young Mistress La Precoverte so tenderly and dearly, as he is ready to espouse her on those terms, but he will first acquaint his brother Vimory therewith, and take his advice therein. Vimory informs his brother Harcourt, that he knows Monseiur De Vaquery, of Troy's, to be a very poor Gentleman, that most of his lands are mortgaged out, and in great danger never to be redeemed; that his law suits are as uncertain, as the following thereof chargeable. Harcourt extols the beauty of La Precoverte to him to the sky; Vimory replies, that beauty fades and withers with a small time, and that those who prefer it to wealth, are many times enforced to feed on repentance in stead of content and joy, and to look poverty in the face in stead of prosperity. But Harcourt having deeply settled his affection on La Precoverte, he rejecteth this true and whole s●…ne counsel of his brother, and so marries her: When forgetting his former promise to his brother, he in a small time turns a great Prodigal, abandoneth himself to all filthy vices, and beastly course of life, and as a most debauched and graceless Husband (within one year) he for no cause quarrelleth very often with this his fair and dear wife, than whom neither Champagne nor Burgundy had a more beautiful or virtuous young Gentlewoman; she was of stature tall and slender, of a bright flaxen hair, a gracious eye, a modest countenance, a pure Lillie-rose at complexion, of a mild nature, and sweet disposition, respectfully courteous to all the world, and exceedingly devout and religious towards God, as perpetually making it, her practice, delight, and glory, to consume a great part both of her time and of herself in prayer, and in the service of God.  
And although she were formerly sought for in marriage by many as good Gentlemen as Harcourt, yet she could fancy none, nor affect any man for her husband but himself. Never wife was more careful or more desirous to please a husband than she, and as (for one whole year) it was her former content and joy to see him to be a provident, kind, and loving Husband to her, so now it is her matchless grief and calamity, to see his good nature perverted, his resolutions transported, and his affections drowned in debauched and vicious company. She leaves no sweet advice, nor courteous requests and persuasions unattempted to reclaim him from these his foul vices of drunkenness, swearing, dicing, evil company, and whoredom; for of no less sins in quality, nor fewer in number, she (with extreme grief and sorrow) sees him to be guilty: But all this will not prevail, no nor her infinite tears and sighs which many times she spends and sheds to him both at board and bed, yea, and sometimes on her knees, but still (with a wretched violence, and sinful impetuosity) he goes on in his vicious courses, and ungodly life and conversation; neither caring for his health, or his estate and means, but wilfully neglects the first, and prodigally wastes and consumes the second, whereat she wonderfully grieveth and lamenteth. She often requesteth Vimory his brother, and La Vaquery her father to persuade and divert him from these his ungodly Courses and enormous vices, which threatens no less than the utter ruin, and inevitable shipwreck of all their fortunes: but they likewise cannot prevail, although his Brother Vimory (with whom they live and sojourn) every hour and time he sees him, do strongly deal and labour with him to that effect: For now he giving no limits to his vices and prodigalities, he sells away his lands piecemeal, whereat his brother Vimory stormeth and rageth against him, and his virtuous sweet wife most pitifully weepeth and lamenteth. But as a base Gentleman, and a most unkind and ungrateful Husband, he laughs at her tears, smileth at hersighes, and contemneth & scorneth both them and herself. And it nowfalling out, that La Vaquery her father losing both of his Law suits at Diion, where they (by the votes & sentence of that Court of Parliament) are adjudged against him, whereby he was utterly ruined both in his hopes and estate for ever; Harcourt hereat soslights & neglects his wife, as he terms her beggar's brat, threateneth to send her home to Troy's to her Father, and setting all at random, cares not what becomes either of himself or her, who poor sweet Gentlewoman is so extremely afflicted, and as it were weighed down with all these calamities and miseries (especially with the vices and discourtesies of her husband) as in her heart she daylywisheth, and in her soul hourly prayeth unto God, that she were out of this life, and in Heaven, infinitely lamenting and a thousand times a day repenting that ever it was her hard fortune to see her Husband, and her woeful chance to marry him. But how to remedy or redress these her miseries she knows not.  
For now do her Husband's vices and prodigalities make him daily grow poorer and poorer, in so much (as in less than three years) he is become the shame of himself, the contempt of his enemies, the pity of his friends and Kinsfolks, and the extreme grief of his sweet and dear wife, so that he hath well neer●… spent all, and almost left nothing to maintain himself, much less to maintain her, whose griefs are so great, and sorrows so infinite, as her roseate cheeks now look thin and pale, her sweet eyes are become obscure and dim, yea, and in so pitiful and lamentable a manner, that she falls exceedingly sick, and her discontent and disconsolation is almost so remediless, as she would, but cannot be comforted, for that her Husband whom she thought would have proved the argument of her joy and prosperity, is now become the cause of her endless grief, and the object of her matchless calamity and misery. Thus leaving her sorrows, sighs and tears, to be diminished through time, or dissipated and defaced by God, The order of our History invites and conjures me now again to speak of this her base and debauched Husband, who hath many beastly and bloody parts to act herein.  
Whose lewd life and prodigalities enforcing him now to behold poverty, because heretofore he disdained to look on frugality and providence: Seeing his wealth wasted, his lands either sold or mortgaged, himself forsaken of his brother and friends, his reputation lost, his debts great, his creditors many, and who now began to grow extreme clamorous and scandalous to him: He knows not which way to look, or how or where to turn himself, to find out some invention and means to repair the decays and ruins of these his miserable fortunes, and so to bear up and screw himself again into the eye and repute of the world. When his necessity gaining upon his heart and nature, and Satan upon his Conscience and Soul, he knowing his brother's wife Masserina to be rich ●…nd wanton, he will become so unfaithful to his own wife, so ingrateful and treacherous to his own brother, and so dishonourable and ignoble to himself, as to attempt to gain her affection from him, and to draw her to his own lewd and lascivious desires, whereon his irregular hopes did more than partly grow confident, because he flatters himself with this true, yet foolish belief, that as he was seven years the younger, so he was twice seven times a properer man than his brother. When taking time at advantage, as his brother and her husband Vimory were rid to Diion, he finding her in a wonderful pleasant humour, and exceedingly disposed to be merry, when (God knows) his own sweet and sorrowful wife, was (according to her frequent custom) disconsolately at her prayers and book in her own chamber, and her door shut to her, then, than I say, he taking his said sister in law Masserina to a window in a private Parlour, he there (for himself, or the devil for him) breaks his mind to her, and is so far from shame, as he glories to make her acquainted with his deep affection, & lascivious suit to her: Neither doth he fail of his hopes, or they of his voluptuous desires, for he finds this his sister in law so dishonestly prepared, and so lustfully resolved and disposed to grant him his desires, that sealing her affection to him with many smiles, as he did his to her with more kisses, she is so impudent, so graceless, as at this his very first motion, she vows to him she hath not the power to deny him any thing, and therefore most cheerfully and willingly gives him her heart and herself, and he doth the like to her, which they mutually ratify and confirm between them with many private kisses, and amorous dalliances, as also with many secret protestations, and solemn oaths: But because Satan is, therefore God will not be present at this their vicious contract, and lascivious combination.  
Thus Harcourt and his sister in law Masserina, having no regard to their honours or reputations, to their hearts or consciences, to their souls or to God, he pollutes his brother's bed in possessing his wife's body, and makes it both his delight and practise to defile and conta●…ate his glory, in that of her shame, and of his own infamy. And now his pockets and purse are again filled and crammed with coin, for he gives her kisses for her gold, and she returns him gold for his kisses. Hereupon he puts himself again into new and rich apparel, but yet is so base, unkind, and ingrateful to his own sweet and virtuous wife, that he will give her neither gold nor new apparel, but permits her to go in her old. But to add more miseries to her misery, and more new griefs and calamities to her old (because she is equally an eye sore both to himself and to her) he will no longer permit her to live with him, that he may the more often and the more freely and securely familiarize with his old sister, or rather now with his new love Masserina: So (without any regard to her birth, or respect to her youth and virtues, or without considering that God had made her his wife, and therefore the other half of himself) he sends her home to her father at Troy's, giving her but a poor little ●…agge, and a ragged footboy, only with so much money as could hardly carry her thither, giving her neither money nor apparel, nor any thing else which was beseeming or fit for her, although through the black and obscure clouds of his vices and ingratitude, the bright and relucent Sunbeams of her excellent perfections and virtues in herself, and of her constant affection to him, will for ever most radiantly resplend and shine to all the world, especially to those who had the honour to know her living, or who shall now or hereafter read her History after her death. And never were those her sweet perfections and virtues either more conspicuous and glorious in her, than now at her enforced exile, and sorrowful banishment and departure from her Husband: For although he were cruelly unkind, or unkindly cruel to her, yet knowing and considering him to be her Husband, she therefore holds it her duty and conscience still to attend and wait on him as his wife, and not, either so soon or so suddenly to separate herself from him. When her eyes see, her judgement knows, her heart doubts, and her soul fears, that then more than ever his vices wanted her prayers, and his sins her virtues & presence, to seek to rectify and reform them. But although she descended so low from herself to him in her affection and humility, as with bitter sighs and tears to cast herself on her knees to beg and request him, that (as by the laws of marriage and nature, and of conscience and grace) she was obliged and bound, so that she might enjoy the content and happiness to live and die with him, being infinitely contented, and extremely desirous, as she then affirmed, (and again and again repeated and confirmed to him) to participate and bear her part and share, as well in his poverty as prosperity, yet he (as an ignoble Gentleman, and a base and vicious Husband) having wholly taken away his heart and affection from this his sweet and virtuous wife La Precoverte, and fully and absolutely given it to his lascivious sister in law Masserina, he (I say) is so hard hearted, ingrateful and treacherous towards her, as (without any respect to her tears, or regard to her prayers) he will no way permit her to live with him in St. Symplician or Sens, at his brothers, nor yet vouchsafe to be pleased to go and live with her to Troy's, at her fathers: But here we may observe his malice in his disdain, and his disdain in his malice towards this dear and sweet young Gentlewoman his wife, (of whom God knows, and the world sees, he is no way worthy) for he will grant her neither of these her two most reasonable & loving requests, but indeed (rather as a devil than a man, and a tyrant than a Husband) he with thundering looks and speeches, commands her away his sight & presence, without once giving her so much as one poor kiss, as he was bound in affection, or (which is yet less) a poor farewell at their parting, as he was obliged both in conscience and christianity. So this sweet disconsolate Gentlewoman (in a manner breaking her breast with her signs and drowning her checks with her tears) only with her poor little nag and ragged footboy, is by her flinty hearted Husband turned out of his Brother Vimories house at Saint Simplician, and so in this slender manner, and base equipage enforced softly, discontendedly, and sorrowfully to ride home to the poor Gentleman her Father at Troy's, yea and such was the malice, and policy of Harcourt, her cruel Husband, that this sudden departure of hers was purposely acted when his Brother Vimorye, and his wife Masserina were at another manor house of his some eight leagues off, to the end, that they might not see, or take leave of her nor she of them; so allowing our sweet and sorrowful La Precoverte by this time at Troy's with her aforesaid Father; I will for a time there leave her, to the exercise of her patience, to the piety of her prayers, and to the pleasure and providence of God.  
Now doth our disloyal and treacherous Harcourt, at his pleasure frolic it out in Saint Simplician with his lascivious Sister in Law, and Strumpet Mafferina, yea they are now grown so impudent, so careless, so graceless, in these their obscene Dalliances, that if Vimorye the Husband and Master do not, yet his Servants cannot choose but take deep notice and exact and perfect Knowledge thereof; Only ●…e observes a late alteration in his Brother's fortunes, that he is become far braver in his apparel then accustomed, and hath more store of Crowns in his pocket at his command then heretofore, both to play and spend at his pleasure. Only from whence this his golden Mine should proceed he knows not; except having heretofore made some progression, and experiments in the Chemical Science (or mystery of Alchemy) he had now found the Elixir of the Philosopher's Stone, but his cu●…sity in this Quaere proceeds no further, much less his judgement, but least of all his Suspicion or jealousy.  
But the graceless Vanity and Ambition of Harcourt will yet fly a pitch and degree higher in the air of Ingratitude and treachery towards his Brother Vimorye, For a little gold cannot redeem his Lands, nor make up the money and great ●…eaches of his former prodigalities, neither will a few kisses and embraces of that ●…ustfull Dame his Sister Masserina appease his unchaste appetite, or satisfy his insatiable lust, and lascivious desires. Wherefore at one time and cast, to set nature and honour at stake, and so commanding his heart and thoughts to trample on both of them, without any respect or regard to either, he contrives and assumes this vicious and treacherous resolution, that having already taken the actual possession of her body, he should then likewise do so of her gold, yea of all her whole Estate, and so fly away with her, whose Estate (through his long dishonest familiarity with her) he now knows to be great, yea far greater than his Brother Vimorye her husband either ever knew or dreamt of; Wherefore with much superficial affection, and artificial flattery and insinuation, he no sooner breaks this motion to her, but her lustful heart corresponding with his, and her lascivious desires likewise ay●…ing and intending that way, she freely gives him her consent thereunto, and to that end she very secretly draws in all her moneys and gold, together with all her plate, Rings, and jewels most carefully, and privately packs it up, and so they fly away together; In a morning when her Husband and his Brother was with his servants gone forth a hawking and hunting for all that day, he without ever making his wife, or she her husband once acquainted therewith. Vimorye is amazed, and La Precoverte extremely perplexed and afflicted at the strangeness of their (undrea●…t of) base clandestine departure; And although (in regard of his affection to his wife) ●…e were once resolved, to send and make after them for their stay and apprehension, yet at last, to avoid the universal scandal of the world (which thereby instead of stopping one tongue, would assuredly let loose many,) he leaves the success of this treacherous Accident to Time, and the due reward and true punishment the reof to God. Now the first place of safety and shelter which Harcourt and Masserina fly unto, is the strong city of Geneva (which depends not of France, or Savoye, but of God, and itself) where they take two chambers, and live together, having no servant at all to attend or follow them, but only noel, who for many ●…eares before had been, and still was his man. But to live here in Geneva with the more privacy and assurance (because they observe it to be a City, exceeding politicly, virtuously and religiously governed) they find out this excuse for their stay, that he is heir to some lands (which by the death of an uncle of his) is devolved and fallen to him in the estate, and duchy of Milan (betwixt Pavia and Alexandria) whether he goes to sell it away, in regard (as he falsely allegeth) that both this Gentlewoman (whom he resolves to leave there, and presently upon his return to marry) and himself are Protestants, and for a month or six weaks, this false gloss, and true imposture passeth current with those of Geneva, whom all that time they freely permit and suffer to enjoy the laws and previledges of Hospitality in their city, and the sooner, (and with far less suspicion & doubt) because they observe, that they very often frequent their Sermons, and Churches, although in their hearts and devotions, God knows, they both are directly Roman Catholics. But at the end of this small time, understanding that the two Syndicks and the rest of the Magistrates of that City began to pry more narrowly into their stay, and more neetely in●… their actions; Then they thinking to mock with God and their souls, and so to make Religion only to be a cloak to overvaile their villainy, he then and there resolves to marry her before he go to Milan, (which indeed affords sweet music ●…o the heart, and melody to the thoughts and mind of this lascivious dame Masseri●… the which she esteemed to be the chiefest felicity she could desire upon earth) excusing the alteration of this his resolution upon her sickness and indispositi●… (which also was as false and counterfeit, as the pretence of their protestant Religion was feigned and hypocritical) and to that end he acquaints the Ministers and the Ancients of the Church therewith; But they being as regular in their actions as he was exorbitant, and as pious in their intentions as he was profane in his, question him to show some authentical certificate from that Protestant Church or Churches in Poictou (where they aver they formerly dwelled) that they were both of them Protestants by religion, and that their marriage was honourable and no way clandestine; affirming to him, that it was against the rules of their religion, the Constitutions of their Church, and the laws of their City, to do otherwise, either to them, or to any strangers whatsoever; Which Harcourt well perceiving, He now comes too short in his arithmetic, and having none to show them in that nature, he sweats under the saddle; and so slacks his importunacy therein, and puts it off with a specious excused dilatory delay; When acquainting his Masserina therewith, they both are equally afflicted and grieved, thus to see their hopes nipped, and their expectations and desires of marriage frustrated, and blasted in the very bud and blossoms; and now they see that their abode and stay in Geneva, neither can; nor must belong. But here betides them another unlooked for accident which will speedily transport them thence;  
It is the pleasure and mercy of God, that noel (Harcourts' man) is not a little grieved in heart, and afflicted in mind, to see his master guilty of this foul and treacherous crime, in stealing away Masserina his Brother's wife, and entertaining and using her as his own. He knows how infinitely this their adultery is displeasing to God, and odious to men, and how opposite and repugnant it is to Grace and Nature. Wherefore holding it a trouble to his mind, a vexation to his heart, and a scruple to his conscience any longer to attend and follow them, because he is assured, that the divine Justice and vengeance of God, will never permit them to go long either undetected or unpunished, He calling to his remembrance the sweet virtues and chastity of his Mistress La Precoverte, and (by opposition and Antitheses) comparing them to the foul vices and whoredoms of Masserina, he out of his duty to the first, and detestation to the second, though a bad Servant to his Master, yet was a good Christian to God, gives his Mistress La Precoverte very secretintelligence, of his masters lascivious residing and living here in Geneva with Masserina, whereof he sends her word, he is a very sorrowful and unwilling eye witness, and so leaves the reformation thereof, first to God, and then to herself. Our virtuous sweet Gentlewoman La Precoverte, is wonderfully afflicted and grieved, at this foul crime of adultery betwixt her Husband, and his Sister Masserina, whereat her chaste heart towards him, and her pure and religious soul towards God, makes her send many tears to earth, sighs to heaven. Once she thought to acquaint her brother Vimory herewith, but then fearing that his just choler might peradventure exasperate him against her Husband, she again as soon forsakes that opinion and intent, as holding it more discretion and safety to be silent herein towards him. And yet consulting her griefs and afflictions with God (whose sacred advice and assistance how to bear herself in this action and accident, she religiously implores) she at last deems it a part both of her affection, duty, and conscience, to use her best zeal and endeavours to reclaim them from this their abominable, and beastly course of life. And in regard her poverty, weakness, and sickness will not (according to her desires and wishes) permit her to ride over to them in person to Gen●…va, she therefore commits and imposeth that charge to her pen, to write both to her Husband Harcourt, as also to his Lews Sister, or rather his lascivious Strumpet Masserina, to see if her letters (by the permission and providence of God) may prevail with their hearts and souls to reform and draw them home, the which she purposely, and expressly sends by a confident messenger, and with the greatest secrecy she possibly can devise.  
Her Letter to her Husband intimated this?  
LA PRECOVERTE to HARCOURT.  
YOur flight and Adultery with that graceless Strumpet Masserine, is so displeasin●… to God, as I cannot but wonder that his divine justicewil permit Geneva, or any other place of the world to contain you without punishing you for i●…; yea when in this foul crime of yours, I consider her by myself, and you by your Brother Vimorye, I find that his grief proves myshame, and myshame his grief, and that you and her are the true causes of both. I have examined my thoughts and actions, my heart and soul, and cannot conceive that I have any way deserved this your ingratitude towards me, and therefore fail not to certify me why and wherefore you have undertaken this vicious and lewd course of life, which in the end will assuredly produce thy misery, as now already it doth your infamy, except your contrition to God, do speedily redeem it. And in regard that you are my Husband, and that I both hope and believe it to be the first fault in this kind and nature, I therefore hold you more worthy of my pity than of my hatred, and of my prayers then of my curses. So if you will abandon your debauched Sister, and come home and live with me who am thy chaste and sorrowful wife, my arms and heart shall be as open as ever they were, both to receive and forgive you, yea, I will wholly forget what is past, and prepare myself to welcome you home, with a thousand Smiles and Kisses, if you will resolve and remember henceforth to love me as much, as formerly (without cause or reason) you have neglected and hated me.  
LA PRECOVERTE.  
Her Letter to Masserina, bewrayed these passions.  
LA PRECOVERTE to MASSERINA.  
No longer Sister, but lewd strumpet, was it not enough for thee to abuse thine own Husband, but that thou must likewise bereave me of mine, who is his own and only Brother, as if a single sin and ingratitude, could not content thy lascivious lust, or satisf●…e thy inordinate desires: but that thy impiety to God, and profaneness and obscenity to thyself, should make thee guilty of so foul a crime as Adultery, and which is worse, of such a foul and base Adultery as comes very near to the worst kind of Incest; whereof thy thoughts and heart can inform thee, and thy conscience and soul assure thee, it will hereafter make thee as truly m●…serable, as now thou falsely thinkest thyself happy. Wherefore triumph not, to have made my grief thy glory, and my affliction thy felicity, for God (who is as just, as powerful) will requite my wrongs in thy Person, and when thou least dreamest thereof, his Divine punishments will sharply scourge and revenge thy lascivious pleasures, except thou deject and prostrate thyself at the fee●… of his sacred mercy with true contritio●…, and at the Altar of his saving Grace with unfeigned repentance for the same, by restoring my Husband to me, and thyself to thine, and by making thy peacewith God, whom so highly and heinously thou hast therein offended, which if thou do, thou mayest then re-establish thy fortunes, an●…●…edeeme thy reputation, or else for ever assuredly ruin both them and thyself. So if I seethee to imb●…ace this chaste, and to follow this virtuous and religious course, I will again assume the name of a Sister and leave that of a Strumpet towards thee, yea, I will wholly forget these thy (almost unpardonable) wrongs and disgraces which thou offerest me, and for ever bury them in perpetual silence, and eternal oblivion.  
LA PRECOVERTE.  
Her Messenger arriving at Geneva, he first finds out noel, and then secretly delivers these two Letters to Harcourt and Masserina, who much musing and more wondering thereat, withdrawing themselves into their Inner Chamber, they there break up the seals and peruse them; Whereat their hearts galled, and their Consciences so nettled and stung as they cannot refrain from blushing for mere shame, and then again, from not looking pale with mere anger thereat. Thus looking steadfastly each on other, their own guiltiness doth for the time present somewhat afflict and perplex them. Harcourt wondereth at his wife's boldness in wri●…ing to him; and Masserina is not a little dismayed and daunted to see that her husband hath not written unto her. Harcourt is discontented with his wife's peremptory Letter, Masserina is apprehensive and fearful of her husband's silence, when again changing their conceits and thoughts which inconstantly alter, and extravagantly range, without any intrinsical peace, or tranquillity. Harcourt thinking of his Brother Vimoryes silence, attributes it to contempt and hatred, and Masserina contemplating and ruminating on her sister La Precovertes choler, reputes it to extreme grief, sorrow and Indignation; But at last consulting together hereon, they both of them concur and fall upon this resolution; that to colour out their lascivious life, they by their answers to her, must overvaile it with much seeming chastity, and pretended sanctity and piety. And the better to prevent any danger which may proceed from Vimories' silence, or revenge, they must remove from Geneva and speedily resolve to forsake and leave it; When fear giving life to their despair, and despair adding wings to their fear, they call for pen and paper, and each return La Pecoverte their several answers by her own messenger, who had strict charge and command from her to see them, but not to dare once to speak or exchange a word with either of them, the which (according to his duty) he very honestly and punctually performed, only to show her gratefulness to honest noel, she gave precise order to him to render him many hearty thanks from her for his true respect and fidelity towards her, which she would never forget nor leave unrecompensed, and yet all this while neither Harcourt nor Masserina were any way suspicious that it was their man noel which gave La Precoverte intelligence of their residence in Geneva.  
Harcourts' Letter to his wife was in these terms.  
HARCOURT to LA PRECOVERTE.  
Do not rashly and unjustly torment thyself with jealousy at my absence, for thou shalt find as much joy thereof at my return, as now thou believest and fearest the contrary. I have vowed to accompany my sister in law Masserina to our Lady of Loreto, which is the best Saint of the best Country of the world, Italy, (where we are now setting forwards from this town of Geneva;) to which holy Lady and blessed Saint, her Orisons for her Husband, and mine for thee, are and shall be as replete of pure affection and piety, as thou imaginest they are of iniquity and profaneness. True it is, I committed an error in not acquainting thee with my departure, which I perceive thou esteemest a crime; but when shortly I shall be so happy to enjoy thy sweet company and presence, than my just reasons will justly enforce thee both to know and acknowledge, that that pretended crime of mine is less than an error, and this error less than nothing. And if thou wilt yet be farther inquisitive why, or from whence our journey was first derived, I pray let these general terms content thy fear, and satisfy thy jealousy, that it was her devotion and conscience to God, not my desire or affection to her which gave life and birth to it; therefore I hold it rather an unmerited cruelty, than a condign penance, either for my heart to be tied to ask forgiveness of thee, or my soul of God for this thy pretended crime of mine, whereof I am as innocent as thy fear and jealousy deems me guilty. Therefore I allow of thy piely, I accept of thy prayers, yea, and I rejoice in thy affection to entertain, and thy resolution to welcome me home with thy smiles and kisses when I come, the which shall be, if not so shortly as thou expectest or I desire, yet as soon as reputation and good speed shall permit.  
HARCOURT.  
Masserina's Letter to her sister in law carried these lines.  
MASSERINA to LA PRECOVERTE.  
MY departure and absence hath neither wronged mine own Husband nor abused thine, for it is my pure zeal to God, and not any lascivious lust in myself which drew me to this devotion to see Loretto, and him (through his goodness) to the resolution honourably to accompany me thither, and therefore my heart defies that foul sin of Adultery, and my soul detests that odious one of Incest, whereof I am far more innocent than thou thinkest me guilty. I am sorry for thy grief, and I grieve for thy affliction, and am so far from triumphing in the one, or glorying in the other, as I have given that to my thoughts with passion, and this to my mind with compassion, although I confess I have small reason to place it so near me, in regard thy jealousy is the sole author, and my fidelity and chastity no way the cause thereof; wherefore I am so far from fearing, as I love God's justice, because as in other sins I have offended his Divine Majesty, so I am sure that in this I have noway incurred or merited his indignation, and do most freely refer my fortunes and reputation to his sacred pleasure, but not to thy secret discontent, and ill grounded choler, from which (by the plea of a just proviso) I have all the reasons of the world to appeal, as also from that foul scandal and infamous Epithet of a Strumpet, which I thought thee too virtuous once to conceive, much less to name, but least of all for one sister in law (without cause or reason) to give to another: But thou art La Precoverte, therefore I forget this ingrateful crime of thine, and I am Masserina, therefore I freely and absolutely forgive it, and to do thee as much right as thou hast done me wrong, I will silence it in eternal obscurity and oblivion.  
MASSERINA.  
And is it not worthy of our observation, or rather of our detestation, to see how impiously these profane wretches deny this their Adultery towards God, and also to La Precoverte, whom they have so heinously offended therewith, and which to Heaven and Earth, to God and his Angels, and to their own hearts and consciences are nevertheless as apparent as the Sun in his brightest Meridian, yea, had they not wilfully fled from God, and presumptuously abandoned themselves to Satan, to contrive such irreligious excuses, and to frame such ungodly Apologies, for these their foul crimes and offences, and so to make Hypocrisy the veil of their Adultery, and the cloak to cover it from the light and sight of the world: And is it not a resolution worthy of a halter in this world, and of Hell fire in that to come, to attempt marriage, when the wife of the one, and the Husband of the other, are in perfect strength, and full of life and health, (especially Masserina's Husband Vimory) as but right now to their shame, not to their glory, they understand by La Precovertes Letters to them. To the Magistrates of Geneva they are firm Protestants, and as they pretended, so they then (as they constantly affirmed) intended to live and die. To La Precoverte in their Letters they are sound Roman Catholics, and in the sublimity and singularity of their zeal travelling towards the Lady of Loreto in devotion. O wretched Christians, or indeed rather O miserable wretches, thus with your hypocrisy to think to deceive God, when therein you only deceive your own selves and souls. For can there be a greater misery found by us on earth, or sent us by the devil from hell, to make Religion (which of itself is a precious and sovereign Antidote) to become a fatal drug, and a pernicious ingredient to poison, not to preserve our souls, and so only to delight our earthly humours and affections, and to please our carnal desires and concupiscences? Of all sorts of men (after the Atheist and the murderer) the Hypocrite is the veriest devil upon earth, and he is so much the more wretched and execrable, in that he guilds over his speeches, life and actions with the seeming show of piety and devotion, when God and his ulcerated conscience know, that he is nothing less. To be lukewarm in religion, is to be profane, not religious: And as wine mixed with water is neither wine nor water, so he that is of two religions is of neither. For God who is still jealous of his own honour, and of our salvation, will not only have our souls, but our hearts to serve him, and not only our hearts, but also our tongues to glorify him, that is to say, all our actions, and all our affections, not a piece of our heart, but he will have our whole heart, and not an angle or corner of our soul, but our whole soul: For in matters of his divine worship and service, (which consists in that of our faith, and of his glory) he will not admit of any Rival or Competitor, nor be served in any other manner, than as he hath taught us by his sacred Word and Commandments, and instructed us by his holy Prophets, and blessed Apostles.  
But again to Harcourt and Masserina, whose lascivious hearts and lewd consciences not permitting them to rest in assurance, or reside in security any where, the very day after they had dispatched the messenger with their Letters to La Precoverte, (holding Geneva no place for them, nor they for Geneva) they truss up baggage, and so with much secrecy leave it, and direct their course to the great and famous City of Lions, (some two and twenty leagues thence) and which is the frontier Town of France, and there they think to shroud themselves among that great affluence and confluence of people which inhabit and aboard there from divers parts, and they make choice to live in this frontier City, because it is near to Savoy, where if any danger should chance to betide or befall them, they might speedily and safely retire themselves there, and so lay hold on the law and privilege of Nations, which is inviolable throughout all the world. At their arrival at Lions they take their chambers and residence near the Arsenal, though for the two first nights they lie in Flanders-street. They have not been in Lions fifteen days, but there befell them an accident very worthy both of our observation, and of their remembrance, which was thus; A Gentleman of the City of Tholouse named Monseiur De Blaise, having some five days before treacherously killed his elder brother Monseiur De Barry, in the high way as they traveled together upon a quarrel which fell out between them, for having debauched and clandestine stolen away his said elder brother De Barry's wife from him, and conveyed and transported her away with them: There was a privy search then made in Lions, when that same night Harcourt and Masserina were upon suspicion apprehended for them, and laid in sure keeping. But the next morning before the Seneschal and Procurer fiscal, they justified their innocence, by many who knew De Blaise, and so were cleared; but yet it gave them both a hot Camisado and fearful Alarm, and left an ominous impression in their hearts and minds, whereof (for the conformity of the circumstances of this action with their own) had they had the grace to have made good use, they had not (hereafter) made themselves so famously infamous, nor consequently this their History so prodigiously deplorable.  
Harcourt and Masserina whiles they stay here in Lions (as guilt is still accompanied with fear) do seldom go forth their lodgings, and when they do, they (for their better safety) disguise themselves in different apparel, and for her part she goes still close masked, and muffled up in her Taffata coyffe. Yea both of them make it their practice to frequent the fields often, but the Churches and streets seldom, as if their foul crime of Adultery had made them unworthy the communion of God's Saints, and consequently all good company too worthy for them. He exceedingly fears his brother Vimory's silence and revenge, and she highly envieth and disdaineth her sister in law La Precovertes jealousy, and still that disgraceful word of Strumpet (which she upbraided her with, and obtruded to her in her Letter) strikes & sinks deeply in her heart and remembrance, in such sort, that it so possesseth her thoughts with malice, and takes up her mind with choler & fierce indignation, as she vows to herself not thus to let it pass in silence, or to vanish and die away in oblivion, quite contrary to that which her late Letter to her sister La Precoverte promised and spoke. And here it is that the devil first begins to take possession of her heart, and by degrees to seize upon her soul, and to make her wholly to forsake God. For knowing La Precoverte to be wife to her brother in law and lover Harcourt, (whom she affects a thousand times dearer than her own Husband, yea, than her own life) she is therefore so great a beam to hereye, so sharp a thorn to her heart, and so bitter a corrasive to her content, as she not only assumes bad thoughts, but bad blood against her: For vowing that none shall share with her in his affection, she forgetting her Conscience and Soul, Heaven and God, is speedily resolved to cause her to be poisoned, her enraged malice being capable of no other excuse or reason but this, that it is impossible she can reap any perfect felicity or content in earth, till she have dispatched and sent her to Heaven. To which end she insinuates herself into the acquaintance of two Apothecaries of that City, and deals with them severally and secretly to effect this hellish business, for the which she promised either of them a hundred crowns of the sum in hand, and as much more when they have effected it, and fifty more to defray the charge of their journey, But the devil hath made her so crafty and subtle, as she still retains from them, the name Masserina and the place Troy's where the party dwelled; There are good, and bad men of all countries, faculties, and professions, these two Apothecaries are as honest as she is wretched, and as religious and charitable as she is profane and bloody, so the one denies her request with disdain and choler, and the other with charity and compassion, alleging her many pious considerations and reasons to divert and dissuade her from this foul and bloody act, the execution whereof, though tacitly, yet infallibly threateneth (says he) no less than the utter subversion of her fortunes, and the ruin and confusion of her life in this world, if not likewise of her soul in that to come; So she being hereat a little galled and stung in Conscience, to see that this great City of Lions affords poison but no poisoners, to act and finish this her bloody project; The devil hath yet notwithstanding, made her so curious in her malice, and so industrious, and resolute in her revenge, as enquiring whether there were any Italian Empiric or Mountebank in that City, (whom she thought might be made fit and flexible to her bloody desires and intents) she is advertised, that there departed one hence some eight days since, who is gone to reside this spring of the year at the Baths at Pougges, a mile from the city of Nevers, his name being Signior Baptista Tivoly (whom I conjecture may derive his surname from that pleasant small town of Tivoly, some twenty small miles from Rome, wherein there are many Cardinals, country Palaces, or houses of pleasure) being very skilful in Minerals, and in attracting the spirits and quintessence of divers other vegitives; Of a vain glorious, and ambitious humour and disposition, and yet of a very poor estate and means, and such a one, as indeed Masserina holds every way a fit agent and instrument for her turn and purpose.  
She is glad of this advertisement, and will neither give nor receive any truce from her heart, or her heart from her revenge before she have seen and spoken with Tivoly. The which to effect she to Harcourt pretends a sudden ache in her right arm, and so upon good advice tells him that she is very desirous to go to the Baths of Pougges by Nevers, there to stay some fifteen or twenty days at farthest; Harcourt (no way once dreaming, of her inveterate malice, and far less of her revengeful and bloody intents towards the safety and life of his wife La Precoverte) approves of her resolution and journey, but entreats her to be wonderful careful of herself, her health and safety, and proffereth to accompany her himself: she with many kisses, dearly thanks him for his care of her and affection to her herein; answereth him that his stay in Lions will make her journey the more safe & short, so she accepts of the man for the master, and only takes noel along with her, who respects her so well, as he cares not for her sight, much less for her company: She arrives at Nevers, and (impatient of all delay) the next morning finds out Tivoly at Pougges, being a very tall man, of a coal black beard, and of a won and sullen countenance, she by his Physiognomy judgeth that her hopes will not be deceived of him; The second day she breaks with him about haet hellish business and finds him tractable to her devilish intents: They proceed to this lamentable bargain, and she is to give him one hundred Crowns in hand, and a faithful promise of a hundred and fifty more when he hath effected it as also fifty Crowns for the Charge of his journey, the which she limits at fifteen days, so having settled this her business, she now names the party to Tivoly whom she will have him to poison, La Precoverte, to be the woman who resides and dwells with her Father Monseiur La Vaquery, a poor Gentleman in the City of Troy's in Champagne, and she a young Gentlewoman of some twenty years of age, of a flaxen hair, and very sickly. When giving him a small Saphir Ring from her Finger, she therewith swears him both to the performance, and to the secrecy of this murder, the which, armed by the Devil he doth. When being exceeding glad of this his bloody employment, which brings him store of gold, the which he esteems the Elixir of his heart, and the felicity and glory of his life, and which indeed, was the main business that brought him on this side the Alpes, from Italy to France. Thus without any fear of God or thought of Heaven or Hell, these murderous and damnable miscreants have concluded and shut up this their bloody bargain.  
Our poor sweet La Precoverte, having received her Husband's Letter from Gene●…, and considering the contents thereof, as also that of her Sister in Law Masserina, she knows not what to think either of their Letters or of themselves: she sees her letter to promise much zeal and devotion to God, and his much affection to her, and yet remembering his former unkindness, I may say cruelty, towards her; as also the manner of their base and clandestine departure, than she thinks the first to be false, and the second feigned, and rherfore conceives she hath far more reasons to despair than to hope either of their Innocence, or their return; But this is her resolution, Harcourt is her Husband, therefore she will still love him dear; She is his wife, and therefore she will for ever pray for him, and his prosperity religiously. Thus hoping and many times (with many heavy sighs and bitter tears) wishing and desiring his happy return, and virtuous reformation, she in his absence lives pensively and sorrowfully with her Father, rather as a widow than a wife, and such is her miserable Estate; and poor and sorrowsull fortune, that she well knows not, whether she may more grieve or rejoice that God hitherto hath given her no Child: For ah me, she is so environed with afflictions, so encompassed with calamities; so assaulted with sickness, and so weighed down with sadness and disconsolation, as she reputes her life worse than death, and either wisheth her Husband athome with her, or herself in Heaven with God.  
But Alas, alas, dear sweet young Gentlewoman; little dost thou think or dream (now thou desirest death) what a hellish plot there is contrived and intended against thy life by these two bloody Factors and Agents of the Devil, Tivoly, and thy Sister Masserina: O Masserina Masserina, the disgrace of thy name, the infamy of thy family, the shame of thy time, and the scandal of thy sex. O how I want words not tears, to condemn thy cruel rage, and to execrate thy infernal malice and fury, thus to resolve to imbrue thy guilty hands in the innocent blood of thy chaste and virtuous Sister in Law La Precoverte; for was it not sin and lust enough for thee to have heretofore bereft her of the love and presence of her Husband, but that thou wilt now be so wretched and inhuman, as likewise to rob her of her life. O grief, O shame, O pity, that thou shouldest once dare to think thereof, much less to attempt it, I mean so lamentable a crime, and so bloody a fact, which assure thyself as there is a God in Heaven will never go long unpunished in Earth.  
But I must proceed in this our sad and mournful History, and rherefore with an unwilling and trembling resolution, I am enforced to declare that this limb of the Devil Tivoly, rides away to Troy's, where he speedily and secretly makes profession of his Empery. When understanding that Monseiur de la Vaquery is constantly in the City he (with an Italian impudence and policy) soon screws and insinuates himself into his Company. And as it is the vanity of our times, and the weakness and imbecility of our judgements, (in any profession whatsoever) still to prefer and respect strangers, before our own Countrymen, so Monseiur de la Vaquery, hearing this Italian to devour Latin at his pleasure, and rather to vomit than utter forth whole Catalogues of physical phrases which he had stolen, not learned from Aristotle, Galen, and Parecellsus, His ignorance believes him to be very learned, and therefore he holds him a most fit Physician, to cure his Daughter La Precoverte of her consumption, whereinto (as before) she was deeply and dangerously fallen, by the unparallelled griefs and sorrows which she conceived, for her husband's former unkindness to her, but more especially, for his present absence and flight with his lascivious Sister Masserina. So (in a most unhappy hour) Her Father La Vaquery mentioneth it to Tivoly; Which (being the only occasion and opportunity he gaped for) he freely promiseth him his best art and skill for her recovery, and the next day goes home to his house with him, & visiteth his daughter; He finds her to be weak, lean, and pale, the which serves the better for his turn, to colour out this his bloody purpose to her. When (if there had been any humanity in his thoughts, any Grace in his heart, or any spark of religion or piety in his Soul) the very sight of this sweet, this harmless, this beautiful young Gentlewoman would have moved him to compassion, and not with hellish cruelty to resolve to poison her. But his sinful heart, his seared Conscience, and his ulcerated and virulent soul had (in favour of gold) made this compact with the Devil, and therefore he will advance, and not retire in this his infernal resolution. He feels her pulse, casts her estate in an Urinal, receives thirty Crowns of her Father for her cure, and so bidding her to be of good comfort, he administereth her two pills, three mornings following, whereof (harmless sweet Gentlewoman) within three days after, she suddenly dies in her bed by night; Tivoly affirming to her sorrowful Father and Friends, that before he came to her, the violency, and inveteracy of her consumption, had turned all her blood into water, and exhausted and extenuated all the radical humours of her life, which opinion of this base and bloody Italian Mountebank past current with the simplicity of his belief and their judgements: So he burieth his daughter and with her his chiefest earthly delight and joy: Within three days after that this sorrowful and lamentable tragedy was acted, This monster, this Devil incarnate Tivoly, leaves Troy's, and posts away to Nevers, where he ravisheth Masserina's heart, with the joyful news and assurance of La Precovertes death and burial, of whom he receives his other hundred and fifty Crowns, the which according to her promise she fails not presently to pay him down. And here again they solemnly swear secrecy each to other of this their bloody fact.  
Wretched Masserina feasting her heart with joy, and surfeiting her thoughts with content to see the rival and competitor in her loves, La Precoverte thus dispatched and sent for heaven, She now thinking to domineer alone in her Harcourts' heart and affection esteems herself a degree nearer to him in marriage, that so of his Sister she may become his Wife. For this is the felicity and content whereat her heart aimeth, and the delectation and joy wherein her desires and wishes terminate. But her Husband Vimories life doth dash these joys of hers in pieces, as soon as she conceives them, and strangles them if not in their birth, yet in their cradle. She finds Nevers to be a pleasant City and Pougges a delightful little place to live in and when the Spring is past and the great confluence of people retired and gone home, to be a place of far more safety for them than Lions. Yea, and she affects and loves it far the better, because here it was she first heard and understood of La Precovertes death, which as yet for a time she closely conceals to herself; Wherefore she sends noel (her man) to Lions to his Master, and by her letter prays him speedily to come and live with her at Nevers, which she affirms to him is a pleasant City, and that there she attends his arrival and company with much affection and impatiency.  
Harcourt, to please his Sweet-heart-Sister Masserina, leaves Lions and comes to her at Nevers, where with thanks and kisses, she joyfully welcomes him, telling him that these baths of Pougges, have perfectly freed her of her ache; but in her heart and mind, she well knows, it is the death of La Precoverte, and not those baths, which hath both cured her doubts and secured her fears. They have not lived in Nevers and Pougges above three weeks since his arrival, until they there (but by what means I know not) understand of La Precovertes death, whereat he seems nothing sorrowful, but she extremely glad and joyful. And by this time, which is at least a whole year since their flight and departure from Saint Simplician and Sens, they in their Travels and other gifts and expenses, have consumed ●…nd expended a pretty Sum of their money. In all which time, we must understand that Vimory hates his wife and Brother so exceedingly, as he (in contempt of their crimes and detestation of their treacherous ingratitude) scorns either to look or send after them; but the only revenge which he useth towards him in his absence he pretends a great Sum of money to be due to him from him, and in compensation thereof, seizeth upon the remainder of his lands, and by Order of justice gathereth up, and collects his rents from his Tenants, to his own use and behoof. Which extremely grieves Harcourt, and afflicts Masserina, who (by this time) seeing in what obscurity and considering in what continual fear and eminent danger they live in, As their lascivious affections, so their irregular desires, and irreligious resolutions, look one and the same way, which is to send her Husband, and his Brother Vimory to Heaven, after his wife La Precoverte, yea so resolute are they in this their bloody intentions and desires, as they wish and pray for it with zeal, and desire it with passion & impatiency. And now their malice is grown so resolute, and their resolution so graceless in the contemplation and conceiving of this bloody 〈◊〉, as they bewray it each to other. Masserina vows to him that she can reap no true content either in her life or conscience, before, of his sister he make her his wife; Nor I replies Harcourt before my brother Vimorie be in Heaven, and I marry thee & be thy husband here in earth. When (as a bloody Courtesan and Strumpet) she gives him many thanks and kisses for this his affection to her, and malice to his Brother Vimory for her sake; when (working upon the advantage of time, occasion and opportunity) She tells him, that in her opinion, the shortest and surest way is to dispatch him by poison▪ Harcourt dislikes her judgement and plot, as holding it no way safe in taking away his brother's life, to entrust and hazard his own at the co●…rtesie of a stranger (at which speech of his, she blusheth and palleth as being conscious and memorative of what she had lately caused to be perpetrated by Tivoly) Therefore he thinks to acquaint and employ his own man noel in this bloody business, and pro●… him two hundred Crowns, and forty more of yearly pension during his life, if he will pistol his Brother Vimory to death as he i●… walking in the fields. But noel is too honest a man, and too good a Chri●… to stab at the majesty of God, i●…●…ling man his creature and Image, and so absolutely denies his Master, and although he be a poor man, yet he rejects his offer, as resolving never to purchase wealth, or preferment at so dear a rate, as the price of innocent blood; whereat his Master bites his lip for discontent and anger. So he conjures him to perpetual secrecy and silence of this proposition and business, which noel promiseth but swears not. Hereupon Harcourt to approach nearer to Sens, He and Masserina leave Nevers, and very secretly by little journeys (and the greatest part by night) come to Mascon, and there his heart strikes a bargain with the Devil, and the Devil with his soul and resolutions, to ride over himself to Sens, and there with his own hands to pistol his Brother Vimory to death in the fields, or if his Bullets miss him, then to finish and perpetrate it with his own Sword. O wretched Gentleman, O execrable Brother, thus to make thy Hope and Charity prove bankrupt to thy Soul, and thy Faith unto God.  
But nothing will prevail with Harcourt, to dissuade him from this bloody business; Whereunto the damnable treachery and malice of Masserina impetuouslie precipitates and hastens him onwards, although it be against her own Husband. So he leaves Mascon, and in a disguised beard, and poor suit of apparel, comes to Saint Symplician purposely leaving Sens, a little on his left hand. Where waiting for his Brother Vimory, at the end of a pleasant wood of his, a little half mile from his house where he knew he was accustomed to walk alone by himself solitarily; He personating and acting the part of a poor begging Soldier, and counterfeiting his tongue aswel as his beard and apparel, with his hat in his hand (espying his Brother) he goes towards him with an humble resolution, and requesteth an Alms of him. Which Vimory seeing and hearing; he in mere charity and compassion of him, because he saw him to be though a poor, yet a proper man, & which is more a Soldier, draws forth his purse and whiles he looks therein for some small piece of silver; Harcourt (as a Disciple of the Devil) very softly draws out his little pistol out of his left sleeve (which he covered with his hat) and having charged it with two bullets, he lets fly at him, and so shoo●… him in the trunk of his body, a little under the heart, of which two wounds he presently fell dead to the ground, being as unfortunate in his death, as his brother was miserable & diabolical in giving it him, for he only fetched two groans, but had neither the power or happiness to speak one word. And the Devil (in the catastrophe of this mournful Tragedy) was so strong with Harcourt, as his malice towards his Brother Vimory, exceeded not only malice but rage and fury itself, for fearing he was not yet dead, he twice ran him thorough the body with his sword. When leaving his breathless body all goring in his hot reeking blood, he with all possible celerity takes his horse (which he had tied (out of sight) to a tree not far off) and so with all possible speed gallops away to his now intended wife Masserina at Mascon, who triumphs with joy at his relation of this good news, the which to her, yea to them both, is equally pleasing and delectable. But God will not permit that these wretched joys and triumphs of theirs shall l●…st long.  
This cruel murder of Monseiur Vimory is some two hours after known at his house and Parish of Saint, Symplician, as also in the City of Sens, and so dispersed 〈◊〉 all Burgundy, and the murderers narrowly sought after, but in vain; Harcourt and Masserina meet with these reports at Mascon, but yet they hold it discretion and safety, a small time longer, to conceal themselves secretly in that Town, and so to suffer the heat of this news to pass over, and be blown away. But at the end of two months, Har●…t (setting a milk white face upon his bloody fact) arrives at Sons and from thence to his ma●…or house of Saint Symplician, which now by the death of his Brother Vimorye, who died without issue, wholly devolved and fell to him. Who having formerly played the Devil in murdering his said Brother, he now as infernally plays the Hypocrite in mourning for his death making so wonderful an outward show and demonstration of sorrow for the same, as he and all his servants being dighted in blacks. A month after he sends for his good Sister in Law Masserina, who comes home to him, and they seem so absolutely strange each to other, as if they had never seen one another during all the long time of their absence, and she likewise seems to drown herself in her tears, and is likewise all in blacks for the death of her Husband; But God in his due time will pull off this their false mask, and detect and revenge both their horrible Sins of Adultery and Murder. Now as close as they conceal this their dishonourable fleight and departure, yet it discovered and found out, and held so odious, so foul, to all the Gentlemen and Ladies their neighbours (who yet know nothing of their murders) as they disdain to welcome them home, or (which is less) to see them, which they both are enforced with grief to observe, as holding it to be the reflection of their own disgrace and scandal, the which henceforth to prevent: they within two months after, sends for their Ghostly fathers, as also for two Jesuits, and the Vicar of their parish, and acquaint them with their desires and resolutions to marry: But these Ecclesiastiques affirm it to be directly opposite to the Rules and Canons of the holy Catholic Roman Church, for one Brother to marry the widow of another, as also against the written law of God; and therefore they utterly seek both to persuade and dissuade them from it, as being wholly unlawful, and ungodly, and so refuse to Consent thereto, much less to perform it without a dispensation from the Pope, or his Nuntio now resident at Paris. They cause the Nuntio to be dealt with about it, but he peremptorily refuseth it; But in favour of money, and strong friends, within three months they procure it from Rome, and so they are speedily married, now thinking, and withal, believing and triumphing, that this their nuptial knot, hath power to deface and redeem all their former Adulteries, and now wholly wiped off their disgrace and scandal with the world. And therefore in their own vain and impious conceits, are secure, and abound in wealth delight, and pleasure; But as yet they have not made their peace with God.  
Come we therefore first to the detection and discovery of these their bloody crimes of murder, and then to the condign punishments which they received for the same: Whereof the manner briefly is thus. It is many times the pleasure and providence of God, to punish one sin in and by another, yea and sometimes one sin for another, the which we shall now see apparent in this bloody and hellish Itallian Mountebank Tivoly, who repairing to the great Fair of Sens, and there beginning to profess his Empery to a rich Goldsmith's wife of that City named Monseiur de Boys, he the third day stole a small casket of Jewels and Rings from him out of a cupboarde, (the lock whereof he cunningly picked, and shut again) valued at four thousand Crowns, and the same night fled upon that robbery towards Mascon, thinking there to put himself on the River of Soan, and so to slip down to Lions, and from thence over the Alps into Italy. De Boys makes a speedy, and curious research for his thief, whom as yet he could not find, or discover; When hearing of this Mountebank Tivolie his sudden departure and flight, he takes him to be his thief, pursues him in person and within four leagues of Mascon apprehends him, (having to that end brought two Provosts (or Sheriffs) men with him in their Coats, with their pistols at saddle bow, to assist him) De Boys finds many of the jewels and Rings about Tivoly, and divers others wanting, the which he could never recover: So being brought back to Sens, he was first imprisoned, and then examined by the Senshall and the Procurer fiscal: When having neither cause, nor colour to deny this robbery of his, he therefore freely confessed it, the devil still assuring, or rather betraying his hopes, confidence, and judgement; That it is very possible, and he thinks very probable and feasible to corrupt his judges with some of the jewels which he had closely concealed and hid about him; But, he shall speedily see the contrary.  
For they seeing this Itallian Empiric (by his own confession) guilty of this great and remarkable robbery, they condemn him to be h●…nged the very next day for the same. So having a Cordelier (or Gray) Friar, sent him that night to prison to prepare his soul for Heaven; He the next morning (according to his sentence of condemnation) is brought to his execution: Where on the Ladder, he (to free his Conscience and soul) doth constantly and sorrowfully Confess, that he had formerly poisoned Madamoyselle La Precoverte, daughter to Monseiur de La Vaquery of Troy's, and that he was hired to do it by the Lady Masserina of whom at Pougges he received two hundred and fifty Crowns and a small Saphir Ring to perform it, as also fifty Crowns more, which she gave him for his charges from Nivers to Troy's, and so he dies in the constant confession of this his foul and lamentable murder, and is hanged for his Robbery: and his body afterwards burnt for destroying and poisoning of this young Gentlewoman La Precoverte, whom many Gentlemen and Ladies there present well knew, and exceedingly bewailed, for the goodness of her sweet nature and pure beauty, as also for the excellency of her honourable perfections and religious virtues; And although the Spectators of this wretch Tivoly his death expected some speech from him, at the taking of his last farewell of this world, yet (besides his former confession he spoke nothing, but mumbled out some few words to himself, which were not understood; And thus he lived wretchedly as he died miserably, giving no testimony of his contrition or sorrow to the World, or of any spark of grief, or repentance, towards God.  
Now before his body was fully consumed to ashes. This our Wretched and bloody Gentlewoman Masserina, together with her old Lover but new Husband Harcourt, are (by order of the Judges of Sens) apprehended and taken prisoners in their own house of Saint Simplician, as they were walking and Kissing together, without any thought of danger, muchless of death. They hereat look each on other with grief and astonishment, especially Masserina, who understanding (by some of those that apprehend them.) That it was the Italian Mountebank Tivoly, who at his execution accused her, but not her Husband Harcourt for having and causing him to poison her Sister La Precoverte, she than sees herself to be a dead woman, and no hope left her in the world of her life, But every way a firm assurance and confidence of her death; yet seeing Tivoly dead, she resolves to stand upon her justification. She is all in tears at this her lamentable disaster, curseth the name and memory of Tivoly for ruining her, with himself, and now, when it is too late she blames herself of indiscretion, for neglecting, and not dealing effectually with Tivoly in prison, to conceal this her fact and name. As for her Husband Harcourt, he (knowing himself absolutely Innocent of this murder, he grieves not for the death of his first wife La Precoverte, but now extremely mourneth and lamenteth to think of this, of his second wife Masserina for, live, he fears she cannot. He bids her yet be of good comfort, and whispereth her secretly in her ear that he will give all his estate and means to save her life, or else that he will dye with her, she thanks him with a world of sighs and tears, and rounds him as privately in his ear with many deep oaths and asseverations, that her tongue shall never dare to speak any one word or syllable to her judges, which shall tend to the prejudice of his reputation, safety or life, and so they are by their apprehenders separated; and then severally conveyed to the prison of Sens: Masserina is first arraigned by the judges, where (according to her former resolution) she (not with tears, but with high words and speeches) stands upon her Innocency and justification, they inform her how strongly Tivoly at his death declared she had given him two hundred and fifty crowns, a Saphir Ring, and fifty crowns more to pay his charges at Pugs and how he at her instigation, and in favour of this her gold poisoned La Precoverte at her father Monseiur La Vaqueris house at Troy's, She terms Tivoly witch and devil, yea worse than a thousand devils thus to accuse her falsely of this murder of her sister Precoverte, whereof she vows to God and the world, to Earth and Heaven, that she is as Innocent as that damned Italian was guilty thereof; but the judges (notwithstanding all these her great fumes and cracks) do presently condemn her to the rack, the which as soon as she saw and considered the sharp nature of those exquisite torments, than God was so merciful to her soul by his grace, though she was not so heretofore to her body by the perpetration of her foul sins, that she would not permit her tender dainty limbs to be exposed to the misery of those cruel tortures, but then and there confesseth herself to be the author of poisoning La Precoverte her sister, as Tivoly was the actor thereof, when being here by her judges farther demanded whether her last Husband Harcourt were not likewise accessary with her in poisoning of his first wife La Precoverte, she with much assurance and constancy clears him hereof, and is so kind and loving to him, as she speaks not a word to them, of his pistolling to death of her first Husband his Brother Vimorey: So for this her foul and bloody fact of hers she is condemned to be hanged the next morning, and for that night again returned to prison, where she and her sorrowful husband, make great suit to the judges that they may for a short time see and speak one with the other, but it will not be granted them: When Harcourt being as confident of his own life, as he was of his wife's death, makes secret proffer (by some friends of his) to the judges of all his lands and demaynes to save his wife, but they (resembling themselves) do so much fear God, and reverence and honour the sacred Name of justice as they are deaf to his requests.  
The next morning (according to her sentence) she is brought to the place of her execution, but (at her earnest and importunate request) so early, that very few people were present at her death, where being ascended the Ladder, she there again cursed the name, and execrated the memory of that wretched Villain Tivoly, and wished much prosperity and happiness to her Husband Harcourt, when turning her eye about, and seeing a Cousin German of his there present named Monseiur de Pierpont, she calls him to her, and is so vain at this last period (as it were) of her life, as she takes off her glove and bracelet from her right hand and arm, and prays him to deliver it to his Cousin and her Husband Harcourt, and to assure him from her that she died, his most loving and constant wife, which Monseiur Pierponte faithfully promised her to perform, than a Subordinate officer of justice being there to see her dye, tells her that he was now commanded by the judges his Superiors, to tell her, that she being now to leave earth, and so ready to ascend into heaven, they prayed her in the name and fear of God to declare to all those who were present, if her Husband Harcourt, yea or no, had any hand, or were knowing or accessary, with her in the poisoning of his first wife La Precoverte, and that she should do piously and christianly to discover the truth thereof, which would undoubtedly tend to God's glory, and the salvation of her own soul: When she solemnly vowed to him and to all the people, that her Husband Harcourt never knew, nor in thought, word, or deed, was any way accessary knowing or consenting with her or Tivoly in poisoning of his wife, and this which she now spoke was the pure truth as she hoped for Heaven; And now after a few tears, she most vainly and idly fell praising and commending of him, especially how tenderly and dearly he loved her; with other ridiculous and impertinent speeches tending that way, which I hold (every way) unworthy of my mention and repetition (but had not the grace, either to look up to heaven, or to God with repentance, or the goodness to look down into her own heart, conscience or soul, with contrition and sorrow for all those her foul Adulteries and Murders.; Neither to pray to God for herself, or to request those who were present to pray to God for her; And so she was turned over, all wondering and grieving at her bloody crime, and therefore some few lamenting or sorrowing for this her infamous death: But she there speaks not a word, or the shadow of a word, either of her Husband Harcourts' pistolling to death of his Brother her first husband Vimory, or of her knowledge thereof or consent thereunto.  
Now though Harcourt seemed outwardly very sorrowful for this shameful death of his wife Masserina, yet he is inwardly exceeding joyful, that her silence at her death, of murdering his Brother Vimory, hath preserved his life with his reputation, and his reputation with his life; Whereupon being the same day freed and acquitted by the judges of Sens; both of his pretended crime, as also of his imprisonment; He composing his countenance equally betwixt joy and sorrow, returns to his house of Saint Symplician where now thinking himself absolutely discharged and cleared of all these his former Adulteries, as also of his late cruel murdering of his Brother; He within two (or at most within three months after his wife Masserinaes' Execution casts of his mourning apparel, (which he wore for her death) and neither thinking of his soul or his conscience, or of heaven or hell, he ●…antes and froliques it out in brave apparel, and because he is now fortunately arrived to be chief Lord and master of a great Estate both in Lands and money, therefore he thinks it not his pride, but his glory, and not his vanity but his generosity to dight and put himself now into far richer apparel than ever formerly he had done, whereof all the Gentlemen his neighbours yea all the City of Sens, (with no little wonder) took especial notice thereof; Yea he is so far from once dreaming or thinking either of his murdering of his Brother Vimorye, or of the deplorable and untimely ends of his two wives, as with much vanity, and with far more haste than discretion or consideration, he now speedilyresolves to take and marry a third. But his hopes will deceive them, because God in his sacred justice and judgements will deceive his hopes.  
For, when he thinks himself secure and safe, not only from the danger, but likewise from the suspicion of any fatal or disastrous accident which can possibly befall him; then, the triumphant power of God's revenge will both suddenly and sound surprise him. His honest man noel, (with an observant eye, and a Conscionable, and sorrowful heart) hath heard of La Precovertes poisoning, and of Vimories pistolling to death, and hath likewise seen the hanging both of Tivoly, and of his last Mistress Masserina. In all which several accidents, as one way he wondereth at the malice of Satan: So another way he cannot but infinitely admire and applaud the just judgements of the Lords: He likewise knows what his Master Harcourt is to him and he to his master, and in the time of his service and attendance under him, what different and several passages of business and secrets have passed between them: He hath remarked far more vices than virtues in his Master, whereat he much grieveth, but he was infinitely more enforced then desirous either to see or know them, and this again doth exceedingly rejoice him: He well knows that fidelity is the glory of a servant, and yet it is a continual sensible grief to his heart, and vexation to his soul, to see that his Master serves God no better: He doth not desire to know things (which concern his said Master) whereof he is ignorant, but doth wish and pray to God that he were ignorant of many things which he knows, and of more which he fears; and being very often perplexed in his mind with the reluctation of these different causes, and their as different effects. He cannot but in the end satisfy himself with this resolution: That as Harcourt is his Earthly Master, so God is his Heavenly Master; But here betides an unexpected and unwished Accident to this noel, which will speedily try of what temper and mettle both himself, his heart, his conscience and his soul is made, and what infinite disparity there is betwixt Earth and Heaven.  
By the pleasure and visitation of God: He is suddenly taken extreme sick of a pestilent Fever, but not in his Master Harcourts' house, but in his own Father's house, who dweltsome four leagues thence at a parish called Saint Lazare, and his Physician yielding him a dead man, he as a religious Roman Catholic, takes the extreme Unction, and then prepares himself to dye: But he is so moral, and so good a Christian, as (the premises considered) he resolves to carry his conscience pure, and his Soul white and unspotted to Heaven. He prays his Father therefore, that he will speedily ride to Sens (in whose jurisdiction Saint Lazare was) and to pray two of the three judges to come over to him, for that he hath a great Secret to reveal them now on his death bed, which conduceth to the glory of God, the service of the King, and the good of his own soul. His Father accordingly rides to Sens, and brings two of those judges speedily with him to his Son's bed side, to whom (in presence of three or four more of his Father's neighbours) ●…hee very sick in body but perfectly sound in mind, tells him, that his Master Harcourt would (heretofore) have had him pistol his Brother Vimorye to death, and proffered him two hundred Crowns in money, and forty Crowns Annuity during his life to perform it, but he refused it, and knowing the said Mounseiur De Vimorye to be since murdered by a pistol, he therefore verily believes, that it is either his said Master, or some other for him; which is guilty of that lamentable murder, the true detection whereof he says he leaves to God and to them, and within half an hour after, (yea before they were departed his Father's house) this noel dies.  
Hereupon, these judges wondering at the providence of God, in the evidence of this dying man for the discovery of this lamentable murder. They speedily send away their officers who apprehend Harcourt in his own house of Saint Simplitian, carousing and froliking it in his best wine in Company of three or four of his debauched consorts and Companions, and so they bring him to Sens: Where lying in prison that night, the next morning the judges of that City cause him to be arraigned before them; and Charge him with pistolling of his Brother Mounseiur De Vimorie to death, which (fortified and armed by the Devil) he strongly and stoutly denies, they read his man Noells dying Evidence against him, to prove it: So they adjudge him to the fiery torment of the Scarpines', for the vindication of this truth, the which he endureth with a wonderful fortitude and constancy, and still denies it: When their hearts being prompted from Heaven, and their souls from God: That he was yet the undoubted murderer of his Brother, they the second time adjudged him to the rack, whereon permitting himself to be fastened, and the torments giving a good touch at him, God is more merciful to his soul, than his Tortures are to his body, and so with tears in his eyes, he confesseth that it was he which pistolled his Brother Vimorye to death, and which afterwards ran him twice thorough the body with his Rapier: Whereupon for this bloody and unnatural fact of his: His judges (without any regard to his extraction or quality) condemn him the next afternoon between four and five of the clock, to be broken a live on the wheel at the public place of execution: Some few Gentlemen his kinsfolk solicit his reprivall, because as yet they despair of his pardon, but their labours proves vain, and they purchase no reputation in seeking it, for now all Sens and the adjacent Country cry fie on him, and on his foul and enormous Crymes of Adultery and Fratricide.  
So the next day, (at the hour and place appointed) he is brought to his execution, where a mighty concourse of people both of Sens and the adjacent Country flock to see, this monster of nature take his last farewell of this world: Being mounted on the Scaffold, in a Tawny Satin suit with a gold edge: He confesseth himself guilty of murdering his Brother Vimorye, and yet he grieves far more for the death of his last wife Masserina than he doth for that of his first, La Precoverte: He demands forgiveness of God, and the world for this his foul crime of Fratricide and prays all who are there present to pray to Almighty God for the salvation of his soul, and that they become more charitable and religious, and less bloody and profane by his example: So commending his soul unto God, his body to the Earth from whence it came, and marking himself three or four times with the sign of the Cross, he willingly suffers the Executioner to fasten his Legs and Arms upon the wheel, the wheel, the which as soon, as he breaks with his iron bar; until he have seized upon death, and death on him.  
And thus was the wretched lives, and miserable, and yet deserved deaths of these our cruel, and inhuman, graceless Murderers, and in this manner did the Triumphs of God's Revenge justly surprise them to their shame, and cut them off to their Confusion: May we read this History to God's glory, and as often meditate thereon to our own particular reformation and instruction.   

GOD'S REVENGE AGAINST, THE CRYING AND Execrable sin of Murder.  
Romeo (the Lackey of Borlary) kills Radegonda, the Chamber maid of the Lady Felisanna in the Street, and is hanged for the same: Borlari afterwards hireth Castruchio an Apothecary to poison her Husband Signior Planeze, for the which Castruchio is hanged, and his body thrown into the River and Borlari beheaded and burnt.  
IT is a thousand griefs, and pities, to see Christians who are honoured with that glorious title and appellation, should so wilfully and wretchedly lose it, by imbruing their guilty hands in the innocent blood of their Christian Brethren, and thereby to bereave ourselves of that rich ornament, and inestimable jewel, which God (in his Son Christ jesus) hath lent us for the planting of our Faith; and given us for the extirpation of our profaneness, and the rooting out of our Impiety. But this is the subtle malice, and malicious subtlety of Satan, (the professed enemy, and Arch-traitor of our souls) as also of his infernal Agents and Factors, who thereby prove and make themselves to be the firebrands and incendiaries of their own felicity and safety. And because the examples of the wicked, do strike apprehension and fear to the godly, and that the punishment and death of murderers, doth fortify the Charity, and foment and confirm the Innocency of the living. Therefore (for that Reason, and to this end) I have purposely given this next History a place in my Book, wherein we shall see Choler, Malice, and Revenge, to act many deplorable and bloody parts; Let us read it with a zealous fear and a Christian fortitude, and so we shall assuredly hate this foul and crying Sin i●…●…thers, and religiously, and constantly avoid it in ourselves.  
THe foundation of this History; is laid in the fair and famous City of Verona, (anciently a great Colony of the Romans, since a free estate of itself, but now dependant and subject to the Estate and signory of Venice) wherein their lately dwelled, an old Gentleman being a widower, and one of the chiefest and noblest families of that City, named Signior Fabritius Miniata, who was rich in lands, but exceeding wealthy in money, (whereof he had put a great and remarkable Sum in the bank of Venice) he had one only Child, a daughter of some eighteen years of age, named Dona Felisanna, who was wonderful fair, and a most lovely sweet Creature, tall and slender of stature, of yellow golden hair, and sanguine damask Rose Complexion; Now as her beauty was every way answerable to her birth and extraction, no less were her singular virtues and sweet perfections to her beauty, and as wealth, beauty, and virtue concurring and meeting together, are three powerful lures and attractive Adamants to draw the desires and affections of many Noble gentlemen to seek her in marriage. So two of her chief Suitors and who chiefly flattered their hopes to enjoy this sweet and precious Jewel of nature, and who stood in best possibility to bear away her affection and herself, was Signior Thomas Planeze a brave young gentleman of the neighbour city of Mantova of a sweet presence, and proper comely feature of some twenty five years old, not very rich, yet endued with competent means to maintain himself like himself, but infinitely well bred and adorned and honoured with all those generous parts and endowments which are requisite to make the gallants of our times complete, and the other Signior Inan de Borlari, a very rich Gentleman, of the same city of Verona, a proper man of countenance, but of personage some what crook backed and much Camber leggd and drawing towards forty years of age, but of education, conditions, and qualities so ignorant and incivill as he seemed to be rather a Citizen then a Gentleman, or indeed more a clown then a citizen, and yet otherwise of mettle and courage enough: And that we may the more apparently see and perfectly know upon what terms they both stand, aswell in the opinion of the Father as the affection of the Daughter; Miniata is infinitely desirous of Borlari for his Son in law but not of Planeze, and Felisanna is exceedingly affected to take Planeze for her Husband, but not Borlari; which they both perceiving, whiles Borlari intends to seek the affection and consent of the Father before that of the Daughter; Planeze shapes a contrary course, resolves to seek and prefer that of the daughter before the Father; the regard of Borlari his wealth and of Planezes' poverty with covetous Miniata like a furious stream or impetuous Torrent bears down all other regards and considerations before it. But the consideration and respect of Borlari his deformed personage, and then that of Planezes' sweet feature and deportment with amorous Felisanna, as a delicious charm and heart-ravishing ecstasy, sweeps away all other regards and respects whatsoever. The Father bids Borlari to be courageous and cheerful, and then he shall not fail to have his daughter for his wife; But the daughter wills Planeze to be descreet and constant, and then she will not fail to take him for her Husband; Miniata to show his love to Borlari, forbids Planeze his his house, and the company of his daughter; Felisanna to reveal her dear and fervent affection to Planeze, assureth ●…m he shall often enjoy both her sight and company, but confidently if not peremptorily, prohibits Borlari to approach her presence. Thus whiles Borlari often frequenteth and converseth with the Father publicly, no less, or indeed far oftener doth Planeze privately, and whiles the first hath more cause to despair, than reason to hope of her affection and consent to be his wife: the second hath all the reasons and causes of the world, not only to hope but to assure himself thereof; But the patience of a little time, will shortly resolve our curiosity, whereunto these different affections will tend, and what the event and issue will be of these their opposite intentions and resolutions.  
But because the ambition and wisdom of Borlari will make it conspicuous and apparent to his Mistress. That there is as much difference betwixt him, and Planeze, as there is between herself, and her Chambermaid Radegonda. He therefore seeing that he cannot hitherto gain her by the persuasion of her Father, now hopes and attempts it by this her maid's solicitation; as holding her to be a fit instrument for the compassing of his desires, and a proper Agent for the perfecting and crowning of his wishes, because his best genius and intelligence inform him, that she hath a great power and bears a great stroke and sway with her Mistress: But we shall shortly see, and he too soon find the contrary, and that these his ill grounded hopes and undervalewing attempt of his, will both deceive his ambition and betray his wisdom and judgement. Now to gain this her chambermaid Radegonda to his will, that thereby with the more facility and cheerfulness, she may obtain him her Mistress, her favour and affection: He bribe's her with silver and Gold, and many other gifts, if not too costly for his giving, yet I am sure too rich for her receiving, and in requital thereof she with her tongue promiseth him her best power and assistance towards her Mistress, but in her heart intends the contrary which is directed to betray him; He sends likewise by her to his love, and her Mistress divers curious rich presents and two Letters and prays her to take time at advantage, and so to deliver them to her from him, the which likewise she faithfully promiseth, but yet intends nothing less, so she holds it rather a virtue than a vice, to keep these presents for herself, and to give the letters to his Corrival Planeze, to whom (by solemn oath) she had formerly engaged her best art and power, and her chiefest assistance. Which policy, or rather which fallacy of hers, is not so secretly borne betwixt Planeze and herself, but Borlari (by some sinister accidental means) hath perfect notice thereof, which he takes so unkindly at Radegondaes' hands, as (consulting more with passion than reason) his heart is so inflamed with Choler, and his resolution with revenge against her, that (impatient of all delays) he sends for her one afternoon to meet him at the Amphitheatre, and from thence goes with her to the next street to a friends house of his, where ascending a chamber and bolting the door withinside to him, he (with choler and threats) chargeth her with this her ingrateful infidelity and treachery towards him: when drawing all the truth from her, by making herself a witness against herself, aswell of the delivery of his letters to Planeze, as also of keeping her presents for herself, and that her Mistress and he are solemnly contracted each to other: He there in mere revenge to her, and in malice and disdain to her Mistress, pulls off her head attire, and very basely and violently cuts away all her hair, and throws it into the fire, notwithstanding that Radegonda first fell on her knees, and with infinite tears and pra●…s besought him to the contrary: But as he hath made it an act of his reve●… to Radegonda and of his disdain to her lady, his unkind mistress Felisanna, so he now likewise resolves to make it one of his justifications to the world. Poor Radegonda is all in tears and choler at this her disgraceful accident received of Borlari, and no less but rather far more is her young Lady and Mistress Felisanna, the grief of the, one engendering the choler of the other, yea this ignoble and malicious fact of his doth so deeply stick in her heart and mind, and so extremely exasperateth her, against him, as she makes her lover Planeze acquainted therewith, who (notwithstanding her father's prohibition) was then descended his Coach and ascended the Parlour to visit her. Planeze wondereth and grieves at this incivill and base indignity of Borlari towards Radegonda, which he every way sees, can no way but reflect on the other part of himself Felisanna, and so consequently on himself: When (being in her presence) the passions of his affection, and the fumes of his revenge so far eclipse and transport his Judgement, as he freely proffereth her his sword, and self, to right Radegondaes' wrong on the person and life of Borlari, the which courtesy and noble affection and respect of his, Felisanna takes most lovingly and kindly of him, but yet loves him so tenderly and dearly, that by no means she will permit him to engage, muchless to hazard himself in this trivial quarrel, which being (as she affirmed) more feminine than masculine, did therefore more properly belong to her own deciding and requital, the which (in that regard) she prayed him wholly to leave and refer to herself.  
Borlari (by some of Miniataes domestic servants, whom in favour of money he hath made to be his friendly Spies and intelligencers) hears hereof, and especially takes notice of Planezes' forwardness to fight with him for the quarrel of a poor chambermaid, so seeing that he could hope for nothing but for despair in his affection from Felisanna, he takes this so ill from Planeze, (who although he be his rival and competitor, yet being in a manner but a stranger to him) that he cannot, he will not be outbraved by this Mantovesse in any point of courage or valour, and therefore to prevent his insulting and daring Generosity, and to give him a touch and taste of his own: He the next morning by his lackey Romea sends him this challenge.  
BORLARY to PLANEZE.  
IN Regard thou couldst not content thyself to bereave me of the Lady Felisanna, whose sweat beauty and virtues are by far more dear and precious to me then my life, but that (with much ostentation and malice thou likewise, makest it thy Trophies and Glory, to offer her the sacrifice of my death, only for the trivial respect of her Chambermaid's hair; Therefore because thou makest so small an esteem of my life; My reputation invites, and mine honour conjures me to see what care thou wilt have for the defence and preservation of thine own. Towhich end, I pray thee to meet me to morrow (betwixt five and six of the clock in the afternoon) with thy single rapier without seconds, in the first meadow without the Vinsensa gate of this City, where I will attend thy arrival, with much zeal and impatiency, Thou art Noble enough to be so generous, and I generous enough to try if thou wilt appear, and approve thyself so Noble.  
BORLARY.  
The Lady Felisanna well knowing Romeo to be Borlari his lackey, and seeing him deliver a letter to her lover Planeze, which s●…areth to be some challenge, she thereat (adorning and beautifying her lily cheeks with a Roseate blush) prays him to tell her what Borlari his letter contained; When (his own hohonour getting the supremacy of his affection towards her) he tells her, that Borlari therein only requested him, to meet him the next day in the Domo (which is the Cathedral Church of that City dedicated to Saint Athanasius) the which he is now going to grant him in his answer. But Felisanna, still jealous and fearful) prays him to show her those two letters which he pleasantly puts off with some kisses, and yet her blood and heart so freezeth within her with fear, as she useth the best power of her Art, and the chiefest Art of her affection, to conjure him not to fall out, muchless to fight with Borlary at there meeting in the Church. Planeze tells her he is too religious to be so profane, to distain and pollute that sacred place with the effusion of Christian blood, because it is the temple of prayer, the house of God, and therefore every way fitter for a peaceful atonement and reconciliation, then for a contentious quarrel, now (as the malice of men are finite, but of women infinite) Felisanna seeing her Planeze going to write his letter revenge and choler being then extravagantly predominant in her looks and resolutions, she hastily steps down into a chamber next to the garden, where she sends for Borlaries lackey Romea, and causeth three of her grooms (whom she had purposely placed there by force and violence to cut off his right ear; which they presently do, notwithstanding that he used a thousand entreaties and prayers to her to divert her from this her unworthy and malicious fact, and then hastily departing from him, she spoke this to him: Tell thy Master Borlari, that I have caused thine ear to be cut off, to requite the affront and disgrace which he offered me in cutting off my chambermaid Radegondaes' hair.  
Planeze, having secretly to himself read Borlari his challenge: He thinks so honourably of himself, and so disgracefully of him, as he not a little wondereth to see, that he hath the courage to write to him, muchless the resolution to fight with him; When grieving that he cannot now have the felicity and honour to make trial of his valour to himself, and affection to his mistress upon a more generous spirit, and nobler personage than Borlari, he accepts his challenge, and in this answer promiseth him to meet him and perform it, the which he honourably conceals from Felisannaes' fear and jealousy, and so sealing up his letter, he goes down to deliver it to Borlary his Lackey, and resolves to dispeede and hasten his return, but contrary to his expectation he finds this lackey Romeo bitterly storming and weeping; and so demanding the cause thereof, he then and there by a Gentleman his servant is first informed of the Laqueys disgrace, and of the manner thereof as we have understood; Planeze is wonderfully grieved at this disastrous accident, but love prescribes so powerful a law to his discretion, as he is enforced to bear up with the time and so to dissemble it, and when in the language of a victory and a triumph Felisanna acquaints him therewith; he holds it discretion, rather to wink at it, and dissemble it with silence, then to remember it with choler or reprehension towards her; So he to acquit his ignorance, reputation and honour herein towards Borlari, calls his lackey again, and vows and protesteth to him, as he is a Gentleman that he is free from being any way knowing or accessary to this his disgrace and disaster, and bids him to assure his Master from him that he is every way Innocent hereof, the which he would have signified to him in writing, but that his letter was sealed before he knew it, and so giving him some crowns to wash down his anger and sorrow, he than takes leave of him.  
Romeo says little but thinks the more, and as he disdaineth to bewray any appearance of grief hereat, so he cannot cloak that of his choler, nor overvaile or smother that of revenge, in their fatal effects, which time will too soon produce.  
Romeo in great haste and more choler, arrives to his master Borlaries presence, gives him Planezes' letter, who very speedily and hastily breaking up the seals thereof finds therein these lines.  
PLANEZE to BORLARY.  
I Acknowledge it to be rather thy misfortune then my merits that induceth the fair and virtuous Lady Felisanna to give her affection to me, and not to thyself, the which as a rich treasure and precious jewel I do not only esteem equal to my life, but a thousand degrees above it, and therefore it was with much affection and zeal to her, and with no ostentation or malice to thyself, that I tendered her my best service, to right her of the ignoble wrong which thou didst offer to her Chambermaid Radegonde. In which regard, because thou purposely givest a sinister construction to my intent therein, and art so ambitiously resolute to hazard thy honour and life in hope of the loss of mine, I do therefore freely and cheerfully accept of thy challenge, and my impatience and zeal shall anticipate thine before I perform it, wherein if my Rapier give not the lie to my blood, my misfortune to my Rapier, thou shalt find me enough noble and generous to attempt this duel for thy sake, and to finish those of greater danger for the Lady Felisannas' sake, who I freely profess is the Empress of my affections, and till death shallbe the Queen Regent of my desires and wishes.  
PLANEZES'.  
Borlari hath no sooner perused and over read this letter of Planeze, but finding his challenge accepted, he is exceeding glad and joyful thereof, as if his glory consisted in his shame, and his safety in his danger: Then his lackey Romeo acquaints him with his disgrace acted, sayeth he, wholly by Dona Felisanna and no way as he vows and thinks, by the consent or knowledge of Planeze, and so relates all that he and she charged him to report unto him: The which Borlari hearing and understanding, he extremely storms to see his own affront and disgrace, offered and brought home unto him in that of his Lackey: When having other affairs and business in his head, he contents himself for that time to give him some gold, thereby the sooner to make him forget the loss of his ear, which his locks better than his looks could now overvaile and cover.  
These two inconsiderate Gentlemen, (being infinitely more ambitious to preserve their honours then their lives, and more careful of their reputations towards the foolish people of the world, then of their souls towards God, are now fitting of their Rapiers and Surgeons, to dispatch this their rash enterprise and irreligious business, and it is not the least part of Planezes' discretion and care to play the Mercury and now to blind the Argus eyes of Felisannaes' fear and vigilancy, and how to see a beginning and end to this duel, with his generosity and fame, that he be no way disturbed or prevented by her in the performance thereof: The prefixed hour being come, Borlari (with his Chirurgeon) as Challenger, comes first into the field, I mean into the meadow, the designed place and theatre where they intent to act this their bloody Tragedy, and he hath not stayed half a quarter of an hour, but Planeze the Challenged arrives there likewise with his Chirurgeon: When there malice is so furious, and their courages so inflamed each against other, as passing over their saluting ceremonies without a ceremony, they putting themselves into their shirts, do both of them draw, and so approach each other. At their first coming up, Planeze runs Borlari through the left thigh, and Borlari him in the right shoulder, and the sight of their scarlet blood upon their white shirts doth rather revive than quench their courages: At their second meeting Borlari runs Planeze into the right arm of a large and deep wound, and Planeze dies not in debt for it, but requites it with a dangerous one in the small of his belly, which went near to prove mortal, for it fetched much blood from him, made him to begin to faint and stagger, so being both of them well near out of breath, they make a stand to breath and take the benefit of the air, but their hearts and animosity are so great as they will not as yet desist or leave off but now begin a fresh to redouble their blows and courages, and here they traverse their ground to gain the advantage of the Sun: with far more advisement and discretion then before. Now at this their third coming up, Borlari presents Planeze a furious thrust, but he very actively and nimbly wards it off him, and in exchange runs Borlari into the neck, a little wide of his throat bowl: whereat Planeze instantly closing with him, he fairly attempted to whip up his heels, but that Borlari his strength prevented Planezes' agility: when each having the other by the collar of their doublets with one hand, and their rapiers in the other, as they are striving and struggling together, God (more out of his gracious goodness and mercy, then of their desires and wishes) is pleased that neither of them shall for this time dye. For the Earl of Lucerni riding post (with three gentlemen in his company) from Venice towards Turin, chanced to espy and see them in the meadow, almost all covered over with sweat, blood, and dust, when he and they leaping from their Horses, he very honourably and charitably runs to them and parts them; offering them his best power and a pretty parcel of his time, to end and shut up their differences in a friendly atonement and reconciliation, but so inveterate and strong (by this time) is their malice each to other, as he found it no way feasible but impossible to effect it: So this brave and honourable Earl contents himself, to reconduct and see them safe into the City, where privately leaving them to their future fortunes, he again takes horse and away. Our two Duelists having first thanked him for his noble Courtesy towards them, but otherwise they are exceedingly grieved to see the victory pulled out of their hands, for the vanity and impiety of either of them flattered and bounded their hopes with no less ambition and felicity, than each their own life and either of them the death of his adversary. But as they are grateful to the Earl of Lucerni for this his honourable courtesy towards them; yet they are so irreligious as they look not up to Heaven, nor once have the Grace to think of God, much less to thank his divine Majesty, for now so mercifully and so graciously withdrawing them as it were from out the very jaws of death; but still they retain their malice and cherish and foment their revenge each to other, especially Borlary to Planeze, for it is a Continual private grief and a secret Corrosive to his content and mind, to see that he is enforced to wear the willow Garland, and that Planeze must bear away his fair and beautiful Mistress Felisanna from him: But we will for a little time, leave them to their thoughts and their thoughts to God, and so again speak of Romeo, the Lackey of Borlari, who as a wretched and most execrable villain comes now to act a bloody and woeful part in this History.  
For we must here understand, that this lewd Lackey Romeo, is so extremely incensed with Choler and enraged with malice against the Lady Felisanna for the loss of his ear, as (being seduced and encouraged by the Devil) he was once of the mind to have murdered her in the street, the very first time he had met or seen her: but then again respecting his master Borlari, whom he knew affected her tenderly and dearly, he forsook that opinion of his, and resolved to wreak his wrath and indignation upon her-three servants who were the Actors of cutting off his ear, as he was the Author thereof: But then again remembering that he knew them not, nor any of them for that they were all purposely masked and disguised, He than swaps a bargain with the devil, and the devil with him, that the storm of this his malice and revenge should assuredly fall on Radegonda her Chambermaid, from whom it originally proceeded, and from this resolution he is so execrably profane and bloody, as he vows that neither Heaven or Earth God or man shall divert him.  
But as Envy cannot prove so pernicious an enemy to others as to herself, so Revenge will in the end assuredly make us as miserable as first it falsely promised to make us happy.  
Romeo continueth still resolute in his rage, and implacable in his revenge towards Radegonda (and yet poor innocent harmless soul, she was not so much as guilty of a bad thought, muchless of a bad action or office towards him; and therefore least deserving this his revenge;) when waiting many Nights for her, as she issued forth in the street in her Lady's errands, he at last in a dark night found her, and there slew her with his rapier, giving her four several wounds, whereof he might have spared the three last, because the very first was mortal, and thereupon betook himself to his heels and fled through the streets, where the people flocked together at the report and knowledge of this lamentable Murder, but God is so exasperated at this foul and lamentable fact of his, as (in his Star-chamber of Heaven) he hath ordained and decreed that Romeo shall instantly receive condign punishment for the same as not deserving to survive it, for running through the streets to provide for his safety and life: He at last took the river of Addice, near the old castle, where thinking to swim over to the other side, or to hide himself in some of the mill-boates, he was discovered by the sentinels (for the watch was already set) and the news of this murder was by this time resounding and echoing in all parts of the City. The Soldiers of the Castle suspected him to be the murderer, they send a boat after him and apprehend him: so by the criminal judges he is committed to prison for that night, and being the next morning accused by Signior Miniata by way of torture, and by the Lady Felisanna his daughter by legal order for the murdering of her Chambermaid Radegonda, he without any thought of fear, or show of sorrow or repentance, freely confesseth it, for the which he is presently condemned to be hanged, and the same day after dinner he was accordingly dispatched and executed, notwistanding that his master Borlari, used his best friends and power, yea and proffered two hundred zechines to save him. Thus we see there was but one poor night between Romeoes taking away of Radegondaes' life, and losing of his own, and between her murdering and his hanging; At his execution he spoke not a word either of the loss of his ear by the Lady Felisanna, or of that of Radegondaes' hair by his master Borlari, whereat both of them exceedingly rejoice and no less doth Planeze: But for the other speeches which this bloody footman delivered on the ladder at this execution they were either so ungodly, or so impertinent, as the relation thereof no way deserves my pen, or my Readers knowledge.  
And here to leave the dead Servant Romeo, return we again to speak of his living Master Borlari: who after he had spent much time and labour, and as I may say run his invention and wit out of breath, to seek to prevent that Planeze might not marry the fair Felisanna, hath notwithstanding, to his matchless grief, and unseparable sorrow sees that it is all bootless and in vain for by this time she through the importunity of her tears and prayers hath obtained her father Miniataes consent, to take and enjoy Signior Planeze, for her Husband: when to both their heart's delight and content, they are solemnly married in Verona, and in that height of pomp and bravery as is requisite to their noble rank and quality: When Planeze the more to please his new wife leaves Mantova, and wholly builds up his residence in Verona with her and in her father Miniataes house, who never hated him so much heretofore, as now he deeply affects and loves him, and to say and write the truth, he well deserved that affection of the father, and this love of the daughter: sith the lustre and virtue of his actions made it apparent to all Verona, yea to all Italy, that he proved a most kind and loving Husband to the one, and a most obedient, and respective son in law to the other.  
Now although Felisanna be thus married to Planeze, yet the affection of Borlari to her, is still so far from fading or withring thereat, as it re●…iveth and flourisheth at the sight of her pure and delicate beauty: for those golden tresses of her hair, those splendent rays of her sparkling eyes, and thosedelicious lilies and Roses of her cheeks do act such wonders in his heart, and his heart in his resolutions: that his lust eclipsing his judgement, and outbraving his disdiscretion he cannot, he will not refrain, to try if he can yet procure and get her to be his friend though not his wife; and so futurely to obtain that courtesy from her by the eye, which formerly he knew it impossible for him to get by the main. To which end his affection or rather his folly, giving no truce to his thoughts, nor peace to his mind, because both the one and the other were still ranging and ruminating on Felisannaes' sweet Idea, and delicious feature, He enters into a consideration and consultation with himself, whether he should bewray his amorous flame to her by himself or by some other, or either by his pen or his tongue, when after he had proposed and exchanged many poor reasons and trivial Motives Pro and Con, he at last resolves on the last, which is to do it by letters, when hying himself to his closet, he traceth her these lines, which by a confident friend of his he forth with sends her.  
BORLARY to FELISANNA.  
I Will crave no other witness but thyself, of my fervent love and constant affection to thee; for none can better testify, how I always made it my chiefest Care and Ambition to make the dignity of my zeal answerable to that of thy beauty; and that this might be as truly Immortal, as that is devinely rare and rarely excellent, which to confirm. I have sealed it with some blood, but with more tears, so that although thou hast given thy affection from me to Planeze, yet my heart and soul tells me it is impossible to give mine to any but to the Lady Felisanna. And because thou canst not be my wife, therefore I pray be pleased to resolve to live my friend, as in requital I do dye thy Servant. I confess I am not worthy of thy affection, much less to enjoy the sweet fruit thereof, thy sweet self, yet because I cannot be more thy than I am, therefore I pray thee make thyself as much mine as thou mayest be. Thy heart shall not be a truer Secretary to our affections then my tongue, and for the times and places of our meetings, I wholly refer it to thy will and pleasure, which mine shall ever carefully attend, and religiously obey, I send the my whole heart enclosed in this Letter, and if thou vouchsafe to return me a piece of thine in exchange, Heaven may, but Earth cannot cross our affection.  
BORLARY.  
The Lady Flisanna receives this letter with much wonder, and over reads it with more Contempt and Choler, for if she disdained Borlari and his affection when she was a maid, much more doth she now when God and her Husband have made her a wife: Once she was of opinion to have thrown this his Letter into the fire, and have answered it with disdain and silence; But then again considering the vainity of his thoughts, and the obscaenity of his desire●…●…hee conceived he might (peradventure) repute her silence to a degree of consent: and therefore though not in affection to him, yet in discretion and love to her honour, she resolves to return him an answer, when knitting her brows with anger, dipping her pen in gall and vinegar, and setting a sharp edge of contempt and Choler on her resolutions, she hastily frame her Letter, and gives it to his own Messenger to deliver it to Borlari, whose heart steering his course betwixt hope and fear till he receive it: he first kissing it, and then hastily breaking up the seals thereof, finds that it speaks this language.  
FELISANNA to BORLARY.  
IF thou want any witnesses of thy folly, not of thy affection, thy obstinate and vain perseverance herein, of one makes me capable to serve for many. And if thou hadst been as truly careful and ambitious of thine own honour, as thou fals●… pretendest to be of my poor beauty thou wouldst not so often have sacrificed thy shame to my glory, nor so sottishly have cast away thy blood or tears on my contempt: How thou intendest to dispose of thyself, I neither desire to know, nor care to understand. But as I have given my soul to God, so God hath given my heart to my husband Planeze, from whom neither the malice of Satan or power of hell shall withdraw it, and therefore as I am Felisanna I detest thy lustful suit, and as Planezes' wife, I de●…ie both it and thyself; And thus to be thy friend thou shalt find me thy friend, but for such servants as thyself I leave them to their own proper Infamy and Repentance. I make God the Secretary of my ●…ctions, and my husband of my affections, therefore it shall please me well when I understand that thy tongue will recant thy folly, I repent thy indiscretion towards me, in seeking to erect the Trophies of thy lascivious lust, upon the ruins of my pure and candid honour: And I assure thee, that if hereafter thou inspire, and fortify not thy heart with more religious, and less sinful desires and affections, that Earth can and Heaven will make thee as truly miserable, as now thou falsely thinkest thyself fortunate.  
FELISANNA.  
Borlari at the reading of this Letter of Felisanna, is so galled with griefeand nettled with sorrow, to see his refusal sent him in her disdain, as he knows not to what passion to betake himself for ease, or to what Saint for comfort, for the consideration of her coyness and cruelty, makes his despair to gain so much on his hopes, that once he was minded absolutely to forsake her, and to court her affection no more, but then again his lustful heart and desires, remembering the freshness of her beauty and the sweetness of her youth, he held himself a coward, every way unworthy to enjoy so fair a Lady, and so sweet an Angel, if he retired upon her first denial, especially because as those Cities and Castles, so those Ladies and Gentlewomen who entertain a pearl, are already half won. In which consideration because it many times proves an error in Nature; but still in judgement, to flatter ourselves most, with that which we most hope for and desire, He therefore once more resolves to hazard another letter to her, as having some reasons to believe, that his second may perchance obtain that from her which his first could not, for that he knows that most ladies and gentlewomen pride themselves with this felicity to be often sought and importunately sued unto by their lovers, wherefore resolving once more to try his fortune, and her courtesy, he by his former messenger greets her with these lines.  
BORLARY to FELISANNA.  
THy sweet and excellent beauty hath enkindled so fervent a flame in my heart, that thy late disrespect and contempt of me in thy Letter, is not sufficiently prevalent to make me, or so soon or so slightly forsake thee. For although thou term my love folly, and my affection obstinacy, yet until thou cease to be fair, find it ●…t strange, if it be impossible for me to cease to be affectionate: Neither do I sacrifice my shame to thy Glory, or cast away my tears on thy contempt, sith I perform it more out of duty than compliment, and rather out of true zeal then false hypocrisy. And as the strongest Cities and Castles by the rule of war, so the fairest beauties, by that of love, deserve to be honoured with more than one assault and siege; and that Cavilleir cannot justly, be termed, either a Gentleman, a Soldier, or a Lover, who will resolve to be put off with the first repulse, especially from so sweet, and so beautiful an Enemy as thyself: Neither can it any way breed infamy or repentance in me to be servant to so dear, and slave to so fair a Mistress, because the excellency of thy beauty is every way capable both to confound sense, and to subvert and overthrow Reason. Be then but as courteous as thou art fair, and as kind as I am constant, and thou shalt find that I only desire to erect the Trophies of mine Honour and Glory upon those of thy content, to sacrifice my best life at the shrine and altar of thy beauty, and to devote and prostrate my best zeal and service to the feet of thy Commands, which if thou please to grant me: Earth will not make me miserable but Heaven fortunate.  
BORLARY.  
The Lady Felisanna having received and oreread this second Letter of Borlari, as one way she laughs to see the constancy of his folly, and indiscretion, so another way she storms, and yet grieves to see herself to be both the object and the cause thereof: When returning to the party who brought it her, she thinks, to vent part of her choler on him, taxeth his audacity and rashness herein, and strictly conjures him to bring her no more of Borlari his Letters: yea, she is so far transported with passion and choler against Borlari for sending them to her, as now she resolves to answer this w●… silence, and hence forth to burn all other which are sent or brought to her from him, because if his folly make him culpable of sending, she will not futurely make herself guilty of receiving any more. But here again, her thoughts are taken up with fear, and her heart surprised with resolution and doubt, whether (yea or no) she should show these his two letters to her Husband: For her affection is so tender, so faithful, so constant to him; because she likewise knows that his is reciprocally so to her, that she will rather displease herself, than any way discontent him, or administer him the least cause whatsoever, to run the hazard of his displeasure or indignation, for as by concealing them from his knowledge, she knows this business will be for ever hushed up in silence, and perpetually buried in oblivion; So chose if either through Borlarie his malice to her, or indiscretion to himself, it should any way come to her Husband's ear, than she thinks she should give him a just cause of exception and offence against her; Wherein if the subtlety of the Devil should once put his foot, or the malice of any of his members, their tongues or fingers, than his jealousy might call her Honour and Fidelity in question, and make him suspect and fear her to be dishonest, though heretofore (in heart and soul) he confidently knows and believes the contrary, she farther knows that there is nothing so easy as to entertain jealousy, nor so difficult as to expel it, and therefore that it is not enough for us to prevent a scandal, but likewise to remove the original cause thereof, fain she would conceal these foolish letters of Borlari from her husband, but yet she doubts it, and willing she is to acquaint him there with and yet she fears it: And although her chastity, and innocency persuade her to perform the last, yet her discretion and judgement encourage and prompt her to execute the second: And here our Beautiful and Virtuous young Wife is perplexed as a traveller, who meets with two different ways and knows not which is the best for him to take; and her heart and thoughts here in this accident) is as a ship at sea at one time surprised and met with two contrary winds and tides; for preferring her honour to her life, and her affection to her husband, and his to her before any other earthly respect or felicity whatsoever; she in the intricacy and ambiguity of these doubts, wisheth that Borlari had slept when he writ and sent her those Letters, or she when she received and read them. But at last consulting with Reason and Religion, with her Soul and God, than her chastity gives a commanding law to her fear, and her innocency to her doubt, so first hoping and then praying that nothing herein might breed bad blood in her husband, or disturb the tranquillity and sincerity of her marriage; she watching a fit opportunity shows her husband the first letter of Borlari to her with her answer thereof, and then his second letter, the which she informs him she answered with silence and contempt, adding withal: That had she a thousand lives as she hath but one, she would cheerfully sacrifice and lose them all, before she would be guilty of the least thought to distain the honour of his bed, or to break her sacred vow of Love and Chastity, which in presence of God and his Church, she religiously made and gave him in marriage.  
Planeze at the hearing of these speeches and the reading of these Letters, doth at one instant both blush and pale, for as he looks pale with Envy towards Borlari, to see how secretly and subtly he endeavoureth to ruin his honour in that of his wives; so he blusheth for love towards her, to see how sweetly and chastely she had demeaned herself in her answer to him, as also what a wise and loving part it was in her so punctually and fully to acquaint him therewith; when in requital hereof he gives her many praises and kisses, extols her chastity and virtues to the sky, and condemns Borlarie his lustful vices to Hell, and although (for the present) she find some incongruity in his speeches, and observe some per●…bation in his looks, yet he makes his affection so apparent to her, and dissembleth his hatred and choler towards Borlari so secretly and artificially: That his wife Felisanna wholly reposing herself upon her own integrity, and her husband's discretion, she (sweet innocent Lady) little dreams or thinks of any disaster which will ensue hereof, muchless what dismal effects threaten to proceed from this inconsiderate act of hers, in acquainting her Husband with those Letters. But she will have time enough to see it to her grief and know it to her sorrow, yea she will find occasions enough to repent, but never any means how to remedy it except it be too late, and which then will merely prove physic after death.  
Planeze (as we have formerly understood) is extremely incensed against Borlary thus to attempt to bereave him of his sweetest Joy, which is his wife's affection, and she of her most precious jewel her chastity: And although (both in reason and religion) he had far more cause to rejoice then to grieve at this accident, in regard he was both assured and confident that his wife's chastity triumphed o'er Borlaries lust, and her glory was apparent in his shame, for as objects so actions being best distinguished by their contraries, therefore through the obscure clouds of Borlari his obscene concupiscence, that of Felis●…as Angelical chastity, as a bright relucent Sun, shined forth most radi●…tly and sweetly with far more vigour and glory, yet Planeze being a man composed of corrupt flesh and blood, and therefore subject to passions, and those passions to errors and imperfections, So he takes a course and resolution herein contrary to all judgement and to all reason, yea diametrically opposite to the rules of Nature and precepts of Grace. For although his heart be upright in the opinion of his wife's chastity and honour, yet as the dearest and purest affections cannot be exempted of some shadow or spice of fear, so although his heart looked directly on Borlari with malice, he cannot possibly ●…aine nor retain his thoughts, from glancing squinteyed on his wife with ●…lousie. And although he knows it to be a most ignoble ingratitude, and irreligious impiety in him thus to call her honour in question on (in the best ●…ce) to revoke it to doubt, by making any puplike show of suspicion or 〈◊〉 to her, or by seeking any private revenge on Borlari, yet because her beauty and virtue is a thousand times dearer to him then his life; and the pu●…ty and integrity of her affection to him as dear as his soul: He therefore thinks she shall not profane his good opinion of her, no●… offer her merits 〈◊〉 his own reputation any wrong, if he resolve to right both her, and himself on Borlari when consulting not with reason or charity, but with their opposites malice and revenge, he will not be at peace with his heart, nor at ●…ce with his thoughts before he have fought with Borlari, albeit (indeed) his ●…lict and offence towards him, more deserved his scorn then his Care, and was every way far more worthy of his oblivion then of his remembrance. To which end (by a Chirurgeon which he had made choice of) he sends him this challenge.  
PLANEZE to BORLARY.  
THy crime is so foul, and so apparent to me, in seeking by thy two lascivious Letters to distain my honour in that of my wife's chastity, as nothing but thy life is capable to expiate it, or 〈◊〉 to desace and forget it; wherefore if thou have 〈◊〉 much courage 〈◊〉 thou wantest grace, bring thyself ●…, thy ●…upier, and thy Chirurgeon with thee, to morrow at six a clock in the morning, in the City Ditch, without the utter Gate, which looks towards Brescia, and there myself and my Chirurgeon (who is the bearer hereof, will silently and honourably wait for thee. And if thy obscene heart retain yet any spark of generosity, or thy vicious brain of judgement, thou wilt resolve to perform this my request, and to excuse my resolution herein, sith it is wholly derived from thy lasciviousness, and receives its life and birth from thy treachery.  
PLANEZE.  
Borlary receiving and perusing this Challenge of Planeze, he is much grieved and sorrowful, to see that Felisanna had so little discretion for her self, and so much hatred against him, to show her husband these his Letters, and except she meant to make herself the present author, and the cause of her future affliction and misery, he knows not else what she intends hereby. But for Planeze his spleen and resolution against him, Borla●…y knows it to be both just and well grounded in the best sense, and in the worst to be yet a requital of that Challenge and Duel which he formerly sent and presented him: Only he doth a little admire (if not wonder) that he should now again make trial of his valour and courage, whereof he so lately had experience, and tasted. And although he had far more reason to rest assured than doubtful, that this second Duel of theirs would not prove so fortunate as their first, but would rather terminate in one, if not in both of their lives. He yet loves Felisanna so dearly, albeit she hate him extremely, that he will by no means refuse to fight with her husband once again for her sake, yea and to kill him for his own, if possible he can, the devil making him strong in the vanity of this belief and confidence; that if it prove now his good fortune to kill Plan●…, that he can then requite and limit his victory with the reward of no less happiness and felicity, by his death to obtain his widow for his own wife. But this is to write upon the water, and to build Castles of vain hopes in the air, which the least breath of God's mouth, or wind of his nostrils will easily reverse and blow away. For this is to consult and resolve with Satan and not with God; and therefore no marvel if he see his lascivious desires to come too short of his ridiculous hopes, and both his hopes and desires herein to end in as much true misery, as they began in false hope of felicity and joy.  
So Borlari having made a turn or two in his Garden to resolve upon this business which so much imported both his honour and life: He at last with joy in his looks, and courage in his countenance turns to Planeze his Chirurg●…on, whom after he used respectfully and courteously, he secretly rounds him thus in his ear; Tell Signior Planeze from me, that I will not fail to meet him to morrow morning according to his request and expectation, and so he dismisseth him, who as soon returns this answer of Borlari to Planeze, whom he now finds staying for him in the Church of the Augustine Friars, but God knows with no intent or devotion to pray, or to invoke his Divine and Sacred Majesty to divert him from this his intended bloody enterprise, but rather to reconduct home the Lady Felisanna his wife, who harmless sweet Gentlewoman was there in that Church, upon the Altar of her heart, proffering up the most religious prayers, and zealous Orisons of her soul unto God, without once surmising or thinking what a mournful and dangerous part her husband was resolved to act the next morning, to the prejudice of her content, if not to the utter dissolution and ruin of her Matrimonial joy and felicity. But her husband Planeze bears this business, and these his intentions so secretly from his wife, as it was impossible for her to have any suspicion, much less knowledge of this his next days intended Duel.  
The night which brings rest to others, hath not power to give it to our two inflamed Duelists. For the consideration of their honours and their lives, of their quarrel, and the cause thereof, doth equally possess their brains, and preoccupate and prevent their eyes of their sleeping faculties. So preferring their danger to their safety, their resolution to their rest, and the field to their beds, they (under other pretexts) are not long from it, I mean from the City ditch, the prefixed place of their rendezvous: Which Planeze first entereth, and there makes half a dozen of turns, before he have any news of his Contendant or Adversary Borlary, whereof he doth not a little muse, yet he no way despairs of his coming, because (by late experience) he knows him to be courageous and valiant. But to put Planezes' musing out of doubt, and his doubt out of question, in comes Borlari all unbraced and untrussed, and a far off espying Planeze in the Ditch before him: He (ashamed of this advantage he had because of long stay) with his hat in his hand prays him to excuse this error of his, affirmi●…g it to be the fault of his Watch, but not of his heart, which he alleged should ever go true with his honour and reputation; When Planeze returning his Compliment, by approving of his Apology, (without any further expostulation) they draw, and here fall from words to blows.  
At their first meeting Borlary give Planeze a wound in the right arm, and Planeze requites him with another in his right side, which if his Rapier had not met with a rib, it had the undoubtedly ended the quarrel with his life. But although it make him lose much blood, yet he hath strength & courage enough not to die in his debt for it, only he desireth Planeze that they may breathe a little, the which he generously granteth. At their second coming up, Planeze presents a thrust to Borlari, but he wards it, and runs Planeze into his left thigh, of a deep wound, and yet they will not give over, although their Chi●…geons do earnestly pray them to desist, as having now already here sufficiently testified their courage and valour. At their third meeting and joining, Planeze gives Borlary a lick o'er the forehead, which makes his blood stream ●…wne his face and eyes, and Borlary fully incensed and prepared to requite it, ●…ves a fair thrust to Planezes' breast, but he very dexterously and fortunately wards it, beating down the point of Borlary his sword into the ground, and then with much agility leaps to him, and whips up his heels, who falling upon his own Rapier, breaks it in two pieces, at which unlooked for disaster, Borlary seeing his naked breast exposed to Planezes' bloody Rapier, and consequently his life to lie at his mercy, (without once striving or endeavouring to grapple with his enemy) he (more desirous to live with shame, than to die with honour) descends so far from true and noble generosity, as he begs his life of Planeze; when (although many hot and jealous spirits would gladly have taken hold of this advantage, and wreaked the utmost of their gall and spleen upon the misfortune of this accident) yet Planeze is so truly noble and generous, as disdaining to fight with an unarmed man, and so to eclipse or blemish the lustre of his reputation in killing him who begged his life of him, and when it lay at his pleasure to give or take it, as he throws away his Rapier, making him promise and swear he will never henceforth attempt against the honour of his wife, Planeze very freely and cheerfully gives him his life: And to show himself the more generous in this his courtesy, he lends him his hand to raise him up on his feet; for which infinite kindness Borlary yields him many thanks: When muffling up their faces with their cloaks, they part very good friends, and so get themselves into two of the nearest houses of the Suburbs, very secretly and silently to dress their wounds, and at night they return to their houses: Where our dear and fair Felisanna understanding the manner and cause of this combat betwixt her husband and Borlary, it is impossible for me to define whether she wept and sighed more for the loss of her husband's blood, or rejoiced and praised God for the saving and sparing of his life.  
Yet this Combat of theirs is not so secretly acted, but in less than two days all Verona hath news, and prattles thereof. When measuring the first Duel of Planeze and Borlari by the second, and the second by the first. They extol Borlary his courage to fight with Planeze, but infinitely applaud the noble courtesy and generosity of Planeze, in giving Borlari his life when it lay in his power and pleasure to have taken it from him. And as most commended the Lady Felisanna for disdaining to make shipwreck of her honour on the Scylla and Charybdis of Borlaries lust, and for not sacrificing her chastity to his lascivious affections and desires; So, in general all Gentlemen and Ladies condemn her of indiscretion in showing his Letters to her husband, and in acquainting him with his suits and desires, it having been sufficient for her secretly to have given him the repulse and denial, and herself the glory. Again, there want not divers, especially the younger sort of the Nobility and Gentry of Verona, who tax Borlari of Cowardice, in shamefully begging his life of Planeze, when either his good fortune in struggling, or his piece of sword in his defence, might peradventure have preserved it. Thus every one speaks according to his own fancies and affections.  
Borlary having lost so much blood for the affection which he bore to Felisanna, and received and reaped nothing from her but disdain and hatred, he is not a little grieved and vexed hereat. But when he understands that he hath now made himself the laughture of all Verona, in this his cowardly begging his life of Planeze, and that his reputation doth therefore universally suffer in this action, he is then as it were pierced to the heart with sorrow, and to the soul with shame. He knows it were far better for him to be borne a Clown, than to be held and esteemed a Coward; and that having once purchased that base title, he shall difficultly ever lose. Yea, wheresoever he goes he hears and sees that his Superiors, his Equals, and his Inferiors, not only prattle at his shame, but point at his infamy herein, so that he is (in a manner) a shame to all Gentlemen, and therefore almost a shame to himself. But see here the vanity and impiety of this inconsiderate Gentleman, and if it be not worthy the Readers curiosities, yet it will deserve his compassion and pity, to see what use, or rather what abuse he makes of this his imaginary dishonour: For neither with reason, which is the soul of his heart, nor with Religion which is the life of his soul, doth he once look up to Heaven to thank God for so mercifully protecting, and so miraculously preserving of his life in these two Duels, when he as it were stood on the brink, and in the very jaws ofdeath and when betwixt his life and his death there was nothing but the point of Planezes' Rapier, and of his pleasure. No, no, Borlary is too much a man, to be so much a Christian, and too much the member of Satan, to be so much the child of God: For having formerly given up his heart to the turpitude of lascivious desires and lust; now as a limb and agent of the devil he will wholly abandon it to infernal rage and hellish revenge, sor knowing Planeze to be both the author and object of his dishonour, and the instrument and cause of his disgrace, he therefore retains this diabolical and bloody Aphorism in his heart, that as long as he lives it will live with him, and when he dies will die with him, and therefore to refetch his honour out of his infamy, his heart wholly sacrificing to malice, and his thoughts and resolutions to revenge) he most ingratefully and desperately resolves to murder Planeze, or at least to cause him to be murdered. Lo here the woeful estate, and wretched resolution of this execrable Gentleman Borlari, and what a monstrous ingratitude and prodigious cruelty is this in him to conspire his death, of whom (in a manner) he but rightly now received his life, he little knows, or (which is worse) he will not know, that revenge still proves as pernicious as pleasing to their authors, and that murder endeth in as much true misery as it begins in false content and joy; for it is a better Oblation, and an odious sacrifice to the Lord, who is the God of peace, and the father of all unity and charity.  
But the devil is so familiar a guest, and so frequent a counsellor to Borlari that he wretchedly vows and execrably swears that Planeze shall no longer live but dye. Once he was of opinion either to pistol or poniard him in the street by night, but then again seeing the eminency of that danger in the misfortune of his Lackey Romeo, he rejects it as ruinous, and resolves on poison which he thinks is the shortest, and safest way for him to send him for Heaven, and thinks none so fit for his purpose to give and administer it to him as Planezes own Apothecary Castruchio, being the more confident in this his choice, because he knows him to be a wonderful poor man, and withal extremely vicious and debaushed, as neither fearing nor caring for God, but more an Atheist than a Christian, and more a devil then a catholic, and therefore believes that a little money will act wonders in his heart and resolution; Neither doth he fail in his judgement, or deceive himself in the hopes of his choice, for he no sooner proffereth him three hundred Dukatons, to poison Planeze (one half in hand, and the other when it is performed) but he accepts thereof, engageth himself (by hand and oath) speedily to dispatch and finish it, and so like two Factors or furies of Hell, both of them swear secrecy each to other herein.  
Borlary longing and Castruchio desiring to finish this Tragedy on Planeze that he might likewise touch the last one hundred and fifty Dukatons. The Spring approaching wherein Planeze everyyeare for the preservation of his health) was accustomed to take physic of Castruchio, he no sooner sent for him to that effect, but first purging, then bleeding him, he then artificially persuades him to take a vomit the next morning, whereunto Planeze easily consents, so he administereth it to him and therein infusing poison, he within six days after dies thereof, when Castruchio demanding his other one hundred and fifty dukatons, Borlari speedily pays it him with much content, joy, and delectation: But let the first know and the second remember, that it is the price of ●…nocent blood.  
The order of our History leads us now (as it were by the hand) to our sor●…owfull young widow Felisanna who poor soul (not dreaming any way in ●…he world either of poison or of Borlari) is ready to weep herself to death, ●…hat she must survive and cannot dye with her dear and sweet husband Planeze, and that as one bed, so one grave might contain them, yea her grief is so great and her sorrows so infinite for the loss of this her other part of herself, that neither her father, kinsfolks, or friends can possibly comfort her, for still she fees him before her eyes as if he were not buried in his grave, but in her heart, or that it was wholly impossible for him to dye as long as she lived: Which excess of sorrows, sighs, and tears of hers, so withered the roses and lilies of her beauty and so eclipsed the lustre of her sparkling eyes, that to the eyes and judgements of all those who saw or knew her, she become so pale and lean, as she was no longer Felissanna, but only the poor sick Anatomy of Felisanna.  
We have seen this wretched Gentleman Borlari, and this execrable Apothecary Castruchio commit this horrible murder upon the person of noble and Generous Planeze, and we shall not go far before we shall see the sacred justice, and just punishments of God to surprise and o'ertake them for the same, For God is now resolved to triumph over those bloody miscreants, and although they have so closely acted and perpetrated this their lamentable murder as their are no earthly eyes to detect nor witness to give in evidence against them for the same: yet our good and gracious God, who who is the true searcher of our hearts and reins, will to his glory and their confusion bring this to light, by an accident worthy of our deepest consideration, and of our most serious and religious observation: The manner whereof is thus.  
This wretched Apothecary Castruchio, having received his other hundred dukatons of Borlari (as we have formerly understood) for minishing this bloody business, and being (as we know) of a most vicious and debauched life, he had already in his riots and prodigalities spent and consumed all his estate: And now this three hundred Dukatons which received of Borlari for performing this bloody business, makes him by many degrees far worse than he was before, for (as by God's sacred and secret providence) it was impossible to prosper with him, so his profane vices and sins and his beastly pleasures and prodigalities made it consume and melt away as snow against the Sun, in such sort that it seemed to him that he was a thief to himself and that one of his hands and pockets hourly cozened and betrayed the other; And although for a time he bore this his vicious course of life very close and secret from the eye and knowledge of the world, whereby his credit far exceeded his estate, soafter the committing of this foul murder, both his Estate, credit, and all went to wrack and spoil, for he left nothing either unspent or unpawned, and which is yet worse he fell into many arrearages and debts which at last grew so clamorous (especially when his prodigal and and beastly life of whoring, drunkenness, and dicing, came to be divulged and spread to the world; that by three of his greatest creditors he is arrested and clapped into prison, and his shop seized on by them, which they find as empty of drugs, as his master's heart was of pity and his soul of piety: And as it is the nature and (or rather the misery) of prisons that where one man virtuously improves his life and actions their, a hundred do viciously ruin themselves, so Castruchio being one of this last number, he there wasteth and consumeth all that he hath, or which he can possibly procure, and in a few week reduceth himself to so extreme poverty and beggary, that he is clapped into the common goal among the poorest sort of prisoners who live by the alm●… and charity of well disposed people, his clothes being all tottered and torn●… having no bed to lie on nor hardly bread to suffice nature, or to maintain life being abandoned of all his friends and acquaintance, who will rather see him starve and dye then relieve him: And yet in all these extremities, and at the very lowest ebb of these his wants and miseries, he will yet neither look down into his Conscience, heart, and soul with sorrow, nor up to heaven or to God with repentance for all his foul sins and vices, especially not for this his cruel and lamentable poisoning of Planeze, which are the true reasons and the efficient causes of these his miserable calamities and afflictions, yea his wants and miseries are so great and infinite here in prison, that none whosoever will come thither to see him, muchless to pity him, and least of all to relieve him. Only Dorilla (a filthy old bawd of his) more out of importunacy to her, then of her courtesy or charity to him, although she disdain to go herself into prison to see Castruchio, yet she is contented sometimes to send him her son Bernardo, a boy of some sixteen years of age to go his errands, so his necessity making his invention pregnant and clear sighted, after he had tired all his friends and acquaintance with notes and Letters, which return still empty fisted, his memory at the last falls and pitcheth on Borlari, who (for the bloody reason formerly mentioned) he thinks the only fit man of the world to redress his wants, and to releave his weather beaten fortunes, and to him he often sends Bernardo with many pitiful requests and entreaties for money, but to write him he dares not.  
Borlari considering that he hath far more cause and reason to love Castruchio then to hate him for that (by virtue of the premises) he sees his own life to lie at the mercy of his tongue, although he rather wish him in Heaven then in prison, yet being extremely covetous, and yet holding himself both inconscience and discretion bound to relieve him; he therefore sends him some small sums of money, but no way enough to buy him clothes, or to maintain his former prodigalities, but rather hardly sufficient to maintain life in him, much less to cherish or pamper him. And so often doth Castruchio send the boy Bernardo to Borlari for money, that at last being weary thereof, and resolute to depart with no more money, (God here makes his covetousness partly the means to chalk out a way to his own confusion) and is resolved neither to speak nor to see Bernardo, and to that effect gives order to his servants: When little Bernardo seeing that he wears out his time, and his shoes in vain to hunt after Borlari, whom he knows will not be spoken with by him, he tells Castruchio that he provide himself of another messenger towards Borlari for he will go no more to him, because he sees it is wholly impossible for him to speak with him: and at this discourtesy of Borlari, Castruchio doth now bite his lip with discontent and hung his head for anger, and from henceforth he begins to assume badbloud, and to conceive dangerous thoug●… against him, but as yet the consideration of his own safety or danger makes him patient and silent; But God will not have him to continue so long, for almost presently we shall see his patience burst forth into violence and impetuosity, and his silence break out into extreme choler and indignation against him.  
His old Bawd Dorilla, (as an expert Hag of her sinful profession) as often as she hears or knows that Castruchio had any money from Borlari so often she would come to the prison to him, and speedily carouse and consume it with him, but when by her son Bernardo she sees his purse shut, that fountain exhausted, and that her boy could no more see Borlari but a wood den face, I mean his door shut, than she (resembling herself) again forsakes Castruchio, and will neither see him nor come near his prison, so that at last he not seeing Bernardo nor once hearing from Borlari in three weeks or well near a month together and being ready to perish, starve and dye under the heavy burden and pressure of his wants, he earnestly sends for Dorilla to come to him, and causeth her to be informed, that if she will come to him and deliver a letter to a friend of his, he will speedily send him some store of money, and then she shall have a share and part thereof, so when no other respect or consideration will, than this of money again brings this old filthy Beldame Dorilla to the prison to Castruchio, who having provided her a bottle of wine, and five Gazettaes to drink by the way (thereby the more carefully to effect his business he exceedingly incensed with choler and revenge against Borlari for this ingratitude towards him) writes him this angry Letter and deeply chargeth Dorilla with speed, care, and secrecy to deliver it into Borlari his own hands and to no other, which Letter of his spoke this language.  
CASTRUCHIO to BORLARY.  
THou knowest that for three hundred Dukatons which thou gavest me, I poisoned Signior Planeze in a Vomit, and wilt thou now be so hard and cruel hearted against me to suffer me to dye in prison for want of so small a sum as twenty Dukatons. I am made of the same flesh and blood as thou art, and although my fortunes be so low plunged yet my heart is so high seated and elevated, that I give thee to understand I will rather consent to be hanged then starved: Wherefore because my Tragedy will infallibly prove thine, if thou mean to prevent the one, and to secure thyself from the other, fail not speedily to send me the said twenty Dukatons by this bearer Dorilla, whom I have entrusted with my letter fast sealed (and so mayst thou with thine (but for the secret therein (which thou wottest of) she is wholly ignorant of it: In performing me this courtesy thou shalt not only tie my tongue and pen but my heart and soul to silence, or else not: Amidst thy wealth remember my poverty, which if thou forget, God hath reserved me to make thee know that thou dost not use, but abuse it, and therein thyself.  
CASTRUCHIO.  
Dorilla receiving this Letter from Castruchio, she puts it into her purse and promiseth him her best care and fidelity for the delivery thereof to Signior Borlari although she confesseth that she neither knew him nor his house: But see here the providence and mercy of God which clearly resplends and shines in the deportment and action of this beastly old bawd, for she meeting with some of her gamesters and gossips in the street (though contrary to the custom of Italy) away they go to a tavern, where they all swill their head and brains with wine especially Dorilla: So the day being far spent, her business for Castruchio is ended ere begun; for she forgetting herself cannot remember his letter, but as fast as her reeling legs will permit her, away she speeds towards her own house, which was some half a mile off in the City. But when she was in the streets and had a little taken the air, than she calls Castruchios' letter to mind, and her promise to him to deliver it, but to whom (through her cups) she hath quite forgotten; for she cannot once hi●… on the name Borlari. But at last remembering the letter to be in her purse and she by this time in the midst of the City, she takes it out in her hand, & seeing a fair yet sorrowful young Lady to stand at the street door of her house all in mourning attire and no body near her, after she had done her duty to her, she reacheth her the letter and humbly requesteth her to tell her the Gentleman's name to whom it was directed, when (God out of the profundity of his power and immensity of his pleasure having so ordained and ordered it, that this fair young Lady was our sweet Felisanna (who for the death of her dear husband Planeze had dighted herself all in mourning attire and apparel thereby the better to make it correspond with her heart: who reading the superscription thereof and finding it directed to Signior Borlari (by some motion or inspiration from heaven) her heart could not refrain from sending all the bloudof her body into her face, when demanding of this woman from whom this letter came: Dorilla (as drunk in her fidelity and innocency as she was guilty of her drunkenness) tells her that the letter came from an Apothecary who lay in prison named Castruchio: At the very repetition of which name, our Felisanna again blusheth and then palleth, as if God had some news to reveal her by this Letter, because she remembreth that this Castruchio as we have formerly understood, was the very same Apothecary who gave her husband Planeze physic a little before his death; Whereupon she praying Dorilla to come with her into her house because she purposely and politicly affirmed she could not read written hand herself but would pray her father to do it, she leaves her in the utter hall and herself goes into the next room, where breaking up the seals of this letter, she at the very first sight and knowledge that her husband was poisoned and by whom, and that God had now miraculously revealed it to her through the ignorance and drunkenness of this old woman, she for mere grief and sorrow is ready to fall to the ground in a swoone had not her father and some of his servants who over hearing her passionate outcries) come speedily to her assistance: which yet could not awake Dorilla, who had no sooner sat herself down in a chair in the hall but being top heavy with wine she presently fell a sleep. Miniata rousing up his fainting and sorrowful daughter, brought her again to herself; and seeing her in a bitter agony and passion of sorrow, demands of her the cause thereof: when the brinish tears trickling down her vermilion cheeks, she crossing her arms and fixing her eyes towards heaven, had the will but not the power to speak a word to him but reacheth him the Letter to read, Miniata perusing it, is as much astonished with grief as his daughter is afflicted with sorrow at this poisoning of her Husband and his son in Law Planeze: so enquiring of her who brought her this letter, she after many sighs and pauses tells him, that it was the mercy and providence of the Lord who sent it her by a drunken woman who was forth in the Hall: They both go to her and finding her fast sleeping and snoring, Miniata pulls her by the sleeve and wakes her, and then demands of her, before his daughter and servants where and from whom she had this letter: who as drunk as this Bawd is, she is constant in her first speech and confession to Felisanna that she had it from Castruchio an Apothecary who lay in prison, but she had forgotten to whom she was to deliver it, and then prays them both to deliver and give her back her letter again. But Miniata seeing and knowing that it was the immediate finger of God which thus strangely had revealed this murder of his son in Law Planeze, he calls in two Gentlewomen his next neighbours to comfort his daughter Felisanna, and so leaving Dorilla to the guard of two of his servants, he (with two other Gentlemen his neighbours) takes his Coach, and having Castruchio's Letter in his hand, he drives away to the Statehouse, where he finds out the Podestate and Perfect of the City, and showing them the Letter which revealed the poisoning and poisoners of Planeze his son in Law, they (in honour to justice, and out of their respect to the sorrowful Lady his daughter) take their Coaches, and return with Miniata home to his house: Where they first examine Felisanna, and then Dorilla, who is constant in her first deposition. Whereat these grave and honourable Personages, wondering and admiring that a Gentleman of Barlari his rank and quality, should make himself the guilty and bloody Author of so foul a Murder, they likewise admiring and blessing God's providence in the detection thereof) do presently send away their Isbieres (or Sergeants) to apprehend Borlari, and so they go to their Forum (or seat of justice) and speedily send away for Castruchio to be brought from the prison before them: Who at the very first news of their accusation of him, and the producing of his Letter to Borlari, he curseth the person and name of this old Bawd Dorilla, who is the prime Author of his overthrow and death, and then confesseth himself to be the Actor, and Signior Borlari to be the Author, cause, and Instigator of this his poisoning of Planeze; but never puts his hand on his conscience and soul, that the strange detection of this lamentable murder came directly from Heaven, and from God.  
The Sergeants (by order from the Podestate and Perfect) find Borlari in his own house, ruffling in a new rich suit of apparel, of black Satin, trimmed with gold buttons, which he that day put on, and the next was determined to ride to the City of Bergamo, to seek in marriage a very rich young widow, whose Husband lately died, drowning himself (as it were) in pleasure and security, without so much as once thinking of his poisoning of Planeze, or how he was revealed to be the Author thereof by Castruchio his Letter, sent unto him by Dorilla; He is amazed and astonished at this his apprehension, now beating his breast, and then repenting (when it was too late) that ever he imbrued his hands in the innocent blood of Planeze. So both himself and Castruchio are brought to the State house, where the Podestate and Perfect first examine them a part, and then confront them each with other. Where finding that neither of them deny, but both of them to confess themselves guilty of this foul murder, they pronounce sentence of death against them, and condemn Borlary to have his head cut off, and then his body to be burnt; and Castruchio to be hanged, and his body to be thrown into the River of Addice, whereon he was first taken, the which the next morning was accordingly executed. All Verona is as it were but one tongue to talk and prattle of this foul and lamentable murder, and especially of God's miraculous detection thereof by this drunken Bawd Dorilla, who having heretofore often brought Castruchio to whores willingly, now at last she brings him to the gallows against her will. The morning they are brought to their execution, where there flock and resort a world of spectators from all parts of the City. And although the charity of their Judges send them Priests and Friars to direct their souls for heaven, yet this miserable wretch Castruchio, seeming no way repentant or sorrowful for this his foul fact, uttered a short prayer to himself, and so caused the top-man to turn him over, which he did, and within two hours after his body was thrown into the River. But for Borlary he came to the scaffold better resolved and prepared; for with grief in his looks, and tears in his eyes, he there delivered this short and religious speech:  
That he grieved in heart, and was sorrowful in soul, for this lamentable murder of his committed on the person of Planeze, as also for seducing of Castruchio to effect it by poison, for whose death he affirmed he was likewise exceedingly afflicted and sorrowful: That it was the temptations of the flesh and the devil, who first drew him lustfully to affect the fair, chaste, and virtuous Lady Felisanna, and consequently to murder her husband, in full hope afterwards to obtain her for his Wife, or for his Courtesan: That he was infinitely sorrowful for all these his enormous crimes, for the which he religiously asked forgiveness, first of God, and then of the Lady Felisanna, and likewise prayed all those who were there present, to pray unto God for his soul; that he was more careful of his reputation towards men, than of his salvation towards God, and that his neglect of prayer, and of the participation of the blessed Sacrament of the Eucharist, was the original cause of this his misery. So again commending himself to the prayers, and recommending his sinful, yet sorrowful soul into the hands of his Redeemer, the sword of the Executioner at one blow made a perpetual divorce between his soul and his body, which pious and Christian speech of his was as great a consolation to the virtuous, as his death, as that of Castruchio was a terror to the vicious spectators and Auditors: So to confirm the sentence, the dead body of Borlary is presently burnt.  
And thus was the bloody lives and deserved deaths of these three irreligious and unfortunate persons; Of Romeo the Lackey: Of Borlary the Gentleman; and of Castruchio the Apothecary. And in this manner did the justice of the Lord of Hosts (in due time) justly triumph o'er their execrable crimes, in their sharp punishments, and shameful ends. Pray we that we may read this their History with fear, and as religious and godly Christians remember these their lamentable Murders with horror and detestation.   

GOD'S REVENGE, AGAINST THE CRYING AND Execrable sin of Murder.  
Beaumarays and his brother Montagne kill Cahmpigny and Marin (his Second) in a Duel; Blancheville (the widow of Champigny) in revenge thereof, hireth Le Valley (servant to Beaumarays) to murder his said Master with a Pistol, which he doth; for the which Le Valley is broken on the wheel, and Blancheville hanged for the same.  
LEt all Religious Christians examine their hearts and souls, with what face we can tread on Earth, or look up to Heaven, when we stab at the Majesty of God, in killing and murdering man, his image, a bloody crime, so repugnant to nature, as reason abhors it, a scarlet and crying sin so opposite to grace, as God and his Angels detest it. And yet if ever Europe were stained or submerged with it, now it is, for as a swift current, or rather as a furious torrent it now flows, and overflows in most Kingdoms, Countries, and Cities thereof, in so much as (in despite of divine and humane Laws) it is now (almost) generally grown to a wretched custom, and that almost to a second nature. A fatal example whereof this ensuing History will report and relate us. Wherein God's justice hath so sharply and severely punished the perpetrators thereof, that if we either acknowledge God for our Father, or ourselves for his children and servants, it will teach us to be less revengeful, and more charitable by their unfortunate ends, and deplorable judgement.  
I Will now relate a sad and bloody History which betided in the fair City of Chartres, (the Capital of the fertile Country of Beausse) so famous for her sumptuous Cathedral Church, dedicated to the blessed Virgin Mary, as also for that Henry the fourth, (that great King, and unparallelled Captain of France) during the combustions of the league, was (despite of the league) crowned therein. In which fair and pleasant City, as there still dwell some Noblemen, and many Gentlemen, in respect of the sweet air, and goodly Champagne Country thereabouts, (second for that to no other in France.) So of late years there resided two rich and brave young Gentlemen, well descended, being both of them heirs to their two deceased fathers. The one of them named Monsieur De Champigny, and the other Monsieur De Beaumarays, and their Domains and Lands lay within seven leagues of this City, in the way towards Vendosme. Now the better to see them in their true and natural Characters: They were both of them tall and slender, and of fair and sanguine complexions, and very near of an age: For Champigny was twenty six years old, and Beaumarays twenty four, and yet the last had a beard, and the first none, and of the two Champigny was by far the richer, but Beaumarays the Nobler descended. Now to lay this History upon its proper seat, and natural foundation, we must understand that there was a very rich Counsellor of the presidial Court of Chartres, named Monsieur De Rosaire, whose wife being dead, left him no other child, but one fair young daughter, of the age of some eighteen years, named Madamoyselle De Blancheville, very tall and slender of stature, and of a won and pale complexion, and a Coale-blacke hair and eyes brows, and of deportment and gesture infinitely proud, coy, and imperious, to whom at one time both these our two Gentlemen, Champigny and Beaumarys were importunate Suitors, and passionate Rivals to marry her, in so much as the one of them could difficultly be absent from the father's house, and daughter's company, but the other was present, which engendered some malice, but more emulation between them. But in the end, (after a whole years research and more) as the Willow was destined and reserved for Beaumarays, so was the Laurel for Champigny; for to his joy, Blanchevilles desire, and her father's content, he marries her. Whereat Beaumarays knowing his birth to be more Noble, and his breeding far more generous than that of Champigny, (though not in outward show, yet in inward sense) was extremely discontented and sorrowful, but to remedy it he could not.  
In such and the like refusing accidents, discretion is ever far better than passion, and contempt than care. But Beaumarays cannot or at least will not be of this temper. He forsakes reason to fly to choler, and so loseth his real and solid judgement, in the Labyrinth of her imaginary beauty. For being at Supper in company of some five or six Gentlemen, where mention was made of Blancheville, he transported with malice and revenge towards her, forgot himself so far, as (between jest and earnest) to let fall these indiscreet and rash words, That she was more disdainful than chaste: a speech which he shall have time enough both to remember and repent. The honour of Ladies and Gentlewomen ought still to be dear and precious to all Gentlemen of Honour, because their loss thereof can seldom be repaired, but never so well or so fully recovered, but that there still remains some stain or blemish thereof. This undeserved scandal of Beaumarays to his quondam Mistress Blancheville, falls not to the ground, for the iniquity of our times, and the depravation of our manners are such, as there are few companies without a Fool or a Traitor to their friends, and some are accompanied with with both. Monsieur Marin a Gentleman of Chartres (more vain than honest) will make himself one of this last number, for he being ambitiously desirous to screw himself into the favour and familiarity of Blancheville, (whom from her infancy he affected and loved) reports and tells her this speech of Beaumarays, whereat she is exceedingly incensed and exasperated: But for that time (as a true woman) she dissembles her malice and revenge towards him, and so rakes up the memory thereof in the embers of silence; but yet with this condition and reservation, that hereafter she will take time to make it flame forth (towards him) with more violence and impetuosity.  
In the mean time there falls out an unexpected and untimely difference between her husband and Beaumarays, whereat she is so far from grieving, as she rejoiceth: Beaumarays quarrelleth with him for his priority and precedency of seats in the Church, (as being both of one Parish) as also for that he takes the holy bread first, and goes before him in all Processions, as pretending it due to him by his right of extraction and propriety. Champigny is of too high a grain to yield that to him which he never yielded, and is therefore resolute to justify his equality of birth, and consequently not to wrong his ancestors in himself. When seeing Beaumarays passionately bend to maintain and preserve that which he had undertaken, he flies to Justice, and so presently puts him in suit of Law for the same, in the presidial Court of that City. Blancheville (whose pride in herself exceeded her birth, and whose malice and revenge towards Beaumarays at the least surmounted her discretion and reason) brings no water to quench, but oil to inflame this quarrel betwixt him and her husband, when seeing them already entered into a deep process of Law; she disdaining to see herself thus abused, and her husband thus wronged by him, can reap no truce of her thoughts, nor they any peace of her choler, before she have written him these lines:  
BLANCHEVILLE to BEAUMARAYS.  
WAs it not enough for thee to have heretofore wronged mine honour in thy false and scandalous speeches to Monsieur Marin and others, but thou must now attempt to disgrace my Husband in the Church, and because these crimes of thine are so ●…just and odious, as they deserve acknowledgement and satisfaction from a far better Gentleman than thyself, therefore I speedily expect the performance thereof from thee, either by thy Letter or presence, which if thou deny us, we will make thee know what it is to abuse thyself and us in points of these high natures, whereof the first cannot, the second will not admit of any other excuse or expiation. But to write thee now the truth of my mind; as thou hast heretofore vented me the malice of thy heart, I have not as yet acquainted my Husband herewith, or with this my Letter. Consider therefore seriously with thyself what thou hast to do herein, for the vindication of my honour, and thine own discretion, and as soon as I receive thy answer and resolution, I will not sail speedily to return thee mine.  
BLANCHEVILLE.  
Having written this her Letter, she is irresolute with herself by whom to send it him, but at last she sends it by her Chambermaid Martha, to whom only she entrusteth this great secret, and chargeth her to deliver it to Beanmarays his own hands, and to crave his answer thereof. Martha being a wi●…ty fa●…re maid, of some two and twenty years of age, goes to Beaumarays' house, and speaks with a young man of his, named Le Valley, who tells her, that his Master is now busy with two Gentlemen in his study, and that she shall immediately speak with him as soon as they depart. In the interim his eyes cannot refrain from amorously gazing and ranging upon the excellency of her blushing beauty, and upon her sweet vermilion cheeks, great rolling eyes, and flaxen hair, wherewith his heart at the very first encounter is surprised and ravished. Here Le Valley kisseth and rekisseth Martha, and entertains her with much prattle, and many pleasant love speeches, yea, then and there loves her so dearly, as he vows she shall remain his Mistress, and he her servant till death. So some half an hour after the two Gentlemen take leave of his Master, and then Le Valley brings Martha to him, who orderly delivers him her Mistress' Letter and message, so he wondering at the last, receives the first, leaves her in the Hall with his man Le Valley, and so steps to his study, and with much admiration, and more laughture, peruseth this Letter. Here he accuseth his own indiscretion in speaking against Blanchevilles chastity, and exceedingly condemneth Marins treachery in revealing it to her. Once he was of opinion to have returned her his answer by Letter, but at last s●…orning her and that resolution, he then chose resolves to answer her with silence, and so steps forth to Martha, and with a disdainful frowning look, bids her tell her Mistress from him, that her malicious, proud, and foolish Le●…ter shall have no other answer from him but contempt & silence. Martha yet holds it her duty to pray him for his answer in writing to her Mistress, but Beaumarays his first resolution is his last, so she departeth from him infinitely discontented. But the Master is not so unkind to Martha, as his man Le Valley is courteous; For he being deeply enamoured of her beauty, brings her the one half of her way home, and goes into a Mercer's shop, buys her a fair pair of gloves, and as the pledge of his future affection, bestows them on her, the which (without farther excuse or ceremony) she thankfully accepts, and promiseth him to wear them for his sake. Martha returning home to her Lady and Mistress, she delivers her Beaumarays his answer verbatimas he told it her, but no Letter. Blancheville seeing herself thus wronged and slighted of him, in that he disdaineth to give her any satisfaction, and which is worse, that he peremptorily refuseth, and scorns to answer her Letter: She is so strangely transported with malice and choler towards him for the same, as she vows to cry quittance, and to be revenged of him; but as yet she knows not in what manner to perform and perpetrate it: Only she again resolves not as yet to acquaint her Husband therewith, but to attend and watch for some future desired opportunity.  
Two years are almost passed away, wherein Beaumarays and Champigny (to their great cost and charge) do vehemently contest in Law about their Church quarrel fo●… precedency, but they do it far more out of malice towards themselves, than any way out of piety towards God. And as most of the great judicial Courts of France are too too frequently oppressed with Law suits of this nature, so I may affirm with as much truth as pity, that this is a fatal rock whereon many hot contentious French spirits do most inconsiderately suffer shipwreck. At the end of which time (as the loss of one party proves still the gain of the other) the presidial Court of Char●…res pronounceth sentence in favour of Beaumarays, adjudging him the precedency in the Church, and condemning Champigny in five hundred Crowns charge and damage to Beaumarays This thundering sentence so prejudicial and contrary to Champigny his proud wives hopes and expectation, dri●…es him into extreme choler, and her out of all patience towards Beaumarays. He bites his lip with grief, and his wife in inflamed with rage at the report and knowledge hereof, and although he were once minded to appeal from this sentence of the presidial Court of Chartres, to the Court of Parliament at Paris, yet being powerfully diverted by his best friends, he as soon abandoneth as embraceth that resolution. He cannot see Beaumarays but with envy, nor his wife hear speak of him but with infinite malice and detestation. She is all bend on revenge towards him, and with her speeches and actions both day and night precipitates her husband onwards to it. And now her old grudge and malice against him begins a fresh to revive and flourish, and now she thinks it a very fit time and opportunity to acquaint her husband with Beaumarys his base and scandalous speeches against her honour, the which with much passion, and many tears she effects, and also shows him the Copy of her Letter which she sent him by her maid Martha, whereunto she informs him, he disdainfully returned her no answer but contempt and silence. Champigny is so deeply incensed hereat against Beaumarays, as his wife needs not many words or circumstances to induce and persuade him to revenge it on him: when presently he being as incapable of delay, as of better advice and counsel, he finds out Marin, who (more in love to Blancheville, than in hatred to Beaumarays) confirms as much to him as he would have him affirm. Now as Blancheville thinks that her Husband Champigny will question Beaumarays by the Law of justice, for this his crime towards her: He (as a valiant and generous Gentleman) flies a higher pitch, and assumes a contrary resolution, to do it by that of his sword. When having prayed, & procured Marin to be his Second, and they both agreeing to fight on horse back, he (consulting with nature, not with grace) the very next morning by Serou his foot man, sends Beaumarays this Challenge.  
CHAMPINY to BEAUMARAYS.  
AS thy knowledge is judge, so Monsieur Marin is witness, what base and ignoble speeches thou hast falsely vomited forth against the honour and chastity of my wife. And because crimes of this nature are still odious to men, and execrable to God, and no way to be tolerated by a friend, much less to be digested and suffered by a Husband: Therefore thank thyself, if (for reparation hereof) thy folly now call on thy valour, to invite thee and thy Second, to meet me and mine, with your swords on horse back, on Tuesday next, between six and seven in the morning, without the North hedge of the very first Vineyard beyond the River, where you shall find we will attend you, and comparing the equity of my cause, to the injustice and infidelity of thine, it makes me fully confident that the issue of this Duel will prove glorious for me, and shameful and ruinous for thyself.  
CHAMPIGNY.  
Serou (according to his charge and duty) finds out Beaumarays in his own house, and very secretly gives him his Master's Letter; who much musing thereat, steps to the window, and there privately reads it to himself: When blushing and smiling to see the bold folly of Champigny, the foolish malice of his wife Blancheville, and the base treachery of Marin towards him, he is so courageous and generous, as he disdains to be outbraved by any man whatsoever in the point of honour, (which he esteems far dearer and precious than his life) especially by Champigny, whom he holds to be as much his inferior in valour as blood. He therefore trips to his study, and writes Champigny this Letter the which he returns by his footman in answer of his.  
BEAUMARAYS to CHAMPIGNY.  
AS I will not make myself judge, so I desire not to be witness either of thy wife's chastity or unchastity. It is sufficient for me to leave her to herself, and herself to thee. Marin shall have time enough to repent his treachery towards me, and thou to exchange thy jealousy into judgement. But because I see thy choler now exceeds all the bounds of reason, for that thou art so inconsiderately and rashly audacious, to seek and preserve thy wife's honour with the los●…e and ruin of mine, know therefore that to cherish and maintain it equally with my life, I cheerfully accept thy challenge, and do hereby give thee to understand that I with my second, will at the time and place appointed meet thee and thine on horseback, where we doubt not but to acquit ourselves, as ourselves, and to make thee and thine acknowledge that our swords are composed of agood temper, and our hearts of a better, and consequently that you may perchance meet with your superiors aswell in valour as in blood and extraction.  
BEAUMARAYS.  
He hath no sooner ended this his letter but he presently begins to think of his second, when calling to mind his own younger brother Le Montagne (a young Gentleman of some twenty years of age) is brave and valiant, and that he hath already fought two Duels, and in both of them came off with his honour, he sends for him to his closet and there shows him Champigny his challenge and his answer thereu●…to, and demands of him if he have any stomach to second him at this feast, his brother Montagne highly applauds his generous resolution for accepting this challenge, thanks him for the honour and favour he now doth him in making him his second, vows that if he had many lives as he hath but one, he is ready to sacrifice them all at his feet and service, and courageously tells him he should have taken it for a sensible affront, disgrace and injury, if he had made choice of any other than himself: So they both prepare their horses, swords and courages against the approaching time, and no less doth Champigny and Marin.  
Beaumarays and his brother Montagne conceal this business from all the world; and Champigny bears it so close and secret, as he makes not his ambitious and malicious wife acquainted therewith, but in favour of his love to her beauty and reputation to himself, smothers it up in silence. Tuesday morning being come, our four impatient champions are in the fields at their Rendez-vous: first arrive Champigny and Marin, and presently after them Beaumarays and his brother Montagne, all of them being bravely mounted upon neighing and trampling coursers: At their entrance Marin comes with a soft trot towards Beaumarays thinking to apologise himself to him: But Beaumarays is so brave and generous as he is deaf to his speeches, and will not hear him, but tells him that it is swords not tongues which must now decide their difference, and prove him innocent or guilty: So Marin missing of his aim, he returns again upon the same trot to Champigny, and now according to the order and nature of Duels it is ordered between those four desperate Gentlemen, that their principals shall search the seconds, and the seconds the principals, to see whether their doublets were any more than sword proof, but they migh●… well have saved themselves that labour, for they are all of them too noble and valiant any way to taint their reputations and honours with the least shadow or tincture of cowardice, so they cast of their doublets, divide themselves, and then draw, and the first which must and will try their fortunes, are Champigny and Beaumarays, who being some fourscore paces off, they give the Spurs and reins to their horses, and part as swift as the wind, or rather so furiously and suddenly as two claps of thunder or flashes of lightning: At their first encounter Beaumarays runs Champigny through his shirt band into the right side of his neck, and Champigny him into his left shoulder, whereat reciprocally inflamed as Lions, they make short turns with their horses and so fall to it amain with their swords, when again Beaumarays gives Champigny two other wounds, and he returns him one in counterexchange, whereof neither of them being mortal they again divide themselves to breath, which having done and both of them as yet unsatisfied, they part the second time, at which close Champigny misseth Beaumarays and hurts his horse in the neck, but BBeaumarays gives Champigny a lick with his sword o'er his forehead which bled exceedingly, but yet they are too courageous to desist, as scorning rather then caring for the number of their wounds. They to it again the third time, which proves as fortunate for Beaumarays as fatal for Champigny, for as his horse stumbleth on his fore-feets Beaumarays in his bending runs him thorough the body a little above his left pap, where his sword meeting and cutting the strings of his heart, he presently in a fainting and faltering language spoke these his last words Beaumarays I forgive thee my death, and God be merciful unto my Soul, And with the same fell stark dead from his horse to the ground: When Beaumarays as a noble Gentleman leapt presently from his horse to his assistance and so did his own second Marin, but their charity and care to him was in vain, for already life had forsaken his body, and consequently his soul was fled to his place: So he lies there gored in his blood, and whiles Marin was covering of his breathless body with his cloak; Beaumarays sheaths up his sword, and with hands and eyes elevated to heaven rendereth thanks to God for this his victory.  
No soonerhath Montagne congratulated with his brother Beaumarays for this his good fortune, but with a heart and courage worthy of himself, he calls out to his Rival Marin and bids him prepare to fight: When his brother Beaumarays notwithstanding his loss of much blood, doth in finitely desire to spare his Br●…ther Montagne from fight with Marin, and so to perform it himself. But Montagne is too courageous and generous either to understand this motion, or to relish this language from his brother, and so in hot words and high terms, he peremptorily tells him: That he came to fight with Marin, and fight he would: whereupon his brother Beaumarays gives him his prayers, commits him to his good fortune and so with his cloak muffled about him; sits down a Spectator to their combat: When Montagne remounting his steed, he calls out again to Marin and bids him prepare to fight.  
Marin no way appalled or daunted with the unfortunate disaster of his principal but rather the more exasperated and encouraged thereat, he as a valiant Gentleman vows to sell and requite his death dear on the life of his adversary Montagne: to which end they divide themselves and draw, and so part each towards other I know not whether with more swiftness or courage: At their first encounter Narin runs Montagne into the small of the belly of a sleight wound, and in exchange he cuts Marin a great slash on his left cheek which hangs down and bleeds exceedingly: When presently closing again; Montagne runs Marin into the right thigh & he him in requital into the right arm, and then they divide themselves to take breath, and all these their wounds being as yet incapable to appease or satisfy their courages, they presently determine again to fall to it with bravery and resolution: When behold the Marquis of Bellary (the Titular King of Ivetot) with two Lords his Sons, and their train passeth that way from Chartres to go to Paris and seeing two Gentlemen on Horseback in their shirts with their swords drawn, he judgeth it a Duel, when he and his two sons gallop into the little meadow joining to the Vineyard to prevent and part them, but they came too late; for Montagne and Marin seeing them swiftly galloping towards them, they (to prevent them) with more haste then good speed, set spurs to their horses the sooner, and at this there second meeting Montagne warding Marins sword and putting it by, dot●… at the very same Instant run him thorough the body a little below his navel, of which mortal wound, he fell presently from his horse dead to the ground, uttering only these words: O Montaigne, thou hast slain me: Thou hast slain me, God receive my Soul: and then and their without speaking a word more immediately died.  
No sooner hath Montagne wiped & sheathed up his sword, but his joyful brother Beaumarays gallops up to him and cheerfully congratulates with him for the same: When instantly the Marquis of Bellay and the two Lords his Sons, arrive to them though a litt●…e too late: They are astonished to see two proper Gentlemen lie their slain in the field and reeking in their hot blood: when turning to Be●…umarays and his brother Montagne whom they knew, they congratulate with them for their victories, and the Marquis as briefly as his time and their wounds will permit, inquire of them the cause of there quarrel and the manner and particulars of their combat, whereof being fully informed and satisfied by them, he sends the dead bodies of Champigny and Marin to Chartres in his Coach: And understanding by Beaumarays and his brother Montagne that for the preservation of their safeties and lives they were resolved to leave Charters and Beausse, and so thwarting o'er Normandy by Euereux and Lesieux to embark themselves for Caen and thence to pass the Seas into England till their friends in their absence had procured their grace and pardons from the King, as also that they were destitute both of Surgeons to dress their wounds and of a guide to conduct them thither; He very nobly gave them his own Chirurgeon and guide, and promising them likewise to labour with the King to the utmost of his power for their peace, he passeth on his journey and commits them to the best fortune: A singular, yea an honourable courtesy of this brave old Marquis of Bellay whose deserts and fame I should much wrong, if I gave not the relation and memory of his name a place in this History.  
Whiles thus the Marquis of Bellay is travelling towards Paris, and Beaumarays and his brother Montagne posting for Caen, come we briefly to Chartres which now resounds and ratles with the report and issue of this combat, where Gentlemen Citizens and all (according to their passions and affections speak differently thereof; some condemn the vanity of Beaumarais, others the folly and treachery of Marin, but all do highly extol the courage and generosity of Champigny and Montagne. But leave we them to their censures, and come we again to speak of Blancheville who takes the news of this untimely death of her husband so tenderly and sorrowfully that she is ready to drown herself in her tears, It is not only a grief to her heart to see, but a terror to her conscience to know, that her husband Champigny and her friend Marin, have both of them lost their lives for her sake, and when again she falls on the consideration and remembrance, that the first died by the hand and sword of Beaumarays, her mortal enemy, and the second by that of his Brother Montagne, than she is again ready to burst her heart and breast with sighing thereat. She is so uncapable of Counsel, as she will heat of no consolation, nor speak of any thing but of her malice and revenge toward Beaumarays, and to write the truth, this implacable wrath and revenge of hers to him, takes up all her thoughts and speeches, her contemplations and actions, and both her time and herself. To which end she converts most of her Corn and Wine into money, goes to Paris, casts herself at the King's feet, and to the feet of that great and illustrious Court of Parliament for justice, against Beaumarays the murderer of her husband, the which again and again she aloud resounds and echoes forth to their ears, yea her rage is so great and her malice so outrageous towards him, that notwithstanding his body is absent, yet she spends five hundred Crowns in law to have him according to the law and custom of France to be hanged up in effigy: But although her suit be just, yet (by reason of his great friends in Court) she sees herself so unfortunate that she cannot obtain it. Whereupon after twelve months vain stay in Paris and a profuse expense of money, she (with much grief and sorrow) secretly vows to herself, that if ever he return again to Chartres, or which is more, into France, that she herself will be both his judge and Executioner, by revenging her Husband's death in his, and from this hellish resolution of hers she deeply swears, that neither Earth nor Heaven shall divert her.  
Now to follow the natural stream and tide of this History: We must again bring Beaumarays and his brother Montagne on the stage thereof: For the Reader must understand, that their wounds being dressed and secured having bestowed both of their horses on the Chirurgeon and guide, the two servants of the aforesaid Marquis of Bellay, and likewise written him a thankful Letter for his honourable courtesy extended to them, and therewith likewise prayed him to solicit the King for their Grace and pardon in their absence, they privately (without any followers) embark themselves upon an English vessel at Caen and so with a prosperous gale arrive at Rye, and from thence take Horse for London, where they settle up their abode and residence, from whence Beaumarais sends to Chartres for two of his footmen, and his Brother Montagne for one of his, which come over to London to them some six weeks after, and brings their master's word, how earnestly and violently their adversaries follow the rigour and severity of the Law against them in Paris, but especially against Beaumarays, they receive these advertisements from their servants and friends, rather with grief than contempt, and therefore to prevent their malice, and their own disgrace and danger, they often write from London to Paris to the marquis of Bellay, and likewise to the Bishop of Chartres (their dear friend and kinsman) to hasten their pardons from the King: So that Noble Lord, and this reverend Prelate, pitying their danger and absence, as much as they wish their safety and return, take time at advantage, and the King in a well disposed humour, and so do most effectually and powerfully acquaint his Majesty; how these two absent Gentlemen and brothers Beaumarays and Montagne were without just cause or reason provoked to this unfortunate combat by their adversaries; that they were the Challenged, not the Challengers; that heretofore they had never committed any act unworthy either of their honour, or of themselves: That for their virtues and generosity they were beloved of all their Country and acquaintance: That they had formerly received many wounds in his Majesty's wars; and that their valour and courage was such, that in these times, which threatened more troubles than promised peace, they would undoubtedly prove happy and necessary members for his service, with many other prevailing motives and reasons conducing that way; which at last so weigh down the heart and mind of the King, that he freely conceded and gave them their pardons under his great Seal, the which to make the more authentical, they caused them to be enregistered and confirmed by the Court of Parliament of Paris, and thereupon both the marquis and Bishop jointly and speedily writ to them thereof from Paris. And after some five months of their stay in London, they send them over these their Pardons, which are delivered to them by the Earl of Tillieres, then ordinary Ambassador there for this present French King, Lewis xiij. the which they receive with infinite honour, content, and joy.  
This good news of theirs makes them now like the air of France better than that of England. So they speedily pack up their baggage, leave London, and with all celerity post away Dover, Callais, and Paris. Where being arrived, the first thing they do, they find out the Marquis of Bellay, and the Bishop of Chartres, to whom they owe their peace, as they do their lives to the King: To whom they express a thousand demonstrations of thankfulness for this their honour and favour showed them. They likewise burn with desire to testify so much to the King, when the Marquis, seconded by the Bishop, present them to his Majesty, who falling to his feet, he gives them his Royal hand to kiss. They can better express their thankfulness in deeds than words to him, and in language of their swords, than in that of their tongues: Only they tell his Majesty, that having received their lives of his mere clemency and Royal favour, they most humbly therefore implore him to gr●…t them the favour and honour, that they may spend and end them in his service. He allows of their zeal and humility, and to redouble his favour, he gives them again his hand to kiss, adding farther to them, that it is rather likely than impossible, that he shall shortly have occasion to use their swords and service, and so dismisseth them.  
These our two brothers remain a month in Paris, wherein almost daily they tender their thankful respects and service to the Marquis and Bishop, at the end whereof leaving their duties, and receiving their commands, they take horse and return home for Chartres, (from which by reason of their disaster they have been so long absent) where all their kinsfolks and friends welcome them home with infinite delight and joy, yea, almost all Charters and the Gentlemen thereabouts, exceedingly rejoice of their fortunate and safe returns. Only the Parents of Marin do envy Montagne deeply, and Blancheville, the sorrowful and incensed widow of Champigny, hate Beaumarays deadly. As for Montagne he makes such good means and friends, that in less than two months he obtains a perfect reconciliation of the first; but although Beaumarays have made many fair overtures and proffers of atonement by his friends to the second, yet in six months he sees it is wholly impossible for him to procure it of her, and which is worse, she is still so outrageous and revengeful towards him, that he thinks he never shall; for she disdains to see him, and scorns to hear of him; and still her malice and indignation against him, makes her constant in her former hellish and bloody resolution, that by one means or other she will ere long murder him, as he hath her Husband: A fearful and most execrable resolution, every way unworthy the heart of a Gentlewoman, and far more the soul of a Christian.  
In the former part of this History we have understood the affection of Le Valley (Beaumarays his man) to Martha, Blanchevilles Chambermaid. In the middle thereof we have remarked and seen the implacable intended malice and revenge of Blancheville towards Beaumarays: And we shall nor go far before the end hereof will inform us what mournful fruits, and deplorable effects, these different accidents and persons will procure us.  
As there is no love to that of a man, so I am of opinion, that there is no malice comparable to that of a woman, and if the truth deceive not my judgement herein, I believe we shall shortly see the Antitheses of this position made good and verified in the persons of Le Valley, and Blancheville. For whiles Le Valley is lovingly thinking and inventing all possible means how he may marry Martha; so is Blancheville maliciously pondering and ruminating with herself how or by what means or agents she may murder Beaumarays. Thus we see that the heart of the first is as full of kindness and courtesy, as the mind and resolutions of the second is of cruelty and blood. Now the Reader for his better information, will I hope remember, that in all this time of two years and upwards, since Le Valley first saw and spoke with his sweet heart Martha, in his Master's house, that there hath passed many love tokens between them, but as yet he could never draw her consent to marry him; for still she tells him that she loves her Mistress so dearly, that she will not depart from her service, nor wed any man, without her free consent, and therefore that they have far more reason to doubt than to hope of this match between them, considering the lamentable accident & disaster which hath passed between their Masters. Le Valley seeing he must first win the Mistress, before he can wed the maid, with his sweet hearts advise, resolves to seek Blanchevilles consent therereto, the which he doth in fair and orderly terms. Blancheville who had formerly heard an inkling how dearly Le Valley affected her maid Martha in the way of marriage, now by this his motion thereof to herself, she is fully confirmed thereof. When observing more passion than judgement, as well in his affection to her maid, as in his speeches to herself, she presently (being industrious in her malice, and vigilant in her revenge towards Beaumarays) forgets God and all goodness, abandoneth all Christianity and humanity, and so the devil brings her a plot, or else her own heart and head fetched it from hell: She thinks that this poor servant Le Valley, is a fit agent and instrument for her, either to poison or pistol his Master Beaumarays to death, and that his love to her maid Martha, and his consideration of her fresh youth and beauty, is a sufficient bait, and powerful lure to make him undertake and perform it, and hereon she settles up her bloody resolution. To which end Blancheville having already sufficiently woven this treachery in her heart, and closely and finely spun it in her brains, she politicly gives Le Valley more hope than despair, that he shall shortly marry her maid Martha; only she tells him she must first confer with her, to see how she stands affected to him, and that if he repair to her again at the end of the week, she will then assuredly give him such an answer, as she doubts not but will content and please him, or else the fault shall be his: But to conclude her speech, she chargeth him not to speak or utter a word hereof to his Master Beaumarays, all which Le Valley faithfully promiseth her to perform. He goes from the Mistress to the maid, and reports what she hath told and spoken, so these young folks flatter themselves, that they very shortly shall be man and wife. Blancheville (whose heart and mind runs wholly upon a bloody revenge towards Beaumarays) no sooner understands that Le Valley is gone forth her doors, but she sends for her maid Martha into her chamber, where (no way acquainting her with her bloody intent and policy) she chargeth her to swear that she will never marry Le Valley without her free consent, and that in the end she shall not repent the following of her advice and counsel herein, which Martha solemnly doth, whereof this malicious and vindictive Dame is exceedingly glad and satisfied. The end of the week being come, away comes Le Valley to his sweet heart Martha, to know if she be shortly resolved to marry him, who having been perfectly taught her lesson, tells him plainly, that she will be his wife, conditionally that he can gain her Mistress Blanchevelles consent thereunto, but never without it. Whereof he being exceedingly joyful, he giving her many kisses, entreats her to bring him to her Mistress, and that he hopes to receive pleasing news from her, to both their contents. Blancheville (with much longing impatiency (attends his coming, and receives and welcomes him into her Closet with a cheerful countenance, where bolting the door, this hellish Erinys (not heavenly Urania) passionately tells him, that it shall be impossible for him ever to enjoy or marry her maid Martha, except he first swear to her to perform a secret business for her, which infinitely concerns her content and service. Le Valley desires to know of her what it is, but she first swears him to secrecy herein, both from Martha, and from all the world, the which he freely swears: When Blancheville (with hypocritical, yea, with diobolical tears in her eyes) being instructed and prompted by the devil, representeth unto him, how foully his Master Beaumarays had first wronged her chastity and honour, then abused her husband in the Church, and afterwards killed him in the field, and therefore that he should not only marry her maid Martha, but that she would likewise give him three hundred Crowns of marriage money with her, if for her sake, and at her request) he would kill his said Master, either by poison, Poniard, or Pistol, of which sum she told him he should have the one half in hand, and the other when he had performed it, the which if he refused to do, she swore by her part of Heaven, that he should never marry her, nor come near her.  
Le Valley is amazed and astonished at this bloody proposition and request of hers, the which she might well perceive by the distraction of his looks, and the perturbation of his countenance. He tells her, that although he loves Martha far dearer than his life, yet he cannot find in his heart to kill the poorest Christian in the world, much less so good and so dear a Master as Beaumarays was to him. Blancheville (being now as subtle in her malice, as she was malicious in her revenge towards Beaumarays) shows Le Valley the three hundred Crowns in fair gold) which was far more than ever before he had seen, Tells him what a dear friend she will ever remain to him and his wife, and (in a word) leaves no lure unpractised, nor charm unattempted, to draw him to the enterprise of this deplorable, and to the execution of this hellish fact. But finding him as frozen as she was fiery therein, she bids him to take a weeks t●…e to consider thereof, then to bring her his last resolution, and withal to remember his oath of secrecy herein from all the world, both which points he constantly promiseth her to perform. As he descends the stairs from her, his sweet heart Martha comes presently to him to know the mind and resolution of her Mistress, whom he thinks good then to satisfy with this pleasing answer, that he hopes a small time will work and compass both their desires. So after a few kisses and embraces, they for that time take leave each of other. He is no sooner returned home, but his heart is as pensive and sorrowful, as his mind and brain is perplexed and troubled for the cause thereof. He consults with himself, and his resolutions are as different as his desires. He cannot as yet find in his heart to kill his Master, and yet he can resolve rather to die than to lose Martha his Mistress. True it is, that the sight of the Lady Blanchevilles gold doth act wonders in his hearts, but far more the sight & remembrance of Martha's sweet youth & delicious beauty: So the first tempts him exceedingly, the second extremely, and the devil in both of them infinitely; yet notwithstanding his faith and soul are so strong with God, that hitherto he cannot consent or be drawn to imbrue his hands in the innocent blood of his Master. But here befalls an unexpected accident, which violently precipitates and throws him headlong on the contrary resolution.  
His Master Beanmarays (not for want of any respect or love to Blancheville, but because he perfectly knew she extremely hared him) having formerly charged his man Le Valley that he should not frequent her house, nor no more dare to seek her maid Martha in marriage, the which he confidently promised him he would: He now understands that contrary thereunto, his man Le Valley the very day before was there, and continued still an earnest suitor to her; so he hereupon calls him to him, and gives him five or six sound boxes on the ear, for his disobeying him, and vows that if he ever any more return thither, and seek Martha in marriage, he would utterly cashier him, and wholly discharge him from his service. Le Valley not accustomed to receive blows of his Master, was so extremely incensed hereat, as disdaining the blows for his Master, and his Master for the blows sake, they engender such bad blood in him, as he presently strikes a bargain, first with his choler, then with the Devil, that he would now adhere to the request of Blancheville, and so speedily return his Master a sharp requital and bloody revenge for the same; and indeed from that time forwards he never looked on him but with an eye of hatred and detestation. So without farther delay, the same night as soon as his Master was gone to bed, he trips away to Blanchevilles house, informs her at large what had passed betwixt his master and himself, and therefore assures her that he is fully and constantly resolved to murder him within three or four days, if she would perform her promise to him, to give him the three hundred Crowns, and that also within a month after h●…e shall marry Martha, whereat Blancheville being beyond measure joyful, she faithfully and solemnly swears him the performance thereof when (as a pledge of the rest) she presently pays him down the first hundred and fifty in gold, the which Le Valley joyfully purseth up. But the receipt thereof shall cost him dear.  
From the intended matter of the murder of Beaumarays, these two agents of Satan and Hell, Blancheville and Le Valley, proceed to the manner thereof, she proposeth that infernal drug poison, but he rejecteth it, as dangerous to be bought, and difficult to be applied. And because she dislikes to have him pon●…arded, therefore they both conclude and agree, that he shall pistol him to death, and this is their difinitive, cruel, and hellish resolution. Le Valley having thus dispatched his business with Blancheville, and taken leave with kisses of his sweet Martha, (who poor soul is as innocent, as they two are wholly and solely guilty of this deplorable conspiration) he puts a cheerful countenance on his revengeful heart, so returns home, and the very next day gets his Master's pocket pistol, which he loads with a brace of bullets, and watcheth every day and hour for a desired opportunity to send him to heaven. So the third day after Monsieur Montagne going abroad a hawking with his brother's Hawks and Spannels, and taking almost all his men servants with him, and leaving Le Valley to wait and attend on his Master, then and there this fatal occasion answered his prodigious expectation. For that very Forenoon, his Master Beaumarays coming from the house of office, he calls up Le Valley to him in his chamber to truss his points, which wretched Villain he is busy in performing, but alas, in most barbarous and bloody manner: For as that good and Noble Gentleman thought of nothing less than of his danger or death, than this monster of nature fingering his hind points with his left hand, very softly drew his Pistol out his pocket with his right, and then and there (with an infernal courage and audacity) shot him into the reynes of his back, nearly opposite to his heart, whereof he presently fell down dead to the ground, without having either the power or happiness to utter on prayer or word whatsoever, but only two or three small fainting, or indeed dying groans.  
This bloody and execrable wretch Le Valley, seeing his Master dead, he triumphs in his good fortune, to see what a brave Butcher he had proved himself in so speedily and neatly dispatching him. When to put the better varnish on his villainy, and so to make it appear to the world, that his Master was his own murderer, he taketh the pistol and placeth it in his dead right hand, lays the key of the Chamber upon the Table, and the door having a strong Spring-locke, pulls and shuts it fast after him. When again, to make his innocence the more clear and conspicuous to the world, he speedily and secretly taking a horse out of the stable, a Hawk on his fist, and a Spaniel at his heels, and so very joyfully and cheerfully gallops away to the fields, where (after some hour at least, or hour and half at most) he finds out Monsieur Montagne, and tells him his Master dispatched him to him with a fresh Hawk, which was his best and chiefest Gashawke. They Hawk all day together, and Le Valley (as accustomed) is very officious and diligent to Monsieur Montagne, who towards night returns home to Chartres, having (between them all) taken eight Partridges and one Pheasant. He arrives at his brother's house, where missing him, he gives the Pheasant and four of the Partridges to the Cook to dress for their Supper; when afterwards again missing his brother Beaumarays, and enquiring for him, the menial servants of the outhouses tell him they saw him not to day. Supper being preparing, and the Table covered, he sends up Le Valley to look him in his chamber, who returns him this answer, that his Master is not there, but the door is shut: Montagne marvelleth at his brother's long (and unaccustomed) absence, and so do all his Servants. They find his Cloak, Rapier and Belt, hanging up at a pin in the Hall, and therefore deeming him not far, but at some neighbour's house, he sends Le Valley one way, and the rest of the servants to other places to find him out; but whiles they seek after him, Le Valle (favoured by the night) trips away speedily to the Lady Blanchevilles house, and there most briefly and secretly acquaints her how bravely he hath dispatched his Master that forenoon, she cannot Contain herself for joy of this sweet news, nor express it to him in less than a Kiss, he says he will tell her the rest to morrow night and then come and receive the remainder of her promise to him, the which she again and again swears to him she will perform it with a surplusage and advantage, so he kisseth his sweet heart Martha, and again dispeeds himself home: Where he and the rest of the servants who were sent into the streets return Montagne no news of their master his brother: Supper being more than fully ready, his long missing of him doth at last bring him much doubt, and some suspicion and fear of his welfare. It runs still in his mind that he may be yet a sleep in his Chamber; wherefore he ascends thither with Le Valley and others of his Servants, who call a loud and bounce amain at the door, but they hear no answer nor speech of him, the which doth the more augment his doubt and redouble his fear of his Brother: At last he commands them to force and break open the door, but it being exceeding thick and strong, they cannot, Montagnes tender care of his brother doth by this time infinitely increase his fear of him, which at last so powerfully surpriseth him, that he presently commands a Ladder to be erected to his brother's chamber window towards the garden, and sends up one of his Laqueyes with a torch to look into the chamber, the lackey forceth open the casement, and then thrusts in his torch first, and his head after, which he speedily withdrawing very passionately cryeth out: That his master hath murdered himself with his pistol, and lies there dead all gored in his blood. Montagne at this lamentable news tears his hairs weeps and cries out a main for sorrow thereof and so do all his Servants: Among whom Le Valley is observed to be one of the most, who weeps, and cries mightly thereat. Montagne being almost as dead with grief and sorrow hereat, as his Brother Beaumarays was with his wound, He bids the Lackey to tear down the casement and to enter and unlock the door, which he doth: So he with Le Valley and the rest of the servants ascend and enter the chamber, where to their unexpressable grief and sorrow) they see this mournful and murdered personage, with the discharged pistol fast in his hand, and the key of the chamberdoore on the table, as hath been already expressed. Once Montagne thought that his brother might be robbed and killed by thiefs, but seeing all his trunks fast locked, and then opening his study door, and finding all his gold, silver, and jewels there in good order, he abandons that suspicion and jealousy and then both he and they all believe, that he hath absolutely murdered himself. The report of this tragical and sorrowful accident sounds loud in the streets of Chartres: Montagne sends for the King's Attourny, and the fiscal to see, and for Surgeons to visit his dead brother's body, they all concur and agree in opinion with Montagne and his servants, and so generally affirm and conclude: That Beaumarays hath (with his little pistol) shot himself into the back with a brace of bullets, whereof he died, which is sweet music and melody to Le Valley, but his wormwood and gall comes after. And now Montagne withal requisite order, state, and decency, solemnizeth his brother's funerals, and not only all Charters, but all Beausse, and all Gentlemen who knew him, yea the bishop of Chartres, the Marquis of Bellay, and the King himself much lamented and bewailed the unfortunate loss of this noble, and valiant Gentleman.  
The grief and sorrow of Montagne for his Brother's untimely death, is the joy and felicity of Le Valley and Blancheville, for as he triumphs, so for her part she is so extremely delighted and ravished with this sweet news, as at their next meeting (which is the very next night) she gives him his hundred & fifty crowns, and because he hath dispatched his master Beaumarays so speedily and secretly, she therefore takes a Diamond ring off her finger (worth one hundred crowns) and likewise gives it him: When to make good her oath and promise to him, (as also to make his pretended joy complete) the very same day month after, marryeth him to her maid Martha. But marriages that are founded and cymented with innocent blood, never have prosperous ends. Now is Blancheville proud in her revenge for the death of her mortal enemy Beaumarays, and now likewise is Le Valley (in his conceit and mind) rapt up into the third Heaven of joy, in enjoying his fair and sweet wife Martha, and neither of them hath the conscience to think of, or the grace to repent this foul and bloody fact of theirs: Which (when they least dream thereof) we shall see God in his sacred mercy in justice, will speedily detect, revenge, and punish, as the sequel thereof will declare and inform us.  
As the matter and manner of the detection of this lamentable murder of Beaumarays proceeded primarily from God, so it did secondly from his sorrowful brother Montagne, who wanting all other witnesses & evidence (and wholly guided by sacred power, and swayed by divine influence) was led to it by four remarkable circumstances and considerations, every way worthy of our Knowledge and retention. The first was his finding and perusing of Blanchevilles Letter to his brother Beaumarays (which formerly we have seen) wherein he observed a wonderful deal of inveterate malice towards him from her; The second was Le Valleys sudden marrying of her chambermaid Martha, by the which he conceived that that suspicion strongly reflected on her, and this on him: The third was from the sight of the Diamond Ring which Le Valley wore on his finger (being the same which we have formerly seen Blancheville to give him) for Montagne believing that he had stolen it from his dead brother his master, he challenged him for it by order of law, when Le Valley to clear himself of this predended theft, was enforced to inform both him and the judges, that it was given him in marriage with his wife by the Lady Blancheville her Mistress, the which confession of his, indeed added much suspicion and jealousy of them both to the heart and mind of Montagne, as believing that it must be some extraordinary tie and service which should make Le Valley capable to deserve so great a bounty and reward of her. But the fourth and last consideration was far more powerful and pervalent with him than all the three former to ground his suspicion against Le Valley for thus murdering of his brother, and wherein the Reader may deservedly admire and wonder at the celestial providence and justice of God, which most miraculously and divinely appears herein, for the same day two months after the murder of Beaumarays, and the same day month that Le Valley married his wife Martha, It pleased the Lord (in his secret pleasure and justice) to send him a Gangrene in his right hand, which beginning to extend and spread, his Surgeons to save his life, advised his said hand to be speedily cut off, which was accordingly performed.  
This suddenly cutting of Le Valleys right hand by advice of his Surgeons brings terror to him, fear to Blancheville, and astonishment and admiration to Montagne, who (led by the immediate spirit and finger of God) doth now confidently believe, that it was that hand of his which pistolled his brother to death, and that it might be rather probable than impossible, that Blancheville might be the Author, and he the actor of this cruel Murder. Wherefore grounding this his strong suspicion upon the piety and innocency of his brother's life and disposition, as also on his own four former premised serious considerations and circumstances, he neither can nor will take any contrary Law or peace of his thoughts. But goes to the Seneschal, and King's attourny of that City, and accuseth Le Valley to be the murderer of his brother Beaumarais. The wise and prudent judges, advertised the presidial court thereof likewise: So they presently cause him to be apprehended and imprisoned for the same: They charge him with this cruel murder committed on the person of his master, but he stoutly denies it with many fearful oaths and imprecations: But his crime being greater than his Apology, they adjudge him to the rack, where in the midst of his tortures, God so deals with his heart and prevails with his soul, that he confesseth, it was he who murdered his master Beaumarais with a pistol charged with a brace of bullets, and that he was hired to perform it by the Lady Blancheville, who gave him three hundred crowns in gold, and a Diamond ring to effect and finish it. At the relation and confession whereof Montagne and the judges, exceedingly admire and wonder, and being by them again demanded if his wife Martha were not ●…ewise accessary with them in this murder, he freely and constantly told them that she was not, and that he would take it to his death, that she was e●…ry way as Innocent, as himself and Blancheville her mistress were guilty thereof.  
The judges of this Court speedily send sergeants away to apprehend Blan●…ville, who is so far from the apprehension or fear of any danger, as she dreams not thereof: They find her in her own house playing on her lute, ●…d singing in company of many Gentlemen, and Gentlewoman her friends: The Sergeants seize on her, and tells her accusation and crime, whereat she is amazed and weeps exceedingly, and no less do those who are with her: She is brought before her judges, who strongly accuse her for being the Author of this cruel murder of Beaumarais, and acquaint her with Le Valleys full and free confession thereof as we have formerly understood: When here sometime with tears, and then again with passion and choler, she tells the judges, that Le Valley is a devil and a villain, thus to accuse her falsely: That she never gave him a ring or three hundred crowns to do it, and takes God to witness that she is wholly innocent of that murder. But this poor and passionate Apology of hers, will not pass current with her Lyncee-eyed judges, who cause her to be confronted with Le Valley, who stands firm to his former accusation against her, and yet her faith is so weak with God, and so strong with sathan as with many cries and curses, she again and again cries out and protesteth of her Innocency: They produce her her ring, and part of gold, but she boldly denies and stoutly forswears both; So they presently adjudge her to the rack, whereto with much constancy she permits herself to be fastened: But at the very first touch and wrench thereof, her dainty delicate limbs not able to brook those exquisite torments, God was pleased to be so gracious & merciful to her soul, as she presently (with many tears) cries out that she was the guilty Author of this horrible murder, and so in all points and circumstances concurres and agrees with Le Valleys deposition and accusation against her; Here her judges again demand of her if her maid Martha were never accessary or consenting with her and Le Valley in this their bloody ●…ct, but she vows to them, that upon peril of her soul, she was absolutely innocent thereof, so hereupon this our inhuman Lady Blancheville is again loosed from her rack, and brought away to the Tribunal of justice, and so likewise is Le Valley, where Montagne and the King's attorney presently crave judgement of the precedents against these two murderers, who after a long and a religious speech which they made, both to them and to all who were present upon this bloody fact and crime of theirs: They conclude and adjudge Le Valley the very next day to be broken on the wheel alive, and Blancheville then likewise to be hanged, which gave matter of Universal speech and admiration to all Charters and Beausse.  
We have seen the perpetration and detection of this inhuman and lamen table murder, committed by these two unfortunate wretches Le Valley and Blancheville: And now (by the mercy and justice of God) we are come to see the triumphs of his revenge to fight against them in their condign punishments for the same. They by their judges are that afternoon returned again to their prisons, and the same night are there effectually dealt with by Divines, who (out of Christian charity) direct and prepare their souls for Heaven. So the next morning about ten of the clock they are brought to the common place of execution in Chartres, where a world of people attend to be spectators of these their unfortunate ends and deplorable tragedies: And first Le Valley ascends the scaffold, who is sad and pensive, and says little else 〈◊〉 effect but this, that it was partly Blanchevilles gold, but chiefly his love to her maid, his wife Martha, who first drew him to murder his dear master Beaumarays, whereof he affirmed he was now heartily repentant and sorrowful, and besought the Lord to pardon him; He here took it to his death that his said wife Martha was every way innocent of this murder, and therefore beseeched Monsieiur Mantagne, to be good and charitable to her after his death, whom he likewise prayed to forgive him, when uttering a few Ave Maries to himself, and often marking himself with the sign of the cross: He was by his Executioner presently broken on the wheel, whereof he immediately died.  
Le Valley was no sooner dispatched, but up comes our Female monster Blancheville on the Ladder, whose youth & beauty drew pity from the hearts, and tears from the eyes of most of her spectators: in her countenance she was very sad and mournful, and yet I am enforced to confess this truth of her, that (in this last Scene and act of her life) her pride and Vanity so far usurped on her judgement, her piety, and her soul, that she came here to take her last leave of the world, apparelled in a rich black razed satin gown, a crimson damask petty coat, la●…d with white satin guards, a rich cutwork falling band, her hair all strewed with sweet powder, decked with white ribbon knots and roses, and a snow white pair of gloves on her hands, so she there craves leave of the people to speak a few words before she dies, which with a well composed countenance, and behaviour, she doth in these terms.  
She said that her dear and tender affection to her husband Champigny occasioned her deadly hatred and malice to Beaumarays, and that as soon as she had slain him in the field, she in revenge thereof instantly resolved and vowed to send him to heaven after him: she affirmed that she was now sorrowful from her heart and soul, that she had caused Le Valley to kill this his master, also that she was so unfortunate and miserable, as now to see him dye for her sake and service, in requital whereof she gave all her apparel, and some of her plate and jewels to her old maid, now his new wife Martha, whom she affirmed in presence of God and his angels, was no way guilty or consenting to this lamentable murder, which she beseeched the Lord to pardon and forgive her, she likewise besought Montagne and Martha to forgive her and entreated all who were present to pray to God for her Souleshe conjured all Ladies and Gentlewoman who were sorrowful eyewitnesses of her untimely death, to beware by her unfortunate example, and so to hate malice and revenge in themselves as much as she loved it: When again praying all her spectators to pray to God for her, she after a few paternosters, and Auc-maries was turned over.  
And thus was this lamentable, and yet deserved deaths of these two bloody wretches Le Valley and Blancheville, and in this sharp manner, did God justly revenge and punish this their horrible crime of murder: Whose untimely and unfortunate deaths, left much grief to their living parents and friends, and generally to all who either saw or knew them. May we read this their History, first to the honour of God, and then to our own Instruction and reformation: That the sight and remembrance of these their punishments may deter us from the impiety and inhumanity of perpetrating the like bloody crimes,  
Amen.   

GOD'S REVENGE, AGAINST THE CRYING AND Execrable sin of Murder.  
Lorenzo murthereth his wife Fermia: He some twenty years after (as altogether unknown) robbeth his (and her) son Thomaso, who likewise not knowing Lorenzo to be his father, doth accuse him for that robbery, for which he is hanged.  
THose who (by the pernicious instigation, and fatal temptation of Satan) do wilfully imbrue their hands in innocent blood and so make themselves guilty of murder, are no longer men but have prodigiously metamorphosed themselves into the nature and quality of devils. And as after this their crime, they are worthy of all true christians detestation, so most commonly (without Gods saving grace and mercy) their hearts are so obdurated with impenitency of security, and their souls seared up and abandoned to all kinds of atheistical profaneness and impiety, that they are so far from thinking of God, as they believe there is no God, and so far from fearing of his judgements and punishments, as they are desperately confident they have not deserved any: But because their hearts and actions are as transparent to God's eyes and knowledge, as God's decrees, and resolution are invisible to theirs, therefore (despite this their blindness and the devil's malice and subtlety to obscure and conceal it, this world will afford them no true peace, nor this life produce them any perfect tranquillity: But wheresoever they go or live, their guilty thoughts and consciences as so many hellish bloudhounds will incessantly pursue and follow them, till in the end they drag them to condign shame, misery, and confusion for the same: which this subsequent history will verify and make good to us, in a wretched and execrable personage, whom it mournefully presents to our view and consideration. Let us read it in the fear of God, that we may weigh that benefit by it which becomes good Christians to make.  
IT is not the meanness of the personages, but the greatness and eminence of God's Judgements which hath prevailed with me to give this History a place among my others: The which to draw from the head-spring, and original, we must understand, that in Italy, (the Garden of Europe, as Europe is that of the whole world) and in the City of Genova, (seated upon the Mediterranean Sea, which the Italians for the sumptuousness and stateliness of her buildings, do justly style and entitle, proud Genova) near unto the Arsenal upon the Key, there dwelled (of late years) a proper tall young man, of a coal black hair, some twenty five years old, named Andrea Lorenzo, who by his trade was a Baker, and was now become Master of his profession, and kept forth his Oven and shop for himself; wherein he was so industrious and provident, that in a short time he became one of the prime Bakers of that City, and wrought to many Ships and Galleys of this Estate and Seignory: He in few years grew rich, was proffered many wives, of the daughters of many wealthy Bakers, and other Artificers of Genova, but he was still covetous, and so addicted to the world, as he could fancy none, nor as yet be resolved or persuaded to seek any maid or widow in marriage, sith he knew it to be one of the greatest and most important actions of our life, and which infallibly draws with it, either our chiefest earthly felicity or misery.  
But as marriages are made in heaven, before consummated on earth; So Lorenzo going on a time to the City of Savona, which (both by Sea and Land) is some twenty little miles from Genova, and heretofore was a free City and Estate of itself, but now swallowed up in the power and opulency of that of Genova, he there fell in love with a rich Vintner's daughter, her father named juan Baptista Moron, and she Firmia Moron, who was a lovely and beautiful young maiden, of some eighteen years of age, being tall and slender, of a pale complexion, and a bright yellow hair, but exceedingly virtuous and religious, and endowed with many sweet qualities and perfections; who althouhh she were sought in marriage by divers rich young men, of very good families of that City, with the worst of whom (either for estate or extraction) Lorenzo might no way compare, yet she could fancy none but him, and he above all the men of the world she (secretly in her heart and mind) desired might be her Husband. Lorenzo (with order and discretion) seeks Fermia in marriage of her father Moron, who is too strong of purse, and to high of humour to match his daughter to a Baker, or to any other of a mechanical profession, and so gives him a flat and peremptory denial. But Lorenzo finds his daughter more courteous and kind to his desires, for she being as deeply enamoured of his personage, as he was of her beauty and virtues, after a journey or two which he had made to her at at Savona, she consents and yields to him to be his wife, conditionally that he can obtain her father's good will thereunto, but not otherwise; which Lorenzo yet feared and doubted would prove a difficult task for him to compass and procure; for her father knowing Fermia to be his own and only child and daughter, and that her beauty and virtuous education, together with the consideration of his own wealth and estate, made her every way capable of a far better husband than Lorenzo: As also that his daughter in reason and religion, and by the laws of heaven and earth, was bound to yield him all duty and obedience (because of him she had formerly received both life and being) therefore he was resolute that Lorenzo should not have his daughter to wife, neither would he ever hearken to accept, or consent to take him for his son in Law.  
Lorenzo having thus obtained the heart and purchased the affection of his sweet and dear Fermia, he now (out of his fervent desire and zeal to see her made his wife, and himself her husband) makes it both his ambition and care (according to her order) to drawher father Moron to consent thereunto, wherein the more importunate, humble, and dutiful he (both by himself & friends) is to Moron, the more imperious, averse, and obstinate is he to Lorenzo, as disdaining any farther to hear of this his suit and motion for his daughter. But Lorenzo loves the daughter too tenderly and dearly thus to be put off with the first repulse and denial of her father, and so (notwithstanding) he again persevereth in his suit towards him, with equal humility and resolution: He requesteth his consent to their affections with prayers, and his daughter Fermia (having formerly acquainted her father with her dear and inviolable love to Lorenzo) she now prays him thereto with tears: But (as one who had wholly wedded himself to the singularity of his own resolution and pleasure) he again proudly refuseth him with disdain, and peremptorily rejecteth her with choler and indignation, and so secretly vows to himself, and publicly swears to them, that he will first die, and salute his grave, before ever he will permit him to marry his daughter. Which unkind answer, and thundering resolution of his, proves the extreme grief of his daughter Fermia, and infinite affliction and sorrow of her lover Lorenzo, who hereupon are enforced to bear up with the time, yea, and to make a virtue of necessity, by separating their bodies, but not their hearts and affections. So he returns to Genova, and she lives and remains with her father in Savona, having no other comfort left them in their absence but hope, nor no other consolation, but sometimes to visit each other with their Letters, which they do.  
Old Moron now finds his young daughter Fermia, far more pensive, reserved, and sorrowful than heretofore, and therefore although he grieve to see her affection entangled with this Baker Lorenzo, yet he rejoiceth to see that he comes to Savona, as also to understand that his daughter hath no way engaged herself to him in promise of marriage, but with the condition of his free will and consent thereto, which as heretofore, so now again, he deeply swears he will never be drawn or persuaded to grant. And the sooner and better eternally and fully to dash these their irregular loves and affections, he thinks it fit for him to provide, and requisite to present his daughter with another Husband: To which end he gives her the choice of two or three proper young men, and of very good families in Savona, but she will have none of them, for her affection is so deeply fixed, and constantly settled on Lorenzo, that say her father what he will, or do he or they what they can, he can hardly draw her to see, much less to speak with any one of them: Whereat he calls her foolish Giglet, and fond Girl, and swears that he will wholly renounce her for his daughter, and absolutely disinherit her, and leave her a beggar, if she marry Lorenzo, and then and there flies from her in rage and choler, and leaves her alone to herself, to entertain her disconsolate and sorrowful thoughts, with a world of sighs and tears.  
As for the Letters which pass from Genova to Sevona, and that are also returned from Savona to Genova, between these our two lovers Lorenzo and Fermia, deeming them impertinent to this their History, I have therefore purposely excluded, and for order and brevity's sake omitted them: The which entertained their time, and took up their affections and patience so long, that three years are now past and blown over, since they first saw each other, and since Lorenzo first motioned Moron for his consent to marry his daughter, during all which long tract of time, which to those our two young lovers seemed at least so many ages. The Reader is prayed to understand and take notice, that Lorenzo hath made five or six journeys from Genova to Savona to see his Fermia, and hath importunately requested her father Moron for his consent, and that at least as many times she likewise hath employed all her Parents and friends towards him, yea, and hath been more often on her bended knees to him to beg it, but all these their requests and sotions towards him prove vain.  
When Lorenzo at last considering and remembering, that he had used all the lawful means he could possibly invent, and Fermia all her best endeavours and inventions which lay in her mortal power to draw her father Moron to their desires and wishes of marriage, and that neither they nor all the world could prevail with him, he thinks it now high time (as well for the settling of his fortunes and trade, as also for the confirmation of his hearts content) to lay close siege to his Fermia, that (notwithstanding her father's refusal) she would consent and yield to marry him, and so very secretly by night to leave him and Savona, and to come live and die with himself in Genova, telling her, that although he had never a Duckaton of marriage money with her from her father, yet that God had given him estate and means enough to maintain her and his family, in full and plentiful prosperity, and that he would be a thousand times more tender and careful of her than of his own life. Thus with a world of sweet words and sugared promises, and persuasions, this sweet and fair young maiden (contrary to her former wholesome, virtuous, and obedient resolutions) is at last drawn and tempted away by him, now to prove disobedient to her father, yea, and to forsake and fly away both from his house and himself. So Lorenzo having to that end secretly provided himself of a fine small Frigate, of four oars in each side, he therewith comes by night into the key of Savona, (which the policy of the Genovesses (now their Lords and Superiors) have dammed up, and made uncapable of ships of burden, that thereby all the trade and commerce by Sea, may arrive to their own capital City) where giving notice to Fermia of his being there, she (taking her best clothes, and other chiefest necessaries with her) in the dead time of the night, when her father and his servants were fast in sleep, and all things being hushed up in silence, seemed to conspire to her rash and inconsiderate escape, she by the Garden door issueth forth to Lorenzo, who there received her with much joy, and many kisses, and so conducts her to the Frigate, where the wind (in favour of this their clandestine flight) proving very fair, they hoist up sail, and early the next morning arrive at Genova, where (within two hours after) Lorenzo conducts her to St. Saviour's Church, and there very secretly (yet solemnly espouseth and marries her. But O Fermia, how I pity thy youth and beauty, thine innocence and indiscretion, thy few years and many virtues, thy affection and misfortune, and thine ignorance and credulity, so rashly and disobediently to fly from Savona to Genova, and to take (or rather to steal) away thyself from thy father, purposely to give thyself in marriage to Lorenzo, for which indiscreet and disobedient fact of thine, it is not impossible for thee to see this ensuing position verified and confirmed in thyself, That there is nothing so easy in young people as to commiterrours, nor so difficult as to repair them.  
Whiles thus our young married couple celebrate their nuptials in Genova with delight and joy, old Moron the father grieves and storms thereat in Savona, for the sudden flight of his daughter: When fearing and believing that Lorenzo had stolen her away, he secretly makes enquiry thereof at his house of Genova, from whence he hath perfect notice, that she is there, and married to him, whereat he passionately converts his grief into choler, both against her and him, and (in regard of this their disgrace and dishonour offered him) most constantly vows to himself, and to all who are near him, that they shall never touch nor enjoy the value of one Duckaton of all his Estate and wealth, as long as he or they live, and that he will not once send after thm, nor ever hereafter see them, which sharp vow and bitter sentence against our Lorenzo and Fermia, we shall be enforced to see him too carefully to keep, and too severely and punctually to perform.  
Some ten days after this marriage of Lorenzo and Fermia, when their wedding joys and pleasures had given them some truce and time to consider of their worldly affairs, because they know & repute it folly, to think to be able wholly to live by love, Lorenzo considering the injury & disgrace which he had offered his father in law Moron in this action, and therefore very desirous yet now again to seek his consent and good will to this their marriage, that thereby he may participate and share of some part of his wealth, he determineth shortly to ride over to Savona to him, and with his best respects and duty to comply and labour with him for a reconciliation; and yet nevertheless he thinks it very fit, and hold it most expedient, that his wife in the mean time should first excuse herself to her father by her Letter, the which she doth in these terms:  
FERMIA to MORON.  
ALthough the cause and manner of my departure from you and your house make me more worthy of your indignation than of your pordon, yet when you shall please to remember that you are my father, and myself your only child and daughter, and that God and his holy Church hath of Lorenzo my friend, now made him my Husband, and also tha●… for the term of three whole years, I with tears and prayers came many times prostrate to you on my bended knees to obtain your consent thereunto, than I hope you will at least excuse, if not wholly forget and pardon this error of mine: Or if these reasons be not enough powerful to interceded with your displeasure, I most humbly beseech you further to consider, that herein I have neither blemished nor disgraced your reputation with any point of dishonour, for as I came to my Husband's bed a pure Virgin, so I will live and die with him a chaste wife; and that as this clandestine flight and marriage of mine was the first, so it shall be the last act of my disobedience towards you. Some small portion of your wealth at our first beginning, will do my Husband and self a great deal of good in our trade, but this I leave, as to your consideration, so to your pleasure. Only in all humility and duty (as low as the earth, and lower if I could) I desire your blessing to me, and implore your prayers to God for me, the which in religion you cannot, and in nature I hope you will not deny me. My Husband will shortly second this Letter of mine to you with his presence, and will then commit that task to his tongue, which I have now obediently imposed and commanded to my pen: And my prayers and hopes, and his promises and ver●…es do assure me, that (in his respects and service to you) you shallever find him to be as much your servant as your son in law. God ever prosper your age with health, and bless your health with prosperity.  
FERMIA.  
Moron received this Letter in Savona, and understanding by the messenger who brought it, that it came from his daughter Fermia from Genova, he was at first in such a fret and fume of choler thereat, as he once thought to have thrown it into the fire, without vouchsafing to read it: But after he had made three or four turns in his Parlour, and so somewhat abated the violence of his passion and choler, he than procures so much time from his pleasure, and so much patience from himself, as he breaks up the seals thereof, and peruseth it, the which as soon as he had performed, he in presence of the messenger who brought it, tears her Letter in pieces, and then (all enraged with choler) throws it into the fire, when again turning himself to him, he bade him tell the Giglet his daughter, That her carriage had been so base, disobedient, and ingrateful to him, that he disdained to return any answer to her Letter, and was very sorry that he had so much descended from himself as to have received and read it: When without once enquiring of him how his daughter did, yea, without giving the messenger any reward, or which is less, without making him drink, he hastily and cholericly flings from him, and will no more see or speak with him. Who returning to Genova, and reporting to Lorenzo and his wife what cold entertainment his Letter and himself had of her father Moron in Savona; she grieves and storms thereat publicly, and he privately, and at their first relation and knowledge of this her father's unkindness in answering her Letter with silence, they look each on other with their countenances composed partly of discontent, and partly of sorrow, and for her part she cannot refrain from tears, till at last her Husband Lorenzo steps to her, when (as much to dissipate her grief, as to dissemble his own) he gives her many smiles, and comforts her with these speeches; That according to her promise (in her Letter) to her father, he will the next week go over to him, and will then bear himself so respectively towards him, that he hopes his presence shall purchase his affection, which her Letter could not, so she hereat remains better satisfied than her Husband contented with this harsh carriage, and unkind resolution of their father towards them.  
Now some eight days after Lorenzo rides over to Savona, (handsomely clad, and rather above than below his quality) and putting up his horse in an Inn, he a little before supper time, goes to his father in law Morons house, where enquiring of his servants for him, they tell him he is above in his chamber, when desirous to see and speak with him, one of them steps up to him and informs him thereof: Whereat Moron starting up as if he had been suddenly awaked out of a dream, he at the first mention and name of Lorenzo, but especially of that of his son in law Lorenzo, bolts himself fast in his chamber, and then calling up his servants to him, he flatly chargeth them to deny his being within to Lorenzo, and as soon as he is gone forth, to shut the doors against him, and at any hand not to admit him into his house, for that his pleasure and resolution is neither to see nor speak with him. Lorenzo bites the lip at this baffle of his servants, first to say their Master his father in Law was within, and then in one breath to contradict and deny it. When for that time he holds it discretion to depart, goes to his Hostary (or Inn) to Supper, and returns thither again speedily after, but finds the same answer. So then fearing the truth, that his father Law was (infallibly) within, and yet would not be within, he returns to his lodging, and in much choler betakes himself to his bed, but this discourtesy of his father in Law will not permit him any sound rest, but only affords him many broken discontented slumbers. The next morning very early he returns thither again to see and speak with him, but the first prove the last answer of his servants, whereat Lorenzo (all nelted with choler and anger) takes horse and rides away for Genova.  
Allow we him by this time returned to Genova, where he truly and fully relates to his wife Fermia the discourtesy of her father towards him, from point to point as we have formerly understood, which (poor sweet soul) exceedingly grieves her heart, and infinitely perplexeth her mind and thoughts, but how to remedy it she knows not, for as she knows she (by her disobedient flight and marriage against h●… father's consent) hath committed a greatfault towards him, so now she s●… that (of necessity) she must own and make the best of it: When he c●…orting his wife with encouragement, and she reciprocally encouraging ●…m with comfort, they refer the issue of this their father's pleasure or displeasure unto God; but yet rather hoping than despairing, that a little time will make him more tractable and flexible to their desires, they pass away their time merrily and sweetly together, he proving a courteous & loving husband t●…er, and she a kind and dutiful wife to him. He exceeding provident to ge●… & thrive by his trade, and she as careful in her house and family to save what he gets, and thus in six months after they neither go nor send to their father, thinking and hoping that although it be unlikely, yet it is not impossible but that hereafter of his own free accord and good disposition and nature, he may shortly exchange his displeasure into courtesy, and his malice into affection towards them; but as yet they still find the contrary, for in all this time, he never sends to them, nor so much as once hearkens after them.  
At the end of six months Lorenzo prays his wife Fermia to ride over to Savona to see what alteration this long time hath wrought in her father's affection, and so recommends her portion from him to her care & remembrance, but resolves not to write to him because of his unkindness to him at his last being at Savona. Fermia (more in obedience to her husband, than out of her own willingness or desire) accepts of this journey, but still she fears that she shall find her father to be one and the same man in his discontent and displeasure against them. But yet in regard she is his own flesh and blood, his only child; and therefore a great part of himself, she yet flatters herself with this hope, that he cannot be so unnatural to her, as he was unkind to her husband. She comes to Savona, but look what entertainment her husband Lorenzo found from her father, the same in all respects and points doth she, and no otherwise: For he will neither speak with her, no nor see, nor permit her, either to lie, eat, or drink in his house, but most uncourteously and unnaturally causeth his doors to be fast shut against her; yea, and to add cruelty to his unkindness, he is extreme angry with his servants for daring to admit her to speak with him, and with her Aunt Alcyna, (his own sister) for receiving and lodging her.  
Our sweet Fermia the daughter is extremely perplexed, afflicted, and grieved at this her father's bitter unkindness and cruelty towards her, the which she seals with many sighs, and confirms with infinite Rivulets of tears, which trickle down her beautiful cheeks as so many pearled drops of dew on blushing and fragrant damask Roses: When again employing her aforesaid Aunt Alcyna, and likewise entreating father Bernardin De Monte, her fathers own ghostly father, to persuade him in her behalf, which they do. But at last seeing the requests of the one bootless, and the spiritual exhortations of the other vain and to no effect, then as she came from Genova to Savona with some hope and joy, so she is again constrained to return from Savona to Genova, with infinite grief and despair; Where from point to point (betwixt anger and tears) she relates to her husband Lorenzo, the unnatural discourtesy, which her father had offered her: Whereat as before, so now he again dissembleth his discontent thereof and with many sweet speeches, and some few kisses seeks to comfort and pacify her: But still the remembrance hereof sticks deep in her mind, and yet far deeper in his thoughts, for the knowledge of his father in Law Morons discourtesy first offered to himself, and now to his wife in Savona, being known and reported to many of his neighbours and friends in Genova, they scoff and taunt at his foolish ambition, in marrying and stealing away his wife, and in all companies which he frequenteth, they give him this quip, that he had done far wiser to have married a poor trades man's daughter in Genova with a small portion, than a rich Vintners in Savona with nothing: which foolish and malicious speech of theirs, falls not so easily from his memory as from their tongues, but leaves an impression therein, for from henceforth, Lorenzo of a wise man proves himself a fool, of an honest man a knave, and so of a good christian to God, an extreme bad husband both to his wife and himself: for now seeing the mountains of his hopes of a rich wife turned to molehills, and they to nothing through his father's displeasure and unkindness to them, he looks not on his wife with so kind and respective an eye as heretofore, although poor harmless young woman, she knows far better to lament and grieve, then how to remedy her father's cruelty towards them: But this is but the beginning of his ingratitude and her unfortunacy, for before a whole year be passed since their marriage, her husband so far forgets his love to his wife, his regard to himself and his reputation and credit to the world, as he first begins to slight her, and then to neglect both himself and his profession: And here now it is that idleness begins first to enter into his hands, vice into his heart, and sin into his soul; and here it is that he first falls into bad courses, and wicked company from whence in the end (I fear) will proceed nothing but shame, repentance, misery, and confusion of all sides.  
He who formerly prayed often with his wife and family in his house and was a devout and religious frequenter of his Church, now he is so dangerously fled from God and so desperately following of the devil as he scorns the Church, and will neither pray himself at home with his wife, nor (which is worse) permit or suffer her to do it at home with her family: He hath forgotten her dear affection and constancy to him, and how she hath incurred her father's indignation for making him her husband and herself his wife: He hath forgotten his former oaths and promises of his tender affecti-and constant love to her, and how that in life and death he would live and dye more hers then his own: He hath forgotten how for his sake, and for the fervent love she bore him, that she forsook divers rich young men of Savona who were every way his Superiors in Birth, Wealth, and profession: Or else if he did remember it, he would not thus slight her by day, or lie from her by night in lewd and lascivious company, spending both his time, his means, and himself: upon panders, bawds, and strumpets, from which ungodly life and sinful conversation, neither her prayers, entreaties, requests, persuasions, sighs or tears can possibly reclaim him; but he lets all things run at random and confusion without order, care, or consideration, so that within the compass of one year and a half, his trade is neglected, his credit cracked, his reputation lost, his estate spent, and nothing left either to maintain himself or relieve her, but grief, sorrow, despair and misery. She sets all his best friends, and most virtuous acquaintance to convert him from this his abominable life, yea she holds it more shame, than sin to acquaint his confessor therewith, who taking a fit time, deals roundly with him for his reformation, and fails not to paint out his sins and vices, as also their deserved punishments in their foulest and most hideous colours: But still her husband Lorenzo is so strongly linked to the devil, and so firmly wedded to his beastly vices and enormities that all the world cannot divert, or dissuade him from them, and still he is so far from abandoning and forsaking them, as he adds new to his old: for the devil hath now taught him to delight in cursing and swearing, for in his speeches and actions he useth many fearful oaths and desperate execrations: He begins to revile her, and to give her foul language, tear ming her Beggar, and her father villain, and that he is bound to curse them both, because (saith he) they have beggared him: When God and his sinful soul and conscience well knows that there is nothing more untrue or false: For if his piety toward God, or his care and providence of himself and his family had equallized hers, he had than made himself as happy as nowhe is miserable; and she as joyful, as now we see her disconsolate and sorrowful; and then no doubt but time and God would have drawn her father Moron to have bestowed some portion on him with his wife, whereas now the knowledge of his impious life and lascivious prodigalities doth justly occasion him to the contrary. Again here befalls another accident which brings our sorrowful Fermia new grief, vexation and tears, for she sees herself great, yea quick with child by her Husband Lorenzo so as that which she once hoped would have been the argument of her joy, now proves the cause of her affliction and sorrow, for his vices hath scarce left her wherewith to maintain herself, and therefore it grieves her to think and consider, how hereafter she shall be able to mainetain her child, when God in his appointed time shall send it her, for he hath so consumed his estate, and spent, sold, and pawned all their best household stuff and apparel, that almost they have nothing left to give themselves maintenance, hardly bread: But yet still how lewd and irregular soever Lorenzo be, his virtuous and sorrowful wife Fermia serves God duly and truly, and spends a great part of her time in prayer, still beseeching the Lord to give her patience, and to forgive her husband all his foul sins, towards him, and cruel ingratitude towards herself: When in the midst of this her poverty and misery, once she thought to have left her husband in Genova, and to have cast herself at her father's feet in Savona, that he would pardon, receive and entertain her: But then again considering his flinty heart and cruelty towards her, and that he would rather contemn than pity her youth and misery, but especially calling to mind her duty to her husband, and her Oath given him in marriage, in presence of God and his Church for better for worse, for richer for poorer: Then I say the consideration and remembrance thereof, is so strong a tie to her conscience and so strict an obligation to her soul, that she thinks his vices and poverty hath now more need of her assistance, prayers and company then of her absence, so as a virtuous wife and a religious christian, she will not consent to forsake and leave him, but resolves to stay and live with him, to see what the Lord is pleased to impose on her, and (for his sins and hers) what afflictions and miseries he hath ordained and decreed for them: And yet being desirous to draw hope and comfort any way, because she finds grief and despair from all parts, she resolves to acquaint her father with her calamities, as also (earnestly and humbly) to pray him to relieve them, the which she doth in this her sorrowful letter to him, which she sends him safely to Savona.  
FERMIA to MORON.  
I Now find to my grief, and know to my shame and Repentance, that my disobedience in marrying Lorenzo against your consent and without your blessing, is the reason why God hath thus punished me with a bad husband in him: whose fervent affection to me is so soon forgotten and frozen, and whose Virtues in himself are so suddenly and sinfully exchanged into vices, that his prodigality hath spent and consumed all his estate, and left not wherewith either to give himself or me maintenance: In which regard because my afflictions are so great, and my miseries so infinite, that I rather deserve your pity then your displeasure; Therefore if not for my sake who am your living Daughter, yet for my Mother's sake and remembrance, who is your dead wife, either give my Husband means to set up his old trade and forsake his new vices Genova, or else take me home to live with you again in Savona: And if you will not in Nature respect me as your Daughter, yet in compassion entertain me as your Handmaid, and I most humbly and religiously beseech you to think and consider with yourself to what great wants and necessity I am now reduced, sith I write you this my letter rather with tears then ink: God direct your heart to my relief and consolation, as mine is eternally devoted to your service, and consecrated to his glory.  
FERMIA.  
Her father Moron after a long consultation and reluctation with himself, whether he should read or reject this letter of his Daughter. He at last (having formerly understood of her husband's prodigality, and her poverty and misery) breaks up the seals thereof and peruseth it, and surely if there had been any spark of humanity or reason, or of good nature or pity in him at all, his former knowledge of her miseries, and now this present assurance and confirmation thereof, should have persuaded him to grant her, if not the first, yet the second of her requests, which was to receive her, and give her maintenance: but he is still so hard hearted to her as he will neither relieve her wants, nor pity her afflictions, but (more out of hatred than affection to her) thinks he hath done enough in sending her not his love but this his sharp letter in answer of hers.  
MORON to FERMIA.  
IF thy Husband prove not to thy liking, thou hast just reason to thank thyself, and to condemn thine own temerity and disobedience in choosing him, and if his affection be so soon forgotten or frozen to thee, it is a just punishment of God, because thine was so first to me, whereof as that is the effect, so doubtless this is the prime, and original cause thereof, and as his vices and prodigality hath spent all his estate, so I have not so little judgement, (though thou so small understanding) to think that mine shall redeem it, which (upon the whole) were then to immytate and second him in his folly, and consequently to make myself guilty in consuming it. And because thou fleddest with him without my knowledge from Savona to Genova; and didst there marry him without my consent, therefore it is neither thy Grief nor Misery, or thy shame and repentance, which shall induce me either to respect or pity thee as my daughter, or which is less, to relieve and entertain thee as my handmaid, you both are young enough to work and labour for your living, as thy mother and myself did for ours, and therefore know that thy youth deserves no compassion from my age, and if this will not satisfy thee, than the best advise and counsel which I can or will give thee is, that thou continually direct thy prayers to God, for thy relief and consolation: And herein thou wilt then serve thyself, please me, and glorify him: And as thou regardest my Commands, or desirest my blessing, let me neither see thee, or hereafter hear any more of thy vain and foolish Letters.  
MORON.  
The receipt of this her father's unkind and cruel letter to her, doth at one time kill both her hopes with despair, and her heart with grief; or if that do not, than the mad tyranny, and new cruelty of her debauched husband doth: for now contrary to nature, beyond reason and opposite to Grace, he many times beats her; she is all in tears hereat, useth all possible means to reclaim him from his new vices to his old virtues: She continually persuades him fairly with exhortations, sweetly with sighs, and dearly with tears, yea poor sweet young woman, she many times casts herself at his feet, and with her arms crossed, her hands elevated towards heaven, her hair dishevelled and dandling about her cheeks, and her pearled tears bedewing the lilies of her mournful and disconsolate countenance, begs him to forsake his vices to himself, and his undeserved unkindness and cruelty towards her: But all this is in vain, for he proves death to her requests and prayers, and blind to her sighs and tears. He hath no longer money to buy corn, and is so far from selling any bread to others, as he hath scarce enough to give to himself and to his great bellied wife, and as for his servants he is enforced to put them all away: His vanity to himself and cruelty to his wife is too too lamentably notorious and remarkable, for when he wants money, he beats her, if she will not presently supply his wants, and furnish his expenses. Now in the midst of all these her griefs and miseries, God sends her a fair young son, of whom the father is not worthy, no nor of his virtuous wife who bore it: For had not the care, affection, and charity of her neighbours been far greater than that of her husband to her, both the mother had miscarried, and the child perished in the sharp throws and agony of her delivery; and the name of this her little son, whom she causeth to be christened in a very poor manner and ceremony, is Thomaso: for she is so poor as she hath nothing but rags to wrap and cover him with, and therefore with much grief and shame, she begs poor linen clouts of her neighbours to keep him clean and sweet: When it is waking, she looks and kisseth it often with joy, but when it sleeps or sucks, than she grieves that it is so unfortunate both in a wicked father, and poor disconsolate mother, who hath more means to lament and pity, than milk to feed and nourish it: She often shows her husband his child, and importunately begs him hence forth to have a more provident care of himself for his child's sake, and of his child for his own sake: But he as a lewd husband and too degenerate a father doth neither love nor care for either but hates both of them, yea his vices & cruelty makes her sorrow so infinite, that she reputes herself a burden to herself, & a thousandtimes wisheth she were in heaven; And one time among the rest after her husband without cause, had given her many bitter words and some sharp and cruel blows her child being in its cradle, he gone forth from her in choler, she falls down on her knees to prayer, the which so soon as she had ended, and her child awaking and crying, she takes it up in her arms, and mournfully sitting down on the floor by her bed side, she (weeping as fast as her poor infant babe sucked) having bolted her chamber door, was overheard by one of her neighbours, ('twixt whom and herself there was but a wainscot enterclose and partition) to pronounce these (or the like) sorrowful speeches to herself.  
O poor Fermia, it had been an infinite happiness for thee if thou hadst never seen thy Husband Lorenzo, or perished and sunk in the Sea when thou fleddest with him from Sevona to Genova, before he was thy Husband. For surely thou hast great causeto think, and reason to believe, that this cruelty of his towards thee, is a just plague and punishment sent thee from God, for disobeying thy father, in marrying without his consent and blessing; with whom when thou livedst single, thou hadst so much felicity and joy, as thou knewest not what belonged to sorrow and misery, and now living a wife to this thy Husband, thou art enforced to taste so much grief and misery, as thou knowest no more what belongs to joy and felicity. Then thou didst surfeit with the choice of the costliest meats and viands, and now thou art ready to starve merely for want of bread: Then thy apparel was rich, but now rend and torn: Then thy beauty made thee sought in marriage by divers, and now the griefs and sorrows having defaced and withered it, thou art contemned and hated of him who married thee. For can thy griefs be matched, or thy afflictions and sorrows parralleld, when thou hast a Husband who neither fears nor serves God, who will neither go to Church, or pray himself, or permit or suffer thee to do it; and who is so far from loving thee, as he loves nothing better than to hate, revile, and beat thee: For (ay me) he drowns himself and his wits in wine, and keeps whores to thy nose, spends all his estate upon them, and upon Bawds, Panders and Drunkards (the offscum and Caterpillars of the world) with whom he consumes his time and himself, making night day, and day night in these his beastly revels, and obscene voluptuousness, and upon whom he hath spent so much, as he now hath nothing left either to spend or maintain himself and thee; yea, thy miseries are so great, and thy afflictions and sorrows so sharp and infinite, that thou hast no parent left to succour or relieve thee, and which is less, no friend who will assist or comfort thee. Poor young woman, and disconsolate sorrowful wife that thou art, it were a blessed happiness, and a happy blessing for thee that thou wert either unborn or unmarried. Alas, alas, thy mother died too soon for thee, when thou wert young, and therefore she cannot, and thy father lives, (and is exceeding rich) yet hates thee so much as he will not assist & relieve thee. And as all thy kinsfolks refuse to lend or send thee any comfort in these thy wants and calamities; so those who professed themselves thy friends in thy prosperity, will not now either see thee in thy poverty, or know thee in thy misery. When again and again looking on her pretty babe, and giving it many tender kisses, than (her tears interrupting her words, and her sighs again cutting her tears in pieces) she continueth her speech thus: And thou my sweet babe, what shall I say to thee, sith almost I can do nothing for thee, for I have no food to give myself, how then can I give milk to thee; and yet I love thee so dearly and tenderly, that although thy unkind and cruel father hate me so deadly, yet I will starve before thou shalt want, yea, I will cheerfully work, and (if occasion serve) beg myself to death to get sustenance and necessaries for the preservation of thy life. For live thou my sweet babe as happy as thy poor mother is miserable and unfortunate: And if I die before thee, (as I hope I shall not live long) say thou hadst a mother who loved thee a thousand times dearer than her own life, and who was rich in care and affection, though poor in estate and means to maintain thee. And if I leave thee nothing behind me, (because I have now nothing left me either to give or leave thee) yet I will give thee my blessing, and leave thee heir to these my most religious prayers; That God in his divinest favour and mercy will not power down his wrath and punishments on thee, but thou mayest live to be as happy in thy virtues, as I fear thy father will be miserable in his vices; and as true a servant and instrument of God's glory, as (with grief and tears) I see he is of his own disgrace and dishonour.  
Neither is our virtuous Fermia deceived in the close of this her passionate and presaging speech towards her husband, for he continues his odious and ungodly course of life both towards God and her, and now (as well in his fresh as his drunken humours) makes it his practice to revile, and his delight and glory to beat her; who not withstanding yet thinking and hoping to work some good in him, through his sight of this poor infant his son. She often shows it to him, and with sighs and tears prays him to leave off this his sinful life towards God, and these his cruel courses and actions towards herself. But he is still the same man, yea, he is so wretchedly debauched and vicious, as he will not endure to think of making himself better, and to say the truth, I believe and think that the devil cannot possibly make him worse; the which his poor sorrowful wife perceiving, as also that her child being now by this time almost two years old, she hath not wherewithal in the world to maintain it meat or clothes, she is enforced to make a virtue of necessity, and so works exceeding hard with her needle, thereby to give life to herself, and her pretty young son; and yet say she what she will with sighs, and do she what she can with tears, her husband still forcibly takes away the two parts of the poor profit, and small revenewe of her labours, both from herself, and her little son Thomaso, not caring if they starve or die, so he have to maintain his vicious expenses among his lewd Consorts and Companions; yea, her miseries and wants are now so great, and her affection to her child so dear and tender, that when she hath no means to set herself to work, nor can procure any from others, than (though to her matchless grief and shame) she descends so far from herself, as shamefully and secretly in remote streets and Churches, she begs the alms and charity of some well disposed people for their subsistence and maintenance: But at length, when she sees that her husband is informed and acquainted therewith, and that he is so inhuman in himself, and so cruel hearted to her and her son, that he likewise takes these small monies away from her, (which in effect is to take bread out of their mouths, and life out of their bodies) than not knowing what (in the world) to do, or which way to wind or turn herself any longer, to maintain her son, which (by many degrees) she loves better than herself, she resolves to write to her father to take him home to him at Savona; and maintain him, which she doth by this her ensuing Letter, which carried him this humble language and petition:  
FERMIA to MORON.  
THe increase of my Husband's vices are those of my wants and miseries, which are now grown so extreme and infinite, that I have nor clothes nor food left to maintain myself, or my poor little son Thomaso, nor scarceto give life to us: And considering that I am your daughter, (yea your only child) me thinks both in Nature and Christianity, that my father should not see me driven to these sharp and bitter extremities, without relieving me, especially, because as heretofore, so now my sighs beg it of you with humility for charity's sake, and my tears with sorrow for God's sake. Or if yet your heart will not dissolve into pity, or relent into compassion towards me, at least let it towards my poor and pretty young child, whom now with prayers and tears I beseech you to take from me and maintain, though not as a great part of me, yet as a little piece of yourself, and whom God (in his sacred power and secret providence) may (for his honour and glory) reserve to be as much happiness to you, as I your sorrwfull daughter, and his poor mother see myself borne to affliction and misery: God will requite this your charity to him, and thereby I shall the sooner forget your unnatural unkindness and cruelty towards myself. And so may you live in as much prosperity, as I fear I shall shortly die in extreme indigence and misery.  
FERMIA.  
Her father Moron receiveth and peruseth this third Letter of his daughter Fermia, whereat being yet nothing moved in charity, or touched in compassion towards her, but only towards her young son (and his grand child) Thomaso, he returns her this short answer.  
MORON to FERMIA.  
I See thou art both wilful and obstinate in disobeying my commands with thy Letters, wherein I believe thou takest more glory, than either I conceive grief at the relation of thy wants, or sorrow at the repetition of thy miseries, the which I am so far from relieving, as I only pity it that I am thy father, but not as thou art my daughter. And yet because thy young son Thomaso is as innocent as thou art guilty of my displeasure and indignation, therefore give him to this bearer, whom I have purposely sent to receive hi●… of thee, and I will see whether it be the pleasure of God that I shall be as happy in hi●… as I am unfortunate in thyself, and if in his sacred providence he hath ordained and decreed that he prove as great a comfort to thy age, as thou art a cross and calamity to ●…ine, which if it prove so, then give God the only praise and glory, which is the best use and requital which thou canst make, or I desire.  
MORON.  
Our poor and desolate Fermia having received and overread her father's letter, although she be wonderful sorrowful at the perseverance of his cruelty towards herself, yet she is infinitely glad and joyful at his compassion and kindness towards her young son, who apparelling the very best that possibly she could, which God knows is ragged, mean, and poor) she (with a thousand sighs, tears, prayers, blessings, and kisses) gives him to her father's messenger, and to whose affection and education, as also to Gods gracious protection and preservation, she religiously recommends him; when (to her exceeding grief and sensible affliction) she sees it out of her possible power once to persuade her husband Lorenzo either to kiss or see him at his departure, as if it were no part of his affection to bless it, or of his duty to pray to God to bless it, much less to kiss it at parting. A most unkind and unnatural part of a father to his sweet and pretty young son. Which strange and discourteous ingratitude of his, it is not impossible for us to see God as strangely both to requite and revenge.  
Sorrowful Fermia having thus sent away her little son Thomaso to her father Moron at Savona, she the very same night dreams in her poor bed and house in Genova, that she shall never be so happy to see him again; when being awaked, and remembering this her sorrowful dream, she for mere grief bitterly weeps thereat, and although she would, yet she cannot possibly forget or suppress the remembrance thereof, or once put it out of her mind; so that thinking herself fortunate in placing this her little son with her father, and his Grandfather, she is now very pensive and sorrowful for his absence, because she can no longer see him, play with him, and kiss him, and is infinitely disconsolate and mournful when she thinks of her dream of him. In the mean time her lewd husband grows from bad to worse, so that her cohabitation is but a bondage with him, and her marriage and wedlock but an Indenture of slavery, and a contract of misery under him. Such is her incomparable grief, such her unparallelled afflictions and calamities.  
Five years our disconsolate Fermia lives in this rich misery, and miserable poverty with her husband, and yet all the whole world cannot persuade her father Moron to take her home to him and maintain her. She hath no consolation left her but prayers, nor remedy but enforced patience; so she arms herself with the last, and adorneth herself with the first. She was contented to beg for the maintenance of her little son Thomaso, but now being eased of that burden, she will give it over, so she works hard to get her hard and poor living, which yet she cannot get so fast as her husband spends it prodigally and lasciviously. Her care and virtues make her the pity, as his lewdness and vices make him the scorn and contempt of all their neighbours. So whiles she sits at home close at her needle in poor apparel, he idly wanders and god's abroad until he have brought his apparel to rags, and himself almost to nakedness. And here it is that her wretched husband Lorenzo now first begins to hearken to the devil, yea, to prove a very devil himself towards this his dear and virtuous wife; for he enters into a consultation with himself, that if he were once rid of his wife Fermia, he might marry some other with a good portion to maintain him, and so again set up his trade of baking which now had forsaken him, because he had viciously and unthriftily forsaken it. When his faith being as weak with God, as his infamous life and vices were odious to the world, he assumes a bloody and damnable resolution to murder her, and hereunto the Devil is still at his elbow to provoke and egg him onward, and continually blows the coals to this his malice and indignation against her: So neither his mind or heart, his conscience or soul can divert him from this fearful enterprise, and lamentable and bloody business: The which to perform and perpetrate, he on a great holiday (which was the purification of the blessed Virgin Mary) takes her with him into a Vineyard some half a mile from the City of Genova, under colour to recreate themselves, and to take the air, which God knows she poor soul takes for a great, because an unaccustomed favour and courtesy at his hands, where she most lovingly and willingly goes with him, and there feigning himself fast a sleep, and she (innocent harmless young woman) then & thereslept sound, and every way being as devoid of fear as he was of grace, he with a barbarous and diabolical cruelty, (seeing the coast clear) softly riseth up and cuts her throat, without giving her the power, time or happiness to utter one word before her death: Where leaving her weltering and goring in her blood, he speedily and politicly enters Genova by a contrary gate, thereby to avoid all suspicion of this his bloody and damnable fact.  
The very same night this her breathless murdered body is found out by some of Genova, who accidentally walked that way; and they causing it to be brought to the City, it is known by some of Lorenzo's neighbours to be his wife Fermia, whereat to add the better cloak to his knavery, and shadow to his villainy, he seems to be wonderfully sad, and passionately sorrowful for the same, and so requesteth the Criminal officers both in and about the City, to make curious research and enquiry for the murderers of his wife, which they do; but this hypocritical sadness and false sorrow of his, though (to the eye of the world) it prevail for a time, yet (to that of God's mercy and justice) in the end it shall little avail him; so he gives her a poor and obscure burial, every way unworthy the sweetness of her beauties, and the excellency of her virtues. Her father Moron hath speedy notice of this deplorable death of his daughter, who considering how she had cast away herself upon so bad a Husband as Lorenzo, though outwardly he seem to bewail and lament it, yet inwardly he much cares not for it; and for her little son Thamaso, his few years dispenceth with his capacity from understanding, much less from lamenting and mourning for this disastrous end of his mother.  
A month after the cruel murder and burial of this virtuous, yet unfortunate young woman Fermia, her bloody and execrable husband Lorenzo (is yet so devoid of fear and grace) as he goes to Savona to request his father in law Moron to give him some maintenance, in regard he had no portion from him with his wife his daughter, as also to see his son Thomaso. But Moron by his servants sends him a peremptory refusal to both these his requests, and so will neither see him, nor suffer him to see his son, but absolutely for ever forbids him his house: Whereat Lorenzo all in choler leaves Savona and returns to Genova, where selling away his wives old clothes to provide him new, he seeks many maidens and widows in marriage, but the fame of his bad life and infamous carriage and deportment with his late wife is so fresh and great, that they all disdain him; so that utterly despairing ever to raise himself and his fortunes by marriage, he forsakes and leaves Genova, inrols himself a Bandits, and for many years together practiseth that thievish profession, to the which we will eve him, and speak a little of his young and little son Thomaso.  
Old Moron trains up this his Grandchild Thomaso very virtuously and industriously, and at the age of fourteen years bids him choose and embrace any trade he best liketh: When Thomaso exceedingly delighting in limming, graving, and imagery, he becomes a Goldsmith, and in four or five years after is become a singular, expert, and skilful workman in his trade: His Grandfather loves him dearly and tenderly, and intends to make him his heir; but Thomaso (led as I think by the immediate hand and providence of God, or out of his own natural disposition and inclination) being of a gadding humour to travel abroad, and see other Cities and Countries, and having a particular itching desire to see Rome, (which he understood is one of the very prime and chief places of the world for rich and curious Goldsmiths.) He finding a french ship of Marseilles (which by contrary winds stopped in the Road of Savona bound up for Civita Vechia, very secretly packs up his trunk and trinkets and so goes along in that ship: Now as soon as his Grandfather Moron understands hereof, he very much grieves at this his rash and sudden departure: So Thomaso arrives at Civita Vechia, goes up to Hostia by sea, and thence on the River Tiber to Rome, where he becomes a singular ingenious Goldsmith, and thrives so well, as after a few years) he there keeps shop for himself and constantly builds up his residence.  
In all this long tract and progression of time, which (my true information tells me) is at least twenty four years, his father Lorenzo continues a thievish Bandits in the state of Genova and Luca, where he commits so many Lewd robberies, and strange rapines, depraedations and thefts, as that country at last becomes too hot for him, and he too obnoxious for it so he leaves it and traveleth into Thoscany, and to the fair & famous City of Florence which is the Metropolis thereof, where with the moneys he had gotten by the revenues of his robberies he again sets up his old trade of a Baker; in which profession he knew himself expert and excellent, and here he settleth himself to live and dwell, takes a fair commodious house, and looks out hard for some rich old maiden or young widow to make his new wife: But God will prevent his thoughts and frustrate his designs and desires herein: For as yet his bloody thoughts have not made their peace with his soul, nor his soul with his all seeing and righteous God for the cruel murdering of his old wife Fermia which as an impetuous storm and fierce tempest will suddenly befall him when he lest dreams or thinks hereof, yea by a manner so strange, and an accident so miraculous that former ages have seldom if ever paralleled, or givenus a precedent hereof, and wherein the power and providence, the mercy and justice of God resplends with infinite lustre and admiration, and therefore in my poor judgement and opinion) I deem it most worthy of our observation as we are men, and of our remembrance as we are christians.  
Charles now Cardinal of Medicis going up to Rome to receive his hat of this present Pope Vrban VIII. and Cosmos the great duke of Florence his Brother, (in honour to him and their illustrious blood and family whereof they are now chief (resolving to make his entry and abode in that City of Rome to be stately and magnificent: He causeth his house and train in all points to be composed of double officers and Servants to whom he gives rich and costly liveryes, and among others, our Lorenzo is found out, elected and pricked down to be one of his Bakers for his own trencher in that journey, where in Rome he flaunts it out most gallantly and bravely in rich apparel, and is still most debauched and prodigal in his expenses before any other of the Cardinal's menial Servants, without ever any more thinking or dreaming of the murdering of his wife Fermia but rather absolutely believes, that as he, so God had wholly buried the remembrance of that bloody fact of his in perpetual silence and oblivion: But the devil will deceive his hopes: For now that Lamentable murder of his, cries aloud to Heaven and to God for vengeance: Wherein we shall behold and see, that it is the providence and pleasure of God many times to punish one sin in and by another, yea and sometimes one sin for another as reserving it in the secret will and inscrutable providence, to punish Capital offenders, whereof murderers are infallibly the greatest, both when, where, and how he pleaseth, for earthly and sinful eyes, have neither the power to pry into his heavenly decrees, nor our mind and capacity to dive into his divine actions and resolutions, because many times he accelerateth or delayeth their punishments, as they shall stand most fit and requisite for his justice and their crimes.  
When therefore the Panders and strumpets, and the new pride and bravery of our Lorenzo had eaten out all his money and credit in Rome, and that (to his grief) he now saw that by no possible means he could procure or borrow any more there being infinitely unwilling to let his vice and prodigality strike sail, and so as he vainly and foolishly thinks to disgrace his Lord Cardinal's service instead of honouring it: He once was minded, and resolved to steal some gold out of the Argentiers or pay master's trunk; But then consulting with his judgement and discretion, and finding that attempt to be full of danger, ingratitude, and infamy: He buries that resolution as soon as it was borne, and then gives conception and life to another, which was to steal some pieces of plate out of a young Goldsmith's shop there in Rome with whom he was familiarly acquainted, and whose shop and company, he with divers others of his fellows) very often haunted and frequented since his coming to Rome; The which, watching and taking his time he doth, and from him takes away two fair rich guilt Chalices, and a curious small gold crucifix set with a few Saphires and Emeralds, all mounting to the value of four hundred and fifty Dukatons. This young Goldsmith (whose name we shall anon know) is amazed at this great loss, when being guided and directed by the immediate finger of God, he knows not whom to suspect or accuse for this robbery but Lorenzo the Cardinal of Florence his Baker: whom he saw, and observed did very often and too familiarly frequent his shop, and far the more doth he fortify and increase this his suspicion of him, because then making a curious enquiry and research of his former life and actions, he found both the one and the other in all points so vicious and debauched, as we have formerly understood, only the murder of his wife Fermia excepted, which as yet none but God and himself known: Whereupon well knowing that he lay not in his Lord Cardinal's palace, which as all others are privileged as sanctuaries, but in a Tailor's house near adjoining: He with an officer searched his chamber and trunk wherein he found one of his Chalices, but not the other, or the gold crucifix, which Lorenzo immediately had sold both to pay his debts, and to put some double pistols in his pockets for his vain and prodigal expenses; When hunting after this his thief Lorenzo he presently finds him, commits him to prison, and accuseth him to the Captain and judges of Rome: Who upon knowledge and sight of one of the chalices found in Lorenzo's trunk, and also upon his confession of having sold away the other, and likewise the crucifix of Gold, they condemn him to be hanged the very next day for the same, Lorenzo bitteriy weeping and fuming at this his disaster) doth most humbly sue and petition the Lord Cardinal his Master to beg his life of the Pope, who considering him to be a base Companion, and no Gentleman, and his fact (during this his service) to be very foul and scandalous, He is too Noble and wise to attempt or undertake it, and therefore becomes deaf to his requests; Whereupon Lorenzo is that night returned to his prison, where he hath leisure though not time enough, to think upon his conscience and soul, upon the baseness of this his robbery, and the foulness and bloodiness of murdering his wife Fermia.  
The next morning he is brought to his death, at the common place of execution at the Bridge foot, in a little walled court close to the castle of Saint Angelo, where a world of people flock from all parts of Rome to see the Cardinal of Florence his Baker take his last leave of the world, and being the night before prepared by a Friar, in his soul's journey towards heaven, as soon as he ascended the Ladder, he there confesseth this his robbery: And likewise that his name was Andrea Lorenzo, and that he (about some Twenty and three years since) murdered his own wife named Fermia Moron in a vineyard near Genova, whereof he saith he will no longer charge his soul: The which the young Goldsmith (whose name was Thomaso Lorenzo over hearing) he presently bursts forth into tears, and very passionately and sorrowfully cries out, that this man on the Ladder is his own Father; and that Fermia Moron was his own Mother, and therefore he with a world of sobs, sighs, and tears prayeth the Officers, and then the Executioner of justice to forbear, and leave the prisoner for a small while, which accordingly they do: When at the descent of his Father from the Ladder: Thomaso (in presence of all that huge number of people who were present) throws himself at his feet, and seeming to drown himself in his tears for sorrow, confesseth himself to be his Son, and acknowledgeth Fermia Moron to be his mother, and therefore prays him to forgive him this his innocent ingratitude towards him, in seeking his death of whom he had received his own life: And although the consideration of his mother's lamentable Murder doth pierce him to the heart with grief, yet knowing him likewise to be his Father, and himself his Son, he freely and willingly offers the Captain of Rome, and the judges all his Estate to save his Father's life, but this his robberes is so foul, and that former murder of his so inhuman and lamentable, yea so odious to God and the world, and so execrable to men and Angels that none will presume or dare to speak in his behalf: So the next day Lorenzo is hanged, having first freely forgiven his Son Thomaso, and entreated him likewise to forgive him for murdering of his mother, and for any other thing else, he at his death said little: But cursed the name and memory of that miserable and covetous wretch his Father in Law Moron, whose unkindness and cruelty he said had occasioned and brought him to all this misery. But he spoke not a word of his grief or sorrow for having murdered his wife Fermia Moron; Only he said and believed that this his untimely death was a just revenge and punishment of God to him for the same.  
The common sort of the Spectators and people of Rome, seemed to tax the Cardinal of Florence his Master for not saving this his Baker's life: but the wiser and more religious sort, applauded his generosity and piety for not attempting it from the Pope: But all do admire and wonder at God's sacred providence and divine justice in making the Son the cause and instrument of his father's hanging for murdering of his mother, the which indeed gave cause of speech and matter of wonder to Rome, Genova, Savona, and Florence, yea to all Italy: And thus was the wicked life and deserved death of this bloody Villain Lorenzo, and in this manner did the justice of the Lord triumph o'er his crime in his punishment. And as for his Son Thomaso (the Goldsmith) after this infamous and scandalous death of his Father, he could no longer content himself to live in Rome, but returned to Savona to his Grandfather Moron, who received him with many demonstrations of joy, and affection, and after his death made him sole heir to all his wealth and Estate.  
To God be all the Glory.   
FINIS.   

Decemb. XII. 1633.  
Recensui hunc librum cui titulus (The fourth Book of God's Revenge against the crying and execrable sin of wilful and premeditated Murder) unâ cum Epistola Dedicatoriâ ad Honoratissimum Dominum Philip: Com. Pemb. & Montgom. qui quidem liber continet paginas 93. in quibus nihil reperio sanae doctrinae aut bonis moribus contrarium, quo minus cum utilitate publicâ imprimatur, ita tamen ut si non intrá decem menses typis mandetur, haec licentia fit omnino irrita.  
Guilielmus Haywood. Archiep. Cant. Capellanus domesticus.   

THE TRIUMPHS OF GOD'S REVENGE AGAINST THE CRYING AND Execrable Sin of Murder.  
Expressed In thirty several Tragical Histories, (digested into six Books) which contain great variety of mournful and memorable Accidents, Amorous, Moral, and Divine.  
Book V.  
Written by JOHN REYNOLDS.  
VERITAS TEMPORE PATET OCCULTA  
RS   printer's or publisher's device 
LONDON, Printed for WILLIAM LEE; and are to be sold at his shop in Fleetstreet, at the sign of the Turks Head, near the Mitre Tavern.  
1634.   

TO THE RIGHT HONOURABLE (AND TRULY NOBLE) FRANCIS, Lord RUSSELL, Baron of Thornehaugh, and Earl of Bedford.  
RIGHT HONOURABLE,  
WHEN I had the honour to refer, to that Valiant, Wise, and Honest Nobleman, Arthur, Lord Chichester, Baron of Belfast (whose sublime merits do here justly deserve and challenge this Testimony from my Duty, That he was too good for Earth, and therefore is now so soon crowned a Saint in Heaven) I then had first the happiness to know, and to be known of your Honour at your Cheswicke; In whom (because I ever hold it a far less crime to speak the truth, then either to silence or dissemble it) I then found so many prints and stamps of true honour, and Characters of ancient Goodness and Nobility, that (with a pleasing content and delectation) I was enforced to be again and again enamoured of Virtue and Honour for your sake, and reciprocally, to love and respect your Lordship for both their sakes. Since when (out of your generosity, not my expectation or deserts) your Honour was pleased to confer a favour on me, the which though you forget, yet the remembrance thereof I will (with equal Zeal, and Ambition) strive to make as eternal, as I know myself to be mortal and transitory. You are a Religious Christian, and a true hearted Englishman; and therefore as it is your glory, so it is our happiness, that you are both a constant Lover of God and his Church, and a firm and faithful honourer of your Prince and Country; and you are now Lord Lieutenant (under our Royal and Gracious Sovereign) of that famous County of Devon, and fair, and honourable City of Excester, to which I owe my nativity; and in both which the russel's (Earls of Bedford) your Noble Ancestors have condignly left behind them many honourable Trophies of their Valour, and sweet and precious perfumes of their Virtue.  
These premises being so powerful in truth, and so considerable and prevalent in Reason, I therefore flatter myself with this hope, that your Honour will attribute it rather to Duty, than Presumption in me, If I now publicly attempt to proffer and sacrifice up something to the Honour of your Illustrious Name, and to the Dignity of your resplendent Virtues: Missing therefore of that desired happiness (by some rare, or elaborate piece) sufficiently to testify to your Lordship and to the whole world, what you are to me in the height of Honour, and what I am, and desire to be found of you in the lowness of Observance and Humility, It will therefore be no less my Felicity, than your Goodness, If you vouchsafe to accept and patronise this my fifth Book of foreign Tragical Histories, and also please to permit them to travel and seek their Fortunes abroad in the world, under the auspicious Planet, and authentical Passport of your Noble Protection, wherein you may behold and see, how sound, how sacredly the justice of God meets with this crying and scarlet Sin of Murder, which (in these our depraved, and sinful times) in contempt of the Laws of Heaven and Earth, make so lamentable and so prodigious a progression; and how sharply and severely it (deservedly) punisheth (those Butchers, and Monsters of Nature) the perpetrators thereof; And if I may borrow (for I desire not to usurp) any part of your Lordship's hours of leisure to give first to the Knowledge, and then to the Contemplation of these Histories, and the several Accidents which they report and relate, I shall then triumph in my good fortune, as having obtained that Honour and Favour, which I ingenuously acknowledge, I am far more capable to desire then deserve.  
I come now to implore pardon of your Honour for this my Presumption, in inscribing and adventuring so mean a work to your noble acceptance. And I have ended this my Epistle, as soon as began, to assure you, That I will ever (religiously) pray unto God to accumulate all prosperities and blessings on your Honour; as also on your most Virtuous Countess, and successively on your Honourable and Flourishing Posterity, who now promise no less than a happy and famous perpetuity to your thrice Noble Name, and Family.  
Your Honours in all Duty and Service, JOHN REYNOLDS.   

THE GROUNDS AND CONTENTS OF THESE HISTORIES.  

HISTORY. XXI. Babtistyna and Amarantha poison their Eldest Sister jaquinta, after which Amarantha causeth her servants, Bernardo and Pierya to stifle her elder Sister Babtistyna in her Bed. Bernardo flying away, breaks his neck with the fall off his Horse, Pierya is hanged for the same, so likewise is Amarantha, and her body after burnt; Bernardo being buried, his body is again taken up, and hanged to the Gallows by his feet, then burnt and his ashes thrown into the River.  
HISTORY. XXII. Martino poisoneth his Brother Pedro, and murthereth Monfredo in the street; He afterwards grows mad, and in confession reveals both these his murders to Father Thomas his Ghostly Father, who afterwards dying, reveals it by his Letter to Cecilliana, who was Widow to Monfredo, and Sister to Pedro and Martino. Martino hath first his right hand cut off, and then is hanged for the same.  
HISTORY. XXIII. Alphonso poisoneth his own Mother Sophia, and after shoots and kills Cassino (as he was walking in his Garden) with a short Musket (or Carabyne) from a Window. He is beheaded for those two murders, then burnt, and his ashes thrown into the River.  
HISTORY XXIV. Pont Chausey kills La Roche in a Duel. Quatbrisson causeth Moncallier (an Apothecary) to poison his own Brother Valfontaine, Moncallier after falls, and breaks his neck from a pair of stairs. Quatbrisson likewise causeth his Father's Miller to murder and strangle Marieta in her Bed, and to throw her body into his Mill-Pond, Pierot the Miller is broken alive on a wheel, and Quatbrisson first beheaded, then burnt for the same.  
HISTORY. XXV. Vasti first murthereth his Son George, and next poisoneth his own Wife Hester, and being afterwards almost killed by a mad Bull in the Fields, he revealeth these his two murders, for the which he is first hanged, and then burnt.    

THE TRIUMPHS OF GOD'S REVENGE AGAINST THE CRYING, AND EXECRABLE sin of Murder.  

HISTORY XXI.  
Babtistyna and Amarantha poison their Eldest Sister jaquinta, after which, Amarantha causeth her servants Bernardo and Pierya to stifle her Elder Sister Babtistyna in her bed; Bernardo flying, breaks his neck with the fall off his Horse, Pierya is hanged, so likewise is Amarantha and her body af●…er burnt, Bernardo being buried, his body is again taken up, hanged to the Gallows by his feet, then burnt, and his ashes thrown into the air.  
THe Golden times being past, what doth this Iron or flinty age of ours produce, but Thorns for Roses, and Brambles for Lilies, I mean, bloody and barbarous acts in stead of deeds of Compassion and works of Charity. Not but that Christianity (as a fair and glorious veil) covereth the face of Europe, as the firmament of Heaven doth that of Earth; and that (by the mercy of God) there are now great variety of learned and godly Preachers, who (by the sanctity of their lives, and the purity of their Doctrine) spend the greatest part both of their time, and of themselves to propagate Virtue, and Piety in us, and consequently to root out vice and Sin from among us; But it is the vanity of our thoughts, the corruption of our depraved Natures, the infirmity of our judgements, the weakness of our Faith, the coldness of our Zeal, and our neglect of prayer, which sometimes (O that I might not say too too often) transporteth ourselves, beyond ourselves, and our resolutions and actions beyond the bounds of reason, yea and violently carrieth us to desperate and inhuman attempts, which this next deplorable History will so apparently and perspicuously verify unto us, that we shall difficultly read it without sighs, nor understand it without tears, at least if we have but the sparks of so much Charity in our hearts, and Piety in our Souls as the unfortunate authors, and miserable actors hereof wanted.  
IF Tuscany be the beauty & glory of Italy, than Florence (the capital City thereof) must needs be that of Tuscany; or else it could not so justly and generally deserve that true and excellent Epithet of fair. It is a City which hath given both life and being to the Illustrious family of the Medicis, (or as some affirm, they to it.) The worst grounds about it are V●…eyardes, and the best are dainty Meadows, and delicate Gardens, or rather their Gardens are Meadows for their spaciousness, and their Meadows are Gardens for their fertility & beauty. It is divided and crossed in two parts by the famous River Arno, and that river again by two stately Bridges curiously embellished and adorned with many Marble and Alabaster Statues. The streets hereof are well paved, broad and long; the buildings (for the most part) rather Palaces then private houses, and the Temples for sumptuousness and beauty, nothing inferior to the best, and richest of Italy, especially the two most sumptuous and unparallelled Chapels of the Babtistaria, and Saint Lorenzo, as also the Domo, and Campanella (which is the Tower) thereof, it being a most magnificent and stately Cathedral Church, which not only catcheth our eye with wonder, but surpriseth our thoughts with admiration, as all our English Noblemen and Gentlemen Travellers, do (peradventure) know far better than myself; I say in this rich and fair City of Florence, near the Church of the Dominican Friars, in the latter days of the great Duke Ferdinand, there dwelled an ancient, virtuous, and generous Cavalier, named Signior Leonardo Streni, descended of a Noble family, near to the City of Pistoia, where his Ancestors left him many fair demeans, and a very rich Patrimony, the which (through his Frugality, Virtue and Wisdom, the true foundation of most of the chiefest houses, and best families of Italy) he managed and improved so well, that within the space of twenty years he became exceeding rich and oppulent; but near about this time, that the sweetness of his content, might receive some check of bitter affliction, to show him that man is subject to God, and that there is no perfect or permanent felicity here on Earth, his Lady Alcydina died, which brought him much sorrow and affliction, having only yet this joy and consolation left him, that he had by her in marriage, three proper young Ladies to his Daughters, named, jaquinta, Babtistyna and Amarantha, who albeit, he hoped would prove the stays and comforts of his Age, yet they will futurely afford him, far less felicity, and more misery than he can expect, or my Readers (as yet) any way conceive or imagine, the which, to approve and verify, they are by me prayed to understand, and remember, that these two youngest Daughters, Babtistyna, and Amarantha, are wonderful fair and beautiful, of a reasonable tall stature, very straight and slender; But jaquinta, the eldest Daughter is of a brown complexion, short, and Crooke-backd, but she hath this sleight, that her Tailor's art serves to overvayle the defects, and to cover the deficiency of her Nature; and she herself hath the skill to put on fresh tincture and complexion on her face, vices which the purity and simplicity of former Ages were not acquainted with, or else purposely disdained and hated, although the pride and vanity of these our times do ambitiously allow and practise them. Again, jaquinta is proud and stately, Babtistyna choleric, sullen, and revengeful, and Amarantha (to the eye and judgement of the world) pleasant and courteous. Have we but a little patience, and we shall shortly see each of these three Sisters, appear in their true colors, and in very different ways to act their several parts upon the Stage and Theatre of this their History.  
Streni seeing himself a widower, not so much favoured of God to have any Son to enjoy his name and Lands, and all his three Daughters to be now capable of marriage; He (as a provident and loving Father) holds it a great point of affection and discretion in him now to leave his Manor house of Cardura near Pistoia, and to betake himself to live and reside in Florence, hoping thereby with less difficulty, and far more advantage, to look out and provide fit Husbands for his daughters, answerable to their rank and degree; which disposition and resolution of his pleased them well, and administered them cause of great content and joy, siith it is now grown to a custom, and a habit, that young Ladies and Gentlewomen do infinitely desire to live in great Towns and Cities, where they may see, and be seen, and especially in those of Italy, more than in any Country of the World, where the whole Nobility and Gentry make all their abode and residence, the which indeed is one of the main points, and essential reasons, why their Cities are so rich, populous, and fair.  
Thus we see Streni and his three Daughters by this time come to Florence, and dwell (as I have formerly said) near the Monastery of the Dominican Friars, where his wealth, birth, and port, cause him to be visited and frequented of the best and noblest sort of that City, and as the time of his residence, so the number of his acquaintance increaseth, for virtue is capable to purchase friends every where, and his wealth and Daughters beauties like so many powerful Lures and Adamants draw many young gallant Gentleman to his house to see and serve them; Where although Babtistyna and Amarantha, are beloved and sought in marriage of many, yet their Father is resolute to marry their eldest Sister jaquinta first, wherefore when any noblemen or Gentlemen come to his house, she is to be seen, and courted, but Babtistyna and Amarantha are mewed and fast locked up in a Chamber. They grieve hereat, but they can neither alter nor remedy this their Father's resolution, for his word must be their Oracle, and his will their Law. Now before I proceed farther in the dilation of this History, as I one way commend Streni his resolution to marry his eldest daughter first, so yet in approving his discretion for her preferment, I must nevertheless tax his want of affection, in hindering that of his two youngest daughters; For as it was a courtesy of him to have jaquinta seen of Suitors, so it was a degree of disrespect, I may say, of cruelty in him to confine Babtistyna and Amarantha as prisoners to their Chambers, when divers of them came purposely and honourably to his house, both to see and seek them in marriage.  
But jaquinta (armed with her father's love and authority) grows extremely imperious and stately; She triumpheth in conceit to see herself preferred of her father before her Sisters. She sees her two sisters Babtistyna and Amarantha are sued and sought for in marriage by divers Cavaliers, and the very consideration hereof grieves, and the remembrance afflicts her, but withal she observes, that they dare not disobey, or contradict their father's command, to affect or speak with any, and therefore the very knowledge and remembrance hereof, again rejoiceth her. As it is a happiness for us to purchase friends, so it is a misery to lose them. Her Sisters love her, but she loves not them, they are as unworthy of her hatred, as she is of their affection. Nature (indeed) hath given her the prerogative, and privilege, but yet she should consider, that they are her Sisters, and not her Servants, and that their blood is hers, and hers theirs. It is an argument both of indiscretion and insolency, for one Brother or Sister to think themselves better than another; But many Gentlewomen, who are Sisters, esteem pride a second beauty, or at least an excellent Grace and Ornament to them, and therefore to prefer and elevate themselves, they care not how they disparage and deject others. The beauty of Babtistyna and Amarantha is an eyesore to jaquinta. The tree of malice never produceth good fruit. It is still a happy virtue for us to check and vanquish our own vices. She knows that many Gentlemen love them, but sees and observes with grief, that none affect her. Her desire to marry is so immodestly licentious and boundless, as she could willingly resolve to accept of any Gentleman for her husband, that would be content to take her for his wife: but Incontinency proves still a pernicious counsellor to young Ladies and Gentlewomen. Now, as Cantharideses fly still to the fairest flowers; so she sees (and indeed infinitely bites the lip, and grieves to see) that all Lovers and Suitors fly to one of these her two Sisters, and wholly abandon and forsake herself: but being a woman, she wants not an invention to apply a present remedy to this her discontent and choler. She must have her Sister's beauties and braveries eclipsed, that hers may appear more bright, and resplend and shine with more lustre and glory: She knows that Crystal seems precious when Diamonds are not in place; to which end, she very passionately, and yet subtly works upon the affections of her Father, and obtains of him, that as her years, so her apparel may excel and exceed that of her Sisters, the which he inconsiderately grants her; and this she receives and conceives to be a step to her advancement, and an obstacle to theirs. So if they formerly grieved to see themselves imprisoned in a chamber, whiles she to her content and pleasure rejoiceth both to see, and be seen of Gentlemen: So now their discontent thereof grows into choler, and their choler into rage, to see this their elder sister jaquinta not only to step some degrees beyond them, but likewise many beyond herself in her apparel.  
It is ever a wise and discreet virtue in Parents to distribute their favours and affections equally to their Children, or if they chance to affect one better than others, at least that they be so reserved and cautious, as to conceal it secretly to themselves, that the rest may neither perceive nor know it. That Streni sought to marry jaquinta before Babtistyna and Amarantha (as I formerly have said) he did well, but yet to make them lose when they might find and gain a fortune, was withal to be indiscreet, if not unnatural. men's fancies and affections in marriage are many times counselled and led by the eye, as the eye is by the heart. Some will prize and affect beauty without virtue, others virtue without beauty; but where both meet and concur, it doth not only please, but delight, and so jointly sympathise to make each other excellent. Many of the best and noblest Cavaliers of Florence love Babtistyna and Amarantha, but not jaquinta; or if they seem to court jaquinta, it is but with a reserved hope and intent to enjoy the sight and company of Babtistyna and Amarantha: but as jealousy and Malice have always four eyes in stead of two; so it is at least a torment, if not many deaths, to jaquinta, to see her two Sisters to live and be beloved of all Suitors, and herself of none; the which to prevent, and so to stop the progress of their triumphs, and consequently of her own discontent and affliction, she (not desirous to have two such stars of beauty to appear and shine together in the firmament of her Father's house in Florence) doth so secretly undermine, and so cunningly prevail with him, as her two sisters (when they least dream or think thereof) are by his order and command suddenly sent away by Coach to his Country house of Cardura, near Pistoia (whereof we have already made mention) notwithstanding all their requests, sighs, and tears to the contrary, and there by his appointment to be privately and disconsolately shut up, from any access or conversation of any man whatsoever, and under the charge and custody of an old ill-favoured Beldame (sometimes their Schoolmistris) named Dona Malevola.  
Babtistyna and Amarantha, being enforced to banishment from Florence to Cardura, believed that it proceeded as well by the pride and malice of their Sister jaquinta as by the severity of their Father; They know not from what Saint to implore aid or assistance, or from what point their Art, or Invention to expect for hope or redress hereof; But at length (being constrained to make a Virtue of Necessity) they brook this their disgrace, with as much patience as they may, no way doubting (much less despairing) but that a little time will work a great alteration in their Estates and Fortunes; But seeing a month passed over, and their Keeper Malevola, still more and more bend to restrain them of their liberty, without suffering them to see or speak with any stranger, or any stranger with them, they at last recollect, and pluck up their spirits to themselves, and so resolve to write a fair Letter to their Father, and a peremptory one to their Sister jaquinta, to procure their return to Florence, which they do, and send it by one Bernardo a trusty Servant of theirs, That to their Father spoke thus.  
BABTISTYNA and AMARANTHA to STRENI.  
IT is with much astonishment and grief to us, that you have so suddenly banished us from your presence, and from Florence, to live here rather as Prisoners, than your Daughters, in your Country house of Cardura; And having the honour to be so great a part of yourself, we do not a little wonder what our Errors or Crimes should be, that we must be enforced to be deprived of that felicity, and to taste and suffer this misery. If we have been sought or sued unto by any Noblemen or Gentlemen, it hath been in the way of marriage, and therefore in that of honour, and yet we have still so strictly tied our fancies to our Duties, and our affections to our obedience towards you, that in the least degree we have not swerved from your consent, but have done, and do still inviolably make your Pleasure therein our resolution, and your Will and Commands our Law. But we are confident that although you are the cause, yet that our Sister jaquinta is the sole Author of this our sorrowful and immerited sequestration; Who (peradventure) in regard that her beauty comes short of ours, that her Malice therefore must not only exceed the bounds of Reason, but of Nature. And although she allege her Privilege and Prerogative of years against us, yet because our blood is as good as hers, and our Hearts and Education no worse, therefore we humbly beseech you to be so favourable, and kind to us, that in regard her Malice and Pride hath made her our Accuser, and which is worse our Enemy, that you will not make her our judge, but that we may speedily reobtain the happiness to return and live with you in Florence, without which we shall assuredly either live here in Despair, or shortly dye in Discontent and Misery: Which request of ours is so just and equal, as you cannot deny it to us either in affection or nature, much less in Reason or pity. God ever bless you with happiness, and make us happy in your blessing.  


BABTISTYNA.  
AMARANTHA.    
Their Letter to their Sister jaquinta depainted these passions.  
BABTISTYNA and AMARANTHA to JAQVINTA.  
HAving curiously examined our thoughts and actions, we cannot find the least shadow of cause, much less of Reason, why thou shouldst so sharply exasperate our Father ●…ainst us, so suddenly to banish and exile us from Florence to Cardura, neither do we ●…ke it is for that we are fairer than thyself, but that thou art more malicious than us, ●…ch hath occasioned thee, and thou precipitated him to this sharp resolution against us. If thou art desirous of a Husband, let it content thee, that as yet we no way intendor desire to become Wives to any, and therefore if thou wilt not believe us, at least believe this truth from us, that thou hast far more reason to doubt thine own haste, than any way to suspect or fear ours therein, for whiles thou prayest for a Husband, we will first make it our Prayers to God, that we may be capable and happy to deserve good ones. We advise thee therefore in Love, and counsel thee in Affection and Charity, to consider seriously with thyself, that we are thy Sisters, not thy Servants, much less thine Enemies; and in that regard that we are as unworthy of thy malice, as unwilling and uncapable to digest it, because the priority of thy years can no way justly introduce an inequality in our blood; and if thou wilt not enforce us to degenerate from ourselves, and consequently from the nature and affection of Sisters, thou shalt do us great right, and to thyself more reason, to cause our Father to recall us home to him, with as much celerity and favour, as he sent us away from him with discourtesy and indignation.  


BAPTISTYNA.  
AMARANTHA.    
The Lackey Bernardo arriving to Florence, and having delivered these two Letters to Streni and jaquinta, they breaking up the seals thereof, perused and read over their Contents; when he smiling to see the indiscretion of these his two daughters, attributed this their disobedience towards him, and their discontent towards their sister jaquinta, rather to ignorance and simplicity, then to malice, and yet he could not but wonder at this their bold and peremptory Letter sent him: But for jaquinta, she was so galled and nettled with her two sisters insolent carriage and Letter towards her, that it exceedingly troubled and perplexed her, but especially, and far the more, for that she feared that their Letter to her Father might cause him to grant their return to Florence, the which to her possible power she would no way willingly permit or suffer, as desirous to rule and govern her Father alone, and so to reign sole Lady over his humours and house, without rivals or competitors: to which end she goes to him, and in the softest and sweetest terms which either her art, or malice could invent, she extremely incenseth him against her Sisters, alleging to him that their stay in Cardura was necessary, and their disobedient motion for their return to Florence too insolent and insupportable, and that she hoped with confidence, that he would not permit their malice so unjustly to fall and reflect on her, because she was as innocent as they guilty thereof; and that for any thought and desire of a husband she vowed she had none, but that his will and pleasure should in all things be hers, as resolving both to live under his commands, and to dye in his favour and service: Which sugared and treacherous speeches of hers so prevailed and vanquished the credulity of her old Father, yea and so powerfully wrought and trenched upon his affections, that being all in choler against Babtislyna and Amarantha, he resolves with himself to return them a sharp answer, and commands jaquinta to do the like, the which they both write and send back to them by Bernardo, who returning to Cardura, he delivereth his two young Ladies and Mistresses these two Letters, and they speedily and privately retiring themselves to a close shadowed arbour in the Garden, they there with much earnest desire and impatiency, first break up that of their Father, wherein contrary to their hopes, but not to their fears, they find this language.  
STRENI to BABTISTYNA and AMARANTHA.  
IF it be not purposely to cross your own good fortunes, you would not so rashly and perem●… torily have attempted to cross my good intentions and affection towards you, in sendi●… you to Cardura, but would have brooked it with as much patience as I see you do with discontent, and before this act of your disobedience, now revealed me in your Letter, I held you for my Daughters, not for mine enemies, and my house of Cardura to be rather a Palace then a Prison for you: So if you knew how ill those errors of yours become you, you would rather redeem them with repentance and tears, then remember them either with the least thought of delight, or conceit, or sense of joy. Nay think with yourselves what modesty it was, what wisdom it is, for your green youth to presume (or to dare presume) to teach my grey age how, or when, to chase you husbands, when God knows that neither your years, nor your discretion, do as yet make you capable to think of husbands; and if you have any judgement remaining in you, then judge with yourselves how false and incongruous your reasons are, when in words you pretend to obey my commands, and yet in effects you wilfully oppose and contradict them. And having used me with so small respect, see again with how much untruth and envy you abuse your sister jaquinta, who to my knowledge is as innocent of those false aspersions of pride and malice towards you, as yourselves are guilty of them towards her, sith she loves nothing more, and you affect nothing less than humility and charity, their contraries; for believe me I find her to be your true friend, and yourselves to be the greatest and only enemies to yourselves; for otherwise you cannot live in the smallest degree of despair, discontent, or misery, because such is my care of your education and maintenance, that no young Ladies of Tuscanie, and few of Italy, of your rank and quality, are brought up in more bravery, delight, and honour, the which my indulgency and affection shall still continue to you, if your disobedience and folly henceforth give me no farther motive to the contrary: and therefore as you tender my blessing, I charge you to make it your delight and practice to think of God, not of Husbands; of your love to your sister jaquinta, not of her hatred to you; and of your prayerbooks, your Lutes, and your Needles, and not of such vain conceits, and passions, wherewith you have stuffed and farced up your Letter to me; the which, together with the Copy of this of mine to you, I now enclose and return to your Governess Malevola, that she hereafter may be more careful of your conduction and carriage, and that you give more hours to discretion and honour, and less to idleness and vanity, to the end that she seeing her fault in yours, she may thereby the better futurely know how to teach, and you how to learn to reform them. And so I beseech God who hath made you my Daughters, to bless, and make you his faithful servants.  
STRENI.  
They having thus perused their Father's Letter, and seen his spleen and passions towards them, they cannot so much accuse him of choler, as they believe they have reason to condemn their sister jaquinta of cruelty towards them; wherefore with more speed than affection, and with more haste than charity, they likewise break up the seals of her Letter, wherein she greets them thus.  
JAQVINTA to BABTISTYNA and AMARANTHA.  
I Am so far from incencing, or precipitating our Father against you, as I vow to God, and to you, that his sending of you from Florence to Cardura, was not only without my consent, but without my knowledge; and for calling in question either the thought of your beauties, or of my husbands, you equally wrong me, and the truth therein; for it is that most whereof I trouble my heart and mind least: and therefore my haste to marry comes infinitely short of your jealousy and fear; and except it be out of your pride and malice, of Sisters to become mine enemies herein, I know no cause in Nature, and less reason in Grace, why those false suggestions of yours should fall within the compass of your conceits, or those untrue scandals within the power of your heart and pen, and it is as vain as ridiculous either for your love or counsel ever to think to make me believe or conceive the contrary. As for the priority of my years, it shall never make me esteeme-worse-of you then of myself; for my conscience to God, and my actions to the world shall still make it apparent, that although you contemn my friendship, I will yet corroborate and cherish yours, and that there shall want no good will or zeal in me, that (according to your desires and expectation) our father do not speedily recall you from Cardura to Florence, where your presences shall still be my happiness, and your company my content and felicity: And except your deportments and carriage towards me give me not henceforth just cause to divert me from this sisterly affection and resolution, I am constantly resolved both to live and dye in the same.  
JAQVINTA.  
Babtistyna and Amarantha having thus read and considered these two several Letters of their Father and Sister jaquinta, they are infinitely incensed and choleric to see his discourtesy, and her dissimulation and cruelty towards them, in that they must be enforced to live a solitary country life in Cardura, whiles she triumphs in pride, and flants it out in bravery in Florence; and as they much repine and murmur at his disaffection, so they infinitely disdain and complain of her imperious courses and carriage towards them, adding no belief to her Letter, but judging it to be hypocritical. They pity the weakness of their Father's judgement, in suffering himself to be so violently transported and carried away by the subtle policy and secret malice of their Sister towards them; wherein although their duty and obedience do some way excuse his age, yet their blood and beauty can no way possibly dispense with the pride and malice of her youth, which they hourly see confirmed and made apparent in the unaccustomed strict and hard usage of their Governess Malevola towards them, which with her best endeavours and ambition sought as well to captivate their minds as their persons, by making herself to be as much their Gaoler as their Governess; but they vow to requite her unkindness, and to revenge their Sister Iaquinta's cruelty towards them: They see her deformity in their beauty, her malice in their love, and her pride in their humility; so they alter the course of their natural affection, and now decline, in stead of increasing, in sisterly love and charity towards this their Sister. To go retrograde in virtue, is to go forwards in vice; for as it is the mark, so it is the duty of Christians to render good for evil, but not evil for good: yea, all contrary examples and Axioms are ill taught, and worse practised, and it is to be feared, that the end thereof will produce at least sorrow, if not misery and destruction.  
But Baptistyna and Amarantha are too young and wilful to make good use of their Sister Iaquinta's bad affection, and malicious carriage towards them; for else, had they had as much wit as beauty, or as much affection as malice, they would then fly that which they follow, and detest this bloody design and resolution of theirs, which they now intent to embrace and put in practice. They are weary of their Sisters hard usage of them, they cannot digest her imperiousness and pride, and (in all outward semblance and appearance) if they stay from marriage till she be married, they may all dye Maids, and as our English adage goes, Whi●… Apes in hell for company. They prefer their beauty before hers, as much as she●… doth her age before theirs, and deeming it impossible for them to have husband●… ere she be a wife, they thereupon abandon all reason and religion, and so at one time begin both to desire and to plot her death; and of these two wretched Sisters Babtistyna is the most forwards in this their intended deplorable business; for she is so weak with God, and Satan so strong with her, that she says often to herself, she can reap no content in this world, before her Sister jaquinta see another. It were better for us not to foresee a sin, then seeing it, not to prevent, but perpetrate it. To which end, she purposely le's fall some words to her Sister Amarantha, tending, and bending that way; but Amarantha is too courteous to be so cruel, and too religious to be so outrageous and diabolical to any, especially to her Sister: had she lived in the piety, and persevered in the integrity of this opinion and conscience, peradventure her days had seen: better fortunes, and her end been freed from so much misery. It is not enough for us to be virtuous and godly, except we religiously and faithfully continue therein; for constancy in all good and pious actions, makes men and women excellent, and of being wholly mortal, to become (in a manner) partly divine: But (to report truth in her naked colours) Amarantha is too weak to resist her Sister Babtistyna's strong temptations and persuasions. It is an excellent virtue and happiness in us, to have our ears still open to good counsel, and shut to that which is evil and pernicious: but Amarantha hoping and desiring to gain a good Husband, makes her in a small time consent to the loss of a bad Sister; and now she is therefore fully resolved to join with Baptistyna, to make jaquinta away, Good God, what cruelty, rage, and barbarism is it for two Sisters to resolve to murder their third! But this is not all; for we shall see more blood spilt upon the Theatre of this History, before we see the Catastrophe thereof. These two unnatural young Gentlewomen having thus swapped a bargain with the Devil to dispatch their Sister jaquinta, they now consult on the manner thereof, whether or no, they should perform it, with Poniard, or Poison; but at last they agree upon Poison, but disagree which of them shall administer it to her, and if there were anysparke of grace remaining in either of these two bloody minded Sisters, it was in Amarantha; for she cannot find in her heart or conscience to do it, and yet she is so graceless and impious, as she freely gives way to the performance of this bloody fact; so in the end, they fall upon this ungodly resolution, that Lots must decide it: thus the Devil holds, and they as his infernal factors and agents, draw them, and it falls to Babtistyna to do it. But here ere they proceed farther in the progress of this lamentable business, and how to execute it, they are now assailed with a doubt and difficulty of no mean importance; for as they hold it requisite for them to perform this Murder in Florence, so they know not how to escape from their watchful Governess Malevola from Cardura: but they are Women, and therefore they will be industrious in their malice; they are Ladies, and therefore they will be swift and subtle in their revenge; for having gold (though not their liberty at their command) they resolve that the first shall speedily procure the second: To which end, they, by their servant Bernardo, secretly hire a Coach for four Duckatons, the next night to carry them away very closely and privately from Cardura to Florence, and with so many more to corrupt the Gardener to give him the Key of the Garden Postern gate; both which (with much care, fidelity, and silence) he effecteth, being himself only by them apppointed to attend, and commanded to accompany them in this their ●…ourney.  
These two revengeful Sisters having thus given order for their escape, and secret●…y packed up such things as they held necessary to carry with them, as soon as their Governess Malevola was in bed and fast asleep, who was as innocent as they were guilty of this their clandestine departure, in comes Bernardo about midnight to their chamber door, to which giving a soft knock, they presently descend the stairs with him to the Garden, and from thence to the Coach, wherein seating themselves, they leave Cardura, and so with great speed drive away for Florence, where they arrive to their Father's house, betwixt nine or ten of the clock the next morning, he much wondering, and their sister jaquinta extremely perplexed and grieved at this their sudden and unexpected arrival, they cast themselves at their Father's feet, and crave his blessing and excuse, but he receives them with more anger than joy, and so gives them frowns and checks in stead of Kisses: He hears their reasons of their unlooked for departure from Cardura, which he rejects both with contempt and choler, sharply reproves their disobedience, and voweth speedily to return them; they answer him, that his presence is the sole felicity and glory of their life, and that they had rather dye with him in Florence, then live without him in Cardura. As for their Sister jaquinta, she dissembles her love to them, as they do their malice to her; for whiles she secretly wisheth them out of Florence, so (in counterchange) do they as silently wish & desire her in heaven: but after a day or two was passed over, than their hypocrisy and dissimulation was such each to other, as (to the eye of the world) it seemed they could not be better friends, nor dearer or kinder Sisters, than now they were; so artificially could all of them overvaile their malice, and so cunningly could they conceal their different intentions, thereby the better to compose their countenances and speeches. But when jaquinta again perceives that the Gallants of Florence do afresh repair and flock to her Father's house, purposely to neglect her, and to admire and adore the excellent beauties of these her two younger Sisters, than her old jealousy revives, and inflame her new malice towards them; so as with all her power and art, she again secretly tampers with her Father, either to return them again to Cardura, or to contract and espouse them to a Nunnery, that she might thereby triumph alone at her pleasure, and being then sole heir to all his lands and estate, might wed herself to the greater fortune, and nobler Husband; and she wanted neither sighs nor tears to draw him to this her earnest desire and resolution.  
This is not so secretly borne betwixt their Father and Sister jaquinta, but Babtistyna and Amarantha have present and pregnant notice hereof, the which strongly and fully to prevent, they (now encouraged and animated by the Devil) resolve to reduce, and draw their bloody contemplation into action, and so (with more haste then good speed) to dispatch their Sister for heaven, because they loved Florence, disdained Cardura, and above all (from their hearts and souls) infinitely detested to spend and end their days in a Nunnery; when neither having the fear of God in their hearts, nor his justice or judgements before their eyes, Amarantha buys the poison, and Babtistyna administereth it to their Sister jaquinta, in a Lemon posset, which they observed she often used to drink the Summer time, so that some ten days after she died hereof, when none but God, besides them, was witness of this their unnatural and bloody business: So they rejoice as much as their father grieves and sorrows hereat, and now they are alone, and domineer at their pleasures in their Father's house at Florence, without rival's o●… competitors: But God is as just as they are sinful, and therefore they shall reap●… but poor and miserable fruits of this their bloody victory. For within less the●… six weeks after the deplorable death of jaquinta, a sudden languishing sickness o'ertakes and surpriseth Babtistyna, so as the white tincture of her face looks yellow, and the fresh roses and lilies of her beauty did exceedingly fade, and wither of the jaundice: A sickness, which I think God sent her purposely to punish her for that execrable crime of hers in poisoning her Sister. But the beauty of Babtistyna cannot be so much eclipsed or deformed, as that of Amarantha daily grows more deliciously sweet, and sweetly delicious and amiable; so as all those Nobles and Gallants of Florence and Tuscanie, who come to seek Streni his Daughters in marriage, do infinitely prefer Amarantha before Babtistyna, and passionately desire the first, as much as they now sleight and neglect the second: Babtistyna is not ignorant hereof, but sees it with grief, observes it with sorrow, and remembers it with choler and indignation; and yet she seeks and strives to conceal it from her Father, and to dissemble it to her Sister Amarantha. She in this wane of her beauty and joy, begins now to participate of her dead sister Iaquinta's living humours and conditions; she is now become the eldest Sister, and therefore will not permit or suffer her younger to be her mate, or equal, much less her superior; and although her Sickness hath deprived her of a great part of her beauty, yet it hath no way diminished, but rather increased and augmented her desire to marry, she envies the sight and fame of her Sister Amarantha's beauty, as much as she lamenteth the decays, and pittyeth the ruins of her own; and both grieves and scorns to see so many Gallants court and seek her in marriage, and none herself: Now as pride and malice (for the most part) are in separable companions, so her discontent hereof hath made her so devilishly malicious, as she secretly vows to herself, that she could almost find in her heart to make Amarantha as well a companion of Iaquinta's fortune, as of her blood: but God then presenting her first Murder to her eyes and remembrance, the devil was not then enough prevalent or powerful with her, to draw her to conceive or commit a second. Thus not being willing to add murder to murder, and so to gallop in stead of pacing to hell and destruction, she nevertheless determinately resolves to emulate and imitate the actions of her dead Sister jaquinta, towards her living one Amarantha; and yet so to wreak her malice and revenge on her, as closely to insinuate, and under hand surreptiously to prevail with her Father, that she be speedily eclipsed, and again sent away to Cardura, under the guard and custody of Malevola, the which she effectually and briefly obtaineth of him; so our young and fair Amarantha (though infinitely against her will) is now enforced to leave Florence, and suddenly (when she least thought or dreamt thereof) is again confined and banished to Cardura, notwithstanding all her sighs, tears, and prayers to her Father to the contrary.  
Amarantha (with much sorrow and more indignation) being arrived to Cardura, she is not a little perplexed and grieved thereat, but rather exceedingly discontented with her Father, and infinitely incensed against her Sister Babtistyna for the same, as well knowing that it wholly proceeded from her mere pride and malice towards her; the which she now doth not conceal, but make apparent to her old Beldame Governess Malevola, both in her looks, speeches, and actions. She wondereth that her Sister is so inconsiderate of herself, and so imperious and bitter towards her; and how it is possible for her so soon to forget either their joint crime, or their several danger for their so inhumanely and cruelly poisoning their elder Sister jaquinta; the consideration and remembrance whereof is of so sharp and bitter digestion to her, as her thoughts vow to her heart, and her heart swears to the Devil, that she neither can nor will long endure it; yea, the time seems so irksome to her, and her stay in Cardura so infinitely long and tedious, as if hours were years, and days ages, that she often thought to steal away from thence to Florence, either on foot or horseback, and so to have put herself into some disguised apparel, that none should know thereof before she came to her Father's house and presence: but at last considering, that her reputation and fortune might suffer much in this action, she holds it not amiss, rather convenient, first to write to her Father and Sister, to see if her Letters may prevail with them for her return; the which she doth, and sends them to them to Florence, by her old trusty servant Bernardo. Her Letter to her Father bewrayed these passions:  
AMARANTHA to STRENI.  
MY obedience hath not deserved so much contempt and hatred, as that (without cause or reason) you should thus again banish me from Florence to Cardura; and with how much grief and sorrow I digest it, I can better relate with discontent, then conceal with pattence: How dear your sight and presence was, and ever shall be to me, if you will not know, and withal remember, God doth; for my soul appeals unto him, and my heart to Heaven, that I made it the chiefest life of my joy, and the sweetest joy of my life; So as if you are not the cause, I am sure my Sister Babtistyna is of this (undeserved) cruelty towards me, who out of her pride, ambition, and malice, strives to be as unnaturally imperious to me, as my deceased Sister jaquinta was both to herself and me. The remedy hereof is every way worthy of you, as you are my Father, and of myself, as God and Nature have made me your Daughter; for if you will not permit me to respire and breathe the air of Florence, I will shortly hazard my life to enjoy that of heaven: for already this my enforced exile hath brought me to extreme discontent, and that almost to utter despair.  
AMARANTHA.  
Her Letter to her Sister Babtistyna carried this Message:  
AMARANTHA to BABTISTYNA.  
COuldst thou not be contented to live happy in Florence, but that thou must needs constrain our Father to make me live miserable here in Cardura? Is our Sister Iaquinta's blood already cold, or is the memory as well as the manner and cause of her death already of thee forgotten, and so raked up in the dust of her Grave? judge with thyself (if thou art not wholly as devoyde of judgement, as of affection and charity) what a palpable, yea what a gross and sottish vice it is in thee, hereby to make thyself both guilty of her pride, and Heir apparent to her malice. I remember those ingrateful crimes and vices of hers towards us with pity, and I pity these of thyself to me with admiration, in that thou wilt not suffer me to live at the courtesy of thy tongue, when thou well knowest that thy life stands at the mercy of mine; Not that I am either so malicious to thee, or so uncharitable or undiscreet to myself, to wish thee any disaster or danger to the prejudice of mine own happiness, and safety; for I desire all peace, affection, and atonement betwixt us: the which if thou wilt grant me, by causing our Father speedily to recall me home to Florence, he shall then see, and thou assuredly find, that I will be as much thy Handmaid as thy Sister, and that I will far sooner both hope and pray for a good Husband for thee, then for myself: but if thou deny me this courtesy, then blame not me, but thyself, if the event and issue of this thy cruelty come too short of thy hopes, and so (peradventure) fly a pitch far beyond thy expectation.  
AMARANTHA.  
Bernardo being thus charged by his Lady Amarantha, for the safe and speedy delivery of these her two Letters, as also to procure her Fathers and Sisters Answers to them, he rides away to Florence, where he is no sooner arrived at Streni his house, but meeting with the young Lady Babtistyna, and thinking to deliver her Letter (whether it were out of ha●…te, or misfortune, or both) he delivers her her Father's Letter, in stead of her own, the which she well observing, she hastily and purposely breaks up the seals thereof, and silently reads it to herself; whereat growing first read with choler, and then again pale with envy, she folds it up, and committing it to her pocket, turns to Bernardo, and demands him for her Sister Amarantha's Letter to herself; for (quoth she) that which I have already read and perused, is hers to my Father; when Bernardo (as much amazed at his error, as afflicted at his foolish simplicity) reading the direction of the second Letter, and finding her speeches and his mistaking true, he than gives her her own Letter, and desires back the other for her Father, as also both their answers thereunto, for his Lady and Mistress Amarantha; whereunto, when she had perused her own Letter, she (with disdain in her looks, and malice in her eyes) tears her Father's Letter before Bernardo's face, and then returns him this bitter answer; Tell that proud Girl thy Mistress from me, that it is my Father's pleasure and mine, that she shall stay in Cardura, and not see Florence, till she receive other order from us; and for any further answer, either from our Father, or myself, it is both a vanity and a folly for her to expect: And so (in much choler and indignation) she flies from him, and violently throws fast the door against him. Bernardo, not expecting such sharp and cold entertainment, and seeing it now wholly impossible for him to have any access to Streni, or answer from Babtistyna, he leaves Florence, and speedily returns to Cardura to his Lady Amarantha, to whom he punctually and fully relates the bitter reply, and sharp and proud answer which her Sister Babtistyna had given and sent her, and leaveth not a syllable unrehearsed, but only silenceth his mistaking, in giving of her her Father's Letter in stead of her own, as right now we understood.  
Amarantha is all inflamed with choler at this proud and cruel carriage of her Sister Babtistyna towards her, yea the remembrance thereof, so transporteth her thoughts with envy, and her heart with revenge against her, that she vows she neither can, nor will brook it at her hands; and here, not harkening either to Reason, or Religion, or to her Conscience, or Soul, she now violently seduced, and exasperated by the Devil, doth afresh revive her old malice, and resumes her former pernicious resolutions to her Sister Babtistyna: She hath neither the wit, much less the grace, to consider, That Choler increaseth her own torment and misery, and that if we vanquish not our own malice and revenge, it is more to be feared then doubted, that it will in the end both vanquish and ruin us. She hath formerly con●…ented to poison her eldest Sister jaquinta, and now she likewise vows, that she will cause her elder Sister Babtistyna either to be poisoned or pistolled to death; but which of these to make choice of, as yet she is irresolute, and upon this bloody business her thoughts run incessantly to her heart, as so many lines to their centre. O that so young a Lady, and so sweet a beauty should make herself accessary and guilty of so foul and inhuman crimes: but this I may write to her shame, and the Reader may please to observe it to his comfort, and retain it to his instruction; That had she had the grace to have been formerly sorrowful and repentant for her first Murder, she had then never proceeded so far, as to have made her self guilty of contriving and resolving a second.  
Babtistyna hath a Chambermaid named Pierya, of some twenty four years old, who was far more fair than rich, as being heir to much beauty, though to no lands, or estate; and having hereto fore for some trivial respects sometimes incurred the anger and displeasure of her Lady, and for the same received many a sharp word, and bitter blow from her, as being a freer Gentlewoman of her hands, then of her purse; She now accidentally chancing to break a fair rich Looking-glass of hers, her Lady doth not only exceedingly beat her, but also without pity or humanity draws and drags her by the hair about her Chamber, and then again and again kicks her with her foot. Pierya's heart is not so ill lodged, nor her extraction and quality so contemptible, but that she is very sensible of this her disgrace, as holding her fault far inferior to her correction, and therefore disdaining any longer to serve so cruel a Mistress, she very privately packs up her apparel, leaves Florence, and flies to Cardura, forsakes Babtistyna, and so resolves henceforth to live and dye with her younger Sister Amarantha: But as there are many of both these places, who report that it was only her hatred to Babtistyna, and her affection to Amarantha, which drew her to this resolution; yet there are divers others both of Florence, Cardura, and Pistoia, who (better acquainted with Pierya, and her secrets) have solidly affirmed to me, that it was wholly her affection to Bernardo, which was the truest reason, and strongest motive thereof, and the event and issue of this History, will confute the first, to confirm this second opinion of these her deliberations and resolutions; for, for the term of at least three or four years heretofore, Pierya was known to be passionately in love with Bernardo, and she had employed many friends towards him, to persuade and draw him to marry her; but he was still as averse, as she forward in this suit: For although he were enamoured of her beauty, and loved her tall and slender personage, yet he hated her poverty, and (because of some small lands and means he had) as he thought himself too good to be her husband, so she in regard of her beauty, youth, and chastity, both highly and infinitely disdained to be his strumpet; and indeed the passage, and process of these their affections was not from time to time unknown to Amarantha. Pierya is as welcome to Amarantha, as Babtistyna is sorrowful for her departure, and the youngest Sister now entertains her with as much courtesy, as the eldest formerly retained her with cruelty; as for Bernardo, he inwardly delights, though outwardly will not seem to rejoice in her company, and so gives her his eyes, though not his heart; and for Pierya, her carriage was so modest, and yet withal so respective to him, as if she endeavoured to make it her chiefest ambition and glory, that her virtues and chastity should make as true and as perfect a conquest of his heart, as her beauty had of his eyes: as for Babtistyna (her quondam Lady) she is now angry with herself, as soon as she knew of her departure from her; but when she understands that Pierya is fled to Cardura, and lives with her discontented Sister Amarantha, than (under hand) she makes strong means to her to return again to her service, intimating to her that she is ready to redeem her former discourtesy towards her, both with acknowledgement and requital. But these her hopes will deceive her, for she will find that errors are not so soon repaired as committed, and that her want of kindness to her Chambermaid Pierya may in the end (perchance) prove cruelty to herself. Pierya is deaf to all these her ●…equests, and endeavours rather to tie herself to Amarantha's new affection, then ●…o Babtistyna's old unkindness, as preferring the courtesy of the first to the choler and indignation of the second. On the other side, Amarantha is glad of this resolution of her new Maid Pierya; for the Devil being still at her elbow, he continually sets fire to her malice, and (as an infernal incendiary) perpetually blows the coals to her revenge against her Sister Babtistyna; yea, and now he so captivateth her soul, and extinguisheth her devotion and zeal towards heaven, that (I write it with pity and sorrow, and not with passion, but compassion) she had neither the power to pray, nor the happiness or grace, either to frequent the Church for God's sake, or to desire God's presence and assistance for her own: No, no; Such thoughts of piety were far from her profane thoughts and mind: for as her best blood, so her best zeal was now corrupted and polluted with revenge towards her Sister. And here, as a wretched Lady and a bloody Sister, she doth yet far worse; for (by the Devil's suggestion) she assumes this horrible resolution, not only to engage and hazard herself, but others therein, as if she took a pride, and conceived a glory, not to shipwreck herself alone, but to confound and cast away others with her for company in this prodigious and lamentable business of hers. The manner is thus:  
She knows, that by reason of her strict exile in Cardura, she must needs employ some factors and agents, either to poison or murder this her Sister Babtistyna in Florence; and therefore she thinks none so fit and proper to attempt and perform it, as her old trusty servant Bernardo, and her new maid Pierya his sweetheart, whom (by degrees) she purposely draws and obligeth to her by gifts and promises; and her reason for this conceit and opinion of hers, that they will concur with her in this bloody fact, is derived from this foundation and ground, that Love and Money may easily act wonders in the hearts and minds of those, who desire the one, and want the other; as also, for that she perfectly knows, that for many years Pierya hath deeply loved Bernardo, and dearly desired and wished him for her husband, and that he hath ever affected her, but only disliked her poverty: Wherefore believing that she would do much for the obtaining of this husband, and he for preferment and gold, she is resolute in making this her bloody proposition to them; when not caring any more to write to her Father, she is now as hasty as bloody in her malice and revenge towards her Sister; and so impatient of delay (and without any further consideration with herself, or consultation either with her soul, or with God) she taking time at advantage, first breaks with Pierya about this bloody business, adding withal, that her desire and resolution is to have her Sister Babtistyna stifled in her bed; for now the Devil hath cast off her resolutions from poison or poniard; to which effect, she promiseth to gain her Bernardo to her husband, and to give them wherewithal to maintain themselves well being married, if she will consent with him to undertake and perform her request: which proffers and promises of her Lady do sound so sweetly in poor Pierya's ●…ares, and work so deep an impression in her heart, especially that she shall hereby enjoy Bernardo for her husband, whom she loves far dearer than her own life, that being wholly vanquished with the consideration thereof, as also enchanted with the sweet melody of her Lady's sugared persuasions, she (without any fear or thought of God, as an inconsiderate and graceless Maiden) yields to her ungodly and inhuman requests; who then swearing her to secrecy, she within a day or two after likewise boardeth her servant Bernardo upon this bloody business, the which if he will perform for her, and take Pierya to his wife, she faithfully promiseth to give him 150 Duccatons of yearly Annuity, during his life, and to remain their true and constant friend for ever. At first Bernardo wondereth and staggereth at the hearing of this cruel and lamentable project, as amazed and astonished thereat, as if he were now so good a Christian, that Grace triumphed above Na●…ure in his heart, and God above Satan in his soul; but at last being deeply enamoured of Pierya's delicate youth and beauty, which he likes well, and of this yearly sum of gold for their maintenance in marriage, which he loves dear, he (forgetting himself, and which is worse God) without any further rubs or rumination, gives his Lady Amarantha his free consent and promise to perform both her requests, as well of the Murder as Marriage. Whereupon she carries him to her Closet, and there calls for Pierya and acquaints her with her and Bernardo's conclusion; So in her presence they (by j●…yning of hands) contract themselves each to other; and then they all three do severally and jointly swea●…e secrecy, as also punctually to accomplish this which they have concluded: When this wretched and execrable Amarantha (the faster and stronger to tie them to her desires and their promises) opens a Ca●…ket of hers, and gives each of them fifty Duckatons in gold, as a pledge and earnest penny of her love to them; and then faithfully promiseth to reward them with so much more, as soon as they have sent her Sister Babtistyna to heaven; when Bernardo and Pierya (to testify their thankfulness to her) do both vow and swear, that herein (as in all things else) her will shall be their law, and that both their best services and best l●…ves shall for ever be prostrate to her commands. But they shall ●…epent the taking, and Amarantha the giving of them this gold, because it is the price and hire of innocent blood.  
This lamentable (because sinful) compact, being thus secretly shut up, and impiously concluded between these three wretched personages, than Bernardo and Pierya fall so close and thick to their amorous kisses, as being desirous to become one in body, as already they are in heart and mind, they request their Lady Amarantha, that she would please to permit them to finish and consummate their marriage, before they perpetrate the murder of her Sister Babtistyna; but she (who was clearer sighted in her malice and revenge to her said Sister, than they in their judgements and affections to themselves) considering that this seal of their marriage was the great tie, and Gordian knot for them to perform and finish her desire, the which if it were once solemnised, than their devo●…ion and zeal thereunto might (peradventure) afterwards, either grow cold, or freeze, if not shortly wither and dye away upon the design, she strongly opposes and contradicts it, as affirming they shall first dispatch her sister before they marry; the which Bernardo well observing and considering, he thinks it no folly in him to learn by her, and so to make her discretion his: and therefore that this Murder being once committed, she might after at her pleasure revoke her verbal Annuity given him; the which to prevent (and so to be as wise in his covetousness, as she was cruel and bloody in her bounty) he tells his Lady Amarantha, that according to her desire he will willingly defer his marriage till then, but withal, humbly requesteth her to give him her promised Annuity written, and signed with her own hand; the which because she cannot well refuse, she then and there doth in these terms:  
IN consideration, that my servant Bernardo do espouse, and take to his wife my Chambermaid Pierya, I do promise, that (after the consummation thereof) upon my fidelity and honour, I will yearly give and pay unto the said Bernardo, or his Assigns, during all the term of his life, the full and entire sum of one hundred and fifty Duckatons of Florence Money, and in witness and testimony of this truth, I hereunto subsigne my name.  
AMARANTHA.  
A promise and contract written with more blood than ink, or rather not with ink, but wholly with blood, and which therefore God, in his divine providence, may hereafter produce, and bring to light, to serve as a powerful witness, and Instrument of his glory, and peradventure to the infamy and confusion of those who gave and received it.  
Amarantha having thus given this promise to Bernardo, and likewise received his, and his intended wife's Pierya's oaths in counterchange, she now thinks with herself, that she must again return Pierya to Florence, and by some sly hypocrisy, to reinvest and screw her anew into her old Lady Babtistyna's service, thereby to be the more able and fit to dispatch her. Now, as she is maliciously ruminating on this invention, there falls out an accident, which seems both to favour her hopes, and to further her desires and expectation herein; For by this time, Babtistyna writes over to Malevola, to deal secretly and seriously with Pierya for her return to Florence to her service, and that she shall find her welcome to exceed her expectation and desires: So the truth is apparent, that Pierya (instructed by the Premises) now needs not many great persuasions from Malevola, to draw her to consent to this resolution; for as she and her Bernardo receive the first motion of this (unexpected) news with joy, so Amarantha embraceth and entertains it with delight; and now their last consultation is held between them, about the conclusion and finishing of this mournful business. To which end, Pierya is dispatched for Florence, and the fifteenth day after, Bernardo is likewise secretly and precisely to arrive there to her by night, and then is, the direct appointed time for them to close and shut up this Tragedy. We must now allow and conceive Pierya to be again entertained of her old Lady Babtistyna in Florence, with much courtesy and joy; and for the seal and cement of this their reciprocal reconciliation, her Lady gives her a new black wrought Silk Gown, and a purple Damask Petticoat, the which (as a treacherous dissembling wretch) she seems to receive of her with much content and thankfulness, the which yet we shall shortly see her requite with a most inhuman and prodigious ingratitude; for her desire of marriage, and longing for a husband makes her think every hour ten, before the fifteenth day be arrived. And for her late Lady Amarantha (who sees by no other eyes but by those of malice and revenge towards her Sister) she thinks every day an age, before she hear of her dispatch. At the expiration of which time (according to their former agreement) Bernardo arrived by night at Streni's house in Florence, and at one of the Clock after midnight he finds the little Garden door open, and his Pierya there purposely to receive and welcome him; so they begin their meeting with kisses. She leads him by the hand to the outer door of her Lady's chamber, and they two having agreed on the manner how to stifle her in her bed, she had there to that purpose provided two pillows, keeps one and gives him another to effect it: These miserable wretches (for the more secrecy) put off their shoes, and out the candles, and the darkness of the Moon, and the obscurity of the night seeming to conspire to their conspiracy, they softly enter her chamber, go one by one side, and the other by the other, where unfortunat Babtistyna lying sound sleeping and snoring, they stifle her with their Pillows, and then a little while after thrust a handkerchief into her mouth, and their fury and malice was so fierce and implacable towards her, as she hath neither the grace to speak, nor the power once to screech or cry. Thus she who had formerly poisoned her elder Sister jaquinta, is now also cruelly murdered by the treachery of her youngest Amarantha, which makes me cry out and say, O Lord, as thou art immense in thy mercy, so thou art inscrutable in thy judgements, and that therefore, as we ought not, so we cannot resist his divine power and eternal preordination.  
Bernardo and Pierya (as two limbs of the Devil) having finished this cruel murder on Babtistyna, they leave her breathless body on her b●…d, and then withdrawing themselves from her Chamber, they softly pull fast the door, which had a Spring lock, and then she secretly throws in the key within side, at a private hole, or cranny; when her Sweetheart and herself descend the stay●…es, and with wonderful silence stalk away to the Garden, without the Postern door whereof, his horse, tied up to an Iron ring in the wall, awaited, and attended him; where with a multitude of kisses they part, he faithfully promising her to return to her again at Florence within a month after at most, and then to marry her: So whiles Pierya now (in the depth and dead of this dismal night) betakes herself to her bed, and there (as devoid of fear as of grace) sleeps sound, her sweetheart Bernardo, that very obscure night, gallops thorough the streers of Florence towards the gate which leads to Pistoia, where God (in all seeing providence) causeth his horse to stumble, and fall with him to the ground, whereof he broke his neck, and presently died, and his horse then rising flies from him stragglingly in the streets, leaving the breathless corpse of Bernardo in the street, having not the happiness either to cry or utter one word at this his sudden & disastrous death; God having so ordained and decreed in his Star-chamber of heaven, that although for the murdering of the Lady Babtistyna he deserved a more shameful end, yet that this poor horse which brought him to Florence, should at the same time and place be his executioner, as also that there was scarce one hour between his crime and his punishment, between her murder and his own death: An act and example of God's justice, worthy of all men to know, and of all Christians most especially to remember, so secret and sacred are the judgements of the Lord of Hosts. All that night Bernardo's dead body lay gored in his blood (which abundantly issued forth his mouth) as also in the dirt of the street, unespyed of any mortal eye; but as soon as the morning began to appear thorough the windows of heaven, than it was found, and likewise to be done by the fall of a horse, whereof his neck the beholders saw was broken, the which the sooner they were induced and led to believe, because they likewise found a horse near him straggling in the streets without his rider: This his dead body is therefore presently exposed to the Criminal judges of that fair and famous City, who forthwith cause his Pockets to be searched, where in stead of gold they by the direction of God find the before nominated promise of a yearly Annuity, which we have formerly understood Amarantha gave him: Whereupon, they knowing the Lady Amarantha to be Seig. Leonardo Streni's daughter, & by this note confidently believing this dead man to be the same Bernardo, and he to be Amarantha's servant, they (without once suspecting or dreaming of any murder committed by him) hold it a part of their office and duty to acquaint Streni herewith. But the news of this dead found Corpse rattling thorough the streets of the City, it devanceth this care of theirs, and so speedily arrives to Streni's house before them; whereat Pierya (looking for nothing less) takes so hot an alarm of grief, fear, and despair, that her guilty thoughts and conscience (like so many Bloodhounds) still pursuing her, she seeing this unlooked for disaster and death of her Bernardo to be an act of God, and a blow from heaven, which infallibly predicted both her danger and death; she therefore presently flies out a door, and (with much celerity, and more fear) betakes herself to the least frequented and most remotest streets of the City for her safety. By this time the Criminal officers are arrived at Streni's house, whom they acquaint with this mournful accident, show him this assurance of Annuity, and inquire of him if it be the Lady Amarantha his Daughter's hand, as also the dead Corpse, and if this were her servant, who (with a countenance composed of astonishment, fear, and sorrow) acknowledgeth to them, that it is his Daughter Amarantha's own hand writing, and the dead personage to be her Servingman Bernardo: Whereupon they confidently believe, and he sorrowfully fears, that this death of his, and that assurance of hers, doth either import or include some greater disaster and misfortune; whereupon, they again modestly, yet juridically, demand of him for his Daughter Amarantha, and her Chambermaid Pierya, who returns them this answer, that the first is at his Manor of Cardura near Pistoia, and the second here in his house, and now serving his eldest Daughter Babtistyna; they demand to speak with Pierya, whom he causeth to be sought in all places of his house, but she is not to be found; so he sends to look her in his Daughter's chamber, her Mistress, but his servants return and report that the door of that Chamber is fast locked, and that they can get no speech either of her, or of the Lady Babtistyna; which answer of theirs doth exceedingly augment the jealousy of the judges, and the fear of the Father: So 〈◊〉 all resolve to ascend themselves to that Chamber, where they aloud again calling both the Lady and her Maid, and hearing no answer of either of them, they instantly cause the door to be forced open; where (contrary to their expectation) they find the Lady Babtistyna dead, and well near cold in her bed, and causing her body to be secretly searched by some Chirurgeons, and neighbour Gentlewomen, they all are of opinion, that she is undoubtedly stifled in her bed, and her face very much black and swollen with struggling for life against death. They are amazed, and her Father Streni almost drowned in his sorrowful tears at the fight of this deplorable accident, and mournful spectacle; and therefore what to say, or how to bear himself herein he knows not.  
But the judges upon farther knowledge and consideration of the flight of Pierya, the death of Bernardo, and the promised Annuity of Amarantha upon their marriage (as it were prompted by God) do vehemently suspect and believe that they all three were undoubtedly consenting & guilty of Babtistyna's death, notwithstanding that the Key of her Chamber was found thrown in within side: So they presently leave this sorrowful Father to his tears, and betaking themselves to their Seat of justice, do instantly cause all the Gates of the City to be shut, and a strict and curious search to be made in all parts thereof, for the apprehension of Pierya, which (in their zeal and honour to sacred justice) they perform with so much care and speed, as within three hours after she is found out, and apprehended in an Aunt's house of hers, who was a poor woman and a Laundress of that City named Eleanora Fracasa. The judges being presently advertised hereof, convent her before them, and (by virtue of this Annuity) charge both her and her lover Bernardo to be the actors, and Amarantha to be at least the accessary, if not the author with them of murdering Babtistyna, she can hardly speak for tears at this her examination, because her sighs still cut her words in pieces; and yet she is so far from grace and repentance, as at first she stoutly denies all, and boldly affirms that both Amarantha, Bernardo, and herself were every way innocent of attempting any thing against Babtistyna's life, and that if she were dead, she died only of a natural death by the appointment of God, and no otherwise; and to this Answer of hers the Devil had made her so strong, as she added many fearful oaths and deprecations, both for her own and their justification; but yet (notwithstanding this her Apology) these grave and cleere-fighted judges are so far from diminishing, as they augment their suspicion both of her and them, and so commit her to prison, and forthwith to the rack. At the pronouncing of which Sentence, Pierya is much daunted, seems to let fall some of her former fortitude and constancy, and to burst forth into many passionate tears, sighs, and exclamations: But they will nothing avail her; for, seeing her pretended Husband Bernardo dead, in whom lived the imaginary joys of her heart, she so fainted, as at the very first sight of the Rack (with some tears, and more deep fetched sighs) she confessed to her judges, that she and Bernardo had stifled her Lady Babtistyna in her bed; but still constantly affirmed that her sister Amarantha was wholly innocent thereof, flattering herself with this hope, that for thus her clearing of her Lady Amarantha from this crime and danger, she (in requital thereof) could do no less then be a means to procure a pardon for her life: But these hopes of hers will deceive her, and fly as fast from her hereafter, as ever she formerly did from God. So the judges (in detestation of this her foul and bloody crime) adjudge her to be hanged for the same; but first they send her back to prison, and the very next morning before break of day, they secretly send away three of their Isbieres (or Sergeants) to Cardura, to fetch the Lady Amarantha to Florence, being very confident (notwithstanding Pierya's denial) that she likewise had a deep finger and share in her Sister Babtistyna's murder.  
Amarantha not dreaming in Cardura what had betided in Florence to 〈◊〉 and Pierya, but flattering herself with much hope and joy, that by this time they had undoubtedly made away her Sister Babtistyna, and consequently that she should shortly revisit Florence, and there domineer alone, and obtain some gallant Cavalier of her Father for her husband, she in expectance of her servant Bernardo's return, and of his pleasing news, had that day (as it were in a bravery and triumph) purposely dighted herself up in her best attire, and richest apparel; and so betaking herself to her Chamber, and to that window which looked towards Florence, she with a longing desire expecteth every minute when he will arrive; when about ten of the clock before dinner (contrary to her expectation) she sees three men to enter into the house, apparelled as Florentines, whereat she much museth and wondereth, as not knowing what they, or their coming should import. These three Sergeants having entered the house, they are brought to the Governess Malevola, who brings them to her young Lady Amarantha in her Chamber; to whom (with a dissembling confidence) they report to her, That Se●…gnior Streni her Father hath sent them to conduct and accompany her speedily to Florence. Amarantha inquires of them for her Father's Letters to that effect, whereunto one of the subtlest of them makes answer very slyly and artificially to her, that her Father's haste, and her preferment would not permit him to write to her, for that he perfectly knew from him, he was now upon matching her to a rich and noble Husband: Her Governess Malevola likewise demands of them, if he had not written to herself, they answer no, but that he bade them tell her, that he willed her without delay to bring away his Daughter Amarantha with her, and themselves to Florence by Coach, and only one Footboy. The Pupil and Governess consult hereon, and the very name of a Husband makes the first as willing as the second is discontented to go to Florence without a Letter; but the policy of the Sergeants so prevail with the simplicity of this young Lady, and old Gentlewoman, that they speedily pack up their Trunks, so dine, and then take Coach and horse, and away for Florence; during which short journey, although the mirth and joy of Amarantha be great, yet she finds so many different reluctations, and extravagant thoughts in her mind at the absence and silence of her man Bernardo, as she cannot possibly again refrain from musing and wondering thereat. They all arrive at Flor●…nce, where these Sergeants (having learned their parts well, and acting them better) in stead of Amarantha's Father's house, do clap her up close prisoner in the Common Goal of that City, notwithstanding all her prayers and cries, sighs and tears to the contrary; and then send her Governess Malevola home to her said Father to advertise him hereof; who tearing the snowwhite hair of his head and beard at this sad news, and extremely fearing the dangerous consequence of this deplorable accident, he (with tears in his eyes, sorrow in his looks, and sighs in his speeches) repairs speedily to the judges, to whom sorrowfully and humbly casting himself almost as low as their feet, he prays them to think of his age, and of his imprisoned Daughter's youth, and that having unfortunately lost his eldest Daughter, that they would not deprive him of his youngest, nor cast her life away either upon bare presumption or circumstance, or upon the wrongful reports and malice of his and her enemies: But these grave and Lynce-eyed Magistrates (who look as deeply into the privilege and dignity of justice, as he doth into the passions of paternal affection and nature) cut him off with this sharp reply, That they honour his age, and respect his Daughter's youth, that she shall have justice, and that by the laws of Florence he must expect no more; with which cold answer he returns home to his house, as disconsolate, as he came forth sorrowful, being not permitted, but defended to see, or speak with his Daughter Amarantha in prison, only he hath permission to bury his murdered Daughter Babtistyna, the which he performeth with far more grief and sorrow than solemnity.  
The truth and decorum of this History must now invite the Reader to visit Amarantha in prison, who being there debarred from speaking with any, or any with her, except (those miserable comforters) her Sergeants and Gaolers, she now seeing the imminency of her danger, and fearing the assurance of her death, for that she heard a secret inkling (from the lower Court, through her Chamber window) That her Sister Babtistyna was murdered, her Maid Pierya imprisoned, and she herself vehemently suspected for the same: She therefore now begins to think of her former bloody crimes with repentance, and of these her inhuman cruelties towards her two elder Sisters with contrition, and solemnly vows to God, that if his divine Majesty will now please to save her life, she will henceforth religiously redeem the first and second with repentance. So in the midst of these good thoughts, though vain desires and wishes of hers, she yet still flatters herself with this poor hope, that if her man Bernardo be living, than her promised Annuity to him written with her own hand is still sure, and therefore tacitly dead in his custody; and that both he and Pierya cannot any way wrong her without infinitely wronging themselves, and endangering their own lives: so albeit her judges have matter of suspicion, yet they can have no cause of death against her, or if peradventure they have, yet that the power of her Father's greatness and friends are so prevalent in Florence and Tuscany, that (if the worst fall out) he and they can obtain at least her reprivall for the present, if not her pardon for the future. But (contrary to all these her weak and trivial hopes) the very next morning she is sent for before her judges to a private examination, who (after they had made a grave and religious speech to her) they demand her, first, If she employed ●…ot her servant Bernardo, and Pierya to murder her Sister Babtistyna, the which she firmly and constantly denies; Secondly, If she had not given an Annuity of 150 Duckatons during his life to marry Pierya, the which sh●…e likewise denies; then they produce and show it her under her own hand writing, whereat (they measuring her heart by her countenance) she seems to be so much perplexed with sorrow, and amazed with fear, as she cannot refrain from giving them less words, but more tears; Of which her judges conceiving a good opinion & hope (& therefore deeming themselves now to be in a fair way, and a direct course to obtain the whole truth of this lamentable business from her) they bethink themselves of a policy, thereby to effect and compass it, which is every way worthy of themselves and their offices, of their discretion and justice. They tell Amarantha, that in regard of her youth and beauty, and of her Father's age and nobility, they desire and intend to save her, if she will not wilfully cast herself away; That her safe●…y and life now consisteth in her plain confession, and not in her perverse denial and contestation, of being accessary and consenting to the murder of her Sister Babt●…styna; That they have proofs thereof, as clear, and as apparent as the Sun: and that they having caused Pierya to be executed for the same this morning, she confessed it to them at her death, yea and died thereon. At which speeches of her judges, and confession and death of Pierya, this wretched and unfortunate Lady Amarantha (seeing herself so palpably convicted of this her bloody and inhuman crime) being wholly vanquished either with fear toward herself, or choler towards Pierya, she falls on her knees to her judge's feet, and (with a great shower of tears) makes herself (by her free confession) to be the prime author of her Sister Babtistyna's murder; That she had hired Bernardo and Pierya to perform it, and given him an Annuity of 150 Duckatons per annum, and to each of them 50 Duckatons' more in hand to that effect, concealing no point or part thereof, as we have already formerly understood: when (contrary to the expectation of her judges) she most bitterly exclaimed on the name, memory, and ingratitude of this base wretch Pierya (for so she then termed her) in that she could not be contented to die herself, but also as much, and as maliciously, as in her power, to think likewise to hazard her own life with her. And now our choleric, and yet sorrowful Amarantha (between these two different extremes of hope and fear) lays hold of her judges late promise and proffered courtesy to her to save her, and then and there (with many reverences, tears, and ringing of her hands) most humbly beseecheth them for God's sake, and for honour's cause, to be good unto her, and to give her her life, although she confesseth she is most worthy of death, in being so degenerate and bloody minded towards her own Sister. But they (having by this commendable means, and artificial policy, drawn this worm from Amarantha's tongue, I mean this truth from her mouth) are exceeding sorrowful, and as much detest this her barbarous fact, as they pity her descent, youth, and beauty; but well knowing with themselves that God is glorified in the due and true execution of justice upon all capital malefactors, and especially on murderers (who are no less than monsters of nature, the disgrace of their times, and the very butchers of mankind) and that the greatness of their quality and blood doth only serve but to make these crimes of theirs the greater: therefore (I say) these wise and religious judges prove deaf to her requests, and blind to her tears; and so having first caused then to sign this her confession, and then confronted her with Pierya, who now to Amarantha's face confirmed as much as she herself right now confessed and affirmed, they now in expiation of this her cruel murder, adjudge her likewise to be hanged the next day, at the common place of execution, in company of Pierya, although her aged sorrowful Father Signior Strent (being well nigh weighed down to his grave with the extreme grief and sorrow of these his misfortunes and calamities) proffered the judges and the great Duke the greatest part of his estate, and lands, to save this his youngest, and now his only Daughter Amarantha: But his labour proved lost, and his care and affection vain in this his suit and solicitation, because those learned judges, and this prudent and noble Duke, grounded their resolutions and pleasures upon this wholesome and true Maxim, That justice is one of the greatest Colossus and strongest columns of kingdoms and commonweals, and the truest way and means to preserve them in flourishing prosperity and glory, and consequently, that all wilful and premeditated murderers cannot be either too soon exterminated, or too severely punished, and cut off from the world. So Amar antha with more choler than sorrow, and Pierya with more fear than choler, are now both sent back to their prisons; and that night Streni sends his Daughter, and the judges send Pierya, some Friars and Nuns to prepare their souls for heaven, but (in honour of the truth) I must affirm with equal grief and pity, that both these two female monsters had their hearts so sealed, and their souls so seared up with impiety, that neither of them could there be persuaded, or drawn, either to think of repentance or of God.  
Whiles thus Florence resounds of these their foul and inhuman crimes, as also of their just condemnations, the next morning about ten of the clock, they are brought to the destined place of execution, there to receive their condign punishments for the same. Pierya first mounts the Ladder, who made a short speech at her death, to this effect, That her desire to obtain Bernardo for her husband had chiefly drawn her to commit this murder on her Lady Babtistyna, and that it was far more her Sister Amarantha's malice to her, than her own, which seduced her to this bloody resolution; and that this her own shameful death was not half so grievous to her, as the unfortunate end of her lover Bernardo, whom, she there affirmed to the world, and took it to her death, that she loved a thousand times dearer than her own life, with many other vain and ridiculous speeches tending that way, and which savoured more of her fond affection to him, then of any zeal or devotion to God; and therefore I hold them every way more worthy of my silence, then of my relation: and so she was turned over. To second whose unfortunate and shameful end, now our bloody and execrable Amarantha (with far more beauty than contrition, and bravery than repentance) ascends the Ladder; who (to make her infamy the more famous) had purposely dighted and apparelled herself in a plain black Satin gown, with silver lace, and a deepe-laced Cambric Ruff of a very large Set, with her hair unvailed, and decked with many roses of filver Ribbon: At her ascent, her extraction, beauty, and youth, begat as much pity, as her bloody and unnatural crime did detestation, in the eyes and hearts of all her spectators: When after a pause or two, she (vainly composing her countenance, more with contempt, then fear of death) there to a world of people, who flocked from all parts of the City and Country to see her dye (with a wondrous boldness) confessed, That she had not only caused her Sister Babtistyna to be stifled in her bed by Bernardo and Pierya, but that her said Sister Babtistyna and herself had formerly poisoned their elder Sister jaquinta, and that it was only their imperiousness and pride towards her, which drew her to this resolution and revenge against them both; the which she affirmed, she could now as little repent, as heretofore remedy, and ●…hat she more sensibly lamented, and grieved for the sorrows of her Father's ●…fe, then for the shame and infamy of her own death: when, without any show ●…f repentance, without any speech of God, or which is less, without so much as once looking up towards heaven, or inviting or praying her spectators to pray to God for her soul, she (with a graceless resolution, and profane boldness) conjured her Executioner speedily to perform his office and duty, which by the command of the Magistrate he-forthwith did. So this wretched Amarantha was hanged for her second murder, and then by a second decree and sentence of the Criminal judges, her body is after dinner burnt to ashes for her first; who likewise, in honour to justice, and to the glory of God, do also cause the dead body of Bernardo (for two whole days) to be hanged by his feet in his shirt to the same Gallows, and then to be cast into the River of Arno. And here the judges also, to show themselves, themselves, were once of opinion to have unburied Babtistyna, and likewise to have given her dead body some opprobrious punishment, for being accessary with her Sister Amarantha to poison their elder Sister jaquinta; but having no other evidence or proof hereof, but only the tessimony of her condemned dying Sister Amarantha, whom it was more probable than impossible, she might speak it more out of malice then truth, as also that God had already afflicted a deplorable end and punishment to her, they therefore omitted it. And thus was the deserved ends, and condign punishments of these wretched and execrable murderers; and in this manner did the just revenge, and sacred justice of God meet and triumph over them and their bloody crimes.  
And now here fully to conclude and shut up this History in all its circumstances; The griefs and sorrows of this unfortunate old Father was so great and infinite, for the untimely and deplorable deaths of all these his three only Daughters and Children, that although piety and religion had formerly taught him, that the afflictions of this life are the joys of that to come, yet being wholly vanquished and depressed with all these his different bitter crosses and calamities, he left Florence, and retired himself to a solitary life in Cardura, where he not long survived them, but died very pensively and mournfully.   

GOD'S REVENGE AGAINST THE CRYING AND EXECRAble Sin of Murder.  
HISTORY. XXII.  
Martino poisoneth his Brother Pedro, and murthereth Monfredo in the street; He afterwards grows mad, and in confession reveals both these his murders to Father Thomas his Ghostly Father, who afterwards dying, reveals it by his Letter to Cecilliana, who was Widow to Monfredo, and Sister to Pedro and Martino. Martino hath first his right hand cut off, and then is hanged for the same.  
AS it is a dangerous wickedness to contrive and plot murder; So much more it is a wretched and execrable one to finish, and perpetrate it; for to kill our Christian Brother, who figuratively bears the image of God, is an act so odious, as Nature cannot excuse, and so diabolical, as no Clemency can pardon; And yet this age, and this world is but too plentiful and fertile of such bloody Tigers, and inhuman Monsters, and Butchers of mankind, as if they had not a Conscience within them to accuse them, a God above them to condemn them, and a Hell below them to punish them; or as if they had not the sacred Oracles of Gods eternal Word, I mean the Law and the Gospel, and the blessed Precepts and Doctrine of the holy Prophets and Apostles, yea, of Christ jesus himself, the great Shepherd, and sacred Bishop of our souls, to teach us the rules of Mercy, Meekness, and Long-suffering, whiles we live in this vale of misery here below, and that we must embrace and follow Peace and Charity with all men, if ever we think to participate of the true felicity and joys of Heaven above: But nevertheless (yea directly contrary hereunto) this ensuing History will produce us one, who though sufficiently instructed in the rules of Piety and Charity, yet he wilfully abandoned the first, and contemned the second, by cruelly and unnaturally imbruing his hands in innocent blood; for the which we shall see, that he in the end suffereth a severe and shameful death. May we read this History to the glory of God, and the instruction of ourselves.  
THe Scene of this History is laid in Spain, in the famous Province of old Castille, and in the fair and ancient City of Burgos, where lately dwelled a noble and rich old Gentlewoman, termed Dona Catherina A●…z (a Surname much known, and famous in that City, Province, and Kingdom) who had by her deceased Husband Don Roderigo de Ricaldo, two sons, Don Pedro, and Don Martino, and one Daughter named Dona Cecilliana. Her eldest son Don Pedro was a gallant Cavalier of some eight and twenty years of age, tall, and well-timbered, by complexion and hair black, and of a swart and martial countenance, who for the space of seven years served as a voluntary Gentleman under that wise and valiant Commander Don Gonsalez de Cordova in Germany, and against the Lords States of the Netherlands, and since in the Voltoline and Milan, against the Grisons and French; In both which wars, he left behind him many memorable testimonies of his prowess, and purchased divers honourable trophies of true valour, and generosity: but for any other intellectual endowments of the mind, he was no scholar, and but of an indifferent capacity, yet very honest, courteous, and affable, particularly to his friends, and generally to all the world. His Brother Don Martino was of some four and twenty years of age, short of stature, very slender, but crooke-backed, of an Aubrun hair, a withered face, a squint eye, of inclination extremely sullen, and of disposition and nature envious and revengeful, as desirous rather to entertain a night-quarrell in the street, than a day-combate in the Field; but as God is many times pleased to countervail and reward the defects of nature in the body, with some rich gifts and perfections of the mind, so though not by profession, yet by education he was an excellent Scholar, of an active and sharp wit, a fluent tongue, and singularly able either to allure or divert, to persuade or dissuade, according as the stream of his different passions and affections led him; Virtues enough relucent and excellent to build a fame, and sufficient to raise an eminent fortune, if his former vices do not too fatally eclipse the one, and deface the other. Their Sister Cecilliana (aged of some twenty years) was of an indifferent height, but growing to corpulency and fatness, of a black hair, an amiable brown complexion, a big rolling eye, and the air of her countenance rather beautifully amorous, then modestly beautiful: She was of a nimble wit, of humour pleasant and facetious, yet so reserved in the external demonstration thereof, that through her Mother's pious and austere education of her, she (in all outward semblance) seemed rather to be fit for a Nunnery then a Husband, and more proper to make a Saint, than a Wife; but as the face proves not still a true Index of the heart, nor our looks and speeches still a true Sybile of our souls, so how retired soever her Mother kept her from the company of men, yet her wanton eye, conspiring with her lascivious heart, made her the more desirous thereof, and far the more licentiously, in regard she was strictly forbidden it; so as (not to contradict or dissemble the truth) I am here enforced to relate and affirm, that she imparteth her favours upon two or three young Gentlemen of that City, of her private acquaintance, and is more familiar with them, than modesty can well warrant, or chastity allow of. But there is a young Gallant of this City likewise (more noble by birth, then rich in estate and means) named Don Balthasar de Monfredo, who (deeming Cecilliana as famous for her chastity, as for her beauty) bears a singular affection to her; yea, his heart and thoughts are so fervently entangled in the snares of her delicious beauty, that in public and private, in his desires and wishes, and in his speech and actions he proclaims her to be his Mistress, and himself her servant; and if he affect and desire Cecilliana for his Wife, no less doth she Monfredo for her Husband; so that they many times by stealth meet and confer privately in remote Churches and Chappells, it being rather a profane then a religious custom of Spain (wherein Heaven is too much made to stoop to Earth, and Religion to Impiety) for men to court their intended wives, and (which is worse) many times their Courtesans and Strumpets. Cecilliana (oftentimes warranted by her Mother's indisposition) can no sooner take Coach to enjoy the pleasure and benefit of the fresh air abroad in the fragrant fields, but Monfredo assuredly meets her, where leaping from his Coach into hers (and leaving his Page to accompany her Wayting-gentle woman in his own) they at first familiarly kiss and confer, and in a few of these meetings at last effectually resolve to give themselves each to other in the sacred bonds of marriage; so he gives her a rich Diamond ring, and she reciprocally returns him a pair of Gold bracelets, in token of marriage, and they then and there (calling God to witness) very solemnly contract themselves man and wife, yet for some solid reasons, and important considerations, which conduce to the better accomplishing of their desires, they for a time conclude to bear it secretly and silently from all the world; and it is concluded and agreed between them, that a month after, and not before, he shall attempt to seek her publicly in marriage, both of her Mother the Lady Catherina, as also of her two Brothers Don Pedro and Don Martino. So when this month is passed over (which to these out two Lovers seems to be many ages) Monfredo very fairly and orderly seeks her of her Mother in marriage, and likewise (in terms fit for him to give, and them to receive) acquaints her two Brothers with his suit and affection to their Sister, and with his best art and eloquence indeavoureth (on honourable terms) to gain and purchase their consents thereunto. As for her Mother, she (preferring wealth to honour, and riches to content) considering the weakness of Monfredo's estate, the death of his parents, whereby she sees him deprived of all future hope to raise his fortunes, doth absolutely deny to bestow her Daughter on him in marriage; and the more to bewray her extreme distaste of this his suit and dislike of himself, she (with much obstinacy and choler) forbids him her Daughter's company, and (with more incivility and indignation) conjures him to leave and forbear her house, telling him she hath already firmly engaged her word and promise to Don Alonso Delrio, that he shall shortly espouse and marry her. Now although this sharp answer of hers seem to nip Monfredo's hopes and desires in their blossoms, yet relying more on the affection and constancy of the Daughter, then on the power or resolution of the Mother, he again and again (with a most respective and honourable importunity) soliciteth her consent; but he sees it lost labour, because she is resolute that her first shall be her last answer to him herein. As for her Brother Don Pedro, he loves his Sister so perfectly, and her content so dear, that he finds him to stand well affected to their affections, and in regard of his love to her, and respect to him, that he utterly contemns the motion and mention of Delrio; and therefore faithfully promiseth Monfredo his best assistance towards his Mother for the effecting of their desires. But for her younger Brother, Don Martino, he finds a contrary nature and disposition in him; for he never loved, but hated his Sister Cecilliana, and therefore hates Monfredo for her sake, ●…nd loves Delrio, because he hears she hates him, and so animates his Mother against them; and thus he gives Monfredo cold answers, and (the sooner and bet●…r to convert his hope into despair) tells him plainly, that Delrio must and shall ●…arry his Sister, and none but he: Thus Monfredo departs, as glad of Don Pe●… his love, as he is sorrowful for his Mother and Brother Don Martino's hatred. And here (to observe the better order in this History, and likewise to give the curi●…sity of the Reader the fuller satisfaction) it will not be improper rather pertinent ●…or us to understand, that Don Delrio was a well descended Gentleman likewise of ●…e same city of Burgos, rich in lands and monies, but at least fifty five years old, having a white head and beard, of a hard and sour favour, and exceedingly baker-legged; yet as old as he was, he was so passionately enamoured of the fresh and sweet beauty of Cecilliana, that he thought her not too young to be his wife, nor himself too old to be her husband, but led more by his lust then his judgement, and encouraged by Dona Catherina her Mother, for that his great lands and wealth wholly inclined and weighed down her affection towards him, he often visiteth her Daughter Cecilliana, and with his best oratory and power seeks and courts her affection in the way of marriage: but she having her heart fixed on Monfredo's youth, and comely feature, she highly slights Delrio's frozen age, as disdaining to make herself a May to this December, because she apparently knew, and perfectly believed, that he was every way fitter for his grave, then for her bed; for it was Monfredo, and only Monfredo, whom her heart had elected and chosen for her second self and Husband: And suppose (quoth she) that Monfredo be not so rich as Delrio, yet all Castille, yea all Spain well knows, that by descent and generosity he is far more noble, and that there is as great an Antithesis and disparity between the virtues of the first, and the defects and imperfections of the last, as there is between a Clown and a Captain, and a Peasant and a Prince; therefore let my Mother say whar she will, Delrio what he can, or my Brother Martino what he dare, yet they shall see, and the world know, that I will be wife to none but Monfredo, and that either he, or my Grave, shall be my Husband.  
But the Lady Catherina her Mother (notwithstanding her Daughter's averseness and obstinacy) lays her charge and blessing upon her to forsake Monfredo, and take Delrio, urging to her the poverty of the one, and the wealth of the other, what delights and contentments the last will give her, and what afflictions and misery the first doth threaten her: but the affection of Cecilliana is still so firmly fixed, and strongly settled and cymented on her Monfredo, that she is deaf to these requests, and blind to these reasons of her Mother, in seeking to dissuade her from him, and in consenting and persuading her to accept of Delrio for her Husband; and although her Mother follow her in all places as her shadow, and haunt her at all times as her Ghost, to draw her hereunto, yet she still finds her Daughter as resolute to deny, as she is importunate to request it of her, vowing that she will rather wed herself to a Nunnery, then to Delrio, whom she saith she cannot affect, and therefore peremptorily disdaineth to marry. Her Mother seeing her daughter thus constantly and wilfully to persevere in her obstinacy against her desires, she (with much choler and grief) relates from point to point to her Son Don Martino what had passed between them; whom she knew did as much love Delrio, and hate Monfredo, as her eldest Son Don Pedro hated Delrio, and loved Monfredo for their Sister in marriage. Martino takes advantage of thi●… occasion and opportunity, and thinking to give two blows with one stone, b●… crossing his Sister in her affection, and his Brother in his designs and wishes, dot●… now more than ever incense his Mother against her, alleging that it would be 〈◊〉 far greater honour, and less scandal to their Name and House, that she wer●… rather married to a Nunnery, than a Beggar, and with many powerful reasons and artificial persuasions, strives to make her incli●…able to this project, and flex●… ble to this resolution of his, as indeed in a little time she doth: For the Moth●… being thus wedded to her will, and therein now confirmed by the sly polici●… and fortified by the subtle insinuation of her Son Don Martino, she hereup●… constantly resolves to betake and give her Daughter to God and the Church, 〈◊〉 firming that she shall never reap any true content in her thoughts, nor peace her heart, before she see her cloistered up and espoused to a Nunnery. But this compact of theirs is not so closely carried between them, but the vigilancy of Don Pedro (whose affection and care aims to give Monfredo and his Sister content) hath perfect notice and intelligence hereof, the which for a time he holds fit to conceal from them both; when firmly purposing to prevent it, and so to cross his Mother and Brother, who herein delight and glory to cross him, he bethinks himself of an invention (worthy of himself) how and which way to effect it. He sends for Don Alonso Delrio to the Cordeliers Church, and there relates him the friendship he bears him, that he will not see him run himself into an error in seeking his Sister Cecilliana in marriage, whom he knows he cannot possibly obtain; She (to his knowledge) being already firmly contracted to Monfredo, notwithstanding all that his Mother and Brother Don Martino have said or can do to the contrary. Delrio heartily thanks Don Pedro for the expression of this love to him, the which he affirms he shall ever find him ready both to deserve and requite; when measuring the time future by the present, and of Cecilliana's blooming youth by his weatherbeaten and blasted age, he vows to Don Pedro, that he will henceforth no more desire or seek his Sister in marriage, nor yet speak with her, or come near his Mother or Brother; so that business is for ever dashed, and receives an end, almost as soon as a beginning. The which Don Martino (out of his deep reach and politic pate) understanding, and knowing that this falling off of Delrio, from farther seeking his Sister in marriage, proceeded wholly from the secret underminig of his Brother Don Pedro, he is extremely in choler against him for the same; and so (with more passion than discretion) goes and chargeth him herewith: Whereupon these two Brothers fall at great contention and variance, and many bitter words and outrageous speeches here interchangeably pass between them, the repetition whereof I think good to bury in silence, because it matters not much to give it a place in this History; only (to deal on generals) I must say that Don Pedro was high, and Don Martino hot, and that the first spoke not so much as he dared, and the last dared not so much as he spoke. But this tongue combat of theirs was so violent and blusterous, as the issue thereof redounding to Don Pedro's glory and generosity, and to Don Martino's shame and baseness, and Martino finding that he had more will than power to be now revenged hereof on his brother, he is inflamed with choler and revenge against him for the same, as consulting with Satan, not with God, he is so revengeful and inhuman, as he wisheth his said brother in heaven, and from thenceforth plotteth with himself how to finish it, reasoning thus uncharitably and damnably with himself; That he being dead, and his sister penned and mewed up in a Nunnery, he shall then be sole heir and Lord to all the Lands and Estate which his Father left him.  
Thus in the heat of his choler, and the fumes of his revenge against his brother Don Pedro, he repairs to his Mother, informs her how it is he and his policy which hath beaten off Delrio from seeking his sister Cecilliana in marriage, and that through his close treacherous dealing, he hath prevailed with him for ever to abandon her; yea, he here leaves no invention unassayed to intense his mother against his brother, nor means unattempted to inflame her against his sister, by still putting her in mind of his rashness towards Delrio, and 〈◊〉 her disobedience towards herself; and here (he remembering his own a●…ritious ends) doth again modestly persuade, and then again importunately ●…ay his mother to constitute her to a Nunnery; whereunto (as we have former●… understood) he knows she is already resolutely bend and resolved: When she (being vanquished with her own desires, and his importunity) promiseth him very shortly to effect it. But first she sends for her Son Don Pedro, and in a language of thunder rebukes and checks him for his double crime, in dissuading Delrio from so suddenly forsaking his sister, and in persuading so strongly to affect Monfredo, adding withal, that notwithstanding his treachery and policy, and her ingrateful disobedience to her, she is inviolably resolved shortly to send ●…onfredo to seek another wife, and to give and betake her to no other Husband then a Nunnery. Don Pedro, holding it his duty to entertain this choler and these speeches of his mother rather with modesty than passion, returns her this answer, that he hath nor said, nor done any thing to Delrio, but what he can well justify with his obedience to her, and his honour to the whole world; that his affection to his sister's present content, and care of her future prosperity, makes him assume this belief and confidence, that Delrio is as unworthy of her, as she worthily bestowed on Don Monfredo, and therefore that it is both pity and shame, that the wealth of the first should be preferred to the nobility and generosity of the second; he prays her to consider, that as Cecilliana is her daughter, so she is his sister, and that he is so well acquainted with her disposition and secrets, as not to dissemble her the truth, he holds her far more fit to make a Wife then a Nun, and a Nunnery therefore (every way) to be improper for her, and she for it; that he is not ignorant that it is the policy, or rather the malice of his brother Don Martino, which hath wrought these false impressions in her belief against himself, and this her uncharitable resolution against his sister; for which base treachery and ingratitude of his, if he thought him as worthy of his care, as he knows he is of his scorn, he would not fail to call him to a strict account for the same, but that Nature and Grace prescribe him contrary rules. Dona Catherina being far more capable to distaste, then to relish this bold answer of her Son Don Pedro, and contenting herself to have now delivered him her mind and resolution at full, she leaves him, and finds out his brother Martino, to whom she punctually relates what had passed between her and his brother Don Pedro; whereat he is afresh so nettled with choler, and inflamed with revenge against him, as what before he hath desperately plotted and resolved against his life, he now vows and swears shortly to execute, whereat his bloody thoughts (without intermission) aim and tend, and next thereunto he desires nothing so much, as to see his Sister made a vowed and veiled Sister.  
Whiles thus his mother and himself are deep in conference, and busy in consultation how to effect and compass these their different designs, Don Pedro goes to his sister Cecilliana, finds out Monfredo, and to them both sincerely delivers what hath passed between his mother, his brother, and himself, in their behalves; yea, it is a jest (both worthy, and well beseeming his laughter) to see how between earnest and jest, he tells his sister (in presence of her lover Monfredo) that she must shortly prepare herself for a Nunnery, for that their brother Don Martin●… hath decreed it, and their mother Dona Catherina sworn it: At this pleasant passage and conceit of Don Pedro, Cecilliana cannot refrain from blushing, nor Monfredo from smiling: for looking each on other with the eyes of one and the sa●… tender affection and constancy, he smiles to see her blush, and she again blusheth to see him smile hereat, here she tells her brother Don Pedro plainly, and h●… lover Monfredo pleasantly, that she will deceive her mother's hopes, and her brother Don Martino's desires, in thinking to make her a cloistered Sister; when 〈◊〉 gain metamorphosing the snowwhite lilies of her cheeks into blushing dama●… roses, she with a modest pleasantness, directing her speech to Monfredo (who then lovingly led her in the Garden by her arm) tells him, that his house should be the Nunnery, his arms the Cloister, and himself the Saint, to whom (till death) she was ready to proffer up, and sacrifice both her affection and herself; that as she did not hate, but love the profession of a Nun in others, so for his sake she could not love, but hate it in herself, adding withal, that for proof and confirmation hereof (if it were his pleasure) she was both ready and willing to put herself into his protection, and to repose her honour in the confidence of his faithful affection and integrity towards her. Monfredo first kissing her, then infinitely thanks her for this true demonstration of her dear and constant affection to him, when again intermixing kisses with smiles, and smiles with kisses, he swears to her, in presence of God, and her brother Don Pedro, that if the Lady her mother wholly abandon her, or resolve to commit her to a Nunnery, he will receive and entertain her in his poor house with delight and joy, and preserve her honour equally with his own life, and that in all things (as well for the time present, as the future) he will steer his actions by the star of her desire, and the compass of her present brother Don Pedro's commands: for which free and faithful courtesy of his, Cecilliana thanks him, and no less doth Don Pedro, who in requital hereof makes him a general and generous tender of his best power and service to act and consummate his desires; and so for that time, and with this resolution, they part each from other, leaving the progress of their affections, and the success thereof partly to time, but chiefly to God, whom they all religiously invocate to bless their designs in hand.  
Leave we them for a while, and come we now again (cursorily) to speak of their mother Dona Catherina, and of Don Martino their brother, who being the oracle from whom she derives and directs all her resolutions, she is still constant to herself, and therefore still vehemently bend against her son Don Pedro, her daughter Cecilliana and Monfredo, swearing both solemnly and seriously, that she will rather dye, then live to see him her son in law: and yet whatsoever Don Martino do say, or can allege to her to the contrary, she yet loves Don Alonso Delrio so well, and her daughter Cecilliana so dear, that before she will attempt to cloister her up in a Nunnery, she hoping to reclaim him to affect her, and to revive his suit of marriage, doth by a Gentleman her servant send him this Letter.  
CATHERINA to DELRIO.  
I Am wholly ignorant why thou thus forsakest thy affection and suit to my Daughter Cecilliana, whereof, before I am resolved by thee, I have many reasons to suspect and think, that it was as feigned, as thy promises and oaths pretended it to befervent. Sure I 〈◊〉, that as Envy cannot eclipse the fame of her virtues towards the world, so Truth dare ●…t contradict the sincerity of my well wishes and affection towards thee, in desiring to make thee her Husband, and her thy Wife. Her poor beauty (which thou so often sworest thy ●…art so dear admired and adored) hath lost no part of its lustre, but is the same still; and 〈◊〉 am I, who have ever wished, and ever will faithfully desire, that of all men of the world, ●…y self only may live to enjoy it. If thou think her affection be bend any other way, 〈◊〉 dost her no right, but offer a palpable wrong to thine own judgement, and to my knowledge: Or if thou imagine the Portion be too small, which I promised to give, and thou to ●…ceive with her in marriage, thou shalt command that augmentation from me, which none 〈◊〉 thyself shall either have cause to request, or power to obtain; yea, thou shalt find, that for the finishing and consummating of so good a work (which thou so much deservest, and I so much desire) I will willingly be contented to enrich her fortunes with the impoverishing of mine own. If thou send me thine Answer hereunto, I shall take it for an argument of thy unkindness: but if thou bring it thyself, I will esteem it as one of thy true respects and affection to me.  
CATHERINA.  
Don Martino being solicited and charged by his Lady mother likewise to write effectually to Delrio to return to seek his sister Cecilliana in marriage, yet notwithstanding drawn thereunto for his own covetous ends, secretly to desire and wish that he might never marry her, but she a Nunnery, he therefore to that effect writes, and sends him a most dissembling and hypocritical Letter by the same messenger, to accompany hers, but he is so reserved and fine, as he purposely conceals the sight and reading thereof from his mother. This Letter of his, which was as false and double as himself, reported this language:  
MARTINO to DELRIO.  
MY duty ever obliging me to esteem my Mother's requests as commands, I therefore adventure thee this Letter, as desiring to know who or what hath so suddenly withdrawn thee, or thy affection from my Sister Cecilliana. Thou canst not be ignorant of my hearty well-wishes and love to thee in obtaining her to thy wife; and yet it is not possible for thee to conceive, much less believe, the hundreth part of the bitter speeches, which I have been enforced to receive and pack up, from her and my Brother Don Pedro, for desiring and wishing it. I know that enforced affections prove commonly more fatal than fortunate, and more ruinous than prosperous; therefore I am so far from any more persuading thee to seek her in marriage, that I leave each of you to yourselves, and both unto God. And to the end thou mayst see how much the Lady my Mother affects thy suit, and distastes that of Monfredo to my sister, she upon thy forbearance and absence hath vowed unto God, that if thou be not, he shall not, but a Nunnery must be her Husband. My Mother is desirous to see thee, and myself to speak with thee; but because Marriages ought first to be made in Heaven, before consummated in Earth, therefore thou knowest far better than myself, that in all actions (especially in Marriage) it is the duty of a Christian to wait on God's secret Providence, and to attend his sacred pleasure with patience.  
MARTINO.  
Delrio receives and reads these two Letters, and (consulting them with his judgement) finds that they look two different ways; for Dona Catherina the mother would marry her daughter to himself, but not to Monfredo, and her son Martino, aims and desireth to have her married to a Nunnery, and not to himself; wherein wealth and covetousness are the chiefest ends and ambition of them both, without having any respect to the young Lady's content, or regar●… to her satisfaction; and although the speech which Don Pedro delivered him i●… the Cordeliers (or Grey Friars) Church, have so much wrought with his affection, and so powerfully prevailed with his resolution, that he will no farthe●… seek Cecilliana in marriage, yet in common courtesy and civility he holds himself bound to answer their two Letters, the which he doth, and returns the●… by their own messenger. That to the Lady Catherina had these words:  
DELRIO to CATHERINA.  
THough you suspect my sincerity, yet if you will believe the truth, you shall find, that the affection which I intended the Lady Cecilliana your daughter was fervent, not feigned; and because you are desirous to know the reasons why I forbear to seek her in marriage, I can give you no other but this, that I know she is too worthy to be my wife, and believe that I am not worthy enough to be her husband: so though envy should dare to be so ignorant, yet it cannot possible be so malicious, either to eclipse the lustre of her beauty, or the fame of her virtues, sith the one is so sweet a grace to the ●…ther, and both so precious ornaments to herself, that infinite others besides myself hold it as great a profaneness not to adore the last, as a happiness to see and admire the first. For your affection in desiring myself she, and she mine in marriage, I can give you no other requital but thanks for the present, and my prayers and service for the future. How your daughter hath, or will dispose of her affection, God and herself best know; and therefore I shall do her right, and your knowledge and my judgement no wrong, rather to proclaim my ignorance, than my curiosity herein: but this I assure you, that if hers to me had equallized mine to hers, I should then thankfully have taken, and joyfully received her with a far less portion than you would have given me with her. To yourself I wish much prosperity, and to the Lady your daughter all happiness. I must return you this mine answer by mine own servant, and whether you make it an argument of my unkindness, 〈◊〉 affection, in pleasing yourself, you shall no way displease me.  
DELRIO.  
His Letter to Don Martino spoke thus:  
DELRIO to MARTINO.  
I Have (by my Letter) given the Lady thy mother the reasons why I desist from any farther seeking thy sister Cecilliana in marriage; and because I know she will acquaint thee therewith, therefore I hope they will suffice both for thee and her. I am as thankful to thee for thy well wishes to have obtained her for my wife, as I grieve to understand that thou hast received any bitter speeches, either from her or thy brother done Pedro, for my sake. It rejoiceth me to see thee of the opinion that enforced marriages prove commonly fatal and ruinous, in which belief and truth, if thou and thy mother persevere, I hope you will espouse your sister to don Monfredo, and not to a Nunnery, because (if I am not misinformed) her affections suggest and assure her, that she shall receive as much content from the first, as misery from the second. As thy mother is desirous to see me, so am I to serve her, and likewise thyself; and as thou writest religiously and truly, that Marriages should first be made in heaven, ere solemnised in earth; so, doubtless, God hath reserved thy sister for a far better husband than Delrio, and him for a ●…rre worse wife than Cecilliana: And thus (as a Christian) I recommend her with ●…ale to the Providence, and myself with Patience to the Pleasure of Almighty God.  
DELRIO.  
When in regard of his former affection, and future respect, devoted to the ●…eautie and virtues of Cecilliana, and seeing herself, her Mother and Brother Don Martino bend to dispose otherwise of her in marriage, he will yet be so jealous of her good, and so careful of his own honour and reputation, as he holds himself obliged to take his leave of her by Letter, sith not in person, and so to recommend her and her good fortunes to God; the which he doth, and gives his Letter to the same bearer, but with a particular charge and secret instructions to deliver it very privately into the Lady Cecillianas' hands, without the knowledge either of her mother or brother done Martino, which he faithfully promised to perform: His said Letter to her was charged with these lines.  
DELRIO to CECILLIANA.  
BEing heretofore informed by your brother done Pedro of your dear affection to don Monfredo, and your constant resolution to make him your husband, I held myself bound, out of due regard to you, and firm promise to him to surcease my suit to you, and (because the shortest errors are ever best) no more to strive to make impossibilities possible, in persevering to seek you in marriage, whom I see (heaven and earth have conspired) another must obtain and enjoy: And when I look from my age to your youth, and from that to Monfredo's, I am so far from condemning your choice, as I both approve and applaud it, praying you to be as resolute in this confidence, as I am confident in this resolution, that my best prayers and wishes shall ever wish you the best prosperities. And to the ●…d you may perceive that my former affection shall still resplend and shine to you in my future respect, I cannot, I will not conceal the knowledge of this truth from you, that by Letters which right now (by this bearer) I received from the Lady your mother, and brother done Martino, they have some exorbitant and irregular design in contemplation, shortly to reduce into action, against the excellency of your youth and beauty, and the sweetness of your content and tranquillity; which howsoever (to yourself and the world) they seem to shadow and overvaile with false colours, yet although they make religion the pretext, you (if you speedily prevent it not) will in the end find that their malice to your lover Monfredo is the true and only cause thereof. God hath endued you with a double happiness, in giving you an excellent wit to second and embellish your exquisite beauty, whereunto if in this business you take the advice of your best friend Monfredo, and follow that of your noble brother Don Pedro, you will then have no cause to doubt, but all the reasons of the world to assure yourself that your affections and fortunes will in the end succeed according to my prayers, and your merits and expectation.  
DELRIO.  
The Messenger first publicly delivereth the two former Letters to his Lady Dona Catherina, and her son Don Martino, and then privately the other to the young Lady Cecilliana, according to his promise and Don Delrio's request: As for the mother she grieves to see that Delrio will not be reclaimed, but hath quite forsaken her Daughter; But for her Son done Martino he is exceeding joyful hereof; for now he is confident, that (according to his plot) his mother upon Delrio's refufall, will (in mere malice to Monfredo) assuredly commit his sister to a Nunnery: Thus if he obtain his ends and desires he cares not who miss theirs. As for Cecilliana, she doth not a little rejoice at Delrio's Letter to her, and at his constant resolution to leave, and commit her to Monfredo; yea she reputes his advice to her concerning her mother, and her brother done Martino's intended discourtesy towards her to much respect and honour. She acquaints her brother done Pedro, and her Monfredo with this Letter of Delrio, who now plainly see their mother and brothers former resolution confirmed, in aiming and intending to make Cecilliana a holy Sister, whereat they again laugh and jest at her, and she to them, for in their hearts and thoughts they all know, and resolve to prevent it. But they cannot but highly approve of Delrio's noble respect and true discretion, in being so constant to give over his suit to her, and yet so courteous and honest towards them all in this his kind and respectful Letter to Cecilliana; the which above the other two, she cheerfully receives, and joyfully welcomes, that she resolves she can (in honour) do no less, then return his compliment, and answer his Letter with one of her own to him, the which she doth in these terms.  
CECILLIANA to DELRIO.  
WHat my brother done Pedro informed you concerning Monfredo and myself, was the very truth and sincerity of those affections wherewith God hath inspired ●…r hearts, and settled our resolutions each to other. As I was never doubtful of your well-wishes and love, so now I am not a little thankful to you for your dear respect towards me, in approving my choice, and in praying to God to make it prosperous, whereas the obstinacy of my Lady mother, and the malice of my brother done Martino (without ground or reason) affirm it must needs prove ruinous. I have heretofore been advertised, and 〈◊〉 (by your care of me, and respect to me which clearly resplends and shines in your L●…tter) an●… fully confirmed that my said mother and brother have some undeserved design against me, and my content; and although my poor beauty and silly wit no way deserve those excellent praises of your pen, yet my heart shall consult with don Pedro how to bear myself in this so weighty and important a business, whereon (although the cause be malice, and the pretext religion) I know depends either my future content or affliction, my happiness or my misery, in the mean time I will pray for those who viciously hate me, and honour these 〈◊〉 virtuously affect and honour me. Of which last number, I ingenuously and gratefully acknowledge, that your generosity, not my merits, hath condignly made you one.  
CECILLIANA.  
When she had dispatched this Letter to Delrio, than Monfredo by her consent, and the advice of her brother done Pedro, holds it very requisite now once again to sound the affection, and to feel the pulse of their mother dona Catherina's resol●…tion towards him, to see whether yea or no she will please to give him her daughter in marriage; and it is agreed of all sides between them, that at the very time and hour which he goes there, that she and her brother done Pedro will purposely absent themselves, and ride abroad in their Coach, to take the air, which they do: To this effect Monfredo takes his Coach, and goes directly to the Lady Catherina's house, and sends up his name to her, as desiring to have the honour to salute her, and kiss her hand; but she is so enraged and transpor●…ed with choler at his arrival and message, as she sends him down a flat and ●…eremptory denial, that she will not see him, and as formerly she prayed, so ●…ow she commands him to depart, and ever hereafter to forbear her house. An ●…swer so unkind and uncivil, that Monfredo well knows not whether he have ●…cason to digest it with more choler or laughter; so returning her answer by her ●…ayting-gentlewoman, that he will obey her commands, and no more trou●… either her house or her patience, yet that he will still remain her most hum●… servant, and although she refuse to see him, that he will ever pray for her long life and prosperity: done Martino is now at home, and laughs in his sleeve as a Gipsy, to see what brave entertainment his mother gives Monfredo, he expecteth also that he should visit him, but because his mother's stomach is so high, therefore his cannot descend so low, as owing him no such duty and service, and so takes Coach and away; and knowing where done Pedro and his Mistress Cecilliana were, in the fields, he drives away presently to them, and very pleasantly relates them the whole long story of their mother's short entertainment to him, which administereth matter of laughter to them all, and far the more, in regard neither of them expected less; so Monfredo staying an hour or two with them in the fields, and then bringing them to the gates of the City, they for that time take their leave each of other, and all appoint to meet the next day after dinner, in the Garden of the Augustine Friars, and there to provide and resolve for their affairs, against the discontent of their mother, and the malice of their brother done Martino.  
The next morning, the Lady Catherina (storming at Monfredo's yesterday presumption and boldness) sends for her daughter Cecilliana into the Garden to her, as being fully resolved to deal effectually with her for ever to forsake Monfredo, or if she cannot, then to commit her to a Nunnery. She comes; when (in great privacy and efficacy) she lays before her the poverty of Monfredo, the which she affirms will bring her to more misery than she can expect or think of, or indeed which she deserves, at least if she be not so wilful to ruin herself and her fortunes, as she is to preserve them. Cecilliana now seeing her mother bend to play her prize against the merits and honour of her Monfredo, and therefore against the content and felicity which she expects to enjoy by enjoying him, she no longer able to brook or digest it, cuts her off with this reply, that (her duty excepted) it is in vain for her, either to seek to disparage Monfredo, or any way of the world to attempt to withdraw her affection from him, and therefore with much observance and respect prays her to affect and honour him, if not for his own sake, yet for hers. Her Lady mother weeps to see her daughter thus obstinate (she might have said thus constant) in her affection to Monfredo, and therefore (with frowns in her looks, and anger in her eyes) she thunders out a whole Catalogue of dispraises and recriminations against him; and because yet she despaireth to prevail with her hereby, she now (thinking it high time) resolves to divert and change the stream of her affection from him to God, and so at last to mew and betake her to a Nunnery, whereon her desires and intentions have so long ruminated, and her wishes and vows aimed at: to which end calming the storms of her tongue, and composing her countenance to patience and piety, she with her best art and eloquence speaks to her thus; That in regard she will not accept of don Delrio for her husband, with whom she might have enjoyed prosperity, content, and glory, but will rather marry Monfredo, from whom she can, and must expect nothing but poverty, grief, and repentance, she therefore (out of her natural regard of her, and tender affection to her) hath by the direction of God, bethought herself of a medium between both, which is to marry neither of them, but in a religious and sanctified way to espouse herself to God and his holy Church; when (thinking to have taken time by the forelock) she depainteth her the felicity and beatitude of a Nun's profession and life, so pleasing to God and the World, to Heaven and Earth, to Angels and Men: When her daughter Cecilliana being tired and discontented with this poor and ridiculous oration of hers, she lifting up her eyes to Heaven, with a modest boldness, and yet with a bold truth, interrupts her mother thus, that God hath inspired he●… heart to affect Monfredo so dearly, and to love him so tenderly, as she will rather content herself to beg with him, then to live with Delrio in the greatest prosperity which either this life or this world can afford her; that although she had no bad opinion of Nuns, yet that neither the constitution of her body, much less of her mind, was proper for a Nunnery, or a Nunnery for her; in which regard, she had rather pray for them then with them, and honour then imitate them: when the Lady her mother, not able to contain herself in patience, much less in silence, at this audacity (and as she thought) impiety of her daughter, she with much choler and spleen demands her a reason of these her exorbitant speeches. When her daughter no way dejecting her looks to earth, but rather advancing and raising them to heaven, requites her with this answer; That it is not the body, but the mind, not the flesh, but the soul, which is chiefly requisite and required to give ourselves to God and his Church; that to throw, or (which is worse) to permit ourselves to be thrown on the Church through any cause of constraint, or motion of distaste or discontent, is an act which savoureth more of profaneness than piety, and more of earth than heaven; that as God's power, so his presence is not to be confined or tied to any place, for that his Centre is every where, and therefore his circumference no where; that God is in Egypt as well as in Palestyne or Jerusalem, and that heaven is as near us, and we heaven, in a Mansion house, as in a Monastery or Nunnery; that it is not the place which sanctifyeth the heart and soul, but they▪ the place; and that Churches and Cloisters have no privilege or power to keep out sin, if we by our own lively faith, and God by his all-saving grace do not. Which speech of hers as soon as she had delivered, and seeing that the Lady her mother was more capable to answer her thereunto with silence then reason, she making her a low reverence, and craving her excuse, departs from her, and leaves her here alone in the Garden to herself and her Muses.  
Her mother having a little walked out her choler, in seeing her daughters firm resolution not to become a Nun; she leaves the garden and retires to her Chamber, where sending for her son Martino, she relates him at full what conference had there passed between his sister and herself, who likewise is so much perplexed and grieved hereat, as putting their heads and wits together, they within a day or two, vow to provide a remedy for this her obstinacy and wilfulness. As for Cecilliana she likewise reports this verbal conference, which had passed between her mother and herself, to her brother Don Pedro, and Monfredo, when (according to promise) they met that afternoon in the Augustine's garden, who exceedingly laugh thereat; and yet again fearing lest the malice of their brother Don Martino towards them, might cause his mother to use some violence or endurance to her, and so to make force extort that from her will, which fair means could not, they bid her to assume a good courage, and to be cheerful and generous, promising her that if her mother attempted it, that Monfredo should steal her away by night, and that he, as he is done Pedro her brother, will assist her in her escape and flight; whereon they all resolve with hands, and conclude with kisses: Neither did their doubts prove vain, or their fear and suspicion deceive them herein; for her incensed mother being resolute in her will, and wilful in ●…er obstinacy, to make her daughter a Nun, she shuts her up in her Chamber, makes it no less than her prison, and her brother done Martino her Guardian, or ●…ather her Gaoler. Poor Cecilliana now exceedingly weeps and grieves at this ●…ruelty of her mother, and brother done Martino, which as yet her dear brother done ●…dro cannot remedy, by persuading, or prevailing with them to release her; he acquaints Monfredo herewith, and they both consulting, find no better expedient to free her from this domestical imprisonment, then counterfeitly to give her mother to understand and believe, that her daughter hath now changed her mind, and that (by God's direction) she is fully resolved to abandon Monfredo, and so to spend and end her days in a Nunnery; but chose, they resolve to fetch her away by night, and without delay. Accordingly hereunto Cecilliana acts her part well, and pretends now to this spiritual will and resolution of her mother, sa before she was disobedient. Her mother infinitely rejoiceth at this her conversion, and no less (or rather more) doth her brother done Martino, who to fortify and confirm her in this her religious resolution, they send some Friars and Nuns to persuade her to appoint the precise day for her entrance into this Holy house and Orders; which with her tongue she doth, but in her heart resolves nothing less, or rather directly the contrary. The mother now acquaints both her sons with this resolution of their sister, which is the next Sunday to give herself to God and the Church, and to take holy Orders; when done Pedro purposely very artificially seems as strongly to oppose, as his brother done Martino cheerfully approves thereof, now extolling her devotion and piety as far as the Sky, if not many degrees beyond the Moon; so the day apppointed for her entrance and reception drawing near, the Lady Abbess is dealt with by her Mother, her Cell provided, her Spiritual apparel made, all her kinsfolks and chief friends invited to a solemn Feast, to celebrate this our new Holy Sister's marriage to God and the Church. But whiles thus dona Catherina the mother, and done Martino her son are exceeding busy about the preparation and solemnity of this Spiritual business, done Pedro and Monfredo resolve to run a contrary course, and so to steal away Cecilliana the very night before the prefixed day of her entrance into the Nunnery, as holding that Saturday night the fittest time and most void of all suspicion and fear, whereof (both by tongue and letter) they give her exact and curious notice; which striking infinite joy to her heart and thoughts, she accordingly makes herself ready, packs up all her jewels and Bracelets in a small Casket, and acquainting none of the world therewith, for that her brother done Pedro's chamber was next to hers, and he as vigilant and watchful as herself, for Monfredo's coming about midnight, which was the appointed hour for his Rendezvouz: when at last both their several Watches (in their several Chambers) assuring them that it was near one of the clock, it being the dead of the night, none of the house stirring, but all hushed up in silence,, as if every thing seemed to conspire to her escape and flight; then, I say, done Pedro issues forth his Chamber to hers, where the door being a little open, and her candle put our, he finds his sister ready, when conducting her by the arm, they softly descend the stairs, and so to a Postern door of the Garden; where they find Monfredo (joyfully ready to receive the Queen regent of his heart) assisted with two valiant confident Gentlemen his friends, who were well mounted on excellent horses with their swords and Pistols, and for himself and her a Coach with six horses: When briefly passing over their Compliments and congees each from other, they (with a world of thanks) leave done Pedro behind them, and so away as swift as the wind, who seeing them gone, secretly and softly returns to his Chamber and bed, silently shutting all the doors after him, whiles Monfredo with his other self and his two friends drive away to Valdebelle, a Manor house of his some eight leagues from Burgos.  
Don Pedro lies purposely long in his bed the next morning, thereby the better to colour out his ignorance and innocence of his sisters Clandestine flight and escape: So his mother about five, or near six of the clock, sends Felicia her daughter's Wayting-gentlewoman to her Chamber, to awake and apparel her, to receive many young Ladies and Gentlewomen, who were come to visit her, and to take their leaves of her before her entry into God's house: but Felicia speedily returns to her with this unlookt-for answer; That her Lady's Chamber door is fast locked, whereat she hath many times called and knocked aloud, but hears no speech. The mother is amazed hereat, and no less (rather more) is her son done Martino; so they both run to her Chamber, and knock and call aloud, but hearing no answer, they force open the door, where they find the nest, but the bird flown away; whereat the mother infinitely weeps, and her son done Martino doth exceedingly rage and storm, at this their affront and scandal, he tells his mother he will engage his life, that his brother done Pedro is accessary to his sister Cecilliana's flight, and gone with her; so they both run to his Chamber, but find him in his bed fast sleeping and snoring, as he pretends and they believe: their outcries awake him; but they shall find him as subtle and reserved in his policy towards them, as they were in their malice to his sister; so he hears their news, puts on his apparel, seems to be all in fire and choler hereat, proffereth his mother his best endeavours and power to recover his sister, and to revenge himself on the villain who hath stolen her away. But his brother done Martino is so galled and nettled at the escape of his sister, and these words of his brother, as he tells him to his face, in presence of their mother, that his speeches and proffers are counterfeit, and himself a dissembler, and that it is impossible but he assisted and favoured her escape and departure; for which uncivil and foul language of one brother to another, done Pedro gives him the lie, and seconds it with a box on the ear, and then very cunningly betakes himself to consolate and comfort the Lady his mother, who is not a little grieved and angry at this her second affliction, and the more in regard he did it in her presence; so done Pedro reconducting her to her Chamber, and leaving her weeping in company of many of their sorrowful ●…folkes and neighbours, he than calls for his horse, and under colour to find out his sister, he rides to Valdebelle to her and Monfredo, stays there some eight days, where being exceeding careful of the preservation of his sister's honour and reputation, he before his departure sees them solemnly but secretly married; where leaving them to their Nuptial joys, and pleasures, he again re●…es to Burgos, and tells his Mother it is impossible for him to hear any news of his sister.  
And now, what doth the return, sight, and presence of don Pedro do here in his mother's house at Burgos, but only revive his brother done Martino's old ma●…e, and new choler and revenge against him, for the lie and box on the ear, which he so lately gave him? For the remembrance thereof so inflames his heart and thoughts against him, that he forgetting his conscience and soul, yea ●…ven and God, as he assumes and gives life to his former bloody resolution to ●…ther him, and thinks no safer, nor surer way for him to effect it, then by ●…yson, that ingredient of hell, and drug of the Devil. But don Martino is reso●…e in his rage, and execrable in his bloody malice and revenge against this his ●…erous and noble brother done Pedro; so (disdaining all thoughts of religion, ●…d considerations of piety) he procureth a pair of poisoned perfumed Gloves, ●…d treacherously insinuating them into his brother's hands and wearing, the fatal ●…enom'd sent thereof in less than two days poisoneth him; so he is found dead ●…s bed: when don Martino, the more closely to overvaile this damnable fact 〈◊〉 his, purposely gives it out, that it was an Impostume which broke within him, and so he died suddenly thereof in his bed, there being no servant of his own, nor none else that night near him, or by him to assist him, and this report of his passeth currant with the world; so the Lady his mother and himself cause him to be buried with more silence than solemnity, and every way inferior to his honourable birth and generous virtues, because she still affected and loved done Martino far better then him: so his death did not much afflict or grieve her, and far less his brother done Martino. But for his sister Cecilliana, as soon as she understood and heard hereof, she is so appalled with grief, and daunted with sorrow and despair, that she sends a world of sighs to heaven, and a deluge of tears to earth for the death of this her best and dearest brother. Her husband done Monfredo (for henceforth so we must call him) likewise infinitely laments done Pedro's death, as having lost a constant friend, and a dear and incomparable brother in law in him; and yet all the means which he can use to comfort this his sorrowful wife, hath will, but not power enough to effect it; for still she weeps and sobs, and still her heart and soul do prompt and tell her, that it is one brother who hath killed another, and that her brother done Martino is infallibly the murderer of his and her brother done Pedro; but she hath only presumption, no proofs for this her suspicion, and therefore she leaves the detection and issue hereof to time, and to God.  
Now, by this time, we must understand that dona Catherina hath perfect news, that it is Monfredo who hath stolen away her daughter Cecilliana, and keeps her at his house of Valdebelle, in the Country, but as yet she knows not that he hath married her; wherefore being desirous of her return, not for any great affection which she now bore her, but only to accomplish her former desires, in frustrating her marriage with Monfredo, and in marrying her to a Nunnery, she again still provoked and egged on by the advice of her son done Martino, sends him to Valdebelle to crave her of Monfredo, and so to persuade and hasten her return to her to Burgos, but writes to neither of them. Don Martino arrives thither, and having delivered done Monfredo and his sister Cecilliana his mother's message for her return to Burgos, he then vainly presumes to speak thus to them from himself. He first sharply rebukes her of folly, and disobedience, in flying away from his and her mother, and then (with more passion than judgement) checks him of dishonour to harbour and shelter her; that this was not the true and right way to make her his wife, but his strumpet, or at least to give the world just cause to think so; and if he intended to preserve her prosperity and honour, and not to r●…ine it, that he should restore his mother her daughter, and himself his sister, and no longer retain her; but speaks not a word of his brother done Pedro's death, much less makes any shadow to mourn, or show to grieve or sorrow for it. His sister Cecilliana (at his first sight) is all in tears for the death of her brother done Pedro, and yet extremely incensed with him for these his base speeches towards her and her Monfredo, she once thought to have given him a hot and choleric reply, but at last considering better with herself (as also to prevent Monfredo, whom she saw had an itching desire to fit him with his answer) she then in general terms returns him this short reply; That she is now accountable to none but to God for her actions, who best knows her heart and resolutions, and therefore for her return to her mother at Burgos, or her stay here at Valdebelle, she wholly refers it to don Monfredo, whose will and pleasure therein shall assuredly be hers, because she hath, and still finds him to be a worthy and honourable Gentleman: when (before she conclude her speech to him) she tells him, that she thought his coming had been to condole with her for the death of their brother Don Pedro, but that with grief she is now enforced to see the contrary, in regard his speeches and actions tend to afflict, not to comfort her, and rather to be the argument of her mourning, than the cause of her consolation. But Monfredo being touched to the quick, with these ignoble and base speeches of Don Martino, both to himself and Cecilliana, he is too generous long to digest them with silence, and therefore preferring his affection to her, before any other earthly respect, and her reputation and honour dearer than his life, he composing his countenance to discontent and anger, returns him this answer: That if any other man but himself, had given him the least part of those unworthy speeches, both against his honour, as also against that of his sister Cecilliana, his Rapier, not his tongue, should have answered him; That his affection and respects to her, are every way virtuous and honourable; and that she is, and shall be more safer here in Valdebelle, than the life of his noble brother Don Pedro was in his mother's house at Burgos; That as the young Lady his sister is pleased to refer her stay or return to him, so (reciprocally to requite her courtesy) doth he to her; and for his part, he is fully resolved not to persuade, much less to advise her to put herself either into her Mother's protection, or his courtesy; for that he is fearful, i●… not confident in this belief, that the one may prove pernicious, and the other fatal and ruinous to her. And so with cold entertainment, and short ceremonies, Don Martino is enforced to return to Burgos to his Mother, without his Sister, where as soon as he is arrived, he tells his Mother of his Sister Cecilliana's constant resolution, from whence he thinks it impossible to draw or divert her, because he finds Monfredo of the same opinion: but whether he have married her or no, he knows not, neither could he inform himself thereof. And here yet Don Martino is so cautious to his Mother, as he speaks not a word or syllable of any speech or mention they had of the death of his brother Don Pedro. But as soon as he had left his Mother, and retired himself to his chamber, than he thinks the more thereof; yea, than he again and again remembers what dangerous speeches he publicly received from his Sister Cecilliana, and Monfredo, concerning that his sudden death, whereby they silently meant, and tacitly implied no less than murder; Wherefore he is so helli●…h and bloody minded, that he resolves shortly to provide a plaster for this sore; and he knows, that to make their tongues eternally silent, he cannot better or safer perform it, than by murdering them, whereof he says the reason is apparently and pregnantly true: for as long as that suspicion lives in them, he therefore can never live in safety, but in extreme danger himself. But because of the two, Monfredo seemed to intend and portend him the greatest choler, and the most inveterate rage, therefore (as a limb of the Devil, or rather as a Devil incarnate himself) he resolves to begin with Monfredo first, and as occasions and accidents shall present, then with his sister Cecilliana after, without ever having the grace to think of his Conscience or Soul, or of Heaven or Hell, or without once considering, that our own malice and revenge doth more hurt us then our enemies; That anger is a short madness, and that it is a most assured happiness for us rather to forget offences, than to revenge them; and which is more, that (in a manner) it is but right now that he came from poisoning of his own brother, whose innocent blood is yet hardly cold in his untimely grave, but still cries aloud for vengeance from Heaven on his head for that cruel and damnable fact.  
But this shame, this monster of nature, done Martino, who fears none less than God, and loves none more than the Devil, will not thus forsake his cruel malice, norabandon his execrable revenge: but understanding that Monfredo sometimes (though secretly) leaves Valdebelle to see Burgos, he hearkens out therefore for his next coming thither: when being assured that he was now in the City, he waiting for him as he issued forth his house, which he did between eleven and twelve at night, he with his small Target, and dark Lantern in his left hand, and his Rapier drawn in his right, runs him twice thorough the body therewith, of which two mortal wounds he presently fell dead in the street, his misfortune being then so great, as he had no Servant nor Friend present to assist him, and his fear and care of himself so small, as he was killed before he could see his enemy, or have the leisure to draw his sword in his own defence and assistance; so fierce and sudden was Martino's rage and malice, in murdering of this harmless and innocent Gentleman: the which as soon as he had performed, he secretly hies home to his Mother's house, and speedily betakes himself to his bed, where the Devil rocking him asleep in security, he as his infernal Agent, and bloody Factor, nothing cares what God or man can do unto him. The next morning at break of day, this breathless body of Don Menfredo is found in the street: so all Burgos resounds of this his lamentable murder, but no mortal eye hath seen, or tongue as yet can tell who the murderer should be. But God (in his divine justice, and for the exaltation of his sacred Glory) will shortly bring both it and him to light, by an accident no less strange than remarkable.  
Dona Catharina hears hereof, and is so far from grieving, as she rejoiceth thereat, no way doubting, but Monfredo being dead, she with much facility (according to her desires and wishes) shall now of two resolutions, draw her Daughter Cecilliana to embrace and follow one; that is, either to marry Delrio in earnest, or a Nunnery no more in jest. The next day after Dinner, the Relation of this deplorable accident arrives to Valdebelle, and consequently to the knowledge of our Cecilliana, who so pitifully weeps and mourns thereat, as for mere grief and sorrow she tears her hair, bolts herself into her Chamber, and there throws herself down on the floor, and neither can, nor will be comforted, no, nor permit any one to administer it to her, or which is less, to see or speak with her. So although Monfredo's Kinsfolks and friends do infinitely lament this his unfortunate death, yet all their sighs and tears put together, are nothing in regard of those of his young wife, and now widow Cecilliana, who (out of the immoderate excess of this her anxiety, and affliction) is now become so reasonless, and desperate, that first the murder of her dear brother Don Pedro, and now this of her sweet Husband Monfredo, is both a grief to her thoughts, and a torment to her heart and mind, yea to her very soul: For still she remains confident in this opinion, that her brother Don Martino is infallibly th●… murderer of them both; and from this suspicion of hers, she cannot, she will not be diverted; yea, her living affection to their dead memories, is so extreme and fervent, that to be assured whether it be him, or who else that have murdered them, it leads her mind to a resolution, to prove an Experiment, which though profane curiosity in some persons sometimes seem to allow and practise as tolerable, yet sacred Religion must and doth for ever both reject and contemn it as Diabolical. She disguiseth herself in her apparel, and very early in the morning rides to one Alphonso Sanchez, a famous reputed Wizard or Sorcerer, who dwelled at Arena, some six leagues off from Valdebelle, and giving him the two pictures of her murdered Brother and Husband, as also a perfect note of their age, and horoscope of their Nativities, she prays him to discover and show her in a Looking-glass, the true pictures and representations of their murderers; When to have him dispatch both it and herself the sooner, she gives him ten Ducats, upon the receipt whereof he promiseth her his best Art and skill, makes her stay till almost dark night, & then fools her off with this flame, That he hath effectually invocated and raised his Spirit, from whom he could get no other answer, but that God for that time would not permit him to show her these Murderers pictures in a glass; whereby this Wizard proving himself more a cheating knave than a Sorcerer, and more a true Impostor, than a Christian, he herein makes a fool of this sorrowful young Lady, in thinking to make her know that, which it is both a foul shame, and a shameful ignorance for any Christian to be ignorant of, (to wit) That it is not the Devil, or his Agents, but only God, who (in his divine pleasure and providence) hath power to reveal Murders, and Murderers, both when, where, how, and by whom it seems most agreeable and pleasing to his Allseeing, and sacred Majesty.  
Cecilliana returning home, more loaden with doubts than gold from this Monster of men, (because in effect he makes it his profession to be less a man that a devil) she is ashamed of her ignorance and impiety herein, and for mee●…e grief and sorrow) weeps, to see that the foundation of her faith should be so weak and reeling, as not constantly to rely upon the providence and justice of God, but to repose her foolish curiosity and belief upon this profane and sottish Sorcerer, for the detection of these Murders. But leaving her for a while in her disconsolation and sorrow at Valdebelle, I come now to this wretched villain Don Martino her brother in Burgos, who having thus committed these two cruel and lamentable Murders, doth for the first two or three months after put a cheerful and frolic countenance thereon, thereby the more absolutely to betray, and blear the eyes of the world, that the least spark or shadow thereof should not diffuse or reflect on him. But here before I proceed further, the Reader is requested to observe this one remarkable circumstance of God's justice and Providence, in detecting of Don Martino, to be the sole Author, and Actor of these two unnatural and deplorable Murders. For as the Devil had made him so cautious in his malice, and subtle in his revenge, that he employed no other Minister, nor used no other agent or assistant herein but himself; so being deprived of any witness, either to accuse, or make him guilty hereof; God (I say) out of the immensity of his power, and profundity of his providence, will make himself to become a witness against himself, and wanting all other means, will make himself the only means both to detect and destroy himself. The manner thus.  
As there is no felicity to peace, so there is no felicity or peace comparable to that of a quiet and innocent conscience; It is a precious jewel of an inestimable ●…alue, and unparalleled price, yea, a continual Feast, than which Heaven may, but Earth cannot afford us either a more rich or delicious: and the contrary it is, where the heart and conscience have made themselves guilty of some foul & enormous crimes, and especially of Murder, wherein we can never kill Man the creature, but we assuredly wound God the Creator: for then, as those, so this, (with less doubt and more assurance) gives in a heavy and bloody evidence against us, and which commonly produceth us these three woeful and lamentable effects, Despair, Horror, Terror; the which we shall now see verified and instanced in this bloody and miserable wretch, Don Martino, who (as I have formerly said) hath not fully passed over the term of three months in external mirth, jollity, and bravery, thereby to cast a cheerful countenance and varnish on those his bloody villainies, but God so distracted his wits & senses, struck such astonishment to his thoughts, and amazement to his heart and Conscience, as it seemed to him, that (both by night and day) the ghosts of his harmless brother Don Pedro, and of innocent Don Monfredo still pursue him for revenge, and justice of these their murders. And now his looks are extravagant, fearful, and ghastly, which are still the signs and symptoms either of a distempered brain, a polluted conscience and soul, or of both. He knows not to whom, or where, or where not to go for remedy herein, but still his heart is in a mutiny and rebellion with his Conscience, and both of them against God. He is afraid of every creature he sees, and likewise of those who see him not. If he look back, and perceive any one to run behind him, he thinks 'tis a Sergeant come to arrest him; and if he chance to be hold any Gentleman in a scarlet cloak coming towards him, he verily believes & fears 'tis a judge in his scarlet Robes to arraign and condemn him. He hath not the grace to go into a Church, nor the boldness to look up to the Tower thereof, for fear lest the one swallow him up alive, and the other fall on him, and crush him to death: If he walk in any woods, fields, or gardens, and see but a leaf wag, or a bird stir, he is of opinion there some furies or executioners come to torment him; or doth he hear any Dog howl, Cat cry, or Owl hoot, or screech, he is thereat so suddenly appalled and amazed, as he thinks it to be the voice of the Devil, who is come to fetch him away. He will not pass over any bridge, brook, or River, for fear of drowning, nor over any plank, gate, or style, lest he should break his neck. The sight of his shadow is a corosive to his heart, and a Panic terror to his thoughts, because he both thinks and believes, that it is not his own, but the hangman's; and when any one (out of charity or pity) come to see and visit him, he flies from them, as if Hell were at his back, and the Devil at his heels. The very sight of a Rapier, stabs him at his heart, and the bare thought, or name of Poison, seems to infect and kill his soul; and yet miserable wretch and miscreant that he is, all this while he hath not the goodness to look down into his heart and Conscience with contrition, nor the grace to lookeup to Heaven and to God with repentance. The Lady Catherina his Mother is wonderfully perplexed and grieved hereat, and so are all his kinsfolks and friends in and about Burgos, who cause some excellent Physicians and Divines to deal with him, about administering him the means to cure him of this his lunacy and distraction. But God will not permit, that either the skilful Art of those, or the powerful persuasions of these do as yet prevail with him, or perform it. Two Moons have fully finished their Celestial course, whiles thus his frenzy and madness possesseth him; and in one of the greatest, and most outrageous fits thereof, he (without wit, or guide) runs to Saint Sebastiano's Church, finds out Father Thomas his Confessor, and in private and serious confession, reveals him, how he hath poisoned his brother Don Pedro, and also murdered Don Monfredo; adding withal, that God (out of his indulgent mercy) would no longer permit him to charge his soul with the concealing thereof, and then begs his absolution, and remission for the same. His Confessor (being a religious Churchman) much lamenting, and wondering at the foulness of these his (Penitents) two bloody facts, although he find more difficulty than reason to grant his desire, yet enquiring of him, if there were any other accessary with him in these murders, and Don Martino freely and firmly acknowledging to him there was none, but the Devil and himself: he (after a serious check, and religious repremendo) in hope of his future contrition and repentance, gives him a sharp and severe penance (though no way answerable to his crimes) and so absolves him; and yet for the space of at least a whole month after, his lunacy (by the permission of God) still follows him, when (for a further trial of his comportment, and hope of his repentance) God is again pleased to slack the hand of his judgement, and so frees him from his madness and distraction, to see whether he will prove Gold or Dross, a Christian or a Devil.  
Not long after this, his Confessor Father Thomas (being Curate of one of the neighbouring parishes) falls extreme sick of a Piurisie, and so dangerously sick, that his Physician (despairing of his life) bids him prepare his body for death, and his soul for Heaven, and God: Who then revoking to mind (what he hath heard and seen) how grievously and sorrowfully the Lady Cecilliana takes the Deaths of her Brother and Husband, and the more, in that she is ignorant who are their Murderers, he is no longer resolved to burden his conscience and soul with concealing thereof; but to write it to her in a Letter, the which he chargeth and conjureth his own Sister Cyrilla to deliver into her own hands, some three days after his burial; the which we shall see her shortly perform: for the Priest Father Thomas, her brother, lived not three weeks after.  
In the mean time, come we to the Lady Dona Catherina, the Mother, who having outwardly wept for the death of her eldest Son Don Pedro, for the disobedient flight and clandestine Marriage of her Daughter Cecilliana to Monfredo, who is now murdered, but by whom she knows not, and seeing her said Daughter thereby made a sorrowful Widow, she (as an indulgent and kind Mother) forg●…ng what she had formerly done and been, and now desirous to comfort her, and to be comforted of her, again sends her son Don Martino to Valdebelle, to sollici●…e his Sister to return, and to live with her in Burgos: Who (detesting this p●…ject and resolution of his Mother) is very sorrowful thereat; but seeing that she will be obeyed, he rides over to Valdebelle, to his Sister, and there delivereth his Mother's will and message to her; but in such faint and cold terms, as she thereby knows, he is far more desirous of her absence than her presence, and of her stay, than her return; yea (and to write the truth of her mind) his very sight strikes such flames of fear into her heart, and of suspicion into her thoughts, that she still assumes and retains her old opinion and confidence, that he is the absolute Murderer of her brother Don Pedro, and her husband Don Monfredo, but herein she now holds it discretion to conceal herself to herself, and so gives him kind and respective entertainment; she prays him to report her humble duty to her Mother, that she will consider of her request, and either send or bring her 〈◊〉 resolution shortly: but inwardly in her heart and soul, she intends nothing less, than either to hazard her content upon the discontent of her Mother, or (which is worse) her life on the inveterate malice of her brother Don Martino.  
And now we approach and draw near, to see the judgements and justice of God overtake this our wretched Don Martino, for these his two most lamentable and bloody Murders. And now his sacred Majesty is fully resolved to detect them, and his Arrow is bend, and Sword whetted, to punish him for the same; for we must understand that the very same day which her brother Don Martino was last with her at Valdebelle, his Confessor Father Thomas died; and some three days after, his Sister Cyrilla (according to his dying order) rides over to the Lady Cecilliana, and delivereth her the Priest her brother's Letter; at the receipt whereof, Cecilliana finds different emotions in her heart, and passions in her mind: 〈◊〉 going into the next room, she breaks up the seals, and finds therein these Lines.  
FATHER THOMAS to CECILLIANA.  
WEll knowing that the Laws of Heaven are far more powerful and sacred than those of Earth, as I now lie on my Deathbed, ready to leave this life, and to fly into the Arms of my Saviour and Redeemer Christ jesus, I could not go to my Grave in peace, before I had signified unto thee, that very lately thy brother Don Martino, in Saint Honoria's Church, delivered unto me in confession, That he had first poisoned thy brother Don Pedro with a pair of perfumed Gloves, and then after murdered thy husband Don Monfredo with his Rapier in Burgos: And although I must and do acknowledge that he was in his Fit of Lunacy and Madness, when he thus made himself a witness against himself hereof, yet no doubt the immediate finger and providence of God led him to this resolution as an act which infinitely tends to his sacred Honour and Glory. I send thee this Letter by my Sister Cyrilla, whom I have strictly charged to deliver it to thee three days after my burial, because I hold it most consonant to my Profession and Order, that not my Life, but my Death should herein violate the seal of Confession; and thou shalt show thyself a most religious and Christian Lady, if thou make this use hereof, that it is not myself, but God who sends thee this News by me.  
FATHER THOMAS.  
Cecilliana having o're-read this Letter, and therein understood and found out that her brother Don Martino is the cruel Murderer, both of her brother Don Pedro, and her husband Don Monfredo, her grief thereat doth so far o'resway her reason, and her malice and revenge her religion, as once she is of the mind to murder him with her own hand, in requital hereof; but then again strangling that bloody thought in its conception, she vows, that if not by her own hand, he shall yet infallibly dye by the hand of the common Executioner: When Love, Pity, Nature, Reason, Grief, Sorrow, Rage, and Revenge, acting their several parts upon the Stage of her heart, she finds a great combat in her heart, and reluctancy in her soul, what, or what not to do herein; when with many tears and prayers (by the Advice and Counsel of God) she enters into this consultation hereon with herself. Alas, unfortunate and sorrowful Cecilliana! It is upon no light presumption, or trivial circumstances, that I believe my brother Martino to be the inhuman murderer of my brother Don Pedro, and husband Monfredo; for besides that God ever prompted my heart, and whispered my soul that this was true, yet now here is his own Confession to his Ghostly father, and his Ghostly Fathers own Letter and Confession to me, to the same effect, Evidences and Witnesses, without exception, as clear as noon day, and as bright as the Sun in his hottest and brightest Meridian, that he, and only he, was the Murderer of them both: but Oh poor Cecilliana (quoth she) to what a miserable estate and perplexity hath these his bloody facts and crimes now reduced me! for he hath murdered my brother and husband, shall I then permit him to live; but withal, he is likewise my brother, and shall I then cause him to dye? True it is, I cannot recall their lives, but it is likewise as true that I may prevent his death; for as the first lay not in my power to remedy, yet all the world knows, that the second merely depends of my pity, courtesy, and compassion to prevent: but Alas (saith she) the ties of heaven are, and aught to be infinitely more strong than those of earth, and the glory of God to be far preferred before all our natural affections and obligations to our best Friends, or nearest or dearest Kinsfolks whosoever. Therefore, as to detect these Murders of his, thou art no friend to Nature, so again, to conceal them, thou thereby makest thyself an enemy to Grace; for assure thyself, unfortunate Cecilliana, that God will never be appeased, nor justice satisfied, until their innocent blood be expiated, and washed away in his, who is guilty thereof; because, as by detecting Murder, we bless and glorify God, so by concealing it, we heap a fatal Anathe●…a, and curse upon our own heads.  
As Clouds are dis●…pated, and blown away, when the Sun ariseth, and mo●…teth in his Vertical lustre and glory, so Cecilliana having thus ended her consultation with herself, and now began her resolution with God, she leaves Valdebelle, takes her Coach, and dispeeds away to Burgos; where, in steed of going to he Lady Mother's, she goes directly to the Corrigador's (or Criminal judges) of that City, and with much grief and sorrow (her tears interrupting her sighs, and her sighs her tears) before them accuseth her brother Don Martino to be the bloody murderer of her brother Don Pedro, and her husband Don Monfredo; and for proof of this truth, produceth the Letter of Father Thomas his Confessor. The judges read it, and are astonished with this report of hers, and far the more, in regard they here see a Sister call the life of her own Brother in question; but they see that she hath as much right and reason for her Accusation, as her inhuman brother Don Martino wanted for his Malice, in making himself guilty of these foul and bloody Crimes: Wherefore attributing it wholly to the pleasure and providence of God, they highly extol her piety and integrity towards his sacred Majesty, in preferring his Glory before the Scandal and Misery of her so wretched and execrable brother; and then (out of their zeal and honour to justice) they (to evince and vindicate the truth of this lamentable business) send away for Cyrilla, and (as soon as she came) upon her Oath propose her these three Questions; First, whether she had this very Letter from her deceased brother Father Thomas his own hand, and that he gave her order and charge to deliver it to the Lady Cecilliana, three days after his decease? Secondly, if it were of his 〈◊〉 writing and sealing? And thirdly, if she with her own hands delivered this Letter to the Lady Cecilliana? To all which three Questions, Cyrilla (with a stayed look and countenance) answereth affirmatively, and thereupon (with haste and secrecy) grant out a Warrant to apprehend Don Martino, when he was as it were drowned in voluptuousness, security, and impenitency, as making it his vainglory to build Castles of content in the air, and to erect Mountains of wealth and preferment in the V●…opia of his ambitious desires and wishes, without ever having the grace, either to think of his former horrible Crimes, or future punishment for the same. He is amazed at his Apprehension by the Sergeants, but far more, at the sight and presence of the Criminal judges, before whom he is now brought. They sharply accuse him of these two aforesaid foul Murders, and for evidence, and witnesses, produce him his Confessor Father Thomas his Letter, his sister Cyrilla, and his own sister the Lady Cecilliana; at the sight and knowledge whereof, he at first seemed to be much appalled and daunted, but at last recollecting his spirits (taking co●… of the Devil, and not of God) assumes a bold countenance, puts himself and his tongue on the points of denial and justification, and so to his judge's terms his Confessor a devil, and no man, and Cyrilla and his Sister Cecilliana witches, and no women, so unjustly and falsely to accuse him of these foul Murders, whereof he affirms not only the act, but the very name and thought is odious and execrable to him. But God will not be mocked, nor his judges deluded with this his Apology: So they adjudge him to the Rack; the first tortures whereof, he endureth with an admirable fortitude and patience, but the second he cannot; but then and there confesseth himself to be guilty, and the sole Author and Actor of both these deplorable Murders: but yet his heart and soul is still so obdurated by the Devil, as he hath neither the will to be sorrowful, nor the grace to be repentant for the same.  
For Expiation of which his inhuman and bloody Crimes, his judges condemn him to be hanged, and his Right hand to be first cut off and burnt the next morning, at the Common place of Execution, notwithstanding that his afflicted and sorrowful Mother (out of the natural and tender affection which she bore him) employed all her friends and possible power, yea and offered all her own estate and Lands to save his life; but she could not prevail or obtain it. So the next morning, (in obedience to this his Sentence) this Monster of Nature Don Martino is brought to the Common place of Execution, to take his last farewell of this life, and this world: He was clad in a black Silk Grograine Suit, wi●…l a fair white Ruff about his neck, and a black ●…eaver Hat on his head, which he drew down before his eyes, that he might neither see, nor be seen of tha●… great concourse of people there present, who came to see him conclude the la●… Scene and Catastrophe of his life; When after his Right hand was cut off and burnt, which held the Rapier, whereby he murdered Don Monfredo, he then ascended the Ladder: Where the Spectators expecting some repentant and religious Speech from him before his death, he resembling himself (I mean, rather an Atheist than a Christian, and rather a Devil than a Man) as he lived, so he would dye, a profane and graceless Villain; for some speeches he (betwixt his teeth) mumbled to himself, but spoke not one word that could be heard or understood of any one: and so most resolutely he himself putting the Rope about his neck (although all the people, and especially two Friars near him, cried to him to the contrary) he saved the Hangman his labour, and so (with more haste and desperation than repentance) he cast himself off the Ladder, and was hanged. And thus was the bloody life and deserved death of this Hell hound and limb of the Devil, Don Martino, and in this fort and manner did the just revenge of God triumph o'er his foul and bloody Crimes; which, may all true Christians read to God's glory, and to the instruction of their own souls. And if the curiosity of the Reader make him farther desirous to know what became of the ●…old Lady Catherina the Mother, and of Dona Cecilliana ●…he Daughter, after all these their dismal and disastrous Accidents, I thought good (by the way of a Postscript) briefly to add this for his satisfaction: That the Mother lived not long after, but her Daughter was first reconciled to her, and she to her Daughter, to whom she (having no other child) left all her whole Estate: And for her, who was now become likewise very rich, as having a fair yearly Revenue and jointure out of her deceased husband Don Monfredo's Lands and Means, although she were again sought in Marriage by some noble Gallants of Castille and Bur●…, yet she resolved never to marry more; and as I have within these very few years understood, she then lived sometimes at Burgos, and sometimes at Valdebelle, in great Pomp and Felicity.   

GOD'S REVENGE AGAINST THE CRYING AND EXECRAble Sin of Murder.  
HISTORY. XXIII.  
Alphonso poisoneth his own Mother Sophia, and after shoots and kills Cassino (as he was walking in his Garden) with a short Musket (or Carabyne) from a Window. He is beheaded for these two murders, then burnt, and his ashes thrown into the River.  
AS Faith and Prayer are the two pillars of our Souls, and may well be called the Fortress of Christian piety against the tentations of Satan: so by the contrary we expose and lay open ourselves to the treacherous lures and malice of the Devil. For if by Faith we do not first believe, then pray unto God for our own preservation, it will be no hard matter for him to tempt us in our choler, to quarrel with our best friends, and in our malice and revenge to murder even our nearest and dearest Kindred. O Faith, the true foundation of our sovereign felicity! O Prayer, the sweet preservative, and sacred Manna of our souls, how blessed do you make those who embrace and retain you! and chose, how miserable and wretched are they who contemn and reject you! Of which last number, this ensuing History will produce us one, who (by his debauched life, and corrupt conversation) trampled those two heavenly Virtues and Graces under his feet, without thinking of God, or regarding, much less fearing his judgements: But how God (in the end) requited him for the same, this History will likewise show us. May we therefore read it to God's glory, and to our own instruction.  
IN the City of Verceli, (after Turin, one of the chiefest of Piedmont) bordering near to the Estate and Duchy of Milan, there lately dwelled a rich Cannon of that Cathedral Church, named Alosius Cassino, who had a dainty sweet young Gentlewoman to his Niece, named Dona Eleanora, whose mother (being sister to Cassino) named Dona Isabel Caelia, lately died, and left this her only daughter and ●…ild her heir, very rich both in demeans and moneys, when her Uncle Cassino, ●…eing nearest her in blood, takes Eleanora and her Estate into his protection and ●…ardship, and is as tender of her breeding and education, and as curious of her ●…omportment and carriage, as if she were his own daughter; for there is no sweet ●…alitie, nor exquisite perfection requisite in a young Gentlewoman of her rank and extraction, but he caused her to become, not superficial, but artificial therein, as in Dancing, Music, sing, Painting, Writing, Needling, and the like, whereof all the Nobility and Gentry of Verceli take exact notice and knowledge; yea, her beauty grew up so deliciously with her years, that she was (and was justly) reputed to be the prime Flower and Phoenix of the City. Cassino considering that his house was desti●…te of a Matron, to accompany and oversee this his Niece Eleanora, that his age was too Stoical for her youth, and that his Ecclesiastical profession and function called him often to preach and pray; he therefore deeming it very unfit and unseemly (in the Interims of his absence) to leave her to herself, and to be ruled and governed by her own fancy and pleasure, she being now arrived to twelve years of age. He therefore provides her new apparel, and other pertinent necessaries, and giving her a waiting-maid, and a man of his own to attend her, he sends her in his Coach to the City of cassal, in the Marquisat of Montferrat, to the Lady Marguerita Sophia, a widow Gentlewoman, l●…ft by her deceased husband but indifferently rich, but endowed with all those ornaments of Art and Honour, which made her famous, not only in Piedmont and Lombardie, but also to all Italy; and to her he therefore writes this ensuing Letter to accompany his Niece, and chargeth his man with the delivery thereof to her.  
CASSINO to SOPHIA.  
TO satisfy your courteous Requests, and my former promise, I now send you my Niece Eleanora to cassal, whom I heartily pray thee to use as thy daughter, and to command as thy Handmaid. She hath no other Uncle but me, nor I any other acquaintance but thyself, with whom I would entrust her for her Education, and recommend her for her Instruction. She is not inclined to any vice that I know of, except to those imperfections wherein her youth excuseth her ignorance, and it is both my order and charge to her, that she carefully and curiously adorn herself with virtues in thy example and imitation, without which the privileges of Nature and Fortune (as Beauty and Wealth) are but only obscure shadows, and no true substances, because there is as much difference betwixt those and these, as between the purity of the soul, and the corruption of the body, or between the dignity and excellency of Heaven, and the invalidity and baseness of Earth I am content to lena her to you for a few months, but do infinitely desire to give her to thy Virtues for ever. In which my voluntary transaction and donation, thou wilt confer much happiness to her, and honour to me, and consequently for ever bind both her Youth, and my Age to thee in a strict obligation of thanks and debt. What apparel, or other necessaries thou deemest her to want, thy will shall be mine. God ever bless her in his fear, and you both to his glory.  
CASSINO.  
The Lady Sophia receives this sweet young Virgin with much content and joy, yea, she sees her tender years already adorned with such excellent beauty, and that beauty with such exquisite virtues, that it breeds not only admiration, but affection in her towards her, whom she entertaineth with much respect and care, as well for her own sake, as also for her Uncle Cassino's, whose letter she again and again reads over, highly applauding his virtuous and honourable care of this his Niece, whom in few years she hopes will prove a most accomplished & gracious Gentlewoman; when Cassino's Coachman after a days stay, deeming it high time for him to return to Verceli to his Master, he takes his leave of his young Mistress Elianora, who, out of her few years, and tender affection and duty to her Uncle, with tears in her eyes, prays him to remember her best service to him at his coming home; and the Lady Sophia by him likewise returns and sends him this letter in answer of his.  
SOPHIA to CASSINO.  
I Know not whether you have made me more proud, or joyful, by sending me Eleanora, wherein you have given me far more honour than I deserve, though far less than she meriteth, and who henceforth shall be as much my Daughter in affection, as she is your Niece by Nature; and if I have any Art in Nature, or judgement in Inclinations, her virtues and beauty do already anticipate her years; for as the one is emulous of Fame, and the other of Glory: so (as friendly Rivals, and yet honourable friends) they already seem to strive and contend in her for supremacy: to the last of which (as being indeed the most precious and sovereign) if my poor capacity, or weak endeavours may add any thing, I will esteem it my ambition for your sake, and my felicity for hers. But if you resolve not rather to give her to me for some years, than to lend her to me for a few months, you will then kill my hopes in their buds, and my joys in their blossoms, and so make me as unfortunate in her absence, as I shall be happy in her sight and company. As for her Apparel, and other necessaries, she shall want nothing which is either fit for her to have, or you to give. Let your prayers to God ever desire, and follow her welfare, and then rest confident, that her prayers and mine shall never fail to wish you long life, and to implore all prosperity for you.  
SOPHIA.  
Cassino did well to place his young niece Eleanora with the Lady Sophia, but ill in forgetting that she had a very debauched young Gentleman to her son, named Signior Alphonso, of some two and twenty years of age, who (to her grief and shame) haunts her and her house as a ghost, makes himself the public laughter and pity of all the different humours of cassal, yea the lewdness of his life, and the irregularity of his conversation, and actions, hath reduced him to this fatal point of misery, that he holds it a noble virtue in him, to precipitate himself and his reputation into base debts, vices, and company, making this his shame his glory, and lewd vices his honour, till in the end not caring for the world, the world will not care for him, nor he for himself, until he have wholly lost himself in himself, without either desert, or hope ever to be found or recalled again. But at last seeing so sweet a Beauty, and so rich an heir as Eleanora fallen into his mother's hands, and therefore he vainly thinks into his; and hoping that her wealth shall redeem his prodigalities, and revive his decayed Estate and Fortunes, he secretly courts her: but Eleanora (as young as she is) sees his vices with disdain, himself with contempt, and his affection to her with scorn. He is importunate in his suit, and she perverse and obstinate in her denial, but she resolves to conceal it from all the world. As for Alphonso, he (after some six months time) acquaints the Lady Sophia his mother herewith, and with his fervent desire and affection to marry Eleanora; but she chargeth him on her blessing, never to proceed any farther herein without her consent and order; and quoth she, if here (in the presence of God and myself) thou wilt now swear wholly to abandon all thy former vices, henceforth to be absolutely led by my advice and counsel, and to steer all thy actions by the star of Honour, and the card of Virtue, than I will promise thee to use all my best endeavours, and possible power, both with Cassino, and Eleanora, to effect thy desires. Alphonso hereat (with much courtesy and humility) thanks his mother, and solemnly swears to God and her, to perform all these points carefully and punctually; and to add the more Religion and reverence to this oath, he doth it on his knees; and it is a wonderful joy to her, to see that the fruits and ●…ffects thereof do accordingly fall out and follow: for this her son Alphonso in a very few days, is become a new man, and she (from her heart and soul) praiseth and glorifieth God for this his happy conversion: and if his mother Sophia be glad hereof, no less is our sweet young Eleanora, for now hereby she sees that she is rid of her Suitor.  
Cassino comes over three several times to cassal to see his Niece. The Lady Sophia gives him her best entertainment. He is wonderful glad to see that she hath imprinted such characters of virtue and honour in her; and during his stay there, Sophia chargeth her son Alphonso, not to speak or motion a word to Cassino, of this his affection to his young Niece Eleanora: so he bears himself exceeding modestly and respectively towards him, and for his mother, she holds it fit not as yet to break or speak a word hereof to Cassino. Cassino (no way dreaming of their intents and desires towards his Niece) tells the Lady Sophia, he is infinitely joyful to see that her son Alphonso proves Fame to be no true, but a tattling goddess in his condition, and conversation; whereat she heartily thanks him: and thinking then (though reservedly and secretly) to take time and opportunity at advantage, she leaves not a virtue of her sons either undisplayed, or unmagnified, but extols them all to the sky, and himself beyond the moon, and so leaves the remainder hereof to time, and the issue to God. But yet revolving and ruminating in her mind, how (in a fair and honourable way) to obtain this rich and beautiful young prize for her son; and holding it discretion, not as yet either to motion or mention it to her, she secretly lays wait at Verceli to know when Cassino will have home his Niece, and so some three weeks before that time she holds it fit to motion it to him by her Letter, which she doth in these terms.  
SOHHIA to CASSINO.  
THe fervent affection, and virtuous desire of my son Alphonso, to marry your Niece Eleanora, is now the sole cause and argument of this my letter to you, the which I had not attempted to write or send you, but that I know his love and zeal to her is as pure, as her beauty and virtues are excellent. He (without my privacy or knowledge) hath already motioned his suit to her, and as he tells me, she hath returned him her denial instead of her consent, whereof I held myself bound to advertise you, because his ambition and mine herein is so honourable, as it shall go hand in hand with your goodwill and approbation, but never without it, especially in regard you have pleased to recommend her to my charge and custody, wherein I faithfully promise you, nothing shall be designed or practised to the prejudice either of her honour, or your content. All the estate and means which I can give, or you require of me, to make my son a fit Husband for your Niece, I will freely and cheerfully depart with; and yet were I not fully and firmly assured, that he is now as deeply enamoured of virtue and goodness, as heretofore he was of their contraries, neither my tongue or pen had dared thus to have presented his suit to her acceptance, and your consideration. The joy and blessing of which marriage (if God in his secret and sacred providence resolve to make it a Marriage) will I hope in the end be theirs, the honour mine, and the content your own; wherein I request your Answer, and entreat you to remain most confident, that both in this, and in all things else, Alphonso's will and resolution shall ever be Sophia's, and hers Cassino's.  
SOPHIA.  
Cassino, upon the receipt and perusal of this Letter of the Lady Sophia, is not a little displeased, to see her ambition in desiring his Niece Eleanora for wife to her son Alphonso, and although he be formerly well acquainted with the weakness of the mother's estate, as also perfectly advertised of her son's debauched life, and corrupt and prodigal conversation, howsoever she pretend ●…o put a vertuou●… glos●…e and colour hereon to the contrary, yet he holds it discretion to seem to be ignorant of the one, and not to take notice of the other, but will frame his excuse to them herein, that he hath already disposed of his Niece, and that their motion to him for her came too late, when in heart resolving to make her p●…eferment and fortunes more assured, and not so doubtful; and to match her in a higher blood; and nobler family than that of theirs; he yet in discretion and honour, knowing himself bound to answer the Lady Sophia's Letter, calls for pen and paper, and by her own Servant and Messenger returns his mind and resolution to her thus.  
CASSINO to SOPHIA.  
ALthough the tender years of my Niece Eleanora make her incapable of marriage, yet your rich deserts and resplendent merits, and your Son Alphonso's honourable affection and zeal to her (which every way exceeds her poor beauty and virtues) had infallibly made me to grant her for his wife, which I am now enforced to deny, in regard I have already (by my promise) disposed and given her to another before your Letter came to my hands, and consequently before that motion of his arrived to my knowledge and understanding: For to me it would and should have been both a sweet joy and a singular honour, to have seen your Son matched to my Niece in the links of Wedlock. But God having otherwise decreed it; you have many reasons to rest confident, that your Son is reserved for her better, and she promised to his inferior; and therefore the freeness of this your proffered courtesy to her, and of your honourable respect and affection towards me, shall for ever tie me to a thankful acknowledgement and an immortal obligation; and I will make it my chiefest Felicity and Ambition, if (in requital thereof) I may any way either serve you in your Son Alphonso, or him in his Mother Sophia, of whose conversion to virtue, and propension to goodness, your Letter hath so firmly and joyfully assured me, that the truth hereof will, I hope, hereafter prove his happiness in your content and glory; the which my most Religious Prayers shall still desire of God, because he is your only Child and Son by nature, and yourself my most honourable friend, both by desert and purchase.  
CASSINO.  
Within three weeks after that Cassino had dispatched away this his Letter to the Lady Sophia, he then (in contemplation and consideration of the debauched life and corrupt pranks and vices of her Son Alphonso) not thinking his Niece Eleanora to be safe with her in cassal, for fear lest her old wit, or his smooth tongue might peradventure too far prevail and work upon her young years and indiscreet affection: he therefore sends over his Coach, and one of his Servants to bring her home, and to the Lady Sophia writes this gratulatory Letter for her honourable education and entertainment.  
CASSINO to SOPHIA.  
ACcording to my last Letter to you, having heretofore privately contracted my Niece Eleanora to a husband, reason and religion, his request and my promise now require, that I take her from you in cassal, to give her to him here in Vercely; to which effect I here send my Coach and Servant to you for her, and desire you to return her to me with your best prayers, as I sent her to you with my best affection: and had not God now visited me with sickness, my resolution for her return had not been either so sudden or so speedy. For your honourable care in adorning her few years with so many excellent virtues and sweet perfections, I know not how to deserve, much less how to requi●…e, except in my Prayers and Orisons to God for his best favours and graces to you, and the best prosperities and honours to your Son: But if my age now cannot, I hope her youth hereafter will endeavour partly to free me of that debt, and to acquit herself of that strong obligation, till when as I will not fail to give it a place in my heart, so I am sure will not she likewise to allot it one in her remembrance: In which mean time, I forget not my chiefest respects first to yourself, then to your Son. God give us all his Grace that we may live and dye his Servants.  
CASSINO.  
Now as Cassino's first Letter to Sophia (wherein he denied her Son to marry his Niece) exceedingly afflicted and discontented her, so this his second to her wherein he so suddenly sends for her away from her, doth extremely afflict and torment her, and not only her, but likewise her Son Alphonso, who is all in sorrow, all in grief hereat: For now they fear that their ●…s of this young Lady are frustrated, and she according to her Uncle's report in his Letter is contracted to some Gallant of Vercelly: When Alphonso again laying before his Mother the fervency of his affection to Eleanora, and representing unto her the extremity of the grief and misery which her refusal of him, and his loss of her, will occasion him, he with sighs and tears again and again entreats his Mother to seek out some cure for this his disconsolation, and that she will please once more to try her chiefest wits and invention to change Eleanora's refusal, and her Uncle Cassino's denial of him to be her husband; when at last his Mother being much moved and induced with these his sorrowful passions and importunities, she before her departure doth herself break this motion for her Son to her, wherein her wit and age sets upon the innocence and simplicity of her youth, with the sweetest oratory and most delicious speeches and persuasions which possibly she could invent, but she finds her Art to be Ignorance, and her Eloquence Folly therein. For Eleanora is (as young as she is) deaf to her requests, and dumb to her entreaties and persuasions; returning contempt to the first, and little deafness to the second, and disdain to both; so as in detestation of his suit, and envy of his affection, she will no more hear the Mother for her Son's sake, nor see the Son for his Mother's sake. When yet again, although Sophia despair of the Niece, yet she will once more make farther trial of her Uncle Cassino, flattering herself with this hope, and her hope with this conceit, that his pretence of precontracting her to another, might be but only a policy of his, to try her Son's affection in his constancy towards his Niece, and her own zeal in her perseverance thereof towards himself: When seeing Breakfast ended, the Coach prepared, and Eleanora ready to depart, she betakes her to her Closet, where taking pen and paper, she hastily scribles out a few lines, and sealing up her Letter, delivereth it privately to Eleanora, whom she secretly prayeth, and effectually conjureth to deliver it carefully to her Uncle Cassino at her coming to Vercelie, which this young Lady confidently promiseth her; when likewise taking her own Coach, she and her Son conduct her three or four miles in her way, where the Mother with many sugared speeches and compliments, and the Son with many amorous sighs, regards and kisses, take their leave of her, they returning to cassal, and she driving away to her Uncle Cassino at Vercelie, who receives her with much joy; and welcomes her with infinite gladness and humanity; to whom she delivering the Lady Sophia's Letter, he hastily breaking up the seals thereof, finds therein this language.  
SOPHIA to CASSINO.  
BEfore I was so happy to answer your first Letter, your second, which now calls home your Niece from me, makes me again double unfortunate: Neither do I hold it your resoluti●…n, but rather your pleasure, or at least your policy, in thinking to make me believe you have formerly contracted her to another. I will not say but that she deserves my Son's betters in mrriage; but thus much I will speak for him out of my knowledge of his affection, and ●…fidence of his zeal towards her, that in heart and soul he is a perfect honourer of her Virtues, and a true Admirer of her Beauty: Yea, and no way to exceed or stray from the truth, I have many pregnant reasons for this belief of mine, that he is a Servant to the first, and a Slave to the second, and that his flame is so fervent towards her, that he would think himself honoured to prostrate his life at her feet, and esteem himself blessed to receive his Death at her commands. Think not then so slightly of him, who thinks so seriously and sincerely of her; and this assure yourself, that if you will give her to him in marriage, I will give nothing which I enjoy●… the world from him. In obedience to your request and order; I 〈◊〉 send you your Niece, and I am sure that her proficiency, as her stay, hath been so small with 〈◊〉 in cassal, as it neither deserves her debt, or your obligation, your requital or her remembrance. My Son was desirous to have visited you with his Letter, but that I comman●…d his pen and resolution herein to silence: And notwithstanding all your prayers for his p●…erity, I am assured he is more your real Servant, than you as yet are his intended friend. God bless yourself and my Son, and your Niece and myself, and make us all the Lovers if his Grace, and the heirs of his glory.  
SOPHIA.  
Cassino upon the perusal of this Letter, perceiving that the Lady Sophia and her Son Alphonso, were so far from giving over of their suit to his Niece Eleanora, as they now prosecuted it with more importunity and violence then before, he not only calls her respect toward him, but her discretion in herself likewise in question, to see that she is incredulous that he hath precontracted her, or that his former Letters to her in that behalf are not worthy of her belief, and confidence: Whereupon being sensible of a kind of disrespect and wrong, whereof she had voluntarily made herself guilty towards him, in the passage of this business, and absolutely refusing to hearken to, or to entertain any other parley, and so to cast away his Niece on the vices and prodigalities of her Son, He arming his pen with Discontent and Choler, returns her this peremptory answer, which he covenanteth and resolves with himself, shall be the very last that he will either write or send to her in this nature.  
CASSINO to SOPHIA.  
I Had well hoped and thought, that your affection and judgement would have deemed my former Letters to you (in contracting my Niece) to be currant, not counterfeit? yea, to be the pure truth, and therefore no way my policy to inform you of the contrary; for such pro●…edings to any one, especially to yourself (whom I so much respect for your Birth, and honour 〈◊〉 your Virtues) are as unworthy of me, as I am and will be ignorant of them: As for your Son, his zeal to my Niece, or his affection to her service in the way of marriage, if it be 〈◊〉 pure and fervent as you affirm it, she is the more bound to him; but I notwithstanding, ●…e less to yourself, in that you endeavour to make me an enemy to myself, and to mine own ●…nour, which next to my soul is the best part of myself, in persuading me to take her from a Gentleman, to whom (by faith and promise) I have solemnly given her; and as this was my first, so it shall be my last resolution and answer to you, which I assure you I write not slightly, but (to use your own words) seriously and sincerely: Therefore I thank you for imposing silence to your Son's pen; and if you will henceforth likewise prescribe the same Law to your own herein, I will take it both for a courtesy and a respect from you; only in●… other matter whatsoever that you shall think me capable to sleed him or serve you, your will and pleasure shall be my Law, and your Letters shall receive many respects and kisses from me. I have received my Niece, and her tongue, and mine eye and care inform me, how much we both are bound to you for your care, and her proficiency in cassal, the which my Age and her Youth will expose to Usury before I have the honour to pay you the Principal, and she the Interest thereof. God ever bless you, and your Son Alphonso, and give you no less joy and Honour of him, than I hope and desire to find in mine own Niece Eleanora.  
CASSINO.  
The Lady Sophia grieves, and her Son Alphonso storms at the receipt of this unkind Letter from Cassino, whereby they see their hopes of his Niece Eleanora reversed and frustrated; and although this his flat refusal made her of opinion no more to stir or intermeddle herein, yet (as Lovers are impatient of denials and delays) some three weeks after, he prays his Mother to ride over to Vercelie, again to prove Cassino, and likewise to (again) motion and solicit it to Eleanora, hoping that her presence may purchase that which her Letters cannot procure; and he is very desirous and willing to accompany her himself. His Mother Sophis grants both his requests; they arrive to Vercelie, where the Mother courts the Uncle, and the Son the Niece; and although they find exceeding great Cheer and noble Entertainment, yet in the point of their business, which is Alphonso's marriage to Eleanora, they find themselves lost, and their suit in vain, and so they are enforced to return to cassal with their definitive sentence of denial, which makes her bite the lip, and infinitely grieves and exasperates her Son; so now he again casts off the Cloak of virtue, and far worse than ever, flies to his old vices and sins, which his Mother with her sweet persuasions and remonstrances, can no longer retain or conceal, especially from his Whoring and Drunkenness: yea, and which is most lamentable and deplorable, he will no longer serve God, either abroad or at home, for he forsakes the Church, and wholly abandoneth that sweet and Heavenly Virtue of Prayer, which is the spiritual food and life of the soul. His Mother Sophia exceedingly weeps and grieves hereat, but how to remedy it she knows not: For his discontent hath made him so vicious, his vices so obstinate, and his obstinacy so outrageous and violent, as his Mother surfeits with his Love-suit to Eleanora, and will no more intermeddle with it. He prays and reprayes her, to make one journey more for him to Vercelie, to see what alterations time may have wrought in the hearts of Cassino and Eleanora, but she is as averse and wilful, as he is obstinate and peremptory: and therefore constantly vows, neither to write, nor ever to confer more with them herein. But this resolute answer of the Mother breeds bad blood in the Son, yea it makes a Mutiny in his thoughts, a Civil war in his heart, and a flat Rebellion in his resolutions against her for the same, to which the Devil (the Arch-enemy, and Incendiary of our souls) blows the Coals. For he who here●…ofore looked on his Mother with obedience and affection, cannot (or at least will not) see her now but with contempt and malice; yea, he is so devoid of Grace, and so exempt of Goodness, that he looks from Charity to wrath, from Religion to Revenge, from Heaven to Hell; and so resolves to murder her, thinking with himself, that if he had once dispatched her, he should then be sole Lord of all her wealth, and that then this his great and absolute estate would soon induce Cassino and Eleanora, to accept of his affection: But he reckons without his soul and without God, and therefore no marvel if these his bloody hopes deceive and betray him: his Religion and Conscience cannot prevail with him, neither hath his Soul either grace or power enough to divert him from this fatal business, and execrable resolution; for he will be so infernal a Monster of nature, as to act her death of whom he received his life. He consults with himself, and the Devil with him, whether he should stab or poison her, but he holds it far more safe and less dangerous, to use the Drug then the Dagger, and so concludes upon poison; to which ●…nd he being resolute in his rage, thus to make away his Mother, he as an execrable Villain (or indeed rather as a Devil) provides himself of poison, the which he still carries about him, waiting for an opportunity, to give an end to this deplorable business, the which the Devil very shortly administereth him: The manner thus.  
This refusal of Cassino to her Son Alphonso, and his miserable relapse to whoredom, drunkenness, and neglect of prayer, doth exceedingly distemper the Lady Sophia his Mother's spirits, and they her body, so that she is three days sick of a Burning fever; when to allay the fervour of that unaccustomed heat, she causeth some Almond-milk to be made her, the which she compoundeth with many cool herbs, and other wholesome Ingredients of that nature and quality, which she takes three times each day; morning, after dinner, and before she goes to bed: So the third day of her sickness, walking in the afternoon in one of the shadowed Allies of her Garden with her Son, and there with her best advice rectifying and directing his resolutions from Vice to Virtue, she is unexpectedly surprised with the Symptom of her Fever, when sitting down, and causing her waiting Maid to hold her head in one of the Arbours, she prays her Son Alphonso to run to her Chamber, and to bring her a small wicker Bottle of Almond milk, the which he doth; but bloody Villain that he is, nothing can withhold him (but his heart being tempered with inhumanity and cruelty) he first pours in his poison therein and then gives it her, who, good Lady, drinks two great draughts thereof; when a sweat presently over spreading her face, and she beginning to look pale, he (as a wretched Hypocrite) makes a loud outcry from the Garden to the house, and calling there Servants to her assistance, he likewise calls for a Chair, so she is brought to her Chamber, and laid in her bed, and within few hours after (as a virtuous Lady and innocent Saint) she forsakes this life and this world for a better, and the ignorance of her Servants, and her bloody Son (drenched as it were in the rivulets of his feigned tears, together with his excessive lamentations) do coffin her dead body up somewhat privately and speedily, so that there is no thought nor suspicion of poison; and thus was the lamentable Murder, and deplorable end of this wise and religious Lady Sophia committed by her own wretched and infernal Son. Now this Devil Alphonso (to set the better lustre on his furrows, and the better varnish and colour on his mourning for the death of his Mother) gives her a stately Funeral, the pomp and cost whereof, not only equalised, but exceeded their rank and quality: For he left no Gentleman, or Lady in or about cassal uninvited to be at her burial, and his Feast, and dighted himself and all his Kinsfolks and Servants in mourning attire, thereby the better to carry off the least reflection or shadow of suspicion from him of this his foul and inhuman Murder.  
The news of the Lady Sophia's death, runs from cassal to Vercelie, where Cassino, and his Niece Eleanora understanding thereof, they both of them exceedingly lament and sorrow for it, in regard she was a very Honourable, Wise, and Religious Lady, and to whom the tender youth of Eleanora was infinitely beholding and indebted for many of her sweet virtues and perfections; so that as her Uncle honoured her, so this his Niece held herself bound to reverence her, as making her eminent and singular virtues, the mould and pattern whereon she framed all her terrestrial comportments and actions, which in few months after were so many, and so excellent, that as she was known to be one of the most beautiful, so she was likewise justly reported to be one of the wisest young Ladies of all that City and Country, which together with her own great Estate, as also that of her Uncle Cassino's, to the full enjoying whereof (in contemplation of her virtues and consanguinity) he had justly both designed and adopted her his sole heir; the which made her to be sought in marriage by divers young Gallants of very noble and chief houses; most whereof were superior to Alphonso, both in blood and wealth. When her Uncle at last (with her own free affection and consent) privately marries her to Signior Hieronymo Brasciano, a rich and brave young Gentleman of Vercelie, who was Nephew and Heir to the Bishop of that City; but he being likewise very young, the tenderness of both their ages dispensed them from as yet lying together, and both the Bishop and her Uncle Cassino (for some important reasons best known to themselves) caused this their marriage as yet to be concealed from all the world with great privacy and secrecy, he for the most part living with the Bishop his Uncle at the City of Turin (which is the Court of the Duke of Savoy) and she in Vercelie with her Uncle Cassino, only they visit each other with their Letters, which is all the familiarity that as yet they are permitted to reap and receive each of other.  
And here the true order of our History calls us again, to speak of this degenerate and debauched Gentleman Alphonso, who had no sooner embrued his guilty hands in the innocent blood of the Lady Sophia his Mother; but he then without any farther show of sorrow, or sight or sense of repentance for the same, again desperately abandoneth himself to all old vices and prodigalities, flaunting it out in brave apparel (for his mourning weeds he speedily cast off) and swimming as it were in the Vast Ocean of all his carnal delights, and worldly pleasures and sensualities, never thinking of Religion or Prayer, but passeth away whole days and nights, yea consumeth whole weeks and months in all licentious riots, and excessive prodigalities with his debauched Companions and Strumpets, which began to drown his Estate, and to devour his Lands apace: and in the heat and ruff of these his jovial follies, and exorbitant intemperancies, he be thinks himself again of the wealth and beauty of the young Lady Eleanora, and so (in the vanity of his conceits, and the imbecility of his judgement) flattering himself, that being now Lord of all his deceased Mother's lands and wealth, her Uncle Cassino could not refuse to give her him in marriage, not so much as once dreaming or remembering how plainly and peremptorily, both he and she had formerly given him the repulse: To which effect he dights himself and his Followers in exceeding rich apparel, and (with a train too worthy of himself) he rides over to Vercelie, and there becomes a most importunate Suitor, both to Cassino and Eleanora, first seeking her, and then courting her Uncle for her: but all in vain, for he puts him off with disrespect, and she rejects him with disdain; and when yet they see that his importunacy herein passeth the bounds of reason, and exceedeth the limits of Discretion and Civility, than Cassino tells him plainly that his Niece is married; and that therefore (in that consideration) he forbids him his house and her company; which point of discourtesy (and as Alphonso terms it of dishonour) to him, he takes in so ill part from Cassino, that exchanging his reason into rage, and forgetting himself to be a man, or which is more a Gentleman, or which is most of all a Christian, he again strikes hands and agrees with the Devil, and for mere despite and rage vows that he will murder Cassino: The Devil making him strong in the vanity of this belief and confidence, that this speech and suggestion of his, that his Niece Eleanora is married, is but fabulous and false, and that if he were once dead, he could not impeach or hinder him from enjoying the fair and rich Eleanora to his wife, which is the same prodigious bait and lure whereby Satan formerly drew, and betrayed him to poison his Mother: the Devil still so closely overvailing his conscience and soul, and so eclipsing, and winking his understanding and judgement, that as his hand so his heart is enured and obdurated to the effusion of innocent blood, and therefore he will not retire with grace, but onwards with impiety to the finishing of this cruel Murder of Cassino; and although he had an itching desire, and a hellish ambition likewise to effect it by poison, yet in regard he was denied access to his house and company, as also for that he was unacquainted with any Apothecary or Physician of Vercelie, he therefore resolves with the Devil to do it by a Carabine, which many times by night he wore and carried about him. There is nothing easier than to do evil, and as it is the nature, so it is the policy of Satan, as well to furnish us with the means, as the matter thereof: For when we cast ourselves from Malice to Revenge, and from Revenge to Murder, he than makes us industrious, first in the contriving, and then in the execution thereof, but in the end God will so ordain that this hellish policy shall turn to misery.  
Alphonso's malice against Cassino will give no peace to his thoughts, so he informs himself, that every morning and evening he is accustomed to walk alone in his Garden, for an hour or two in his spiritual meditations, and therefore he thinks this a fit place (from some adjacent house and window) to shoot at him; when being likewise assured, that there was a poor small tavern (not much frequented with company) that lay somewhat near and commodious to Cassino's Garden, he resolves to make choice of that, and there to give end to this bloody business, which his heart so much desireth, so abandoned by God, and guided and conducted by the Devil, he about six of the clock in the evening rides thither, and tying up his horse to the door, he in a disguised suit of apparel, pretending there to stay for a friend of his, which promised to come thither to meet him (and having purposely sent away his Servants before him to cassal) he goes up into the Chamber, calls for wine and something to eat, the better to favour and colour out his stay there, when bolting the Chamber door to him, he (putting aside the paper Casements, which they use in Italy to expel the fervency of the Sun) from thence (according to his former intelligence) plainly perceives Cassino walking in his Garden, with his Hat in one hand, and his Breviary (or Praier-booke) wherein he reads, in another, with the which he was as busy with God in his meditations and devotions, as he was with the Devil, in charging his Carabine with a brace of bullets, and dressing of his fire lock, and priming of his powder touch-holl, when, without the least spark of grace, or fear of God, or his punishments, he lets fly at him; and the Devil had made him so expert a Marksman, that as Cassino was saftly coming on, walking towards the window, wherein he secretly and scelerously stood, both the bullets hit him right in the breast a little below the left pap, whereof this harmless and religious old Gentleman Cassino fell presently dead to the ground, and none being in the Garden with him (wherein I myself have since some times been) I could not understand, that he had the power or happiness to speak a word: But we shall see, that this his inhuman and bloody Murderer, shall not go far before the judgements of God will surprise and ore take him. The manner whereof is thus.  
As soon as Alphonso had given this bloody blow, and seen Cassino fall dead to the ground, he unbolting the Chamber door, presently resolves to take horse and fly a way, but God ordained the contrary: For as he had again put up his Carabine into his Belt, God presently struck him into a stupefied swoone, whereof falling to the ground, the noise of his fall, the report of his Carabine, and the rattling of his sword and it, presently invited the people of the house below, to see what had befallen above to this Gentleman, where finding him grovelling and gasping for life, they (by God's immediate direction) do think that he hath there shot and murdered himself; when divesting him of his apparel, and laying him in bed to search for his wounds, they find none; but yet it is an hour before they perceive any motion, or action of life in him: And then opening his eyes, he with a distracted look and amazed countenance, deeming himself upon the very point of death; and that for his murdering of Cassino, the Lord in his judgement had infallibly strucken him with sudden death, he finding this foul and bloody act of his, to lie heavy upon his soul and conscience, in this last Scene (as he then thought) of his life, he (rather raving then speaking) in the heat of his madness and distraction, cries out again and again, that he had murdered Cassino: The which the people of the house are exceedingly astonished to understand. And now by this time Cassino is found dead in his Garden, and shot thorough with a brace of bullets. So his Niece ●…leanora is all in tears hereat, and all Vercelie resounds of this his lamentable murder. When Cassino's friends and servants make speedy search for the Murderer, and finding a horse tied to this little Tavern door, they find the Man, Wife, and Servants thereof in outcries and amazement: So they ascend the stairs, find Alphonso in bed, with his Carabine by him on the bench, and his clothes on the Table, and examining the people of the house, they report to them this sudden accident of his swooning, and therein of his confession of the murdering of Cassino; so they all praise and glorify God, in that they have so soon, and so readily found out the inhuman Author, and Actor of this bloody Murder.  
But here before I proceed farther, I (in the name and fear of God) do request and invite the Reader to take notice of another remarkable (I may say miraculous) circumstance of God's mercy and glory, which likewise appears in this detection and confession of Alphonso, to be the cruel Murderer of this innocent, harmless Gentleman Cassino; for he being no better then distracted of his wits, before God had caused and brought him to confess it, which else he had never done, but that in the agony and anxiety of his stupefied spirits he (as I have formerly said) thought himself on the point and brink of death, and no shadow of hope left him, either of this life or this world: Then I say, as soon as he had confessed it, God in his good pleasure and providence presently restored him again to his perfect health, strength, and memory; so that being put in mind, and again remembering his confession, and seeing the eminency of his danger by the presence of Cassino's friends and servants, who were there present about his bed, to apprehend and carry him away to prison for the same; he now with tears, and bitter oaths, and curses, declines and recants what he hath formerly spoken thereof, and, rather as a Devil then a Christian, in lofty and proud speeches stands upon the terms of his justification, alleging and affirming to them farther that what he had formerly confessed, or said to them, concerning the Murder of Cassino, proceeded from the destemperature of his heart and brains, in that of his distraction, or else from the delusions and temptations of the Devil, and no otherwise. But his own confession, the testimony of those of the house who heard it, and the rest of the presumptions and circumstances are so pregnant and apparent, that he is the undoubted Murderer of Cassino, as they believe not what he now says in his own behalf and Apology, or that it is any way the delusions of the Devil, but the good pleasure of God, which brought him to this detection and conviction of himself for the same: So they being deaf to his requests and oaths, they enforce him to draw on his apparel, and then by order of the criminal judges, they that night commit him to prison, where the Devil having brought him, he now leaves him to himself, and to his own misery and confusion, which it is to be believed, that the Lord hath ordained shall speedily befall him.  
The next morning this Monster of nature Alphonso, is called to his arraignment, where being by his judges, charged with this foul Murder, the Devil hath as yet so obdurated his heart, as he not only denies it, but contests against it with vehemency and execrations. So the Vintner and his wife, and servants are produced against him as witnesses, who acknowledge and confess his own confession thereof, as also the report of his Carabine, and the vicinity of their house, and prospect from the Chamber wherein he was, to Cassino's Garden, wherein as he was walking he was shot to death. When the mournful and sorrowful young Lady Eleanora, is likewise brought forth as a witness against him, who informs his judges, that Alphonso was a most importunate Suitor to her, both in his Mother's house at cassal, as also at her deceased Uncle's house, here in Vercelie; adding withal, that (in her heart and soul) she verily believes him to be the Murderer of her said uncle. But still he denies it with choler and indignation: whereupon, the presumptions and circumstances hereof, being more apparent to his judges, than the knowledge of this truth, they adjudge him to the Rack, where at his very first torments thereof, he with tears confesseth it; and God is now so merciful to his soul, as he seems to be very sorrowful and repentant thereof: so they seeing him guilty, pronounce sentence against him, the next day to have his head cut off for the same; and that night the judges (out of their honourable zeal to charity and piety) send him some Friars to Prison to him, to direct his soul to Heaven; who willing him to disburden his conscience and soul of any other capital crime, which he might have committed in all the course of his life, to the end that it might not hinder her passage and transmigration from Earth to Heaven; He then and there reveals them, how he had also formerly poisoned his own Mother, the Lady Sophia, at cassal, for the which he likewise craved absolution both of them and of God. Whereat his judges are exceedingly amazed and astonished, to see a Gentleman so degenerate, inhuman and bloody, as to be the death of his own Mother, of whom formerly he had received his life.  
The day following (according to his sentence) Alphonso is brought to the place of execution, clad in a black suit of silk Grograine, and a falling band, where ascending the scaffold, and drawn to much humility and contrition, by his secular Priests and Friars, he in presenee of a great concourse of people, there made this short speech. That these two murders of his, and especially that of his own Mother, the Lady Sophia, were so odious in the sight of God and man, that he acknowledged, he no longer deserved to tread on the face of the earth, or to look up to Heaven. That he knew not justly, whereunto to attribute this infamy and misery of his, but to his continual neglect and omission of prayer, whereby he banished himself from God, and thereby gave the Devil too great an interest over his body and soul; that he desired God to forgive him, these his two soul and bloody crimes of Murder, as also that of his neglect of Prayer; and so (with tears in his eyes) besought all who were there present, likewise to pray unto God for him: When again beseeching the virtuous young Lady Eleanora, to forgive him the murder of her good old Uncle Cassino, he often making the sign of the Cross, and recommending himself into the hands of his Redeemer, bade the Executioner do his office, who presently with his sword severed his head from his body, and both were immediately burnt, and the ashes thrown into the River of Ticino, without the walls of Vercelie, although his judges were once of opinion, to send his said head and body to cassal, for the judges of that place to do their pleasure therewith, for there poisoning of his own Mother, the Lady Sophia.  
And thus was the miserable (and yet deserved) death and end, of this bloody and execrable Gentleman Alphonso, and in this sort did the judgements and punishments of God befall him, for these his two most inhuman, and deplorable Murders. May God of his infinite grace and mercy, still fortify and confirm our faith by constant and continual prayer (the want whereof was the fatal Rock whereon he perished) that so we may secure ourselves in this world, and our souls in that to come.   

GOD'S REVENGE AGAINST THE CRYING AND EXECRAble Sin of Murder.  
HISTORY XXIV.  
Pont Chausey kills La Roche in a Duel. Quatbrisson causeth Moncallier (an Apothecary) to poison his own Brother Valfontaine, Moncallier after falls, and breaks his neck from a pair of stairs. Quatbrisson likewise causeth his Father's M●…er 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 murder, and strangle Marieta in her Bed, and to throw her body into his Mill-Pond. Pierot the Miller is broken alive on a wheel, and Quatbrisson first beheaded, then burnt for the same.  
We may truly affirm, that the world is in her wane, when Murder is become the practice of Christians, which indeed is the proper office of the Devil; and how frequently those wofnll accidents happen, we cannot think of, but with much horror, nor remember but with grie●…e of mind, and compassion of heart; For is it not to m●…ke ourselves wilful Traitors and Rebels to God, to violate his Divine Majesty, in spoiling his true Image and resemblance; yea, is it not the highway of Hell? But that this age of ours produceth such Monsters of nature, read we but this ensuing History, and it will inform us of much innocent blood shed, we know not whether more wilfully or wickedly.  
IT is not unknown, that the Province of little Britain, was (long since) annexed and united to the flourishing Kingdom of France, by the marriage of Charles the Eighth, with Anne the young Duchess thereof, notwithstanding that she we●…e formerly contracted to Maximilian (Archduke of Austria) where we shall understand, that in the City of Vannes (formerly the Court and Residence of those British Dukes) thereof late years dwelled a noble Gentleman (of rich Domains and Revenues) termed Monsieur de Caerstaing, who by his wife Madamoyselle de la Ville Blanch, had two Sons, the eldest named by his title Monsieur de Quatbrisson, and the youngest Monsieur de Valfontaine: The first aged of twenty four years, being short and corpulent, the second of twenty, being tall and slender; both of them brave and hopeful Gentlemen, as well in their outward personages, as in the ●…ward perfections, and endowments of their minds; For in all respects, the care and affection of their Parents, had made their education answerable to their births. Valfontaine (for the most part) lived in the City of Nantes (the second of that Duchy) with an Uncle of his named Monsieur de massy, being Precedent of the King's Chamber of Accounts which is kept there, who frequenting the Balls or public Dance (whereunto the youth of France are generally addicted) amongst many other excellent beauties, wherewith that City is graced, and those pastimes and meetings honoured, he sees a young Gentlewoman (being a stranger, and newly come to the City.) so infinitely rich in the excellencies of nature, and the treasure of loveliness and beauty, as (with a kind of imperious commanding power) she attracts all men's eyes to behold, to admire, to affect her. So as although Valfontaines youthful heart and yea●…es, had never as yet stooped or sacrificed to Love, yet at the very first sight of this sweet young Gentlewoman, (whose name we shall not go far to know) he cannot retain his enamoured eyes from gadding on the Roses, and ranging on the Lilies of her sweet complexion, nor his resolutions from enquiring, what her name and herself was; when being informed, that she was the only daughter and heir of a rich and noble Gentleman, a Widower termed Monsieur de Pennelle, of the Parish of Saint Aignaw, four leagues from the City, and her name Madamoyselle la Pratiere, of the age of some seventeen, he at the very first sight likes her so well, and loves her so dearly, that (if her interior virtues come not too fhort of her exterior beauty and feature) he vows he will be her Suitor and Servant; and so he attempts to court and seek her for his wife.  
To which end, he (more like a Tutor then a Pupil, in the Art and School of love) is so far from neglecting any, as he curiously and carefully seeks all opportunities and occasions to enjoy the felicity of her company, and so (for the most part) he conducts her to and from the dance, sits and talks with her in her lodgings, meets her at Church, where as well at Vespers as Mass, he accompanies and prays with her, and (briefly) she can difficultly be present any where, where he is long absent from her; For by this time (which is scarce a month since he first saw her) her peerless beauty, and unparalleled virtues and discourse, have acted such amorous wonders in his heart, as he vows, he must either live her Husband, or die her Martyr. But see the providence and pleasure of God, for if Valfontaine tenderly love our sweet and fair La Pratiere, no less doth she him; for knowing him to be the Son of his Father, and therefore a Gentleman of noble extraction and worth; and seeing him to be wise, discreet, and proper, as also remembering and marking, that he fervently and infinitely affects her, she is so delighted with his neat feature and personage, and ravished with the melody of his discourse, as albeit at first, her tongue be so civil and modest to conceal her affection from him, yet her eyes (the Ambassadors of her heart) cannot but in dumb Eloquence, and silent Rhetoric bewray it him. So as (to omit the gifts, presents, and especially the letters, which interchangeably passed between them) and which indeed powerfully assisted to the sympathising and cimenting of their youthful affections, it sufficeth that we take notice and knowledge, that Valfontaines presence was La Pratiere's delight, and the enjoying of her company, his felicity and glory, and that she in life and death would remain his obedient and faithful Wife, and he her faithful and loving Husband; Only she prays him, carefully and respectfully to conceal her affection to him, and so likewise to observe her Father in seeking his consent to their marriage, the which he promiseth her shortly to perform; For as soon as La Pratiere hath left Nantes, and purposely retired herself home to her Father's house, at Saint Aignaw, Valfontaine is not many days behind her, where he acquaints her Father Pennelle, with his affection to his daughter, seeks her in marriage, requesteth his consent, and with many reasons, fairly and discreetly endeavoreth to induce him thereunto, where for three or four days, he takes up his lodging and residence, under pretence to court the Daughter, whom we know he hath already won, but his suit is no way pleasing, but distasteful to Pennelle, who although he know, that Monsieur de Caerstainge his Father (as well for lands as blood) is every way rather his Superior then his Equal, yet because his Daughter La Pratiere is his only child and heir, and Valfontaine but a Cadet (or younger Brother) therefore covetousness makes him assume this resolution, that he will have none of him for his Son in Law: but this reason, and conclusion he conceals to himself, and so (in general terms) gives Valfontaine a cold and averse answer, little better in effect then a flat denial; and thus for his first journey, Valfontaine takes leave of his sweet La Pratiere, no way doubting but that his second to her, will prove less distasteful and more fortunate, he leaves Nantes and rides home to Vannes.  
Being arrived at Vannes, he acquaints his Father and Mother, with his affection and suit to Madamoyselle La Pratiere, the only daughter and heir (as we have heard) of Monsieur de Pennelle, of Saint Aignaw, whereunto (because they know him to be rich and noble, and his Daughter fair and virtuous) they give good approbation and allowance, when Valfontaine praying his Father to ride over to Monsieur de Pennelle, to confer with him about this business, whose presence he hopeth will effect that with him, which he fears and knows his poor power cannot: But his Father although he be very glad, to procure his Son's advancement and content by this match, yet being at that time much troubled with the Gout, he excuseth himself upon his indisposition, and so defers off that journey to another time. Valfontaine missing of his Father, deems it rather expedient then impertinent, to entreat his brother Quatbrisson herein, to whom he fully relates what hath passed between Pennelle and himself, but withal conceals upon what terms he stands with La Pratiere, or that she is any way his, or he hers, either by contract or promise, to the end that he may have no just cause, either to tax her immodesty, or condemn her indiscretion, in so suddenly giving herself to him. Quatbrisson very willingly yields to his brother's request; when (followed with a ●…raine and equipage answerable to their rank and quality, and armed with their Father's Letter to Monsieur de Pennelle) they take horse and ride to Saint-Aignaw. Now as it is the error (or nature) of Lovers to be still unsecret Secretaries, in delighting to talk and prattle of their Mistresses, whom they esteem their sovereign good and chiefest felicity: So all the way, between Vannes, and Saint Aignaw, Valfontaine could neither refrain, nor restrain his tongue from painting forth Lafoy Pratiere in all the excellency of her praises, and from extolling her beauty and perfections above the skies; yea, he ran so curious a division, and so ample a comment on the wonders and rarity of her beauty, that his verbal relation already prepared his Brother's eyes to behold a female Masterpiece of nature in La Pratiere; but being arrived to her Father's house (a little before dinner time) and seeing, and saluting first him, then her, at the very first encounter and sight, his senses are so surprised with the sweetness of her countenance, and so taken with she exquisiteness of her feature, as he now finds that his brother's report and praises of her come infinitely short the dignity and excellency of her beauty.  
Dinner being ended, and Quatbrisson delivering his Father's Letter to Pennelle, with whom making a slight and superficial conference, concerning his brother's affection and suit to his Daughter, he turns from him to her, who dying her milk white cheeks with a roseate blush to entertain him, he ravished with the delicacy of so amorous an encounter, and sweet object, could not like wise refrain from blushing to see her blush, when enquiring of her, if she pleased to take the air of the Garden (where her Father and his Brother were already gone and attended them) and she replying, that his pleasure therein should be hers, he taking her by her hand conducts her thither; where Valfontaine in civility purposely walking aloof off, because he hoped and assured himself, that his brother Quatbrisson now meant effectually to speak with his Mistress in his behalf, there being then no witnesses to their conference, but only the sweet Choristers of the woods (the Thrushes and Nightingales) who purposely and pleasantly sat on every bush and tree, to delight them with their melifluous melody; the very first words he administered and directed to her was; That if she pleased to swear her tongue to secrecy, to what he should now say and deliver to her, he would reveal her a secret which should infinitely import her good. La Pratiere (wondering at the nature of Quatbrissons first speech and request, and what it might mean or concern) stood a little while mute and silent, not knowing what to conceive thereof, much less what to answer thereto: But at last considering that Valfontaine was her Lover, and Quatbrisson his brother, she imagined there was some plot secretly compacted between them, that if her Father would not condescend to their desires, that they had then resolved to steal her away from him, and so to make it a Clandestine marriage: Whereupon (her affection being desirous to know the certainty hereof, and her curiosity ambitious to see this abstruse mystery unlocked) she grants him his request, vowing to impose secrecy to her tongue in what he should deliver, or intrust her with: When he kissing her, and evaporating many far fetched sighs (as the Herald to proclaim his affection) he tells her; that her incomparable beauty hath captivated his thoughts, and made his heart both her Tributary, and her Prisoner; that he envies his brother's happiness, in having the honour to see her before himself. That as he is his Superior in years so he is in affection to her, and that he knows his brother is as unworthy of her, as himself worthily bestowed on her: Lafoy Pratiere (whose affection and thoughts ran a direct contrary Career, lest dreaming of that which she is now enforced to understand) is so afflicted, and withal so incensed at these unexpected speeches of Quatbrissons, that (her passion giving a law to her civility) casting a snowwhite veil over her crimson cheeks, and bending her brow (in whose furrows it seemed that discontent and choler sat now triumphant) her affection is so sincere and entire to Valfontaine, as she returns his discourteous Brother Quatbrisson, this short and sharp answer: Quatbrisson (quoth she) to have offered this unkindness of yours to your friend, had been ignoble ingratitude, but to do it to your own brother, can be no less than treachery; and therefore this know from me, that I esteem your Primogenitorship as inferior to Valfontaines virtues, as they are in all respects superior to yours, and had you not tied and wedded my tongue to silence, I would now presently publish it to the world, to the admiration and detestation of all good men, and so (with a look engendered of choler, and derived from disdain) she hastily and suddenly trips away from him, leaving him alone in the Garden to his Muses; Quatbrisson biting his lip at this sharp repulse of La Pratiere, is yet resolute not thus to leave her, when hoping to find her Father more tractable and propitious to his suit then his Daughter, he seeks him out, and in fair terms informs him of his affection and love to her, and that (notwithstanding his brother's research of her) he himself infinitely desireth her to be his own wife. Old Pennelle (being more covetous of his Daughter's preferment, than any way careful of her content) gives an attentive and pleasing ear to this motion of Quatbrisson, and is so delighted with the melody of his speeches, as already in heart, he wisheth her married to him, but how to answer, or give content to Valfontaine he knows not.  
Now the better to effect, and compass this match, so much wished of Quatbrisson, and desired of Pennelle; he (in the absence of Valfontaine) sends for his Daughter into his closet, shows her what preferment and happiness is now offered her, if she will forsake Valfontaine and accept of his elder Brother Quatbrisson for her husband. La Pratiere (both moved and grieved with this her Father's proposition and speeches) very humbly beseecheth him; that if ever he will respect her content, or regard her life, that Valfontaine may be her Husband, and not Quatbrisson, because she confesseth she loves the younger Brother, but that she neither can nor will affect the elder: Now although this her resolute and obstinate answer, do exceedingly afflict and grieve her Father, yet hoping that a little time will prove capable to draw her to his desires, he secretly bids Quatbrisson to ride home to Vannes, to take his Brother with him, and shortly after to return again to Saint-Aignaw without him, and that he shall find no cause to fear, or reason to doubt, but that he shall enjoy his Mistress; the managing whereof, he prays him to refer to his care in his absence: Thus we see the Father and Daughter differently affected, he loves Quatbrisson and not Valfontaine, and she Valfontaine, but not Quatbrisson, who grieving as much at the Daughter's refusal, as he rejoiceth at her Father's consent: He now venteth his malice on the Innocence, and his treachery on the integrity of his Brother, by acquainting him, that he hath used his best power and art of solicitation towards Pennelle; and that he finds it impossible to draw him to reason; adding withal, that he is so far from consenting, that he shall obtain his Daughter in marriage, as (upon the whole) in terms enough clear and apparent, he futurely denies him access to his house; Wherefore Brother (quoth he) because I see with grief, that you strive against the stream, and that in all actions and accidents whatsoever, the shortest errors are still best, let us to morrow take horse and away, and let this indifferency be your resolution: That if God have decreed it shall be a match, it then will be, otherwise not. Valfontaines heart bleeds at Pennelles averseness and cruelty, and his eyes overflow with tears, so soon to forsake the sight and company of his Daughter, of his dear and fair Mistress La Pratiere; but (being ignorant of all his brother's passages, and treacheries intended, and meant towards him) he holds it folly to impugn, or contradict his pleasure, and so resolves to leave Saint-Aignaw, and depart home with him to Vannes.  
Our fair La Pratiere, seeing all things bend to cross her desires, and her Valfontaines wishes, she (out of her tender affection to him) resolves to give him a private meeting and conference, when that very night (as her Father and his Brother were in their beds sound sleeping) she sends for him into her Chamber, where seeing him extremely pensive and sorrowful; she bids him be cheerful and courageous, tells him that he hath no reason to despair, but to hope, for that in life and death she will be his, and only his; and then informs him, that instantly upon his arrival to Vannes, she will write and send him a Letter, wherein she will acquaint him with the passage of a business; whereof he neither can conceive or dream; conjuring him now to inquire no farther what it is, for that her tongue was enjoined to secrecy, and sworn to silence, and so (with much chat, and more kisses) he giving her a Diamond Ring from his fingers, and she him a pair of pearl Bracelets from her arms, in token of their mutual constancy and affection each to other, they (infinitely against their minds) are enforced to take ●…ave each of other, and the succeeding morn being come, the two Brothers prepare, and dispose themselves for their journey. When breakfast ended, according as it was concluded betwixt Pennelle and Quatbrisson, Pennelle takes Valfontaine aside to a window, and in short terms prays him, henceforth to forbear his house, and refrain his Daughter's company, for that he hath provided another Husband for her; so having severally and solemnly taken their Congees, first of the Father, and then of the Daughter, they take horse and away. Now as they are riding home towards Vannes, as it is a sensible and heart-killing grief to La Pratiere, so soon to be deprived of her Valfontaines dear and sweet company, so again she cannot refrain from smiling, to see how ingratefully and subtly Quatbrisson goes to work to betray his Brother, in seeking to obtain her for himself in marriage; but measuring the integrity of the one, by the treachery of the other, and likewise remembering her promise to Valfontaine, to write to him at the end of two days after their departure, she (by a confident Messenger) accordingly sends him this Letter.  
LA PRATIERE to VALFONTAINE.  
MY promise owes you this Letter, whereby I give you to understand, that I know not whether you have greater cause to love me, or to hate your brother Quatbrisson, in regard he vows, he affects me dearer than yourself, and hath attempted to rob you of your Wife, and consequently me of my Husband; and as this is ingratitude in a friend, so it must needs be treachery in a Brother. I have heard his courting, and seen his compliments tending that way, but for your sake I relish those with distaste, these with neglest, and himself with contempt and disdain. He hath won my Father to his will, but rest you confident (my dear Valfontaine) that he neither can, nor shall draw me to his desire. And because true affection, especially in accidents of this nature, cannot still be exempt of fear, therefore if any arise, or engender in your thoughts, let this dissipate and dispel it, that although my Father have banished you his house, yet his Daughter is (till death) constantly resolved to retain and cherish you in her heart, and none but you: Manage this your Pratieres' advice with discretion towards my Father, and not with choler towards your Brother, and be but a little time a patient Spectator of my affection and constancy to you, and you shall assuredly see him act his own shame, and your glory; his affliction, and your content and desire.  
LA PRATIERE.  
Valfontaine having received and read this Letter; the base ingratitude and foul treachery of his brother Quatbrisson, doth extremely afflict and torment him; yea the knowledge and remembrance thereof, throws him into such passions of choler, and fumes of revenge, as once he resolved to right himself on him, by sending him a Challenge, and fight with him; vowing that the bonds of nature were not by far so strong, as those of affection, and that his brother having given the first cause of offence, and breach of amity betwixt them, it was no marvel that he took that course, and preferred that form of proceeding to any other. But then again considering his dear La Pratieres' injunction and prohibition from choler, this last reason ore-swaied and prevailed against his former resolution, when knowing himself infinitely obliged to her for her courtesy, and constancy, so sweetly expressed to him in this her Letter, he can do no less, then return her an answer thereof in requital, the which he doth by her own Messenger in these terms.  
VALFONTAINE to LA PRATIERE.  
OF all men of the world, I lest thought that my brother Quatbrisson would have proved my Rival, in attempting to love you, because he perfectly knows, I affect you far dearer than the whole world; yea this error (or as you justly term it, this treachery) of his, is so odious, so strange to me, as it had far exceeded my belief, if your affection and constancy had not so courteously revealed it to me in your Letter, the which I both blushed and palled to peruse. Neither is it any thanks to him, that he miss of his desire, in missing of you, rather to your virtuous self, which distasted his courting and compliments for his own sake, and disdained him for mine. Dear and sweet La Pratiere, in that my brother hath won your Father, I exceedingly grieve, but in that I have not lost his Daughter, I far more triumph and rejoice: But why think I of losing you, sith to call your constancy in question, is no less than to profane your affection and my judgement, and so to make myself both uncapable and unworthy of you, for how can my love to you, retain any spice or spark of fear, for that being banished your Father's house, I am yet so happy, to recover so safe a Harbour and Sanctuary, yea so precious a Temple, as your heart; In which regard it is every way fit, that your requests should be to me commands, for otherwise my Sword had already called me Coward, if by this time I had not called my Brother to a strict and severe account for this his treachery. I will still observe your Father with respect, though he refuse to respect me with observance; and for my ingrateful and treacherous Brother, he may act his own shame and affliction, but cannot conduce to content, or desire, because that must solely proceed from yourself, sith in the sweet enjoying of you to my Wife, consists the only content of my life, and the chiefest of all my earthly felicity.  
VALFONTAINE.  
Some two days after that La Pratiere was made joyful with this answer of her Valfontaine, she hath again sorrowful news of Quatbrissons arrival to her Father's house at Saint-Aignaw, who had purposely given it out to his brother Valfontaine at Vannes, that he rides to Hennbon. He here renews his late suit to the Father and Daughter, but he finds them both in the same humours and resolutions, he left them; he willing, and she coy, he desirous to have him his Son in law, and she resolute never to make him, but his brother Valfontaine her Husband. He proffereth her many rich gifts and presents, and a blank to write down what jointure she pleaseth to demand, but she peremptorily refuseth it all, and bids him bestow it on some other, of whom it may find better acceptance; yea I may safely say, and truly affirm, that their affections are far more opposite, and contrary, than their sexes; for the more he sees her, he loves her, and the oftener she beholds him, the more she hates him; so that when he apparently perceives, that she deeply vows to her Father, and himself, only to marry his brother Valfontaine, or her Grave, he seeing his labour for the time present lost, and his affection to her in vain; having nothing left to comfort him against the repulse of this amorous suit, but the constant friendship of her Father, he sorrowfully takes his leave of them, and rides home to Vannes; but as close as he bears this his journey from his brother Valfontaine, yet Lafoy Pratiere holds herself bound to signify it to him, the which the very next day she doth by her second Letter, which speaks thus.  
LA PRATIERE to VALFONTAINE.  
I Hold it a part of my duty and affection to advertise you, that these two days, I have been again importunately haunted and solicited by your unkind Brother Quatbrisson for marriage, but he hath found my first answer, to be my second and last; Yea I have so nipped his vain hopes in their blossoms, by signifying to him and my Father, my infallible resolution, either to wed you or my grave, as I think (except their hopes betray their judgements) the one is assured, and the other confident, that time will make it apparent to the world, that my words will prove deeds, and that the last will make the first real: But if your said brother will yet (notwithstanding) farther exercise his folly in my patience, and so make himself as ridiculous to me, as to you he is treacherous, I (out of the dear affection, and tender respect which I bear you) will then fall on my knees to my Father, to hasten his consent to our marriage; that in seeking my content, you may therein find your own; and this is my resolution, wherewith if yours concur and sympathize, Heaven may, but Earth shall not cross our desires.  
LA PRATIERE.  
Valfontaine receives this second Letter from his Mistress with smiles and frowns; with smiles to see her inviolable constancy and affection, with frowns to behold his brother Quatbrissons continual malice and treachery towards him, the which considering (as also because it so nearly concerns him) he resolves to tax him thereof, and to see whether (by fair requests and persuasions) he may reclaim him from affecting his fair and dear La Pratiere, and so to give over his suit to her, but first he knows himself indebted and obliged, to return her an answer to this her last Letter, the which he doth in these terms.  
VALFONTAYNE to LA PRATIERE.  
IT is every way your affection, no way your duty (sweet La Pratiere) which again advertiseth me of my Brother Quatbrissons perseverance in his treachery towards me, by seeking to betray and bereave me of yourself, in whom my heart and thoughts imparadise their most sovereign earthly felicity; and your resolution in nipping his hopes, and your Father's will, by electing me or your grave for your Husband, doth so ravish my heart with joy, and so rap my conceits in an ecstasy of sweet content, as I am confident God hath reserved La Pratiere, to be Valfontaines sweet Wife, and he to be her dear Husband. But as I know not whether my unkind and treacherous Brother, will yet farther bewray you his folly, in exercising your patience with his importunity; so to save you that labour and penance, which for my sake and love you are ready to impose to yourself, I am both ready and resolved, not only to fall on my knees to your Father, but also to your sweet self, that our marriage be hastened; for as your resolution herein, is, and ever shall be mine, so our hearts and thoughts sympathising in these wishes, I hope that both Heaven and Earth have resolved, not to cross, but shortly to consummate and finish our desires.  
VALFONTAINE.  
He having thus dispatched and sent away his Letter, to his sweet and fair Mistress, he now resolves to have some conference with his unkind Brother, to see what a brazen face, he either will, or can put upon this his ingratitude and treachery: But Quatbrissons policy will anticipate and prevent him; for he having his heart and contemplations deeply fixed on La Pratieres' beauty, and having ran over all the inventions of his art and affection, how to make her forsake he coyness, and so how to obtain her for his wife, he at last resolves to feign himself sick, and so then to reveal to his brother Valfontaine, that it is his dear and fervent affection to La Pratiere; which is the cause thereof. To which purpose he keeps his bed, and in his perfect health is twice let blood, thereby to look ill; when sending for his brother to his Chamber, and exempting all other company thence, he acquaints and informs him, That since he first saw La Pratiere, he still most tenderly loved her, and that he must now die, because she will not affect and love him; He prays and conjures him (by virtue of all the same blood which equally streams in both their bodies) for the saving and preserving of his life, that he will now abandon his affection from her, and so yield him up all the power and interest that he hath, or pretends to have in her, and that in requital thereof (if occasion require) he shall still find him ready, not only to expose all his means, but his dearest blood and life at his command: A request so unjust, and a proposition so devoid of common sense and reason, as Valfontaine observing it, and therein seeing his brother's impudency, now grown to the height of baseness and folly, he exceedingly incensed thereat (with a disdainful look) returns him this sharp and bitter, yet deserved reply. Was it not enough that I understood your treachery, by my fair and dear La Pratiere, in seeking and attempting to bereave me of her, but that thou art thyself become so sottish, to ●…ake thy tongue the Advocate, as well to plead and apologise thy treachery to me, as to publish thy shame to thyself, and to the whole world, in seeking and desiring me to surcease my affection to her, and to renounce my interest of her to thyself: No, no, base Quatbrisson (for henceforth I highly disdain to term or esteem you my brother) I give thee to understand and know, that in heart, and in honour she is mine, and I hers, and therefore you shall die and damn, before I will permit thee to enrich thyself with my loss of her, whom I affect and prize a thousand times dearer than myself, or then all the lands and treasures of the world; when without any other farewell, he hastily and cholericly flings forth his Chamber from him.  
Quatbrisson seeing his brother's furious departure, and remarking his peremptory and incivill answer to him, he (in his heart and thoughts) vows revenge, and in his resolutions swears to make him repent it. To which effect, forsaking his bed, and abandoning his counterfeit sickness, his choler hardly affording his patience three days to recover his blood and strength, but knowing his brother to be now at Nantes with their Uncle De Massy, he seeks out a dear and intimate friend of his named Monsieur La Roche, whom engaging to be his second in a Duel against his own brother Valfontaine, they ride over to Nantes, when coming to 〈◊〉 small Parish, termed Saint-Vallerge, within a league of the City, he writes a Challenge, delivers it to La Roche, and so dispeeds him away with it to his bro●…r. La Roche comes to Nantes, finds out Valfontaine at the Precedent, his Uncle's ●…use, being in the company of a very intimate friend of his, of that City, na●…ed Monsieur de Pont Chausey, and delivereth him, his brothers Challenge fast sealed, ●…e which he hastily breaking open, and perusing, he finds that it speaks this ●…guage.  
QVATBRISSON to VALFONTAINE.  
●…N regard it is impossible for both of ●…s to enjoy the fair La Pratiere to wife, therefore it is fit that one of us dye, that the other may survive and live, to be enriched with so ●…ious a treasure, and crowned with so inestimable a blessing and felicity; which considering, as also because my modest requests have (undeservedly) met with thy incivill carriage, and been requited with thy malicious execrations, Therefore find it not strange, to see affection give a Law to Nature, and mine honour to contemn thy contempt and malice, in enviting thee, and thy Second, to meet me and mine with your single Rapiers, to morrow 'twixt two or three after dinner, in a fair meadow at the East end of Saint-Vallery, within a little flight shot thereof, where thou shalt find this Gentleman (whom I have prayed to be the Bearer hereof) who will safely conduct thee to me, where I will patiently attend thee; I expect no other answer but thyself, neither do I any way doubt (much less despair) of thy meeting me, since by birth I know thou art Noble, and by inclination pretendest to be generous.  
QVATERISSON.  
Valfontaine smiles at the reading of this Challenge, and in conceit laughing at his brother Quatbrissons errors and folly, he cheerfully turns himself to La Roche, to whom he speaks thus. Monsieur La Roche, I make no doubt but you are Quatbrissons Second; to whom he replies; My respect to your Brother hath engaged me thereunto, instead of a more worthy, and yet I ingenuously confess and protest (Sir quoth he) that I have promised no more to him, than (if occasion presented) I am ready to perform for yourself, Valfontaine thanks him, and prays him to return his Brother Quatbrisson this answer, That to morrow at the appointed hour and place he will not fail to meet him: When entreating La Roche to walk with him into the next Chamber, he told him, he presumed he should show him his Second; when Valfontaine taking Pont Chausey to the window, he shows him his brother's Challenge, and prays him to honour him in being his Second. Pont Chausey (not out of any fear in himself, but in love to these two brothers) as a Christian Gentleman proffereth to ride over to Quatbrisson to Saint-Vallery, and to use his best power and endeavours to take up and reconcile these differences between them; but La Roche tells him he may save that journey and labour, For that (to his knowledge) Quatbrisson is both resolute and irreconcilable in that quarrel; whereupon Pont Chausey freely engageth himself to Valfontaine, and so these two Seconds (though not as loving friends, yet as friendly and honourable enemies) very secretly that evening provide their Rapiers, which done, La Roche rides back to Saint-Vallery, acquainting Quatbrisson with his brother Valfontaines generous resolution, to meet and fight with him the next day, as also that Pont Chausey is his Second: And although (by the instigation of Satan) that Choler and Revenge make minutes seem hours, and hours years, ere it hath wrought his wished effects, and effected his bloody designs: So these our four rash and inconsiderate Gentlemen (more full of Valour than Virtue, and of Courage than Christianity) the hour appointed for the Rendezvous approaching, and Quatbrisson with his Chirugion, being first in the field, hath difficultly made two turns, before La Roche ushereth in his brother Valfontaine, his Second Pont Chausey and their Chirugion; when they all tying up thei●… horses to the hedge, they (according to the custom of Duels) do all throw of their doublets, and each unbooting his fellow, they appear in their silk stocking●… and white pumps, as if they were fitter to dance Corantoes or Pavins, than t●… fight Duels.  
So the two brothers first draw, and approach each other, and at their first coming up, Valfontaine (without being touched himself) gives Quatbrisson a deep●… wound in his right thigh, and if his Rapier had not beaten down the thrust, it ha●… undoubtedly nailed him to the ground; at their second encounter they are bo●… hurt, Quatbrisson in the right arm, and Valfontaine of a scar in the neck, and here they make a stand to take breath, Quatbrisson not as yet despairing, nor Valfontaine triumphing or assuring himself of the victory, and the sight and effusion of their blood is so far from rebating or quenching, as it rather revives their courages with more spleen and animosity, so they will again try their fortunes; They now traverse their ground, and approach each other, and although they are not less vallorous than before, yet (to the eyes of their Seconds and Surgeons) they are now more cautious in their plea, and more advised in choosing and refusing their ground, when Valfontaine breaking a thrust (which his brother presented him) he then calling to mind the sweetness of his La Pratieres' beauty, and the foulness of his brother's malice and treachery towards him, drives home a thrust at him, which entereth betwixt his short ribs, and making the blood to gush and stream forth, doth soon quail his courage; so as he who right now thought himself master of his brother's life, now fears his own, so that he thinks he hath given enough, if not received too much in counter-exchange, as well to secure his reputation from the scandal of his friends, as to warrant his generosity from the detraction of his enemies, and therefore throwing away his Rapier, he (with more wisdom than honour) begs his life of his brother, vowing henceforth wholly to forsake and leave him La Pratiere, and to love him as dear as formerly he hated him deadly: Which cowardice of his, is so far from being relished, or approved of the Spectators, as it proves the wonder of Valfontaine, the laughture of Pont Chausey, the disdain of his own Second La Roche, and the contempt of both their Surgeons; but Valfontaine was as benign as Quatbrisson was base and envious, and as noble as he was treacherous, and so upon his submission, he sheaths up his sword, gives him his life, and with his hat in his hand embraceth him, and thus with many fraternal words and compliments, these two brothers (in all outward show) are again reconciled, and become perfect friends: But the end proves all things.  
Now to follow the stream of our History, and the ceremonies of Duels, we must pass from Quatbrisson and Valfontaine the Principals, to La Roche and Pont Chausey, their Seconds, to see in what shape they will come forth, and how they resolve to bear themselves in the conclusion, and knitting up of this reconciliation; As for Pont Chausey, he thinks it no disparagement or shame to him now to refuse to fight, sith his Principal hath given his Enemy the foil, in giving him his life; but chose, La Roche being Second to the Challenger, not the Challenged, he therefore holds it no lawful plea or excuse for him to exempt himself from fight. Pont Chauseys' modesty seems to overvaile his valour with ●…lence and indifferency, which the insulting vanity of La Roche doth so far misconstrue, as he erroneously attributes it, rather to fear and cowardice, then to reason or judgement. The worst of Pont Chauseys' malice venteth no other speeches and language, but that he will follow and abide the censure of their Principals, whether they being their Seconds ought to fight or no, and accordingly he is ready either to retire or advance; But Lafoy Roches intemperate passions (flying a higher pitch) with much vehemency and choler protesteth, that he came into the field purposely to fight, and not to keep sheep, or to catch flies with his Rapier. The two brothers interpose and consult hereon, and do jointly affirm, that because they themselves are reconciled, and become good friends, they hold it repugnant to reason and contradictory to the right and nature of Duels, that their Seconds should once draw their weapons, much less fight; But this neither doth nor can as yet satisfy La Roche, whose choler is now become so boundless, as he in lofty terms elevateth Valfontaines valour to the skies, and dejecteth Quatbrissons cowardice as low as Hell, begging permission of the one to fight with his Second, and peremptorily informing the other, that he will fight; But both Quatbrisson and Valfontaine condemn those fumes, and this heat of La Roche, and are so far from applauding it in him, as they (in downright terms) repute it to temereity and rashness, and not to magnanimity and valour; yea his impatiency hath so provoked and moved their patience, as (not in jest but in earnest) they bandy these words to him, that he glorieth so much in his generosity, as in now ambitiously seeking to add to his valour, he substracteth from his judgement. When Pont Chausey (to retort and wipe off the least taint or blemish, which either La Roche, or the two brothers might conceive, lay on his reputation) thinks it now high time to speak, because as yet he had spoken so little, and prays La Roche to find out some expedient, either that they might return as loving Friends, or fight it out as Honourable Enemies, and that for his part he is so far from the least shadow of fear, or conceit of cowardice, as he tells him plainly, he shall find his Rapier of an excellent temper, and his heart of a better: Whereupon vain and miserable La Roche, consulting with nature, and not with grace; he to give end to this difference, resolves on an expedient as wretched as execrable, the which he proposeth to Pont Chausey and the two brothers in these terms; That the only way, and his last resolution is, that a fair pair of dice shall be the judge and Umpire between them, and that who throws most at one cast, it shall be in his choice either to fight or not to fight, whereunto Pont Chausey willingly consenteth, although Quatbrisson and Valfontaine do in vain contradict and oppose it. But the decree is past, and La Roche (very officious in his wickedness, and forward in his impiety) spreads his Cloak on the ground, draws a pair of dice forth his pocket, and because he was of the Challengers side, he will throw first, which he doth, and the fortune of the dice gives him seven; Pont Chausey follows him and likewise taking the dice throws only five: Whereat La Roche gracelesly insulting and triumphing, with an open throat cries out, fight, fight, fight; and so presently draws his Rapier. Pont Chausey seeing his enemy armed, thinks it no longer, either safe or honourable for him to be unarmed, when (yet with a kind of religious reluctancy, and unwilling willingness) he likewise unsheathes his Rapier, and so without any farther expostulation, they here approach each other: But because (for brevity's sake) I resolve to pass over the circumstances, and only to mention the issue of their single combat, let me (before I proceed farther) in the name and fear of God conjure the Christian Reader, here to admire with wonder and admiration, at his sacred Providence, and divine justice which in the issue of this Duel is made conspicuous and apparent to these two rash and unconsiderate Gentlemen, the Combatants, and in them to all others of the whole world; For lo, just as many picks as each of them threw on the Dice, so many wounds they severally received each from other, as Pont Chausey five, and La Roche seven, and he who so extremely desired to fight, and so insatiably thirsted after Pont Chauseyes' blood, is now here by him nailed dead to the ground, and his breathless corpses all gored and washed in his own blood. A fearful example and remarkable precedent for all bloody minded Gentlemen of these our times, to contemplate and look on, because wretched La Roche was so miserable, as he had no point of time to see his error, no spark of grace to repent it.  
Quatbrisson and his Chirurgeon (as sorrowful for his death, as his brother Valfontaine is glad thereof) take order for his decent transporting to the City; whiles Valfontaine congratulates with Pont Chausey for his good fortune and victory; who for ●…ty flies to Blavet, until the Duke of Rays (to whom he was homager) had procured and sent him his Pardon from the King, the which in few weeks after he effected. Monsieur de Caerstaing, and Madamoyselle Ville-blanche his wife are advertised of their two Sons quarrel at Saint Vallery, and of the cause and issue thereof, who condemn Quatbrisson for his treachery and malice, and applaud Valfontaine for so nobly giving of his brother his life, when it lay in his power and pleasure to have deprived him thereof, which news is likewise speedily conveied first to Nantes, and then to Saint-Aignaw, where Pennelle as much grieves at Quatbrissons foil and disgrace, as his Daughter our fair La Pratiere triumphs at her Valfontaines victory, and because she will no longer be deprived of his presence, whose absence deprives her of all her earthly content and felicity, she makes her prayers and tears become such incessant Orators, and importunate Advocates to her Father, as she now draws his free consent to take Valfontaine for her husband, which at last to their own unspeakable joy, and the approbation and content of all their parents of either side, is at Saint-Aignaw performed and consummated with much pomp and bravery.  
But albeit Quatbrisson (as we have formerly understood) have all the reasons of the world, to be fully and fairly reconciled to his brother Valfontaine, yea (and according to his promise and oath) to affect him tenderly and dear, yet where the heart is not sanctified and in peace, the tongue may pretend though not intend it; For the more he gazeth on his sister in law La Pratieres' beauty, the more the freshness and delicacy thereof, revives and inflames his lascivious lust towards her, when knowing her to be as chaste as fair, and being confident that he was out of all hope to receive any immodest courtesy, or familiarity from her, whiles her Husband his brother Valfontaine lives, the Devil hath already taken such full possession of his heart, as (with a hellish ingratitude and impiety) he wretchedly resolves to deprive him of his life, of whom as it were but right now he had the happiness to receive his own.  
As soon as we think of Revenge we merely forget ourselves, but when we consent to murder we absolutely forget God; for that hellish contemplation, and this inhuman and bloody action, do instantly work so wretchedly in us, that of men we become Monsters, and (which is worse) of christian's Devils; for thereby we make ourselves his slaves and members. A misery to which all others are not comparable, because those are finite, in regard they have only relation to the life of our bodies, but this infinite in regard it occasioneth the death of our souls: But all this notwithstanding, it is not in jest but in earnest, that Quatbrisson assumes this bloody resolution to murder his brother Valfontaine; For seeing that it was neither in his power or fortune to kill him in the Duel, he therefore holds it more safe, less dangerous to have him poisoned, and so deals with his brother's Apothecary, named Moncallier, to undertake and perform it, and in requital thereof he assureth him of three hundred crowns, and gives him the one half in hand, whereupon this Factor of the Devil, this Empiric of Hell, confidently promiseth him speedily to effect and perform it, the which he doth, The manner thus.  
Valfontaine within six weeks of his marriage, finds his body in an extreme heat, some reputing it to an excess of wine, which he had the day before taken at Po●…tivie Fair, and others for having been too amorous and uxorious to his sweet young wife La Pratiere; But it matters not which excess of these two gave him his sickness, only let it satisfy the Reader, that (as we have already heard) his body was very much inflamed and hot, the dangerous symptoms either of a burning Fever, or a Pleurisy, the which to allay and cool, he sends for his 〈◊〉 the carry Moncalier from Vannes to Saint Aignaw, and after their consultation he openeth him a vein very timely in the morning, and draws ten ounces of blood from him, and towards night gives him a Glister, wherein he infused strong poison, which spreading over the vital parts of his body, doth so soon work its operation, and extinguish their radical moisture, that being the most part of the night tortured with many sharp throes, and heart-killing convulsions, he before the next morning dies in his bed: His wife La Pratiere being desperately vanquished with sorrow, doth (as it were) dissolve and melt herself into tears, at this sudden and unexpected death of her Husband Valfontaine, and indeed her griefs and sorrows are far the more infinite and violent, in that she sees herself a widow almost as soon as a wife. Her Father is likewise pensive and sorrowful for the death of his Son in Law, and so also is his own Father and Mother at Vannes. But for his inhuman brother Quatbrisson, although he neither can, or shall blear the eyes of God, yet he intends to do those of men, from the knowledge and detection of this foul and bloody fact; for he puts on a mournful and disconsolate countenance, on his rejoicing and triumphing heart, for the death of his brother, the which he endeavoreth to publish in his speeches and apparel; so he rides over to Saint Aignan to his sister in law La Pratiere, condoles with her for her Husband his brother's death, and with his best oratory strives to dissipate and dispel her sorrows; but still her thoughts and conscience do notwithstanding prompt her, that (considering his former affection to her, and his fight with his brother her, Husband for her) sure he had a hand in his death, but in what manner or how she knows not, and so as a most virtuous and sorrowful Lady, leaves the revealing thereof to the good pleasure and Providence of God; and the curious heads both of Nantes and Vannes concur with her in the same conceit and belief.  
But three months are scarce passed over, since Valfontaine was laid in his grave, but Quatbrisson is still so deeply besotted with his own lust, and the beauty of La Pratiere, as he sells his wit for folly, and again becomes a Suitor to marry her, having none but this poor Apology to colour out his incestuous desires; that he will procure a dispensation from Rome to approve it; and that he hath already spoken to Yvon Bishop of Rheims to that effect, who was many year's Penitentiary (or Almoner.) to Pope Paulus Quintus. And what doth this indiscretion of his work with La Pratiere, but only to increase her jealousy, to confirm her suspicion, and to make her the more confident, that her Husband had been still in this world if he had not been the means so soon send him into another: Wherefore she rejecteth both his suit and himself, tells him, that if he can find in his heart and conscience to marry her, she cannot dispense with her soul to espouse him, and therefore that he shall do well to surcease his suit, either to the Pope or Bishop, sith if it lay in their powers, yet it should never in her pleasure to grant, or resolution to effect it; but this peremptory refusal of hers cannot yet cause Quatbrisson to forsake and leave her; For if his lust and concupiscence formerly made him peevish to seek her for his wife, now it makes him merely sottish and impudent to alter his suit, and so to attempt and desire to make her his strumpet: But he hath no sooner delivered her this his base and obscene motion, but all the blood of her body flushing in her face, she highly disdaineth both his speeches and himself, and vowing and scorning henceforth ever more to come into his company, so she informs her Father of his dishonourable intent, and unchaste motion to her, who to rid himself of so incivill and impudent a guest, thereupon (in sharp terms) forbids him his house and his Daughter's company, as having hereby altogether made himself unworthy to enjoy the privilege of the one, or the honour of the other, when this sweet and chaste young Lady (to be no more haunted with so lascivious a Ghost and Spirit) being sought in marriage by divers noble and gallant Gentlemen, she among them all (after a whole years mourning for her first) makes choice of Monsieur de Pont Chausey for her second Husband, and marries him; Quatbrisson seeing himself so disdainfully slighted and rejected of La Pratiere, he (as a base Gentleman, and dishonourable Lover) metamorphoseth his affection into hatred towards her, and vows that his revenge shall shortly match her disdain, and meet with her ingratitude, and so flies her sight and company as much as he formerly desired it. But as the best Revenge is to make our enemies see that we prosper and do well, so he quite contrary makes it his practice and ambition to do evil; For from henceforth among many other of his vices he defileth his body with whoredom, and gives himself over to Fornication and Adultery, which hath taken up so deep a habit in him, as it is now grown to a second nature; for he wholly abandoneth himself to Queans and Strumpets, that be she maid, wife, or widow, his wanton eye scarce sees any, but his lustful heart desireth, and his lascivious tongue seeks.  
Now Quatbrisson (among many other) hearing that a poor Peasant, or country man, termed Renne Malliot, of the parish of Saint-andrewes', three miles from Vannes, had a sweet and fair young Daughter, he therefore very lewdly resolves to see her, and to tempt her to his obscene desires, when provoked and halled on by his lust, as that was likewise by the Devil, he rides over to her Father's house, and alighting from his horse calls there for some wine, but with his Hawk on his fist, and his laquay and dogs at his heels, thereby the better to overvaile and colour out his lascivious design and in●…ent: And that the Reader may the better and apparently behold this country Virgin Marieta; she was aged of some sixteen years, and towards her seventeenth, tall and strait, and rather a little endining to fatness then to leanness; her hair was of a bright flaxen colour, and she of so fresh a beauty, and sweet and delicate complexion, that her eyes were capable to inflame desire, and her cheeks to engender and exact affection, so that as it was a wonder among many to find so delicate a Countrey-lasse, it was also many wonders in one, to see how sweetly her rich beauty graced her poor clothes, whiles they (though in vain) endeavour to disgrace it. Quatbrisson no sooner sees Marieta, but she is so fair and amiable in his eyes, as they inform him, that report comes infinitely short of her beauty, when burning in the flames of his beastly concupiscence towards her, his lust so exceedingly out braves his reason, that his eyes and heart do already do homage to hers, and he is so far caught and ensnared in the contemplation of her fresh youth and beauty, as he vows to leave no art unattempted to obtain his lustful desires in enjoying of her virginity: To which end he very often and secretly visiteth her, discovereth her his lewd desires and affection, gives her Gloves, Bonlace, Lawn, woorsted Stockings, and the like trifles, thereby the sooner to prevail with her, when God knows this fair poor maiden was so chaste, as yet she knew not what belonged to unchastity, such was her obscure dwelling, and innocent education, and yet behold the Devil was so busy with her, and Quatbrisson with the Devil, to draw and prostitute her to sin, as she was so far in love with his gay clothes, sugared speeches and fair promises, rich gifts, and especially because he was a Gentleman, that in a few weeks she had hardly the power or will to deny him any thing, no not herself.  
But whiles thus Quatbrisson lays close siege to the chastity of the daughter, her Mother jane Chaumett (being of a quick wit and sharp apprehension, measuring his youth by her Daughter's beauty) begins to mistrust and fear that by his often visits, he endeavoured to put a rape on her virtue, in seeking to enrich himself with the loss of her maidenhead, the which to prevent, she forbids him her house, showing him that she had rather dye, then live to see her Daughter made a Strumpet, adding farther, that if hereupon he did not forbear her house and her daughter's company, she would forthwith acquaint his Father Monsieur de Caerstainge therewith, alleging, that how close so ever he bore himself, she knew him to be his Son and heir, and termed Quatbrisson; which cross speeches of hers do much afflict and perplex him, and the more because he sees he cannot now approach Marieta, and which is worst of all, in regard he knows not whom to employ towards her, to win her to his desires: But at length remembering that he was well acquainted with an old Franciscan Friar of Auroy, named Father Symplician, who many years begged the Country for the repairing of their Monastery, and with whom he had often caroused and been merry: He therefore holds him a fit Instrument and Agent for his purpose, and so rides over to Auroy, and sends for him to his lodging, where giving him good cheer, and well heating his head with wine, he there from point to point discovereth this secret, and lays open himself to him: So this old Friar loving his cups better than his beads, and Monsi●… de Quatbrisson better than his Guardian (because he had twice formerly expelled him the Monastery for some of his dishonest and debauched pranks) he freely engageth himself to him, affirming that he well knew both Father, Mother, and Daughter, having heretofore many times lain in their house, when he hath been over taken, either by night or rain.  
Hypocrisy is the Devil's Mask or Wizard, and there is no way so subtle or sinful to deceive, as under the Cloak and Colour of Religion, and therefore it is a most pernicious and odious shame to Christians, that those who profess piety should profane it. This good fellow Friar Symplician (taking the tide of time, and the wind of opportunity) under the pretext of visiting some of his kinsfolks leaves Auroy, repairs to Vannes, and so to Malliots' house in the country, where purposely feigning himself sick, thereby to procure himself the better colour for his stay, and the better means for the dispatch of this love business for Monsieur Quatbrisson, there Malliot and his wife jane Chaumet (out of their respect to Religion, and reverence to Churchmen) entertain him lovingly, and attend him carefully and diligently, thinking no cost too much, nor any meat, care or labour enough which they spent and bestowed on him; But we shall see him requite this Hospitality, and repay this courtesy of theirs with a base ingratitude.  
For in the absence of the Father and Mother, this debauched Friar teacheth their fair Daughter Marieta a new Catechism; he tells her that Monsieur Quatbrisson is deeply in love with her; that if she will hearken to his Affection, and so become flexible to his desires, he will shortly steal her away from her Parents, and either maintain her Gentlewomanlike in brave apparel, or else marry her to some rich Servingman, or Farmer's Son, with whom she might live merrily; and at her hearts content all the days of her life; adding withal, that it was pity 〈◊〉 delicate fresh beauty should be so strictly and obscurely mewed up in her Father's poor Cottage, and that it was a shame to her to prove an enemy to Nature, who had been so bountiful and so true a friend to her, with many more obsce●… reasons, and debauched speeches looking that way, the which (in modesty) I cannot remember without shame, nor relate without detestation. So this pand●…rising old▪ Friar (degenerating from his habit, profession, and name) what with the honey (or rather indeed the poison) of his speeches and promises, and the sugar of some gifts and tokens which he delivered her from Qu●…brisson, he draws this harmless and innocent poor Country maid, so far to forget herself, her Parents, and God, that in hope of rich apparel and a good husband, she tells Father Symplician, that she is wholly Quatbrissons a●… command, and that for his sake and love she is absolutely resolved to forsake her Father and Mother, and to go away with him any night or day, when he pleaseth to fetch her; the which he shortly doth, and she accomplisheth: And thus was the odious ingratitude of this Friar Symp●…cian, towards honest Malliot and his Wife, for his good cheer, lodging, and entertainment, to betray and bereave them of their only child and daughter, whom they well hoped would have proved the joy of their life, and the staff and comfort of their Age.  
Quatbrisson (in the vanity of his voluptuous thoughts) having thus (by himself and the Friar) played his prize in stealing away fair Marieta, he by night brings her to his own old Nurse her house, which is a little mile distant from that of his Father, where he secretly keeps her, takes his pleasure of her, and as often as he pleaseth, lies with her whole nights together; but Marieta's sorrowful Father and Mother seeing themselves thus robbed of their only jewel their daughter, they bitterly lament her loss, and their own misfortunes therein. They complain to all their Neighbours thereof, and leave few adjacent Parishes or houses ●…ought for her; yea her Mother jane Chaumets' grief and jealousy transport her so far, as vehemently suspecting that Monsieur de Quatbrisson had stolen her away, ●…rips over to his Father's house, and there (with sorrow in her looks, and tears in her eyes) acquaints both him and the Lady his Wife thereof; who presently send for their Son Quatbrisson before them. They show him what an infinite scandal this foul fact and crime of his will breed him, and likewise reflect upon themselves, and all their Kinsfolks and Family. How the justice of God infallibly attends on whoredom and fornication, and that he hath no other true course or means left him to expiate and deface it, but Confession, Contrition, and Repentance, and by returning the poor Country girl again to her aged and sorrowful parents: But Quatbrisson their Son (as a base debauched Gentleman) denies all, terms old Malliots' wife an old hag and devil, to charge him thus falsely with the stealing away of her Daughter; and so without any other redress or comfort, this poor Mother returns again home to her sorrowful husband, and Quatbrisson secretly to his Nurses, to frolic and sport it out with his sweet and fair Country Mistress Marieta.  
But to observe the better Order and Decorum in the dilation and unfolding of this History, leave we (for a small time) this lascivious young couple, wallowing in the beastly pleasures of their sensuality and fornication, and come we a little to speak how suddenly and sharply (at unawares) the vengeance and justice of God surpriseth our execrable Apothecary Moncallier, who so wretchedly and lamentably (as we have formerly understood) had sent innocent Valfontaine from earth to heaven, by that damnable drug and ingredient of Poison. The manner whereof briefly is thus:  
Quatbrisson (as we have already seen) having exchanged his former affectio●… into future malice and envy towards his Sister in law La Pratiere, doth still re●…aine such bloody thoughts against her, as (striking hands with the Devil) he 〈◊〉 favour of three hundred Crowns more) hath again engaged his Hellish Apothecary Moncallier likewise to poison her, at his first administering of Physic to her; which intended deplorable Tragedy of theirs is no sooner projected and plotted of the one than promised speedily to be acted and performed by the other, to the end (quoth these two miserable wretches) to make her equal, as in marriage, so in death with her first husband: Valfontaine. Thus Quatbrisson longing, and Moncallier harkening out for La Pratieres' first sickness, two months are scarce blown over, since her marriage with Pont Chausey, but she is surprised with a pestilent Fever; when he as a loving and kind husband (at the request of his sick Wife) ri●…es over to Vannes for this monster of his profession and time Moncallier, to come with him and give her Physic, the which presently (with as much treacherous care, as feigned sorrow) he promiseth to effect; and so inwardly resolves with the Devil, and himself to poison her: but we shall see here that God's providence will favourably permit the first, and his goodness and mercy miraculously prevent the second.  
Moncallier sees this his fair and sweet Patient La ●…ratiere, but he is yet so far from shame or repentance that he had poisoned her first husband, as (with a graceless ratiocination) he confirms his former impious resolution likewise to dispatch herself: but for that time he contenteth himself only to draw six ounces of blood from her, and promiseth to return to her the next morning with Physic, and therein to insinuate and infuse the Poison. But here (in the fear, and to the glory of God) let me request the Christian Reader to admire and wonder with me at the strangeness of this sudden and divine punishment of God, then and there shown on this wretched Apothecary Moncallier: For as he was ready to depart, and being on the top of the Stairs (next to the Chamber door where La Pratiere lay sick) complementing with her husband Pont Chausey at his farewell, he trips in his Spurs, and so falls down headlong at the foot thereof, there breaks his neck, and which is lamentable and fearful, he hath neither the po●…er or grace left him to speak a word, much less to repent his cruel poisoning of Valfontaine, or to pray unto God to forgive it him. And thus was the miserable end of this wretched Apothecary Moncallier, who, when he absolutely thought that that bloody fact of his was quite defaced and forgotten of God, than God (as we see) in his due time remembered to punish him for the same, to his utter confusion and destruction, that as his Crime was bloody, so his punishment should be sudden and sharp.  
Return we now again to Quatbrisson (who amidst his carnal pleasures with his young and fair Marie●…a) is advertised of Moncalliers sudden and unnatural death at S. Aignaw, whereat (resembling himself) he is so far from any apprehension or grief, as he exceedingly triumpheth and rejoiceth thereat; yea, he is as glad that he hath thus broke his neck, because he can now tell no tales, as sorrowful if now before his death he have not poisoned La Pratiere, as formerly he did her first husband Valfontaine his brother. Whiles thus Quatbrissons joy in enjoying Marieta, proves the grief and disconsolation of her Parents, for it is now generally bruited in Vannes, that Quatbrisson hath stolen away Malliots' daughter Marieta, whereof her Father and Mother being sorrowfully acquainted (he being weak and sickly) she again repairs to Monsieur de Caerstaing and his Lady, and with tears in her eyes throwing herself at their feet, acquaints them with this public report, humbly beseeching them to be a means to the Gentleman their son, that he restore them their daughter; but they are (in a manner) deaf to her requests, and so only return her this general answer, that they will again examine their son, and cause all their tenants houses near about to be narrowly searched for her, and this i●… all the redress and consolation which this sorrowful mother could get from them; Whereof Quatbrisson being advertised, he (with much secrecy and haste) about midnight, causeth Pierot his Father's Miller, to fetch Marieta away from his Nurse's house to his Mill, which is some quarter of a League from his Father's house, the which accordingly Pierot effecteth. The very next morning Quatbrisson goes secretly to the Mill and visits her; he informs her how her parents have incensed his against him, and against herself likewise: he bids her be of good comfort, that she shall want nothing, that he will very shortly procure her a better lodging, and provide both for her safety and reputation, and so continually frollickes it out, and there takes his pleasure of her; yea, he lies so often with her many whole nights and some days at this Mill, that at last her belly swells, and both of them apparently perceive that she is with child by him: when poor soul, seeing herself as it we repent up in a prison, that she had no new Apparel, nor was towards any Husband; yea looking back into the foulness of her fault, and seeing that she had made herself the grief of her Father and Mother, the laughter of the world, and almost the contempt and disdain of Quatbrisson, who (surfeiting in his pleasures ●…th her) began now to look less familiar, and more strange to her then accustomed, she with many sighs and tears reputes herself of her error; but how to remedy it, she knows not.  
As for Quatbrisson, he supposing he had his Father's Miller Pierot at his command, proffereth him two hundred French Crowns to marry her; whereat this Meal-cap Miller (being a lusty young fellow of some five and twenty years old) could not at first refrain from blushing and laughing; when seeing Marieta to be young and fair, he is so far in love with her, as at first he wisheth her to his wife; but then again considering that she hath a great belly by his young Master, that he still lies with her, and that if he should marry her, he would undoubtedly be more Master and owner of her then himself, he prays him therefore to excuse him, for that he is fully resolved not to marry her. When Quatbrisson yet farther desirous to draw him to take her to his wife, proffereth Pierot a new Lease and Estate of his Mill from his Father for seven years, at his own cost and charges. But this Miller (being a pleasant jovial wag) tells his young Master that he had rather never hear the clacking of his Mill, then to live to see himself cornuted; and so upon no terms will marry Marieta, but for any other service, he swears to him, that he is, and ever will be wholly at his command. Poor Marieta now seeing her hopes grow small, and her belly great, and consequently her joys decline, and her sorrows increase, finding that she is now rather Quatbrissons prisoner than his prize, and the Miller rather her Gaoler then her Landlord, she (with many far fetched sighs and brinish tears) very passionately beseecheth Quatbrisson on her knees, that he will speedily either provide her a husband, or permit her with her shameful and sorrowful burden to return home to her afflicted and angry parents. Two requests, and both so reasonable (quoth she to him) as if it be not in your power to grant me the first, yet I hope it will be your pleasure not to deny me the second. But Quatbrisson, notwithstanding all these tears and prayers of Marieta, he is still so vexed, as well with her importunity, as with the sharp complaints of his own parents, and the bitter lamentations and outcries of hers, that (in the heat of sottish choler and ingrateful disdain) he flies from her, absents himself longer than accustomed, and thenceforth (by degrees) begins as much to loathe her, as he formerly loved her. Marieta perceiving this his unexpected and ingrateful unkindness towards her, it pierceth her very heart with grief, and her soul with despair; She requests the Miller to tell Monsieur de Quatbrisson that she prays him to see her, or to permit her to see him; but he perceiving that his young Master slighted her, and that his hot affection was by this time waxed cold and frozen to her, he refuseth to go himself, and so sends his boy: But what doth this importunity of hers procure or effect with Quatbrisson, but only the more inflame his choler, and therein the more increase her own sorrows, and accelerate and hasten on her miseries? For he bids the boy tell her, that he is gone to Rennes, and will not return in a month; and withal, he wills him to bid his Master to come secretly to him in the morning, at his Father's Orchard. So if Quatbrissons unkindness to Marieta formerly made her seem to be the picture of sorrow, Alas, now this his discourteous departure, and disdaining either to see her, or once bid her farewell, makes her really to be sorrow herself; for she tears her hair, and (with a mournful and sorrowful Ambition) indeavoureth to drown herself in the Ocean of her tears; yea, her griefs are so infinite, and her discontents so insupportable (in that she hath so deeply disobeyed her parents, and offended God with her Fornication) as the remembrance of these sins and crimes of hers make her not dare to look up to heaven for assistance; a thousand times she reputes herself of her folly, and as often saith and dictateth to her, that she should be as happy as now she is miserable, if she again were a child, and not with child, and that she were again as living in her Mother's belly, as now by this time she finds her own poor unfortunate innocent b●…be is in hers. She as high as heaven exclaimeth on Quatbrissons ingratitude, and curseth the name and memory of Friar Simplician as low as hell, for thus betraying and seducing her to sin, which hath now brought her to misery and disconsolation; yea, her unfortunacie is so great, as she cannot write for assistance from any where, or if she could, she knows not from whom once to expect, much less to receive it: but rather sees herself reduced to such extreme affliction and misery, that she is every way far more capable to weep or sigh forth her sorrows to herself, then to speak, or make them known to the world.  
Whiles thus Marieta is pensively and pitifully echoing forth her complaints to the bare walls of her poor Chamber, Pierot the Miller finds out his young Master Quatbrisson, in the Orchard behind his Father's house, according to his appointment, where betwixt this wretched and execrable couple the Reader must prepare to see them consult and conclude a most bloody and mournful business, which will both exact pity, and command lamentation from the most flinty and barbarous heart, yea in a word, from any living mortal man, whose profane life and impiety hath not absolutely made him a mere devil. For Quatbrisson having thus satiated and surfeited himself in reaping his beastly pleasures of poor Marieta, and (as before) exchanged his familiarity into malice, and his affection into envy towards her, knowing that she will be a perpetual eyesore to his parents, and a continual shame and scandal to himself, as long as she lives in this world, he therefore most ingratefully and cruelly resolves speedily to send her into another; and no consideration whatsoever, either of her youth or beauty, of her great belly, or of his quick child within her, or of his own soul, can prevail with him to the contrary: but the Devil is so strong with him, that he is miserably resolute not to retire, but to advance in this bloody business. To which effect, he breaks with Pierot the Miller to attempt and finish it, and again promiseth him the Fee-simple (or at least a Leaf of seven years) of his Mill, to finish it; which this bloody miscreant (out of his hellish covetousness, and itching desire to please his young Master) promiseth to accomplish. They now consult of the manner how to murder Marieta: The Miller affirms it to be the surest way (under some pretext) to take her into the next Wood by night, and there to murder her, which Quatbrisson contradicteth, because (saith he) her dead body being found so near his Father's house, this her murder will reflect on him; and therefore to make sure work, he bids the Miller to strangle her by night in her bed, and so to bury her in his outer yard, and there to clap a Wood-vine over her: whereon they both agree. When swearing perpetual secrecy each to other, this execrable Miller here promiseth Quatbrisson to dispatch her within three days at farthest.  
This bloody bargain and compact being thus concluded between them, Pierot the Miller returns to his Mill, where poor Marieta (little suspecting or dreaming, what a dismal stratagem was plotted and resolved against her life) she (finding comfort from no where, and therefore seeking it every where) inquires of him if he came from Monsieu●… de C●…er stainges house, and if his Son Monsieur Quatb●…sson were departed for ●…nes, as his Mill-boy had told her; who (here the better to lull her asleep, thereby with more facility to finish his bloody design on her) tells her that he was gone thither, but that before his departure he had left secret word for him to use her ●…urteously in his absence, the which he swore to her he would carefully perform; whereat Marieta thanks him, but yet again prying more narrowly into this Miller's looks then his speeches, she found that he now looked more sullen and haggardly to her then accustomed, or else that either her conceit or his countenance and Physiognomy deceived her therein. But here (before I proceed further) let us remark the strange effects, and events hereof; For as dreams prove seldom true, because they are as incertain as their ●…uses, which for the most part either proceed from the influence of the heart, or ●…se now from the operations of the brain in their different pa●…ions of affection, Envy, Hope, Fear, joy, Sorrow, or the like; So it pleased God that the very same night Marieta dreamt, that Pierot the Miller killed her, and threw her dead body into the Pond; the which remembering the next morning, she likewise remembered to acquaint him therewith, who ●…vild wretch and dissembling Hypocrite) seemed to be in choler thereat, vowing and swearing to her with many oaths and deprecations, that she was and should be as safe in his Mill, as if she were either in the Tower of Blyn, or the Castle of Blavet, which indeed are reputed to be two of the strongest and most important pieces of little Brittany; whereat poor Marieta again and again thanks him. But this notwithstanding, I now here tremble to report, that the very next ensuing night (Marieta proving too true a Herald and Prophetess, to her own immediate mournful Tragedy) as the night had given truce to her tears, and sleep administered rest to her eyes, as she lay in her poor pallet bed, than this bloody villain Pierot the Miller very secretly enters her Chamber, and softly convaies a small cord under her head, and fastening it to her further bed post (his strength conspiring with his malice) he then and there strangles her dead, giving her neither the power or time to cry, much less to speak one word, and as soon as this Agent of Hell had bereft her (and consequently the fruit of her womb) of life, he within less than an hour after (not to give the lie to her own dream) changeth his purpose in the manner of her burial, and so (in her clothes as she was) carries her to his little Mill-boat in the Pond, where fastening a great piece of an old broken Millstone to her middle (or waste) by a strong new rope which he had purposely provided, he there throws her into the deepest place of his Pond, hoping, yea assuring himself, that he should never see not hear more of her.  
The very next morning after the finishing of this deplorable fact, Pierot the Miller (not able to sleep for joy) at the very break of day, despeeds himself away with the news hereof to his young Master Quatbrisson, who hears and receives it with much content and joy, when (by his promise and oath again assuring the Miller of his Mill) he the better to bear, and wipe off the suspicion which this Murder might reflect or cast on him (if it should ever hereafter come to be detected or discovered) rides away to the City of Rennes, where the State's General of that Province (which we in England term our Parliament) was then to assemble, where rejoicing that he had so happily dispatched his clownish Strumpet Marieta; and Pierot the Miller at home likewise singing and triumphing at this his easy purchase of his Mill, they not so much as once look up to Heaven and God, or down to their own consciences and souls, what this foul and detestable Murder of theirs deserves. And not to go far, by this time the Lord thinks it high time, to bring this their cruel Murder to light, by a strange (I may justly say by a miraculous) accident, which at unawares and when they least think thereof, will (amidst their mirth and security) befall them.  
A month is not full passed over since this murder of Marieta, but God (in his sacred mercy and justice) is now resolved to make Monsieur de Pont Chausey (La Pratieres' second Husband) to be the first means for the detection hereof (and in that likewise afterwards of: the poisoning of Valfontaine) who being one day at Vannes with three other Gentlemen, his friends, he is desirous to hunt a Duck with two of his own Spaniels; And no Pond being so fit or near as that of Monsieur de Caerstaignes, he makes choice thereof, but the Duck is no sooner in the Pond and the Dogs after her, but these two poor harmless curs swimming eagerly for their prey, as they come to the place where Marieta's dead body was sunk and tied, they instantly forsake and abandon the Duck, and there pudling with their feet, and sn●…ffling with their noses in the water, they most lamentably set up their tunes, and aloud howl and bark each at other, without departing or stirring thence, the which Pont Chausey and the other Gentlemen well observing, God instantly inspires their conceits with this apprehension, and their hearts with this jealousy; that (peradventure) there was some body, either accidently or purposely drowned there, and that it now pleased his divine Majesty to make these two poor dogs his Agents and Officers to discover it, whereupon they once resolve to draw up the sluice, and to let out all the water of the Pond, but first they resolve to make another trial and experiment hereof, so for that time they take up their Duck, depart, and call away their Spaniels, but after dinner they return, and the Duck being again put in, the Spaniels in the very same place do the like as in the morning, still howling and barking most lamentably, the which indeed yields harsh and displeasing music to the trembling heart and guilty conscience of this murderous Miller, but still the Devil his Schoolmaster makes him put a brazen face on his fear. Now this second action and demeanour of the Spaniels, confirms the first jealousy and apprehension of Pont Chausey and his associates, who (to vindicate this truth) are now resolute in their former proposition, and desire of letting out the water of the Pond, the which they attempt to effect: But then this wretched Miller seeing himself now so narrowly put to his trumps and shifts, and therefore knowing it high time to prevent them, at least if he mean to provide for his own safety and life; he with many humble and sugared speeches (not seeming any way to take notice of their apprehension) tells them, that he is a poor young man, that this is his first year of setting up his Trade of a Miller for himself, that it being now in the midst of a hot and dry Summer, his Pond will not receive in water again for his Mill to go in a week or two after, which will infallibly beggar him, and therefore (almost with tears) he beseecheth them to desist from their purpose, and not to turn out the water of his Pond, yea he speaks so passionately and pitifully to them, as his reasons prevail with the three other Gentlemen, but with Pont Chausey they cannot, but rather the more confirm his former apprehension and belief, that sure there was some one or other drowned, and withal God doth afresh distil and infuse into his imaginations, that this very Miller himself might have some hand therein, notwithstanding all his humble prayers and smooth speeches to the contrary: To which end Pont Chausey the better to effect his desire and resolution, he (as a wise and discreet Gentleman) grants the Miller his request, when purposely sending away his Servants, Duck and Dogs, he inquires of the Miller if he have any dice or cards in his Mill, who answereth him that he hath cards, but no dice: So into the Mill they all four go, and play at Lansknight for Cartdescus, and the Miller (now ravished with joy to see how his fair tongue hath kept the water in his Pond) is wonderful diligent to wait, and officious to attend them and their commands.  
But they having played an hour, Pont Chausey now thinks it high time for him to effect his design and resolution, and then tells Pierot the Miller, that he is very dry and thirsty, demanding of him if there be any wine to sell near his Mill, who tells him there is none nearer than the Town, where he willingly proffereth to go and fetch some speedily, which indeed is that very part and point whereat Pont Chausey only aimed: So he gives him money to fetch two grand pots of wine; when this inconsiderate and secure Miller (without either fear or wit) seems rather to fly then to run to the Town with joy for it, thinking and assuring that the storm of his danger was now already quite past and blown over; but he is no sooner out of sight, but Pont Chausey presently throws up the Cards, and prays the rest of the Gentlemen to assist him in drawing up the sluice and emptying the Pond, for that his heart still prompts him there is some one drowned therein, whereunto they all give free consent; so by that time the water is half out, Lo (with much admiration and pity) they behold a dead body floating therein, and yet fastened with a rope to the bottom of the Pond. And prying more narrowly to discern it, they (by the coats it wore) perceived it to be a woman, whom they cause to be taken up in the Mill-boat, but her flesh is so riveled and withered with the water, and eaten and disfigured by the fish, as it was impossible to know what she was, and she st●…nke so odiously, as almost none durst approach her. Pont Chausey (and his associates) seeing this woeful and lamentable spectacle, and comparing there with the Miller's earnest refusal, not to permit them to empty his Pond, he here confirms his former jealousy, and now confidently suspects him, either to be the Author or Actor of this cruel murder; To which end he and his associates lay exact and curious wait for his return with the wine; who coming therewith from the Town merrily singing, and not so much as once dreaming what had happened at the Pond, he ascending the top of the Hill by the Woods side, and espying his Pond emptied, than the foulness of his fact and conscience, and the eminency of his danger doth so terrify and amaze him, that he sets down his pots of wine on the ground; and (committing his safety to the celerity and swiftness of his heels) he with all possible speed runs away towards the centre of the Wood; the which Pont Chausey and the rest of the Gentlemen espying, they need no other evidence but this his flight, to proclaim himself guilty of this murder, and so they speedily send after him, and within one hour after he is found out, apprehended and brought back; they vehemently accusing, and he as resolutely excusing himself of this murder; but notwithstanding they shut him up close in his own Mill, till it be found out what this drowned murdered woman is.  
The report of this mournful accident being speedily divulged in Vannes, and bruited in the neighbour parishes, there are a world of people, who from all parts flock to the Pond, to be spectators of this dead woman; and among the rest, Yvon Malliot and his wife jane Chaumet, no sooner understand hereof, but knowing it to be a woman, and drowned in Monsieur de Caerstaings Pond, they exceedingly fear it is their Daughter Marieta, and to see the issue and truth hereof she runs before, and he limps after as fast as he can, as if they should not come time enough to make themselves miserable, with the fight and object of their misery. Now they are no sooner arrived to the Pond, but they see all the people stand aloof from this murdered corpses, because of the stinch thereof; but they (hardened by their fear, and encouraged by their affection) do willingly rush towards it, but cannot as yet discern what she was, by reason the fishes had almost eaten away all the flesh from her bones, which therefore no way satisfying their curiosity and enquiry, they then fall to wash away the mud and oze from her clothes, hoping to draw some information and light from them, as alas they now instantly do, for they find the Waistcoat and two Petticoats, that of ash colour serge, and these of green and red bays to be the very same which their Daughter Marieta wore, when she either fled, or was stolen from them; whereat crossing their arms, and sending their sighs to heaven, and their tears to earth, this poor afflicted Father and Mother cry out that it was the dead body of their fair and unfortunate Daughter Marieta, and doubtless, that either Monsieur Quatbrisson or Pierot the Miller, or both of them were her Murderers; whereat all the people admire and wonder, every one speaking thereof as their several fancies led them, and as they stood affected, or disaffected to Quatbrisson, and the Miller.  
But Pont Chausey rides presently to Vannes (leaving the other three Gentlemen his friends to guard the Miller in his mill) and advertiseth the Seneschal, and the other two judges of this deplorable fact; so they send for this Miller to Vannes, and the next day being brought before them, they examine and accuse him for thus murdering of Marieta, but (having learned his answer and resolution of the Devil) he with many bitter oaths and curses denies it, deposing and swearing that he never knew her nor saw her; but this false answer and counterfeit coin of his will no way pass current with his judges, but they forthwith ordain him to the Rack. Our wretched Miller Pierot is amazed and terrified at the sight hereof, yea now his courage begins to fail him, as fearing it to be the true Prologue, and fatal Harbinger to his death; so he endures the single torment reasonable well, but feeling the pinches and tortures of the second, and well knowing that his heart, joints, and patience can never endure it, he then and there confesseth to his judges, that he was the only Author and Actor of this murder, and that he strangled her in his Mill, and then sunk her in his Pond, because she would never consent or yield to be his wife, but speaks not a word of Qua●…brisson, or that he had any way seduced or hired him to commit it; but fed his exorbitant thoughts and erroneous hopes with the air of this vain belief, That when he was condemned to die here in Vannes, that he would then appeal thence to the Court of Parliament of Rennes, where he knew his young master Quatbrisson then was, and where he presumed he had so many great and noble friends, as he should not need to fear his life: But (contrary to these his weak and poor hopes) the very next morning when he expected to hear the sentence of death pronounced against him, his judges again adjudge him to the torments of the Scarpines', to know if Monsieur Quatbrisson, or any other were accessary with him in this murder, when they cause his left foot to be burnt so sound, as he will not endure to have his right touched, and so confesseth that his young master Quatbrisson seduced and hired him to strangle Marieta in her bed in his Mill, and promised him the Fee Simple or Lease thereof to perform it, that he it was who likewise threw her into the Pond, and that he also believes she was quick with child by his said master.  
All Vannes wonder and talk of Quatbrissons base ingratitude and cruelty, towards this silly and harmless young country maiden Marieta, yea this foul and lamentable murder, administereth likewise talk in all the adjoining Towns and Parishes; So this execrable Miller Pierot is by the Seneschal condemned to be broken alive on the Wheel, but yet (in regard of the necessity of his confrontation) they defer his execution till Quatbrisson be apprehended in Rennes, where the Seneschal, and King's Attorney General of Vannes, do by post send away his accusation to that famous Court of Parliament; where whiles he is prancing in the streets of that City on his great Horse, and ruffling in his scarlets and satins, with three Lackeys (richly clad) at his heels, the height of this his pomp and bravery makes his shame the more apparent, and his crime the more foul and notorious; For then when he thought himself to be farthest from danger, lo the justice and Providence of God brings him nearest to it; for he is now here by a band of Huysiers (or Purs●…vants) taken off from his horse, apprehended and imprisoned by the command of the Lieutenant Criminal of that great Court, who yet vainly reposing on the fidelity and secrecy of Pierot his Father's Miller, he seems to be no way dismayed or daunted thereat; But when he hears his accusation and indictment read, that Marieta's murdered body was found in the Pond, that Pierot the Miller was apprehended and imprisoned for the same, and that he had confessed him to be the Author, and himself the Actor of this her cruel murder, than I say he is so appalled and daunted, and so far from any hope of life, as he utterly despairs thereof, and palpably sees the Image of death before his eyes: When (with a few tears, and many sighs) he here to his judges confesseth himself to be the Author of this foul fact, and so begs pardon thereof of God; for from these his grave and incorruptible Magistrates he is assured and confident to find none; Whereupon although four of the Councillors, and one of the Precedents, were resolved in regard of this his inhuman and base crime, to have him hanged, yet the rest of that wise and honourable Senate, knowing him to be Son and Heir to a very ancient Gentleman, nobly descended, they o'er sway and prevail with the others, and so they adjudge him the very next day to have his head cut off, although this his sorrowful aged Father Monsieur de Caerstainge, offered the one half of his lands to save his life, and likewise was a most importunate Suppliant to the Duke of Tremoville (who then and there preceded at the Estates for the Nobility) to intercede with that Farliament for his reprivall, and with the King for his pardon, but in vain; For that noble Duke (considering the baseness and enormity of this his inhuman fact) was too wise to attempt the one, and too honourable and generous to seek the other. So the very next morning Quatbrisson (apparelled in a suit of black Satin, trimmed with gold Lace) is brought to the Scaffold (at the common place of execution, which is in the midst of the City) where a very great concourse of people of all sorts, resort and flock to see him take his last farewell of this world, of whom the greatest part and number, lamented and pitied, that so proper and noble a Gentleman, should first deserve, and then receive so untimely a death: When after the Priests and Friars have here prepared and directed his soul, he aseending the Scaffold, with some what a low voice, and dejected and sorrowful countenance, he delivered this short speech.  
That in regard he knows, that (now when he is to take his last leave of this life) to charge his conscience with the concealing of any capital crime, is the direct and true way to send his soul to hell in stead of heaven, he will now therefore reveal, that he is yet more execrable and bloody, than his judges think or know, or his spectators imagine, for that he not only hired Pierot his Father's Miller to murder Marieta, but also the Apothecary Moncallier to poison his own brother Valfontaine; of both which foul and bloody crimes of his, he now freely confesseth himself guilty, and now from his heart and soul sorrowfully lamenteth and repenteth them; that his filthy lust and inordinate affection to women was the first cause, and his neglect of prayer to God the second, which hath justly brought him to this shameful end and confusion; that therefore he beseecheth all who are present to be seriously forewarned of the like by his woeful Example, and that (in Christian charity) they will now join their devout prayers with his to God for his soul: When on the Scaffold praying a little while silently to himself kneeling, and then putting off his Doublet, he commits himself to the Executioner; who at one blow severed his head from his shoulders. But this punishment and death of Quatbrisson sufficeth not now to give full content and satisfaction to his judges, who (by his own confession) considering his inhuman and deplorable poisoning of his own brother Valfontaine, they as soon as he is dead, and before he be cold, adjudge his body to be taken down, and there burnt to Ashes at the foot of the Gibbet, which accordingly is performed.  
And here our thoughts and curiosity must now return post from Rennes to Vannes, and from wretched Quatbrisson to the base and bloody Miller Pierot, whom God and his judges have now ordained shall likewise smart for this his lamentable murder on poor and harmless Marieta. He is brought to the Gallows in his old dusty mealy Suit of Canvas, where a Priest preparing him to dye, he (either out of impiety, or ignorance, or both) delivereth this idle speech to the people, That because Marieta was young and fair, he is now heartily sorry that he had not married her, and that if he had been as wise as covetous, the two hundred Crowns, or the Lease of his Mill, which his young master Monsieur Quatbrisson proffered him, might have made him wink at her dishonesty, and that although she were not a true Maid to herself, yet that she might have proved a true and honest wife to him, with many other frivolous words and lewd speeches tending that way; which I purposely omit, and resolve to pass over in silence, as holding them unworthy either of my relation, or the Readers knowledge: when not having the grace once to name God, to speak of his soul, to desire heaven, or to seem to be any way repentant and sorrowful for this his bloody offence, he is stripped naked, having only his shirt fastened about his waste, and with an Iron bar hath his legs, thighs, arms, and breast, broken alive, and there his miserable body is left naked and bloody on the Wheel, for the space of two days, thereby to terrify and deter the beholders from attempting the like wretched crime. And the judges of Vannes being certified from the Court of Parliament at Rennes, that Quatbrisson at his death charged the Apothecary Moncallier to have (at his hiring and instigation) poisoned his brother Valfontaine, they hold the Church to be too holy a place for the body and burial of so profane and bloody a Villain: When after well near a whole years' time that he was buried in Saint Francis Church in that Town, they cause his Coffin to be taken up, and both his body and it to be burnt by the common Hangman, and his Ashes to be thrown into the air; Which to the joy of all the Spectators is accordingly performed.   

GOD'S REVENGE AGAINST THE CRYING AND EXECRAble Sin of Murder.  
HISTORY XXV.  
Vasti first murthereth his Son George, and next poisoneth his own Wife Hester, and being afterwards almost killed by a mad Bull in the Fields, he revealeth these his two murders, for the which he is first hanged, and then burnt.  
TO religious hearts, there can nothing be so distasteful as Sin, nor any Sin so odious and execrable as Murder; for it being contrary to Nature and Grace, the very thought, much more the act thereof, strikes horror to their hearts and consciences. Wherefore, if this foul and bloody Sin be so displeasing to godly men, how infinitely more detestable is it then to God himself, who made all living creatures to serve Man, and only created Man purposely to serve Himself? But as Choler and Malice proceed from the passions of men, so doth Murder from the Devil; for else we should not so often and frequently see it perpetrated in most Countries and Cities of the World as we do: A mournful Example whereof I here produce to your view and serious consideration.  
THe place of this History, is Fribourg (an ancient city of Switzerland) which gives name to one of the Divisions (or Cantons) of that famous and warlike country; Wherein (of fresh memory) dwelled a rich Burger named Peter Vasti, who had to his wife a modest, discreet, and virtuous woman named Hester, by whom he had one only child, a Son called George Vasti, whom God sent them the latter end of the first year of their marriage; and for the term of some ten years following, this married couple lived in most kind, and loving sort each with other, yea their hearts and inclinations so sympathized in mutual and interchangeable affection, as they held and reputed none of their Neighbours so rich in content as themselves; for she was careful of her Family, and he very diligent and industrious to maintain it; both of them being chaste and continent in themselves, very religious towards God, and exceeding charitable, affable, and courteous to all their Neighbours and Acquaintance, only they are so temperate in their drinking, as ●…ee would not, and she could not be tainted with that beastly Vice of Drunken●…esse, whereunto that Country, and the greatest part of that People, are but too excessively addicted and subject: So that had Vasti still embraced and followed those Virtues in the course and conduction of his life, he had not then defiled this History with the profusion of so many sins, nor besprinkled it with the effusion of so much innocent blood, nor consequently have administered so much sorrow to the Reader, in perusing and knowing it: but as contrary Causes produce contrary Effects, so he (by this time) polluting himself with filthy and pernicious Company, it is no marvel if he leave his temperancy to follow drunkenness, his chastity to commit fornication and adultery; yea, it is no marvel I say, if these foul sins (as Bawds to rage and revenge) exact such power in his heart, and predominancy in his soul, as in the end to draw him to murder: for goodmen cannot receive a greater plague, nor the Devil afford or give them a worse pestilence, then bad company. It is the fatal Shelves, and dismal Rocks, whereon a world of people have, and do daily suffer shipwreck; yea, it is the grief of a Kingdom and Country, the bane of our Age, and the corruption and poison of our Times; for it turns those who profess and pursue it, out of their estates and homes, which they are then enforced either to sell, or rather to give away to Usurers and Cormorants, and consequently which makes themselves, and their poor wives and children ready to starve and dye in our streets. So this is now the cause of our Vasti, and therefore it will be his happiness, if it prove not his misery hereafter; for after twelve years' time of a most peaceable cohabitation, and Godly conversation between him and his virtuous wife Hester, it is a thousand griefs and pities that she must now be enforced to see so brutish and beastly a Metamorphosis in her husband; for he is no more the man which he was, nor the husband which she formerly found him to be. He loves neither his house nor his wife, but stays abroad every day with his whores, and then at night returns home to her stark drunk, and in lamentable sort reviles and beats her, whereas heretofore he would rather have lost his life then have strucken her, and whereas heretofore he affected and loved her so dear, as he thought he could not be kind enough to her, now (in the extravagancy of these his debauched humours) he hates her so deadly as he deems and supposeth he cannot be sufficiently cruel to her, although her affection be still so fervent to him, and her care so vigilant and respectful of him, as she gives him nothing but either sweet words, tears, sighs, silence, or prayers; yea, she proves herself so good a woman to so bad a man, and so courteous and virtuous a wife to so unkind and vicious a husband, as to the eyes and judgements of all their kinsfolks and neighbours, they know it is now her praise and glory, and fear it will hereafter prove his shame and misery. She leaves no means unassayed, or invention unsought and unattempted, to divert and turn this foul inundation of his Vice into the sweet streams of Virtue, and the pure rivers of Godliness: But Alas good woman, her care proves vain, and her affection and zeal impossible herein, although her pale cheeks, mournful eyes, brinish tears, far-fetched sighs, religious prayers, and sweet persuasions, do still second and accompany her endeavours in this her desired hope of his reformation; for she is enforced to know that he keeps a young strumpet, named Salyna, at the Town of Cleraux, some six Leaugues from Fribourg, whither most mornings he goes to her, and to make himself the more treacherous a dissembler to his wife, and the more execrable a traitor to his soul, he fortifyeth and coloureth out this his accustomed journey to his strumpet with this false Apology, that he goes to Cleraux to hear the Sermons of Mr Abraham Tifflin, a very famous and religious Preacher there, when God and his ulcerated soul and conscience know the contrary, and that this pretended excuse of his is but only a false cloak to overvail his true Adultery, and profane Impiety: for he needed not to have formerly added whoredom to his Drunkenness, and now Ingratitude, Cruelty, and Impiety to his Whoredom, in regard the least of these enormous crimes and sins assuredly have the power, and will infallibly find the means to make him futurely as miserable, as now he foolishly thinks himself happy; for these his journeys to Cleraux are only the Pilgrimage of his wanton Lust. Salyna is the Saint of his voluptuous devotion, her House the Temple of his obscene wishes, and Adultery the Oblation and Sacrifice of his lascivious desires.  
We can difficultly make ourselves guilty of a fouler sin on earth, then to seem sanctified in our devotions towards God, when we are profane, or to endeavour to appear sound without, when we are rotten within in our Faith and Religion: For as Man is the best and noblest of all God's creatures, so an Hypocrite towards God is the worst of men, yea or rather a Devil and no man; for our hearts and actions, and our most retired thoughts, and secret darling sins, are as conspicuous and transparent to God's eyes, as his decrees and resolutions are invisible to ours, sith he sees all things, and we see nothing when we do not see him. A miserable height of impiety, in making of ourselves foolishly sinners, and wilfully Hypocrites, and yet it is a more fatal and fearful degree thereof, when we so delight in sin and glory in hypocrisy, as to make Apologies for the same.  
But Vasti not thinking either of Religion or God, frolicks it out with Salyna his strumpet in Cleraux, whiles his own virtuous wife Hester weeps at home at Fribourg, and when he returns thence, he is still so hard hearted and cruel to her, as he continually beats her. Now by this time George their Son is sixteen years of age, of a man's courage and stature, and of a very pregnant wit; so that as young as he is, he hath been long enough a sorrowful eyewitness of his Father's cruelty, in beating of his Mother; He hath formerly seen the lamentable effects, and now he falls on his knees to her, and (with tears and prayers) beseecheth her to acquaint him with the true cause thereof, and from whence it proceeds; when his Mother (adding more confidence to his wisdom then to his youth) from point to point fully relates it to him, accordingly as we have formerly understood, George bursts forth into sorrowful passions at her repetition, and his knowledge hereof, as not able to refrain from sighing to see her sigh, nor from weeping to see her weep; He as much grieves to be the Son of so vicious a Father, as he rejoiceth and glorieth to be that of so virtuous a Mother, so he makes her sorrows his, and here weds himself to her quarrel (with promise and oath) either to right it with his Father, or to revenge it on Salyna, whom he knows to be the original cause of all these storms and tempests, of all these afflictions and miseries which befall his Mother, and in her himself. He will no longer be a child, because God and nature hath now made him a man, so the very next time he sees his Father beat his Mother he steps to her assistance, and defends her from the tyranny of his blows, and then advanceth so far, as he performs it with an unwilling willing resistance of him, the which his Father takes extremely ill and cholericly from him, gives him sharp words, and menaceth him with bitter blows. George his Son, first returns him a brief rehearsal of the wrongs and indignities he still offereth to his Mother, when protesting of his obedience to him, he yet tells him, that he is willing to entertain his words, but no longer capable to digest and receive his blows, adding withal (as a passionate Corolary) that ere long he will visit his Strumpet Salyna in Cleraux, and make her feel a part of her base carriage, and ill deservings, both towards his Mother and himself: ●…asti is much astonished at this audacity and boldness of his Son, but far ●…re to hear him name and threaten Salyna, the very thought of which his speeches grates him to his heart, and grieves him to his soul, so he puts water in his wine, holds it for that time a virtue, to be no longer stormy but calm, and then (cholericly threatening him with his finger) he departs to his Chamber, leaving his Wife and his Son consulting in the Parlour, how (with most assurance, and least scandal) they may provide for their affairs.  
The next morning, Vasti his Father keeps his bed, and giveth order, that neither his Wife or Son have admittance to him, the which discourtesy of his, gives his Son a fresh and strong motive, to revive his last night's discontent against his Father, and his choler against Salyna, when bidding his Mother the good morrow, and craving her blessing, he (purposely) frames an excuse to leave her till she be ready, and so very privately takes horse, and that morning acts a business, every way worthy of himself, and indeed far more worthy of laughture, then of our pity. For it is not so much his malice to Salyna, as his affection to his Mother Hester, which carries him and his resolution to Cleraux; where entering Salyna's house; he (with fire in his looks and thunder in his speeches) calls her whore and strumpet, chargeth her for abusing his Father, and in him his Mother and himself. His choler cannot retain his patience, to hear her false answers and apologies to the contrary, but disdaining as much to use his sword on a woman, as to foul it on a strumpet, he takes his man's short cudgel, and gives her at least a dozen blows on her back, arms and shoulders therewith, seriously vowing and swearing to her; That if she forsake not his Father's company, and use the means that henceforth he do utterly abandon hers, he will shortly give her so bitter a payment and requital, as he will hardly leave her either the will or power to thank him for his courtesy, and so remounts his horse, and presently gallops home to his Mother, whom he acquaints therewith, but yet conceals it from his Father, whereat she seems not to be a little joyful, and yet heartily prayeth to God; that this breed no bad blood in her husband, or prove either an incitation to his choler against herself, or a propension of revenge against their Son.  
But this joy of Hester and her Son George, proves the sighs and tears of Salyna, who not accustomed to receive such sharp payment, and usage from any man's hands whosoever, it makes her extreme choleric and vindictive, so that her stomach is so great, and her heart so highly and imperiously lodged, that she will not suffer this cruel affront offered her by George Vasti, to go unrequited; but yet she will be as advised and secret in her revenge towards him, as he was rash and public in his towards her. To which end and purpose, seeing that Vasti his Father came not to her that day (whereby she judged he was wholly ignorant what had befallen her from his Son) she that night writes him a short Letter, and the next morning sends it home to Fribourg to him, by a confident messenger of hers, who arriving there and finding him pensively walking in his Garden, he respectfully delivered it to him, who breaking up the seals thereof, found it spoke thus.  
SALYNA to VASTI.  
BY all the inviolable love and tender affection which is betwixt us, I pray and conj●… you to leave Fribourg, and come over to me with haste and expedition to Cleraux, because I have a great and important secret to reveal you, which equally concerns us, and which I dare not to commit to pen and paper; for that the relation and knowledge th●… needs no other witnesses but ourselves. If you any way neglect this my advice, or deny, or defe●…e this my request, the grief will be mine n●…, but the prejudice and repentance yo●…s hereafter. I write you these few lines ●…ith infinite affliction and for ro●…, which nothing can deface but your sight, nor remedy but your presence, and when you come to me, prepare your heart and resolution, to receive it from me, with far more tears than kisses.  
SALYNA.  
This letter of hers doth so nettle Vasti with apprehension and fear, that his Son George hath offered her some violence and outrage, as he is almost as soon in Cleraux as he is out of Fribourg, where his Mistress Salyna very passionately and cholericly informs him of his Son's cruelty towards her, and (to add the more efficacy to her speeches, the more power to her complaints, and the more oil to the fire of his anger and revenge) she forgets not to paint out to him (in all their colours) the number of his Son's blows, and the nature and quality of his threats given her, when watering her words with her tears, she swears, that if he speedily do not right and revenge these her wrongs upon his said Son, she will never kiss, or see him more. Vasti takes these speeches from Salynas' tongue, and placeth them in his own heart; yea he hereat is so cholericly intended towards his Son, and so sottishly affected to her, as consulting with rage, but not with reason, and with Satan, not with God, he (to exhale her tears, and so to give consolation to her sorrows) tells her; That he loves her so tenderly and constantly, as he will not fail to kill his Son for this incivill and inhuman fact of his towards her. Salyna is amazed and astonished at this his unnatural resolution to his Son, the which (as vicious as she is) she abhors and condemns in him as soon as understands. So she ●…s him plainly, that albeit she have given him her heart and body, yet that she is not so exempt of grace, or so wretchedly instructed in Piety, as to take away her soul from God, and therefore that although she be guilty of Adultery, yet she will never be of Murder; so in religious terms (worthy of an honester woman than herself) she powerfully seeks to dissuade him from this bloody and unnatural attempt, as well to prevent their future wrongs and fears, as to secure their dangers and reputations, and so prays him to seek out some other remedy and requital towards his Son, the which he promiseth her, and seals it with some oaths and many kisses, stays and dines with her, and immediately takes horse and rides homewards. His Son George finding his Father ridden forth, and being ascertained that he was gone to Cleraux, to his strumpet Salyna, where she would acquaint him at full with his beating of her, he fearing his choler, holds it more discretion than disobedience in him, to take his sword with him for his defence; when choosing a good horse out of the stable, ●…d deems it more secure and less dangerous to meet his Father ●…alfe way, betwixt Cleraux and Fribourg, and there in the open field to expect and attend what he had to say to him. Vasti seeing his Son George a far off come riding towards him, with his sword by his side, he much marvelleth thereat, when well knowing his courage and valour, and that (as young as he was) he had lately at ●…fouse acquitted himself of a Duel to his honour and reputation, he therefore resolves to make it a tongue and not a sword quarrel with him, and so they meet; George doing his duty to his Father with his hat off, and his Father speaking not angrily but mildly to him; Their meadow conference which they then and there had betwixt them was thus.  
Fa. What reason hadst thou so cruelly to beat poor Salyna?  
So. A thousand times more than you have to beat my Mother Hester.  
Fa. Tell me why.  
So. The reason is just and pertinent, because that is your lascivious whore, and this your chaste and virtuous wife.  
Fa. What hast thou gotten by this thy rash choler in beating her?  
So. Not by far so much as you have lost by your sottish lust in kissing her.  
Fa. It is thy Mother's jealousy which hath sown and scattered these untruths in thy belief.  
So. I pray excuse me, for they are palpable and apparent truths, and such as it is wholly impossible either for your hypocrisy or policy to root thence.  
Fa. Since when becamest thou so saucy and peremptory?  
So. From that very time I first understood you were become so vicious.  
Fa. I have a mad Son in thee.  
So. It were a great happiness both for my Mother and myself, if you proved a tamer Husband to her, and an honester Father to me.  
Fa. If thou follow those courses, to love thy Mother better than myself, I vow I will wholly disinherit thee.  
So. If you follow these courses, to love Strumpets better than my Mother, I swear you will shortly consume all your estate, and disinherit yourself first.  
Fa. This word Strumpet is very rife in thy mouth.  
So. I wish to God that the thing were not so frequent in your heart.  
Fa. Wilt thou be friends with Salyna, and reconcile thyself to her?  
So. Yes, when I see you become an enemy to her, and a friend to my Mother, and yourself, but not before.  
Fa. Why, Charity is the true mark of a Christian.  
So. But I assure you, so is not Adultery and Cruelty.  
Fa. Shall I make peace betwixt thee and Salyna?  
So. No, but I would make it the joy of my heart, and the glory of my life, if I might be so happy to knit & confirm a good peace betwixt yourself & my Mother.  
Fa. Wilt thou attempt it, if I request thee?  
So. I will, if you please to command me.  
Fa. I pray thee George do.  
So. My best endeavours shall herein wait on your desires, and dutifully follow your commands.  
Fa. But be careful to make my reconciliation with thy Mother eternal.  
So. It can never subsist, nor prosper, if you henceforth resolve to make it temporary, because affection and amity which once receives end, had never beginning.  
Fa. Here I vow constantly a reformation of my life from all other women, and a perpetual renovation of my affection to my Wife thy Mother.  
So. God and his Angels bless this your conversion, and confirm this resolution in you.  
Fa. And God bless thee my Son, for wishing and desiring it.  
So. I thank you Sir, but I humbly pray you likewise to forgive and forget this my boldness to you in my Mother's behalf.  
Fa. George, here in presence of God I cheerfully & freely do it from my heart  
So. Amen, Amen, Sir.  
This meadow conference thus ended between them, they ride home towards Fribourg, and by the way Vasti willeth and prayeth his Son, to finish this peace between him and his mother that very night, and to dispose her so effectually thereunto, as that they may make a merry supper of it, and all former differences between them, to be then and there ended; and for ever trampled under foot, the which George his Son to the best of his possible power cheerfully and joyfully promiseth him; So home they come; Vasti walks in his Garden, and George finds out his Mother in her own Chamber, being newly risen from her prayers, wherein she was so zealous and religious as she spent the greatest part of her time. Here George informs his Mother Hester at full, what conference had now past in the open fields betwixt him and his Father: And (in a word) he here acts his part and duty so well and discreetly, as he leaves no art nor persuasions unattempted to draw her to this atonement with his Father. When she at first considering the nature and quality of her husband's unkind and cruel usage to her, she found an opposition hereof in her mind, a resistance in her will, and a reluctancy in her nature and judgement; But at last giving now her former discontent to charity, her passions to peace, her sorrows to silence, her resolutions to religion, her anger to affection, her malice to oblivion, and her grief unto God, she (after a brief consultation, and a short expostulation hereof between them) with a cheerful countenance thanks her Son for his care of her, and his affection to her herein; and so informs him, That she (having never justly offended her husband in thought word or deed) is as willing of peace and reconciliation with him, as he can possibly desire or wish, and here to testify it to her Son as well in action as words, she would then have gone down with him to her husband, there privately to have concluded this Christian business betwixt them, had her Son not diverred her from it; For being exceeding careful to preserve his Mother's right and reputation, he prays her to stay, alleging that he would presently fetch and conduct his Father to her Chamber to her, as holding it more requisite and just, that the delinquent should first see and seek the party wronged, before the party seek the delinquent, whereat she cannot refrain from smiling, and then bids him go: So George descends to the Garden, and acquaints his Father with his Mother's free disposition, and cheerful resolution to a perpetual peace with him, whereat he seems infinitely glad and joyful, and so ascends her Chamber, and having saluted her, tells her, that he is very sorrowful and repentant for his former ill carriage and unkindness towards her, whereof he prays her pardon, and constantly vows reformation; so this his virtuous and kind wife Hester freely forgets and forgives Vasti her husband; and then he gives her many kisses in requital, and bids his son George to provide good cheer for Supper; and the better to seal and solemnize this their reconciliation and atonement, he bids him to invite some of their Kinsfolks and Neighbours to be present thereat, who were formerly acquain●…d with their debates and differences; where no good cheer and choice wine is wanting; So they are wonderful frolic, pleasant, and merry, all rejoice at this good news, and highly applaud their Son George, for his discreet carriage and care in the managing of this business. Thus all things seem to be fully reconciled, and here Vasti drinks many times to his wife Hester, and she again to her husband with much affection and joy: When supper being ended, their guests departed, and their Son George having received both of their blessings, they betake themselves to their Chamber and Bed.  
Now (in all humane sense and reason) who would once conceive or think, that after this Meadow conference of Vasti to his Son George, but that this his now Table reconciliation with his wife Hester were true, and pronounced with much i●…egrity from himself, with deep affection to her, and infinite zeal and devotion to God; but Alas nothing less, for here I am enforced to relate, that Vasti the same night had not lain in bed by his wife five or six hours, but she (good woman) sleeping in her innocence, he (as a devil incarnate) was waking in his malice and revenge, and laughing in his sleeve to see how cunningly and subtly he hath lulled ●…eep the courage of his Son with a Meadow conference, and the iealousi●… of 〈◊〉 Wife with a Supper, and a few sweet words and kisses: When here again the the Devil blowing the coals to his lust, and marshalling up his former obscene desires and resolutions, only his body is in bed with his wife Hester, here in Fribourg, but his affection and heart is still in the bosom of his strumpet Salyna in Cleraux; yea the Devil I say, is now both so busy and so strong with him, that (as a hellish counsellor, and prodigious penman) he writes down this definitive sentence in his thoughts, and fatal resolution in his heart, That Salyna he will love, and his wife Hester he cannot, and that shortly he will give so sharp a revenge to his son George, for his disobedience towards him, and for beating of his Salyna, as she shall have no further cause to fear his cruelty, nor himself his courage; and because he prefers her love to his own life (as being dangerously entangled and captivated in the snares of her youth and beauty) he likewise resolves to write and send her a Letter the very next morning.  
Now judge Christian Reader, is not this like to prove a sweet reformation and reconciliatlon of Vasti to his wife and son, sith these are the sparks which diffuse and fly out from the fire of his lust, and the fatal lines which issue forth from the Centre of his bloody heart, and sinful soul; for in the morning before his wife is out of her bed, he is stirring, and writes this Letter to Salyna, which he sends her by a trusty messenger.  
VASTI to SALYNA.  
I Am plotting of a business, which will infinitely import both our contents; so if thou wilt resolve to brook my absence, with as much patience, as I do thine with sorrow, I shall finish it the sooner, and consequently the sooner see thee. I have met with an Accident, which I thought was wholly impossible for me to meet with; and though at first it brought me fear and affliction, yet at length I was enforced to interpose discretion, instead of courage, thereby to draw security out of policy, which I could not hope for out of resistance; for I must inform thee of this truth, that if my Zeal and Affection to thee had not been of greater power and consideration then that of mine own life, I should then with more facility and willingness rather have hazarded it for thy sake, then have reserved it for mine own. But the mists of those doubts are now dissipated, and the ●…lowds of these fears blown away; or if not, I will shortly take that order, that thou shalt have no cause to fear the one, or I to doubt the other. When I shall be so happy to see thee, I know not, but if Fortune prove propitious to my desires and wishes, my return shall be acted with as much celerity, as it is eagerly longed for of me with Affection and Passion.  
VASTI.  
Salyna receives this letter of Vasti with equal fear and joy; for as she was glad to hear of him and his news, so she was sorrowful, as fearing that for her sake he should embark himself in some bloody business, which might prove ruinous to them both: And although her apprehension do far exceed her knowledge herein, yet her suspicion will give her no truce, neither can her jealousy administer any peace either to her heart or mind, before she be resolved by Vasti of the doubtful and different truth hereof. She is so profane and lascivious, as she can content herself to make him guilty of Fornication; but yet Religion hath left some sparks and impressions of Piety in her, that she would still have him innocent of Revenge and Murder: to which effect, by his own messenger she returns him this answer.  
SALYNA to VASTI.  
BEcause you deem me unworthy to know your Designs, therefore I have assumed the boldness to fear them; in which regard and consideration, find it not strange that I 〈◊〉 entreat you to engrave in your heart, and imprint in your memory, that Malice is most commonly squint eyed, and Revenge still blind: therefore if you will not ruin our affections and fortunes, take heed that you imbrue not your heart or hand in innocent blood; for Murder is a crying and a Scarlet sin which God may forgive and make white by his Mercy, but will not by his justice; whereof this my Letter of Advice to you shall be a witness betwixt God, yourself, and me: and therefore, as you love me, bazard not your life for my sake, but preserve it for your own. As it is in your will to make your stay from me as long or short as you please, so it shall be in my pleasure to judge thereof, and thereby likewise of your affection to me. I wish I could be more yours than I am, and yourself as often in my sight and company, as I desire God prosper you in your stay, and me in your absence.  
SALYNA.  
Vasti having thus settled his affection and affairs with Salyna, he sees with grief that it is now almost impossible for him to see her in Cleraux, because of the vigilant and watchful eye of his Son George, over himself and his actions here in Fribourg; wherefore notwithstanding her wholesome and religious advice to him to beware of blood, yet his lustful affection to her doth so outbrave and conquer his natural love to him, that to satisfy his inordinate concupiscence, and to give content to his obscene and beastly desires, he vows he will shortly send him to heaven in a bloody Coffin. Now the sooner and better for him to compass and finish this his deplorable stratagem, and unnatural resolution against his son, his counsellor the Devil adviseth him that he must for a short time make wonderful fair weather with him, and gild over all his speeches and actions to his wife Hester, with much respect and courtesy; the which Vasti doth speedily put in practice: So for a month or six week's time, he sees not Salyna, but all things (to the eye of the world) go in great peace, affection, and tranquillity betwixt Father, Mother, and Son. But this false sunshine will be too soon o'ertaken with a dismal storm and tempest; for what religious or Christian show soever Vasti externally makes unto them, yet although he have God in his tongue, he nevertheless internally carries the Devil about him in his heart; so again and again he definitively vows & swears to himself, that his son George shall not live but die. Thus being resolute in his bloody purpose, he likewise resolves to add policy to his malice against him, as thinking and hoping thereby, with more facility to draw him to the lure and snare which (in his diabolical invention) he hath ordained for his destruction, he fills his head with the fumes and honour of military actions, inflames his courage with the generosity and dignity of a soldier, whereunto as also to travel into other Countries, he knew that this his Son of himself was already ambitiously inclined and affected. At other times he representeth to him, to how many damages and dangers Idleness is exposed and subject, and what a noble part and ornament it is in young men to learn Virtues abroad, thereby to be the more capable to know how to practise them at home, and with what renown and glory their Ancestors have heretofore beaten and ruined the Dukes of Burgundy, their professed enemies, and now made themselves and their country famous to the greatest Princes and Potentates of Europe, especially to the Kings of France & Spain, who these many years, and now likewise at present (qd. he) do equally court our affections & service, though not with the same or like integrity. And these, and such treacherous Lectures, doth Vasti still read unto his son George, as often as he calls him into his company and presence, until at last the fame and name of a soldier, and the honour of travel, have so surprised his youthful affection, and seized on his ambitious resolutions, that at last he beseecheth his Father to send him abroad, in some martial service, or generous employment. But the Father being as cunning as his son is rash and inconsiderate, suffereth himself of purpose to be earnestly and frequently importuned by him to that effect; the which he doth: When at last his Father promiseth to send him to Rome, to his Uncle Andrew Vasti, who (he saith) is a chief Captain of one of the Companies of this present Pope Vrban VIII. his Guard, who was an old man, very rich, and without wife, child, or kinsman with him. George thanks his Father for this his courtesy and honour, and importuneth him again and again to hasten this his departure and journey to Rome to his Uncle; the which he then firmly promiseth him: but yet the greatest difficulty hereof is, how he may obtain his Wife's consent to this journey of her Son; who at first opposeth it very strongly and passionately, as knowing her Son to be her only child, her right arm, a great part of herself, the delight and joy of her life, and the prop and stay of her age. But the Father leaves his Son to draw and obtain his Mother's consent, as politickely knowing and foreseeing, that the less himself, and the more his Son importuned her, the sooner she would grant it; the which indeed fell out as he expected. Only whereas the Son requested to stay four years abroad, his Father gave him but three, and his Mother would grant him but two, whereunto at last both Father and Son were enforced to condescend; and now this cruel hearted Father provides his courteous-natured son George a new Suit of apparel, a Horse, and Money, and resolves to accompany and bring him as far as Turin in his journey; which courtesy of his, his Wife and Son take most lovingly and thankfully. The morn of George his departure comes, and because his Mother the precedent night dreamt that her Son should dye in this journey, she was now exceeding sorrowful to let him go and depart from her; but being again fortified and rectified by the advice of her husband, and likewise vanquished by the importunate requests and prayers of her son, she bedews his cheeks with her tears, gives him much good counsel, some gold, and her blessing; and so they take leave each of other, God putting apprehension into her heart, and the Devil assurance into her husband's resolutions that she should never see her son again: And indeed I write with grief, that we shall progress very little farther in this History, before we see her dream verified, and her apprehension confirmed. The manner thus:  
For Vasti (being privately as resolute in his malice and revenge to his son, as this his son is innocent in not deserving it of his Father) is so far from bringing him to Turin, as he will not bring him as far as Geneva, but a mile before he comes to Losanna (where he tells his son he would lie that night) the night approaching, and in a long narrow Lane, where he saw that no earthly eye could see him (being wholly deprived of the grace and fear of God, and absolutely abandoned to Satan and Hell) as his son rides close before him, he shoots him thorough the back with his Pistol, charged with a brace of bullets, who immediately falling dead to the ground, he there descends his horse, and (without any remorse or pity, as no Father, but rather as a Devil incarnate) cuts off his nose, most lamentably scars and mangles his face, that he might not be known, and so takes him on his shoulders, and there throws him into a deep ditch or precipice, as also the saddle and bridle of his horse, and turning the horse to seek his fortune in the wide fields, he (to provide for his safety) rides swiftly to Morges, and there very secretly husheth himself up, pretending to be sick, and eight days being expired (which was the prefixed time and day he gave his wife for his return) he by a contrary Rode way of roll, and Saint Claude, arrives home to Fribourg to her, brings her word of the health of her son, and of the remembrance of his duty to her, and that he left him well in Turin, expecting the benefit of good company to travel up to Rome; whereat, harmless loving Mother, she weeps for joy, and yet rejoiceth in weeping.  
And now for some ten days after his return from acting this woeful and deplorable tragedy on his son, he keeps a good correspondency and decorum with his wife Hester; but at the end thereof (solely forgetting his heart and soul, his God and his conscience, his promises and oaths, and his atonement and reconciliation) he again falls into the dangerous relapse of his former old Vice; Whoredom and Drunkenness; and yet counselled by a better Angel than his own, he forbears to beat her, as well seeing, and now knowing, that thereby nothing redounded to him, but scandal and scorn from all his Neighbours, Friends, and Kinsfolks. But now his lust is again so great, and his desires so fervently lascivious towards Salyna, that in staying less than eight weeks, he thinks he hath stayed more than seven years from her; when pretending another journey to his Wife, he rides over to Cleraux to her. Salyna gives him many kisses for his welcome, and as many more for relating her that he hath sent away his son George to Rome, to reside and live there: for she being his Father's Strumpet, her guilty and sinful conscience made her stand in extreme fear of him; but yet amidst her kisses and pleasures with him (remembering the tenor and contents of his last Letter to her, and her answer thereof to him) her thoughts are something touched with doubt, and her mind assaulted and perplexed with fear, that the Father had played no fair play with his Son, but that in regard of his inveterate malice to him for beating her, he might have sent him to heaven, and not to Rome. To which purpose, she feels and sounds him every way, but he is as constant to deny it, as she curious to inquire after it. So she believing that he had assumed no bloody thoughts against his Son, she is not yet so devoid of grace, or exempt of goodness, but she gives him this religious caveat for a Memento, which she delivers to him accentively and passionately, That if she knew he had made away his Son by any untimely end, or unnatural accident, or that he were any way accessary to any prodigious disaster which had befallen him, she vowed to God, and swore unto him, that she would spit in his face, disdain his company, and reject his affection and himself for ever; for that she was most assured and confident that God (in his due time) would po●…re down vengeance and confusion on those whom the Devil had seduced and drawn to imbrue their hearts and hands in innocent blood. But Vasti is past grace, and therefore slightly passeth over these virtuous speeches of his vicious Salyna, with a denial and a kiss; and then again they fall to their mirth and familiarity, and he stays there all that day, and lies with her the whole night foll●…wing; but still Salyna (resembling herself and her profession) is very fingrative of his gold, and he as sottishly prodigal in giving it to her, as she is covetous to crave and desire it of him: so (after he had glutted himself with his beastly pleasures of Salyna) he the next day rides home to his wife, who knowing where, and with whom he had been, and considering it to be the first time of his new error, and his first relapse into his old one, since their reconciliation, she says nothing to him to discontent him; but yet thinks and fears the more: When retiring herself into her Garden (after many bitter sighs and tears for these her immerited crosses and calamities) she there grieves and reputes herself for permitting her son George to go to Rome, and a thousand thousand times wisheth his return to assist and comfort her: but her tears herein prove as vain, as her wishes are impossible to be effected, although at present very needful and necessary for her.  
For now Vasti her husband (to make her sorrows the more infinite, her hopes the more desperate, and her afflictions the more remediless) falls again to his old practice of beating her, notwithstanding all his late oaths and new promises to the contrary; but he the more especially plays the Tyrant with her in this kind, when he comes home to her from his cups and whores, for she knows with grief, that he retains and entertains more than Salyna, only she is too sure that Salyna hath his purse, his company, his affection, and his heart at her command, far more than herself; she sends her sighs to heaven, and her prayers to God, that (out of the profundity of his mercy and goodness) he would be pleased, either to amend her Husband or to end herself; for griefs, sorrows, and afflictions are so heaped on her, and (like the waves of the Sea) fall so fast one upon the neck of the other to her, that she is weary of her life, and of herself. When on a time after he had cruelly beaten her, torn off her head attire, given her a black eye and swollen face, and desheveled and dispurpled her hair about her ears and shoulders (making God her Protector, and her Chamber her Sanctuary, exempting her servants who came to assist and comfort her, and fast bolting her door) she to herself very pensively and mournfully breathes forth these speeches.  
O poor Hester, what sensible grief is it to thy heart, to think, and matchless torments to thy mind, to see and remember, that whiles thou art true to thy husband Vasti, he proves both ingrateful and false to thee, and that he continually makes it his delight and glory to hate thee who art his dear wife, purposely to bestow his time and his affection, yea to cast away his estate and himself, on his lewd young strumpet Salyna: O were he more happy and less guilty in that lascivious and beastly crime, I should then be less miserable, and more patient and joyful in the remembrance thereof. O how wretched is his estate and condition, and therefore how miserable is thine, in that he wilfully forsakes God and his Church to follow adultery and drunkenness, and abandoneth all piety and prayer, to shipwreck himself, and (which is worse) his soul, upon all carnal pleasures and voluptuous s●…sualities; The which grieving to see, and almost drowning myself night and day in my tears to understand, I have none but God to assist me in these my bitter afflictions and miseries, and under God, none, but my hopeful Son George, lest to comfort me in these my unparalelled calamities and disconsolations. Therefore, O God, if ever thou heardest the prayers, or beheldest the tears of a po●…re miserable distressed woman, because I can neither now see, nor futurely hope 〈◊〉 any reformation, in the life and actions of my debauched and vicious Husband, be (I beseech thee) so indulgent and gracious to me, thy most unworthy Handmaid, that either shortly thou return me my said Son from 〈◊〉, or spe●…oily take ●…ee to thyself in heaven; But yet O my blessed Saviour and Redeemer, not my, but thy will be done in all things.  
She having thus (privately to herself) vented her sorrows, but not as yet found the means, either how to remedy or appease them, because her husband is no Changeling, but is still resolute in this ingrateful unkindnesseand cruelty towards her, she is now resolved (though with infinite grief and reluctation) to acquaint the Preacher of the parish, and some two of her husband's dearest and nearest kinsfolks to speak with him again, and to acquaint them with his pernicious relapse into all his old vices of drunkenness, whoredom, and fight, and to desire them to use all their possible power to divert him from it, wherein her resolution hat●… this just ●…cuse, that if they cannot work it, none but God can; But all their c●…e, a●… and ●…eale cannot prevail with him; For he with the filthy dog retur●… to 〈◊〉 〈◊〉, and with the brutish swine again to wallow in the dirt, and 〈◊〉 in the mire of his former vices and voluptuousness. For now her husband Vasti is oftener at Cleraux with his Salyna, then at home at Fribourg with his wife, who (as formerly we have understood) still makes him pay dear for his pleasures, and as a subtle rooking strumpet, emptieth his purse of his gold, as fast as he foolishly filleth it, he being not contented to waste his body, to shipwreck his reputation; to cast away his time, but also to cast away his estate, and himself on her; the which his virtuous wife cannot but observe with sorrow, and remember with grief and vexation, but she sees it impossible for her how to redress it: For she is not capable to dissemble her discontent to him so privately, as he publicly makes known his cruelty to her, wherefore her thoughts suggest her, and her judgement prompts her, to prove another experiment and trial on him. To which end she tells him, that if he will not henceforth abandon beating of her, forsake his old vices, and become a new man, and a reformed husband, that then all delays set apart, she will speedily (by some one of her nearest kins folks) send post to Rome to his brother Captain Andrew Vasti, that her Son George return home to her to Fribourg, the which she is more than confident, upon the receipt of her first Letter, he will speedily and joyfully perform.  
Her husband Vasti is extremely galled with this speech, and nettled with this resolution of his wife Hester, because (wretched villain as he is) he (but too well) knows he hath already sent his Son to heaven in a bloody winding sheet, and therefore both fears and knows, that by this his wife's sending post to Rome, his deplorable and damned fact will infallibly burst forth and come to light, the which therefore to prevent, he (as bad, and cruel hearted as the Devil himself) is execrably resolved to heap Ossa upon ●…elion, to add blood to blood, and murder to murder; and so now to poison the Mother his wife, as he had lately pistolled his and her only Son to death. O Hester, it had been a singular happiness for thee, that thou hadst not thus threatened thy husband Vasti, to send to Rome forty son George, but that thou hadst either been dumb when thou spakest it, or he deaf when he heard it: for hereby thinking to preserve, thou hast extremely endangered thyself, and hoping to make thy Son thy refuge and champion, I fear with grief, and grieve with fear, that thou hast made thyself the ruin of thyself.  
For Vasti is so strong with the Devil, and so weak with God, in this his bloody design, to murder his wife Hester, as neither Grace or Nature, Religion or God, the fear of his bodies tortures in this life, or of his soul's torments in that to come are able to divert him from it, he having no other reason for this his damnable rage, nor no other cause for this his infernal and hellish cruelty, but this trivial and yet pitiful poor one, that his wife Hester is an eyesore to him, because his Salyna is so to her. A wretched excuse, and execrable Apology, and no less execrable and wretched is he that makes it. So he (turning his back to God, and his face and heart to the Devil) provides himself of strong poison, and cunningly infusing it into a musk melon, which he knew she loved well, and resolved to eat that day at dinner, she greedily eating a great part of it, before night dies thereof. When very subtly he gives out to his servants and neighbours, that she died of a surfeit, in then and there eating too much of the musk melon; and so all of them confidently believe and report.  
Thus we have seen with sorrow, and understood with grief, that this execrable wretch Vasti hath ●…layed the part of a Devil, in poisoning his virtuous and harmless wife Hester; and now we shall likewise see him play the part of an Hy●…rite to conceal it, as if it lay in his power to blindfold the eyes of God, as ●…ll, or as easily, as to hood wink those of men from the sight and knowledge thereof. He seems wonderful sorrowful for his wife's death, dights himself and his servants all in black, provides a great dinner, and performs her funeral with extraordinary solemnity. But notwithstanding God looks on him with his eye of justice, for both these his cruel and inhuman barbarous murders of his son and wife, and therefore now (in his Providence) resolves to punish him sharply and severely for the same; As mark the sequel, and it will instantly inform us how.  
Our debauched and bloody Vasti, immediately upon his wife's death and burial, doth without intermission haunt the house and company of his lascivious strumpet Salyna at Cleraux, as if the enjoying of her sight, presence, and self, were his chiefest delight, and most sovereign earthly felicity. He spends a great part of his estate on her, and to satisfy her covetous and his lustful desires, he is at last enforced to mortgage and sell away all his Lands. For as long as he had money, she was his, but when that failed him, than she (as a right strumpet, acted a true part of herself) failed in her accustomed kindness and familiarity towards him, and casts him off.  
The judgements of God, and the decrees of Heaven, are as secret as sacred, and as miraculous as just, which we shall see will now by degrees be apparently made good and verified in this Monster of men, and Devil of Fathers and Husbands, Vasti. For his mansion house, and all his utensils and moveables in Fribourg, are consumed with a sudden fire, proceeding from a flash of lightning from heaven; as also all his granges of corn, and stacks of hay, and yet those of all his neighbours round about him are untouched and safe. His corn also which grows in the field brings forth little or no increase, his vines wither and die away, all his horses are stolen from him, and most of his cattle, sheep and goats, die of a new and a strange disease; For being (as it were mad) they wilfully and outrageously run themselves to death one against the other; he is amazed at all these his (unexpected) wonderful losses and crosses, and yet this vild Miscreant and inhuman Murderer, hath his conscience still so seared up, and his heart and soul so stupefied and obdurated by the Devil, that he hath neither the will, power, or grace to look up to Heaven and God, and so to see and acknowledge, from whom and for what all these afflictions and calamities befall him: He grows into great poverty, and again to raise him and his fortunes, he now knows no other art or means left him then to marry his strumpet Salyna, to whom he hath given great store of gold, and on whom (as we have formerly heard) he hath spent the greatest part of his lands and estate. He seeks her in marriage, but (hearing of his great losses, and seeing of his extreme poverty) she will not derogate from herself, but very ingratefully denies and disdains him, and will not henceforth permit him to enter into her house, much less to see or speak with him: he is wonderful bitten and galled with this her unkind repulse, and then is driven to such extreme wants and necessity, as he is enforced to sell and pawn away, all those small trifles and things which are left him, thereby to give himself a very poor maintenance. So (as a wretched Vagabond whom God had justly abandoned for the enormity of his delicts and crimes) he now roams and straggleth up and down the streets of Fribourg, and the country parishes and houses thereabouts, without meat, money, or friends, and which is infinitely worse than all, without God. But all these his calamities and disasters, are but the Harbingers and Forerunners of greater miseries and punishments, which are now suddenly and condignly prepared to surprise and befall him; whereof the Christian Reader is religiously prayed to take deep notice, and full observation; because the glory of God, and the Triumphs of his Revenge, in these his judgements, do most divinely appear, and shine forth to the whole world therein.  
Vasti on a time returning from Cleraux towards Fribourg (where he had been to beg some money or meat of Salyna, either whereof she was so hard hearted to deny him) the Providence and pleasure of God so ordained it, That in the very same Meadow and place, and near the same time and ho●…e, which formerly he, and his Son George had their conference there (being very faint and weary) he lay himself down to sleep there at the foot of a wild Chesnut-tree; yea, he there slept so sound, the Sun being very hot, that he could not hear the great noise, and out cry which many people there a far off made in the Meadow, for the taking of a furious mad Bull; This Bull I say, no doubt but being sent from God, ran directly to our sleeping and snoring Vasti, tossed him twice up in the air on his horns, tore his nose, and so wonderfully mangled his face, that all who came to his assistance held him dead; but at last they knowing him to be Vasti of Fribourg, and finding him faintly to pant and breath for life against death, they take off his clothes and apparel, and then apparently discover and see, that this mad Bul with his horns hath made too little holes in his belly, whereof at one of them a small piece of his gut hangs out, they carry him to the next cottage, and laying him down speechless, they and himself believe, he cannot live half an hour to an end, and as yet he still remains speechless; but at last breathing a little more, and well remembering himself, and seeing this his disastrous accident, it pleased the Lord (in the infiniteness of his goodness) to open the eyes of his faith, to mollify the fl●…ntinesse of his heart, to reform the deformity of his conscience, & to purge and cleanse the pollution of his soul; for now he lays hold of Christ jesus and his promises, forsakes the Devil and his treacheries, and God now so ordaineth and disposeth of him, that for want of other witnesses (seeing himself on the brink and in the jaws of death) he now becometh a witness against himself, and confesseth before all the whole company, That he it was, near Losanna, who murdered his own Son George with a Pistol, and who since poisoned his own wife Hes●… with a musk melon, for which two foul and inhuman facts of his, he said, he from his heart and soul begged pardon and remission of God.  
He●… upon this his confession, some of the company ride away to Fribourg, and acquaint the Criminal Officers of justice thereof; who speedily send two Surgeons to dress his wounds, and four Sergeants to bring Vasti thither alive, if possibly they can. They search his wounds, and although they find them mortal, yet they believe he may live three or four days longer. So they bring him to Fribourg in a Cart, and there he likewise confesseth to the Magistrates his two aforesaid bloody and cruel Murders, drawn thereunto as he saith, by the treacherous alluremements and temptations of the Devil: So the same day, they, for satisfaction of these his unnatural crimes, do condemn him to be hanged, and then his body to be burnt to ashes; which is accordingly executed in Fribourg, in presence of a great concourse of people, who came to see him take his last farewell of the world, but they thinking and expecting that he would have made some religious speech at his death, he therein deceived their hopes and desires: for he only prayed to himself privately, and then repeating the Lords prayer, and the Creed, and recommending his soul to God, and his body to Christian burial, without once mentioning or naming his son George, his wife Hester, or his strumpet Salyna, he (lifting up his eyes to heaven) was turned over; and although (being a tall and corpulent man) he there broke the rope and fell, yet he was found stark dead on the ground.  
And thus was the wretched life, and deserved death of this bloody Monster of Nature Vasti. May we therefore read this his History to God's glory, and to our own reformation.   
The End of the Fifth Book.   

junij xiijo. 1634.  
PErlegi hunc Librum cui titulus (The 5th part of the Triumphs of God's Revenge against the crying and execrable sin of Murder) unâ cum Epistolâ Dedicatoriâ ad illustriss Comitem de Bedford: qui quidem Liber continet Paginas circa 103. in quibus nihil reperio sanae Doctrinae aut bonis Moribus contrarium, quò minus cum utilitate publicâ imprimatur, sub eâtamen conditione ut si non intr à annum proximè sequentem Typis mandetur haec licentia sit omninò irrita.  
GVILIELMUS HAYWOOD Capellan: domest: Archiep: Cant:   

THE TRIUMPHS OF GOD'S REVENGE, AGAINST THE CRYING AND Execrable sin of Murder.  
Expressed In thirty several Tragical Histories, (digested into six Books) which contain great variety of memorable Actidents, Historical, Moral, and Divine.  
Book VI.  
Written by JOHN REYNOLDS.  
VERTIAS FILIA TEMPORIS   printer's or publisher's device 
LONDON, ¶ Printed by john Haviland for WILLIAM LEE, and are to be sold at his shop in Fleetstreet, at the sign of the Turks Head, near the Mitre Tavern. 1634.   

TO THE RIGHT HONOURABLE, Sir JAMES STANLEY, KNIGHT OF the Bath, Lord STRANGE, Son and Heir apparent to WILLIAM Earl of Derby, one of the most ancient Knights of the Illustrious Order of the Garter.  
MY LORD,  
THe first time that I had the honour to see and know your Lo. was in France, when you then began your travels, accompanied with your Noble and Generous younger brother Sir Robert Stanley, (likewise Knight of the Bath) who now lives with God: And (if my fancy deceive not my judgement.) it is equally worthy both of my thoughts, and of your Lordship's memory, to see how propitious God hath since proved to your content, and remains to your felicity, in so highly recompensing this your loss of a Noble Brother, with the rich gift of a Virtuous Wife▪ your Right Illustrious Lady who is descended from no meaner house than the famous Dukes of Tremoville by her Father, and the Victorious Princes of Orange by her Mother, and who being transplanted from France, and (in the Sacred Bonds of Marriage) here matched and incorporated to your Lordship, hath (by the Mercy and Providence of God) in a few yoares brought you many sweet Olive Plants and Branches to perpetuate your ancient Name, and most Honourable Family of the Stanleyes'.  
And what are all these benefits of Nature, and blessings of Grace, which God hath so opportunely sent, and graciously given you, in and by them, but such, and so sublime and transcendent, that they are strong proofs of his Mercy and Goodness towards you, and I doubt not but (in a pious resolution) your Lordship reciprocally makes them the cause of your eternal gratitude and thankfulness to his sacred Majesty for the same.  
And indeed who can possibly have, or conceive a different thought, that observes how your Lordship conducts all your actions by Reason, and not by Passion: That as you esteem Virtue, to be the chiefest earthly Honour, so you likewise value Piety and Godliness to be the best and most Sovereign Virtues. That you are confident, that in Hearts and Souls which are well and fairly endowed, Honour and Honesty should still be Twins, or inseparable Companions and Individuals, because the former without the latter, is but as fire of straw to the Sunshine; and to shut up this point, that your Honour gives the chiefest functions and faculties of your Soul to God, and the second to the prosperity and service of your Prince and Country, that being the true marks of a Religious Christian, and this of an excellent Subject, and Honourable Patriot.  
And this (my good Lord) was the Original cause, and these are the prevailing Motives and Reasons, why I trench so far upon your Lordship's Greatness and Goodness; in proffering up this my Sixth and last Book of God's Revenge against Murder; to your Noble Protection and Patronage; not that your Lordship is the last in my Affection and Zeal, much less in my Respects and Observance: But that I could give no satisfaction to myself, before I had prefixed your Illustrious Name, to this my unpolished Work, and before I had given a public testimony to the whole world in general, and more especially to our little world England in particular, what place and power your Honourable Birth and Virtues have deservedly taken up in my heart, and worthily purchased in my most reserved and entire affection.  
The Histories which this Book relates, are memorable and mournful, and to give your Honour my opinion of them, they are as lamentable for the bloody facts, as memorable for the sharp, yet just punishments inflicted for the same; wherein Gods sacred ●…ustice and Revenge (with equal Truth and Glory) triumphed over their wretched Perpetrators. I have cast them in a low Region of language, and therefore if they come short of your Lordship's accurate judgement, my Presumption in this my Dedication to you, hath no other hope of excuse or pardon, then to fly to your Lordship's innate Goodness, and to appeal to your known and approved Generosity and Candour, as making it your Honourable Ambition to cherish Virtue in all men, and to defend it against unjust scandal, and malicious detraction.  
Proceed my Lord, as you have fairly and fortunately began, in the happy excercise and progress of Piety, Virtue and Honour; and as the hopes are now ours, so may the happy fruits and effects thereof, infallibly still prove your Lordships hereafter, until it have perfected and completed you to be a most Illustrious Pattern of Goodness in this world, and a glorious Saint in that to come, the which none shall pray to God for with more true Zeal, nor desire with more unfeigned Affection, than  
Your Honour's humblest devoted Servant, JOHN REYNOLDS.   

The Grounds and Contents of these Histories.  

History XXVI. Imperia for the love she bears to young Morosini, seduceth and causeth him (with his two Consorts, Astonicus and Donato) to stifle to death her old Husband Palmerius in his bed; Morosini misfortunately letting fall his gloves in Palmerius his chamber that night which he did it; They are found by Richardo the Nephew of Palmerius, who knows them to be Morosinies, and doth thereupon accuse him and his Aunt Imperia, for the Murder of his Uncle; So they together with their accessaries Astonicus and Donato, are all four of them apprehended and hanged for the same.  
History XXVII. Father justinian a Priest, and Adrian an Innkeeper, poison De Laurier, who was lodged in his house, and then bury him in his Orchard; where a month after a Wolse digs him up, and devours a great part of his body; which father justinian and Adrian understanding, they fly upon the same, but are afterwards both of them apprehended and hanged for it.  
History XXVIII. Hippolito murthereth Garcia in the street by night, for the which he is hanged. Dominica and her Chambermaid Denisa, poisoneth her husband Roderigo; Denisa afterwards strangleth her own new borne Babe, and throws it into a Pond, for the which she is hanged; On the ladder she confessed that she was accessary, with her Lady Dominica in the poisoning of her Husband Roderigo; for the which Dominica is apprehended, and likewise hanged.  
History XXIX. Sanctifiore (upon promise of marriage) gets Ursina with child, and then afterwards very ingratefully and treacherously rejecteth her, and marries Bertranna: Ursina being sensible of this her disgrace, disguiseth herself in a Friar's habit and with a case of Pistols kills Sanctifiore as he is walking in the fields, for the which she is hanged.  
History XXX. De Mora treacherously kills Palura in a Duel with two Pistols: His Lady Bellinda with the aid of her Gentleman Usher Ferallo, poisoneth her Husband De Mora, and afterwards she marrieth and murthereth her said Husband Ferallo in his bed; so she is burnt alive for this her last murder, and her ashes thrown into the air for the first.    

GOD'S REVENGE, AGAINST THE CRYING AND Execrable sin of Murder.  

HISTORY XXVI.  
●…mperia for the love she bears to young Morosini, seduceth and causeth him (with his two Consorts, Astonicus and Donato) to stifle to death her old Husband Palmerius in his bed; Morosini misfortunately letting fall his gloves in Palmerius his chamber that night which he did it; They are found by Richardo the Nephew of Palmerius, who knows them to be Morosinies, and doth thereupon accuse him and his Aunt Imperia, for the Murder of his Uncle,; So they together with their accessaries Astonicus and Donato, are all four of them appehended and hanged for the same.  
THose Intemperate and lascivious affections which savour more of Earth than Heaven, are still attended on with shame and repentance, and many times followed by misery and confusion: For God being our Maker by Creation, and our Saviour by Redemption, consequently should be of our loves and affections, and the true & sole object, in whom only they should begin and terminate: For Nature must be a handmaid, not a Mistress to Grace, because God (in his Divine decree and creation of man) hath made our bodies mortal, but our souls immortal. And the like Antithesis which there is between Lust and Charity, the same there is between sinful adultery, and sanctified marriage. But where our youthful affections begin in whoredom, and end in murder, what can be there expected for an issue, but ruin and desolation. Crimes no less than these doth this ensuing History report and relate: A History I confess, so deplorable for the persons, their facts and punishments, that I had little pleasure to pen it, and less joy to publish it; but that the truth and manner thereof gave a contrary Law to my resolutions, in giving it a place among the rest of my Histories; That the sight and knowledge of others harms, may the more carefully and conscionably ●…each us to avoid and prevent our own.  
THe free Estates and Commonweals of Italy, more especially the famous Seignory of Venice, (which for wealth and power gives place to no other of Christendom) holds it no degree of disparagement, but rather an happy and honourable virtue in their Nobles and Gentlemen, to exercise the faculty a●…d p●…ofession of Merchants, the which they generally perform in Turkey, and all other parts of the Levant Seas▪ with as much profit as glory, to the admiration of the whole world and the envy of their private and public enemies: Of which number of Venetian Gentlemen, Signior Angelo Morosini is one, a young m●…n, of some twenty & four years of age, descended of a Noble name and family, and (if reports be true) from whence ours hear in England derives their Original: He is tall and slender of stature, of a lovely sanguine complexion, a bright Chestnut-coloured hair, but as yet adorned with a small apparition of a beard: He is active of body, of a sweet carriage, and nimble wit, and a most pleasing and graceful speech; and he is not so young, but he hath already made two several voyages to Constantinople and Alexandria, in both which he resided some five or six years, and through his wisdom and industry won some wealth, but more reputation and fame, in so much as his deportments and hopes, to the eye and judgement of the world, promiseth him a fortune, equal, if not exceeding his blood and extraction. Holding it therefore rather a shame than a glory as yet to marry, or which is a thousand times worse, to pass his time vainly and lasciviously at home among the Ladies and Courtesans of Venice, upon whom (by the way of a premonition and precaution) he saw so many debauched young Gallants to cast away their Estates and themselves, he assumes his former ambition to travel, and so undertakes a third voyage t●… Constantinople: He embarkes himself upon a good ship, named the Little Saint Mark of Venice, and in company of Signior Astonichus, and Signior Philippo Donato, likewise two young Gentlemen, Mearchants of Venice of his dear and intimate acquaintance (with a pleasant gale and merry wind, they set sail from Malanoca, the Port of that City, and so direct and shape away their course for the Islands of Corfu and Zant, where they are to stop, and take in some commodities, and from thence thorough the Archipelagus, by Candy and Cyprus, to the Port 〈◊〉 the Grea●… Signior. But as men propose, and God disposeth of all terrestrial a●…ons and accidents; so they are overtaken by a storm, and with contrary winds put into the Harbour and City of Ancona, a rich▪ populous and strong City which belongs to the Pope, and which is the Capital of that Province of the Mar●… 〈◊〉, from whence it assumes and takes its denomination, and wherein there are well near three thousand Jews still resident, who pay a great yearly Revenue to his Holiness. The wind being as yet contrary for our three Venetian Gallants, and they knowing that our Lady of Loretto (the greatest and most famous Pilgrimage of the Christian world) was but fifteen small miles off in the Country, whereas yet they had never either of them been, they in mere devotion ride thither, their ship now being fast anchored and mored in the Peer of Ancona, which stands on the Christian side, upon the Adriatic Sea, vulgarly termed the gulf of Venice.  
And here it is neither my purpose or desire to write much, either of the pretended piety of this holy Chapel of Loretto, which the Romanists say was the very Chamber wherein the Virgin Mary brought up her Son, our Saviour jesus Christ; or of her Picture which they likewise allege was drawn by the hand and pencil of the Apostle Saint Luke, and both the one and the other, as they affirm miraculously brought over the Seas from Palestine by Angels, and first placed by them on the Hills of Recagnati (three little miles thence) and long since by the said Angels translated and placed here in this small Town of Loretto. But as for myself, this legend is to weak to pass current with my faith, much less to esteem it as an Article of my Creed. Only this I will confess and say. That as it was devotion not curiosity which carried our Morisini, Astonicus and Donato thither: so it was my curiosity not my Devotion which made me to take the sight thereof in my Travels. Where in the rich and sumptuous Choir of a stately Cathedral Church, I saw this little old Brick Chamber (now termed the Holy Chapel, very richly adorned with great variety of massy Gold and Silver Lamps, and this Picture of the blessed Virgin in a Shrine of Silver, most richly decked with Chains and Robes, embroidered with Gold and Silver, and set with precious Stones of inestimable value, which (to express the truth in one word) bred much admiration in my thoughts, but no veneration at all in my heart. So I leave Loretto, and return again to our History, which was the only Relic that I brought thence.  
The two first days, our three Venetian Gallants visit this holy Chapel with much solemnity and devotion, where not to jesus the Son, but to Marie the Mother they offer up their prayers, and pay their vows of thankfulness for their deliverance from the late storm which put them and their Ship in safety at Ancona. But the third day there betides an unexpected accident to Morisini, which will administer matter and life to this History. He leaves his two friends and companions in bed, and steals away to the holy Chapel, where being on his knees to his devotion, he near to him, sees a sweet young Gentlewoman likewise on her knees at her devotion and orisons very rich in apparel, but incomparably fair and beautiful. He curiously marks her Roseate Lily Cheeks, her piercing Eye, the Amber Tresses of her Hair, her Alabaster Neck and Paps, and her straight and slender waist, all which made her to be the Pride and Glory of Nature; At whose sight and contemplation, his mind is so suddenly inflamed with affection to her, that he who heretofore could not possibly be drawn to love any Gentlewoman, or Maiden, now despite of himself, (and of his contrary inclination and resolution) he at first sight is enforced to love her and only her. For the more he sees her, the more he affects her, which engendereth such strange motions, and sudden passions in his heart that the sweetness of this sweet object, enforced his eyes incessantly to gaze on her both with affection and admiration. Our Morosini would feign have boarded and saluted her there, but that he would not make Heaven so much stoop to Earth, nor profane the holiness of his affection and of this place with such impiety. But at last seeing her to rise from her prayers, and so to depart the Chapel, he could not, he would not so leave her, nor forsake the benefit of this sweet opportunity to make himself known to her; When withdrawing his Devotion from the old Lady of Loretto to give it to this his young Lady (and pretended Mistress) in Loretto, he trips away after her, into the body of the Church where seeing her only attended, by a well clad Boy and her young waiting Gentlewoman, (after salutes on both sides performed,) he there proffereth her his service in these general Terms.  
Moros. I know not sweet young Lady, whether I may term myself happy or unfortunate, in being this morning honoured with the sight of so beautiful a Nymph, and Virgin as yourself, because in thinking to gain my soul, I fear I have lost my heart in the amorous ecstasies of that delicious Object and Contemplation; therefore I beseech you think it not strange, that having received my wound from your Beauty, I fly to your Courtesy for my cure and remedy thereof; and that seeing you so weakly guarded, I presume to request the favour of you that you will please to accept of my Company to reconduct you to your home.  
This young Lady, seeing herself so much gazed on by this unknown Gentleman in the holy Chapel, and now so courteously saluted by him in the Church, she could not refrain from dying her Lily Cheeks with a Vermilion blush, when having too much beauty to be too unkind, and yet too much coyness and modesty at first to prove too courteous to him, she (brooking her name well) returns him this answer.  
Imp. Sir you being so happy to have given up your Soul this morning in your devotion to the blessed Lady of this place, I do not a little wonder, that you so soon profane it, by endevoring to make me believe, that you have lost your heart in the contemplation of so poor, and so unworthy a beauty as mine; For herein as you profane your zeal to her, so do you your affection to me, sith that should be more sacred, and this not so much feigned or hypocritical. But such wounds still carry their cures with them, and therefore as my beauty was not capable to occasion the one, so shall not my courtesy be guilty in granting the other: If my weak guard be not strong enough to conduct me to my home, my Innocency and Chastity are, as also to defend me from the snares and lures of those Gentlemen, whose best Virtue consists more in their tongues then their souls, and more in their compliments then their actions; Of which number fearing and taking you to be one, and my Father's house being so nigh, I shall not want your company, because as I deserve so I desire it not, and therefore I will leave you, and yet not without leaving my thanks with you, for this your proffered favour, and unexpected courtesy.  
Although Morosini could not refrain from smiling at this her sharp and witty answer, yet he seeing his compliment retorted, and his courtesy returned with a refusal, he could not yet refrain from biting his Lip thereat. But again considering her to be exceeding fair and virtuous, and hoping withal that her father might likewise prove rich, he would not disgrace his breeding nor make himself a Novice in Love to be put off with this her first repulse, but again sounds her in these terms.  
Moros. My devotion to the Mother of our Saviour doth not profane but I hope bless and sanctify my affection to you and therefore if it be not the custom of the young Ladies and Gentlewomen of Loretto to use strangers with this discourtesy, I cannot believe that you would purposely thus exercise your wit in my patience, by inflicting on me this your unjust refusal. As for your feigned shows of Hypocrisy: I am as innocent of them as you suspect and term me guilty and have no more snares or lures in proferring you my affection and service, than that which your pure beauty and chaste virtues give me. Neither am I of the number of those Gentlemen, whom you please to traduce and disparage because their hearts and tongues agree not, or for that their actions prove not their speeches, and compliments real; because I as much disdain as you condemn them; Therefore if you cannot give me the courtesy, I pray at least lend me the favour that I may wait on you to your Father's house; whom I shall ever be ready to serve with as much humility for your sake, as to cherish and obey yourself with affection for mine own.  
This answer of Morosini makes this young Gentlewoman (whose name he and we shall anon know) as sweetly calm, as right now she was unkindly passionate, so that looking steadfastly on him, and composing her countenance rather to smiles than frowns, she rejoins with him thus.  
Imp. It is the custom of the Ladies and Gentlewoman of Loretto, to use Strangers rather with too much respect than too little favour, especially those Gent. who savour more of honour than vanity. If therefore I have any way wronged mine own judgement, in suspecting or not acknowledging your merits, I know I am yet as worthy of your excuse as of your reprehension. And because I understand by you that you are a stranger to this place though not to this Country, as also that you seem to be so importunately desirous and willing to conduct me to my Father's house; I will therefore give a contrary Law to my own will, and now make civillitie dispense with my discretion by accepting of this your kind proffer, and you shall not accompany me thither to him, with so much respect and zeal as I will you with observance and thanks.  
Which kind speech she had no sooner delivered and Morosini received, but he again closed with her thus:  
Moros. Sweet Lady, this courtesy of yours seconding your beauty, shall eternally oblige me to your service; and in requital thereof, I will ever esteem it my best happiness to receive your Father's commands, and my chiefest felicity and glory to execute yours: When reciprocally exchanging salutes, he takes her by the hand and arm, and very gracefully conducts her to her Father's house, not far off from this sumptuous Church, and by the wayth there (among other speeches and compliments he gathers from herthat her Father's name is Signior Hierome Bondino, and hers Donna Imperia his only Daughter. Wherein he for the former fame of his wealth and the present sight of her Beauty doth both delight and glory, as dreaming of a future felicity which he shall enjoy in her sight and company; whereof for the time present he hath far more reason to flatter than to assure himself.  
Now we must here understand that this Signior Bondino her Father, is a Gentleman of an ancient house and noble descent; and of a very great estate both in lands and means, and withal he was exceeding covetous, as glorying more in his wealth than in his generosity, and more in his fair and beautiful Daughter Imperia, then in any other of his Children. here Morisini brings Imperia home, and she presents him and his courtesy to her Father, who receives him respectfully and kindly thanks him for this his observance and honour to his daughter: who led by the lustre of her eyes and the delicacy of her beauty, was so extremely inflamed with affection towards her, as at that very instant he proclaimed himself her Servant, and she the Lady Regent of his heart and desires, and then it was that he first acquainted her with his name and quality, with his intended voyage to Constantinople, but chiefly with his constant desire and resolution to seek her in marriage both of herself and her father. Wherefore to contract this History into a narrow Volume, I will pass over his often court and visits of her, as also those sweet speeches, and amorous discourses and conferences which passed between them during the space of three weeks; wherein the wind proving contrary to his voyage, proved therefore propitious to this his suit and affection. In which time he proved himself so expert a Scholar (or rather a Master) in the Art of Love that he exchanged hearts with her, obtained her affection and consent to be his Wife upon his first return from Constantinople, but yet it was wholly impossible either for he or her to draw her father's consent hereunto, although many times he sought it of him with prayers, and she with tears. For he making wealth to be the very image and idol of his devotion, and gathering that Morosini's birth far exceeded his estate and means, as also that in his opinion, that his estate was yet far greater than his capacity or judgement, he would never hearken to him, much less give way that he should be his Son in Law: but with much obstinacy and resolution, vowed that he would first rather see his Daughter married to her grave than to him, the which froward and harsh resolution of his, makes our two lovers exceedingly to grieve and lament thereat. But how to remedy it they know not. Morosini now acquaints his two consorts Astonicus and Don●…to with his affection to Imperia, and brings them the next morning to see her, who highly commend his choice, and extol her beauty and virtues to the skies; They in Morosini's behalf deal effectually with Bondino to draw his consent to this match, mount his praises and merits as high as Heaven, and in a word they leave no friendly office, or reasons unatempted to persuade and induce him hereunto, but they speak either to the wind, or to a deaf man; for his will is his Law, and therefore they find it a work, not only of extreme difficulty but of mere impossibility to effect it; for neither they nor Morosini, can so much pray and exhort Bondini to this match, as he with sharp words and bitter threats seeks to divert his Daughter from it; which pierceth and galleth these two Lovers to their very souls. For by this time their affections and hearts are so strongly and firmly united, that Imperia loves Morosini a thousand times dearer than her own life, and he her no less. So when they think of their separation and departure each from other, the very conceit and thought there of draws even drops of blood from their hearts, and an Ocean of tears from their eyes. But because they are more amorous than superstitious in their devotion and affection each to other and that (in their thoughts and desires) they sacrifice more to the Altars of Venus then to that of the Virgin Marie. Therefore Fortune more envying then pitying them, and therefore resolving to separate their bodies as far asunder, as their hearts are nearly linked and combined together: the wind comes fair, and the Master of their Ship sends speedily from Ancona to them to Loretto to come away, for that he is resolute to omit no time but with all expedition to weigh Anchor, and set sail for Corfu.  
Morosini receives this news with infinite sorrow, and Imperia with extreme grief and amazement, so as if grace had not prevailed with nature, and her obedience to her Father vanquished and given a law to her affection towards Morosini, she could then and there have found in her heart to have left Italy, and to accompanied him in his voyage to Turkey and Constantinople, so sweet was his sight and presence, and so bitter was the very thought of his absence to her heart and mind; Hear Morosini comes again with his hat in his hand and Imperia on her knees with tears to her father, that he will grant they may contract themselves each to other before his departure, but he is dear to his requests, and inexorable to her tears and prayers. For he vows he cannot, and swears he will not consent thereunto; And therefore here the Reader must conceive, for it is impossible for me to express the thousand part of the sighs which he, and the tears which she expends at this their sorrowful departure in so much as I cannot truly define whether he then gave her more kisses, or she him tears. So here she vows to remain unmarried till his return, and he both promiseth and swears, that he will return within one year to her and marry her, the which the more authenti●…ally to seal and confirm he gives her a rich Emerald ring from his finger, and she him a fair carkamet of Orient Pearl from her neck, with whom the great drops of her tears trickling down her vermilion cheeks seemed to have some perfect sympathy and resemblance; Of which interchangeable and mutual contract Astonicus and Donato are joyful witnesses, who seek to add comfort and consolation to these her unspeakable sorrows, and unparallelled afflictions for this their separation; whiles Imperia in the mean time at the very thought and consideration hereof, (she gazing on her Morosini) seems to burst her heart with sighing, and to drown the Roses and Lilies of her beauty with the showers and rivulets of her tears. So Morosini being again and again called away by Astonicus and Donato, he than takes leave of Bondino, and then of his dear and sweet Daughter Imperia in whose heart and breast he imparadiseth all his most religious prayers, and treasureth up all his amorous desires and wishes, and from thence (with his two faithful friends and companions takes horse for Ancona, where as soon as they come their long boat is a shore and takes them in, when the Wind continuing still exceeding fair, they presently for Corfu and Constanti ople. Where we will leave them floating on the Seas, exposed to the favour and mercy of the winds, and according to the order of our History come we again to speak of Bondino, and of his sweet and fair daughter Imperia, to see what matter they will administer us, and what Actions and Accidents they will produce.  
Whiles our fair Imperia day and night weeps and sighs for the absence of her dearest and second self Morosini, and with her eyes and hands elected to Heaven continually prays for his pr●…speritie and return, her old Father Bondino assumes a direct contrary course and resolution; for within two or three months of Morisini's departure, he makes it his greatest care and ambition to provide another husband for this his Daughter. He is not ignorant of her tears and pensiveness for his absence, and knows full well, that her solitary walks and pall thin cheeks, looks still constantly to him and never from him. But he is resolute that his old covetousness shall prevent and deceive this her young affection, and that to work on the advantage of Morosini's absence, his best and shortest course is to heave him out of her heart and mind, and chose to propound and place another Husband in his stead. To which end his said daughter's beauty and his own wealth having already procured her two or three other Suitors, who earnestly seek her in marriage, he likes none of them so well, as old Signior Palmerius a rich Merchant of Ancona, aged of at least sixty years; whereas his fair Daughter Imperia was not above twenty four, who was of so deformed and decrepit a personage and constitution, that he seemed but as a withered january to this fresh Lady May, and his age but a frozen Winter to the fragrant flourishing Summer of her youth and beauty. But this old dotard Palmerius (who is every way fitter for his own grave than for Imperia's bed) is so taken with the daintiness of her personage, as he hopes that her youth and her father's age will stoop and strike sail to his wealth, and therefore he tricks and prides himself up both in his apparel and beard, as if Love had taken away much of his Age, now purposely to add it to his vanity and indiscretion, so he comes to Bondino's house at Loretto, and seeks this his fair daughter in marriage, where the consideration of his great estate and wealth act such wonders with her father's heart and resolution, that her father and he have already swapped a bargain that he, and none but he shall marry his daughter, before as yet he have the happiness to see her. But at last her father brings her to him, chargeth her with his commands to dispose herself to affect and marry him, and speaks to her not only in the language of a father, but of a King, for such is his pleasure. These speeches of her father, and the sight of this her old lover yet new suitor Palmerius, doth much amaze and terrify his young Daughter Imperia: so she receives and hears those with infinite affliction and sorrow, and him with much contempt and disdain; For she rejects his suteand himself, and boldly tells both her father and him, that Morosini is too deeply lodged in her heart, for any other of the world to have entrance or admittance, and therefore (with sighs and tears) casts herself at her father's feet, and prays him that he will not force her to marry Signior Palmerius whom she affirms she cannot possibly affect; much less obey. But her father is resolute to have it so, and therefore (passing over all other respects and considerations) he adds threats, to his commands, and vehemently chargeth her again and again to consent thereto. But her absent Morosini is still so present in her heart and mind, and so fresh and pleasing to her eye and memory, that she cannot, she will not forget him. So that for this time her father can no more enforce her to speak with Palmerius, or draw her to see him, and thus she puts him off for his first coming to Loretto to her. Imperia being now infinitely glad to have thus given her father the foil, and old Palmerius the repulse, she raiseth a thousand new Trophies of joy, and victories of delight in her heart for the same, as if that outrageous storm and tempest (so contrary and displeasing to her heart) had received end almost as soon as beginning. Thus now ruminating on nothing less than on Palmerius, nor on nothing more than on her sweet and dear Morosini, (to whom in his absence she sacrificeth all the flames of her heart, and all the vows, desires and wishes of her soul) she passeth away her time in perpetual praying for his return, for the which she leaves not the Lady, no nor any other Saint of Loretto unadored, or unprayed to. But contrary to her hopes and desires herein, this her old suitor Palmerius, (having wholly lost the solidity of his judgement in the excellency of her beauty) he still keeps good correspondence, and curious intelligence with her father, and continually his heart runs as much on her youth as her father's covetousness doth on his wealth and gold; so within two months he returns again to Loretto, where he is received with as much joy of Bondino, as with extreme discontent and sorrow of his Daughter Imperia, who now poor soul can receive no peace nor truce from either of them, but they incessantly haunt her as her ghosts, and fail not day and night to importune her for the consummation of this contract and marriage, but her heart is so close united and wedded to Morosini, that it is as yet impossible for either, or both of them to divorce or withdraw her from him. Palmerius thinks to gain her by ric●… gifts and presents, but she refuseth them all for the sake of the giver, and her father now tempts her with sweet speeches and persuasions, and then again, terrifies her with bitter commands and threats, hoping thereby in the end to make her flexible to his desires and wishes; But his daughter Imperia notwithstanding all this (with a constancy worthy of her beauty, and every way equal to herself) resolves to frustrate the hopes of the first, to annihilate and make vain the expectation of the second, and so to deceive the desires and wishes of them both, and to keep her heart wholly for Morosini as she hath formerly promised and obliged herself to do.  
But although Palmerius were heretofore the first time so easily beaten off with Imperias' refusal, he will not be so the second, and therefore his heart and mind telling him that the sweetness of her youth, and the delicacy of her beauty deserve a stronger, and longer siege of his affection. He (by the free advice and consent of her Father) resolves to stay and burn all that Summer in Loretto, hoping that time would change her resolutions and make that feasable in his Daughter's affection, which now in a manner seemed to be impossible. Thus if Palmerius use his best endeavours to bear and conquer Imperia one way, no less doth her Father another way, for the first gives her a world of sugared words and promises, and the second of sharp and bitter threats to effect it; Poor Imperia seeing herself thus straight and narrowly begirt on both sides, she hath again recourse to her sighs and tears, the only weapons left her in the absence of her Morosini to defend her affection and constancy against the lust of Palmerius, and the power and tyranny of her father Bondino. A thousand times a day she wisheth that Constantinople were Loretto, or Loretto Constantinople, and as often prays that either she were in Morosini's arms, or he here in hers. But Palmerius being as obstinate as her father was resolute and furious in this suit and motion towards her, she shuts herself up in her Chamber, where seeming to drown herself in her tears, she consults with her affection, how she should bear herself in a matter of this weight and importance, and what invention she should find out and practice, to abandon Palmerius, and to call home her Morisini to marry her, than which under Heaven she desired nothing more, or to write truer nothing else. So at last she resolves to send one purposely to Constantinople to hasten his return (which now wanted but a little of his prefixed time of a year) when making choice of a dear friend of his of Ancona named Signior Mercario, and furnishing him with gold for so long a journey, as to sail from Brundisium, to Ragusa, and so from thence by post to Constantinople, she takes pen and paper, and thereon (as much with tears as ink) traceth her Morosini these lines where with she dispatcheth him away.  
IMPERIA to MOROSINI.  
I Should betray my affection to thee, and consequently make myself unworthy of thine, if by this my letter (which I purposely send thee by thy friend Signior Mercario) I did not now acquaint thee, with how much impatiency and sorrow myself, and with how much joy my Father brooks thy long absence. Thou knowest in what a sweet, and strict sympathy of Love, our hearts are united. So as measuring Morosini by Imperia, I am confident that all those Seas between Ancona and Constantinople are not capable to wash away the remembrance thereof either from thy heart or my soul. And yet holding it a part both of my duty and of myself, I am enforced to command my pen to relate then, th●… my F●…ther Bondino begins to excercise a point not only of his will, but of his power, ye●… I may justly say of his ty●…ie over 〈◊〉, to persuade me to leave my young Morosini 〈◊〉 marry his old Palmerius. In which regard & consideration, if my poor beauty o●…●…rit 〈◊〉 ●…ft any impress●… in thy breast or memory, I now most heartily pr●… thee to ●…ue Turkey for Italy, 〈◊〉 C●…ople for Loretto, and to make me as happy in 〈◊〉 thy sight and presence, as I am miserable without it. And when our God, and 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 shall permit this my innocent and sorrowful letter to fall into thy 〈◊〉, think, ye●… judge with thyself, what an ingratitude, yea what a crime it will be for thee 〈◊〉 to bring me thyself, but to send me any excuse whatsoever to the contrary. Farewell my other self, thy sweet self, and may God and his Angels ever prove propiti●… thy Desires, and my Wishes.  
IMPERIA.  
Mercario (in three week's time) arrives at Constantinople, and finds out his friend Morosini, to whom he delivereth his Mistress Imperias' letter; the which he first kissing, presently peruseth it, and very passionately both rejoiceth & grieves thereat: So Morosini very kindly feasts his friend Mercario there some eight days, and then returneth him home with an answer, which in less than a month's time he delivereth into Imperias' own hands in Loretto, who is extremely glad thereof, and then beautifying her snow white cheeks, with some crimson blushes, she hies to her closet and breaking up hastily the seals thereof, finds it traced and charged with this message  
MOROSINI to IM●…IA.  
THy health and constancy makes me as joyful in the receipt of thy Letter, as thy Father Bondino his disrespect to me and love to Palmerius makes me sorrowful, for so dear and tender is the true effection of my Imperia to her Morosini, and the sympathy of our hearts so sweetly and sacredly united, that for my part not only those small rivers of the Mediteraneum and Adriatic Sea between Constantinople and Ancona, but that of the vast Ocean is incapable to wash off the least sense or memory thereof, But as in the actions and accidents of hu●…ane life, reputation and profit, deserve some times to be intermixed with pleasure, because the sweetness thereof is still made sweete●… by its subsistence and permanency. So by the Seignory of Venice, and by Landy their Ambassador resident here in Constantinople, (contrary to my expectation or merit) I am now made Consul of Aleppo. I cannot therefore so soon leave Turkey for Italy which I infinitely desire, nor in that consideration so soon embrace and kiss my fair and dear Imperia, which above all the Crowns and Sceptres of the world I chiefly love and long for; but what this year cannot perform the next shall, and then (all delays and excuses set apart) I will bring thee thy Morosini with as much true joy as he transported himself from thee with bitter tears and unfeigned sorrows, in the mean time my hopes and heart tell me, that thy affection to me shall surmount thy Father's tyranny to thyself, and that thy bea●…y and merit are so incomparably resplendent, that though Palmerius ●…ee the fail, yet Morisini shall live and dye the Diamond of thy love and the Love of thy Heart, as God i●… of thy Soul. O than my dear and sweet Imperia, repute it 〈◊〉 ingratitude much less a o●…ime in me to send thee this letter of excuse in steed of bringing thee myself, for I sp●…ke it in presence of God and his Angels, that as thou art my other half so I am wholly thine, and that thou canst not be the thousand part so sorrowful a●… I am ●…serable in this our short yet too long sequest●…tion. ●…well, 〈◊〉 the only Sa●… of my heart, and Goddess of my affections, and assure thyself that no mortal man whatsoever is, or can be so much thy faithful Servant and Slave, as  
MOROSINI.  
Our Imperia kisseth this Letter a thousand times for her Morisini's sake who wrote and sent it her, and again as often weeps to see, that he loved Honour and profit better than herself, and Turkey better than Italy, so whereas she formerly hoped, now she begins to despair of his speedy return, and esteems herself as miserable without him, as she thought to have been happy with him. She reads over his Letter again and again, and then weeps as fast as she reads, at the very perusal and consideration thereof; she would fain draw comfort from any part or branch of it, but then his intended stay affords her nothing but disconsolation and sorrow in stead thereof. She blames her own misfortune, as much as his unkindness, and then again imputes this impatiency of hers, more to her father's cruelty, than to Morosini's discourtesy; she loves him as much as she hates Palmerius, and hates herself because Morosini will not love her more, and Palmerius less. But Morosini is so firmly seated and enthronised in her heart that she is constantly resolved to stay his return, and rather to die his victim and martyr than to live Palmerius his wife. And here her affection acts a great part in passion, as this passion doth in Love, she cannot refrain from enquiring of Mercario how Morisini lives, and how he looks, who performs the part of a friend, to his friend and tells her that he lives in great pomp and reputation, and is the properest and bravest young Gallant either of Venice or Ital●… which he saw in Constantinople, at the report whereof, she could not refrain from blushing and smiling as if her delight and joy thereof were such, as she could not receive or hear it, without these public expressions and testimonies of her private zeal and interior affection to him; But all this notwithstanding, wheresoever she goes or turns herself, her Father as her shadow, and Palmerius as her spirit, are never from her, but still follow her in all times and places without intermission. It is a wonder to see and consider their obstinacy to make it a match, and her resolution and refusal against it, as if they were wholly composed and made of commands and she of denials. In which interchangeable comportment, and different carriage of theirs. We must allow six months time more past and slidden away, where in despite of Palmerius his importunities and her father's power she still remains inflexible to them constant to her Morosini, and true to her promise. But at last this old lustful Lover Palmerius (who was fitter to kiss an image in the Church, than so sweet and fair a young Lady as Imperia in her bed) seeing that he had consumed and spent so long time in vain by courting her, and that she slighted him and his suit as much if not more now, than when he first meant and intended it to her, he bethinks himself of a new po●…icy and proposition to gain her, which love can not so much excuse, as discretion justly condemn in him; He goes t●… her father Bondino, and proffers him that if his daughter will become his wife, that he will infeoff, and endow her with the one half of his lands, and give all the rest of his Estate and wealth into his hands and custody, for him to purchase her more. Which great and unexpected proffer of his doth solely and fully weigh down her covetous father to Palmerius his will and desire, as he constantly tells him; that in lieu of this his great affection and bounty to his daughter: he will speedily use all his power and authority with her full●… to dispose her to a●…ect and content him; To which end Bondino goes to his daughter Imperia, acquaints her with this great gift, and voluntary proffer of Palmerius to her if she will marry him. He lies before her how infinitely it will import his content, and her own good and reputation, and that few Gentlewoman of Loretto, or Ladies of the whole Marca of Anconitana, do enjoy such rich Fortunes, that his wisdom and wealth is far to be preferred to the vanity and prodigality of Morosini, and that the first will assuredly bring her much content and prosperity, but the second nothing else but poverty, ruin and misery, and therefore he most importunately conjures and commands her to cut and cast off all delays and so forthwith to dispose herself to love and marry Palmerius, or else he vows for ever to renounce her for his Daughter, and no more to acknowledge himself for her Father. A cruelty which (in my opinion and judgement) ought to be admired with pity and pitied with admiration, and not to serve for a precedent and Example to other Parents, because this of Bondino's was grounded on far more passion than reason, and covetousness than virtue; and which Nature hath all the reasons of the world rather than to term tyranny then Providence or fatherly affection in him.  
Our Imperia is, as it were, struck dead with grief and sorrow, at the thunderbolt of these her Father's cruel speeches towards her, so that she cannot speak, nor yet weep for sighing and sobbing but at last encouraged by her own Virtue, as much as she was daunted and dismayed by her father's severity and cruelty towards her, she (casting herself at his feet) with a trembling heart and faltering voice, returns her heart and mind to him in these terms.  
Honoured Sir, although my afflictions and sorrows are such, and so infinite that I am far more capable to weep and sigh, then to breathe or speak them forth to you, yet I hold it my duty, not my disobedience to acquaint you, that because marriages are first made in heaven, before contracted or consummated in Earth, therefore being so happy first to love Morosini before I was so unfortunate as to see Signior Palmerius, I hope it is the pleasure of God, that he hath ordained the first to be my Husband, and consequently myself never to be Wife to the second; I am proud in nothing but in my humility and obedience and therein I hope I shall still both triumph and glory, and yet I far more undervallew Palmerius wealth than you do Morosini's virtues. If then you will not for my sake, I humbly beseech you for my Mother's sake or which is more, for God's sake, to make me Wife to Morosini and not to Palmerius, because my heart and mind tells me, that I shall be as happy in the company of the one, as miserable in that of the other. In granting me which just desired favour and courtesy, my soul shall become pledge and caution for my heart, and my heart for my tongue, that you shall have no true cause, either to renounce me for your daughter, or to deny yourself for my Father; And to conclude this my s●…rrowfull and humble speech, it is impossible for you to wrong me, but you must and will extremely wrong yourself, by attempting and resolving to enforce me to the contrary; But if yet you will not be sensible hereof, than I invoke God to be a just witness, and judge between us, of your cruelty towards me, and of my can did innocency towards you, and my betrothed spouse Morosini.  
Imperia had no sooner (with sights and tears) delivered this her speech to her father on her knees, but (as if he had lightning in his eyes, and thunder in his tongue) he suddenly rusheth forth her company, when, more to displease her than to please himself, he looking back on her, gives her this sharp answer, and cruel farewell; Minion (quoth he) I will very shortly cool thy courage and thy tongue, and make thee know with repentance, what it is to disobey thy father, in making so much esteem of Morosini, and so little of Signior Palmerius, contrary to my advice and request to thee, for I say, consider well with thyself, and thou shalt then do well speedily to forsake this error and obstinacy of thine, except thou resolve to die as miserable, as I desire thou shalt live happy: Once more Girl consider and remember what I have now said to thee, and beware lest Morosini prove thy shame, as much as Palmerius will thy glory. Imperia weeps because she can weep no more at these heart-killing speeches of her father to her, against her absent Morisini: So being not well she betakes herself to her bed, and there again consults with God and herself, what she shall do in this perturbation of mind, and affliction of heart, and then and there (with waking eyes) reads a whole night's lecture to herself of her obedience to her father, and her affection and constancy to the other half of herself, Morosini; when in the morning being prompted by her thoughts and desires, that she shall receive more delights and joys from the last, then discontents from the first, she at her uprising resolves again to write away for her Morosini, as hoping that his presence would easily dispel and scatter all these her clouds and tempests, when dispatching a private messenger to Ancona for Mercario, she again earnestly prays him to undertake a second voyage for her either to Aleppo or Constantinople, to her Morosini, the which he then promiseth; so that night again perusing over his Letter, she then from point to point punctually makes answer to it, and the next morning very secretly gives it to Mercario in her chamber, and therewith takes off a rich bracelet of sparks of Diamonds from her right arm, and prays him to deliver it to him as a token of her true affection and constancy, the which she affirms to him shall, ever live and die with her. Mercario having received his commission from Imperia, as also more Gold for the discharge and defraying of his journey, he hires a small Brigantine to transport him to Corfu, and from thence embarks himself on a ship of Marseilles, which accidentally stopped there, and so sailed first to Aleppo; where being arrived in less than three weeks, and finding his dear friend Morosini to be Consul there for the Seignory of Venice, he secretly delivereth this bracelet and Letter of Imperia to him in his study, where he was then hastily writing a dispatch for Constanti●…ople: But the arrival of Mercario, who he knew came from his dearest friend and Mistress Imperia, (for mere joy) made him presently to cast away his hat and pen, and so to kiss and receive this her Letter and token from him, whereof with much haste, and more affection breaking up the seals, he therein found couched these ensuing lines.  
IMPERIA to MOROSINI.  
I Had little thought (because less deserved) that either profit or preferment had bee●…e dearer to thee than Imperia, or that the Seignory of Venice, or their Ambassador Landy had had more power to stay th●…e in Aleppo, than she to have requested or conjured thy return to Loretto; for if my poor beauty, or rich affection to thee, be of so l●… and base an esteem, as thou preferrest thy wealth and rep●…tation to it, than I am as miserable, as I thought myself happy in my choice, and the sweetness of my desires and wishes consequently have end, as soon as they received a beginning. And see what a palpable incongruity yea, what an apparent contradiction there is between thy heart and thy pen, sith feignedly endeavouring to make me believe thou lovest my kisses & embraces above all the Crowns and Sceptres in the world, I y●…t am truly enforced to see that thou lovest Turkey far better than Italy, and art well contented that Palmerius should love me better than thyself for else thou wouldst never permit that my father's tyranny to me should (in thy absence, give a law to my affection to him, or consent that Palmerius should be the Di●…mond, and thyself prove only the fail of my heart and love: And if this ingratitude of thine be not a crime, I know what a crime is, nor how, nor in what terms to define or determine thereof. judge therefore with thyself, (at least if thou art not as wholly exempt of judgement as of love) what a poor half, yea, what a small part I am of thee, when by thy voluntary absence thou wilt wholly re●…gne me up to another, and that Palmerius must be my husband, when my heart and soul, yea, when God and his Angels well know, I desire nothing under Heaven so much, as to live and die thy Wife, or else thou wouldst not have been so unkind. to confine thy will, or to bond thy obstinacy to no less than a whole years' s●…questration and absence from me, which if thy heart were equal, or but the least shadow of mine, thou wouldst deem to contain as many months as hours, and as many ages as months. But God forbid this discourtesy of thine should prove so great a cruelty to me, or before I know what belongs to fortunacie, I should be constrained to feel and suffer so much infelicity. Come away therefore my dear Morosini, and my sighs, tears, and prayers shall implore the winds and Seas to prove propitious to thy speedy return; and blame not me but thyself, if thy absence, and my father's obstinacy bereave me of my sweet Morosini, and thee of thy Dear.  
IMPERIA.  
Morosini could not refrain from blushing at the reading of this his Mistress Imperia's Letter, as ashamed to see what an exceeding advantage her courtesy had got of his unkindness. He oftentimes kisseth this her Letter and bracelet, as the two sweet pledges of h●…r sweetest love and affection to him, the which he vows to requite, and shortly to make his return, redeem and ransom the ingratitude of his long stay from her. He shows this Letter of hers to his two old Camerados, Astonicus and Donato, (for their friendship and familiarity is still so great, as they cannot, they will not forsake each other) who infinitely tax. his unkindness, and condemn his inconstancy, in sequestering himself so long from so sweet and fair a Mistress as Imperia. Now for the space of some ten days Morosini feasteth his friend Mercario in Aleppo, wherein he forgets not continually to solemnize his Imperia's health in the best and richest Greek wines; at the end whereof (very hountifully rewarding his love and pains, for so often crossing those dangerous Seas in his behalf) he chargeth him with his Letter in answer of his, and in requital of her bracelet of sparks of Diamonds, he returns and sends her a fair chain of God, and a rich Diamond Ring fastened to the end thereof, with a pair of Turkish silver embroidered bracelets, and so commits him to the mercy of the winds and Seas; who in six weeks after arrives safely to Ancona, and the next morning posts away to Loretto where repairing secretly to Bondino's house, he finds out his daughter Imperia alone, solitarily walking at the farther end of the Garden among ●…anks of Sicamour and Olive trees: Who no sooner espies Merc●…rio, but all her blood flashing into her face for joy, she speedily trips away towards him, (who after salutes) bidding him a thousand times welcome home, and he giving her Morosini's Letter and token, she claps the last in her pocket, and hastily kissing and breaking up the seals of the first, steps aside a pace or two, and therein finds and reads these lines.  
MOROSINI to IMPERIA.  
THy sweet beauty, and rich affection and constancy, shall not only command my resolution but myself, and it is impossible either for my profit or reputation to give but to receive a Law thereof; for thy requests being to me commands, and consequently thy felicity and misery equally mine, I will therefore shorten and hasten the time of my stay and so convert a whole year into a few months: For if Imperia be Palmerius his wife Morosini can then never be either himself or his own friend, and to write thee the life of my heart, as thou hast now the heart of thy soul, It is not the ambition of a Consulary dignity, nor all the treasure of Turkey, or the Indies, which shall keep me from enjoying of my fair and sweet Imperia, in whose divine cheeks and eyes, my heart hath imparadized, all my most sovereign earthly felicity; So that I not only deny but defy that Palmerius or any other of the world, is capable to love her the thousand part or so tenderly or dearly as myself, to whose sake and service I will still be found ready to lay down my best blood, and to prostitute and sacrifice my dearest Life. O than my fair and sweet Imperia live therefore my dear Wife, and Morosini will assuredly dye thy loving and constant Husband, and thou shalt briefly see that I will hate ingratitude as much as thy inconsiderate Father loves and intends cruelty towards thee, and make thee as joyful in my presence, as thou writest me thou art afflicted and sorrowful in my absence. I come my sweet Imperia, and if I want winds or Seas to bring me to thy blessed presence, my sighs shall increase the one and my tears supply and augment the other to effect it. Prepare therefore thy heart and eyes to see and salute me, as I do mine arms and lips to embrace and kiss thee, and I both hope and rest confident, that my prayers and constancy seconded by thine, will make thy Father's obstinacy vain, and prove Palmerius his attempts and hopes ridiculous in thinking to have thee to his Wife, who art already mine, by choice and promise.  
MOROSINI.  
This Letter of Morisini, affords no small music to the heart, or melody to the mind of our Imperia, for she sweetly and carefully treasureth it up in her breast and memory, and now in hope of his short return she leaves no Church nor Chapel in or about Loretto unfrequented to pray for it, yea she is so religious and virtuous, as she gives herself wholly to prayer, the sooner to obtain it; whiles (in the mean time) her cruel Father Bondino (contrary to her expectation and desires) cuts her out new work, in resuming his old resolution to marry her to her old Lover Palmerius who still loves her so tenderly that for her sake, he will not forsake Loretto to live in Ancona, so that here the Reader is prayed to understand and know, that Bondino finally, (and once for all) to cast his daughter Imperia and her affection from Mor●…sini to Palmerius, seeing that all other means will not prevail, he infinitely debars her of her liberty, takes away from her, her chiefest apparel and jewels (the delight and glory of young Ladies and Gentlewomen) as also her best vianes and diet, and in a word intreateth her so rigorously, as (upon the matter) he makes her more his prisoner than his Daughter. Imperia who was never heretofore acquainted with such sharp severity and course entertainment, bites her lip and hang●… her head hereat, But the more she prays her father to reserve her for Morosini, the more tyrannously he commands her speedily to marry Palmerius, so that all her sighs and tears to the contrary do rather exasperate then appease his indignation against her, and now she finds the long stay of Morosini from her, not only to exceed her first expectation, but also his last promises to her in his Letter, and is enforced to see, that her Father is as cruel as Palmerius is obstinate and resolute in his suit to her. She hath nothing to comfort her but the memory and letters of Morosini, and yet nothing doth so much confound her hopes and patience, as her father's cruelty in crossing this her affection. But at last despairing of Morosini's return, and vanquished by her Father's tyranny, she with an unwilling willingness) is enforced to suffer herself to be overcome by him, as also to permit the walls of her affection, and the bulwarks and fortifications of her constancy to be battered and razed down, by the incessant solicitations, gifts, and prayers of Palmerius; So that forgetting her promise, and herself, and putting a rape on her former resolution, she is at last contracted and married to him, or rather to the calamities and miseries which we shall shortly see will ensue thereof.  
here now then this old dotard Palmerius is married to fair Imperia, who esteems himself as happy as she finds herself unfortunate in this match. His Age is to old for her Youth, and her youth far to young for his Age; Disparity of years seldom (or never) breeds any true content or felicity in marriage. He cannot sufficiently estimate, much less deserve or requite the dainties of her youth, so that truth must here needs implore this dispensation for me of modesty, to affirm that his chiefest power was desire; and his best performance but lust towards her, for whiles every night, as soon as he comes to bed to her, he falls to his sleep; so poor young Gentlewoman she turns to her repentance, wishing (from her very heart and soul) that her husband's bed were her grave, and that her Nuptials had been her funeral. A thousand times every day and night she accuseth her Father's cruelty and (with bitter sighs and tears) as often condemneth her own levity and inconstancy for consenting thereunto. She can neither honour or love her husband, or rather not love him because she so tenderly loves the person, and honoureth the memory of Morosini. Thus whiles Palmerius retaineth and enjoyeth our Imperia in his bed, no less doth she her Morosini in her heart, so that the first hath only her body, but the second wholly her mind and affection, the sorrowful consideration and remembrance whereof, doth so torment her heart and perplex her mind, that she protesteth publicly to herself, and privately to all the world, that there is no calamity equal to hers, nor no misery comparable to that of a discontented bed. Thus being as much a maid as a wife, and yet more a Nun than a maid, she makes spiritual books her exercise, solitariness her pastime, her chamber her chapel, and her closet her Oratory to pray to God to forgive her Father's cruelty, and her husband's indiscretion towards her, as also her own inconstancy and treachery towards Morosini, which foul ingratitude and crime of hers she cannot remember but with extreme grief, nor once think of, but with infinite shame sorrow, and repentance. Although this her old husband Palmerius, be so amorous and kind to her, and so tender of this his fair young wife, that he leaves no cost unbestowed on her. aswell in rich apparel, as chains and jewels, wherein the Ladies and Gentlewomen of Italy chiefly pride themselves. But this was not the content and felicity which our Imperia desired because deserved; because her fresh youth, and her husband's feeble and frozen Age, cast her heart on other opposite conceits, and her mind on other different contemplations.  
Whiles thus Bondino and Palmerius as much rejoice as Imperia mourns and grieves at this herunequall and discontented match, and Morisini confidently relying on the firm affection & constancy of his Imperia made his stay in Aleppo, some 10. months longer than his promise to her. He at lastled by the star of her beauty and his own affection to her, leaves Turkey, and (in company of his constant old friends Astonicus and Donato) sets sail for Italy, and purposely puts in with their ship into Ancona, where they and he are no sooner arrived, but Mercario finding him out, entertains him with the welcome of this sorrowful news, that his Mistress Imperia is now in this City of Ancona, and married to old Signior Palmerius, whereat Morosini infinitely grieves and Astonicus and Donato much wonder. He is stricken at the heart at this sorrowful news, and (too too soon for him) believes it with as much affliction as admiration. By this time likewise is Imperia advertised of his and their arrival, whereat she seems to drown herself in a whole deluge of tears; yet not for sorrow but for joy of his arrival. He employs Mercario to her to grant him a private visit, the which most joyfully the next night she doth in her own house, her old husband being in bed and snoring fast a sleep. At Morisini's first sight and entrance into her chamber (where she all alone privately stays for him) she throws herself on her knees at his feet, and with sighs, tears, and blushes begs his pardon for her unconstancy in marrying Palmerius, the which she no way attributes to his long stay, but rather to her father's cruelty and her own misfortune. Morosini is as joyful of her sight as sorrowful of this her error, and so will not permit her to kneel, because he sees and knows, and also assureth her, that she is still the Goddess of his heart and affection. He takes her up in his arms, and there embraceth and freely pardons her, and so they reciprocally speak each to other in the sweet language of love, I mean of kisses, sighs, and tears, with the last whereof, they again and again, bedew and wash each others cheeks, as if love had made them far more capable to sigh than speak, and to weep than sigh: Here their old affections revive, and flame forth a new with more violence and impetuosity. She hath no power to deny him any thing, no not herself. For as he swears to live her servant, so she constantly vows to live and dye his handmaid, and that his will shall ever be her Law, and his requests in all things her commands. here his heart beats for love, and her breast pants for j●…y. For as he promiseth her, that she shall be his sole and only love; so she willingly) forgets herself so far, as solemnly to protest to him, that he shall be more her Husband than Palmerius, when with many embraces and kisses, they for that night part.  
The next morning Morosini and his two consorts Astonicus, and Donato (by the feigned way of a rejoicing compliment) do visit his young Mistress Imperia, and her old husband Palmerius, who (more out of his own goodness than their deserts) bids them all most kindly and courteously welcome. They congratulate with him for this his happy match with Imperia, for which, old Palmerius respectively thanks them, but he knows not what dangerous snakes lurk under the green leaves of this their pretended fair courtesy. As for his Wife Imperia, she is so reserved in her comportment, and so coy in her carriage towards them, that (according to the custom of Italy) her Husband can hardly persuade or cause her to see and salute them, the which at last she faintly and feignedly performs, rather with an eye of disdain than of respect. They all see the young Wife with love and pity, but look on her old Husband with contempt and envy; yet Morosini then and there in stealth sees Imperia's heart in her eyes, when in counterchange, she knows his heart by his enamoured looks and countenance: So Palmerius (being as innocent as aged) having discoursed with them about their voyage, and about Turkey and Constantinople, and courteously prayed them to be no strangers to him and his house, whiles the contrary winds kept them here in Ancona, which they readily and thankfully promise him, they for this time take leave each of other, Astonichus and Donato highly applauding the beauty of Imperia, and Morosini infinitely condemning and contemning the simplicity and age of her old Husband Palmerius.  
But this is not all, for that very afternoon Morosini (out of the intemperate heat and passion of his love) by a confident messenger sends to pray Imperia to meet him at three of the clock in her Garden, which was a pretty way distant from her house, the which she joyfully grants him; and here it is where they meet, and where I am enforced to say, that in the pavilion or banqueting house of this Garden, these our two youthful lovers (after a thousand sweet kisses and embraces) first received each of other those amorous delights and pleasures, which modesty will not, and chastity and honesty cannot permit me to mention, as also for that these pills of sugar are most commonly candid in bitter wormwood and gall, and but too frequently prove honey to the palate, but poison to the heart and soul.  
And here in this her Garden (I say again) was the very first time and place where our fair Imperia, who was so famous in Loretto and Ancona for her piety and chastity, forgetting the first, made shipwreck of the last, and where of a Gentlewoman of honour, she lost her honour, by committing this her beastly sin of sensuality and Adultery. When the winds, which were contrary to Morosini's voyage, proved so favourable and propitious to his lustful desires, that he thinks of nothing less than of his return to Venice, nor of any thing so much as of his stay here in Ancona, with his fair and sweet love Imperia; who likewise finds less content and pleasure in the company of her Husband Palmerius than she hoped for, and now far more in her dear friend Morosini than she either dreamt or expected: In which trivial regard, and sinful consideration, she (in a manner) abandons the first, and gives herself wholly over to the will and pleasure of the second, and so turning the custom of these their lascivious dalliances into a habit, and that into a second nature, both in her Garden, and her own house, she very often (both by day and night) commits this bitter-sweet sin of Adultery with Morosini, whereof a subtle young Nephew of Palmerius, of some eighteen years old, who was his sister's son, and termed Richardo, takes exact and curious notice, and once among the rest he peeps in at the keyhole of his Aunt's chamber door, and there sees her and Signior Morosini on the bed together, and in no less familiarity than was requisite, or could be expected betwixt his Uncle her Husband Palmerius and herself; whereupon secretly envying and hating her, because he was afraid she should bear away all, or at least the greatest part of his said Uncle's Estate and wealth from him, (who for want of children, hoped that he therefore should be his adopted heir) he therefore maliciously bears the remembrance of this object & accident in his mind, with an intent that when occasion should hereafter present the report and knowledge thereof to his said Uncle, might justly cause him wholly to heave and raze her out of his good opinion & affection. As for Morosini and Imperia, they (notwithstanding all this) do still strongly endeavour to blear the eyes of her Husband Palmerius, who (thinking his wife to be as chaste as fair, and rather a Diana than a Lais) out of his good nature doth sometimes in his house feast Morosini, and his two Consorts Astonicus and Donato: But they will prove pernicious and fatal guests to him, for ere long we shall see them require this hospitality and courtesy of his, with a prodigious and treacherous ingratitude. In which mean time all Ancona resounds of the great expense and profuse prodigality of Morosini, and his two associates, for they here revel it out in the best Taverns and companies of the City, and not only exceed others, but also themselves, in the richness and bravery of their apparel, but most especially Morisini, whose apparel is every way fitter for an Italian Nobleman, than a Venetian Merchant. Our lustful and lascivious Imperia is never well contented or pleased but in his presence, and her Husband's absence; and here to relate the truth of her heart, Morosini is more her Husband than Palmerius, or rather Palmerius is but the shadow, and Morosini the essential substance of her Husband, and therefore (I desire the Reader to know and remember) that in that regard and consideration I have purposely entitled this History not to be of Palmerius and Imperia but of Morosini and Imperia.  
Morosini, Astonicus, and Donato (in their lodging and chambers) have many times many private speeches and conferences, what pity it is that so sweet and fair a young Gentlewoman as Imperia, should (by the constraint of her unkind and cruel father) thus be clogged and chained in marriage to so old a dotard as Palmerius, (for a more favourable Epithet their vanity and folly could not afford to give him) and Morosini (in the dumb eloquence and Logic of Imperia's sighs and tears) apparently believes that (in her heart and soul) she infinitely desireth and wisheth that Palmerius were in Heaven, and himself now her Husband here on earth in his place: He reads as much in her looks and countenance, and is therefore confident that her heart and ambition aspire to no sweeter earthly felicity. He hath not lost his wit in his affection, nor wholly drowned his judgement, either in the fresh Roses and Lilies of her beauty, or in the resplendent lustre of those sparkling Diamonds and stars, her eyes. He knows that his Estate is far inferior to his birth and extraction, and yet that his prodigalities and expenses (both in Turkey and Italy) are far superior and above his Estate: He would feign (therefore) find out the means to bear up his port, and consequently to preserve his reputation with the whole world, the which he esteems equal to his life, if not above it. He knows that Imperia is already more his Wife than her Husbands, and is very confident that he can make her apt for any impression, and capable of any design, which may advance his own fortunes, and confirm both their contents, whereunto conjoining the sweetness of her beauty the excellency of her feature, and the exceeding great wealth of her old Husband, he adding all these considerations together, they here weigh him down to Hell & Satan, by terminating his thoughts and fixing his heart upon this hellish resolution, to send him speedily to Heaven in a bloody winding sheet; and no other charitable thought, or Christian consideration can divert him from this inhuman and bloody project, neither can he possibly reap any truce of his thoughts, or peace of his heart, before he have attempted and finished it.  
To which end, the very next night that he lay and wantonized in bed with his Imperia (for God knows her old Husband lay but seldom with her) and finding her extraordinarily to sigh, he lays hold of this advantage, and opportunity, and very earnestly demands of her what ails her, where at her tongue then fled to her heart, because her heart was then flying from God to the Devil, so she continues her sighing, but is still mute and returns him no answer. Till at last Morosini suspecting that in her which his hopes desired, and his desires hoped for, than I say what his demands could not obtain of her his kisses do, when swearing him to secrecy, she) after many far fetched fighes) tells him; that she loves him so dear and tenderly, as for his sake she either wisheth herself in her grave or her husband Palmerius in Heaven which is the sweet music and melody that Morosini expects, and which to his unexpressable joy he now receives from her, when paying her the principal and interest of this her dearest Love and affection towards him, with many kisses; he passionately entreats her, that she will employ him to finish this pleasing tragedy, but she is again mute hereat, and therefore he again more earnestly entreats her to confer this favour on him; Who then taking counsel of her Lust, and of Hell, she grants his first request herein with silence, but his second with a free and cheerful consent. When as two wretched and bloody miscreants) they reciprocally swear secrecy herein each to other, as also that they will speedily dispatch him, and so in a very short time after marry each other & no longer live in Ancona but in Venice. But what a fatal, what a hellish contract was this, which they equally confirm as well with oaths as kisses, and how at one time do I pity both their youth & folly, and hate their obscence affections each to other; and their foul crimes unto God herein. They cannot content themselves with lust but with blood, for they are so resolutely inhuman and impious, as they will needs add murder to adultery, as if one of these two foul sins were not enough sufficient to make both of them wretched in this life, if not miserable in that to come; but the Devil is so strong with them as they vow to advance, and disdain to retire in the perpetration of this deplorable business; So from the matter they proceed to the manner hereof. Morosini proposeth poison, but Imperia rejects this his opinion, as being dangerous both in the procuring, and administering When she propoundeth to have him stifled by night in his bed, to the which after two or three pauses and consideratious, he will and freely consenteth. So hereon they both do finally agree and resolve. But because Morosini knows his Imperia to be a wife and weak woman, and therefore fitter for counsel than execution, and himself alone peradventure not strong enough (with safety) to perform it without some other men's assistance, he therefore tells her that he will likewise engage his faithful friends and companions Astonicus and Donato herein. But Imperia is extremely against it, as grounding her apprehension and fear upon this Maxim. That as one is more capable and proper to keep counsel then two, so consequently are two than four. But when (in answer hereof) he vows and swears to her that they they are no less his faithful friends and servants than he hers; then (with much alacrity and joy) she yields thereunto, so they confirming this their agreement with many oaths, and sealing it with a world of kisses he leaves this his fair sweetheart in bed, and at break of day departs from her, and so hies him home to his own Lodging to his two companions Astonicus and Donato, who (the premises considered) do perfectly know, at what midnight Mass he hath been, what shrine he hath visited, and what Saint adored and prayed to.  
Some three hours after they all call for their breakfasts, the which as soon as they have taken and ended, (for still as yet the wind is contrary for them to set sail for Venice) Morosini prays them forthwith to walk with him up to the Domo (or Cathedral Church) of that City which stands over it on a high rocky Hill, and there proudly looks up toward, the Mountains of Loretto, and Recagnati, and down to the azured plains and valleys of the Adriatic Sea (whereon Boreas rings his Northern peals, and Neptune danceth his Southern Lavolta's.) So here in this famous Church, (which was built for offering up religious prayers to God, and not for making up bloody conferences and contracts to, and with the Devil) Morosini first acquaints them with this business, and with his, and his Imperia's most earnest prayers, and affectionate requests for their assistance therein; Sith the life of her old doting Husband was no less their affliction and misery, than this his death would infallibly prove their prosperity, triumph and glory, because she was formerly contracted to himself, long before he married her: which she was enforced and constrained to do through the cruelty and tyranny of her Father. Now as their needs not many good words and persuasions to base hearts, and polluted and profane souls, who of themselves are already disposed to wickedness, and prepared to sinful actions. So (because of Morosini's old friendship and familiarity, of Imperias' beauty, and her old Husband Palmerius his exceeding great wealth and riches) these two graceless wretches Astonicus and Donato do cheerfully promise Morosini, the very utmost of their possible powers for the accomplishment hereof, whereon they all three do there solemnly and interchangeably give their hands and oaths as also for eternal secrecy. Which done they return to their Lodging; and at dinner (when they had purposely sent away their Servants, as also those of the house) they in very great glasses of Albania wine, do on their knees drink healths to the prosperity of this their intended great business: The which after dinner Morosini (with much joy) fully relates to his Imperia, and she (for her part) understands and receives it from him with no less delight and exhileration. When being (as strongly seduced & provoked by their lascivious desires, as they were merely propagated and engendered by the Devil who was the first and sole Author thereof, impatient of all delays they conclude to finish this business the second night after, which (as I have been credibly informed in Ancona) was the very Eve of the purification of the blessed Virgin Mary so famous and famoused in Loretto, and hereon these our two lustful and lewd Lovers Morosini and Imperia do give and take exact and curious directions each from other, both of the hour and the manner thereby the better to dispatch it, with less danger, and more assurance and facility; And they are so lascivious in their wishes, so vain and profane in their hopes, so cruel and in humane in their desires, and so fierce and bloody in their resolutions, as they think every hour an age before they see it effected.  
All this while our innocent and harmless old Palmerius, albeit he have the will but not the power to please his young wife Imperia by night, yet by day (yea and almost every day) he hath both the power and will to bestow some rich gifts and presents on her, and to rain down showers of Gold into her lap, as jove did to his fair Danae, and as one way he held it his felicity to gaze & contemplate on the excellency of her pure beauty, so again he made it his delight and glory to see her flaunt it out in rich and brave apparel, and also to provide her the most rarest Viands and daintiest diet that gold or silver could procure. But poor Palmerius (all this cost and courtesy of thine to thy Wife notwithstanding) I am enforced to write with equal pity to thee, and shame to her, little dost thou conceive or think, what a dangerous Cockatrice or pernicious Viper thou harbourest in harbouring her in thy House, thy Bed, thy Bosom.  
The dismal night being now come, which these four execrable person; have designed and destined for the finishing of this deplorable business. It is no sooner twelve of the Clock by Morosini's watch, but he with Astonicus and Donato (with their Rapiers and Pistols without any light) iffue forth their Lodging, and presently trip away to Palmerius house, where (according to promise) they find the street door a little open and Imperia (as a fury of hell) there ready to receive them, when although it were a time and place farmore fitter for them to tremble than kiss; yet so fervent is the fire of Morosini & Imperias' lascivious and furious affection; as they cannot yet refrain from giving each other one, or two at least. When leaving Donato (with his Rapier drawn) closewithin the door, to guard and make it good against all opposing and intervening accidents, Morosini leads Imperia by her right arm, and Astonicus by the left, and so for the more security (purposely) leaving their shoes below with Donato, and drawing on woollen pumps, they all three ascend the stairs when she with wonderful silence) first conducts them to her own Chamber (which was some two distant from her (Husbands) where the windows being close shut, and a small wax candle burning on her table, and her prayer book by it wherein (still expecting the hour of midnight) she silently read whiles the Devil held the candle to her, she there gives each of them a pillow to work this damnable fact, having silently given such order, that her Husband's Nephew Richardo, and all the Servants of the house, were gone to bed above three hours before: Thus this treacherous She-devil Imperia (for I can no more term her a woman, much less a wife, and least of all a Christian) is the fatal guide to bloody Morosini and Astonicus, who brings them first to the door of her old Husband Palmerius his Chamber, which she had purposely left a little open, and then to his bed, who is deeply and sound sleeping in his innocency towards them, as they were but too too wide waking in their inveterate malice against him, she keeping the door, and Morosini standing by one side of the bed and Astonicus by the other, they there in regard of his impotency and weakness) do easily stifle him to death, not so much as suffering him either once to cry or screech, and then to make sure work, they speedily and violently thrust a small Orange into his mouth, thereby the better to cover and colour out this their villainy to the world in making all men believe, that it was Palmerius himself, who had put that Orange into his own mouth thereby purposely to destroy himself, when leaving his breathless body in his bed, they secretly issue forth the Chamber and she draws fast the door after her, and so descends with them down the stairs to the street door, where with much triumphs joy, and thanks between them all; Morosini giving his Imperia many kisses, and she desiring them all three immediately to repair to their Lodgings, and not to stir thence till they hear from her, which she promiseth Morosini shall be as soon as conveniently and possibly she can, they depart home. When she first softly bolting the street door, and then her own chamber door, she presently (with much security and no repentance) betakes herself to her bed, where (vild wretch that she is) she no more wakes for grief at the life, but now sleeps for joy at the death of her old doting Husband Palmerius. But we shall not go far before we see God convert these her triumphs into tears and this her false joy into true misery and confusion for the same, The manner thus.  
Whiles Morosini, Astonicus, and Donato, do in their lodging for joy of this their bloody fact, carouse the remainder of the night, and the next morning keep their beds till nine of the cloak, without once thinking of God or heaven, or of fearing either Hell or Satan. Imperia putting an Angel's face on her devilish heart, goes (according to her accustomed manner) about six of the clock in the morning away with her waiting maid, and her prayer book and beads in hand to hear Mass at Saint Francis (which is the grey Friars) Church near to the jews Street, with an intent to stay there in her Orisons till past eight. But let the reader judge with what a profane zeal, and prodigious and impious devotion she doth it, as also farther know, that God who is the great judge of Heaven and Earth (in his sacred justice) is now resolved to bring this lamentable murdering of Palmerius to detection and light and to proclaim and publish it to the sight and knowledge of the world by a way no less strange than remarkable.  
Within less than half an hour that Imperia went away to Mass to Saint Francis Church, an Innkeeper of Loretto who dwelled there at the sign of the Crown named Antonio Herbas, arrives there in Ancona to Palmerius house with a letter for him from his Father Bondino, who speaking with his Nephew Richardo, he delivereth and sendeth up the Letter to his Uncle, who then opening the lat●…h of his chamber door, he no sooner entereth but with his foot he stumbles at a pair of rich gloves, which taking up and knowing them to belong to Signior Morosini, because some two or three days together he had seen him wear them, he with a smile claps them into his pocket, and so giving his Uncle the good morrow, he advanceth up to his bed to deliver him this Letter; When withdrawing the curtains he (contrary to his expectation) finds him dead, and well near cold in his bed with a whole small Orange in his mouth, whereat he makes so lamentable and sorrowful an outcry, that the noise thereof brings up two Servants of the house to inquire and know what the cause thereof might be. Who being likewise sad spectators of this their masters sudden and unfortunate death, they conceive and believe, that he had voluntarily stopped his own breath, and destroyed himself by putting this Orange in his mouth, and that his face being black and swollen, was only his own struggling for life against death; which opinion of theirs in common sense and reason was probable enough, if God had not here resolved to disprove it, in verifying and making apparent the contrary. For Richardo (who was of a pregnant wit, and of a sharp and quick apprehension) considering that these were Morosini's gloves which he found there in his Uncle's chamber; And his memory now telling his heart, what lascivious dalliances and obscene embraces and familiarity his eyes had lately seen and known between him, and his Aunt Imperia, as also that God heretofore prompted and informed his soul, that they both had an equal share and hand in this lamentable murder of his Uncle, and that it was far better for him justly to ruin her now, than she unjustly to beggar him hereafter. He therefore (with tears in his eyes) prays the Servants to stay a little while in the Chamber with his dead Uncle till his return; and then with those gloves in his pocket, and this letter in his hand) he speeds away to the Podestate (or criminal judge) of this City named Signior Loudovicus Ceranno and in a passionate and sorrowful speech makes him know as much as himself knows of this lamentable murder of his Uncle Palmerius, for the which he strongly chargeth Morosini and his said Aunt Imperia to be the Author and Actor, and so craves justice on them both for the same. This grave personage is very sorrowful at this lamentable accident, and likewise at this relation and accusation of Richardo, aswell for the manner thereof, as for the quality of the persons who he hears, and fears are interested herein, when walking a turn or twodeeply contemplating hereon in his chamber, he sits himself down in his Chair, and then (bidding Richardo approach nearer to him) he seriously demands of him these four Questions. First if he were assured that these were Morosini's gloves, to which Richardo answered he perfectly knew them to be his, for that he had seen him wear them three or four several times. Secondly, where Morosini was lodged in that City, whereat he replied that he and his two associates Astonicus and Donato, lay at the sign of the ship upon the Kaye; Thirdly, where he thought his Aunt Imperia now was, whereat he tells him, she is now in Saint Francis Church in her devotions, and fourthly what letter that was which he held fast sealed in his hand, when he also informed him, that this was the very same Letter, which he formerly told him of, the which Signior Bandino (the Father to his Aunt Imperia) sent to his Uncle this morning from Loretto, by an Innkeeper of that Town named Antonio Herbas, whom he said he had brought along with him to affirm so much, the which being called up before the Podestate, he upon his corporal oath did so, when the Podestate taking that Letter from Richardo, and breaking up the seals thereof, he finds it to speak this language.  
BONDINO to PALMERIUS.  
IT was a sensible grief to me, when I first heard of Morosini's arrival from Turkey to Ancona; But far the greater, when I since understand of his long and lingering stay there, and to write thee the truth of my heart, my thoughts by day, and my dreams by night do still prompt and assure me, that as it is likely he will attempt some thing against the Chastity of thy wife my Daughter, so it is not impossible for him likewise to plot somewhat against thine own life, for by Nature and inclination I hear he is very malicious and revengeful. If he depart speedily to Venice, then burn this Letter in Ancona (which I now send the there by my Neighbour Antonio Herbas) But if he farther protract his stay there, then speedily bring thyself, and thy wife away to me here in Loretto; where my House shall be a Sanctuary for her, and a Castle and Citadel for thyself: slight not this my careful, and tender advice to thee, but rather resolve with confidence, that as God gave it first to my heart, so from my Heart I most affectionately now send it to thee.  
BONDINO.  
The Podestate being ascertained of all these Evidences, from the confession of Richardo, the gloves of Morosini, the Letter of Bondino, and the acknowledgement of Herbas, although hereupon he verily believes that Palmerius was stifled in his bed by his Wife Imperia and her lover Morosini, yet (as a wise judge and a prudent magistrate) he will inform his knowledge of one important point more, for the better disquisition and vindication of the truth of this deplorable business. He will not send any subordinate Officer, but a private friend of his to the Host of the Ship upon the Key, where Morosini lodged, whose name he now knows to be Stephano Fundi, and that (in favour of a cup of Wine) he should courteously allure him home to his house and presence, the which that friend of his performs, where the Podestate than told him, that he hath been informed by divers, that he is an honest man, and therefore in friendly sort he prays him to answer him the truth of three demands which he shall make unto him. First if Morosini and his friends Astonicus and Donato lay in his house all the last night, or if not, when they went abroad, and at what hour returned. When Fundi (performing his duty & reverence to the Podestate) tells him, that they all three, went forth of his house together the last night with their Rapiers without any lights, a little after twelve of the clock and returned home again a little before two as near as he could guess. Secondly, the Podestate shows him the gloves, and asks of him if he thought these were Morosini's to the which he answered, he did assure himself they were, for that he had many times seen him wear them. Thirdly he inquires of him if he knew where Morosini, Astonicus, and Donato now were; whereunto he made answer, that after they came home to his house the last night, they merrily carowsed and drank in their Chamber till six of the clock in the morning; that they then went to their beds, and there as yet, they all lay sound sleeping. The Podestate having thus happily cleared all these rubs he makes no doubt they were the murderers of Palmerius, and therefore resolves speedily to lay sure hold of them all. But he is so solid and wise in his administration of justice, as he will add subtlety to his power, and discretion to his authority. First therefore in friendly manner he confines Fundi to a chamber here in his own House to prevent that he should not return home to tell tales to Morosini and his associates. Then he presently sends away two of his own Sons who were gallant young Gentlemen, named Signior Alexandro and Thomaso Ceranno (who were ignorant of all this matter) with his coach to Saint Francis Church, and when they there see the fair Gentlewoman Imperia to issue forth, then in courteous manner not to fail to bring her away in coach with them to his House, under pretext and colour that the Lady Honoria their mother doth desire to see and speak with her, and that she will please to pass one hour with her in her garden, with whom, and where she (by the way of visits) had formerly sometimes been. These two young Gentlemen (in obedience to their father's commands) drive away to that Church, and presently espy Imperia on her knees who now riseth and goes forth, they follow her, and in the street with their hats in their hands do present their Lady Mother's request and errand to her, as we have formerly heard. Imperia knowing them to be the Podestates two Sons, she at first is so infinitely perplexed, grieved and amazed hereat. Yea she is hereupon vexed and tormented in so strange a manner, that with much perturbation of mind, she now (through her foul and guilty conscience) looks pale for sorrow, and presently red again for shame, so that in the turning of a hand, and twinkling of an eye she exchangeth the Lilies of her cheeks into Roses, and those Roses as soon again into Lilies. But then (fearing her danger lest when she had all the reasons of the world both to doubt and fear it most) considering that the Podestate and the Lady his wife were her kind and honourable good friends, and had now sent their coach for her, as also observing the fair carriage, and courteous language of these two her young sons towards her. She then (being blinded by the Devil) doth so wholly forget both her crime and her danger, her judgement and herself, that rejecting her fear, and composing her countenance to a modest cheerfulness, she willingly obeys the mother's commands, and accepts of the Son's courtesy and so goes along home with them in their Coach, where being arrived. These two young Gentlemen, do usher and conduct her up to the gallery, where not the Lady their Mother, but the Podestate their father, (accompanied with two other grave Officers of justice attend her coming. Their very first sight is sufficiently capable to daunt her courage with fear, and to transpierce her heart and soul with sorrow; When the Podestate calling her to him, he with a stern countenance gives her this thundering peal for her good-morrow and breakfast. That he is sorry to see that so fair a Gentlewoman as herself, should harbour and enshrine so foul a heart. That her good old Husband Signior Palmerius is this morning found stifled to death in his bed with an Orange in his mouth, and that he both thinks and assures himself, it is done by her, and by her bloody Ruffian and Enamourato Morosini, for the which he saith he is constrained (in honour to justice) to make her Prisoner to the Pope his holiness, his sovereigning Lord and Master, whereat this false Hypocrite Imperia (with a world of sighs and tears cries out and tells him, that she left her old Husband Palmerius in perfect health in his bed this morning, that therefore she hopeth and trusteth in God he is not murdered, or if he be, that it must needs be done by his wretched Nephew Richardo, who impatiently gaped and hoped for his great wealth and riches, or else by some Devil in his shape, of his seducing and hiring him thereunto. That Morosini is not her Ruffian or Enamourato, but a brave merchant by his profession, & an Honourable Gentleman of Venice by birth and extraction, and that she dares pawn her life for his that they are both of them as innocent of this foul crime, as the infants who were borne but the last night, and that she hath far more reason to weep for the death of her husband, than any way to fear her own life, because she knows that God is the defender of innocents, and the protector of the righteous, with many other passionate and sorrowful speeches conducting and looking that way; but these her speeches and tears cannot prevail with the Podestate, for both he and his two colleagues do yet firmly believe that she is guilty of this inhuman murder; So he imprisoneth her in a chamber of his own house for that day, and intends at night to send her to the common Goal of that City. Now as she is led along between two Ushers (or Sergeants) through a lower room, where all the Podestates Servants and some few others of the City were flocked thither to see her pass by, she infinitely more caring for her Morosini's life, and fearing his death than her own, it is her chance to espy Mercario (whom we have formerly understood she sent with her Letters to him to Constantinople and Aleppo, and knowing that the Sergeants would then difficultly permit her to speak with any of the company, she amidst her tears be thinks herself of a pretty policy; for as she passed close by Mercario she purposely le's fall her gloves and wet handkerchief for him to take up, the which he doth; and as he was stooping to effect it, she secretly and swiftly rounds him in his ear thus. I pray go instantly upon the Kaye to Morosini's lodging, and tell him that I am a prisoner in the Podestates house, for the business he knows of, and herefore that he (and Astanicus and Donato) do speedily provide for their safety; as also that if I had a thousand lives I would willingly lose and sacrifice them all for to preserve his, and that I will live and dye his most loving friend and faithful handmaid, the which as soon as she had uttered, she is imprisoned in a dark Chamber: where she hath none but her guilty conscience, the bare walls, and the two Sergeants for her miserable comforters; and yet here (thinking to breath and draw some hope among all her despair and sorrows she prays one of the Sergeants to report her humble service to the Lady Honoria the Podestates Wife, and to pray her to oblige and honour her so much as to see and speak a word with her. But she having been informed by the judge her husband that he absolutely held and believed her to be the murderer of her own Husband Signior Palmerius, she was too Honourable to grant Imperia this courtesy, and therefore (in detestation of her foul fact) highly disdained to afford her this charity and consolation, and so slatly denies either to see or speak with her.  
And now do the Podestate, and his two Colleagues sit and debate in council with themselves, how and in what manner to surprise Morosini, Astonicus, and Donato, for although they are not sure, yet by their absence the last night from their lodging with Morosini they think that they two are Accessaries with him herein; First, they are of opinion to seize on their ship, which is at anchor in the Road, termed the Rialto of Venice (a name I think derived and taken from the merchant's Exchange of that ci●…ty termed the Rialto, or else from the Rialto Bridge, which (for one Arch) is doubtless the rarest, fairest, and richest Bridge of the world) which ship was of some three hundred Tons, and bore some twenty pieces of Ordinance, and then presently after to seize on themselves in their Lodging. But upon more mature deliberation, they resolve to abandon this their opinion, and so to seize on their persons, but not to arrest or make stay of their Ship and although their real to justice, and hast for their apprehension be very great, yet Mercario out of his respects to Imperia and affection to Marosini tripped on through the by Streets and nearest way to the Key so swiftly, as he had already secretly related him and his two consorts the sorrowful news which Imperia sent them by him. Whereat with fear in their hearts and courages, and amazement in their looks and countenances, they all three leap from their beds to their swords, discharge their Inn, pack up their Trunks and baggage and resolve with all possible speed to fly to their ship, and then if not with, yet against the winds to put into Sea, and for their safety to leave Ancona, and sail for Venice. But yet here Morosini's heart is perplexed with a thousand Torments to understand of his Imperia's eminent and apparent danger, and with many Hells in stead of one to see that he must now thus suddenly leave her dear sight and company, which he every way esteems no less than either his earthly felicity, or his Heaven upon earth. But here again violently called away by the importunate cries of Astonicus and Donato, and yet far more by the consideration of his own proper fear and danger; Mercario is no sooner stolen away from them, but they all three with their swords drawn rush down the stairs with equal intents and resolution to exchange their Inn for their Ship, and thereby to metamorphose their danger into security; But they shall see that these weak and reeling hopes of theirs will now deceive them. For they find all doors of their Inn locked within ●…ide, and surrounded and beleaguered without, with many armed Sergeants Soldiers, and Citizens for their apprehension: And although Morosini, Astonicus and Donato, were so inflamed with their youthful blood and courage, as they were once generously resolved to sell their lives dearly, and with their Pistols, and Swords to prefer an honourable to an infamous death, yet being far overmastered with numbers and therefore enforced to take a Law of the stronger; Whereunto they the sooner hearken and consent, in regard the Sergeants and officers do politicly cry out to them, and pray them to yield, as affirming that to their knowledge their resolution and fear doth far exceed the danger of their offences. They make a virtue of necessity, and unlocking the doors of their In and chambers do cheerfully yield up their persons, pistols and swords to the Pope's Officers of justice, who as soon convey them all three to the common prison of that City, which was the same wherein our not so sorrowful as unfortunate Imperia was already entered, and where to her unexpressible grief, and Morosini's unparalleled affliction & disconsolation, such exact charge was given of the Podestate, and such curiousheed observed and taken of the Gaoler, that he could not possibly be permitted either to see or speak with her, or she with him, the which indeed they conceived to be far more sharp than their crime, and infinitely more bitter than the consideration either of their fear or danger.  
Now the news of these lamentable Accidents being speedily posted from Ancona to Loretto, our Imperia's cruel Father Bondino no sooner is ascertained thereof. But seeing his son in law Palmerius murdered in his bed, and his wife and his own only daughter Imperia (with her Ruffian Morosini and his two consorts) to be imprisoned as the Authors, and actors thereof, he for the love he bore to her life and the tender pity and sorrow he felt of the infamy of her approaching death, suddenly falls sick, and dies; Whereof his imprisoned Daughter Imperia understanding, she (in regard of his former severity towards her) is so much passionate, and so little compassionate as she rather rejoiceth than lamenteth at it; Only she prays God to forgive his soul of that cruelty of his in enforcing her to marry Palmerius, which she knows to be the the original cause, and fatal cloud from whence have proceeded al●… these dismal storms of affliction, and tempests of untimely death, which she fears must very shortly befall both herself, and her second self Morosini.  
Whiles thus Astonicus and Donato grieve at their hard fortune and danger, and Morosini and Imperia do reciprocally more lament and sorrow for their separation then for their imprisonment, and that the Podestate and other officers of justice of Ancona are resolved first to inform the Pope, and then to expect his holiness' pleasure for the arraignment, and punishment of these four prisoners, it pleased God, exceedingly to visit the town of Loretto, and especially the City of Ancona with the Plague, whereof many thousands in a few months were swept away, so by special commission and order from Rome, they (in company of divers other Prisoners) are conveyed to the city of Polegnio, two small days journey from Ancona and there to be arraigned and tried upon their lives and deaths; At which time as they passed by the old, little,. City of Tolentino where I than (in my intended travels towards Rome) lay upon my recovery of a burning fever; When I say the nature of their crimes, and the quality of their persons made my curiosity so ambitious, as to see and observe them in their several chambers of the Inn where they that night lay which was at the sign of the Pope's arms, as for Astonicus and Donato I found them to be rather sad than merry; Morosini to be far more merry than wise, and Imperia to be infinitely more fair than fortunate, and all of them to be less sorrowful for their affliction and danger, than for the cause thereof.  
Within three hours of their arrival to Folig●…io they are all four convented before the two criminal Judges, who are purposely sent from Rome thither and are there, and then severally charged with this foul murder of stifling, to death the old Signior Palmerius in his bed which all and every one of them apart do stiffly deny. Notwithstanding that Fundt the host, and Richardo the Nephew, give in evidence of strong presumption against them, and also notwithstanding of Morosini's gloves and Bondino's letter written to his Son in law Palmerius, and delivered by Herbas as we have formerly understood. But these two grave and prudent judges, yet strongly suspecting the contrary, they will not be deluded with the airy words, and sugared speeches and protestations of their pretended innocency, but consult between themselves what hear to resolve on for the vindication of this truth; So at last they hold it expedient and requisite first to expose Astonicus to the torments of the Rack, the which (he being a strong and robustuous man) he endureth, with a firm resolution and constancy every way above himself, and almost beyond belief, and still confesseth nothing, but his innocency and ignorance of this deplorable fact, whereof the Judges resting not yet satisfied, they within an hour after adjudge Donato to the tortures of the Scarpines', who being a little timbered man, of a pale complexion and weak constitution of body, his right foot no sooner feels the unsufferable fury of the fire, and his tormentors then confidently promising him all desired favour from his judges if he will confess the truth, but after some sorrowful tears, and pitiful cries he fully and amply doth, and in the same manner and form, as in all its circumstances we have formerly understood. The which when the judges hear of, they cannot refrain, first from admiring and wondering there at, and then from lamenting that personages of their rank and quality should be the Authors and Actors of so foul and lamentable a murder especially of this fair Gentlewoman Imperia to her own good old husband Palmerius. Now by this time also are Morosini, Imperia and Astonicus acquainted with this fatal confession and accusation of Donato against them for this murder, whereat they do infinitely lament & grieve, because they are thereby perfectly assured that it hath infallibly made them all three liable, and obnoxious to death, as also for that their supposed firm friend Donato proved himself so false a man, and so true a coward to be the cause thereof, wherein they so much forget themselves, as they do not once think, and they will not therefore remember, that the detection of this their foul murder proceeded immediately from Heaven, and originally from the providence and justice of the Lord of Hostes.  
The very same after noon, the judges send for Morosini, Imperia and Astonicus to appear before them in their public tribunal of justice, where they first acquaint and charge them with Donatos confession and accusation against them for murdering of Palmerius, whereat they are so far from being any way dismayed ordanted, as they all do deny, and re●…ell his accusation, and so in high terms do stand upon their innocency, and justification. But when they see Donato brought into the court in a chair, (for his fiery torments of the Scarpines', had so cruelly scorched, and pitifully burnt away the flesh of the sole of his right foot almost to the bone that he was wholly unable either to go or stand) and that they were to be confronted face to face with him, as also they being also hotly terrified and threatened by the judges with the torments of the Rack and Scarpines', than God was so gracious to their hearts and so merciful to their souls, that they looking mournefully each at other, she weeping, and they sighing, and all of them despairing of life, and too perfectly assured of death, they all confess the whole truth of this foul fact of theirs, and so confirm as much as Donato had formerly affirmed of this their bloody crime of murdering Pal●…rius in his bed; when one of these two reverend and grave judges immediately thereupon do condemn them all four to be hanged the next morning at the common place of execution of that city: although Donato because of his confession hereof (in vain) flattered himself that he should receive a pardon for his life; So they are all sent back to their prison from whence they came, where all the courtesy which the importunate requests of Morosini, and the incessant sighs and tears of Impreia an obtain of their judges is that they grant them an hour of time to see, converse, and speak one with the other that night in prison, in presence of their Gaolers, and some other persons before they die. When Morosini being guided towards her chamber, such is the weakness of his religion towards God; and the fervency (or rather the exorbitancy) of his affection towards her that as he passeth from chamber to chamber, he is so far from once thinking much less fearing of death, as he absolutely believes he is going to a Victory, and a triumph, here Moro●…ni with a world of sighs throws himself into his Imperia's neck & breast; and here Imperia with a whole deluge of tears embraceth and encloystereth her ●…orosini in her arms, when after a thousand kisses they beg pardon one of another, or being the essential and actual cause each of others death, and do interchangeably both kiss and speak, sometimes privately, and most times publicly before the spectators, that if those reports be true which I first heard thereof in Tolentino next in Folignio, and lastl●… in Rome, I say to depaint and represent it at life in all its circumstances, I should then begin a second history, when I am now on the very point and period to end the first, neither in my conceit is it a task either proper for me to undertake or pertinent for my pen to perform, because (to speak freely and ingeniously) I hold the grant and permission of this their amorous visit & interview in prison before they die, to be every way more worthy of the pity than of the gravity or piety of their judges. If therefore I do not content the curiosity, I yet hope I shall satisfy the judgement of my Christian Reader, here briefly to signify this their limited hour is no sooner passed, but to the sharp affliction of Morosini, the bitter anxiety of Imperia, they by their Gaolers are separated and confined to their several chambers, where (by the charity of their judges) they find two Friars and two Nuns attending them, to prepare their souls for Heaven, and in a less vain, and a more serious and religious conference to entertain both their time, and themselves, from an Earthly to the speculation and contemplation of a divine and heavenly love, as also from them to Astonicus and Donato.  
But before I proceed farther, We must understand, that the two Friars have not been with Morosini and the two Nuns with Imperia above an hour, But by the two judges there is a chief subordinate Officers of theirs sent to prison to tell Imperia, that her Uncle Signior Alexandro Bondino, a great Senator and famous judge of Rome, hath obtained her pardon of this present Pope Vrban the eighth. But she is not of glad of this news, as she is then curious to inquire if her Morosini be likewise pardoned, so the Officer tells her no, and that he absolutely must suffer death, than she weeps far faster than she rejoiceth, and affirms that she will not live but dye. The judges send for her, and persuade her to live, but she begs them as importunarely to give Morosini his life, as they do her to accept and receive her own. They tell her they have not the power to grant her the first, and she replies, that she than hath not the will to embrace and entertain the second. They acquaint Morosini herewith, who by their order and by their selves do strongly persuade her hereunto, but her first answer and resolution is her last, that she willaccept of no life if he must dye, neither will he refuse any death conditionally that she may live to survive him. The two Friars and two Nuns use their best Art and Oratory to persuade her hereunto, but they meet with impossibility to make her affection to Morosini, and her resolution to herself flexible hereunto. Her life is not half so precious to her as is his, for if she had many as she hath but one, she is both ready and resolute to lose and sacrifice them all for his sake, and would esteem it her felicity that her death might redeem and ransom his life. The Judges (out of their goodness and charity;) afford a whole day to invite and persuade her hereunto, but she is still deaf to their requests, and still one and the same woman, desirous to live with him, or constant and resolute to dye for him. Therefore when n●…thing can prevail with her, because dye he must, so die she will; to the which she cheerfully prepares herself, with an equal affection and resolution, which I rather admire than commend in her.  
So the next morning theyare all four brought to the place of common execution to suffer death. Where Donato is first liftedup to the Ladder, who being fuller of pain than words said little in effect, but that he wished he had either died in Constantinople or Aleppo, or else sunk in the sea before he came to Ancona and not to have here ended his days in misery and infamy. The next who was ordered to follow him was Astonicus, who told the world boldly and plainly, that he cared less for his death than for the cause thereof, and that he loved Morosini so perfectly and dear, that he rather rejoiced than grieved to dye for him, only he repented himself for assisting to murder Palmerius, and from his heart and soul beseeched God to forgive it him, and so he was turned over. Then Morosini ascends the Ladder ●…ad in a hair colour satin suit and a pair of crimson silk stockings, with garters and roses edged with silver lace, being so vain in his carriage, action, and speeches, as before he once thought of God, he (with a world of sighs) takes a solemneleave of his sweet heart Imperia, and with all the powers of his heart and soul prays her to accept of his life, and so to survive him; He makes an exact and godly confession of his sins to God and the world, and yet nevertheless he is so vain in his affection toward Imperia, as he takes both to witness, that had he a thousand lives he would cheerfully lose them all to save and preserve hers. As for Imperia such was her dear and tender affection to him, as she would fain look on him, as long as he lives, and yet she equally desires and resolves rather to die than to see him die, and because she hath not the power, therefore she turns her ●…ace and eyes from him, and will not have the will to see him dye; When he having said his prayers and so recommended his soul into the hands of his Redeemer, he is also turned over.  
Now although our Imperia be here again and again solicited by the judges, Friars and Nuns to accept of her life, yet she seeing her other self Morosini dead, she therefore disdains to survive him; she hath so much love in her heart, as she now hath little life, and less joy in her looks and countenance. She ascends the Ladder in a plain black Taffata Gown, a plain thick set Ruff, a white Lawn Quayfe, and a long black Cypress veil over her head with a white pair of gloves, and her prayer book in her hands. When being far more capable to weep than speak, she casting a wonderful sad and sorrowful look on her dead lover Morosini, after many volleys of far fetched sighs she delivers this short speech to that great concourse of people who from City and Country flocked thither to see her and them dye,  
Good People: I had lived more happy and not died so miserable if my Father Bondino had not so cruelly enforced me to marry Palmerius whom I could not love, and to leave Morosini, whom in heart and soul I ever affected a thousand times dearer than mine own life, and may all fathers who now see my death, or shall hereafter hear or read this my History be more pitiful and less cruel to their daughters by his Example. I do here now suffer many deaths in one to see that my dear Morosini is dead for my sake, for had he not loved me dear and I him tenderly he had never died for me, nor I for him, with such cheerfulness and alacrity as now we do. And here to deal truly with God and the world, although I could never affect or fancy my old husband Palmerius, yet no●… from my heart and soul I lament and repent that ever I was guilty of his innocent and untimely death, the which God forgive me, and I likewise request you all to pray unto God to forgive it me. And not to conceal or dissemble the truth of my heart, I grieve not to dye, but rather because I have no more lives to lose for my Morosini's affection and sake. I have and do devoutly pray unto God for his soul, and so I heartily request and conjure you all to do for mine. Thus I commend you all to happy and prosperous lives, myself to a pious and patient death in earth, and a joyful and glorious resurrection in Heaven, when signing herself often with the sign of the cross, she pulls her veil down over her face, and so praying that she might be buried in one and the same grave with Morosini, she bade the executioner perform his office, who immediately turns her over.  
And if reports be true. Never three young men, and one fair young Gentlewoman died more lamented and pitied than they. For Morosini died with more resolution than repentance, and Imperia with more repentance than resolution; thus was their lives, and thus their deaths. May we extract wisdom out of their folly, and charity out of their cruelty, so shall we live as happy as they died miserably and finish our days and lives in as much content and tranquillity as they ended theirs in shame, infamy, and confusion.   

GOD'S REVENGE, AGAINST THE CRYING AND Execrable sin of Murder.  
HISTORY XXVII.  
Father justinian a Priest, and Adrian an Innkeeper, poison De Laurier, who was lodged in his house, and then bury him in his Orchard; where a month after a Wolf digs him up, and devonres a great part of his body; which father justinian and Adrian understanding, they fly upon the same, but are afterwards both of them apprehended and hanged for it.  
Where our hearts are given to Covetousness, and cruelty, there is little sign of grace, and therefore less hope of our prosperity either in this life, or the next; For those are sins which so eclipse our judgements, and obscure and darken our Understandings, that we thereby run blindefolded, and headlong to all misery and confusion, and make our estates so desperate, that we shall not deserve to be pitied of others, because we would neither pity nor compassionate others, or which is worse ourselves. A deplorable example whereof, this ensewing History will present to our knowledge and consideration, in the persons of two execrable wretches which did wilfully cast away themselves, and their lives upon f●…e and enormous motives. May we religiously read it to the information of our Consciences, the reformation of our lives.  
A Rich Goldsmith of Dijon (the Capital City of Burgundy) named Monseiur De Laurier, aged of some threescore years or upwards, having been at Frankford Marte. and there sold many. jewelis, Bracelts, and chains of Pearl, for the which he had there received some 1700 Crowns; as he returned homewards with all that great sum of money, converted into couble pistols, which he carried behind him in his cloak bag and some remaining jewels; and in a private leather girdle next to his body, It chanced that he fell sick on the way, whereof finding himself ill and weak, and therefore both unwilling and unable to travel, he got into a poor Country Tavern upon the high way, some five leagues off from the town of Salines, where he took up his Lodging for that night, and there three other merchants who were in his company (whereof one was of Auxone, and the other two of Troy's in Champagne) very unkindly forsook him, and left him alone to himself; His sickness that night increasing (which gave him much pain and little rest) he not liking his lodging, and fearing himself not safe there; the next morning takes horse, and very softly rides towards Salynes', where he arrived about some two of the clock after dinner and went into the very first Inn which he met, at the extremest end of the Town, at the sign of S. Denis, whereof the Host of the house was named Adrian, and his wife Isabel, they were both of them about some forty years old, very short of stature, and weak of constitution of body, he of a coal black countenance, but she fair and of a pall white colour, as for him he was of a dissolute life and carriage, extremely given to wine and women. He was of poor Parentage and borne to no means at all, but she was well descended, and brought him at least two thousand Crowns to her portion in marriage, the which he had prodigally wasted, and deboshedly spent and squandered away, in following of his vicious riots and obscene pleasures and prodigalities: As for her she was of a modest carriage and of a virtuous disposition and inclination, so that by Antithesis I may well aver and affirm, that his base Vices made her sweet Virtues the more apparent and conspicuous, and her virtue his vices to all that knew them She made Chastity and Piety to be the two sweet ornaments and ●…eall virtues of her life, yea to be the Eli●… of her life, and the life of her soul. It was therefore an extreme grief to her heart, and a matchless torment to her mind, to see the sordid actions and humours of her Husband, as being every way more capable to pity than to remedy them. She grieved to see how because he would not serve God, she could not serve him, and therefore that he had viciously spent so much, as now in a manner he had almost nothing more left to spend. The sight and knowledge whereof drowns all the pleasures of her life, insomuch as she could sacrifice to nothing but to Sorrow and Repentance, and that which grieved her most and worst of all was to see that he disdained her advise and counsel, and that he was so far from reformation, as his vices grew and increased with his years: and had now not only taken up a habit but a second nature in the perversity of his lewd actione and affections. All the Lilies of her joys and the Roses of her content were turned into thorns of grief, and briers and th●…les of her vexation, insomuch as she was far more able to sigh than to speak forth her Calamities and miseries. He loved not his house, and which was worse he hated her company, yea his estate was so miserable, so deplorable, as he never conversed with God in prayer, and very seldom frequented his Church, the Service or Sacraments, and to show himself the more profane he hated all Priests and Preachers of Gods holy word and ordinances, and loved none so well as his rio●…us and ●…oaring companions, the very bane of the heart, and the true 〈◊〉 and 〈◊〉 of the soul.  
And into this house, and to this vicious Ho●…st Adrian, is our sick De Laurier entered, for the end of his sickness, and the recovery of his health; and I write rather with tears than ink, that it was impossible for him to have entered into a worse; but such was his fate, such his misfortune. He likes the carriage of Isabel his Hostess, far better than the countenance or condition of Adrian her Husband; but as his disease gives him no truce, so consequently he can give no peace to his patience. He grieves to be sick in an unknown place, and among strangers, but far more to be so far off from his own house, and from his only child and son Leonardo, whom he loves far dearer than himself. It is another affliction to him, that his money and some jewels are here, and not at his home, and if his judgement fail him not, he suggesteth to himself, that the sight and knowledge thereof may engender him far more danger than security; but he conceals and dissembles that, far better than he can his sickness, for he puts his little Casket wherein it is, under his head and bolster. He causeth Adrian his Host to bring him a Physician, named La Mo●…te, who seeing his water, and feeling his pulse, tells him he is very dangerously sick of a burning Fever, the which to prevent, he lets him blood two several days following and then gives him far more hope than despair of his health: But all this notwithstanding, De Laurier finds himself very weak, and his sickness rather much to increase, than any way to diminish. As for Isabel, according to the laws of hospitality (which ought to be unviolable to all the world) she tends him with much respect and diligence, and in a word, performs the part and duty, both of a good Hostess, and of a good woman: But for her Husband Adrian, his thoughts and resolutions run another contrary course and Career; for he imagining De Laurier to be rich doth therefore verily hope and pray that he may speedily die in his house, or else he hath already swapped a bargain with the Devil, to murder him, thereby to make up the breaches and tuines of his poor and totteri gestate. He finds it a work not only of difficulty, but of impossibility, to know what rich stuff he hath in his Casket and Cloak-bagge, because he still keeps it under his pillow; and yet gathering and wresting from him, that he is a Goldsmith of Dijon, and that he came now from Frankford Mart, he therefore believes that he hath store of Gold and Jewels about him. His poverty and his covetousness gives the switch to the Devil, and the Devil gives the spur to him, to raise his uncharitable contemplation into bloody actions, and his thoughts and resolutions as so many lines, run to terminate in this one only Centre, which is that of De Lauriers death. He sets his wits and invention on the Tenter-hooks, to discover this imagined Indies but he finds him to be as cautious and secret in concealing, as he himself is curious to bewray it. He purposely keeps all company from him, and will not so much as permit his Physician or Apothecary to speak a word with him, but he will still be present to hear and understand it. He with oily words and silken speeches, pries into his deepest secrets, and purposely endeavoureth to insinuate and screw himself into his familiarity. But De Laurier doth rather fear than love him, and so esteems the revealing of his Cold to be the accelerating of his danger, to which end, with many colourable excuses and evasions, he puts him off the knowledge thereof. But he is so miserable to see his miseries approach, because the violence and impetuosity of his Fever doth every way advance, no way retire; and now it is that his hopes of the recovery of his health do fade, not flourish, and rather quail than prosper. He resolves to be as Religious as he is sick, and therefore prays his Host Adrian to bring him a Priest to give him the Sacrament; Adrian performs his request, but brings him a Priest named father Iustini●…n, of his own humour and complexion, and who loves Whores and Wine, better than he doth either Heaven or God; so this unspiritual Father gives him the extreme Unction, and prepares him for his journey and transmigration from Earth to Heaven. His continual vanities and prodigalities hath likewise made him poor, so being equal with Adrian both in Vice and Poverty, he is likewise equal, and sympathizeth with him in hope and desire to repair his Indigence, and to enrich himself by the supposed treasure and death of De Laurier. But as this debauched Priest is malicious in this his policy, so he is also polititike in this his malice, for imagining that Adrian levels and aims with him at the same Butt and mark; he dares, but yet will not acquaint him with his bloody purpose, to contract a hellish league and confederation with him, for the violent dispatch, and inhuman and untimely dispeeding of him away from Earth to Heaven. Whiles thus De Lauriers sickness and weakness increaseth, and his Priest and Adrians' covetousness begins wholly to weigh down their souls and resolutions to hasten his deplorable death; as the Priest is ready to break his mind to Adrian, how and in what manner they should finish and compass this bloody business, Adrian chose, yea, and directly contrary to the rules of Nature, and Laws of Grace, breaks his mind hereof to his virtuous and Religious wife Isabel, whom he seeks to draw in as an Actor in this mournful, and as an Agent in this cruel Tragedy. He is as graceless, as impudent in this foul and fatal attempt of his; for he sets upon her with the sweetest speech, and smoothest persuasions, that either Art could suggest, or the malice of the Devil invent or dictate to him, and therein ever and anon, leaves not to convey and distil in her mind, yea, and to imprint in her memory their forepast wealth, their present poverty and misery, and the undoubted great riches of Gold and Jewels which De Laurier had with him, in that (as formerly we have observed) he very carefully day and night kept his Casket under his pillow, and in a hellish eloquence represents unto her the facility of this fact, either by Poniard or poison, adding withal, that the danger thereof would infallibly die with him, with a thousand other damnable alluring speeches, conducing and looking that way, which I am far more inclinable to silence than express: But wretched Villain, and execrable miscreant that he is, he speaks not a word, no not a syllable of God or his Justice, of Heaven or Hell, or of the foulness of that fact, or the just revenge and punishment incident and due thereunto.  
His virtuous wife Isabel is amazed and astonished at this bloody and inhuman proposition of her Husband, and all trembling, with sighs and tears, receives it from him with no less true affliction and sorrow, than he delivered it her with cruelty and impiety. Her cheeks were as red for shame, as his were pale with envy thereat; when God infusing as much goodness into her heart and tongue, as Satan had cruelty into his soul and resolutions, she fell on her knees to his feet, and with her eyes and hands erected towards Heaven, delivered him this virtuous and Religious speech; That it was with infinite grief and amazement that she understood this his bloody position to her, which he knew she could derive from none but Hell and Satan: She represents to him (with much grief and passion) that as punishment is ever the reward of sin, so that of all sin's murder was the foulest, and the most pernicious and diabolical. She tells him farther, that covetousness is the root of all mischief, that for her part she is as thankful to God, as he is displeased with himself for their poverty, and that she would ever choose rather to live in want, than to dye in shame and misery, and which is worst of all either to live or dye in the horrors and terrors of a guilty and ulcerated Conscience. That it is a profane and prodigious impiety to violate the laws of Hospitality, but a fearful, yea a horrible crime, to kill any one under our own roof, and who (in the right of humanity and christianity) comes to us for shelter and protection. When rising again from her knees, she takes him about the neck and (bedewing his cheeks with her tears) conjures and prays him, by the remembrance of her youth and beauty, which had formerly been so dear and precious to him, by the memory of their sixteen years sweet cohabitation and conversation together in the holy Estate of Wedlock, yea for his own sake, for his soul's sake, and for God's sake, that he would defy this devil, which thus with his two bitter sweet pills of Covetousness and Murder mocked and sought to betray him: and that therefore (in the name and fear of God) he would henceforth resume, and put on a constant and religious resolution, no more to seduce her, or to suffer himself to be seduced by the Devil in imbruing their guilty hands in the innocent blood of this honest and harmless Goldsmith De Laurier, whom God hath now made their guest and Lodger; In doing whereof (quoth she) the same our sacred Lord and God, (in his due time) will be graciously pleased to increase our estate and means and to bless our poverty with plenty. But her Husband Adrian (as a most wretched Villain takes this godly refusal and denial of his Wife in ill part, and in requital and consideration thereof, henceforth looks on her with a squint eye, I mean with an eye rather of contempt and envy than of affection; But at board, and bed, yea day and night he haunts her as a ghost, and never leaves pursuing of her with his profane and importunate solicitations to draw her consent to the acting and perpetrating of this bloody business; But God so well assisted her mind and thoughts, with the grace of his holy Spirit, and so divinely fortified her heart and soul with his sacred fear, that her Husbands sweet persuasions could not gain, nor his threats or menaces obtain any thing of her but still she answered this murderous request of his, sometimes with religious refusals, and then again with passionate and peremptory denials, and therefore the more that she sees her Husband bend to malign and hate De Laurier, the more devoted and resolute she is to respect and tend him, still bearing a curious, a careful, and a vigilant eye over him during all the time of his sickness to see that no disaster whatsoever might befall him in her house  
Adrian missing of this his purpose and desire in his Wife he is yet so hasty and violent in this his bloody malice towards De Laurier, that measuring of Fa ther justinian the Priest, by himself, and finding a conformity in their debauched vices and inclinations, he the sooner hopes to find a sympathy in their affections and resolutions, and therefore although he be a Priest, yet knowing him to be extreme poor, he therefore the more easily believes, that the hope of Gold and Silver will act wonders with him, and make him act wonders for the obtaining thereof.  
Upon these hopes, and this confidence, he delays no time, but on a Monday morning repairs to his house, and after their morning cups, telling him he hath a secret of great importance to reveal him, he takes him into a little Grove of Walnut Trees, behind his house and there (swearing him to secrecy) reveals him this his bloody business, where this vicious Priest justinian, in hope of De Lauriers wealth needed no great labour or industry to be drawn to make one in this deplorable Tragedy. For had not Adrian now opened it to him, such was his insatiable thirst and desire of gold though with blood, that the next day he was fully resolved to do it to him, so he freely consents to him herein, and swears to assist and second him in murdering of De Laurier and the tie and condition of this their hellish bargain is, that what gold, silver, or jewels they shall find him to have, they will instantly after his death equally divide and share between them; and hereunto like two bloody hellhounds, they interchangeably give hands, and solemnly swear each to other. Now from the matter of this their bloody design and resolution, they proceed to the manner and time thereof, but they then are prevented therein, For Father justinian's little Boy which was accustomed to answer him at Mass comes thither hastily and with his little wine pot on his finger tells him, that there were many persons who stayed for him before the Altar on their knees and earnestly enquired for him to say Mass, whereupon they both refer the conclusion hereof to the very next morning, and in the very same place and Grove, but at least an hour sooner; So away goes Adrian home to his house, and away likewise trips Father justinian with his Surplice under his arm and his Breviary (or Matines book) in his hand to the Church, where every one may imagine what a profane sacrifice, his bloody heart and hands offereth up to the Lord.  
They this night thinking of nothing but of gold and blood, in the morning they (impatient of all delays) come at the aforesaid time and place of their rendezvous where they presently fall to their former consultation of the manner and time of murdering De Laurier, first, they propose to stab him in his bed to death, but this they reject, because the blood would appear in the sheets, bed, and chamber; So they resolve to poison him, and to this end Adrian buys the poison and Father justinian will give and administer it to him in a wafer or Agnus Dei, the which he is sometimes accustomed to give him in his sickness; But here father justinian suggesteth another doubt; and proposeth another design, which is that Adrian must likewise draw in his wife Isabel to make one in this bloody conspiracy and murder, or else he allegeth that it can never be safe for them to attempt or effect it; Adrian answereth him that he hath heretofore with his best power and art sought to seduce his wife hereunto, but that he finds it wholly impossible to draw her to this consent: But father justinian will yet make another trial and experiment on her himself, so he and her Husband Adrian set afresh on her, to allure her to bring at least her consent, if not her hand to the murdering of De Laurier. But our sweet and virtuous Isabel is still one and the same woman, for she hears these bloody speeches and persuasions of theirs, with infinite discontent and detestation. She is too much a Christian to be so much a Devil to consent to the murtherof this honest man; and therefore (with a world ofteares and prayers) she seeks to divert them from it, but especially her Husband, because (quoth she) the issue thereof will infallibly prove ruinous to them both. They are both much grieved at this her resolute repulse and denial, and yet to make a virtue of necessity, and to cast the better gloss and varnish on their villainy, they now falsely seem to be dissuaded from this murder, by the sight of her tears and the consideration of her requests and prayers; Wherefore with a profane & hellish dissimulation) they tell her, that God by her religious speeches and dissuasions hath now made them wholly to abandon that bloody attempt of theirs against De Laurier, as also the very thought thereof, and therefore they conjure her to keep and swear secrecy herein from all the world, the which she willingly doth. But yet her fear prompts her heart, that this humane conversion, and religious resolution of theirs is only false and feigned, as every way savouring more of dissimulation than truth. In which regard she fears with suspicion, and suspects with doubt, that no less than honest and innocent De Lauriers life, lies now at the stake of their bloody malice and envy  
Here Father Instinian, and Adrian (to make smooth and clear work) do conclude and resolve that Isabel must be speedily removed from Salines to some place in the country without once seeing or speaking with De Laurier when a favourable occasion seconds their damnable intents, and desires herein: for now there is unexpectedly brought them word, that her own old Father who dwelled some four leagues off from Salines is very sick and not like to live; Whereupon Adrian presently dispatcheth away his wife Isabel to him, and with her their Servant maid Graceta. But before her departure she is desirous to see De Laurier, and to take her leave of him; but her Husband will by no means permit her; So she goes from her home, and from him into the Country, with a sorrowful and a trembling heart, as far more fearing De Lauriers unnatural death, then doubting of her father's natural case. For her heart frames her so many apprehensions, fears, and terrors; that her husband and father justimian are fully resolved to murder and make away De Laurier, as she absolutely and sorrowfully believes, that he shall never see her more nor she him. Poor De Laurier takes his Hostess Isabella's sudden and unexpected departure from him very pensively and heavily, and far the more in that she could not be permitted to see him before she went. He holds it for a bad presage, and fatal Omen to him, in regard she was as diligent as her Husband distrustful to him, for that her care and carriage towards him, pleased him as much as his harsh looks and sour countenance discontented him; and now it is that God first imprints in his heart and thoughts, a fearful suspicion and a suspicious fear, that his Host Adrian, and father justinian the Priest have assuredly some dangerous and execrable plot, both against his gold and his life. For he now sees himself reduced to this misery and despair, that he can be permitted to see no body, nor no body to see him, except only they two. He prays them both, that his Physician La Motte may come to him to confer with him about the state of his sickness, but they maliciously and wilfully deny it him, and tell him he is gone into France; This refusing answer of theirs doth now very much appall and daunt our fieke and discontented De Laurier, so that his fear increaseth with his sickness, and his 〈◊〉 with his fear. Every day and night brings him more cause of 〈◊〉, than hope of consolation, and almost every moment he wisheth his gold and himself in 〈◊〉 with his Son Du Pont, or he here in Salynes' with him, to comfort him with his sight and presence. He still conceals his go●… and 〈◊〉 from this Priest and his Host, with the greatest art and care he can, and ●…ot he thinks and fears that their jealousy thereof is not only the foundation, but will also move the acceleration of his danger, for he very often se●… them privately whispering together and still he observes some bad sign and and fatal apparition in their looks and countenances, which infallibly tell him that all is not well. And although they yet give him some sweet words and sugared speeches, yet he notwithstanding the more believes that they are candid in wormwood and confected in gall; and that they are no other but false and flattering Sune shines, which portend some ensuing cruel storms and dismal tempests towards him. Once he was minded to write and send to Dijon for his Son, but then he as soon resolves the contrary, as finding it to relish more of danger than discretion, aswell for the matter which his letter might contain, as also for the party who should carry it thither to him. But leave we him a little to his weakness, and sickness to his doubts and fears, and to his sorrows, calamities and perplexities, and come we again to speak of wretched Adrian his Host, and of profane ●…ather justinian the Priest, to see in what shapes they will come forth to act their bloody parts upon the stage of this History.  
They are both of them so inhuman and cruel in their resolution to murder poor sick De Laurier, that neither the consideration of Heaven nor Hell is capable to reclaim or divert them from this their bloody attempt. As fos his hellish host Adrian, he is so wilful and hasty in his malice, as he tells father justinian, that they delay too long from murdering De Laurier, and that it is high time yea more than time for them to dispatch him. But for father justinian who was no less malicious in his subtlety, but yet far more subtle in his malice towards De Laurier. He ay say maturely considering that it were both a folly and a madness for them to murder him before they first knew he were rich, and that he had some store of gold about him, he therefore in sweet terms and phrases pathetically adviseth him to write and send for his Son Du Pont, to come over to visit and comfort him, when likewise the better to gild over his speeches with the more pleasing and palpable show of affection he proffereth to ride to Dijon himself to deliver it him with his own hands. Our poor sick De Laurier taking this Priests kind advice to him in good part, he thereupon first thanks him for this his courtesy, but then again deeming and fearing that it proceeded more from false treachery, than from any true or real affection to him he begins to grow cold therein, and so rather to reject, than embrace and follow that resolution; But at last weighing and considering his sickness by his danger, and his gold and jewels by both, as also if he should chance to dye or miscarry there, that his Son were then consequently ruined in the loss thereof; He thereupon changeth his resolution; and presently resolves to write and send over to Dijon for his Son and to that end requesteth Father justinian to excuse him, and so prays his Host Adrian to undertake that journey and business, the which he willingly and cheerfully granteth. Now the rest of that day and the greatest part of the next night De Laurier lies ruminating and musing in his bed what he should write to his Son, and no less doth father justinian and Adrian to think and know what he would write him. The next morning, six of the clock having strucken, De Laurier takes his pen and paper, and with a weak and trembling hand writes his Letter to his Son: An hour after, Adrian cometh into his Chamber booted and spurred to receive his commands, whom he had to take and ride his own horse, then gives him four double pist●…ls to defray his journey, and so seals and gives him this ensewing Letter, and prays him and his Son Du Pont to make all possible speed back from Dijon to him.  
DE LAURIER to DU PONT.  
SOme seven weeks since, coming from Frankford Marte, I fell sick at Salynes' where I still lie very weak in body and much discontented in mind in 〈◊〉 ●…use of mine Host Adrian (the bearer hereof) whom I purposely send over to thee, to pray and command thee to come ride hither to me with all possible speed, I have herewith me in gold and jewels to the value of one thousand seven hundred Crowns, and for some private reasons) I fear that neither it nor my life is safe here; Come away with an intent to find me dead or dying. Conceal this Letter from all the world. Love this Messenger but trust him not; God prosper my Health, and ever bless thy prosperity.  
DE LAURIER.  
As soon as De Laurier had delivered his Host Adrian this Letter, and he taken leave of him, father justinian begs leave of De Laurier to see Adrian take horse. But alas these two lewd Villains do deceive his honest hopes, to perform their own treacherous Intents and purposes; For they fly to a low parlour, and then lock and bolt the door to them; where (as if the devil had thrown them on covetousness, or covetousness on the devil) they hastily break up the seals of De Lauriers letter to his Son (which we have already seen and understood) wherein they glut and surfeit their hopes with joy of this new desired treasure and discovered Indieses, and so they presently sacrifice it to the fire, and wretchedly resolve to make that very same ensuing night to be the very last of De Lauriers time and the first of his eternity. To which end Adrian husheth himself up privately in his house from the sight of all the world, and especially from De Lauriers knowledge and so here he ends his pretended, but not his intended journey to Dijon, before he begin it: And he having procured exceeding strong poison therewith that night to send De Laurier to Heaven whereof giving a little to his great old mastiff dog in a piece of bread for a trial he therewith presently fell dead to the ground; he likewise sends away Thomas his Ostler a day's journey into the Country upon some feigned business, to the end he should be no witness of this foul and cruel fact of theirs and then all things being first by the devil, and then by these his two execrable agents prepared in a readiness; Father justinian goes up to De Lauriers chamber, and treacherously entertains him with the hope of his recovery of his health, the haste of Adrians' journey, and consequently with the speedy return of his Son Du Pont to him from Dijon. But I write it with truth and grief, that De Lauriers heart and mind is preoccupated with too many obnoxious apprehensions and fears, and taken up with too much doubt and despair to the contrary; For as most sicknesses and diseases are most commonly devanced and preceded by their symptoms so all that day and all that evening he found a swimming in his head, and his sight obscured and darkened, as if some black scarf, or fatal cloud had been drawn and extended before his eyes. His heart likewise pants, beats and trembles within him, as if it and his senses were in a factious mutiny each with other at this their direful departure and fatal sequestration. For still his fears and doubts inform him, and his apprehensions and despair prompt him that either father justinian the Priest, or his Host Adrian, or both of them, had conspired to murder him, the which he once thought to have revealed to Father justinian, but yet again he dares not, as holding it more folly than discretion, and that it might therefore produce him more danger than safety; he neither can nor will eat any thing that day, and his heart and mind is so incessantly perplexed with fear, that he fears he shall not outlive the next ensuing night: And now indeed comes that sorrowful and dismal night, wherein these two bloody Villains have fully resolved to poison him, Adrian having in a lower room the poison ready, and Father justinian above, almost ready to call for it: Whiles thus the candle in De Lauriers chamber burned dim and obscure, as disdaining to see, or be accessary to so cruel a murder; near about twelve of the clock of that night he awakes out of his sorrowful distracted slumbers, and prays Father justinian to give him a little spoonful or two of warm wine, in a small earthen pot wherein he was used to drink; when this monster of men rejoicing for this fit opportunity, he steps forth to his bloody companion Adrian, takes the poisoned wafer from him, and pours the poison from it into this small black pot of wine, and so warms it a little by the fire in De Lauriers chamber, and then gives it to him to drink, the which he as greedily as innocently doth, whereof, after many strong convulsions and struggle, he within one hour after dieth, having neither the means to utter one word, or the power to screech or cry, and yet for fear and doubt hereof, like two furies, or Devils incarnate of Hell they with thebed-staves ram in a great holland towel into his mouth, that he may tell no tales, when God knows that deadly strong poison had wrought its operation before, made a full conquest of his life, and given up his soul into the hands of his Redeemer, of whom he had formerly received it.  
As soon as these two wretched miscreants have dispatched this lamentable business, than they tear off his secret leather girdle full of gold from his waste, and then break open his Casket which was under his pillow, wherein (before his breathless body was half cold) they find this aforesaid great sum of Gold and jewels, the which they presently divide, and equally share between them, when having curiously searched his purse, pocket's, doublet and hose, they make a great fire, and immediately burn it all, as also his riding Coat, Casket, and leather Girdle, yea, and his hat, band and cuffs, that no marks might remain either of it or him, and likewise turn his horse into the open field and hyewayes, to seek for the fortune of a new Master; so wise (as they thought) were they in their villainy, and so industrious and cautious in this their devilish cruelty and in humanity. By this time, as the murdered corpse of De Laurier grows cold, these two Factors of Hell likewise begin to provide for his burial; so a little after two of the clock, they dig a pit in Adrians' Orchard, next adjoining to his house, and so giving him no other winding sheet or coffin but his shirt, they secretly and silently carry down his body between them, and there bury him, and to make all things sure, they cover over the pit, or his grave with green turfs, that no mortal eye might take suspicion or notice thereof. This bloody business being thus acted and perpetrated by these two execrable wretches, Father justinian and Adrian, who now surfeit in Gold, and wallow in jewels, they presently dight themselves into new apparel, and costly suits, and then day and night haunt and frequent the Taverns and Stews, as if they wilfully meant to drown themselves in all sorts of ungodly riots, prodigalities and voluptuousness, whereof their neighbours, yea, all Salynes' take exact observation and knowledge, as wondering at the manner, but far more at the cause thereof, or from whence it should proceed.  
Some three weeks being passed over, Adrian now holds it fit to send home for his wife Isabel to Salynes', the which he doth, who much wondering at her Husband's unaccustomed bravery, she presently inquires of him for Monsieur De Laurier, as if she had far more cause to doubt and fear of his danger, than any way to assure herself of his safety and welfare: When, he putting on a brazen face, and steeling and tempering his tongue with equal falsehood and impiety, tells her that he departed thence safe and well some ten days since; that he gave him fifty crowns for the charges of his entertainment and lodging, and for a token of his love, had likewise left her and Father justinian, to each of them twenty other Crowns in Gold: But his wife Isabel out of her goodness and piety) deeming these speeches of her Husbands to be as false as fatal, and verily suspecting and fearing, that he (with the assistance of Father justinian) had sent that harmless good old man to an untimely death and grave; she bursts forth into immoderate sighs and tears, as suspecting all was not well, yea, fearing nothing more, and believing nothing less, than that which he affirmed to her herein. He proffers her the twenty Crowns in Gold, but (good virtuous woman) she fearing it to be the hire and price of innocent blood, her tender conscience is too prevalent, and her harmless heart and soul too powerful with God to accept thereof, and therefore she refuseth it with as much disdain and discontent, as he endeavoureth to give it her with affection and desire. And that the Reader may the more fully be informed of her integrity and charity herein, I mean to the present memory and well wishes of absent De Laurier, whom she silently fears is for ever absent, both from this life & this world; she never goes into the chamber where he lay sick, but she sacrificeth some sighs to sorrow in his behalf, and her imaginary apprehension of his death, makes her mournfully conceive, that either she still sees his living picture, or his dead ghost and representation, such was her charitable care of him, such her Christian fear for him.  
We have seen this deplorable and cruel murder committed on the harmless person of old De Laurier, by these two members of Satan, Adrian, and Father justinian the Priest, and if the truth deceive not my hopes, we shall not proceed much farther in this their History, but we shall see Gods just judgements miraculously to resplend and shine forth in his punishments on them for the same: For I may properly term murder and punishment to be Individuals and Companions, in regard the one follows the other, as the shadow doth the body, as the first derives its original from Satan, so doth the second from God, to whom (in a language of blood) it still cries for restauration and satisfaction. But nevertheless God is as secret as sacred in disposing of the manner and time thereof, and in ordaining by whom, when and how he will afflict and execute it: It is no false axiom in Philosophy, but a true tenant and maxim in Divinity; That God who made all things, sees and governs all things, and that nothing can be concealed from the eyes of his sacred Power and divine Providence: All the four Elements are the ministers of his justice, yea, Men and Angels, the Sun, Moon, and Stars, the fowls of the air, and the beasts of the field prove many times the Agents of his Revenge; of which last sort and nature, the Reader (to God's glory, and his own information and admiration) may here observe a lively example, and receive a most powerful precedent; but whether more strange for the truth, or rare for the strangeness thereof I know not, and therefore will not define. For the same day month next after, that Adrian and father Instinian had buried the dead body of De Laurier, behold a huge and ravening Wolf (being lately arroused from the the adjacent vast woods) seeking up and down for his prey, came into Adrians' Orchard next adjoining to his house (purposely sent thither by God as a minister of his sacred justice and revenge) who scenting some dead carrion (which indeed was the dead Corpses of De Laurier, that was but shallowly buried there in the ground) he fiercely with his paws and nose tares up the Earth, and at last pulls and drags it up, and there till an hour after the break of day remains devouring and eating up of the flesh of his arms legs, thighs, and buttocks. But (as God would have it) he never touched any part of his face, but leaves it fully undissigured; When instantly some Gentlemen hunters of Salynes', a●…d the Neighbour parishes, being ascertained by some Peasants in the fields, that the Wolf was past that way, they closely follow him with their Dogs and Horns, and so at last find him in Adrians' Orchard, eating as they think of some living beast or dead carrion; But the Wolf being terrified with the noise of the hunter's loud shouts and cries, as also of their Dogs fierce yawling and bawling, presently forsakes his prey, and saves his life by his flight, although the Dogs and many Peasants do eagerly pursue him; Whiles all the Gentlemen (as if led by the immediate finger of God) with their javelins and boarespeares in their hands, rush into the Orchard to see and find out whereon the Wolf had preyed, when lo (contrary to their expectations) their amazed eyes are enforced to behold the pitiful spectacle, and lamentable object of a mangled dead man's body, miserably devoured and eaten by that savage Wolf, and the which they saw he had digged and torn up, as they fully believed from his untimely grave: They therefore at first stand astonished with grief, and amazed for sorrow at this prodigious and deplorable sight, and yet such was their living compunction to this dead corpses, and consequently their zeal to God's glory and justice, as confidently believing that he was proditoriously murdered by some inhuman person or persons; that the odious stinch of this long buried body; could not hinder them from approaching to survey and behold it; They find the greatest part of the flesh of his body devoured by the Wolf, but (as before) his face whole and untouched, when they see (and extremely grieve and sorrow to see) that it was a grave old man with a long white beard, but so besmeared with earth and dust as they could not refrain from sighs and tears to behold it. Here they cease to pursue the Wolf, and because neither of them knew this poor and miserable dead carcase, they therefore step to the other end of the Orchard, and there consult what is fit to be done in this lamentable business and accident. But their opinions as so many lines concur and terminate in this centre, that absolutely this dead body was cruelly murdered, and there by the murderers privately and silently buried. They farther vehemently suspect and believe, that because it was buried in Adrians' Orchard, that therefore it was apparently probable, it was he with his wife and Servants who had murdered and buried him there, wherefore to keep these suspected bloody birds in their Cages, they (as wise and judicious Gentlemen) place a strong guard of their Servants and Peasants to watch the doors and windows of Adrians' house, that none issue forth thence, and they themselves go presently to the Criminal judges of the Town, and acquaint them with this lamentable object and accident.  
In the mean our harmless and virtuous Isabel, hearing these loud shouts and outcries at her doors so soon in the morning, she in the absence of her Husband; (who lay forth of his house that night deboshing and revelling with his cups and Queans) fearing that all was not well, and therefore her amazed and sorrowful heart; not willing to know that whereof she was infinitely desirous to be ignorant, she lay still bitterly sighing and weeping in her bed, because her thoughts and mind, her suspicions and fears told her, that this unseasonable alarm and noise might descend and reflect from some fatal news which had betided De Laurie●…, and if this storm and tempest fell not on her, yet alas she extremely fears and doubts it would fall on Adrian her husband, whom she vehemently thought and feared had imbrued and imbathed his hands in the innocent blood of this honest man. As for Thomas her Ostler, and Gracetta her maid, although this unaccustomed noise made them suddenly forsake their beds and apparel themselves to receive their mistress commands how they should bear themselves in this hurly burly, yet because they were white with innocency, yea so innocent as they knew no hurt, or thought of danger they only deemed, that it was either some unlawful assembly of Peasants, or else some cast and disbanded soldiers from Flanders who came to rob their master's house or poultry in his absence, wherefore mere fear hereof, kept them from either opening the doors, or looking out at windows. By this time the Gentlemen hunters bring the criminal judges on the place to view this dead body, and with them come a great number of the Neighbours and Inhabitants of Salynes' to do the like, and amongst the rest, the Physician La Motte (of whom this History hath already made mention and he of all the rest knows the dead body, and therefore with much passion and sorrow cries out: that it was a Goldsmith of Dijon named Monsieur De Laurier, who lay long sick in Adrians' house, and that he had formerly given him Physic there, and so he said and affirmed that he perfectly knew him to be the same, and verily imagined that he was brought to some untimely end, and so buried there, but by whom he knew not.  
The judges therefore believing the report of this honest Physician La Motte; they cause the remainders of the flesh of this dead body to be searched and visited, the which they find without any wounds. And yet nevertheless deeming both Adrian, his wife Isabel, and their Servants to be the murderers of this honest man; they break open the doors, and missing Adrian they seize on his wife Isabel, as also on her Ostler Thomas, and his maid Graceta and then bring them to the sight of this dead body with whose murder they flatly charge them, and inquire what is become of Adrian himself. At this unexpected sorrowful news and object, Isabel is all in Tears, yea she is so extremely perplexed and afflicted, as wanting all other assistance and comfort she implores that of God. She tells them that her Husband Adrian lay not at home with her the last night, and freely and plainly affirms to them; that that dead body was Monsieur De Laurier a Goldsmith of Dijon, who lay long sick in her house as he came from Frankford Mart, but how he came to his end or by whom, she takes heaven and earth to witness she knows not, and with this her deposition do her Ostler and maid concur and agree in all proofs and circumstances. The judges likewise causing a curious search to be made in Salynes' for Adrian, it was found out that that night he lay in father justinian's house the Priest, and two whores in their Company drinking and revelling all night, and upon the very first report they heard of De Lauriers unburiall by a Wolf, they both (galled with guilty consciences) betake themselves to their heels, and left both their two Strumpets to their repentance. Their flight proclaims their guiltiness of this murder to all the world especially to the judges. Who upon knowledge thereof to find out the truth of this deplorable disaster, they adjudge Isabel, Thomas and Graceta to the rack: As for Thomas and Graceta, their innocency makes them brook their torments with admirable patience and constancy, for they can never be drawn to reveal that of which they are ignorant not to accuse themselves of that whereof they are not guilty. But for Isabel the incessant prayers and importunate requests and solicitations of many of her honest neighbours doth engrave such deep impressions of her virtues and piety, and of her sweet inclination and disposition in the hearts of the judges, as they change their resolutions against her and so dispense with her for that torture. When sending every way abroad to pursue Adrian and father justinian they content themselves to keep the Mistress, the man and the maid close prisoners. They are so advised in their judgements, and so judicious in their advice, as they speedily send away Post to Dijon to acquaint Du Pont the Son, with this disastrous accident which had betided his father De Laurier here in Salynes', who at the first alarm of this sad unexpected news, seems now to drown himself in his tears thereat, and so thereupon rather to fly than post away from Dijon to Salynes' where he confers with the criminal judges of that Town, who report to him the flight of father justinian and Adrian, as also of their imprisoning of his wife Isabel, of her maid Graceta, and her Ostler Thomas, in whose house his father lay sick. So Du Pont visits the dead, stinking, mangled body, and finds it to be that of his father, whereat nature and duty prescribe him so powerful a Law, as at the sight thereof, he bursts forth into many bitter tears and lamentable cries and passions. When giving him a decent and solemn burial in the next Church, he than informs the judges, that to his knowledge his father had good store of gold and jewels about him, so he entreats them, that Adrian and father justinian's houses maybe curiously searched for the same, which is performed, but finding no part thereof, and both of them fled, he is confident in his heart, that their flight proclaims them guilty of his father's murder, and consequently that Isabel her Ostler and maid infallibly were accessaries thereunto: Whereupon he repairs again to the judges, and with many importunities prays them that all three of them may be put to the rack for the same, thereby to bolt and find out the truth of this lamentable accident, the judges approve of Du Ponts living affection and zeal to his dead father, but (as impartial Oracles and Officers of justice) they tell him that they have already caused Thomas and Graceta to be racked, and that they both have strongly justified their innocency of his father's Murder, by suffering their torments with incredible fortitude and patience. And as for their Mistress Isabel. They tell him they are fully resolved and assured, that she was absolutely innocent, as well for that she was many days absent with her father in the Country, when by all likelihood and circumstance, his father was murdered, as also because the general votes and voices of all her neighbours reported her to be a very virtuous and religious woman, and that therefore in their hearts and consciences, they must needs exempt and free her from those torments. But they told him farther, that in honour to justice, and to see what God and time might produce, they would detain them all three in Prison for the space of three or four months, in which mean time concurring with him in opinion that father Instinian and Adrian undoubtedly were the murderers of his father De Laurier, they therefore persuade him with all possible speed and diligence to pursue them up and down the Country, until he had detected, apprehended, and brought them to justice; the which Duke Pont doth, but with such extraordinary zeal and haste, that he forgot a singular circumstance, of no mean importance, the omission where of might very well have made his research of them vain. For he forgot at Salynes' to take with him their Pictures and Effigies whereby to find them out in the Country, with far the more ease and facility, whereof he afterwards much repent himself.  
As for our two execrable wretches, father Instinian and Adrian their guilty thoughts and consciences (like so many Ghosts and bloodhounds) so incessantly pursued them and stupefied their judgements, that resolving to fly and save themselves from the free County, into Switzerland, they hush themselves up the day for shelter in some thick grove or Wood, and travelling all night from Salynes', they notwithstanding, the next morning (to their unspeakable fear and vexation) saw themselves again within a little league thereof, and in this manner they for some eight nights following, traveled a eight through unknown ways and woods, and yet here let the Reader behold and observe the wonderful justice of God towards them, for at the end thereof, they are not as yet fully gone seven leagues off from Salynes', and they could not ascend the least Hill or Hillock, but they looking back behind them, the Towers and Turrets of Salynes' were still apparent and conspicuous to them, as if they pursued and followed them, the which indeed struck extreme fear to their guilty hearts and, and infinite terror and amazement to their foul and trembling consciences. But this circumstance of God's wrath and revenge towards them, is forthwith seconded and followed by another, wherein his divine Providence and justice miraculously appears and shines forth (with infinite lustre and glory) to all those who shall read, or hear this History. For the tenth evening after their flight from Salynes', they being extremely wearied and tired with their foot Travels (for horses they dared not buy any) and within a mile off entering into a great wood, they in affair plain, seeing no body present, they at last espied an Erring Horse, without Rider, Saddle, or Bridle: which resolving to seize on thereby to recreate their wearied limbs and bodies they approach and surprise him. And then Adrian knowing him well to be De Lauriers horse, which (we have heard they had formerly turned off in Salynes' the same night wherein they murdered his Master. They extreme joyful of this unlooked for good fortue, make a halter of their girdles and garters, and so casting their cloaks under them, they both ride away on him, and night drawing on, they hope to recover the Town of Pontarlin before break of day; But God is here strongly bend against them, so that this Horse which they took for the cause of their joy, will very shortly prove the matter of their misery, & that which they thought would be the matter of their safety will fall out to produce their inevitable danger and confusion. For God (in his revenging justice) carring their horse, and he them a straying and masking that night through contrary ways and Lanes, they the next morning at break of day to their unspeakable grief, do see themselves three great leagnes off from Pontarlin, when their soul facts and consciences make them still so tremblingly fearful, that every Bush they beheld, every bird they hear, and every ●…fe they found wagging, they think are so many Sergeants come to arrest them, as also every tree they fast; they confidently believe are so many Judges come to sentence and condemn them to death for this their cruel murdering of De Laurier, such was their prodigious despair, such their ominous and fatal fear for the same.  
But here their horse (o'ercharged with this foul and monstrous burden) begins to fail them, so the more he l●…sseneth his pace the more it increaseth their apprehension and fear: And here they consult what to do, whether to retire with their horse into the next Wood till night, or else to advance towards Pontarlin. But their Bread and Meat failing them, and they seeing the coast clear, they therefore resolve to ride thither, and far the sooner do they assume and embrace this resolution; because as yet they knew it was timely in the morning, and consequently few or no people stirring. Now to dispatch their journey the sooner, Adrian is content to walk on foot, and father justinian to ride, and both of them are equally resolved to put cheerful faces on their perplexed and trembling hearts. And here as I will not say it was their bad, but their just fortune, which conducted them within less than one league of Pontarlin, without being espied or seen of any. So it was likewise the providence and justice of God, at that very hour and place first to bring Duke Pont in sight of them, who in two days was parted from Salynes', and in all that time had left no Hamlet Village, or Town unsought to find out and apprehend these murderers of his father; Now as he draws near them, his eye tells him that the Horse whereon one of these two men rid, was of the very same hair and shape as was that of his fathers, which struck some suspicion and apprehension in his heart, that sure these were father justintan and Adrian and far the more because by his habit he knew that he who rid was a Priest. The better therefore to be fully assured hereof, he resolves to outride them, thereby the more narrowly to observe both the horse and them, the which he doth. He passeth by them and views them with his countenance purposely composed more of neglect than of observation towards them. When perfectly knowing the horse (by his two white feet, and white Star in his forehead) to be his Fathers, and therefore they by all consequence and appearance they to be his murderers, than I say Nature and Grace infused a secret reluctation into his heart and soul, whether he should more grieve or rejoice to see them; Now as he is loath to leave them behind him, so he bethinks himself of a pretty policy. For riding some hundred paces before them, he descends from his horse, ties him up to the branch of a Tree, casts down his sword and riding coat in the high way untrusseth his points, and steps within the hedge, as if he purposely meant to ease himself; but indeed it was to have them pass before him, that so he might encompass them as two murdering Wolves in a Toil; At his descent from his horse (as guilty consciences are still afraid of all things) father justinian and Adrian first begin to fear this Stranger, as being sent to apprehend them, and so resolve to trust to their heels and the woods for their safety, but when they see his sword, and coat in the way, and himself within the hedge with his hose down, than they again take courage and heart at grace and so proceed on in the way towards the Town, but still they look back on him as if the foulness of their fact continually made their fears and dangers the more eminent. This is carefully and curiously observed of Du Pont. who (now comes after them a soft ●…ot) contenting himself to see them a flight shot before him; as well knowing that his horse was far nimbler and swifter than theirs, and that therefore he might fetch them up at his pleasure. By this time they two arrive at Pontarlin, which they enter; where (being hungry and fearful, and their horse weary and hungry) they take up one of the next Ins, which is at the sign of the Tiger where thinking themselves free of him who followed them, they recommend their horse to the Ostler, and calling for some Mutton, Bread and Wine, they there privately hush themselves up in their Chamber. But the vigilant eye and care of Du Pont sees where they are entered, so he puts up his Horse to another Inn close by, and presently with much silence and celerity, trips away to the Tiger Inn where they are; and knowing them to be above the stairs in their chamber to breakfast, he calls for the Host thereof, takes him into a close low room next the door; tells him that the Priest and the other man which entered his house right now, had cruelly murdered his father in Salynes', and therefore most courteously and earnestly prays him, to step presently and fetch the Criminal officers of that Town to apprehend them for the same, and till his and their return, that he will give him two of his servants to guard the doors that they escape not away; The Host of this house in detestation of this foul fact of theirs, and to the honour and reputation of himself and his house, speeds away to the Officers who presently arrive with him, to whom Du Pont sorrowfully and passionately relate, that this Priest named justinian and this Adrian who was an Innkeeper of Salynes' and now above, had very lately in his own house, murdered his father De Laurier, who was a Goldsmith of Dijon, stripped and robbed him of much gold and Jewels, and then buried him in his Orchard, and therefore (with tears in his eyes) conjures them to do him justice by speedily apprehending them for the same, the which they as soon grant him. So they all ascend to their Chamber where they find them deeply tippling in their cups, as much devoid and insensible of danger as of grace. Here Du Pont (with equal passion and sorrow) strongly chargeth them both with the murder of his father De Laurier, as also for robbing of his gold and jewels and for burying of him in the Orchard. But these two bloody factors of Hell, with a world of stout looks, impious oaths and fearful asseverations, vow and swear the contrary. So the Officers take them aside and examine them severally hereon. But they can receive nothing from them but peremptory denials and profane execrations. The which Du Pont hearing and understanding he (with much affection to his father, and discretion to himself) to vindicate and know the truth hereof with the more facility and the less time; entreats the Officers to search them both narrowly for his father's gold and jewels, which by God's direction they do, the one after the other, when they find quilted up in their doublets and hose, store of gold, and some rich jewels and rings, and yet these two bloody villains deny this murder of theirs with much audacity and impudence, swearing that they found this treasure in a Casket in the high way a little league beyond Salynes'. But this lie of theirs is as false, as their murder and robbery of honest old De Laurier was too true, which God (in his mercy and Justice) will briefly bring to light and punishment far sooner than these bloody Miscreants either think, or fear of.  
Du Pont (all this notwithstanding) constantly assures these Officers, that all this gold and jewels, and much and many more were his Fathers, and therefore ate now his both by right and propriety, as being his only Son and child and so demands possession thereof. But these Officers mildly deny this request of his, tell him they must take them by an inventory, and so together with the two prisoners to send them to the judges of Salynes' under whose jurisdiction they affirmed they were. So for that night they commit father justinian and Adrian to two several prisons, where they shall find leisure though not enough to repent this foul and lamentable fact of theirs. Which was no sooner done, but Du Pont (having ●…hanked these Officers of Pontarlin) sends away a Post to Salynes' to acquaint the judges thereof, of his apprehending of these the two Murderers of his father, whom he earnestly besought to hasten their executions; so according to his request at the end of two days these two Prisoners are sent for, and brought from Pontarlin to Salynes', and there imprisoned.  
The very next morning the criminal judges send for them to one of their houses, and first severally private, and then publicly by confrontation, examine them on this cruel murder and robbery, but the Devil is still so strong with them, that with much courage and vehemency, they continue and stand firm in their negative resolution and denial; But De Laurier being now found and known to have lain some seven weeks sick in Adrians' house, aswel by the confession of Isabel his wife of Graceta her maid and of Thomas their Ostler, as also of the Apothecary La Motte, than his body found buried in his Orchard, and Adrian and father justinian their sudden flight upon the same, and now lastly his horse, gold, and jewels found upon them in Pontarlin by the officers of that Town, and his Son Du Pont, were evidences as bright and apparent as the Sun that (in honour to justice and in glory to God from whom all true justice is derived) these wise and grave judges of Salynes', do reject these denials of Adrian and father justinian as false, profane, and impious, and therefore that very instant adjudge them both to the rack, at the hearing of which sentence they seem to be nothing apalled and daunted, but they being advertised that Isabel his Wife was likewise imprisoned for this fact, she for her part, by some friends of hers makes suit to the judges, that she may be permitted to speak with her Husband, and so doth father justinian that he likewise may speak wirh her. But the judges hold both of these their requests to be vain and impertinent and therefore flatly contradict and deny them.  
So Adrian is first brought to the rack, who though he be weak of constitution yet he is still so strong in his villainy, as he will not be persuaded or drawn to confess it, but with much courage of body, and animosity of mind, suffers himself to be fastened thereto, whereof the Judges being advertised, they in their discretion, hold it expedient to delay his torments for a time, and so first to make trial of father justinian, to see if these his torments will make him less stout, and more flexible in the confession thereof. Wherein (I write it with joy) their judgements nothing deceive them, for at the very first wrench of the rack, God is so merciful to his soul, and so propitious to his new conversion and repentance, that he then and there confesseth this lamentable murder, in all its branches and circumstances (as we have formerly understood; Affirms only himself and Adrian to be the Authors and Actors thereof; Swears that Isabel, Graceta and Thomas were every way innocent thereof, and had no hand or knowledge therein whatsoever. Whereupon the judges send again for Adrian, and cause him a new to be brought to the rack, but first they hold it fit to confront him with his bloody companion father justinian, who boldly affirming, and constantly confirming all his former deposition to him in his face to be sincere and true Adrian is amazed and daunted there at, as also at the sight of the rack which was again prepared and brought for him, when the devil flying from him, and he casting his heart and soul at the sacred feet of God's mercy, he there very sorrowfully confirmed all father justinian's confession to be true, and then falling on his knees, he with many bitter sighs and tears) said again and again aloud; that his wife his man, and his man were as truly innocent, as father justinian and himself were alone truly guilty of this fool and cruel murder and robbery of De Laurier. When their judges, as much rejoicing 〈◊〉 the detection and confession of these their crimes as they lamented and detested their perpetrations thereof. They condemn them both to be hanged the next morning and because father justinian had violated his sacred Order, and Adrian the humane and Christian Laws of Hospitality, their bodies after to be burnt to ashes.  
So as soon as Father justinian was degraded of his Sacerdotal Order, and Habit, and committed to the secular powers, he together with Adrian were for that night returned to their prison and repentance, where two Priests, and one Friar of the order of the jacobyns prepare their souls for Heaven against the next morning. It was a grief to Isabella's heart, to hear that he was guilty of this foul and lamentable murder, but a far greater torment and Hell to her mind to understand that he must suffer death for the same, and that she should neither see nor speak with him any more either in this life, or this world. Again looking from him to herself, as she could not hope for his life, so she thought she had some small cause, or at least scruple to doubt and fear her own, in regard it lay at the courtesy or cruelty of her Husband and father Iustini●…n, for that (as we have formerly understood) they acquainted her with their intents and desires to murder De Laurier, and she revealed it not. But yet (nevertheless) in the purity of her heart, and the can did innocency of her soul, she commits the success both of her life, or death to God, 〈◊〉 not being able to sleep away any part of that night for sorrow, she as a religious woman, and a most virtuous wife) passeth out the whole obscurity thereof, in the brightness of heavenly ejaculations and prayer, which from the profundity of her heart, she proffereth up to Heaven both for her Husband and herself.  
Very early the next morning, before father justinian and Adrian went to their execution; Du Pont, and (at his request) the judge repair to the Prison to them; where he and they inquire of him, to what all●…w of gold and jewels they had taken from his dead father, who tell him, that in a letter which his Father had written to him 〈◊〉 ●…jon, and the which they had suppressed and burnt; he therein mentioned the value of one thousand seven hundred crowns. And being again demanded by him, what and where was become of all that great sum in gold and jewels, they freely and ingeniously tell him, that one third part thereof was taken from them, by him and the Officers of justice in Pontarlin, and another third he should find hidden in such and such secret places of their houses, and for the other third part, they ●…shed not to confess and aver, that they had since paid some old debts bought some new apparel, and spent the rest thereof upon their whores, and other o●… their voluptuousness and prodigalities. So the judges and Duke Pont speed away to Adrian and father justinian's houses, where they find the gold and jewels according to their confessions, the which together with the other former part taken from the 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 (both which amounted to some 〈◊〉. 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉) 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 and honest judges deliver up unto Du Pont, who received it from them with joy and thankfulness, but as a good Son rejoices ●…rre more at the now approaching deserved deaths, of these two bloody and execrable wretches, 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 and Adrian, the murderers of his good old father De Laurier of whom some twenty and five years before, he had the happiness to receive his life.  
Some two hours after, which was about ten of the clock in the morning these our two condemned malefactors are brought to the place of execution where a great concourse of people of Salynes', and the country thereabout attend to see them finish the last Scene and Catastrophe of their lives. The first who ascends the Ladder is Adrian who speaks little; Only he takes it to his death, that his decree wife Isabel, his servant maid Graceta, and his Ostler Thomas, are as absolutely innocent of this murder of De Laurier, as he himself here again confesseth he is guilty thereof. He prays God to forgive him this foul fact, and beseecheth all that are present to pray to God for him, and for his wretched and miserable soul, the which he knoweth hath great need and want of their prayers, when casting his handkerchief over his face, and privately ending some few prayers to himself he is turned over. Instantly after him rather justinian mounts the Ladder, who (in his looks and countenance) seems to be very repentant and penitent for this his soul and heinous fact, the which he praves God to absolve and forgive him, he here again clears Isabel, Graceta, and Thomas of this murder. He much lamenteth that he hath so highly scandalised the sacred order of Priesthood in his crime and person; and therefore beseecheth all Priests and Churchmen either present or absent to forgive it him; when repeating some Ave mary's, and often making the sign of the cross, he was likewise turned over.  
And thus was the miserable life and death of this impious Priest, and wicked and bloody Host, and in this sharp manner did God justly revenge himself and punish them with shame and confusion for this cruel and lamentable murder. Immediately after which execution of theirs, the judges set our virtuous and innocent Isabel, and her maid, and Ostler free from their undeserved endurance and troubles, whereat all the Spectators, do as much praise God for the liberty of the three last, as they detest the foul crime, and rejoice at the just punishments of the two first: If we make good use of the knowledge of this sorrowful history, the profit, and confolation thereof will be ours, and the glory Gods, which God of his best favour and merey grant us.  
Amen.   

GOD'S REVENGE, AGAINST THE CRYING AND Execrable sin of Murder.  
HISTORY XXVIII.  
Hippolito murthereth Garcia in the street by night▪ for the which he is hanged. Dominica and her Chambermaid Denisa, poisoneth her husband Roderigo; Denisa afterwards strangleth her own new borne Babe, and throws it into a Pond, for the which she is hanged; on the ladder she confessed that she was accessary, with her Lady Dominica in the poisoning of her Husband Roderlgo; for the which Dominica is apprehended, and likewise hanged.  
HOw easily doth malice and revenge enter into our hearts, and how difficultly do we expel and banish it thence, & what doth thus promise, or rather threaten un o us, but that it is a wretched ●…gne and testimony that the Devil hath more power with ●…s than God, that we more dearly af●…ct Nature than Grace, and Earth than Heaven. In many ●…nnes there is some pretence or shadow of pleasure, 〈◊〉 in murder there is none except we desire ●…hat it should bring grief and repentance to our hearts, horror and terror to our consciences, and misery and confusion to our souls, which indeed despite of our earthly policy and profane prevention it will infallibly both show and bring us. But (to show our wickedness in in our weakness) through the ●…e subtlety and treachery of Satan, we think we act and perpetrate it so secretly, that it cannot be found out of men, no●… detected or punished of God. Wherein what 〈◊〉 foo●…es, and ●…oolish madmen are we thus to deceive and betray ourselves with false hopes and erroneo●… suggestions, for although men may be de●…ded and not ●…ee 〈◊〉, yet ●…an God be mocked, or will he be blinded and deceived herein. O no, his decrees and resolutions are secret and sacred, and though invisible to our eyes, yet our designs and 〈◊〉 are transpar●…nt to his▪ For he in his allseeing providence) reserves 〈◊〉 himself the manner and time, how and where to punish it. A●… read we this approaching History, and it will confirm as much in the lives and deaths of some bloody and inhuman personages, who were bor●…e to honour, and consequently to have lived more happy, and died less ignominiously.  
IN the rich and popu●…us City of Gra●…ado (which Ferdinand and Isabel King and Queen of Sp●…ine, Anno. 1492. so famously and fortunately conquered from the Moors) there (within these few years) dwelled an ancient Lady, named Dona Ali●…a Serv●…tella, who was descended o●… noble parentage, and by her late Husban●…, Do●… Pedro de Car●…s (dying a chief Commander in the West Indieses) she had two children, a son and a daughter, he named Don Garcia, and she Dona Do●…nica, he of some twenty years of age, and she of some eighteen, he t●…l of statur●… but some what hard favoured and she short▪ but e●…ceeding ●…ir and beautiful. Their mother Cervantella being not left rich by her de●…eased Husband, did yet bring up these her two children very hono●…rably and virtuously, and maintained them exceeding gallant in their apparel, though she clad herself the worse for it for their sakes▪ She observes her Son D●…n Garcia to be of a mild disposition, and very witty and judi●…ious; but for her daughter Dominica, she sees with fear, and fears with grief, that her wit will come short of her beauty, and her chastity of her wit; In which regard and consideration she loves him better than her and yet bears sovigilant an eye over her actions, that as yet s●…e keeps her within the lists of Modesty, and the bounds of obedience as holding i●…●…rre truer di●…etion to make her more beloved than feared of her, or rather that fear and love by ●…urnes, might act their several parts upon the Theatre of her youthful heart, and resolutions. There is an old rich gentleman of that City nobly descended, termed Don Hippolito S●…vino, commonly known and named only Don Hippolito; aged of some threescore and ten years and much subject to the Gout, a disease better known than ●…red, and which loves rich men as much as poor men hate it. And this old Hippolito in the Frost and Winter of his age falls in love with our ●…re young Lady Dominica, and so by the Lady the Mother seeks her daughter in marriage. As for the Mother she loves Hippolito's gold better than her daughter doth his age and affects his lands as much as she hates his personage. But Don Garcia at the often requests of his sister being at last vanquished by her imortuni●…e soon changeth his mother's opinion and good esteem of Hippolito, and so they all three give him the repulse and denial. But his affection to this deli●…ate fresh young beauty makes him more perverse and obstinate than his age, so he will take no answer for an answer, nor a refusal for a refuse from them but will or nill frequent their company daily, and their house almost hourly they are all three tired with his sottish in●…illity and doting im●…ortunacy▪ es●…ecially Dominic●…, who measuring his age, by her youth▪ and knowing him to be far ●…ter for his grave than a wife she therefore scorns him as much as he loves her but vet say she what she will, or do her Mother and Brother what they can yet they cannot free their house or shift their hands of him; although they many times make him look upon bare walls, content himself to converse with the meanest of their Servants and so to return without seeing either of Mother, Son, or Daughter.  
But Dominica, holding her beauty and years, now to be worthy of a husband, she is so incivill and incontinent as she prays her mother to procure and provide her one. For (to use her own words) she saith she is weary to lie alone, and live single, and fully resolved no longer either to trifle away her time, or to cast away her youth and beauty; Her Lady Mother (in most virtuous terms) checks her impudence, blames her impudicity, and concludes that if she forsake those immodest humours and inclinations, and so serve and fear God religiously then there is no doubt but in good time, he (of his propitious favour and goodness towards her) will provide her one, when turning from her Daughter, the very tears of sorrow fall abundantly from her old eyes, to see her thus immodest, thus irregular and wanton, as doubting and fearing that in the end it will prove ominous and fatal to her.  
But her lascivious Daughter Dominica is not contented with this general answer of her Mother, for she is yet so vainly impudent, and so viciously imprudent, as she importunately prays her brother Don Garcia, effectually and speedily to solicit her Mother to provide her a husband, whereat he rather laughs than gives ear. But when again he ruminates and considers with himself this her foolish levity and wantonness, fearing the worst, and to the end she might not hereafter prove a disgrace to herself, a scandal to their house, and a dishonour to their blood, he (taking time at advantage) breaks and treats with his mother hereon; who concurring in opinion with him, returns him rather her consent than her denial, the which he reports to his immodest sister Dominica, who is thereat as joyful as before she was discontented.  
Not long after it fell out that Dominica with her Mother going on a great Holiday in the morning to the Church of the Benedictine Monks, and being behind her on her knees to her Beads and Orisons, her devotion was so cold and her zeal so frozen towards God, as seeing a very proper young Gentleman (richly apparelled) likewise there on his knees to his prayers not far from her; she as a poor (I may say as a profane) Christian beckons her mother's man to come to her, and whispers him in the ear, that he discreetly go and inquire what that young Cavalier is, whom she describes to him by his apparel and especially by a rich Diamond Ring which he wears on his finger; Her mother's man demanding of the Gentleman's servants returns speedily to his young Lady, and tells her in her ear, that it is Don Roderigo, Son and heir to Don Emmanuell de Cortes, whereat her lustful affection makes her heart leap and dance within her forjoy, for so incivilly unchaste is she in her desires and wishes, that at his very first sight she desires him for her Husband before any other man of the world, yea before any other earthly felicity. Whereupon she vows that her Mother shall have no truce, nor her Brother any peace of her before they powerfully make this motion of marriage for her to Don Roderigo, who being often solicited and provoked by her importunate requests, they consult hereon, and both of them approve and desire it, as holding it a match equally honourable to them both. The Son will have his mother first to break the ice of this motion to Don Roderigo, but the mother will have her Son first to perform that office to him, and so to take a fair occasion to invite him home to her house to speak with her, the which Don Garcia performs, and deals herein so effectually with Don Roderigo that home he comes with him. The Lady Cervantella (after many compliments and speeches) presents this motion to him. He sees the young Lady Dominica her daughter, and finding her to be exceeding fair and witty, he likes and loves her and so takes time to advise hereon with his father, for the Lady his Mother was formerly gone to heaven. Roderigo breaks this motion to Don Emanuel his father, who not pleased therewith seeks to divert his Son from it, in regard he knows that her Mother Dona Cervantella is very poor. and of a weak estate, as being much encumbered with the great depts of her deceased Husband. Roderigo allegeth to his Father, his true affection to the true beauty and virtues of Dominica, and that her descent and blood is no way inferior to his. But his father being of an exceeding covetous disposition, will have wealth to oversway beauty, and not beauty wealth, and so is resolute to hear no more of this motion, whereat his son Roderigo bites the lip, and is much discontented. Yet nevertheless he hath cast his affection so deeply and firmly on the fresh and delicate beauty of Dominica, that holding it to be the Gold of Nature, and she the Queen and Phoenix of Beauty, he cannot, he will not refrain, but very often frequents Dona Cervantella's house, and her daughter's company. To whom (notwithstanding his Father's distaste of her) he yet gives far more hope than despair that he will be her Husband, which ravisheth her with delight, her Mother Dona Cervantella, and her brother Don Garcia with content.  
But the order of our History envites us for a while to leave Don Roderigo to feast his eyes and surfeit his thoughts and contemplations on the Roses and Lilies of his Mistress beauty, and again to return to speak of our old Dotard Hippolito. Who now (led by his lust and voluptuous desires, as they are by the instigation of the Devil) comes to perform and act a bloody and deplorable part on the stage of this History. He sees with grief and grieves to see that he is refused of the Lady Dominica whom he loves far dearer and tenderer than his life, and understanding that Don Roderigo de Cortes, doth still frequent her company, hath gained her affection and shall shortly marry her, he thereupon turns his reason into rage, converts his judgement into revenge, and so resolves to murder him by night, as soon as he finds him to issue forth of the Lady Cervantella's house, the Devil making him strong in the vanity of this belief and confidence, that he being once dead, undoubtedly the fair Dominica will fall for his share and wife. So he is resolute in this his bloody and damnable design: and consults with himself whether he should do it by himself, or by some second instrument, but finding it dangerous to effect it by another, because he must then commit his life to his courtesy, and seeing that his Gout had now forsaken him, he therefore resolves to do it by himself. But first he thinks it not improper, rather pertinent for him to write Roderigo a letter, the which he doth in these terms and sends it him by one of his own confident Servants.  
HIPPOLITO to RODERIGO.  
WErt thou informed but of the hundred part of my dear affection to the fair young Lady Dominica, and reciprocally of hers to me, thou wouldst (if not out of honour, yet out of judgement) surcease thy suit to her, and not make thy obstinacy ridiculons by thinking to obtain her to thy Wife, and although she feed thee with the sugar o●… many sweet protestations and promises to the contrary yet if I have any eyes in my head, or thou judgement in thine to discern the truth hereof, thou hast far more reason to rely upon the integrity of my age, than the Vanity and inconstancy of her youth; And wert thou not a Gentle ●…an whom I love for thine own and honour for thy Father's sake, I had not so long permitted thee to frequent her company, nor so often to converse with her to the prejudi●…e of my content and thy discretion, and if this friendly Ambassador of my heart, my Letter, will not yet induce thee to leave her to me, whom Heaven and Earth, God and her Mother have given me. I will then either by thy Father, or by the usual course of justice take that order with thee therein, as shall red●…d as much to my honour and fame, as to thy infamy and disreputation,  
HIPPOLITO.  
Roderigo having received and read this Letter of Hippolito, he cannot refrain from smiling and laughing to see his sottish error and ridiculous ignorance herein, for he perfectly knows, that both Dominica, and the Lady Cervantella her mother are long since resolved to hear no more either of him or of his suit, and therefore he holds it more worthy of his laughter than of his observation, likewise to see, that this old dotard, when nature is ready to wed him to his grave, that his lust should yet be so forward to desire to marry so young and beautiful a Lady as Dominica; The which considering, once he thought to return him no other answer but silence, but at last respecting his age and Quality more than his indiscretion or power, after he had shown his letter to Cervantella, to Dominica, and her brother Don Garcia, who all concur in opinion with him to make it the public object, as both it and himself were the private cause of their general laughter, he calls for pen and paper and (rather with contempt than choler) by Hippolito's own servant returns him this answer.  
RODERIGO to HIPPOLITO.  
I Have as small reason to doubt of thy affecti●…n to the young Lady Dominica, as to believe that hers is reciprocally so to thee and therefore I see no just cause in honour or solid ground in judgement to surcease my suit towards ●…er, much less to deem my obstinacy ridiculous in hoping to obtain her to my Wife; And although it be in thy pleasure, yet it is not in thy power to make me doubtful of her fairewords, or to call in question, or suspicion her sweet promises and protestations to me, sith that were to profane the purity of my zeal to her, and of her true and sincere affection to me, the which yet to do thee a courtesy, I will rather excuse than condemn in thee, because I am confident it exceeds thy knowledge, though not thy fear, and in this behalf and assurance, thine eyes cannot so much prevail with my judgement, but that I will more rely upon the integrity of her youth, than the vanity of thy Age. As for thy love to me or honour to my Father, when I find it so I will acknowledge it to be as true, as now I conceive i●… feigned: but for thy threats to me in thinking thereby to make me forsake the conversation and company of that fair and virtuous young Lady, I do rather pity than esteem them, and every may moré contemn than care for them, assuring thee that I cannot possibly refr●… from laughter to see thee so devoid of common sense, as to think to be able, either to scare me with the power of the Law, or to daunt me with the prerogative and authority of my father in making me to forsake her whom in life and death, I neither can nor will forsake, resolve therefore henceforth to prevent thy infamy and disreputation, for I will be left to myself to establish mine own content and honour, as I please.  
RODERIGO.  
Hippolito upon the receipt and consideration of this peremptory letter of Don Roderigo, is so inflamed and incensed against him to see that (perforce) he will make him wear a Willow Garland, as (without any more delays or expostulations) understanding him to be that very same night which he received his Letter with his Lady Dominica at her mother's house, the Devil causeth him to gather all his malice, wits and strength together about him that night to murder him as he issueth forth to go home, which bloody stratagem of his to effect and finish, he chargeth a pistol with three bullets and he waits his coming thence: but Don Garcia accidentally issuing forth all alone privately to go visit a friend of his not far off, this wretched old villain Hippolito taking him to be Roderigo lets fly at him, and all three bullets pierce his body, so he falls down dead to the ground. The blow is heard, and the breathless body of Don Garcia is found reeking in his blood, whose mother, sister, and Don Roderigo are amazed and astonished at this deplorable disaster, and ready to drown themselves in their tears for sorrow thereof. So Roderigo leaving some Neighbours to comfort them, he takes order to find out the murderers, and goes himself speedily throughout the street to that effect; When the good pleasure and providence of God directs his course to find out this old execrable wretch Hippolito going lirping and limping in the street, having thrown away his Pistol, and only holding his dark lantern in his hand, which then (the better to colour out this damnable fact of his) he opened to light him. Roderigo measuring things passed by the present, and finding Hippolito there in the streets all alone, at this undue and unseasonable hour of the night. God prompts his heart with this suspicion, that he in likelihood was the murderer of Don Garcia, and so lays hold of him, and caus●…th him to be committed to the prison, notwithstanding all the entreaties, means and friends, which he could then possibly make to the contrary. The next day all Granado rings and resounds of this murder, and of the suspicion and imprisonment of Don Hippolito for the same, when the Lady Cervantella goes to the Criminal judges of the City and accuseth him for the same, and with grief, sorrow, and passion, follows it close against him; and although Hippolito at his first examination denies it, yet being by his cleeresighted judges adjudged to the rack for the same, he at the very first sight thereof confesseth it, for the which bloody and lamentable crime of his, he is sentenced the next day to be hanged, although he proffered all his estate and means to save his life; But the zeal and integrity of his judges was such to the sacred name of justice as they disdained to be corrupted herewith.  
So the next Morning this old bloody wretch Hippolito is brought to the common place of execution, where a very great concourse of people repair from all parts of the City to see him take his last farewell of the world, most o●… them pitying his age, but all condemning the enormity of this his foul and bloody crime. He was dealt with by some Priests and Friars in prison, whose Charity and Piety, endeavoured to fortify his heart against the fear of death, and to prepare his soul for the life and joys of that to come. But the Devil was yet so strong with him that he could not be drawn to contrition nor would not be either persuaded or enforced to repentance, or to ask God, or the world forgiveness of this his bloody fact, but as he lived profanely so he would dye wretchedly and desperately, for on the Ladder he made a foolish speech, the which because it savoured more of beastly concupiscence and lust, than of Piety or Religion, I will therefore bury it in oblivion, and silence, and so he was turnedover.  
Come we now to speak of Don Emanuel de Cortes the Father, who understanding of his Son Roderigo his continual frequenting of Dona Cervantella's house, and her daughter Dominica's company, and now hearing of this murder of her Son to her door, his own Son being then therein present; he is much discontented therewith; and because he will sequester him from her sight and provide him another Wife, he sends him to Asnalos, a manor house of his, some ten leagues off in the Country, with a strong injunction and charge, there to reside till his farther order to return. Roderigo is wonderful sorrowful thus to leave the sight of his fair and dear Mistress Dominica, and (to the view of the world) no less is she, so he transporteth only his body to Asnallos, but his heart he leaves with her in Granado. But a month is scarce expired after his departure, But the Lady Cervantella (by the death of her Son Don Garcia, wanting a man to conduct and govern her affairs, especially her law suits, wherewith (as we have formerly heard) she is much encumbered, she thereupon (as also at the instant request of her Daughter) writes Roderigo this letter for his return.  
CERVANTELLA to RODERIGO.  
AS thou tenderest the prosperity of my affairs, and the content and joy of my Daughter, I request thee speedily to leave Asnallos, and to return to reside here in Granado, for I wanting my Son Garcia, who was the joy of my life, and she her Roderigo who art the life of her joy, thou must not find it strange if my age, and her youth, and if my Law suits and her love affections and desires assume this resolution: Thy Father is a Noble man of Reason, and his Son shall find this to be a request both 〈◊〉 and reasonable, except thou wilt so far publish thy weakness to the world, tha●… thou dost more fear thy Father than love my Daughter, for if thou shouldest once ●…mit thy obedience to him so far to give a Law to thy affection to her, thou wilt then make thyself as unworthy to be her Husband, as I desire it with zeal, and she with passion. She is resolved to second this my letter with one of her own to thee, to which I refer thee; God bless thy stay, and hasten thy return.  
CERVANTELLA.  
Dominica resolving to make good her promise to her mother, and that of her mother to Roderigo she withdraws herself to her chamber to write and knowing her mother's messenger ready to depart, chargeth him with the delivery of her letter to her lover Roderigo, and to cast the better lustre and varnish over her affection, she takes a Diamond Ring from her finger, and likewise sends it him for a token of her love.  
DOMINICA to RODERIGO.  
AS the death of my Brother Don Garcia made 〈◊〉 extreme sorrowful, so thi●… of thy absence made me infinitely miserable, for as that nipped my joys and hopes in their blossoms, so this kills them in their riper age and 〈◊〉. When I 〈◊〉 received thy love, and gave and returned thee mine in exchange, I had 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 thou hadst affected me too dearly so soon to leave my sight, and to ●…sh thy 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 my company, but now I see with grief, and feelewith sorrow that th●… lovest thy F●…er far better than ●…ee, and delightest to prefer his content bef●… 〈◊〉 for else thou hadst not made me thus wretched by thy absence, who am as (it were) but entering into the happiness of thy presence. If thou canst find in thy heart to obey his commands, before thou grant my requests, then come not to Granado but stay still in Asnallos, but if the contrary, then leave Asnallos, and come to me in Granado, w●…ere I will chide thee for thy long stay, and yet give thee a world of thanks and kisses for thy so soon return, and as my heart and soul doth desire it, so the prosperity of my Mother's affairs doth likewise want, and therefore crave it. judge of the fervency of my affection to thee, by thine to myself; and then thou wilt spe●…dily resolve to see thy Dominica, who desires nothing so much under Heaven as to have the happiness of thy sight, and the felicity and Honour of thy Company.  
DOMINICA.  
Roderigo receives these their two Letters; reputes that of the mother to much respect, and this of her Daughter to infinite affection, so as the very knowledge and consideration thereof makes him rejoice in the first, and triumph in the second, and therefore knowing himself to be a man, and past a child, and that as he is bound by nature and reason to obey his farther, so he is not tied to be commanded by him beyond it, wherefore he resolves to give content to the mother for the daughter's sake, and to the daughter for his own sa●…e and so by their own messenger returns them these answers; That to the Lady Cervantella spoke thus.  
RODERIGO to CERVANTELLA.  
I So much tender the prosperity of thy affairs, and thy daughters content and joy that my resolutions shall so dispose of myself towards my Father; as very shortly I will see thee with respect and observance, and visit her with affection and zeal; for this desire of hers and request of thine, is so honourable so reasonable, as my Father should be guilty of unkindness, to deny the one, and myself of ingratitude not to grant the other; Or if he will yet continue to cross our affections I will then make it apparent to the world, that I will not fear him the thousand part so much as I will love her, and that I will ambitiously strive and resolve to make my affection to her; to equalise thy zeal and her passion to me and that I cannot receive a greater felicity and honour, than to see her my Wife and myself her Husband. I have given an answer to her Letter, and very shortly I will give her myself every way answerable to her merits, to thy expectation and my promise.  
RODERIGO.  
His Letter to Dominica was charged and fraughted with these lines.  
RODERIGO to DOMINICA.  
To deface thy sorrows for thy Brother's death, and thy miseries for my absence and likewise to preserve thy joys in their blossoms, and thy hopes in their riper age and maturity, I am f●…ly resolved very shortly to grant thy request in leaving Asnallos; to live and dye with thee in Granado, and thou dost offer a palpable wrong to the truth and an immerited disparagement to the purity and candour of my affection, to think that I any wa●… prefer my obedience to my Father, before my affection to thee, or consequently his content to thine. Therefore prepare thyself to kiss not to chide me, for else I will resolve to chide and not to kiss thee at my return. My best endevoure shall write on the prosperity of thy Mother's affairs, and my best love and service shall eternally attend on her Daughter's pleasure and Commands, and judge thou if my zeal to thee, do not exceed thine to myself, sith Earth is not so dear to me, as the Honour of thy sight, nor Heaven as the felicity of thy company.  
RODERIGO.  
He hath no sooner dispatched these two Letters to his Mistress and her Mother, but the very next day after he enters into a resolution with himself; that he shall not do well so soon to disoblige and disobey his father, by so speedily precipitating his return from Asnallos to Granado, as urging this reason to his consideration, and proposing this consideration to his judgement, that Dominica's affection and beauty can difficultly make him rich, but that his Father's discontent and displeasure towards him may easily make him poor: Whereupon resolving to cherish his constancy to her, and yet to retain his obedience to him, he holds it no sin if a little longer he dispense with his content and promise to temporize for his discretion and profit, as grounding his hope upon this confidence, and his confidence upon this presuming infallibility, that his Lady and Mistress Dominica is as chaste as fair, and will prove as constant to him as she is beautiful in herself. But she is a woman and therefore she may deceive his hopes, and he is a man and therefore it is possible that her beauty may betray his judgement, the which prediction and prophecy (to his grief and sorrow, and to her shame and misery) we shall shortly see made true and verified, the manner thus.  
Dominica (as we have formerly understood) being of a wanton disposition and carriage, and very unchastly and lasciviously inclined, she finding Roderigo's stay in Asnallos to exceed his promise and her expectation, she cannot live chaste, she will not remain constant in his absence, but hath a friend or two, I mean two proper young Gentlemen of Granado to whom she many times privately imparteth her amorous favours and affection, the which she acteth not so closely, but the Lady her Mother (being a Lincy-eyed, and curious observer of her actions) hath notice thereof, and thinking ro reclaim her from this foul sin of fornication and whoredom, which threatens no less than the ruins of her fortunes, and the shipwreck of her reputation; she first attempteth to persuade her by fair means with tears and prayers; but seeing she could not thereby prevail with her, than she gives her many sharp speeches and bitter threats, and menaces as wholly to deprive her of her Father's portion, and either to make, her spend her days in a Nunnery, or end them in a Prison. That she is not worthy to tread upon the face of earth, or look up to Heaven because this her foul crime of fornication, makes her odious to God, and an infinite shame and scandal to all her Parents and friends in general, and to every one in particular, with many other reasons looking and conducing that way, the which for brevity's 〈◊〉, I resolve to omit and bury in silence.  
But this lectu●…e of the Mother prevails not with the Daughter, but rather inflames than quencheth the fire of her inordinate and lascivious lust; the which she perceiving, and to prevent her own scandal in that of her daughters, she (as a careful Mother and a wise Matron) me weth her up in her chamber, where Dominice (for mere grief and choler (to see herself thus debarred of her pleasures in the restraint of her liberty) she grows very ficke, looks exceeding won, pale and thin, and sokeepes her bed, the which the Lady Cervantella takes for a fit occasion and opportunity again effectually to write to Roderigo to hasten his return to Granado, as doubting lest her Daughter's Belly should chance to swell and grow big in his absence. This her Letter to Roderigo, reported her mind, and represented her desires to him in these terms.  
CERVANTELLA to RODERIGO.  
THou dost thyself no right, but me and my Daughter infinite wrong in staying so long from Granado, in regard it is contrary to thy promise, to my expectation and to her deserts and merits; For her affection is so entire and fervent to thee, because she conceives and hopes that thine (in requital) is so to her, that she hath this many months languished in expectation of thy, return; whereof now beginning to despair, that despair of hers hath struck her into so dangerous a consumption, that I fear it will shortly prove fatal to her, for already the Lillies have banished the Roses of her cheeks yea her cheeks are grown thin, and those sparkling stars her eyes have lost a great part of their wont lustre and glory, so if thy affection will not, yet pity should move thee to hasten thy return to see and comfort her; especially sith thou wilt scarce know her when thou seest her, in regard I may (almost) justly affirm that she is no longer Dominica, but rather the living Anatomy of dead Dominica. How thou canst answer for this her sickness to thine honour (which is occasioned by thy unkindness, I know not, but sure I am if she go to her grave before thou come to her, thou canst never sufficiently answer it to thy conscience, nor thy conscience to God. In her sick bed, thou art the only Saint to whom she offereth up her devotions, and therefore it will be a miserable ingratitude in thee to permit her to dye thy Martyr.  
CERVANTELLA.  
At the receipt and perusal of this Letter Roderigo is infinitely sorrowful, especially when he considereth that it is only Dominicas dear affection to him and his long stay from her, which hath occasioned her sickness, whereupon his love consulting with his honour, his honour with his conscience, and his conscience with God, he conjureth the Messenger to return speedily to Granado to the Lady Cervantella and her daughter Dominica from him and to assure them that all business of the world set apart, he will be there with them the next day, and bring them the answers of their letters himself; whereat at the messengers return they both of them exceedingly rejoice, Roderigo now (according to his promise) comes to Granado, visiteth Cervantella, and his sick Mistress Dominica, salutes the one with compliments, the other with kisses. Dominica intending to give him her body, but not her heart, dissembleth her affection to him, and frowns on him exceedingly, as if her love to him and his to her were dearer to her than all the world, and far more precious than her life. But chose Roderigo intends as he speaks, and speaks as he intends; yea he is so sincere and real in his affection to her, as she is counterfeit and treacherous to him. So glorying in her beauty, and triumphing in her youth, he with much difficulty, obtains his father's consent and marries her, their Nuptials being solemnised in Granado with state and bravery answerable to their descents and qualities, but he will find a wanton L●…is for a constant Lucrece, and a lascivious Phryne for a chaste Penelope. Never Husband bore himself more respectfully, lovingly, and courteously to his Wife than doth Roderigo to his Dominica, for he thinks that her fare cannot be curious, nor her apparel costly enough for her, yea such was his tender respect to her, and affection of her, that he willingly permitted her to go where she would, and to come when she pleased, contrary to the custom of Spain, and generally of most Spaniards, who hold it far more folly than affection to give this licentious freedom and liberty to their Wives, which we do in England and France, the which we shall see verified in our young Bride Dominica; for the more her husband Roderigo loves her, the more she sleights him, and the more he respects her, the more she neglects and contemns him, whereat he grieves, his mother in law Cevantella storms, and his own father Don Emanuel de Cortes re●…ines and murmurs: But as it is labour in vain to think to make an Aethiopian white, so all of them cannot reclaim Dominica to love her husband nor scarce to lie with him. He conceives infinite grief hereat, which breeds him a lingering consumption in earnest, as his Wife Dominica was formerly possessed of one in jest, whereat she the more hates him in regard the extremity of his sickness and weakness will not permit him to perform the rites and duties of a Husband towards her, but she need not care, much less grieve thereat for she takes her obscene and lascivious pleasures abroad, whiles her dear sick husband (for grief of body and mind) is ready to dye at home. He bewails his hard fortune in marrying her, but yet loves her so tenderly and dearly, as he will not speak ill of her himself, nor suffer any other to do it either in his presence, or her absence. Yea, her love is so frozen to him, though his bee still constantly and fervently inflamed to her, as she difficulty sees him once in three days, nor yet speak two words with him when she sees him, and yet when he is so happy to obtain her sight and company, he so exceedingly rejoiceth thereat, that it seems to him, his pain for that time gives him peace, his sorrow's truce, his sickness ease, his heart comfort; and his thoughts consolation. But Dominica hath not deserved, the least part of all this true affection and courtesy from him heretofore, much less will she requite it to him hereafter, except in a most ingrateful and bloody manner, which is thus.  
The Devil resolves to trouble the harmony and serenity of their marriage, or rather our Dominica hath hellishly derived and drawn this resolution from the Devil, to poison her Husband, and the sooner she fixeth her mind upon this infernal Ingredient, and setteth her barbarous cruelty upon this devilish drug, because the violence of his consumption having already made almost an Anatomy of his body, she therefore flattereth herself with this opinion, that no suspicion at all can seize upon the belief of any that he is poisoned, much less of his Father, or her Mother. She cannot procure poison herself, and therefore albeit she be very unwilling to acquaint or employ any other herein, yet she is enforced thereunto. Of all her acquaintance she thinks she may more safely entrust and repose this great secret with her Chamber maid Denisa, for having formerly made her accessary to her sins of Fornication and Adultery, she thinks she may with less difficulty, and more ease now draw her to conceal and participate in this murder with her; the which the better and sooner to effect, she gives her fifty Du●…s, and adding thereunto many sweet persuasions, and sugared promises, of her continual care and affection for her preferment, this wretched miserable Wench yields her consent thereto so they give their hands, and swear secrecy each to other, the Devil laughing at this their bloody compact and capitulation.  
So (without either the grace or fear of God) they are resolute in this their rage, and outrageous in this their barbarous cruelty, thinking every minute a month, and every day a year, before they have finished and perpetrated this lamentable business: So this Fury, this she-devil Dominica, being as impatient in her lascivious lust to herself, as in her deadly malice to her kind and honest Husband Roderigo, she makes Denisa secretly to procure some strong poison, from some remote unknown Apothecary, and not only causeth, but sees her to put it into some white broth for him, which the Chambermaid brings, and the Wife and Mistress gives to her Husband, in morning before he was out of his bed, under pretence and colour of some comfortable broth, and hot meat; whereof (O grief to think it! O pity to report it!) before night he died thereof; and Don Emanuel de Cortes his father, being at that time ridden to the City of Sevil, in the Province of A●…doulesia, about some important business of his, she (taking the opportunity and advantage of his absence, thereby the better to overvaile this her foul and bloody fact) doth speedily cause this his breathless body to be encoffined, and so buried somewhat privately, but not in that solemn manner as was requisite either for his quality, or her reputation, yea, contrary to the opinion of the Lady Cervantella her mother, who much grieved and feared at this sudden death of her son in law Roderigo, as doubting lest her daughter, his Wife, had too hastily and untimely sent him to Heaven in a bloody winding sheet. This mournful Tragedy thus acted, our wretched Dominica, of a discontented Wife, is now become a joyful and frolic Widow; and now her exorbitant lust, and lascivious desires, break pale, and range, both beyond the bounds of chastity, and the limits of discretion, for she will hearken to no advice, nor follow any counsel from the Lady Cervantella her mother, but forsakes her house and her sight the greatest part of the day, and which is worse, many whole nights, to keep company with those vicious Gallants, and debauched young Gentlemen of her former acquaintance and familiarity, with whom she delighteth to lose her honour, to cast away her chastity, and to shipwreck her reputation, if not her soul; when neither thinking of God or her Conscience, of Heaven or Hell, of her murdering self, or murdered Husband, she so incessantly (without any intermission or repentance) abandons herself to her profane and beastly whoredoms, that in a very short time she makes herself the laughture of the worst, and the pity of the better and most virtuous sort of people of Granado, yea, her actions are so devoid of Graces and replete of impiety, that her own Mother is ashamed to speak with her, and Don Emanuel De Cortes, her father in law, to see her. And here, Christian Reader, let me request thy curiosity to observe and thy piety to remark, how (by degrees) the indignation, and Justice of God falls upon this debauched young Lady, for the foulness of these her crimes, the very cry and sent whereof hath pierced the windows of Heaven, and are now ascended to the ears and nostrils of the Lord of Hosts, to draw down condign vengeance on her for the same, yea, and at those times when she lest dreams or thinks thereof, and when she is in the very prime of her profaneness, and the chiefest ruff of her lascivious jollity, and voluptuous sensuality. The manner whereof is thus:  
Two months are scarce expired since she sent this her Husband Roderigo thus untimely and cruelly to his grave, but having as it were drowned her Wits and Senses, her Reason and Judgement, yea, her Heart and Soul in the Ocean of her beastly lusts, and lustful desires and pleasures, (but to her own shame, to the grief of her mother, and the contempt and anger of her father in Law De Ca●…tez) she marrieth Don Lewes De Andrada, one of her former Favourites and Paramours, for her lover I cannot, and therefore I will not term him; a very proper Gentleman of his Personage, but every way as debauched and vicious as herself, and therefore a fit Husband for such a Wife. That she was honest, he know the contrary, but hoping that her wealth should supply his wants, and repair the ruins of his decayed fortunes, was that which solely induced him to become her Husband. But at last when he saw her wealth to come short of his expectation, and her lustful desires to exceed it; then he thinks it high time to be wise, in not imitating the example of his predecessor Roderigo, in his carriage and conduction towards this his lascivious Wife Dominica, so he holds a strict hand over her, and in a manner makes her no better than a Prisoner to her Chamber, and a Scholar to her Book and Needle, in such sort, that her ranging unchaste thoughts are now bounded in her new Husband's jealousy, and penned and immured up in her own grief and discontent; for thus he reasoneth with himself, that although formerly he made her his Courtesan, yet now he will not permit that she make him a Cuckold; then he was her friend, now her Husband, and then she was answerable for her own life and actions to God, but now he is both for his own and for hers. But this her present affliction and misery is but the shadow and least part of her future; for Andrada her Husband being as resolute in reforming her, as she was neither to digest or endure it, he the better to curb her incontinency, and to debar her from any more returning to her former lewd pranks, and debauched life and conversation, he keeps her very short of money, takes from her most of her best apparel, and all her Rings, Chains, and jewels, which the Ladies of Spain (more than any others of the world) hold to be a great part of their earthly felicity.  
Dominica is amazed, yea all in tears to see this strange alteration of her fortune, and difference of her two Husbands, and now (though too late) she sees Rodorigo's love, in Andrada's hardness towards her; she speaks to her Mother to reconcile her to her husband, but having shut u●… this her second match without her knowledge or consent, she rejects and abandoneth her from her favour to seek her own fortune, as holding her unworthy of the blood which Nature, and the education which God and herself had given her. She was cruel to her first husband, and therefore no marvel if the second prove unkind to her, yet he doubting of her secret malice towards him he apprehends her revenge as much as he condemns her lubricity. He will not add faith to her dissembling promises, nor hazard belief to her treacherous tears and kisses but keeps her still rather as a prisoner than a wife, and more like a criminal than a companion; and yet as close and retired as he kept her in his house, his vigilancy and jealousy was enforced to meet wih this unknown misfortune that he was no sooner abroad, but she had another friend or ruffian at home with whom she very often and very dishonestly familiarized, in so much that she had infallibly murdered her second husband, as she had formerly done her first, if God out of the inestimable treasure of his mercy and goodness) had not prevented her rage, and disappointed and dissipated her bloody design and revenge by another accident as mournful as miraculous▪ and wherein the justice and providence of God doth equally resplend and shine forth unto us for out instruction with a most divine power and heavenly influence.  
For we must here know and understand that the fifty ducats which Denisa had given her of her Lady Dominica, for co●…enting to poison her Master Roderigo, gave her new app●…ell, and they likewise procured her a new suitor or sweet heart, named Hugo (who made show to marry her, but intented it not) with whom she wantonized so often, as in a short time she became guilty of a great Belly, the which she concealed from all the world, except from Hugo the father of her unborn child, who upon notice thereof, either for fear of present punishment, or of future danger, or that he should be constrained to marry her, and so to maintain her and her child, when he had not means to maintain himself, he fled from Granado to 〈◊〉 without taking his leave of Denisa, or any way acquainting her therewith, and now when it is too late, this wretched wench exceedingly grieves thereat, when knowing his return uncertain, his affection to her doubtful, herself poor and her Lady & Mistress Dominica, as than not able to maintain her or her child; she assumes another bloody resolution, which is, that as she was formerly accessary to the poisoning of her Master, so she now will be a principal▪ Actor in murdering and making away of her own child, as soon as it shall be borne, and neither conscience nor her fear are able to divert her from this her bloody and damnable purpose. For being provoked thereunto first by her shame, then by her necessity, but chiefly and especially by her f●…all▪ Counsellor and instigatour the Devil, she being delivered (almost a month before her time) of a fair young Son as soon as it had cried once (to bewail his own misery and his inhuman Mother's cruelty) she as an execrable fury of hell, strangles it, giving him his mournful and untimely death, in that very same hour and instant, which God and herself gave it life, and the very same evening, wraps it in a clean white li●…in cloth, and with a Packthread ties a great stone thereunto and (the devil giving her strength, the very same night caries it half a mile off to a pondwithout the east gate of the City, where seeing no body present to see her, she (not as a mother, no not as a woman, but rather as a fury of hell there throws it in, which before her departure thence presently sunk to the bottom.  
And here let us behold and contemplate on the wonderful mercy and judgement of God in so speedily revealing this deplorable and cruel murder of this harmless and innocent little new borne babe, whom being so newly brought from the adulterate womb of his pitiless mother, she maliciously cast into that Pond, giving it death for life, the Pond for its Cradle, a bank of mud and Oze for its bed and pillow. For upon the instant of Denisas' delivery and her murdering and throwing of this her infant babe into the Pond; God (to revenge this soul and bloody fact of hers) deprived her of discretion and judgement to return for that night to her Master's house, for she thinking to make sure and sound work for her own reputation and safety she that very night takes up her lodging in the next poor Inn, which was at the sign of Saint Io●… head, where to the Host and Hostess, she pretends ●…amenesse by the receipt of a fall. But God will give her but small time to rest and repose herself in the guiltiness of this her cruel sin of murdering her own innocent new borne babe, for with in one hour after, a Groom riding to water his horse in the same pond, his Horse ●…eth and starts exceedingly, pawing in the water with his farther fore foot, and many times thrusts down his head therein. The Groom gives him the 〈◊〉 and switch to bring him off, but in vain, for the horse the more pa●…th with his foot, 〈◊〉 ●…eth with his nose, yea so long till at last (it seems) the packthread being broken the white cloth appears and floats upon the water, which the groom upon the strange behaviour of his horse (but indeed by the immediate providence and pleasure of God, who then and there was well pleased to make this reasonless Beast an instrument of his glory in the detection of this cruel murder) causeth to be fetched a shore, where opening the cloth in presence of some others, who flock thither to the pond side to see what this may be. They find a sweet young Infant boy, whose body was as white as the snow, with a flaxen coloured hair, a cheerful look, a cherry lip, and some blackness about his throat and neck, whereby they guessed it to be newly borne and strangled of some Strumpet his mother, whom to detect and find out, they search all the adjacent houses, and at last find out Denisa in her Inn, when the Officers of justice, setting a Midwife and some three or four elderly women to search her, they (despite of her resistance or prayers to the contrary) give in evidence against her that she was that day delivered of a child, so she is imprisoned, and the next day brought to her arraignment, where (threatened with the rack) she confesseth the strangling of her child, and the throwing of it into this pond, for the which soul and in humane fact of hers, she is the next day condemned to be hanged: When desirous to save her soul though through the instigation of Satan) she hath miserably cast away her body; she entreateth that father Eustace a Priest of her acquaintance may be sent to her in Prison, to prepare her soul for her spiritual journey to heaven, who is accordingly sent her. Who after a long and a religious exhortation to her, falling on this point, that she should do well to disburden her conscience of any other capital crime which she in all the whole course of her life might have committed, as affirming that the revealing thereof, exceedingly tended to God's glory, and the felicity of her own foul, she (with tears and sighs) deeply thinks thereof that night in prison. Now the next morning she is brought to the place of execution, where a great number of people flock together to see her end, and there on the Ladder after she had again confessed the strangling of her infant and her throwing of it into the Pond, she likewise then and there confessed, That she was accessary and consented with her Lady Dominica to poison her Master Roderigo, which she affirmed they both effected in the same manner as we have formerly understood. The confession of this her otherfoule murder, as also of her Lady Dominica, doth much amaze her Auditors and astonish her Judges, who to clear and vindicate the truth hereof, they cause her to descend the Ladder, and to be confronted with her said Lady Dominica who by this time in the midst of her security is likewise apprehended and brought before the Criminal Judges, where contrary to her expectation being enforced to understand the effect and tenor of her Chamber maid Denisa's confession and accusation against her for the poisoning of her Husband Roderigo, she with much passion and choler terms her witch and devil, and curseth the hour that ever she fostered up so pestilent a Viper in her house to eat out her own heart and life when with more confidence and boldness than contrition and repentance (being first by her judges threatened with the torments of the rack) she confesseth herself likewise to be guilty of murdering her first Husband Roderigo. So Denisa's sentence is altered, for she is condemned to be hanged for her first murder, and her dead body after to be burnt to ashes for her second, and the Lady Dominica to be hanged for poisoning her husband which news so resounds and rattles through all the streets and corners of Granado, that almost all the people of that City flock the next morning to the place of execution, to see this cruel Mistress and her bloody Chambermaid, take their last farewell of this world; for the Lady Dominica must likewise die, notwithstanding her Mother Cervantella's tears, and her Husband Andrada's importunate requests and passionate prayers to her Judges to the contrary.  
And first Denisa is caused to ascend the Ladder, (who was a tall and comely young woman) to whom God was so merciful to her soul, that there with many bitter sighs and tears, she was wonderful sorrowful for these her two foul murders, especially for that of her poor Infant babe, whom she had almost as so one dispatched out, as she brought into the world: She earnestly besought all her auditors and spectators to pray unto God to forgive her, and to be merciful to her soul; she affirmed that her Lady Dominica's enticements and Gold first drew her to be accessary to the poisoning of her Master Roderigo, the which again and again from her heart and soul, she prayed God to pardon her; when entreating all young people, especially all young women, to be more wise and religious, and less profane and bloody minded, by her example; and now recommending her soul into the hands of her Saviour and Redeemer, she is turned over. When immediately after this our wretched Lady Dominica is likewise brought to her execution, whom the vanity of her heart, and the impurity and profaneness of her soul, had purposely dighted in her best dress, and richest apparel; which was a purple wrought Velvet Gown, and a curious great laced Ruff, with all things else suitable to it; but which is lamentable to see, and fearful to consider, she was as careless of her soul, as curious of her body; for the Priests and Friars in her prison could not abate or beat down her impiety, but as there, so here on the Ladder, she enters into many deep execrations and curses, as well against her second Husband Andrada, as against her Chambermaid Denisa, who she said was now rather gone to the Devil than to God; but no spark of grace, no show of sorrow, or sign of repentance could appear in her looks, or be heard in her speeches, for poisoning of her first Husband Roderigo, but with much choler and vehemency, she there uttered many other lewd and lascivious speeches, the which grieved her Christian Auditors to hear, and therefore I will not defile my pen, or offend the Readers religious and chaste hearts with the knowledge thereof; so this miserable and wretched Lady was turned over the Ladder, who made her death answerable to the foulness and enormity of her life, being not so happy in her death as her bloody Chambermaid Denisa, and I fear me as exempt of grace and goodness as the Devil could wish her. But God is the Lord of Justice, and father of mercy, to whom I leave her.  
They youth and beauty of this cruel and inhuman Lady Dominica, was pitied of many, but her foul fact abhorred and detested of all who were present at her death; may we who read her History, cherish our Virtues by the sight and knowledge of her Vices, and fortify our souls with Religion and Piety, as she ruined hers by the neglect and want thereof.  
Amen.   

GOD'S REVENGE AGAINST THE CRYING AND Execrable Sin of Murder.  
HISTORY XXIX.  
Sanctifiore (upon promise of marriage) gets Ursina with child, and then afterwards very ingratefully and treacherously rejecteth her, and marrieth Bertranna. Ursina being sensible of this her disgrace, disguiseth herself in a Friar's habit, and with a case of Pistols kills Sanctifiore as he is walking in the fields, for the which she is hanged.  
IT is a poor profit, a wretched pleasure, for the satisfaction of choler and revenge, to imbrue our hands in the innocent blood of our near kindred, sith in seeking to wound him, we more properly kill ourselves in soul and body; striking him (who is the figurative image of God) we presumptuously stab at the Majesty of God himself, by whom our souls must, without whom they can never be saved. Therefore if we will not know as we are men, yet we ought firmly both to know and believe as we are Christians, that revenge and murder are the two prodigious twins of Satan, the last being engendered and propagated of the first, and both from Hell: For revenge is nothalfe so sweet in the beginning as bitter in the end, nor murder by many degrees so pleasing as it proves pernicious to her Authors; as this ensuing History will verify, and make apparent unto us.  
LEt your thoughts be carried over those high hills of Europe, the Alpes, and Appenins, to the noble and famous city of Naples, the head and capital of that flourishing kingdom (and from whence it receives and derives its denomination) a city exceeding rich, populous and fair, and graced and adorned with more Nobility and Gentry of both sexes than any other of Italy whatsoever. Wherein of very late years (when the Duke of Ossuna was Viceroy thereof) there dwelled two rich and beautiful young gentlewomen, the one named Dona Vrsina Placedo, the only daughter and child of Signior Agustino Placedo, & the other Dona Bertranna de Tores likewise the only child and daughter of Signior Thomaso de Tores, the first native of Ferenzolo, in Pulia, and the second of Materana in Calabria, both of them being exceeding rich and well descended Gentlemen, who with their wives and daughters for the most part built up their residence in Naples, but especially all the winter time. Now because these two young gentlewomen (whom henceforth we will term by their Christian and not by their Surnames) are two of the chiefest personages, which give life to this History, therefore I hold it not impertinent for me, superficially to give the Reader their different characters and delineations; Vrsina was past the twentieth year of her age, and Bertranna entering into her eighteenth, Vrsina was tall and slender, Bertranna short and somewhat crookbacked: Vrsina was the fairer of the two, but Bertranna by far the subtler and wiser. Vrsina was of a deep Amber hair, but Bertranna of a coal black: & to conclude this point, Vrsina was affable and courteous, but Bertranna coy, proud, and malicious.  
The truth and order of this History must here inform us, that although these two rich young Gentlewomen had divers brave Gallants, who were suitors to them for marriage, yet none of them so dear and passionately loved Vrsina, as the Baron of Sanctifiore of Capua, a very rich young Nobleman; but far more proper than wise, and withal far more lascivious than rich, nor did or could Bertranna in her heart and mind affect any other but the said Baron: neither was it possible for her father De Tores to persuade or draw her to desire any other Nobleman or Gentleman for her husband than him. Thus we see Sanctifiore deeply to love Vrsina, and Bertranna him, but not he her; and we shall not go far till we likewise see what effects these their different affections will produce.  
Whiles Vrsina is assured of Sanctifiores love to her, Bertranna chose by herself and her friends makes it her chiefest care and ambition to persuade and draw him to forsake Vrsina, and to love and marry herself, but she will find more opposition and difficulty therein than she expects. True it is, that although the Baron of Sanctifiore do continually frequent Placedos house, and his daughter Bertrannas' company, yet understanding and considering with himself, that Vrsina honoured him with her constant love and affection, he therefore held himself in a manner bound sometimes to see and visit her, although indeed it was every way more to content and please her, than himself, where albeit that her policy to herself, and her affection to him, gives him many quips and jerkes of his Mistress Vrsina, yet his reputation and discretion makes him comport his actions and speeches so equally towards Bertranna, that although he give her little cause to hope, yet he gives her none to despaier of his love and affection to her, in requital of hers to him, and upon these and no other terms stand Sanctifiore and Bertranna. But as for Vrsina, her hopes and heart of Sanctifiores affection to her, sails on with a more pleasing and joyful gale of wind, for she loving him as deeply as he doth her dearly, she accounts herself his, and he hers: as we may the more particularly and perfectly perceive by four love-letters of theirs, which secretly and interchangeably passed between them; the which for the Readers better satisfaction I thought good here to insert and publish, whereof his first to her spoke thus.  
SANCTIFIORE to VRSINA.  
THe Sweetness of thy beauty, and the excellency of thy Virtues have so fully taken up my thoughts, and so firmly surprised and vanquished my heart, that I am so much thine both by conquest and duty, as I know not whether I do more affect or honour, or more admire or adore thee; Wherefore if thou art as courteous as fair, and as loving to me as I am faithful to thyself, then return me thy heart as I now give and send thee mine, and assure thyself that my affection is so infinite and entire to thee, that I love and desire thee●… thousand times more than mine own life, and will esteem my death both sweet and happy, if thou wilt henceforth live mine by Purchase, as I am now thine by Promise. Thy will shall be my law, and as there is a God in Heaven, so Vrsina hath not so fervent a lover, or constant a servant on earth as her  
SANCTIFIORE.  
Vrsinas' answer hereunto was couched in these terms.  
VRSINA to SANCTIFIORE.  
IF thy heart be as full of affection, as thy letter is of flattery to me, I should then have as just cause thankfully to believe that, as now I have to suspect and fear this; For the iniquity of our times, and the misery of many former examples do prompt and tell me, that most men love more with their tongues, than with their hearts, and that they all know far better how to profess than preserve their affections and fidelities to their Mistresses. As for me, judge with thyself how courteous and loving I am to thee, for if I perfectly knew that thy Letter were the true Ambassador, and unfeigned Echo of thy heart, I would both say and promise thee, that I would love thee, and none but thee: Make myself thy wife, when and as soon as thou wilt please to be my Husband, for in life and death I here now promise thee to be more thy than mine own: Resolve me of this doubt, and free me of this fear, and then manage this affection and favour of mine with discretion, and requite it with fidelity to thy  
VRSINA.  
The Baron of Sanctifiores second letter to her contained this language.  
SANCTIFIORE to VRSINA.  
AS I am not guilty, so I am not answerable for other men's crimes of infidelity, but do as justly detest and scorn, as you unjustly fear them in me. That my affection is pure and sacred, and shall be inviolable to thee, be God my judge, and my heart and conscience my witnesses: Therefore to resolve thy doubt, and to free thy fear thereof, I vow by the pureness of thy beauty, and by the dignity of thy virtues, that both my former letter and also this, are the true Ambassadors and Echoes of my heart, and which is more, of my soul. I will shortly kiss thee for thy love to me, then love thee for thy kisses, and after embrace and thank thee for both, and when I fail of my affection and fidelity to thee, may God then fail of his Grace and mercy to myself. I will make myself thy dear Husband, and thee my sweet wife, when thou pleasest to crown and honour me with that sweet joy, and to ravish my heart with this desired felicity.  
SANCTIFIORE.  
Vrsinas' answer hereunto was traced in these terms.  
VRSINA to SANCTIFIORE.  
RElying on the Purity of thy affection, and the preservation and performance of thy constancy to me, for the which thou hast invoked God for judge, and thy heart and Conscience as witnesses thereof, I now freely acknowledge myself to be thy wife by Purchase, and thou to be my Husband by Promise, and do therefore wholly take me from myself, eternally to give myself to thee. I desire the enjoyance of thy company and presence, with as much impatiency as thou longest for mine, and thou shalt find, that I will make it my chiefest care and ambition to love thee, and my greatest glory to honour and obey thee, and let both of us beware of infidelity each to other, for God will assuredly punish it with justice, requite it with revenge, and revenge it with misery on the Delinquents and Offenders.  
VRSINA.  
By the perusal and consideration of these four precedent Letters, we may plainly perceive, what a firm promise, and secret contract there was passed between the Baron of Sanctifiore and the Lady Vrsina, and how servently and sweetly they had given themselves each to other in the promise and assurance of marriage, so not contented to have gotten the Daughter's good will, he in very honourable fashion and terms likewise seeks her Father Signior Placedos consent thereto; whom though for some few Months he found to be averse and opposite to his desires therein, yet upon Sanctifiores importunate entreaties and his Daughter Vrsinas' frequent tears, he at last consenteth to this their marriage, only he delayed the consummation thereof for some secret reasons, and considerations best known to himself, the which I cannot publish, because I could never gather or understand them. Whiles thus the Baron of Sanctifiore remains in Naples, his long stay, great train, prodigal expenses there, and his absence from Capua where his lands and means lay, made him be in some distress and want of money, and not knowing how to procure it there, thereby to support his fame and reputation with his pretended Father in law, and also with his intended wife his Daughter, it greatly perplexed and troubled him; But at last he saw himself reduced to this extremity, that he was enforced to borrow of one Nobleman and Gentleman of his Friends to pay another; a Course which he well saw could not long endure and subsist, without clamorously calling his reputation in question; The which to prevent, knowing Signior Placedo to be a hide bound, and close fisted old Gentleman, who loved his gold far better than his God, and that if he offered to borrow any of him, he would absolutely refuse and deny to lend it him, and that it was not impossible, but rather very probable, that hereby the prodigality of the one, and the covetousness of the other might prove a great blot and hindrance to this his marriage, he therefore as a debauched and vicious young Nobleman, despairing of the father's love, resolves to make sure work with the daughter's affection, who with a thousand amorous speeches, and lascivious lures, dalliances and temptations, he seeks to draw her to his lustful desires, and so by usurping on her chastity (which is the honour of Ladies, & the glory of Gentlewomen) to have carnali knowledge of her before he were married to her. Vrsina (who loved her sweet heart Sanctifiore far dearer than the whole world, and yet her honour and chastity a thousand times more dear and precious than her own life) infinitely grieves and wonders at this his intemperancy and obscenity; when (as a chaste and virtuous Gentlewoman) she with sighs and tears lays before his eyes and consideration, and represents to his heart and soul, the lewdness of his desire, the impiety of his request, the foulness and odiousness of this fact both to God and man, the loss of her reputation and honour, both with her father and with all the world, and that in the end it would assuredly prove the breake-necke of their marriage, and consequently the ruin of both their contents and fortunes, as also that she is ready to be his wife, but disdaineth to prove his strumpet, with many other wise and godly reasons tending that way, and therefore utterly refuseth to blemish or shipwreck her chastity, by participating with him in the share of this lascivious and impious sin of fornication; and indeed it had been a happiness and glory, very worthy both of herself, and of her honourable old Father, if she had lived in the purity, and continued in the piety of this chaste and virtuous resolution.  
But this lascivious Baron Sanctifiore seeing his lust so strongly opposed by he chastity, he is so far from grace and from God, as he redoubleth his violence and impetuosity thereof, as also of his lures and prayers, of his art and policy, to enrich himself with her loss of that inestimable and irrecoverable Jewel her Virginity; so that day and night she cannot be in quiet for him, nor he without her; but still he follows her as her ghost and shadow, and with many false oaths and feigned sighs and tears doth bewitch or rather minstralize into her ears and heart, that his desire of this sweet pleasure which he requesteth from her, proceeds wholly from his tender affection to her, & so with a thousand lascivious words he makes so large and so impious an Apology to her for this his obscene request, that because modesty cannot, discretion will not permit me to relate it; as well knowing that the expression and publishing thereof, will every way prove unprofitable to the Reader, & no way pleasing but displeasing to God, when this weak and inconsiderate Gentlewoman, loving him far dearer than her own life, and confidently relying on his sworn affection and fidelity to her, which he so passionately, and so often had reiterated to her, she so rashly and foolishly permitted herself to be weighed down, overcome and vanquished with the importunacy of his requests and oaths, that it was neither in her power or will to deny him any thing, no not herself, but as she formerly had given him the full command of her heart, now she likewise gives him the free use and possession of her body. Thus Sanctifiore bereaves and unparadiseth his Mistress Vrsina of the most precious Jewel which ever Lady Nature gave her, I mean her chastity and honour, but both of them shall shortly pay dear for these their bitter sweet pleasures (or rather sins) of sensuality and fornication; and shall redeem and ransom them with no less than shame and repentance: The manner whereof is thus.  
After he had thus deflowered, and taken his obscene pleasure of his young and beautiful Mistress, and stayed an hour or two complementing with her, he than takes his leave of her, when triumphing more in the conquest of her shame, and his folly, than in his own repentance for occasioning the one and committing the other, he within a week or two after again makes her so flexible and tractable to his desires, as he three or four times more familiarly wantonizeth with her in this lascivious manner, and she with him, as not contented to stain and blemish, but wholly to defile and pollute themselves in this their beastly sin of concupiscence and fornication. But here now begins his infamy, and her grief and misery: For (as a base Nobleman) he forgetting his oaths and promises to her, and her extraordinary love and affection to him, and which is more, his honour, and himself, and his soul, and his God, he (by degrees) now begins to freeze in his affection to her, visiteth her seldom, and then but faintly and coldly, and when (with equal blushes and tears) she motioneth him to marry her, he is either deaf to her requests, or else answereth her so impertinently and ambiguously, as (with much perturbation of mind and affliction of heart) she begins to suspect and doubt with herself, that she hath more reason to fear, than cause to hope of his future affection and fidelity towards her. Neither is her fear vain, or her judgement and apprehension deceived of him herein: for as men love nosegays in the morn, and throw them away ere night, so this ignoble Nobleman Sanctifiore after he had surfeited and satiated his desire of this his intended and contracted wife Vrsina, he in less than three months after, is so ingrateful and treacherous towards her, as in a manner he abandoneth her father's house, and forsakes her sight and company, leaving her nothing to comfort her, but her sighs, tears, and repentance, and which is worse, a growing great belly, as the true seal of her present grief and sorrow, and the undoubted pledge and presager of her future shame and misery, which torments and terrifies her heart and soul, but how to remedy it she knows not. And now (with as much speed as vanity and infidelity) away goes Sanctifiore to his other second sweet heart Bertranna, who not for her beauty, but for her father's great wealth, and his own pressing wants, he now seems to affect and court a thousand times more familiarly and tenderly than before, whereof she is infinitely glad & joyful. For having a long time loved him in her heart and mind, and therefore desiring nothing so much under heaven, as to see him her Husband here on earth, and having to that end her secret eyes and spies every where abroad upon his life and actions, she is at last advertised, that there is some great distaste and difference fallen out between him and the Lady Vrsina, as also that being far from his home, he wanteth monies to defray his Port and expenses in Naples; she being of a sharp wit, and deep judgement, thinks that the last of his defects was the cause of the first, and that peradventure Sanctifiore having attempted to borrow some money of her father Signior Placedo, and received the repulse, he therefore was fallen out, and become displeased and discontented with his daughter: And although her conceit and judgement miss of the truth herein, yet the better to estrange Sanctifiore from Vrsina, and consequently the more powerfully and strongly to unite and tie him to herself, she well knowing that her own father De Tores exceedingly loved him, and desired him for his son in law, as much as she did for her Husband: she therefore as much in love to him, as in disdain and malice to Vrsina, doth under hand deal so politicly, and yet so secretly with her Father to lend Sanctifiore some monies, that he meeting him the very next day in his house, he takes him aside in his study and told him, that in regard of his absence from Capua, and his long stay and great expenses here in Naples, it was rather likely than impossible that he might want some monies, and therefore he freely lent, and then and there laid him down 500 double pistols: adding withal, that if he needed more, he should have what he pleased, and repay it him again when he pleased, and that if he would honour him so much as to marry his daughter, he would give him all the lands and wealth he had.  
This great courtesy of De Tores to the Baron of Sanctifiore he held was redoubled to him in the value, in that he lent it to him so freely and undemanded, as also for that it came so opportunely and fitly to pay his debts, and satisfy his wants, as after a long and respective compliment between them. Sanctifiores necessity so easily prevails with his modesty, that he most thankfully takes this gold of De Tores, and likewise gives him more hope than despair to his motion of marrying his daughter the Lady Bertranna; wherewith the one rests well satisfied, and the other exceeding well contented. This point of courtesy being thus performed between them, Sanctifiores joy thereof was so great; I may say so boundless, as he presently finds out his new Mistress Bertranna; and with a frolic countenance and cheerful voice, relates her, how much her father had obliged him, and from point to point what had passed between them, and immediately after no less doth her father, the music of which news was so pleasing to her mind, and so sweet to her heart and thoughts, that she hereupon flatters herself with a confident hope that he will shortly marry her, and in this hope doth he still feed and entertain her, being seldom or never from her, but ever and anon both together billing and kissing, drowning his judgement so wholly in her company, and his heart ranging and dreaming so fully on her youth and beauty, and on her father's great wealth and estate, that he hath not the grace, no nor which is less, the will or good nature, once to think of his poor desolate and forsaken Vrsina, of whom in her turn I come now to speak.  
We have formerly understood with sorrow, and our sorrowful and unfortunate Vrsina hath to her grief too too soon seen, how unkindly Sanctifiore hath used, and how basely and treacherously abused her in the points of her honour, and his infidelity; and yet all this notwithstanding, her love and affection is still so dear and constant to him, and her hopes so confident of him, that all this discourtesy of his to her, is only but to try her patience, and that considering what familiarity hath passed between them, it is impossible for him to be so cruel hearted towards her, as in the end not to marry her. She hath likewise acquainted him, that she is with child by him, and when all other reasons and persuasions fail, she hopes this will prevail to reclaim his affection to her, and to induce him to take pity of her, and compassion of his unborn babe within her. But to resell and dissipate all these her flattering and deceitful hopes, and which is worse to make her lose all hopes of this her desired happiness and good fortune from him, his new contracted and incessant familiarity between him and the Lady Bertranna, is not so privately carried and hushed up in silence between them, but she hath secret and sorrowful notice thereof; which so inflames her mind with hot jealousy, and likewise afflicts her heart with cold fear and apprehension, that she hath seduced and drawn his affection from her to himself, as also that he will utterly forsake her to marry Bertranna, that she fully believes that the wind of his discourteous absence from her proceeds from this point of the compass. Wherefore fearing that which she already knows, but far more that which she knows not of this their familiarity between them, all her hopes of Sanctifiore are almost vanished and banished, and her heart is as it were wholly depressed and weighed down with bitter grief and sorrow thereof. She dares acquaint no body with her disgrace, much less her Father, and her looking on her great belly doth but infinitely augment her sorrows and increase her afflictions, in regard that that which should have been the cause of her joy and glory, she now knows will shortly prove the argument of her shame and misery. A thousand times a day, yea I may truly say as many times an hour, she wisheth she had been more chaste and less fair, and not so easily to have harkened to Sanctifiores sugared oaths and temptations, as to have lost her honour and fortunes in seeking to preserve them in her affe●…tion to him, she would fain draw comfort from all these ●…er calamities, or from any one of them, and yet she knows not from whom except from her Sanctifiore, when presently she checks her folly and reproves her ambition for terming him hers, when she believes she hath far more cause to fear than reason to doubt, that he already is, or shortly will be Bertrannas' husband. And yet again, because the excess of her sorrows hath more eclipsed her joys than her judgement, and more dulled and obscured her heart than her understanding, therefore judging it a master piece of her policy if she can sequester and reclaim her Sanctifiore from Bertranna, and so retain him to herself in marriage, she to that end, that very morning sends for Sebastiano her father's coachman (whom she knew to be faithful to her) and taking off a rich Diamond ring from her finger which Sanctifiore well knew, she bade him find out the Baron of Sanctifiore at his lodging, or elsewhere, to deliver that ring as a token of her love to him, and to tell him that she infinitely desires him to honour her with his presence at her Father's house sometimes the forenoon. Sebastiano accordingly finds out the Baron, and delivers him his young mistress ring and message, by whom he returns this answer; Commend me to the Lady Vrsina, and tell her I will be with her immediately after dinner. Whiles thus our sorrowful Vrsina (betwixt hope and fear, grief and consolation) prepares to receive him, he arrives to her in his own coach, and her Father's servants attending for him, do conduct him up to her chamber, where composing her countenance to affection, and yet to sorrow, she meets him at the door, and conducts him to the window which answereth and looks into the garden, where he giving her only one slight kiss, and she absenting her Father's servants, she bursts forth into tears and sighs.  
She complains of the coldness of his affection, of his long absence from her, of the violation of his oaths and vows to her, and of her great belly by him, which she tells him he may better see than she conceal, but especially of his deep promise to marry her, praying him to set down the time and place when he will perform and consummate it, and that it would infallibly prove his shame and infamy, if he forgot himself, his honour and conscience, to forsake her, and marry the Lady Bertranna, whom she affirms to him with tears, that she understands is the mistress of his thoughts and heart, and the Queen Regent of his desires and affections. When this base Baron is so cruel hearted to her, as (preferring his fury to his affection, and his passion to his compassion) he replies not a word to all the former parts and branches of her speeches and complaints, but only to the two last he gives her this thundering and heart-killing answer: Know Vrsina that I have used all lawful and possible means with my parents to draw their consents that I might marry thee, but it is out of my power ever to obtain it of them, and without it I will never marry: as for Bertranna, she is not so much thy inferior in beauty, as she is thy superior in virtues, therefore provide thou for thy fortunes, and so will I for mine, when with a look (which savored no way of love, but wholly of contempt and indignation) he hastily throws her her Diamond ring, and without once kissing her or bidding her farewell, suddenly rusheth forth her chamber, wherein he leaves her to herself and her muses, and so takes coach and away, vowing to himself as he went forth the doors, that he will not be Father to a bastard, nor Husband to a whore.  
Here let all virtuous Ladies and Gentlewomen, and all true hearted and generous Noblemen and Gentlemen judge, if this Sanctifiore did not show himself a most base Nobleman and a cruel hearted tyrant towards th●… sweet and unfortunate Gentlewoman sith the consideration of her youth and beauty in herself, of her tender love and affection to him, of his oaths and promises to be her husband, of the loss of her honour and fortunes, yea sith the sight of her lean and thin cheeks wherein the roses and lilies of her former beauty were withered with her sorrows and his infidelities, and the sight and consideration of her great belly which he had given her, together with her birth, and quality, and the infiniteness of her sighs, prayers, sobs, and tears could draw no more reason or compassion from him towards her.  
And now it is, that at the sight and consideration of this his barbarous cruelty towards her; her very heart and soul is wounded and pierced thorough with sorrow, and now it is that she looks back on her former folly & error, on her present affliction and grief, & on her future shame & misery, and now it is that deeming him lost to her for ever, and herself consequently ruined without him; that her sorrows and miseries are so great, so infinite, that she is ready to drown herself in her tears, and most willingly desirous to forsake this life and this world to fly up to heaven and to God upon the wings of her sighs, and prayers. But alas poor soul, thou art too unfortunate to be yet so happy, because these thy afflictions and sorrows do as it were but now begin; therefore thou must prepare and arm thyself to suffer them with patience and to end them in less passion, and more repentance and piety.  
Although this ignoble Baron triumph in this his cruelty towards his former love Vrsina, and so speedily post away and acquaint his new one Bertranna therewith, who as much rejoiceth, as the other bitterly weeps and laments thereat; yet (according to order) I must again speak of our sorrowful Vrsina, who hath other more mournful parts, and lamentable passions to act upon the stage of this her History. Who having thus received the repulse and refusal from her treacherous lover Sanctifiore, she (within a month after) with a sorrowful heart & courage, resolves (as well as she may) to dispense for a time with her tears, and to provide for her reputation, she hath as yet acquainted none but Sanctifiore with her disgrace of her great belly, for neither her kinsfolks, friends, neighbours, father, or his servants do as yet know it; she is of a weak body and feeble constitution, and therefore to conceal this scandal from her father, as also from all the world, and to provide for the lying down of her great belly, she holds it requisite to discover this great and important secret but only to one, and so to crave the aid & assistance of this confident bosom friend. To which end, she thinks none so fit for her purpose, & therefore makes choice of no other, but of an old aunt of hers, who was her mother's sister named Dona Mellefanta, who being a wise and rich widow woman, dwelled at Putzeole some 10 small miles distant from Naples, a place so famous for its sub●…rianeamgrots, vaults, and water works, when inventing an excuse to her Father. which was as worthy of her 〈◊〉 and policy as she was every way unworthy of these her crosses and afflictions; she tells him that it is not unknown to him how she hath a long time been weak and sickly, that the air of Naples is neither wholesome for her, nor pleasing to her, and because she hath often dreamt she shall in a little time recover her former health in Putzeole, she humbly beseecheth him that he will speedily ●…nd her thither to live some small time there with her Aunt Mellefanta her Father Signior de Tores, whose age, contentment, and joy lived chiefly in the youth, prosperity and health of this his only child and daughter, makes her will and desire herein to be his, when not knowing any thing of the distaste that had passed between his daughter, and the Baron of Sanctifiore, or of his affection to the Lady Bertranna, he demanded of her when you are at Putzeole what shall become of the Baron of Sanctifiore, to whom (rather from her ap●…strings than her heart) she returns this witty and speedy answer, if Sanctifiore love me, he will then sometimes leave Naples and visit me, or if he do not I will not love him; which reply of hers pleased her father so well that he causeth her to fit up her apparel and baggage, and within three days after, (attended on by a chamber maid, and a man of his sends her away to Putzeole in his coach to his sister Mellifanta, where being arrived she speedily and privately acquaints her aunt with this great secret of her great belly, which so much imports her reputation, or disgrace, and also with all the circumstances thereof, and so prays her best love and assistance to her herein, the which she faithfully promiseth her, adding withal, that because she is of her own blood, she will regard and love her as her own child, telling her that she highly commended her policy, for thus blinding the eyes of her father, and for leaving Naples, to come lay down her great belly with her in Putzeole; yet she could not choose but blame her for the cause thereof in suffering herself to be thus abused and betrayed, by so base a Nobleman as the Baron of Sanctifiore, but then again she excuseth that error of this her niece upon the freshness of her youth, and beauty, and bids her fear nothing but to resolve to be here cheerful, courageous and merry with her.  
Here we see our beautiful Vrsina safe at Putzeole under the wings and protection of her aunt Mellifanta, and far of from the eyes of the known or suspected rejoicing enemies of her disgrace; lodged in a dainty house, a delicate a ire having variety of curious sweet gardens, and dainty ranks and groves of orange and lemon trees to walk in, well attended on, and f●…ing most deliciously; and who therefore would believe, that she would not now quite abandon her former sorrows and tears, and wholly reject and cast of that base Baron of Sanctifiore who so ingratefully had ruined, and so treacherously had first forsaken and rejected her; but here in Putzeole we shall see her perform nothing less; for although she yet hold him to be entangled in the lures of Bertrannas' beauty, and the temptations of her father de Tores wealth, yet judging his heart and affections by her own, and measuring him by herself, she still loves him so dear that she nevertheless believes he cannot hate her so deadly as to reject and repundiate her to marry the said Bertranna, when the more to fortify her belief and resolution thereof, she very often again reads over his two former letters which we have heard and seen, and therein finding, that by his conscience and soul, and by heaven and by God he had bound himself to marry her, and to love and die her faithful husband; she than believes that no man, much less a Nobleman, and least of all a christian will be so profane and impious (without any cause or reason) to violate all these his great oaths and promises so deeply made, and so religiously attested unto God, wherefore although this Baron of Sanctifiore were absent from her, yet seeing him still present in her eyes and heart, she therefore (in consideration of the promises) doth yet continually so plead for him against herself, and for his affection and fidelity to her against her suspicion and disfidence of him, that she yet flatters herself with a conceit that in the end his conscience will so call home his thoughts, and God his conscience, that he will marry herself, and none but herself. Again consi●…ng him to be the Father of her unborn babe, she thinks herself a very unkind and unnatural mother, if she should not love him for her child's sake as well as for his own, and that God would neither bless her nor her burden, it she should any way neglect or omit him; upon the foundations of which reasons, (truly and courteously laid by her, but so falsely and treacherously by him) she thinks it a good way and an excellent, expedient for her, to seek to reclaim him to her by a letter, the proof whereof since his defection from her, she had not as yet practised or experienced, but as she began to fall on this resolution, her hope and despair of Sanctifiore and yet her love and affection to him, make her meet and fall on a doubtful scruple, whether she should write kindly or cholerickly to him, but at last her affection to him, declining and excusing his infidelity to her, and her love, and courtesy giving a favourable construction to his cruelty towards her, she holds it more behooveful for her desire, & his return, to write to him passionately and effectually, but not harshly or severely, and so to take the sweet and fair way which she desired, but not the sharp and bitter which he deserved; when flying to her closet, she (full of grief and tears) writes him this ensuing letter, the which without the knowledge of her Aunt Mellifanta she sends him to Naples, by her trusty menssenger Sebastiano her Father's coachman.  
VRSINA to SANCTIFIORE.  
TO preserve thine honour, and prevent mine own disgrace and shame I have left Naples to sojourn here for a time in Putzeole with the Lady Mellifanta mine aunt, where thy presence will make me as truly joyful and happy, as I feel and know myself infinitely miserable without it; For although of late (but for what cause, or reason, God knows I know not) it hath pleased thee to excercise my affection and patience in thy discontent; yet in regard I am thy wife by purchase, sith thou art my Husband by promise, whereof the copies of thy former letters will inform and remember thee, that thou madest God the judge, and the soul and consciences the witnesses, I cannot believe that thou art so irreligious, or that thou bearest me so little love, or so much malice, to make thyself guilty of such foul infidelity to me, and impiety towards God, and I appeal to them all if my tender & untainted affection to thee have not every way deserved the contrary at thy hands. Again, as in hoping to marry thee I gave thee my heart, so in assurance and counfidence thereof, thou didst likewise bereave me of my honour, and therefore if the conterpane of that contract do anyway fade or dye in thy memory, yet rest confident, that the Original lives still in Heaven, as the pledge and seal thereof doth now in my unhappy womb here on earth; mistake me not my dear Sanctifiore, for I write not this out of any malice, but out of true affection to thee, to the end that thou mayest thereby seriously consider, and religiously remember with thyself, what I am to thee, thou to myself, and what that unfortunate Innocent unborn babe in my belly is to us both. And although I am thy wife before God, yet I will now in all humility make myself thy handmaid and with a world of sighs and tears throw myself at thy feet (and lower if I could) to conjure and beg thee; By my poor beauty which once thou didst so much admire and adore, by the memory of my lost virginity, which thou wrested'st from me with so many amorous sighs and tears, by all thy deep oaths, vows and promises which thou so religiously gavest me to remain still loving to me, by thine honour which should be dearer to thee than thy life, by thy conscience, and soul which ought to be far more precious to thee than all the lives and honours of the world, yea for thy poor infant's sake, and lastly for God's sake, abandon thy unjust displeasure and immerited discontent conceived against me, and my dear Sanctifiore come away to me to Putzeole, and there make me thy wife in the sight of his Church and people, as I am already in that of heaven and his Angels, I say again, come away to me my sweet Sanctifiore, for thy sight will delight my heart, and thy presence and company ravish my soul with joy. It is impossible for Bertranna, either to love or honour thee the thousand part so dearly as thy Vrsina doth, and till death resolves to do; I will freely forget all thy former escapes and discourtesies towards me, and do attribute them more to her foolish vanity, than any way to thy unkind disposition or inclination, yea I will not knit my brows when thou comest to me, but will cheerfully and joyfully prepare myself to feast thee with smiles, and to surfeit thee with kisses: But if chose thou wilt not hearken unto me, or this my letter, or regard these my just requests and sorrows, nor obey and follow God and thy conscience herein, in speedily repairing to me to make me thy joyful wife, then what shall I do or say, but according as I am bound in affection and duty to thee, I will notwithstanding still resolve to love thee dearly, though thou, hate me deadly, and to pray for thee though thou curse me; yea I will then leave thee to God, and religiously beseech his divine majesty, to be a just judge between both of us, of my firm affection and constancy to thee, and of thy cruel ingratitude and treachery to me. Live thou as happy, as thy constant Vrsina knows that without thee, she shall assuredly live sorrowfully and die miserable.  
VRSINA.  
Her messenger Sebastiano arrives privately at Naples and finds out the Baron of Sanctifiore in his chamber by the fire to whom he gives and delivers this letter, who at first (knowing from whom it came) stood a pretty while musing and consulting with himself, whether he should read or burn it, but at last he breaks up the seals thereof, and with much ado affords himself the time and patience to peruse it, which having done, although he no way merited to receive so sweet and loving a letter from Vrsina, yet not blushing for shame, but looking pale with envy and malice thereat, he darting forth a disdainful frown, and tearing the letter in pieces, throws it into the fire, when turning himself hastily towards Sebastiano who stood near him and saw all that he had done, he in great choler spoke to him thus. Tell that proud and foolish giglet Vrsina, that I disdain her as much as she writes, she loves me, and that as now so ever hereafter I will return no other answer to her, and her letters but contempt and silence, when to express his greater fury, Sebastiano was no sooner forth his chamber, but he very hastily throws fast the door after him, and in this furious and choleric manner doth this base Sanctifiore receive the love, and entertain the letter of our sweet and sorrowful Vrsina.  
Sebastiano as much grieving as admiring at the incivill choler and rage of Sanctifiore, presently leaves Naples, and carries home this poor news and cold comfort to his young Mistress the Lady Vrsina at Putzeole, the which he faithfully and punctually delivers to her, who expected nothing less but directly the contrary thereof. She is amazed to understand this his disdainful, barbarous, and cruel answer, and infinitely perplexed in mind, that he should first tear then burn her letter and for converting his pen into Sebastiano's tongue for his answer thereof; But above all that word of his giglet killed her very heart with sorrow, to think that for all her former courtesies showed him, he should now at last repay her with this foul ingratitude and scandalous aspersion, at the sorrowful thought and consideration whereof, resolving to make her piety exceed his cruelty, she could not refrain from bedewing her roseate cheeks with many pearled tears, nor from evaporating this heavenly ejaculation from the profundity of her heart, and the centre of her foul; God forgive the Baron of Sanctifiore, and be merciful to me Vrsina a great and wretched sinner, had she continued in this godly mind and resolution she had done well, but alas (notwithstanding the wholesome comfort and council of her aunt Mellefanta) we shall shortly see her run a contrary course and career.  
It is a common phrase, and proverb, that misfortune seldom comes alone, which we shall now see our sorrowful Vrsina will verify by her deep sighs, and confirm by her bitter tears for this discourtesy of Sanctifiore towards her, for she hath so deeply nailed it in her mind, and rive●…ed it in her heart, that it begins to impair her health and strength, and consequently to pervert and alter the constitution of her body, so that whereas her poor unborn babe had lived but one full month within her, she now finds so many sudden throws, and unaccustomed convulsions, that she is speedily constrained to betake herself to her bed, when calling upon her aunt Mellefanta, and withal possible hast sending a way for the midwife, she after many sharp torments, and bitter cries and groans (to the great peril and eminent danger of her life) is delivered of a very pretty little son, which God sends into the world dead borne; now although she want no curious care, comfort and attendance from her aunt, in this her sickness and extremity, yet she weeps bitterly, and pitifully for the abortive birth, and untimely death of her poor innocent babe, and infant, and because her aunt sees, that this last affliction and sorrow of her niece doth infinitely increase and revive her former, and that she also conceives a wonderful fear in her heart, and scruple in her conscience that it is only her immoderate grief and sorrow which hath killed her child, therefore as a discreet matron and wise Lady, (to remove this article out of her nieces belief and memory) tells her plainly and freely, that she is extremely deceived in that point and doubt of fear, and that it is not her sorrow, but the base ingratitude and treachery of her false lover Sanctifiore to herself which killed her child within her; A tart and yet a true speech, which Vrsina neither will so soon, nor can so easily forget, as her aunt Mellefanta hath spoken it, but shall I here term this to be affection in Vrsina towards Sanctifiore, or a needless vanity, or superfluous ceremony in herself: For she desires to kiss her breathless innocent babe for his sake, which she doth, when giving it a thousand kisses, then washing his face with her tears, and lamenting and grieving that she could not breathe life into it with her sighs, she recommends it again to her aunt, and she the same night to its secret and decent burial.  
Whiles thus Vrsina remains very weak and sick in her bed, yet still her heart and affection looks constantly on Sanctifiore as the needle of the compass doth to the north, notwithstanding all his base ingratitude, and cruelty from time to time showed towards her, and because it is a thousand griefs and pities that ever he set his eyes on her, or she on him, and as many shames for him; first to seduce and then to betray her, therefore who would any way commend her for continuing of her love to him, or rather who would not infinitely blame her of folly, and condemn her for want of wit, and judgement, ever any more either to hope or hearken after him: And yet this silly young Lady is so bewitched to him as in the very midst of her sickness and sorrows, and contrary to all sense and reason here breaks forth a sparkle and flash of her polley in herself, and of her affection towards him; She neither can, nor dare trust any other but Sebastiano her coachman, with this great secret which so much imports her honour or disgrace, or with this her message with Sanctifiore from whom (though in vain) she expects some hope and content, when exempting all from her chamber, she calls him to herbeds side, and swearing him to secrecy, (for want of strength to write chargeth him presently to ride post to Naples again to find out the Baron of Sanctifiore and to tell him from her, that she herself is extreme sick, and not like to live, that she is delivered of his & her Son who is dead borne, and therefore that she begs him, that for God's sake he will speedily come over to her, because for his good, and her content, she infinitely desireth to discharge her mind and conscience to him before she go to heaven; So Sebastiano, (in discharge of his duty, and his Lady's commands) seems rather to fly than post to Naples, where arriving to Sanctifiores house, and finding him within; he sends him up his name by one of his men, as also that he most earnestly desires to speak a word with his Lordship: but Sanctifiore knowing who it was, and therefore imagining from whom he came, bids his man carry Sebastiano back this answer that he will neither speak with him nor see him. Sebastiano is perplexed with this his short and sharp reply, but because his message is of great importance, as also for that he exceedingly respecteth and honoureth his young Lady and mistress, he resolves not to return to her as a fool; to which end, at the foot of the stairs he enquireth of another of his servants when he thinks his Lord will go forth, who tells him he will take coach within half an hour; whereof Sebastiano being exceeding glad, he thinks it best to stay for him in the street, where (with much vigilancy and impatiency) he attends his coming, so at last he sees him issue forth his gate; when presently Sebastiano placeth himself betwixt him and his coach, and with his hat in his hand, very resolutly and orderly delivereth him his mistress her message at full, the which Sanctifiore understanding, he at first smiles thereat, but then presently again entering into choler, he rounds Sehastiano this answer in his ear, tell that strumpet thy mistress Vrsina from me, that I wish she were buried with her bastard, and that they were both with the devil, and so without speaking any one word more, in a mighty fume of anger and disdain, he throws himself a way from Sebastiano into his coach, and speedily hurries away to his sweet heart Bertranna, from whom he is seldom or never absent, to whom he revealed all that had passed in this passage, endeavouring as much as in him lies to make it to be as well her laughture, as his own contempt and scorn.  
Now here ere I proceed farther, I know there is no christian whatsoever, but that his very heart and soul, will yearn within him, at the reading of these cruel, barbarous and hellish speeches of this base hearted Nobleman against our sorrowful and unfortunate Vrsina, and her poor harmless deceased babe, and no less doth Sebastiano in hearing & myself in penning and relating them: do I term him Nobleman? O let me (with respect and repentance) revoke that noble title from Sanctifiore, and to give him his due, let me term him as he is a monster of men, or if he will, a noble debauched villain, or whether he will or no, a mere tyrant, or else a devil in the shape of a man, to use such ingrateful cruelties, and hellish actions and speeches against these two innocent persons, who chose in the highest degree, deserved from him all manner of affection, respect, charity, pity and compassion; but let him look to himself as well as he can, yet (God being as just as merciful) it is not impossible for him in the end to pay dear for these his foul infidelities and cruelties.  
Return we now to Sebastiano who (by this time) is returned to Putzeole whereof he presently sends up notice to his young Lady and mistress Vrsina who still keeps her bed through discontent and sickness, but at the news of his arrival, or rather hoping that he had brought her some good news from her Sanctifiore; she (without any regard to her weakness and sickness) riseth from her bed by the fire, and calls her chamber maid for her night gown, which having drawn on, thee bid●… her for a while to absent herself, and to send up her coachman 〈◊〉 to her, and although in his sorrowful looks and countenance she m●…y already tacitly read a large lecture of the bad news he brings her from 〈◊〉, yet she ●…lls him to her, and bids him speak on; but alas he speaketh too soon fo●…●…er, fo●… (with a falt●…ing and trembling voice) he tells her the ●…arsh entert●…nment, which Sanctifiore gave to him and his mess●…ge in Naples, and the inhuman and cruel answer which he bade him return to her in Putzeole, without any way adding or diminishing a word thereof; the which as soon as she understood; she for the extremity of her grief and sorrow hangs down her head, and crossing her arms uttereth this passionate speech: good God is it possible that Sanctifiore will thus abuse me, or is this the favour which I must expect of him in req●…itall of those extraordinary courtesies he hath received from ●…ee; when walking up and down her chamber, she thanks Sebastiano, and giving him some gold for his pains, bids him to leave her, and to send up her ●…unt 〈◊〉, and her chamber maid to bring her to bed; who thereupon running up hastily to her, her aunt chides her for the little care she had of her own health, but more for her foolish ●…eares, and indiscreet sorrows. Now after they had lain her in her bed, and that Vrsina had purposely sent away her maid, she prays her aunt to shut her chamber door, and then to sit down by her bed's side for that she had some secrets of importance to reveal unto her; when with a thousand sighs and tears, bedewing the roses and lilies of her fresh and lovely cheeks, she acquaints her from point to point, what had now again passed between Sanctifiore and herself, in this second journey of Sebastiano to him at Naples. Her aunt Mellefanta laughs as much at this folly of her niece Vrsina, as she herself weeps at her own sorrows and afflictions; and having a●… much wit as the other had weakness, she makes bold to call her ●…ot, and fool, to care for him who contemned and scorned her, and for setting that to her heart which he did at his heel, yea she advanced further in this her passionate c●…oler to her and said, fie, fie niece, sell your sorrows to buy more courage and wit, and so because that base Baron Sanctifiore detests and defies you, pay him in his own coin, and do the like to him, a sharp and bitt●…r speech which Vrsina (amidst her sorrows) now conveys to her heart, and it may be we shall hereafter see her to remember it, when her aunt Mellefanta hath forgotten it: for poor soul, she being as it were depressed and weighed down, with the multitude of Sanctifiores affronts and disgraces, and of his treacheries and cruelties to her, she hath wept so much as she yet weeps because she can weep no more thereat; as if the difference of their const●…llations and horoscopes were such, that as San●…ifiore was borne to hate her, so was she notwithstanding, (as yet) to affect and love him.  
Alas Vrsina▪ It is true indeed, that the least of these treacheries, and cruelties of Sanctif●…e to thee, are causes enough of all thy tears and sorrows▪ but yet the consideration and comparing of those with these, conducts and le●…s me to this di●…ma; that I know not whether he be more to be bl●…med for committi●…g the first, o●… thou for permitting the second, in regard they ●…e every way more worthy of thy scorn●… than of thy care and of thy contempt th●…n of thy affliction. His ingratitude, and crimes to thee I know are many in quantity, and very base and odious in quality, yea their number is so great and their nature so foul, that their recapitulation cannot be drawn within a smaller nor their repetition contracted in a lesser or narrower volume than this; he hath betrayed his love, violated his faith, and falsified his oaths and promises to thee▪ he hath bereft thee of thy virginity, to●…e and burnt thy letters, disdained to see thee, called thee giglet and whore; thy innocent babe bastard, and which is worst of all, he hath wilfully and cholerickly wished both of you to the devil; so judge with thyself Vrsina, if all these be not fair motives for thee still to love Sanctifiore, or rather if they be not just ●…easons and provocations for thee now at last to hate him; or if thou think they be not enough to work and establish this metamorphosis in thee, have but a little patience, and it is not impossible for thee to find more to affect and finish it; for now whiles her aunt Mellefanta is rating and rattling her for not casting off her heart and hopes from Sanctifiore; and Vrsina (in counterexchange) chi●…ing her aunt because she cannot indu●…e that she should eternally love him, here falls out an unexpected accident (within a month after she had prettily recovered her health and strength) which we shall presently see will work and produce strange effects both in her heart and mind as also in her affections and resolutions towards her Sanctifiore, ●…r as yet (privately toher self) she many times so terms and styles him.  
On a fair afternoon, when the ●…unne (that glorious lamp of heaven) had in his fiery glistering chariot taken leave of the fourth▪ and was po●…sting towards the west, to view the Atlantic seas, as the Lady Mellefanta carried her niece Vrsina forth in her coach to take the air, and too recreate her sorrowful spirits, in a great walk of orange trees, orderly and pleasantly growing upon the banks of a fine crystal brook about a mile from Putzeole, they a f●…r of (in the boot of the coach) espied two horsemen galloping de●…ctly towards them, when Vrsina flattering herself with hope, and therefore blushing for joy, that it was her Sanctifiore, who was purposely come from Naples towards Putzeole to see her, she therefore cries out to her coachman Sebastiano to stay the coach and to attend and expect them; when presently she sees her hopes deceived, and her joys ended as soon as began, for the one was a servant of Mellefantas who from Putzeole conducted thither to Vrsina a servant of her father Placedo's who came from Naples with a letter from him to her, whereupon the aunt much wondering, and the niece far more what this sudden business might be, they both descend the coach, and Vrsina taking her father's letter from his man, she steps a little aside from her aunt Mellefanta, and breaking up the seal thereof; (directly contrary to her expectation and desires) finds these lines therein.  
PLAC●…DO to VRSINA.  
HOping that by this time the sweet air of P●…tzeole hath recovered thy health, my will and order therefore to thee now is, that thou speedily return home to me to Naples (in thy coach) by the bearer hereof, whom I have purposely sent to conduct thee hither. I believe that thy country absence▪ hath lost thee a good fortune here in the city, for yesterday morning the Baron of Sanctifiore was (in the augustines Church) married to Dona Bertranna, daughter to Signior de Tores, with great state and solemnity, whom I had well hoped should have been thy husband, I remember my best respects to my sister, thy aunt Mellefanta, and my best prayers to God for thy virtues and prosperity, as being thy loving father  
PLAC●…DO.  
Vrsina hath no sooner read this letter, but every member of her body trembles for grief and vexation thereat, yea her sorrows are so great, as she cannot speak a word, when being ready to fall to the ground, her aunt Mellefanta steps to her assistance and so do the two men, but they have all of them much ado to support her up, when at last wring her hands, and looking up steadfastly to heaven, she throwing her letter to her aunt to read, utters forth this bitter exclamation against Sanctifiore; and hath this base Nobleman at last requited all my love, with this monstrous ingratitude and treachery! O why do I live to suffer it? and O wherefore should he live for offering it to me? her aunt reads her letter and in detestation of Sanctifiores baseness, she adds fuel to the flame of her nieces choler against him, but she needs not, for this very last act of his marriage with Bertranna, sets her all in fire and revenge against him, yea her heart is so absolutely diverted, and taken away from him, as heretofore she never loved him so much as now she hates him; she swears to herself, that she will make him pay dear for this his ingratitude and treachery towards her, and limits her revenge with no less than his death for so basely abusing and deceiving her, she but now threw away his letter for sorrow, but now she again takes it up for joy, because it calls her home to Naples, where as soon as she arrives she again and again resolves and vows with herself that she will murder him herself, or cause him to be murdered by some others, her aunt Mellefanta by all sweet means and persuasions, seeks to pacify her discontent and fury, and so to appease and cool the raging tempests of her heart; but she speaks to a deaf woman, who is not capable, either of council consolation or reason, for her malice and revenge against Sanctifiore have so sully taken up her heart and soul, and so absolutely surprised her thoughts and possessed her resolutions, that she neither resolves nor thinks of any thing else, but how and in what manner she may murder him; to which end she takes coach for Putzeole, there packs up her baggage, conceals her bloody intents and resolutions towards Sanctifiore from her aunt Mellefanta, thanks her most lovingly and courteously for all her care of her, and affection to her, the remembrance whereof she affirms she will bear to her grave, and from thence to heaven, and so within three days takes leave of her, and returns to Naples to her father, who receives her with much content and joy, and is very glad of the recovery of her health, and yet perceives some secret discontent lie lurking in the furrows of her brows; but she dissembleth it both to him and the world, and so bears herself fairly, modestly, and temperately towards him in her speeches and actions, who all this while is every way ignorant of her disgraceful great belly, as also of the birth & burial of her infant child. She is no sooner come to Naples, but her deadly malice and revenge to Sanctifiore will give no truce to her thoughts, nor peace to her resolutions, for her heart having conspired with the devil, and both of them against God to dispatch him to heaven; so now from the matter she falls to the manner, and from her consultation to the practice thereof. She first thinks it best to get him poisoned, to which end within ten days after her arrival to Naples she sends for her own Apothecary named Antonio Romancy, and having sworn him to secrecy proffers him two hundred duckatons to poison her mortal enemy the Baron of Sanctifiore, but Romancy is too honest a man and too religious a christian to undertake it, and so utterly refuseth her, and rejecteth her proffer; and then and there with many godly reasons and pious speeches, endeavoureth to dissuade her from this foul and bloody fact, but he speaks either to the wind or to a deaf woman, for she is resolute not to retire but to advance in this her cruel and inhuman design, only she here again strongly conjures this honest Apothecary to secrecy, the which he solemnly promiseth.  
Vrsina is still implacable in her malice and revenge against Sanctifiore, the which revives with more violence, and flames forth with the greater impetuosity, when she (by her secret spies) is given to understand that he triumpheth in her affliction and scandal, and reputes it his chiefest content and felicity to have erected the trophies of his joy upon the ruins of her honour and the demolitions of her reputation and fame, as also that she and this her disgrace is now become the public laughter and private scorn and glory of his proud and ambitious wife Bertranna: so she cannot endure the thought, much less digest the remembrance and consideration hereof, and therefore she speedily resolves to reduce her malicious contemplation into bloody action towards him, and to try another experiment and conclusion thereof. She in a pleasant morning somewhat sooner than accustomed, walks alone with her waiting maid, in her father's curious and dainty garden, but not to please her eyes with the delicious sight and fragrant smell of the great variety of rare and fair flowers wherewith it was richly adorned and diapered; or to recreate and delight her ears with the mellifluous ditties and madrigals of those sweet choristers of the air, the nightingalls, thrushes, and lennots, who sat chanting of some sweet division on some trees of this garden, and on some branches of these trees; or to preserve herself from the intemperate heat of the scorching sun beams; and therefore either to pass her time, either in some shadowed walks and arbours, or to sit herself down by some curious crystal fountain, with all which delights and rarities this her father's garden was deliciously enriched and embellished; O no, nothing less, for she was resolute to make herself more miserable, and not so happy, because her thoughts were wholly bend on blood, and her resolutions on the murder of Sanctifiore at what price or rate soever. Having therefore formerly missed of her Apothecary Romancy to poison him, she else knows not any so fit or proper to dispatch him as her trusty coachman Sebastiano, who (as we have formerly understood) was both an eye and an ear witness of this his base and ignoble cruelty towards her: wherefore she by her waiting maid, sends for him into the garden to her, and with many ruthful looks, and sorrowful sighs, having first commended and applauded his fidelity to her, and then sworn him to secrecy to what she should now relate and deliver unto him, she tells him, that she cannot live except that base Lord Sanctifiore dye, and therefore she proffereth him an hundred Spanish double pistols of gold, if he will either murder him by night in the streets with his rapier, or pistol him to death abroad in the fields, at his first seeing, and meeting of him, to the which she very earnestly prays and requests him. Sebastiano as amazed at this bloody proposition and entreaty of his young Lady Vrsina, whom he ever held to be more charitable, and not so cruel hearted to any one of the world, and although he be poor, yet he is so honest, virtuous and religious, as he highly refuseth to distain his heart, or dip his hands in innocent blood for any silver or gold whatsoever. So in humble (and yet in absolute) terms, he gives her the denial, and (with tears in his eyes) prays her to desist from this her cruel purpose, because he affirms to her, that the end of murder proves most commonly but the beginning of shame, repentance, misery, and confusion to their authors; so she bites her lip, and hangs her head for sorrow, at this his repulse and refus●…ll; and yet is so cautious and wary in her actions, as she makes him again swear secrecy to her in all things, which now doth, othereafter may concern this business, the which he faithfully promiseth her, provided, that her commands and his service be every way exempt of the effusion of innocent blood, and the perpetration of murder, to the which he constantly vows to her, it is impossible for him ever to be seduced or drawn, and so he takes leave of her, and leaves her solitarily alone in the garden to her muses; but yet as he was issuing forth she again calls him to her, and strictly chargeth him first carefully and curiously to inform himself, and then he her, of Sanctifiores most frequent haunts, and walks without the city, the which he likewise promiseth her to perform.  
Our malicious and revengeful Vrsina is not contented to receive the denial from her Apothecary Romancy, and the repulse from her coachman Sebastiano, about the finishing of this deplorable business, but without making any good use of their honest and religious dissuasions of her from it, or without once looking up to God, or thinking of heaven or hell, she as a fatal member, and prodigious agent of Satan, is still resolute to proceed therein; for he is still so strong with her heart, because her faith and soul are so weak with God, that she sees not herself so often in her looking glass with delight, as she both sees, and finds Sanctifiore in her heart and mind with detestation; for her malice to him hath quite expelled all reason, and banished all charity and piety in herself, and consequently now made her memorative and capable of nothing but of revenge and blood towards him; which takes up every part, and usurps every point both of her time, and of herself, yea and works so strange (I may rather truly say so miserable) a metamorphosis in her, as if she were now wholly composed of one, or both of these two impious and diabolical vices, so that every moment seems a year, and every day an age to her, before she hath dispatched him for heaven; she now sees that she cannot (with safety) employ any other herein but herself, and therefore day by day calling upon Sebastiano to know of him, where Sanctifiores usual haunts and walks were without the city, he at last tells her that he is fully assured, that most mornings and evenings he takes his coach and some times his page, but many times alone, and so goes a mile out of the city beyond the gate which looks towards Saint Germans and there in a dainty grove of olives and orange trees (near a small rivers side) he with his book in his hand, and his spaniel dog at his heels passeth an hour or two alone in his private contemplations, his coach being sometimes out of sight from him, and sometimes returns to the city, and so comes and fetcheth him back again; which report is no sooner heard and understood of Vrsina from her coachman, but she receives it with much joy, and entertains it with infinite content and delectation; she is therefore so cruel in her thoughts, and so determinate and bloody in her resolutions, as she will protract no time, but she speedily bethinks herself of a hellish stratagem and policy (no less strange than cruel) which the devil himself suggested and found out for her, to wreak her inveterate malice and infernal revenge in murdering of Sanctifiore, the manner whereof is thus.  
She very secretly provides herself of a friar's complete weed, as a sad rougher gown, & cowl, with a girdle of a knotty rope, & wooden sandals, proper to the order of the Bonnes homes (which is the reformed one of that of S. Francis) with a false negligent old beard, and hair for his head suitable to the same, and in one of the pockets of this frock, she puts a small begging box, such as those friar's use to carry in city, and country when they crave the charitable alms and devotion of well disposed people, as also a new breviary (or small mass book) of the last edition and form of Rome, boundup in blue turkey leather richly guilt, but in the othor pocket thereof she puts a couple of small short pistols which she had secretly purloined out of her father Placedo's armoury, and had charged each of them with a brace of bullets, fast rammed down, with priming powder in the pans, and all these fatal trinkets, she (with equal silence and treachery) packs and ties up close in the gown, expecting the time and hour to work this her cruel and lamentable seat on innocent Sanctifiore, who little thinks or dreams what a bloody banquet his old love, and now his new enemy Vrsina is preparing for him.  
And here I write with grief that it was the tuesday after Palm Sunday, (a time and week which the blessed passion of our Saviour Christ Jesus, makes sacred and famous, and which all true christians in his commemoration ought to keep holy, and not to pollute or defile it with barbarous and bloody sacrifices) when our masculine monster, or rather our female fury Vrsina, being assured by Sebastiano that the Baron of Sanctifiore was that day about three of the clock after dinner gone out alone in his coach to his aforesaid usual place of walking a mile off the city in the fields; she infinite glad of this desired occasion and longed for opportunity, bids Sebastiano make ready his coach, and silently to leave him without the postern gate of her father's garden, and so presently to come up to her chamber to her, the which he as soon performs; to whom she now (profanely and treacherously says) Sebastiano, (by the favour and mercy of God) I have now exchanged my cruelty into courtesy towards the Baron of Sanctifiore, and do therefore presently resolve to give him a merry meeting in the fields, whereat before our departure and return, I know thou wilt rejoice and laugh heartily at the fight hereof; the which indeed was very welcome and pleasing news to Sebastiano, to whom she then gives this little farthel, and so purposely leaving her waiting maid behind her, she cheerfully and speedily follows him to the coach, wherein being seated and the little farthel likewise within by her; she bids him drive away withal speed to find out Sanctifiore, the which (armed with his innocency) he joyfully doth. Now as they are come within two flight shots of him, Vrsina bids Sebastiano not to proceed farther, but to drive in the coach into some close shadowed place out of the high way, where they might see Sanctifiore, but not (as yet) to be either seen or espied of him; which accordingly he doth, where she descends her coach, draws off her 〈◊〉 apparel, and so puts on her false friar's apparel as also the hair, and beard, having made and prepared all things fit and ready before, and here likewise she soldeth up the tresses and trammels of her own hair under it, and hath purposely shaved away the hair of a little part of the crown of her head, and all this whiles her coachman Sebastiano turns her chamber maid here in the fields to make her ready, where he cannot refrain from exceedingly smiling and laughing to see what a strange metamorphosis this now is, that his young Lady Vrsina is here become an old friar, but still she hides and conceals her two pistols carefully in her pocket from him, as also her bloody designs and intents towards Sanctifiore, and whereof he as every way as innocent, as she herself, and only herself is guilty thereof. Now being all in a readiness, she out of her other pocket takes her almos box and holds it in one of her hands, and her hours (or breviary) in her other, and so taking leave of her coachman, and (with a diffembling cheerful countenance) charging him to pray for her good fortune, and speedily to bring up her coach to her, as soon as he sees her wave her white handkerchief towards him; so, as a jolly old friar, away this 〈◊〉 ●…vill so●…y trips towards Sanctifiore, having piety in her looks; but proph●… and ●…barous cruelty in her heart and intentions, and all the way as she go●…; 〈◊〉 cannot refrain from laughing to see this great change, and alteration in his young Lady and mistress, but directly believing that she in m●…ent 〈◊〉 maying or masking, such was his ignorance that he least thought, o●… dream●… 〈◊〉 she went to commit murder, or what devil was here vailed and shrouded under this friar's weed.  
So (with more assurance than fear, and with far more impiety than g●…e) she goes on towards Sanctifiore, who was there alone walking and reading, to whom approaching, and giving him a duck or two, she holding up her begging box, and counterfeiting an old friar's vo●…, prays him for the blessed V●…rgin Mary's sake, and also for holy saint Francis sake to bestow some thing on him for their society and order; which Sanctifiore (being alone, as having sent b●…e his coach to the city) resolving to do, he seeing that fair new 〈◊〉 the friar's hands, he fairly takes it from him, and carefully vieweth and peruseth it, which being that which Vrsina aimed and looked for, she for 〈◊〉 sake (but indeed purposely and maliciously) steps behind him, and very ●…oftly drawing out one of her pistols out of her pocket which was already 〈◊〉; she levels it at the very reins of his back, and so le's fly at him▪ whereof he presently was falling to the ground, when (the devil making ●…mble and dexterious in her malice) in the turning of a hand, she whips but the other pistol out of her pocket, and to make sure work with him likewise dischargeth it in his breast, and to make her inveterate malice and revenge to▪ him the more conspicuous and apparent to all the world, as near as she could gue●…e to his very heart, of which mortal wounds made by her four bullets Sanctifiore fell immediately dead to the ground, having neither the power, grace o●… happiness to speak a word; and then she pulling off her false beard, discovered herself to him as he was dying, and spurning him most disdainfully and mali●…usly with her foot gave him this cruel farewell, such deaths such villains deserve, who triumph and glory to betray harmless and innocent Ladies; which having acted and said, she waving her hand kercher to her coachman, he comes up●…o her with her coach as 〈◊〉 as the wind, who is all amazed and in tears to behold this woeful accident and lamentable spectacle; for descending speedily from his coach, he finds the Baron of Sanctifiore dead, and his soul already fled and ascended from earth to heaven, to whom his Lady Vrsina (in a graceless insulting bravery) says, rejoice with thee Sebastiano, that I have now so b●…vely and fortunately revenged myself on this base and treacherous Baron Sanctifiore; but honest 〈◊〉, (being as full of true grief, as she was of fals●…ny) replies and tells her, O●…dame! what have you done? for this is no cause, and therefore no time to rejoice but rather ●…o ●…ent and mourn, for this lamentable fact and cri●…e of yours, and not to disse●…ble you the truth, as much as yo●… (in this ●…all frie●…●…cke) did ●…e your bloody in●…tions, I have fa●… more reason to fe●…e than cause to doubt, that your ●…urthering of the Baro●… of Sancti●…, will p●…ove the ruin and confusion of yourself, except God ●…ee graciously p●…ed ●…o ●…e more merciful to you, than you have 〈◊〉 to him; therefore look from his danger and misfortune speedily to provide for your own safety; which as soo●…e as he had said, he (in the ●…riersweeds) spe●…ly takes her up in the coach, and then drives away a full gallop to the shadowed thicke●… from whence ●…hee 〈◊〉, where she c●…sts of her ●…iers apparel, bea●…, 〈◊〉, box and book●…, as also the ●…o pistols, the which they two wrap up all in the gown, and throw it into a deep ditch or precipice, and so he helps her to put on all her own apparel and a ●…ire and then with more haste than good speed drives home a main towards Naples, and it was a disputable question, whether our bloody and execrable wretch V●…a more rejoiced, or her honest coachman Sebastiano lamented and grieved at this unfortunate and deplorable fact.  
We have seen with what a malicious courage, and a desperate and profane resolution, this cruel hearted Gentlewoman Vrsina hath (in the habit of a friar) murdered this unfortunate Baron Sanctifiore, and the reader shall not go much further in this history before (if not in the same moment, yet in the same hour) he see the sacred justice of God will surprise and bring her to condign punishment for the same, as if the last (as indeed it is) were co-incident and hereditary to the first, or as if it were wholly impossible for her to rejoice so much here on earth for that, as God and his Angels do both triumph and glory in heaven for this.  
God's judgements are as just as sacred, and as miraculous as justs: so that all people should rather admi●… it with awful reverence, than any way neglect it with a profane presumption. But our wretched Vrsina will not make herself so happy to be of the first, but rather so miserable to be of this second rank; for she wholly despiseth God's justice, and so absolutely forgets God himself, as she neither thinks of ●…hat she hath now done, what she now is, or which is worst of all what hereafter she may be; but rather (as an inconsiderate and wretched gipsy) laughs in her sleeve for joy, to have thus happily bereft Sanctifiore of his life, who so lately and so treacherously had bereft her of her honour and chastity. While●… thus sorrowful Sebastiano is hurrying away his joyful murderous young mistress the Lady Vrsina in her coach towards her Father Signior Placedo's house in Naples, as (thinking to make his way the shorter and securer) he drove his coach on a narrow path by the side of a hill, it so pleased God (in his sacred providence) as of his two coach horses, that of the out side fell shear over the path and drew his fellow horse, the coach, the Lady Vrsina, and her coachman Sebastiano down the hill after him; with which sudden terrible ●…ll the coach was shattered and torn in pieces, she broke her right arm (wherewith she had discharged these two pistols) and he his left leg, so that she had the power but not the will, and he the will but not the power to step to her assistance, only he leaps from the coach box to the ground on his right leg, and with his knife cuts off the stays and trappings of his horses, that they in their amazed fury might not draw the coach and themselves after them; and yet such is her impenitency and his affliction, as she here was not half so much terrified, as he perplexed and astonished at this their misfortunate disaster; the which though she slighted, as only looking down to herself, yet he deemed & conceived it to be no less than a blow from heaven, as looking up to God, and therefore that it was a fatal Omen, portending some dismal calamities and afflictions which were immediately to surprise and betide them.  
As thus distressed Vrsina, and her lame and sorrowful coachman Sebastiano, ●…ate down on the b●…e ground, rather able to behold, than to know how to help one the other; and they both grieving to see their coachlye to●…e on the lee side and shore of the hill, and their two coach-horses (without hurt or fear) licenti●…sly playing their frisks and figuaries below in the valleys, neither he nor she knew what co●…se to take for their present consolation and safety, and so to prevent the imminency of their danger, but at last she taking some ten double pistols of Spanish gold out of her pocket, and giying it him, she again makes him swear secrecy, never to reveal what he had seen her perform to Sanctifiore, the which (with more reluctancy than willingness) he doth. Then as it was agreed between them, he by some loud cries and hollas should call in some contadines (or country labourers) to their assistance, whom they saw a good distance off very busily working in the vines, the which as he was about to do, lo God (in his sacred providence) so ordained, that the Baron of Sanctifiores coach came rattling above them, where they two sat comfortless and sorrowful upon the ground; and in the coach was his page Hieronymo, who therewith was going to fetch home the Baron his master, who perfectly seeing and knowing the Lady Vrsina, and her coachman Sebastiano, and seeing her coach lie by her all reversed, shattered and t●…rne to pieces, grieving at this her disaster, he for the respect he bore her for the Baron his master's sake, (whom he knew formerly loved her) takes his coachman with him, and so descends down to her assistance, where being more fully acquainted, of the breaking of her arm, and her coachman Sebastiano's leg, he very humanely and courteously proffers her his Lord's coach, and his best service to conduct and carry them both home to her father Signior Placedo's house in the city, little thinking or dreaming, that she came from so cruelly murdering his kind Lord and master Sanctifiore, or that his breathless body lay now exposed as a prey to the fowls of the air in the fields.  
Sebastiano is much perplexed and grieved, but his Lady Vrsina infinitely more at this unexpected encounter, and ominous, meeting of Sanctifiores page, coach, and coachman, which threatened her no less than fear, and this fear no less than imminent danger and confusion, especially to herself, if not to him, when looking wistly and sorrowfully each on other, they know not how to bear themselves in the unfortunacy of this accident, neither dare she accept, or well knows how to refuse this proffered courtesy of the page Hieronymo. But at last (despite of herself) she is enforced to embrace this opportunity, when making a virtue of necessity, she (though much against her will) is constrained, very thankfully to accept, and make use of this kindness of Hieronymo, who leading the Lady Vrsina by her leftarme, and his coachman, hers by his right, they softly bring them up the hill to the Baron their master's coach, and so convey her home to her father Signior Placedo's house in the city, who was then gone forth to sup with the Prince of Salerno (who by the mother's side, was his cousin German) where Vrsina (setting a good face upon her bad hea●…t) gives the page many hearty thanks, and the coachman three duckatons for this their courtesy, so they take leave of her, and speedily return with their coach into the fields to fetch home the Baron their master, to whom they resolve at full to relate this accident; when Vrsinas' fears far exceeding her hopes, and knowing upon what ticklish ●…earmes and dangerous points both herself and her life now stood, she (in the absence of her father) speedily resolves to provide her a swift coach and so to fly from Naples to her aunt Mellefantas house in Putzeole, where she promised herself far more safety and less danger than here at home with her father; but chose, we shall see that God is now resolved to deceive both her hopes, and herself herein, to her utter shame and confusion.  
The page Hieronymo being sorrowful for the Lady Vrsinas' misfortune, and yet exceeding glad that he had the happiness and good fortune to perform her this fair office, and friendly courtesy to her, he now bids his coachman drive away o'er the fields to that pleasant grove to find out their Lord and master Sanctifiore, where being arrived he descends his coach, and with his vigilant eye looks about every where for him, when alas he hath scarce gone forty paces off, but (directly contrary to his expectation) he finds him there dead on the ground and most lamentably all gored, and engrained in his own blood, at the sight whereof he bursts forth into many bitter tears and out cries, yea he throws away his hat, and tears his hair for grief and sorrow hereof, and no less doth his coachman. They are here both of them so amazed with grief and astonished with sorrow at this lamentable spectacle and accident, as they (for a quarter of an hour's time) know not what to think or say hereof, as whether this their Lord and master had here killed himself, or were murdered and robbed by thiefs, but at last this sorrowful page Hieronymo, will stay alone weeping by the breathless body of his Lord, and master, and so sends away the coachman, in his coach speedily to Naples, to acquaint their Lady Dona Bertranna, and her father Signior de Tores with this sad and sorrowful news, whereat she almost drowns herself in her tears, and he very bitterly laments and sorroweth for it; so (being incapable of any hope comfort or consolation) they do both of them take coach and drive away into the fields, where she almost murthereth her eyes with her tears, to see her dear Lord and husband lie thus murdered in his blood. They here see none in sight of him, neither do they know any body but themselves that hath seen him; so by whom, or how he is killed they cannot as yet either conceive or imagine, when the father leaving his daughter to wash and bedew her dead husband's cheeks with her tears, he himself gallops away in his coach to Naples and brings thence along with him the crimynall officers of justice, first to know and then to be eye witnesses of this sad and deplorable accident; at the hearing and sight whereof, (in nature and justice) they cannot refrain from equally wondering and grieving at it, when (to act the part and duty of themselves) they cause the coachman to spread his cloak on the ground, then to remove the dead corpse from his blood, and to lay him thereon, and so they make a chirurgeon (whom they had purposely brought with them) to unapparell and search his body for wounds, who finds and shows them, that he was shot with two pistol bullets in his back, and other two in his breast, (when missing likewise of his purse) they all of them do confidently believe, that undoubtedly he was murdered and robbed by thiefs. The which the better to discover, the judges send their sergeants, and servants, and De Tores likewise sends the page and his coachman searching and scouring all over the adjacent fields to apprehend and bring before them all those whom they find there; who are so far from meeting of many persons, as they all of them bring in but one poor ragged boy (of some twelve or fourteen years old) who some two hundred paces off, kept a few cows (which yielded milk to the city) and him they find sitting within a hedge in a ditch whom they bring along with them to the judges, where he sees this dead body lying on the ground before them, where at poor silly boy he shakes and trembles for fear.  
The judges demand his name of him, who tells them he is called Bartholomeo Spondy, they further inquire of him what his father is, and where he dwells, who replies that his father is a poor butcher named Pedro Spondy, and dwells at Naples in Saint john's suburb (which the judges afterwards find true) then these grave judges perceiving the poor boy to be bashful and timorous, they therefore bid him be of good cheer, and to fear nothing, for the which he thanks them both with his cap and knee. Then they inquire of him if he saw any one to come near and kill this gentleman, to whom in plain and rustic terms he answereth them, that from the hedge within which he kept his father's cows, he saw this gentleman walk alone by himself at lest an hour with a book in his hand reading, and that then he saw an old friar come to him, who as he thought begged somealmes of him, whom he saw did shoot off two pistols to him, and therewith killed him, for he then, and thereupon presently saw the gentleman fall to the ground, they again demand of him what afterwards became of this friar, who tells the judges, that a coach came up instantly to him and carried him away, but where he knows not. They ask of him why he had not cried out against the friar, when he saw he had killed this gentleman, to whom he makes answer that he dared not do it, for fear lest he would then likewise have killed him with his pistols. The judges further demand of him, whether this were a white, a black or a grey friar, to whom he answers that he was neither of them, but that he wore a minime, or sad russet gown and hood. Thereupon they thought it fit, again to demand of him how many horses this coach had, and of what colour they were, to whom he affirms that they were two black coach-horses, when the judges to conclude this their quaere and his examination, they demand of him what coloured cloak this coachman wore, who tells them he wore a red cloak, and as he thought some white laces upon it, the which this pregnant poor little boy Bartholomeo had no sooner pronounced and spoken, but Sanctifiores page Hieronymo cries out and relates to the judges, to his Lady Bertranna, and her father Signior de Tores, where and in what manner and accident he some two hours since found the Lady Vrsina, and her coachman Sebastiano, whom he seriously affirmed wore a red cloak with white laces, and that her two coach-horses which they saw straying below in the valley were coal black, right as Bartholomeo had described them; adding further that her coach was broken with a fal●…, as also her right arm and his left leg, and that out of respect and pity to her, he had carried both her, and him, home to her father Signior Placedo's house, but he affirmed he saw no friar either in their sight or company, all which relation of his, was likewise there confirmed to the judges by the Baron of Sanctifiores own coachman, who was also there present, the which evidence of theirs as soon as the Lady Bertranna over heard, she with a world of sighs and tears, (as if she were suddenly inspired and prompted from heaven) passionately cries out first to her father, and then to the judges, that God and her conscience told her, that doubtless Vrsina was this devilish friar, and her coachman Sebastiano the very same damnable fellow who had here thus cruelly murdered her Lord and husband, when throwing herself on her knees to their feet, she very earnestly begs justice of them, against them for the same, who partly concurring in the opinion and beleese with them, they do here most seriously and solemnly promise it her.  
To which effect, these reverend judges, leaving her father, herself, and her page and coachman decently to convey her husband's dead body home to their house in Naples, they themselves make great haste thither before, and presently send their officers and sergeants to Signior Placedo's house, there to apprehend the Lady Vrsina his daughter, and their coachman Sebastiano, whom they both opportunly find issuing forth his gate in a fresh hackney coach speedily flying to Putzeole to her aunt Mellefunta for protection and Sanctuary, so these fierce and merciless sergeants do presently divert and alter their course, yea they furiously and suddenly rush upon them, apprehend and constitute them close prisoners in the common goal of tha●… city, placing them in two several chambers, to the end they should not prattle or tell tales each to other; where they shall find more leisure than time, both to remember what they have done, and likewise to know what hereafter they must do.  
Whiles thus all Naples generally resound and talk of this mournful fact, and deplorable accident, and Signior Placedo particularly grieves at these his daughters unexpected crosses and calamities, as also of those of his coachman Sebastiano, the which he fears, he can far sooner lament than remedy; our sorrowful widow Bertranna (with the assistance of her father De Tores) gives her husband the Baron of Sanctifiore a solemn and stately burial in the Fueillantes Church of Naples, correspondant to his noble degree and quality. And then within two days after, at her earnest and passionate solicitation to the judges; Vrsina and her coachman Sebastiano are severally convented before them, in their chief Forum, (or tribunal) of justice, and there strongly accused by her and charged to be the authors and actors of this cruel murder, committed on the person of the Baron of Sanctifiore her husband, the which both of them do stoutly deny with much vehemency and confidence, and when the little boy Bartholomeo, is face to face called into the court to give in evidence against them, he there maintains to the judges what he had formerly deposed to them in the fields, but says he thinks not, that this Lady was that friar, nor can he truly say that this was the coachman who carried him, although when his cloak was showed him he could not deny but it was very like it; but Bertranna having now secretly intimated and made known to the judges, all the passages that had formerly passed between Vrsina and her husband Sanctifiore, as his getting of her with child, and then (contrary to his promise) refusing to marry her, they do therefore more than half believe, that it was her discontent which drew her to this choler, her choler to this revenge, and her revenge to this murdering of him, as also (that in favour of some gold) she had likewise seduced and drawn her coachman Sebastiano to be consenting and accessary herein with her: whereupon the next day they will begin with him, and so they adjudge him to the rack, the torments whereof he endures with a wonderful fortitude and patience, so that (remembering his oath of secrecy to his Lady Vrsina) he cannot thereby be drawn to confess any thing, but denies all, whereof she having secret notice, doth not a little rejoice and insult thereat, now the very next ensueing morning Vrsina herself, is likewise adjudged and exposed to the rack, the wrenches and torments whereof, as soon as she sensibly feels, God proves then so propitious and merciful to her soul, that her dainty body, and tender limbs cannot possibly endure or suffer it, but then and there she to her judges and tormentors, confesseth herself to be the sole author and actor of pistolling to death the Baron of Sanctifiore, in the same manner and form, as we have already understood in all its circumstances, but in her heart and soul she strongly affirms to them that her coachman Sebastiano was not accessary with her herein, upon which apparent and palpable confession of hers, her judges (in honour to sacred justice, and for expiation of this her foul crime) do pronounce sentence of death against her, that she shall the next morning be hanged at the place of common execution, notwithstanding all the power and tears of her father, and kinsfolks to the contrary.  
So she is returned to her prison where her father (not being permitted to see her that night) sends her two Nuns, and two friars to prepare and direct her soul for heaven, whom in a little time (through God's great mercy, and their own pious persuasions) they found to be wonderful humble, repentant, and sorrowful. She privately sends word to her coachman Sebastiano, that she is thankful to him for his respect and fidelity to her on the rack, and wills him to be assured and confident, that she being to die to morrow, her speech at her death, shall no way prejudice, but strongly confirm the safety and preservation of his life. Thus grieving far more at the foulness of her crime than at the infamy and severity of her punishment, she spends most part of the night, and the first part of the morning in godly prayers and religious meditations, and ejaculations, when, although her sorrowful old father Signior Placedo (by his noble kinsman the Prince of Salerno) made offer to the Viceroy (the Duke of ossuna) the free gift of all his lands to save this his daughter's life, yet the strong solicitation of the first; and the great proffer of the last proved vain, and fruitless, for they found it wholly impossible to obtain it.  
So about ten of the clock in the morning, our sorrowful Vrsina, is (between two Nuns) brought to her execution; clad in a black wrought velvet gown, a green satin petticoat, agreat laced ruff, her head dressed up with tuffes and roses of green ribbon, with some artificial flowers, all covered over with a white ciffres veil, and a pair of plain white gloves on her hands: when ascending the ladder, she, to the great confluence of people who came thither to see her take her last farewell of this life, and this world, (with a mournful countenance, and low voice) delivered them this sorrowful and religious speech.  
Good people, I want words to express the grief of my heart, and the anxiety and sorrow of my soul, for imbruing my hands in the innocent blood and death of the Baron of Sanctifiore, although not to dissemble but to confess the pure truth, he betrayed his promise to me of marriage, and me of my honour and chastity without it, whereof I beseech Almighty God, that all men (of what degree or quality soever) may hereafter be warned by his example, and all Ladies and gentlewomen deterred and terrified by mine. I do likewise here confess to heaven and earth, to God and his Angels, and to you all who are here present, that I alone was both the author and actor of this foul murder, and that my coachman Sebastiano, is no way consenting or accessary with me herein, and that albeit I once promised and proffered him a hundred double pistols of Spanish gold to perform it, yet he honestly and religiously refused both me and it, and strongly and pathetically dissuaded me from it, whose good, and wholesome council I now wish to God (from the depth and centre of my soul) I had then followed, for than I had lived as happy, as now I die miserable. And because it is now no time, but bootless for me either to palliate the truth, or to flatter with God, or man, the worst of his crime he being my servant was the least courtesy he owed to me I being his mistress, which (after with mine own hands I had committed that deplorable fact) was to bring me home from the fields to my father's house, and for assisting me to cast the friar's frock, the false beard and hair, the alms box, breviary, and two pistols, into the next deep pit, or precipice thereunto adjoining, where (as yet) they still lie: for this my heinous offence, (the very remembrance whereof is now grievous and odious unto me) I ask pardon first of God, then of mine own dear father, and next of the Lady Bertranna, and if the words and prayers, of a poor dying gentlewoman have any power with the living, than I beseech you all in general, and every one of you in particular, to pray unto God, that he will now forgive my sins in his favour, and hereafter save my soul in his mercy, the which as soon as she had said, and uttered some few short prayers to herself, she (often making the sign of the cross) takes leave of all the world when pulling down her veil (in comely sort) over her eyes and face, and erecting her hands towards heaven she was turned over, now as some of her spectators rejoiced at the death of so cruel and bloody or female monster, so the greatest part of them (in favour of her birth youth and beauty) did with aworld of tears exceedingly lament and pity her, but all of them do highly detest and execrate the base ingratitude infidelity and treachery of this ignoble Baron of Sanctifiore towards her, which no doubt was the prime cause, and chiefest motive which drew her to these deplorable and bloody resolutions.  
As for her honest coachman Sebastiano; although his own torments on the rack, and now this solemn confession of his Lady Vrsina at her death had sufficiently proclaimed and vindicated his innocency in this murder of Sanctifiore; yet such was his widow Bertrannas living affection to her dead husband and her deadly malice to living Sebastiano, for thinking him to be guilty, and accessary hereunto with his Lady Vrsina, that her power and malice so far prevailed with the integrity of the judges, for the further disquisition of this truth, as they now again sentence him to the double torments of the rack, the which he again likewise▪ endureth with a most unparallelled patience and constancy, without confessing any thing, the which his judges wondering to see, and admiring to understand, and having no substantial proofs or real and valable evidences against him, they now fully absolve and acquit him of this his suspected crime, when being moved in charity justice and conscience to yield him some reward, and satisfaction, for thus enfeebling his body, and impairing of his health by these his sharp and bitter torments, they therefore adjudge the plaintiff widow Bertranna to give him three hundred duckatons, whereof she cannot possibly exempt or excuse herself.  
And thus lived and died our unkind Baron Sanctifiore, and our cruel hearted young Lady Vrsina, and in this manner did the sacred justice of God requite the one and condignly revenge and punish the other. Now by reading this their history, may God (of his best favour and mercy) teach us all, from our hearts to hate this Baron's levity, and from our souls to abhor and detest this Lady's cruelty and impiety.  
AMEN.   

GOD'S REVENGE AGAINST THE CRYING AND Execrable Sin of Murder.  
HISTORY XXX.  
De Mora treacherously kills Palura in a duel with two pistols. His Lady Bellinda with the aid of her gentleman usher Ferallo, poisoneth her husband De Mora, and afterwards she marrieth and then murthereth her said husband Ferallo in his bed, so she is burnt alive for this her last murder, and her ashes thrown into the air for the first.  
IN the general depravation of this age, it is no wonder, that many sinful fowls are so transported by Satan and their own outrageous passions, to imbrue their guilty hands in the innocent blood of their christian brethren; and it were a great happiness and felicity to most countries and kingdoms of Europe, if they were not sometimes infected with the contagion of this bloody and crying sin, which with a presumptuous hand seems to strike at the majesty of God himself in killing man his creature, but because wishes avail little, and for that examples are more powerful and prevalent, and prove the best precepts to the living; therefore I here produce a lamentable one of so inhuman a condition, that by the knowledge and consideration thereof we may know how to detest the like, and avoid the temptations in ourselves.  
IN the famous kingdom of Portugal, and within a very little league of Stremos, one of the sweetest and fairest cities thereof, there (within these few years) dwelled a noble gentleman of some fifty six years old, named Don Alonso De Mora, Issued and descended from one of the best and famous houses of that kingdom, as being Nephew to that great and wise Don Christopher de Mora, of whom the histories of Spain and Portugal make so often, and so honourable mention, and although he were by his ancestors and parents, left very rich in lands and possessions; yet his ambition and generosity carried him to serve his king Philip third of Spain, in his wars of Africa and Flanders, wherein he spent the greatest part of his time, and of himself, won many renowned laurels, and martial trophies of honour, and as an excellent cavalier left behind him many approved marks and testimonies of his true valour, and magnanimity. But (as all men are naturally constant in unconstancy; and subject and co-incident to mutations, and that the world still delights to please us with changes, and to feed our fancies and affections with different enterprises and resolutions) so our De Mora at last, calls home his thoughts and himself from war to peace, and resolves to spend the remainder of his age in as much ease & pleasure as formerly he had done the heat and strength of his youth, in tumults and combustions; he now sees that there is no life nor pleasure comparable to that of the country, for here the sweetness of the imbalmed air, the delicacy of the perfumed and enameled fields, the unparallelled pastime of hawking and hunting, and the free and uninterrupted access which we have to arts in our study, and to God in religious prayers and meditations, makes it to be, no less than either an earthly paradise, or a heaven upon earth. For the camp (despite of commanders) abounds with all kinds of insolences and impieties, the city, (despite of magistrates with all sorts of vice, deceit, covetousness and pride, and the court (despite of good kings and Princes) too often with variety of hypocrisy, perfidiousness, and vanity. To his own great manor house near Stremos, therefore is our De Mora retired, with a resolution for ever, there to erect and build up his residence, making it his greatest delight to have his hounds and graihounds at his heels, and to see his hawk on his fist. Now the Alarms of war no longer take up his thoughts and time; neither do the drums and trumpets, or the rattling peals of thunder of muskets and cannons, distract his day pleasures, or cut his nights sweet sleeps and slumbers in pieces. He is not addicted to women, but hates them as much as they love men, he spurns at love, and (in a disdainful contempt thereof) terms venus a whore, and her son cupid a boy, and which is worse a bastard, in a word, he professeth himself to be as great, and as mortal an enemy to beauty, as beauty is many times to chastity, and never thinks himself happy, but either when he is out of women's company or they not in his. He is so far from any affecting marriage, as he pitieth it in others, and forever abjures and detests it in himself. He compares single life to roses and lilies, and wedlock to briers and thistles, and therefore in the highest and sublimest degree, scorns to have any wife or mistress in his house to over master him.  
But it is not for men to presume to point out their own destinies and fortunes, sith we are but the slaves of time, as time is the servant of God; and therefore (in this regard) our actions are subject to heaven not to earth, & to God's appointment rather than our purposes; or to presupose or think the contrary; is a presumption every way unworthy of a man, but far more of a christian, sith nature is subject to grace, and our earthly passions and resolutions must still stoop to a sacred power, and ever submit and prostrate themselves to a divine providence, and supernatural predominancy, it is therefore folly not wisdom, and simplicity; not discretion in De Mora generally to proclaim hate to women, for that he is the son of a woman; or to malign and disdain marriage in regard he is the fruit and offspring of marriage for thus to violate and pull down the temples and altars of love, is obstinately to oppose nature, and profanely to subvert the institution of God himself in paradise; but he shall not continue long in the clouds of this error.  
In a clear and sweet morning (as soon as Aurora leapt from the watery bed of Thetis, and purposely retired herself to give way to approaching Phoebus, (who in his fiery chariot, with his glistering beams began to salute & gild the tops of the highest woods & mountains) De Mora attended by half a dozen of his domestic servants goes into the fields to hawk and hunt, where having killed one hare, and set up another, all his servants left him alone, and with the hounds pursue the hare, who tripping through the lawns and thickets, the hills and valleys, at last leads them such a dance, that in less than an hour his servants and his dogs were a little league out of his sight, whereat being exceedingly offended and angry, and far the more for that he was left all alone, he not knowing how to pass or delude away the tediousness of the time, sat himself down on the side of a fair hill, at the foot of a pleasant grove of beech and chestnut trees, whose curled tops sheltered him from the scorching rays of the sun, and there takes delight to behold how many frequent windings, and turning meanders, the neighbouring crystal river made in that pleasant valley, as also to see how sweetly the troops of snowwhite feathered swans, proudly ruffled their plumes, and disported themselves therein, in their majestical and stately bravery, & how many malicious Fowlers, both in boats and on the banks of that sweet river were curiously watching with their fiery pieces to murder these innocent watery guests who frequented there, and also how the patient Anglers (with their treacherous hooks and baits) betrayed many harmless fishes to their undeserved deaths. When De Mora (impatient of his solitariness) listening with his ear, if he might either hear the loud cry and voices of his hounds, or else the shrill rebounding echoes of his servants hunting horns, he looking up towards the sky, beheld a heron softly soaring, and proudly hoovering over his head, as if she came purposely to bid defiance to De Mora, and his goshawk which he held on his fist, and consequently to dare, and challenge it to an airy combat; whereat De Mora being exceeding glad, and disdaining that his hawk and himself, should be thus outbraved by so ill shaped and unmannerly a sea fowl; he speedily riseth up, and (betwixt choler and pleasure) le's fly his hawk at her; but the heron stretcheth her pinnions, and packs on her feathered sails so nimbly and proudly, that sometimes soaring aloft in the air, sometimes descending, and still looking back with scorn on the goshawk, as if she puposely took delight and sport, to see what infinite toil and pain this malicious and ravenous hawk took to surprise and devour her, so the swifter the heron flew from the hawk, the swifter the hawk redoubled her flight, and tugged away after her, when it being impossible for De Mora to reclaim his hawk, either with his holas or lure, at last both hawk and heron flew quite out of his sight, and which is worse he was so unfortunate, as never after he could see either of them again.  
De Mora being first highly displeased and offended for the absence of his servants and hounds, he is now doubly enraged with grief and choler for the loss of his goshawk, and therefore curseth the heron for thus seducing and betraying her away from him; when wearying himself to run from hill to vale to have news of her, and in the end seeing both his labour and his hawk lost, he betakes himself to the aforesaid grove, and (with much discontent and choler) first casting his hat and lure to the ground, he then likewise casts himself thereon to repose him; still attending and expecting his hunters.  
He hath not remained there above half an hour, but close by him passeth an aged country gentleman, indifferently well apparelled, with a very beautiful young gentlewoman following him, clad in a crimson taffeta●… petticoat & waistcoat trimmed with silver lace, with a large cut work plain band, her flaxen hair adorned with many knots of white & crimson ribbon, covered with a black ciffres veil, having a rolling amorous eye, (the true index of desire and lust) her snow white panting breasts open, but only a little hidden and overvailed with curious tiffney, whose white purity her pure white paps (enterveined with azure) infinitely outbraved and excelled. She had her waiting maid attending on her, and he a servingman bearing his cloak and rapier after him, who that morning were come some three leagues from his own house to take the fresh air in that pleasant and delicious grove, without the hedge whereof he had left his coach, this country gentleman I say, passing by De Mora, and well and perfectly knowing him, he according to his duty and the others merits, respectfully saluted him by his name, and the young gentlewoman who followed him likewise gives him a very low and graceful courtesy. De Mora, surprised with the suddenness of their arrival, and the sweetness of these their salutations, rises up, and having first saluted him, and kissed her, he prays his name, who tells him that he is a gentleman that dwelled some three leagues off, termed Emanuel de Cursoro: De Mora demands of him if this young gentlewoman be his kinswoman or his daughter, who tells him she is his daughter; when De Mora again inquires of him, if she be married or no, and what age and name she is of, Cursoro replies that she is unmarried of some twenty years of age, and her name Bellinda. De Mora again tells him, that he is very happy in having so sweet and fair a young gentlewoman to his daughter, whereat the father smileth for joy, and the daughter blusheth for bashfulness and modesty. De mora again questioneth Cursoro, if any business brought him thither that morning, who tells him he had no business, but only came thither with his daughter to take the air, and that he had left his coach without the hedge, so they walk together some turns in this pleasant grove, and from thenceforth De Mora could not possibly refrain, from gadding and gazing his enamoured eyes on the roses and lilies of Bellindas' sweet and delicate beauty, when De Mora acquaints Cursors with his misfortunes, how that morning he came forth a hunting, that he had lost his men, his hounds, and his hawk, and that this three hours he was there left alone and had no news of them, they together make many walks, turns, and returns, when De Mora led by the lustre of Bellindas' lovely attractive, and rolling eye, he ever and anon proffereth to lead and conduct her by the arm, the which Cursoro modestly, and respectfully excuseth, as holding it too great an honour for De Mora to give, and his daughter to receive: here Cursoro proferreth De Mora to lend him his coach to carry him home to his house, but De Mora freely and thankfully refuseth it, and in counterexchange of this courtesy proferreth Cursoro and his daughter to accompany and conduct them to their coach, the which undeserved kindness, Cursoro modestly refuseth of him. Thus (in point of honour, and courtesy) they along time stand striving and complementing, till at last De Mora hearing the cry of his hounds, his importunity vanquisheth Cursoro's modesty, and so will, or nill, he conducts him to his coach, and likewise leads his daughter Bellinda by the arm and hand, and by the way doth at least usurp, & steal many amorous kisses from the cherries of her sweet lips, and damask roses of her pure and delicate cheeks, whereat she is more admired then pleased. As they are thus going towards Cursoro's coach, De Mora's hounds and servants arrive all sweeting and blowing, who (in redemption and requital of their long stay) do present their Lord and master with a brace of hares, and a wild white fawn which they had killed, whereof he being exceeding glad, he very joyfully bestows the hares on Cursoro, and the white fawn on his fair daughter Bellinda, who from thenceforth, he swears shall be his mistress, and his love; Cursoro, is too modest, and his daughter too bashful to accept hereof, so they along time refuse these his presents with many dilatory and complemental excuses. But at last De Mora finds out a means and medium to reconcile this difference, according to his own will and desire; for he peremptorily swears to Cursoro, and his daughter Bellinda, that they shall receive these poor presents from him, and that in requital hereof, he will to morrow come over to his house, and eat his part of them to dinner with them; upon which condition and terms, Cursoro thankfully receives the hares, and likewise causeth his daughter to do the same by the fawn, the which (with a very low and observant courtesy) she doth: so he conducts them on to their coach, and by the way wrings her by her lily white hand, plays with the loose ●…esses of her sweet hair, her blushing cheeks, dimpled chin, downy paps, and Alabaster neck, when taking a friendly leave of Cursoro, and a solemn congee of his fair daughter Bellinda, which he again seals and confirms with many new kisses, they take coach and away; and De Mora with his servants and hounds returns home to his house.  
Thus in a little time we see an extraordinary alteration, yea a wonderful change and metamorphosis in De Mora, but whether more strange or sudden I know not, for in the morning he went forth a free man, and now before night comes home a slave, and a captive. Heretofore he spurned at love, and disdained beauty, and now the very first sight of our fair Bellinda sets fire to his blood, and flames to his heart: so that his old blood is passionately and amorously inflamed with this new beauty; formerly he (in derision) termed Cupid, alittle boy, now he holds him to be a great God; then he called Venus a whore, but now he recants that Athiesme, and reputes himself of that blasphemy vomited forth against her deity; and terms her a Celestial and facred Goddess: yea now in his heart and thoughts he erects altars to the first, and consecrates all his vows to the second. The small and straight wast of his honoured Bellinda, together with her sparkling eyes, and sweet cheeks and blushes, do amaze his mind, act wonders in his heart, and cast his thoughts into a confusion of many amorous raptures and ecstasies, yea the consideration of her sweet youth, and the remembrance of her fresh and delicate beauty, do (in his conceit) seem to make his age young, and to give the lie to those infinite number of white hairs, which time hath snowed on his head, and showered on his beard. He a thousand times repen's himself of his former error and crime in living so long single, and is now assured and confident, that there is no earthly pleasure or heavenly delight, comparable to the heart-ravishing kisses and embraces of his sweet Bellinda: he is ready to lay down all his lands, and life at the feet of her commands and service, and esteems both of them too poor, for the purchasing of so inestimable a jewel; whom (in his determinations and resolutions) he hath already adopted the Q●…eene of his heart, and confirmed and crowned the Sovereign Empress of his soul, and the sacred Goddess of his desires and affections. He thinks not of the great disparity and Antithesis betwixt his de●…ling age, and her fragrant and flourishing youth; nor what an ●…e qual difference, and disproportion there is betwixt his fifty six, and her twenty years. He will not consider what a poor sympathy and a palpable antipathy there is between such a januarie and such a May, but disdains to enter into consideration with himself, that he is every way fitter for his grave than for her bed, and for death than marriage; yea he flatters himself so far in his affection to her, as heehopes he shall be the joyful father of many pretty children by her, so that he is so deeply enamoured with the sweet youth of our Bellinda, and his heart so fast chained and entangled in the tresses of her hair, and the lures of her alluring beauty, that he upon his first sight of her incessantly thinks of her by day, dreams of her by night, and neither thinks nor dreams of any thing but of her, and of his love to her: so now he advanceth & raiseth the standards of Venus and Cupid, as high as ever he formerly dejected them, and delights in nothing more, yea Imay truly say in nothing else, but in feasting his eyes and surfeiting his heart upon the heavenly Idoea of her Angelical ●…ace and feature, he thinks so much of love, as if he were now wholly composed of love, and therefore purposely made to love Bellinda, and none but Bellinda. His hauks, and hounds are now as far out of his mind, as he is out of himself; and no other delight or recreation whatsoever can take up any place in his heart or thoughts, because love had already ta'en up all. He revokes to mind, how Macare●… was transformed into a bird for speaking against Venus, and that it is not his cause alone to be so deeply plunged & tormented in love, but that the greatest Captains Philosophers, and Kings of the world, (and as poets assirme the Gods themselves) have been subjected, and vanquished with this passion, and so constrained to make it their chiefest delight and glory to ador●…e the temples and altars of Cupid, with the oblations of their sighs, and the sacrifices of their tears.  
Thus our De Mora being (at the first sight) wholly inflamed with love towards his fair, and beautiful intended mistress Bellinda, he to seem far younger than he is, he is so vain in his affection, as (contrary to his custom) he shaves his beard, dights himself in an ash-collour satin suit and cloak, with a white Beaver hat, a hatband of Diamonds, a rich plain cut work band, and a pair of green silk stockings with garters & roses laced with silver, suitable thereunto, and so to perform his promise to Cursoro, takes coach the next morning, and rides over to him, but not so much to taste of his good cheer, as to feast his enamoured eyes on the dilicious rarities and dainties of his daughter Bellinda's beauty; where he finds his entertainment and good cheer, at least to equalise, if not to exceed his birth, rank, and expectation: but this is not the end, and object of his visit, not the sum and period of his desires; dinner being ended, he acquaints Cursoro with his affection to his daughter Bellinda, and his suit to seek and obtain her for his wife. Cursoro wonders that so great a Lord should des●…nd so low from himself to seek so mean a young Gentlewoman as his daughter in marriage. But finding De Mora to be in earnest, and not in jest, and understanding that his age was deeply & passionately enamoured of her youth and beauty, he therefore thanks him for that undeserved honour of his, promiseth him his best assistance towards his daughter, and gives him no despair, but all hope and assurance that he shall shortly obtain and enjoy her to his wife. De Mora having thus won the affection and consent of the father, he now seeks that of the daughter, he takes her apart in his parlour, where, of an old man he plays the young orator and lover, and in sweet terms and sugared ph●…ses and speeches seek to gain her to his wife; but Bellinda more considering De Mora his age, than the greatness of his nobility or estate, she bites the lip, and hangs the head at this ●…s motion, yea, and see●…s to be a●… 〈◊〉 as he was forward in this his research and pursuit. H●…r father lai●…s his commands on her to embrace this match and no other he conjures her now to confirm, and not to cast away her good fortunes in marrying this great▪ Nobleman, and vows that he will for ever renounce her for his da●…ghter, if she disobey him herein; so he conducts her into the arbour of his garden, and there freely and cou●…eously again gives De Mora the opportunity and benefit to speak with her, and the desired happiness to kiss her; but Bellinda is as much perplexed in mind, as they are obstinate in their motion ●…owards her; when (composing▪ her countenance rather to sorrow than joy and to mourning than mir●…h) she makes a modest excuse to her father, gives no absolute or pe●… p●…ie denial to De Mora, but fairly and discreetly ●…aves of both of them a month's time of respi●…e to resolve on th●…s great business, which she says, so much imports her happiness or her misery, her content o●…her affliction, which answer and request of hers, both her father and De Mora finding so full of discretion and reason, they severally grant and jointly consent to give her; but in all this interim, such was De Mora's dear and tender affection to Bellinda, that he visits her many times in person▪ and very often with his rich gifts and presents, as holding it no irregular way, but a pertinent and prevalent course, first to make a breach in a young Lady's mind and affection, and then to enter and take possession, both of her body, and of herself.  
But before I proceed further in the narration and progress of this history, I must here unlock and reveal a secret mystery to the reader of no small consequence and importance, for he must understand, that our Bellinda is not so chaste as fair, nor so honest, as her education, youth & beauty presuppose and promise her to be; for her mother being dead, and her father giving her too much liberty, and too little virtuous counsel and exhortation, she for two whole years hath been in love with a poor, yet with a very proper and resolute young Gentleman of some twenty five years of age, being a neighbour of her fathers, named Don Fernando Palura, who being deeply enamoured of her, had lain so close, so constant and so strong a siege to her chastity, as (not to conceal the truth) first unknown to her father, then to De Mora, and next to all the world, he had unparadised her of her maidenhead, and under colour and hope of marriage had very often ta'en his lustful use and pleasure of her body; but his means being very small, and her belly not growing great, she was not yet fully resolved, but therefore still delayed to marry him; true it is, that her father Cursoro was formerly acquainted with Palura's affection and desire to marry his daughter, but as heretofore his poverty made him reject him for his son in law, so now the consideration of De Mora's great wealth and nobility makes him fully to disdain him, and commands his daughter likewise to do the same. But she not considering the premises, and loving Palura's youth, as much as she hated De Mora's age, she was nevertheless so inconstant by nature, and so proud and ambitious by sex, as she could find in her heart and resolution, rather to be a rich Lady, than a poor Gentlewoman, and so to leave Palura to espouse and marry De Mora: but first her crime & her conscience makes her send for Palura, and seriously to consider and debate hereon with him, which they do; so Palura perceiving by Bellindas' looks, and observing by her s●…eeches that De Mora's wealth was far more powerful with her than his poverty; and that she notwithstanding still aimed to keep him for her husband, and himself for her friend, he at last tells her, that he will consent and content himself that she shall marry Don Alonso De Mora, conditionally, that she will first ●…aithfully promise him to grant and perform him three requests, and art●…les. So she bids him propose them to her, the which he doth to this effect: 〈◊〉, that he shall still have the use and pleasure of her b●…dy, as here ●…ofore, and a●… o●…en as he pleaseth: secondly, that from time to time she shall be ●…ow some competency of De Moras wealth on him, to support his weak estate and poverty: and thirdly, that if De Mora die before him, that within three months after his death she shall then marry him.  
Which three unjust demands▪ and ungod●…y conditions of ●…alura's, his sweet heart Bellinda (betwixt sighs and smiles) immediately grants him, yea she feales them with many oaths, and confirms them with a world of kisses, and to add the more p●…tie, (I may truly say the more profaneness) to this their contract and atonement, they fall to the ground on their knees, and invoking God and his Angels for witnesses hereof, they with their hands and kisses, again ratify and confirm it: but poor sinful souls, how doth Satan abuse you, and your intemperate and lascivious lusts betray you? for God will not be mocked, and his holy Angels cannot be deluded by these your blasphemies and impie●…ies, for you shall in the end see with grief, and feel with repentance, that this vicious league, and obscene contract of yours; will produce you nothing but shame, misery, and confusion of all sides.  
By this time is Bellinda's month expired, which she gave her father and De Mora for her resolution of marriage; and now do they both of them repair to her to understand and receive it, when her pride and ambition, having far more prepared and disposed her tongue, than her affection, she (as if she were a pure Virgin, yea a Diana for chastity) making a low reverence to her father, and a great respectful courtesy to De Mora, delivers her resolution to them in these terms: that in humble obedience to her father, and true affection and zeal to Don Alonso De Mora, God hath now so disposed her heart and mind, that she is resolved to wait on his commands, and to be his handmaid and wife, whensoever he shall please to make himself her Lord and husband. This answer of Bellinda is so pleasing to her father, and so sweet and de●…icious to De Mora, that in acceptance of her love, and requital of her consent, he gives her many kisses, and then claps a great chain of pearl, interlaced with sparks of Diamonds, about her neck, and an exceeding rich Diamond ring on her finger, and so most solemnly contracts himself to her, and within eight days after in great pomp, state & bravery marries her, whereat his kinsfolks and friends, and all the nobility and gentry of these parts do very much admire and wonder, some condemning his folly in marrying so poor and so young a gentlewoman, others praising and applauding her good fortune in matching with so rich and so great a Nobleman.  
Here we see the marriage of De Mora, and Bellinda, but we shall not go far before we see what sharp and bitter sweet fruits it produceth: for here truth gives a law to my will, and so commands me to relate and discover, that he is too old for her youth, and she too young for his age, yea her I must crave excuse of modesty to affirm, that she is so immodest, as she finds him not to be so bold and brave a cavallier as she expected, in regard his best performance to her consists o●…ly in desire. Thus being in bed together, whiles he turns to his rest, so doth she to her repentance, but she knows how to repair and remedy this her misfortune; for whiles her husband De Mora only kisseth her, she in her heart and mind, kisseth and embraceth her young and sweet Palura, who many times comes over in show to visit her husband 〈◊〉 eff●…ct to 〈◊〉, and as formerly, so now he ●…sciviously 〈◊〉 and 〈…〉 (in a word) very often performs and acts that 〈…〉 husband cannot. Now within less than two months 〈…〉 seeing that he is not capable to deserve, much ●…sse to 〈…〉 dainties of his wife's youth and beauty) and 〈◊〉 ●…ving al●… that by 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 begins to disrespect and sleight him, and yet that she 〈…〉 pleasant to all gentlemen who a●…oord and 〈◊〉 his house, 〈…〉 on her, now he grows jealous of her, and so far forget●… 〈…〉 self, that he curseth all those who (in right of the laws of 〈…〉 honour) come to kiss her, but more especially Palura, 〈…〉 his house; and so frequently conversing with his young Lady, 〈…〉 on makes him jealous, and his jealousy confident, that (with too 〈…〉 and dishonesty) he usurps upon his free hold, & dishonoureth him in ●…ing his bed, and defiling his wife; the which to discover, 〈…〉 her of her liberty; so that she sees (and grieves to see) herself to be 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 as much her husband's prisoner, as his wife, yea he sets 〈◊〉 ey●… 〈◊〉, as so many, Sentinels to watch her and her actions, and for himself, 〈◊〉 jealousy gives him more eyes than ever Argus had, to espy out what familiarity 〈◊〉 between her and her sweet heart Palura. Bellinda takes this discourtesy and hard measure of her husband in very ill part at his hands, yea she bites the lip thereat, and though out wardly she seem to grieve and sorrow, yet inwardly she vows to requite and revenge it; he is so jealous of her, and so fearful that she plays false play with him, that as soon as ever Palura comes to his house, he carries his eye and ear every where to see if he can espy and hearken out, 〈◊〉 and his wives love-tricks together; yea he is so eurious in this quest, and so vigilant and turbulent on this his research and disquisition, as if he delighted to ●…ow that, whereof it were his happiness to be ignorant, or as if he had an ●…ing desire to make his glory prove his shame, and his content his affliction and ●…serie. But as mild and sweet persuasion is ever more capable and powerful to prevail with women than constraint, so our fai●…e Bellinda is so distasted with the lunacy, and with the frenzy and madness of this her husband's jealousy, that she no sooner sees her Palura arrive in her sight and presence, but (despite ●…f ●…s suspicion and fear) she is ●…o 〈◊〉 in her lust, and so lascivious in 〈◊〉 aff●…ction towards him, that she t●…es pleasure to seek pleasure, and extremely delighteth to seek and ●…d delight with him, which (according to her former lew●… 〈◊〉, and ungodly contract) she often doth. Now this foolish young couple (being the obliged scho●…ers of ●…pid, and the devoted votaries of Venus) think to be as wise, as they are lascivious in these their amorous pleasures, for knowing that discretion makes lovers happy; and that secrecy is the true touch-●…e, yea the very life and sou●…e of love, they therefore esteem and keep the secrets thereof as if they were sacred, and think that no mortal eyes but their own can 〈◊〉 know it: but yet notwithstanding all this, De Mora's jealous fears in the detection, are still as great, as their care in the prevention thereof, for the very next night after Palura departure from his house, he purposely absenteth an●…eth his wife from his bed, and the next morning, calling her into the garde●… after him, and causing the door to be ●…ut, he then and there, (with ligh●…g i●… his looks and t●…nder in his speeches) chargeth her of adultery with 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 this young strumpet his wife Bellinda, at the very first hearing of this 〈◊〉 and unexpected news, dissembles so artificially with her husband, and so pro●… with God, as seeming to dissolve and melt into tears, she purgeth herself hereof, with many strong vows, & cleareth Palura with many deep asseverations. 〈◊〉 this fanaticke Tyrant, and frantic monster jealousy, (which for the most part, we can seldom or never kill, before it kill us) had wrought such strange impressions in the brains, & engraven such extravagant chimoeras in the heart and ●…eleefe of old De Mora, that (notwithstanding his wife's oaths and tears to the contrary) he yet still vows to himself, and her, that she is guilty of adultery with Palura, and therefore chargeth her that henceforth she dare not see him, or receive him into her house or company. Bellinda hereat (to give her ●…and some content in her own discontent) makes a great show of sorrow, and an extreme apparition and exterior appearance of grief: she sends for her father Cursoro, acquaints him with the unjust wrong and indignity which her Lord 〈◊〉 husband hath offered her, and prays him to interpose his authority and judgement with him for their reconciliation; who seeing himself solicited and sought to by his own blood, & by his daughter's hypocrisy, believes her to be as innocent as her husband De Mora thinks her guilty of this foul crime of adultery with Palura; and so undertakes to solicit and deal with his son in law De Mora to that effect, which he doth, but with no desired success, so that finding it to be a knotty and difficult business, and upon the whole no less than a Herculean labour, because of De Mora's wilful obstinacy, and perverse credulity: he therefore prays for both of them, and thus leaves them and their difference to time and to God: and upon these unfortunate terms doth old De Mora, his young wife Bellinda, and their marriage now stand.  
In the mean time Bellinda, (who suffers doubly both in her pleasure and her reputation) is not yet so devoid of sense, or exempt of judgement, but she will speedily provide for the one and secure the other. To which effect (seeming sorrowfully obedient to her husband,) she thinks it not fit that her Palura should for a season approach her house or herself; wherefore by a confident messenger she sends him this letter.  
BELLINDA to PALURA.  
MY husband hath discovered our affections, and is confident that I love thee far better than himself, wherein as he is nothing deceived, so I conjure thee by the preservation of thy fidelity, and my honour, to forbear my house and sight for some two months, in which interim I will use my chiefest art, and the utmost of my possible power to calm the storms and tempests that jealousy hath raised in him. So, be thou but as patient as I will be constant, and I hope a little time shall end our languishing, and again work our contents and desires; for though thou art absent from me, yet I am still present with thee, and albeit my husband De Mora have my body, yet Palura, and none but Palura hath my heart, as knoweth God, to whose best favour and mercy, I affectionately and zealously recommend thee.  
BELLINDA.  
Palura receives this letter, and although he fetch many deep fig●…es at the reading thereof, yet he gives it many sweet kisses for her sweet sake who writ and sent it him, he knows not whether he hath more reason to condemn De Mora's jealousy, or to commend his Lady Bellinda's affection and constancy to himself, and because he resolves to prefer her content and honour equally with his own life, therefore he●… will dispense with his lustful, and lascivious pleasures for a time, purposely to give her beauty and merits their due forever, so in requite all of her affectionate letter, he (by her own messenger) returns her this kind and courteous answer.  
PALURA to BELLINDA.  
I Am as sorrowful that thy husband De Mora hath discovered our affections, as truly joyful that thou lovest me far better than himself, wherefore to prevent his jealousy & equally to preserve my fidelity with thy honour, and thy honour with my life, know sweet and dear Bellinda that thy requests are my commands, and thy will shall eternally be my law, in which regard I will refrain thy house all thy long prefixed time, and so forbear to see thee, but never to love thee, because thy sweet & divine beauty, is so deeply engraven in my thoughts & imprinted in my soul, th●…t the farther I transport my body from thee, the nearer my affection brings my heart to thee. I will add my chiefest wishes to thy best art, and my best prayers to thy chiefest power, that a little time may work our content and desires: but because there is no torment nor death to languishing, nor no languishing to that of love, therefore I shall think every moment a month, and every hour a year before we again kiss and embrace: conceal this letter of mine from all the world with as much care and secrecy, as I send it thee with fervent zeal, and tender affection.  
PALURA.  
The perusal of this letter and the affection of Palura demonstrated in this his resolution, makes Bellinda as glad, as the jealousy of her Lord and husband De Mora sorrowful; and now seeing his rage so reasonless, and his malice and obstinacy so implacable towards her, she abandoneth her sighs and tears, resolves to make trial of a contrary experiment, & so under a female face assuming a masculine courage and resolution, she sleights him and his jealousy, as much as he doth her and her levity, and bears herself more highly and imperiously towards him than ever she did heretofore, but this animosity of Bellinda produceth not that good effect which he expects from her husband De Mora, for he attributing this pride of hers to proceed from some bad counsel given her by minion Palura, it doth the more inflame his jealousy, and exasperate and set fire to his indignation, both towards her and him.  
Whiles Bellinda stands upon these terms with her husband De Mora, his brains (as so many wheels and spheres) are incessantly rolling and wheeling about the Orb of jealousy, to find out the marrow and mystery of this lascivious league between his wife and Palura, in the agitation and conduction whereof, he is as secret, as she simple and inconsiderate, his policy is to find ou●… any letter or letters of Palura to her, and her closet and casket are the only places as he supposeth for her to hide and conceal them in. So on a monday morning, as his Lady Bellinda is gone to the parish Church to hear mass, he purposely stays at home to effect this his secret intent and purpose, and then very privately enters her chamber, and his jealousy makes him so industrious of locksmithes hooks, and instruments to open any lock. So he first resolves to try and open that of her closet, which when he was on the very point to do, casting aside his eye, he sees the tawny Damask gown which his wife wore the day before, wherefore he flies to it to search and rifle the pockets thereof for her keys. Now Bellinda's haste and devotion to the Church was so great, as both she and her waiting Gentlewoman, had forgotten the keys of her closet and cabinet, and left them in one of the pockets of her said gown, where her husband De Mora finds them, whereat being exceeding joyful, he claps up his hooks and instruments, and (with equal jealousy and haste) opens first her closet then her cabinet, wherein leaving nothing unsearched, he at last finds the very same letter of Palura to his wife Bellinda, which we have fo●…merly seen and understood, the which (as the richest relic of her heart and the most precious jewel of her content and affection, she had secretly enshrined and treasured up in a small crimson satin purse embroidered with gold. He reads it over again and again, but for that which said, I shall think every moment a month, and every hour a year before we again kiss and embrace, this line, I say, his extreme jealousy makes him to read over at least as often as it hath syllables, for this letter and this branch of this letter confirms his jealousy, and now makes him fully assured and confident, that his wife and Palura have defiled his honour, and his bed, by committing adultery together; when vowing a sharp and speedy revenge hereof, he (with a panting heart, and trembling hand) lays the velvet purse again in the cabinet, than locks it, as also her closet and chamber door, having first left the keys again in the pocket of his Lady's gown, and so comes down into the Hall among his servants, as if he were happy to know that, which it is his misery, because he cannot be ignorant thereof.  
By this time his wife the Lady Bellinda is returned from Church; he dines with her, and yet he cannot dissemble his discontent and malice against her so artificially, but that she observes some distemper in his looks, and extravagancy in his speeches; but such is her pride, as she is no way either curious o●… careful thereof, nor as much as once surmiseth of what he had now performed and acted. Dinner being ended, as soon as she betakes herself to walk in the allies, and arbours of her delicate garden, her husband De Mora, and his jealous and bloody resolutions are walking a contrary way; he is so nettled with jealousy, and stung to the heart with malice and revenge; as he ascends to his armoury, takes down an excellent sword and belt, a case of pocket pistols, each whereof he chargeth with two bullets, calls for Emmanuell de Ferallo his Lady's Gentleman-usher, who was a very proper young man both of his person and hands, bids him to cause two of his best great saddle horses speedily to be made ready, & wils him to accompany him to the town of Arraiallos. Ferallo performs this order of his Lord, and then tells him that he will go into the garden, and acquaint his Lady and mistress with his absence, and to receive her commands before his departure, but his Lord commands him to the contrary, and neither to see or speak with her; so they take horse, and away. Now within half an hour after, the Lady Bellinda▪ returns from the garden, and understanding of their departure, who (in regard of the suddaynesse and unexpectation thereof) knows not what to say or think thereof, or whither, or about what business they are gone; but she neither once dreams nor conceives so much as a thought, that her husband De Mora had found her sweetheart Palura's letter, much less that he had any malicious or disparate attempt, so suddenly to put in execution against him for her regard and cause, as to ride to Arraiallos to him, to fight with him.  
The youth and beauty of his young wife and Lady Bellinda, arming him with jealousy, and this jealousy with irreconcilable malice and revenge against Palura, he cruelly resolving to make his body and life pay dear for it, rides away towards his house near Arraiallos, and staying some half aquarter of a league from it in a fair green meadow, sends him man Ferallo to him, and prays him speedily to take his horse, and come speak with him there, about a business which much imports his good. Ferallo (knowing lest of this quarrel, whereof his Lord and master De Mora thought most) finds out Don Palura at his house, and in fair and respectful terms delivereth him his message, which Palura understanding, his guilty conscience makes him exceedingly to doubt & wonder of De Mora's intention & resolution herein; but his lustful heart & affections, looking more on the young Lady Bellinda the wife; than on the old Lord De Mora her husband, he speedily (without any servant of his) takes horse and rides away with Ferallo to him in the meadow, where De Mora (on horseback) impatiently attended his coming. Salutations being here ended between them, (which Palura observes in De Mora to be more short than ceremonious, and more abrupt than respectful) De Mora calls his man Ferallo to him, and privately commands him to ride a meadow or two off, and not to dare offer either to stir or draw, whatsoever he see pass betwixt him and Palura, the which his man Ferallo obeys, but with much wonder and admiration what this business might mean or produce between them. Here De Mora very passionately and cholerickly, chargeth Palura for abusing & dishonouring of him, by committing adul, terie with his wife Bellinda, the which Palura retorts to him as a foul scandal, and false aspersion, and (as an honourable Gentleman) in his speeches and answers to De Mora, makes his own innocence, and his wife the Lady Bellinda's chastity very apparent and probable: but these feigned excuses and false oaths and speeches of Palura do no way satisfy, but ●…ather the more incense the jealousy, and inflame the malice and revenge of De Mora against him, whereupon he shows him his own letter, and with much bitterness and vehemency demands him if that his own hand writing do not palpably convince him of adultery with his Lady. Palura is amazed at the sight of this his letter, so that blushing for shame, he cannot here yet refrain from looking pale with grief & anger thereat, nevertheless he will not be so ingrateful to the beauty and affection of Bellinda to think that she hath betrayed him, by delivering up this his letter to her husband, but rather (giving a good interpretation and construction to the purity of her intents and affections towards him) he believes with confidence, that he had sinisterly and surreptiously betrayed her thereof, whereupon to fortify her reputation, & to vindicate and clear his own innocence, he (with high words and loud cracks) protesteth this letter to be false, suborned, none of his, and that it was written by some witch or devil, and sent by some treacherous enemy of his, purposely to affront him, and to disgrace his virtuous chaste and innocent Lady Bellinda; but these feigned paliating excuses of his, cannot pass currant with the jealousy and revenge of De Mora, who now (to reduce contemplation into action) tells Palura that nothing but his death can expiate and satisfy this his crime, and therefore (on horseback as he was) draws his sword, and bids Palura do the like. The which Palura hearing and seeing, he equally for the preservation of Bellinda's honour, & his own life (as a brave and generous Gentleman) likewise draws, as highly disdaining to have his youth and courage outbraved by this old cavallier: but here before they begin to fight, Palura with many strong reasons, and pathetical persuasions, again and again prays De Mora to desist from the combat, and to rest satisfied with the truth of his Lady Bellinda's honour, and his own innocency in this their supposed and pretended crime of adultery: but he speaks to the wind, for De Mora returns him blows for words.  
The event, and fortune of this their combat on horseback is, that in two several meetings and encounters, Palura hath received no wound, but given De Mora two, the one in his neck, and the other in his left arm, whereof he bleeds so exceedingly as he begins to despair of the victory, and with his pistols to provide for his own safety and life; they by a mutual consent divide themselves a little distance off to breath. When Palura reining his horse a little to straight, and his horse being hot and furious; and by mere strength and force turning round, De Mora with his watchful and vigilant eye taking the advantage of this favourable ●…ident, (when Palura never once dreams or thinks of pistols) speedily pulls his two pistols forth his pocket, & most basely and treacherously, with the first shoots him thorough the head, and with the second into the reins of his back, of which mortal wounds he presently fell off from his horse dead to the ground, having neither the power to repent his sins, nor the grace or happiness to pray unto God for the salvation of his own soul, and thus was the untimely end, and lamentable death of this valiant young cavallier Palura.  
De Mora seeing Palura dead, & having more reason outwardly to rejoice in this his victory, than inwardly in the cause & manner thereof, he waves his handcherchiefe to his man Ferallo to come to him (who was an eye witness and spectator and Co-mate) which he presently doth to whom he speaks thus, first acquaint Palura's servants in his house, that I have slain their master in a duel, then ride home and tell my wife the Lady Bellinda, that I have sent her Ruffian and adulterer Palura to heaven, and within six days after come a way to me to Lisbon, whether I am now poas●…ng, when throwing him some gold for his journey he takes leave of him and away, and at the very next Town dresseth his wounds which prove hopeful and not dangerous.  
Now doth Ferallo (according to his Lord's commission, and order) inform Palura's servants of his death, and of his said Lord and master's victory, but (for his honour and reputations' sake) conceals that he basely and treacherously killed him with his pistols: they are extremely sorrowful for this his misfortunate end: so whiles they fetch home his breathless body and prepare for his decent burial; Ferallo returns home and truly & punctually relates to his Lady Bellinda the issue of this combat; as also of his Lord De Mora's speeches which he commanded him to tell her, who poor Lady is all in tears for the death of her lover Palura, and well she might in regard she loved him a thousand times dearer than her own life, so upon the receipt of this sorrowful news, she shuts herself up in her chamber, and for many days together, her grief and lamentations for his death are so infinite, as she will admit of no company, counsel, or consolation whatsoever, she considereth how deeply the misfortune of this disaster will scandalously reflect on her honour, and fall on her reputation, and therefore vows to requite Palura's death severely, and to revenge it sharply on the life of her husband De Mora who was his murderer, at least when she shall be so happy, or rather so miserable to see him return to her from Lisbon. She exceedingly wondereth at his secret malice, and sudden indignation and resolution towards Palura, but more at the cause thereof, and from what point of the compass, or part of hell this furious wind should proceed, when at last having nothing else capable to comfort her, or to give truce to her tears, but the sight of Palura's aforesaid letter sent to her, the which in tender affection to him, she for his sake had so often perused and kissed; she therefore passionately and pensively flies to her closet, and with affection and sorrow to her cabinet to feast her eyes with the sight, and to delight and comfort her heart with the perusal thereof when (contrary to her expectation) she finds the letter taken away, her other papers displaced, and her jewels reversed in her cabinet, and then she knows for certain, that it is her husband De Mora, who had thus rifled her cabinet, and who had bereft and robbed her of this sweet letter, which (next to Palura's sight and presence) was the chiefest joy of her heart, and the sweetest felicity and content of her mind, the which considering, she therefore absolutely believes, that the detection and perusal of this letter, was the sole cause of her Lord and husband's jealousy, as that was of her sweet Palura's death, wherein indeed she is nothing deceived, for some six weeks after, he feturnes home to her from Lisbon, where (in favour of his Noble birth and descent, of his many great friends, and of a huge some of money) he (in absence of the Viceroy) had obtained his pardon, from the chamber of that city, and the very first salutations that he gave his Lady Bellinda, (the which, I know not whether he delivered to her with more contempt, or choler) was thus.  
Minion (quoth he) how many prayers and orisons hast thou said for the soul of thy Ruffian, and adulterer Palura, when she being exceedingly galled to the heart with these his scandalous speeches, she yet to justify her own honour and innocency, dissembles her grief for Palura's death, as much as her jealous husband triumphs and insults thereat, and so frames him this short reply, that Palara was not her adulterer, but a Gentleman of honour, and therefore she besought God to forgive him his own heinous sin and execrable crime for so foully & basely murdering of him. De Mora nettled with this his Lady's apology and justification, which he knew to be as false as her and Palura's crime of adultery was true, he produceth this letter to her, then reads it her, and in a great rage and fury immediately tears and burns it before her face; now although the sight and knowledge of this letter, as also her husbands burning thereof do exceedingly vex and perplex our Lady Bellinda, yet she was herewith no way daunted but again very boldly tells him; that she cannot prevent any Gentleman to write and send her a letter, and although in the conclusion of this his letter to her had simply and sinisterly mentioned kisses and embraces, yet she peremptorily vowed and swore to him, that the first had not exceeded the bounds of civility, nor the last violated the laws and rules of honour, so wise and politic was she in her answers, & so false and hyppocriticall in her justification towards her husband.  
The which he well observing, and understanding, as also with what a pleasing grace she spoke it, his own lustful age, yet still doting on the freshness of the youth and beauty of this his young wife, seeing that Palura (who was the cause and object of his jealousy) was now removed and dead, he therefore for the preservation of his own honour and reputation in that of his Ladies, doth content himself so fat as to bury the greatest part of his discontent and jealousy against her, in the dust of oblivion, or in that of Palura's grave, and to that end, he affords her his table still, and his bed sometimes, as if that obligation of courtesy, would reclaim her lascivious thoughts, and again call home her wanton desires to chastity and honour, nevertheless the better to effect and compass it, he much restrains her of her former liberty, and debars her the company and sight of all Gentlemen whatsoever that come to his house. A peevish custom, which the husbands of Spain, Portugal, and Italy tyrannically use towards their Ladies, whereas chose the Ladies and Gentlewomen of England and France, are far more happy, because more chaste and honourable towards their husbands in using, and not abusing this their liberty and freedom.  
Bellinda with a watchful eye, and a wanton heart observes these passages and comportments of her husband De Mora towards her, and in observing laughs at them; but because her lascivious mind incessantly tells her, that there is no hell to that of a discontented bed, therefore hating his age as much as he loves her youth, her Paluro being dead, she forth with resolves to make choice of another lover, and at what rate soever not to trifle away her time, and her youth idly, but to pass it a way in the amorous delights of carnal voluptuousness and sensuality. To which effect missing of other Gentlemen (and therefore enforced to make a virtue of necessity) she forgetting herself & her honour makes choice of Ferallo her own Gentleman-usher, a man every way as proper as she is fair, and as well timbered as she is beautiful, and near of her own years, which as yet had not exceeded one and twenty: to Ferallo therefore she freely imparts her affections and favours, who as freely receives and as joyfully and amorously entertains both her & them, so that, to write the best of truth and modesty, I must here affirm, that as he was formerly his Lady's usher, now he makes himself his Lord's follower; & (unknowen to him) very often ties her shooc-strings and takes up her mask and gloves for her, and many times when the old Nobleman is a sleep, than this ignoble couple of unchaste lovers are waking to their obscene pleasures, and secretly sacrificing up their lascivious desires to wanton Cupid the son, and to lustful Venus the mother, but they shall find wormwood intermixed in this honey, and gall in this sugar.  
For three months together our Bellinda the mistress, and Ferallo the man, drown themselves in the impiety of these their carnal delights and pleasu●…es, as if they made it their ●…elicity and glory to continue the practice and profession thereof, but at the end and expiration of this time as close as they bear this their adulterous familiarity from De Mora, it comes to his knowledge by an unexpected accident and means, for the reader must understand, that Ferallo was heretofore dishonestly familiar, with his Lady Bellinda's waiting Gentlewoman named Herodia, whom (under pretext and colour of marriage) he had many times used, at his lascivious pleasure, so that Herodia seeing that Ferallo's affections were now wholly transported from herself to her Lady Bellinda, and that he slighted and disdained her, to embrace and adore the other, she is so enraged with jealousy at the knowledge and consideration thereof, as she calls a counsel in her heart and thoughts, what to do herein, how to prevent it, and again how to reclaim, & regain Ferallo and his affection, from her Lady to herself, and she is so inflamed with jealousy towards them, as she can reap no peace by day of her mind, nor rest by night of her heart before she have effected it; to which end, having ran over a whole world of remedies and expedients, she at last resolves on this, to acquaint her Lord and master De Mora with this unchaste and obscene familiarity, between his Lady Bellinda and her lover Ferallo, and her rage is so outrageous as with infinite malice and celerity she performs it. At which unexpected and unwell-comed news, our old Lord De Mora hath now his heart a new set on fire with jealousy and malice both towards his Lady, and her usher Ferallo, so that he as soon believes as understands this their adultery without ever making a stand either to consider the truth, or to examine the circumstances thereof, whereupon to make short work, and to provide a speedy remedy for this unfortunate disaster, and disease; he without speaking word of it, either to his Lady Bellinda, or to Ferallo, suddenly casheereth him from his house and service, and in such disgraceful manner, as he will not so much as permit him to know the reason hereof, or to see, or take leave of his Lady and mistress, and from thence forth De Mora looks on her with infinite contempt and jealousy. For it galls him to the heart, first to remember her dishonour, and dishonesty with Palura, & now far more to know that she is doubly guilty thereof with her own domestic servant and Gentleman-usher Ferallo; wherefore he again restrains her of her liberty, and his jealousy so far exceeds the bounds of judgement, and the limits of reason, as he will difficultly permit her to see any man, or any man to see her, but as rivers stopped do still degorge with more violence, and overflow with more imperuositie, so Bellinda takes this new jealousy of her old husband, and this sudden exile and banishment of Ferollo her lover and Gentleman-usher in extreme ill part, and (after she hath wept and sighed her fill thereat, she than believes the prime and original cause thereof, to proceed from the malice and jealousy of her waiting Gentlewoman Herodia: wherefore being infinitely despited and incensed against her; she (in her dear love and affection to Ferallo) to requite her husband's courtesy, very discourteously turns her away, and for ever banisheth her, her house and service, and to write the truth, Ferallo likewise inhatred & malice to Herodia, will from thence forth neither see nor speak with her more. But to verify the English proverb, that love will creep where it cannot go, although De Mora banisheth Ferallo from his house; and restraineth his Lady Bellinda of her liberty in his house, yet sometimes by day & many times by night, they (by the assistance of some secret agents or Ambassadors of love) do in the arbours of the gardens, and in some other out rome's of the house very amorously meet, and most lasciviously kiss and embrace together. They hold many private conferences on their unlawful affections, and many secret consultations upon their unjust discontents: so at last both of them joining in one wicked heart and mind, and (as matters are still best distinguished by their contraries) finding each others company sweet, and their sequestration and separation bitter, they so much forget their selves and their souls, and so much fly from heaven and God, to follow Satan and hell, as both of them believe and resolve, they can have no true or perfect content on earth before De Mora be first sent to heaven; now, upon this bloody design they agree, and upon this hellish plot they fully resolve, only the gordian knot which must combine and link fast this foul business is, that De Mora being dead, Bellinda must shortly after marry her Gentleman-usher Ferallo, whereunto with as much joy as vanity she cheerfully consenteth, when they are so profane as they seal this their ungodly contract with many oaths, and ratify and confirm it with a world of kisses, and then of all violent deaths, they resolve on that drug of the devil, poison, so without either the fear or grace of God, they of Christians metamorphose and make themselves devils, and Ferallo buying the poison, Bellinda very secretly and subtly in diet drink and broth admmistereth it unto her Lord and husband De Mora, which being of a languishing virtue and operation, he within less than four months dies thereof; when with much cost and a wonderful exterior show of grief and sorrow, she gives him a stately funeral, every answerable to the lustre of his name, and the quality of his dignity and hono●…r, but God in his due time will pull off the mask of this her monstrous hippocrie, and infernal profaneness.  
Our jealous old Lord de Mora being thus laid and raked up in the dust of his untimely grave, his joyful sorrowful widow the Lady Bellinda, according to her promise, to the grief of her father Cursoro, to the wonder of Stremos, and the admitation of all Portugal marries with this her Gentleman-usher Ferallo; but such lustful and bloody marriages, most commonly meet with miserable ends.  
For six months together, Ferallo day and night keeps good corespondancy in the performance of his affections to his old Lady and mistress, and now his new wife Bellinda, and although they are unequal in birth and rank, yet marriage having now made them equal, they mutually kiss and embrace with as much content as desire; but at the end of this small parcel of time; satiety of his uxorious delights and pleasures makes him neglectful, and which is worse contemptible thereof, (a base ingratitude, but to often subject to men of his inferior rank and quality, and which the indiscretion of Ladies of honour, very often pays dear for, as buying it many times with infamy but still which repentance) so that for ten nights, and sometimes for fifteen together he never kissed or embraced her; which unkind ungratitude of his, and respectless unvaluation of her youth and beauty, as also of her rank & means makes the Lady Bellinda his wife to be as hot in choler towards him, as he is cold in affection & love towards her. But to ascend to the head-spring of this his discourtesy towards her, and so to fetch and derive it from its own proper original, we must know that Ferallo was so vicious, inconstant, and base, as now he is deeply in love with a new waiting Gentlewoman of his Ladies named Christalina, a sweet young maiden, of some eighteen years of age, tall of stature and slender of body, and whose beauty was every way as clear and pure as her name, and yet whose maidenhead (with a few rich presents and many poor flattering oaths and false promises) he had secretly purchased and gotten from her; yea his affection was so fervent to her, that part of the day could not content his lustful desires, but he forgets himself so far, as before his Lady's nose, and almost in her sight, he must lie with her whole nights, and which is worse, almost every night without so much as once thinking of his own wife the Lady Bellinda, or either loving what she cared for, or caring for what she loved.  
But Bellinda esteems herself too good a Gentlewoman, and too great a Lady to be thus outbraved and disgraced, by a Tailor's son, (for so was Ferallo) and therefore consequently her heart is too well lodged, and too high fixed and seated in the degree of her high descent thus to receive & suffer an affront, by a man of so low a beginning & so ignoble a quality and extraction as he was, and whom she had raised from nothing, and conferred and honoured him with her affection, and bed, and of her servant made him her husband; when for the space of six months together having continually used the best of her art, and the chiefest of her power, her sweetest persuasions, and her most sugared prayers and solicitations to make him abandon her maid Christalina, and so again to reclaim him and his affection from her to herself; but seeing all her care vain, and her prayers and entreaties towards him to prove frivoulous, she at last (consulting with Satan, and not with God) begins to assume bad thoughts and revengeful malice against him, for this hi●… foul disloyalty, and base ingratitude and infidelity towards her: but first before she attempts it, her turbulent and restless jealousy, makes her resolve to try another conclusion, which is to put off this her waiting Gentlewoman Christalina from her service and attendance, in hope that Ferallo her husband would then thereby likewise put off himself and his affection from her, but this project and resolution of hers reaps no successful issue according to her desires, but receives end, as soon as beginning. For he is still so deeply enamoured and so constantly affected to Christalina, as he will neither permit nor suffer it, but in despite of his Lady Bellinda, and of all her sighs, tears, and prayers to the contrary, he kisseth her in her sight, and (custom now making him licentiously bold and impudent) he in this his sottish familiarity with her, sets her at table with himself and his wife; and in her presence, and before her face, terms her his dear, his love, & his sweetheart: a disgrace of so unkind a nature, and discourteous a quality, as she highly disdains long to suffer or digest it at his hands. So that seeing no hope of amendment, and therefore despairing of any reformation thereof in him, she resumes her former bad and bloody thoughts against him, and so peremptorily and definitively resolves to murder him. Her jealousy makes her thus malicious, her malice thus revengeful, and her revenge thus bloody hearted and handed towards him. She cannot be content to pace, but she will ride post to her confusion by heapeing crime upon crime, and murder to murder; she hath formerly poisoned her first husband De Mora, and now she resolves to poinyeard to death Ferallo her second, as if one of these two blood sins and crimes were not enough capable, to make her as truly miserable, as she falsely thinks herself happy, in the performance and execution thereof. But these are the bitter fruits of jealousy and the sharp effects of choler, malice, and revenge which most commonly stream and proceed from it,  
Whiles thus her quondam Gentleman-usher, & now her unkind and disloyal husband Ferallo (without fear or care) is wallowing in his beastly pleasures and sensuality with his strumpet Christalina, this his ungodly wife, and revengeful Lady Bellinda (with as much secrecy as treachery) is in requital thereof prepareing of him a bloody banquet; yea so hasty is she in her rage, and so outrageous in this her revenge towards him, as she will no longer be abused or defrauded by him, but thinks every hour an age, before she have dispatched him for heaven. She will no more be controlled and over mastered by him who was formerly her servant, and who first reputed it his greatest happiness to kiss her hand, before she vouchsafed him the honour to kiss her lips, or which is more, the felicity to embrace her in her bed. She now sees with grief, that he hath betrayed her in betraying, and conveying his affection from her to her maid Christalina, and therefore although she hath cast away her favours on him, yet of the two, she vows rather to cast away him than herself. No grace, no religion, not her conscience, not her soul, nor the consideration of heaven or hell can dissuade or keep her from this her bloody purpose, or divert her from the perpetration of this inhuman and cruel murder: but the very first night that he leaves her maid Christalina, and lies with herself, she (being purposely provided of a very sharp and keen razor, which she put in one of her gloves, and clapped it under her pillow) at break of day as he lay in bed sound sleeping and snoring by her, she as a devil incarnate cuts his throat, and leaves him struggling in the bed, and weltering in his blood, without once having the power to think, to speak of God.  
Thus we have seen the bloody malice, and infernal fury and revenge of this execrable young Lady Bellinda, in so lamentable and cruelly murdering her first and old husband De Mora, and now her young one Ferallo, and because the prepetration of these her inhuman crimes and facts are so odious to God, that their knowledge hath already pierced the clouds, and their sight ascended to the sacred presence and tribunal of God, therefore his allseeing, and all-potent glorious Majesty, being as impartial in his judgements, as divine in his decrees, hath already sharpened his sword of justice, and made ready his arrows of revenge, speedily to inflict and give her condign punishment for the fame, yea and far sooner than either she thinks or dreams thereof.  
She having thus dispatched this bloody business, and seeing her husband Ferallo lie breathless in the bed by her, she riseth up, and the better to colour out, and overvaile this her inhuman and monstrous villainy, she takes this her dead husband's knife out of his pocket, and goring it all in his blood, she leaves it on his pillow by him, thereby (with as much hypocrisy as treachery) to insinuate a belief and confidence in the opinion of all men, that he had there murdered himself, and that infallibly he was the author and actor of this his own deplorable death, which having performed, she takes on a fine clean holland smock, and puts off her cambric one that she wore, which as a fatal mark of her cruelty, and a prodigious banner of her inhumanity, was all stained and engrained over with her husband's blood, and wrapping it up very close together, she therein likewise envellops and enwraps her bloody razor, and also a two pound brass weight, thereby the better to make it sink, for she resolves that very morning to throw it into a pond; so secret is she in contriving, and so politic in the concealing of this her cruel fact. The morn advancing to six of the clock, which was dark, cloudy and obscure, as if (by the secret appointment, and sacred providence of God) that the sun (with his glistering beams) abhorred to behold so pitiful & lamentable a spectacle. Bellinda hath no sooner apparelled herself, but triumphing in this her false victory and bloody conquest, and giving the murdered body of her husband a farewell, composed of many curses and execrations, she softly issueth forth, clapping her bloody smock and razor in her pocket, the which (to make sure work) she had tied fast with one of her blue silk garters, than locks the chamber door, and very secretly and surely conveys and throws in the key within side, & then descends to the garden, where calling Helena (another of her waiting Gentlewomen to her) she bids her fetch her prayer book, and thus away she goes towards their parish-Church of Saint julian's on foot, which by computation was some half a small league distant off their house, and forbids any man servant to wait or attend on her thither. She is not a furlong off, but the more closely to finish her design, she there purposely sends away her maid Helena to the parish-Church before her with this invented and colourable errand to seek out her own Priest father Sebastian, and to prepare him then to say mass to her, the which Helena doth. Now the midway between her house and the Church is a great deep pond, by the which she is to pass; but a little before she draws near it, a poor old maimed Soldier, being cashiered from the Garrison of the castle of Castcayes (named Roderigo) travelling towards his home, and seeing this Lady all alone, and observing the sweetness of her beauty, and the richness of her apparel, and attire, his poverty enforceth and encourageth him to request and beg an alms of her, the which with much humility he doth. But the Lady Bellinda's heart and thoughts, were so much surprised and taken up with cruelty, as she knew not what belonged to charity, and therefore having other business and windmills in her head, she is so offended with Roderigo's begging importunity, as flatly refusing to give him any alms, she forgets herself so far, as in steed thereof, she gives him many harsh words and at last sends him away with some unkind and foul speeches; the which poor Roderigo, took so ill at her hands, that (in the fumes of a Soldier) he once thought to have requited it either on her person, or her apparel; but then again (by her port and bravery) deeming her to be some great neighbouring Lady, who that morning had purposely left her followers to take the sweetness of the air, and therefore fearing his danger more than he loved his profit, he abandoneth that choleric and insolent resolution of his, when taking his leave of her, he some two butts lengths from her betakes him to sit down at the foot of a great Pine apple tree, where he might see her, but not she him; and there looking after her with an eye of discontent and indignation, he bewails his wants and hard fortune, and also condemneth the obdurateness of this unknowen Ladies uncharitable heart towards him, and enquiring afterwards of a mike-maid which passed by what she was, he is informed that she is the Lady Bellinda, widow to the dead Lord Alonso de Mora, and now wife to Don Emanuel de Ferallo, who hereat doth not a little both grieve and wonder, that so rich and great a Lady was guilty of so much uncharitablnes. By this time she being arrived to the pond, looking about her, and believing that no mortal eye had seen her, she therein throws her bloody smock and razor (which as formerly I have said she had tied fast together with one of her blue silk garters) and the ponderosity of the brass weight made it instantly to sink to the bottom, whereof she being infinitely joyful, away she trip●… to the parish Church, and there hears Mass, and mumbles out many Ave Maries, and Pater nosters to herself; but the whole world in general, and the reade●… in particular may imagine with what a foul conscience, and a profane and ulcerated soul, she then and there performs this her devotion.  
Now although this our wretched Lady Bellinda have murdered this her second husband Ferallo, with wonderful secrecy, and buried these bloody evidences thereof in the pond, with such admirable care and privacy, that she thinks it wholly impossible for all the earth to reveal it; lo if earth cannot, yet now heaven will. So hear before I proceed further, let me in the name and fear of God, request the Christian reader here to admire and wonder with me, at the mercy and goodness, and at the providence and pleasure of God in his miraculous detection, and condign revenge and punishment thereof; for he must know and understand, that it seems God had purposely brought, placed and seated this poor old, weary maimed Soldier Roderigo at the foot of this Pine tree, to to be a happy instrument of his praise, and a true Sentinel, and discoverer both for his sacred justice and divine honour: for here although Bellinda carried away her heart and charity from him, yet (as if guided by some heavenly power, and celestial influence) Roderigo could not possibly carry away his eye from her, but as closely as she threw this bloody cloth into the pond, he espies it, and which is more, very plainly and palpably discerns the whiteness and redness thereof; when considering and thinking with himself that this gallant proud Lady Bellinda might be as unchaste and lascivious as she was fair, and as vicious as she was young; God (with his immediate finger) imprinted in his thoughts and ingraved in his heart and mind, that either herself, or some one of her waiting Gentlewomen had had some bastard, and that she had murdered it, and now thrown it into the pond, and was so strongly possessed of this conceit and belief, that neither day, or night, nor nothing under heaven could possibly beat him from it, but for a whiles he resolves to conceal this conceit to himself, as referring the truth thereof to time, and the issue to God.  
And here the order of our history calls us again from Roderigo to Bellinda, who as soon as Mass is done, (with her waiting Gentlewoman He●…) returns home to her house, & by that time they arrive there it is nine of the clock, where (putting a pleasant face upon her false heart; and a sweet countenance upon her soiled and sinful soul) she presently inquires for her husband Don Ferallo, her servants make answer that they have not seen him to day, and that they think he is still in bed, whereat she musing and wondering, in regard he was not accustomed to sleep at so high an hour, she therefore sends some of her servants to his chamber to see if he be stirring, but finding his chamber door looked, and calling aloud to him they can get no answer from him, the which they return and report to their Lady Bellinda, who seeming exceedingly to doubt and grieve thereat, she (far more perplexed in countenance than heart) ascends with them again to her husband's chamber, where they all call and knock aloud at the door to him, and she far louder than them all, but in vain, for still they hear no news either of him or from him, whereat she begins (outwardly) to tremble with apprehension and fear, and so commands them to force open the door of his chamber, which they instantly do, where they see their Lord, and she her husband Ferallo to lie breathless in his bed, all begored and reeking in his hot and warm blood, with his throat cut, whereat his servants for true grief, and his Lady Bellinda for false sorrow, make a lamentable cry, and a pitiful outcry in his chamber which is over heard in all the house, but especially the Lady Bellinda herself, who so artificially dissembleth her joy, and so passionately makes demonstration of extreme grief and affliction, for this deplorable death of her Lord and husband, both to her servants and to God, that she is all in tears, and cannot because she will not be comforted thereat: they find the chamber door locked, the key within side, and his own bloody knife on his pillow and therefore they easily resolve and conclude that this their Lord and master Ferallo hath wilfully made himself away, and is undoubtedly the author of his own death; which opinion and resolution of the servants, their Lady and mistress Bellinda (secretly to herself) relisheth with much applause, and approbation, and to make her afflictions and sorrows the more apparent to them, and in them consequently to the world, she doth not refrain from excessive weeping and sighing. They leave the dead corpse untouched in the bed, to acquaint the criminal Corigidores of Stremos with this pitiful accident, who come, and being amazed at this bloody disaster and accident of Ferallo, they viewing the infinity of his Lady's tears, and the sorrowful complaints and exclamations of his servants, as also considering their several depositions and examinations, and seeing they found his chamber door fast locked, the key within side, and his own bloody knife by him on his pillow, they all concur with them in opinion about the manner and quality of his death, and do absolutely believe and affirm, that he hath desperately made himself a way, which opinion of theirs is presently received, voiced, and rumoured in Stremos, and in all the adjacent parishes and country: and yet many curious wits (in regard of Bellinda's youthful affections, and wanton disposition) speak very differently hereof. And now doth this our sorrowful young widow, (the better to support her fame and reputation to the world) bury this her second husband Ferallo with all requisite, ceremony, and decency.  
But as the justice, and judgements of God (conducted by his divine pleasure, and inscrutable providence) doth many times go on slowly, but still sound and surely, so we must here again produce and bring forth our lame old Soldier Roderigo to act another part on the stage and Theatre of this history. He is still the same man, and still retains his same former opinion, that undoubtedly it was some dead child, or bastard which he saw the Lady Bellinda to throw into the pond, and his heart incessantly prompted by his suspicion, doth still confidently suggest and assure him, that that bloody cloth of hers contained some secret, & enveloped some shameful mystery towards her, which he thinks all the water of the pond could not deface or wash away: so that he now understanding of her husband Ferallo's disastrous bloody end, doth no way diminish but rather every way augment this his suspicion and jealousy hereof. We must further understand, that Roderigo (the better to refresh his body, to replenish his purse, and to repair his apparel, stays so●…e three weeks in Stremos, and although he be a Soldier and have his sword by his side, yet being out of action and pay, he is not ashamed to beg the alms and courtesies of the Gentlemen, Ladies and Gentlewomen both in & ne ereabout that city. Among the rest understanding of the Lady Bellinda's great wealth and dignity, he therefore hopes, that her new sorrows and mourning for the untimely death of her husband, will now mak●… her as compassionate to his poverty in her house, as lately she was discourteous and uncharitable to him in the fields: whereupon he repairs thither to her, but for three days together, he is not so happy to speak with her, or to see her, but being still pressed by his poverty, and again emboldened by the consideration of what he saw her cast into the pond, he the fourth day finds her walking in the next meadow adjoining to her house, attended by two of her man-servants, and two waiting Gentlewomen all clad in mourning apparel: when (with a boldness worthy of a poor distressed Soldier) he advanceth to the Lady Bellinda, where (interrupting her private walks, and distracting her secret thoughts and meditations) he with much observance again begs some charity of her, whereat she being offended, because her heart and mind neither thought, nor cared for an old Soldier, but were wholly fixed on some desired new Gallant young husband, she very cholerikly disdains him and his request, and with much passion and indignation (to use her own words) commandeth her servants to see this bold beggarly Soldier depart and pack away, both from her and her house. Roderigo hearing these her harsh and discourteous speeches, and seeing her servants unkind usage and enforcements towards him, he with much discontent and choler leaves her house, but (in requital thereof) vows that his revenge shall not so soon leave her: for this her second affront to him puts him all in choler and fire towards her, so that he vows to God, and swears to himself to use the best of his power, and to work the chiefest of his wits to perpetrate her disgrace. When secretly & effectually informing himself from others, that Don Gaspar de Mora, who was nephew, and general heir to her first Lord and husband Don Alonso de Mora, was at great variance and bitter contention in suit of law with his aunt Bellinda about some lands, and much rich moveables and Utensils which she unjustly detained from him, and therefore that he would be exceeding glad to entertain any invention or proposition whatsoever, which might heave her out of the quiet enjoying and possession thereof, and thereby procure her utter disgrace and ruin. He repairs to him, and secretly (yet constantly) acquaints him; that some three weeks since, and the very morning, that Don Ferallo was found murdered in his bed, he saw the Lady Bellinda his wife to throw a white and bloody linen cloth into the pond, which was some half quarter of a league from her house: wherein God and his conscience told him, she had wrapped and drowned some bastard infant either of hers, or of one of her waiting Gentlewoman's, adding withal that he could not possibly have any peace of his thoughts before he had imparted it to him, to the end, that he might reveal it to the criminal judges (or Corigidores) of Stremos to hunt out and examine the truth thereof.  
Don Gaspar de Mora doth as much rejoice as wonder at this unexpected news, and because his inveterate malice to his aunt (in law) Bellinda persuades him rather to believe than doubt it, therefore (as malice is still naturally swift and prone to revenge) being confident of the truth hereof, he leaves all other business, rides over to Stremos and acquaints the Corigidores herewith, and taking Roderigo likewise along with him, he also fails, not very resolutely to affirm, and most constantly to confirm it to them; which these wise and grave judges understanding, they in honour to God's service and glory, and in true obedience to his sacred justice (without any delay or procrastination) take Don Gasper de Mora, the old Soldier Roderigo, and some three or four expert Swimmers along with them, and with haste and secrecy speed away to the pond; wherein after those Swimmers had been a quarter of an hour, and curiously busked and dived in most places thereof to find out this cloth, at l●… (by the mercy and providence of God) one of them diving far better than the rest, sees and finds it, and swimming with his left hand, brings it a shore in his right hand to the Corigidores, who much admiring and rejoicing thereat, cause it presently to be opened, where (contrary to all their expectations,) they find no dead child, but (as we have formerly understood) a cambric smock, as yet all spotted and stained with blood, and tied fast with a blue silk garter, and in it a very sharp and bloody razor, with a brass weight tied in all this purposely to sink it in the pond. The Corigidores, Gaspar De Mora, and all the rest, are amazed and astonished at the sight of these bloody evidences: when Roderigo again constantly swearing to them, that he saw the Lady Bellinda (with her own hands) throw this little linen farthel into that pond, the very same morning that her husband Don Ferallo was found murdered in his bed; and the malicious curiosity of Gaspar De Mora here finding the very two first and last letters of her name in the cambric smock; the Corigidores then concur in one opinion (as so many lines which terminate in one Centre) that yet infallibly it was she and no other, who had so cruelly murdered her husband Ferallo in his bed. Whereupon taking this bloody smock, razor, and garter with them, they with much zeal and speed post away to the Lady Bellinda's house, to apprehend her for this her foul and lamentable murder, where cruel hearted and lascivious Lady, she is so far from the consideration of grace, or the thought and apprehension of any fear, as she fears none, and which is worst of all, not the power and justice of God himself; for she is so immodest in her heart, so lustful in her conversation, as (notwithstanding her black mourning attire and apparel) that her first husband was but lately dead, and now her second not as yet cold in his grave, yet (with great variety of music) she is here now in her house singing, dancing and revelling with divers young Cavaliers, and Gallants both of the city & country, as if she had no other care, thought or business, but how to make choice of a third husband, who might amorously please her lustful eye and heart, and of no less than a pair of Paramours and favourites who should lasciviously content her wanton desires and affections.  
But these wanton vanities, and vain and lascivious hopes of the Lady Bellinda will now deceive her: for now the Lords appointed due time is come, wherein for these her two horrible murders committed on the persons of her two husbands, his divine & sacred Majesty is resolved to pour down his punishments, and to thunder forth his judgements upon her, to her utter shame and confusion. The Corigidores resolutely enter her house, & then and there cause the Sergeants to apprehend her prisoner, whereat being suddenly amazed, and infinitely terrified, she weeps, sighs, and cries extremely. But those Cavaliers, (I mean those her supposed lovers, and pretended favourites) who were there singing and dancing with her, neither can or dare either affist, or rescue her. Now the plumes of her pride and jollity are suddenly dejected and fallen to the ground, yea her music is turned to mourning, her singing to sighs, and her dancing triumph●… to tears. The enormity of her crime cause these officers of justice, to see her conveyed to prison, without any respect of her beauty, or regard of her sex and quality, where she hath more leisure given her to repent, than means how to remedy these her misfortunes.  
The next morning she is sent for before her judges, who roundly charge her for cruelly murdering her husband Don Ferallo in his bed, the which with many tears and oaths she stoutly denies, than they show her those bloody evidences, ●…er cambric smock, the razor, her blue garter, and the brass weight, and also produce and confront Roderigo with her; who as before he had affirmed, now he swears, he saw her throw this bloody linen farthel into the pond, the very morning that her husband Don Ferallo was found murdered in his bed: and although at the sight and knowledge hereof, she is at first wonderfully appalled and daunted therewith, yet her courage is so stout, as she again denies it with many profane and fearful asseverations, and delighteth to hear herself make a tedious justification, and a frivolous apology to her judges for her innocency. But those grave and prudent Magistrates of justice, who (in zeal to God's glory) have eyes not in vain in their heads, will give no belief either to the sweetness of the Lady Bellinda's youth, or to the sugar of her speeches and protestations, but for the vindication of this crime, and of this truth, they adjudge her the very next morning to the rack, where (such is her female fortitude) as she permits & suffers herself to be fastened thereunto, with infinite constancy and patience, as disdaining that the torments thereof, should extort any truth from her tongue to the prejudice of her reputation, and to the shipwreck of her safety and life, but herein she reckons too short of God, and beyond herself; for she considereth not that these torments are truly sent her from God, and this her courage falsely lent and given her from Satan; for at the very first wrench of the rack, and touch of the cord, finding it impossible that her tender body and dainty limbs, can endure the cruelty of those tortures, God puts this grace into her heart, that with many sighs and tears, she prays her judges and tormentors to desist, and so publicly confesseth, that it was she, and only she who had murdered her husband Ferallo, and cut his throat in his bed with that very same razor.  
Upon which confession of hers; her judges (glorifying God for the detection of this cruel murder) they (for expiation thereof) do forthwith adjudge and sentence this wretched and bloody Lady Bellinda, to be the next morning burned alive without the walls of Stremos, at the foot of the castle which is the destined place of death for the like crimes and offenders, so she being by them then again returned to prison, that night (in Christian charity) they send her some Priests and Nuns, to direct and prepare her soul to heaved, for this her bloody and unnatural crime was so odious to men, and so execrable to God, that she could hope for no pardon of her life from her judges, although her sorrowful old father Cursoro, with a world of tears threw himself to their feet, and offered them all his lands and means to his very shirt to obtain it for her.  
All Stremos and the country there abouts resound and talk of this cruel murdering of Ferallo, as also of his Lady Bellinda's condign condemnation to death for the same, and the next morning at eight of the clock, they all repair under the castle wall to see this execrable and unfortunate Lady there in flames of fire, to act the last scene and catastrophe of her life; she is conducted thither by a Saint Claires Nun on her right hand, and a Saint Francis Friar on her left, who jointly charge her upon peril of damnation, to disburden her conscience and soul before she die, of any other capital crime whereof she know●…s 〈◊〉 sel●… guilty, the which she solemnly and religiously promiseth them; about nine of the clock she is brought to the stake, where she sees herself impaled and surrounded first with many faggots, and then with a very great concourse and confluence of people: here she is so irreligious in her vanity, that she had cast of her blacks and mourning, and purposely dighted herself in a rich yellow satin gown, wrought with flowers of silver, a large set ruff about her neck, and her head covered over with a pure white tiffney veil laced and wro●…ht with rich cutwork, as if she cared more for her body than her soul, as if her pride and bravery would carry her sooner to heaven, than her prayers and repentance: or as if the prodigal cost and lustre thereof, were able to diminish either her crime, or her punishment in the eyes and opinions of her spectators. But chose, the very first sight of her sweet youth, and pure and fresh beauty, and then the consideration of her foul crime, for murdering her own husband, do operate and work differently upon all their affections and passions, some pitying her for the first, but all more justly condemning her for the second. When as soon as their clamorous sobs and speeches were passed, and blown over, and that both the Friar and Nun had ta'en their last leave of her, than (after she had shed many tears on earth, and sent and evaporated many sighs to heaven) she wring her hands (whereon she had a pair of snow white gloves) and casting up her eyes towards God, at last with a faltering, and fainting voice spoke thus.  
It is my crime and your charity good people, which hath conducted you hither to see me a miserable Gentlewoman here to dye miserably. And because it is now no longer time for me, to dissemble either with God or the world, therefore to save my soul in heaven, though my body perish here in earth, I (with much grief, and infinite sorrow) do truly and freely confess both to God and you, that I am not only guilty of one murder, but of two: for as I now lately cut my second husband Ferallo's throat, so I was so vild & wretched heretofore, as to poison my first Lord and husband De Mora. At which report and confession of this execrable Lady Bellinda (in regard of the greatness of her Lord De Mora's descent & Nobility) all this huge concourse of people (who are sensibly touched with grief and sorrow) make a wonderful noise and outcry thereat, and now in regard of this soul and double crime of hers, they look on her with far more contempt, and far less pity than before. But she being as patient as they are clamorous hereat, and seeing their cries, now again cried down, and wel●…nigh drowned and hushed up in silence, recollecting her thoughts, and again composiing her countenance, she again very sorrowfully continueth her speech to them thus. I well know, and indeed I heartily grieve to remember, that these two foul and cruel murders of mine, make me unworthy either to tread on the face of earth, or to look up to that of heaven, and yet in the midst of these my miseries I have this consolation left me, that in favour of my true confession, and religious repentance thereof to God, that God can be as indulgent and merciful to me, as I have been impious and sinful to him; the which that I may obtain, I beseech you all who are here present, to join your prayers with me, and to God for me, and this is the last charity which I will beg and implore of you. Now because example is powerful, & no example so strong and prevalent, as the words of the dying to the living, therefore (to God's glory, and mine own shame) give me leave to tell you that two things especially brought and induced me to commit these foul ●…ers, as they have now justly brought me ●…er to suffer death for committing them, first my neglect of prayer, and omission to serve and fear God duly as I ought to have done. Secondly, the affecting and following of my lascivious and lustful pleasures, which I ought not▪ to have done. The neglect of the first proved the bane of my soul, and the performance and practice of the last, the contagion and poison of my life, and both these two sins conjoined and linked together, enforce me now here to dye, with as much misery and infamy, as without them I m●…ght have lived (and pe●…chance lived long●… in earthly happiness and prosperity. O therefore good people, beware by my woeful example, let my crime be your integrity, my fall your rising, and my shipwreck your safety. As I bear not hypocrisy in my tongue, so I will not bear malice in my heart. Therefore from my heart I forgive Roderigo for telling Gaspar de Mora he saw me cast some bloody linen in the pond. I also forgive Gaspar de Mora for informing the Corig●…dores thereof, and they for so justly condemning me to death. I also pray my father & parents to forgive me these my foul crimes, and both to pardon & forget the dishonour and scandal which the infamy of my death may reflect and draw on them. And now I recommend you all to God's best favour and mercy, and my soul to receive salvation in his blessed kingdom of glory.  
The Lady Bellinda having finished this her speech, the hearing and consideration thereof engendered much pity and compassion in the hearts, and caused a world of tears in the eyes of the beholders; and now she prepares herself for death. Here she takes off her rings from her fingers, & her pearl bracelets from her arms, and (as a token of her love) gives them to her waiting Gentlewoman Helena, who is present and not far from her, most bitterly sobbing and weeping because she can weep no more for the death of this her dear Lady and mistress, who now repeats many private prayers & Ave mary's to herself, when taking a solemn, and sorrowful farewell of all the world, she pulls down her veil over her snowwhite cheeks, and then often crossing herself with the sign of the cross, and saying her last in manus ●…ua, the executioner (with a flaming torch) sets fire to the straw and faggots, whereof she presently dies, and in less than an hour after, her body is there consumed & burnt to ashes, at which all that great concourse of people and spectators, (in favour to her youth and beauty) as much affecting the piety of her death, as they hate and detest the cause thereof, I mean the infamy and cruelty of her life, do with far more sorrow than joy give a great shout and outcry. When the judges of that city now upon knowledge of this Ladies first horrible crime of poisoning her first Lord and husband Don Alons●… De Mora, they in detestation thereof, being not able to add, either worse infamy, or more exquisite, and exemplary torments to her living body, they therefore partly to be revenged on her dead ashes, do cause them curiously to be gathered up, and so in the same place (by the common hangman) before all the people, to be scattered and thrown in the air, where at they rejoice, and praise God, to see the world so fairly rid, of so foul and bloody a female monster.  
And thus was the untimely, (and yet deserved) end of this lascivious and cruel hearted Lady Bellinda; and in this sharp manner did the Lord of heaven and earth triumph in his just revenge and punishments against her, for these her two foul and inhuman crimes of murdering her two husbands. May God (of his best and divinest mercy) make this her history and example, to serve as a crystal mirror for all men, and especially for all women, (of what condition and quality so ever.  
And now Christian reader, having (by Gods most gracious assistance and providence) here finished this entire, and last volume of my six books of tragical histories, if thou find that thou reap any profit, or thy soul any spiritual benefit by the reading and perusal thereof, then (in the name and fear of God) I beseech thee to join thy prayers and piety with mine, that as in Christian religion and duty we are bound, so for the same, we may jointly ascribe unto God, all possible power, might, Majesty, thanksgiving, dominion, and Glory both now and for ever.  
Amen, Amen.   
FINIS.   

Augusti XVIII. 1634.  
REcensui hunc librum cui titulus (The sixth book of the triumphs of God's revenge upon Murder) qui quidem liber continet folia 99 aut circiter, in quibus (exceptis quae delentur) nihil reperio sanae doctrinae aut bonis moribus contrarium, quò minus cum publicâ utilitate imprimi queat, sub eà tamen conditione, ut si non intrà annum proximè sequentem typis mandetur, haec licentia sit omnino irrita.  
Guilielmus Haywood Capell. domest. Archiep. Cant.