The Palace of Pleasure, Volume 2

by Unknown

The Palace of Pleasure.

[ THE FORTY-SEUENTH NOUELL.]

A gentleman called Galgano, long time made sute to Madonna Minoccia: her husband sir Stricca (not knowing the same) diuers times praised and commended Galgano, by reason whereof, in the absence of her husband, she sent for him, and yelded herself vnto him, tellinge him what wordes her husbande had spoken of him, and for recompence he refused to dishonest her.

In the Citie of Siena in Italie there was a rich yong Gentleman called Galgano, borne of noble birth, actiue, and wel trained in al kinde of exercise, valiaunt, braue, stoute and curteous, in the maners and orders of all countries verye skilfull. This Galgano loued a Gentlewoman of Siena named Madonna Minoccia, the wyfe of sir Stricca a comely knight, and wore in his apparell the colour and deuises of his Lady, bearing the same vppon his helmet and armour, in all Iustes, Tourneyes and triumphes, obseruing noble feastes and banquettes for her sake. But for all those costly, sumptuous and noble practises, this Lady Minoccia in no wyse would giue eare vnto his sutes. Wherfore Galgano at his wittes ende, was voyde of aduise what to do or saye, seing the great crueltie and rigor raigning in her breste, vnto whom hee dayle prayed for better successe and fortune than to himselfe. There was no feast, banquet, triumph, or mariage, but Galgano was there, to do her humble seruice, and that daye his minde was not pleased and contented, wherein he had not seene her that had his louing harte in full possession. Very many times (like a Prince that coueted peace) he sente Ambassadours vnto her, wyth presentes and messages, but she (a proude and scornefull Princesse) dayned neither to heare them or receiue them. And in this state stode this passionate Louer a longe time, tormented with the exceeding hote Loue and fealtie that he bare her. And many times making his reuerent complaints to loue, did say: “Ah Loue, my deare and soueraigne Lorde, how cruell and hard harted art thou, how vnmercifully dealest thou with me, rather how deaf be thine eares, that canst not recline the same to my nightly complaintes, and dailye afflictions; How chaunceth it that I do in this maner consume my ioyfull dayes with pining plaintes? Why doest thou suffer me to Loue, and not to be beloued?” And thus oftentimes remembringe the crueltie of loue, and his ladies tyrrany, hee began to dye in maner like a wight replete with despaire. But in fine, he determined paciently to abide the good time and pleasure of Loue, still hoping to finde mercie: and daily gaue himselfe to practise and frequent those thinges that might be acceptable and pleasant to his Lady, but shee still persisted inexorable. It chaunced that sir Stricca and his fayre wyfe, for their solace and recreation, repaired to one of their houses hard by Siena: and upon a time, Galgano passing by with a Sparhauke on his fiste, made as though he went on Hauking, but of purpose onely to see his lady. And as he was going by the house, sir Stricca espied him, and went forth to meete him, and familiarly taking him by the hand, prayed him to take parte of his supper with his wyfe and him: for which curtesie Galgano gaue him thanckes, and said: “Sir, I do thancke you for your curteous requeste, but for this time I pray you to hold me excused, because I am going about certaine affayres very requisite and necessary to be done.” Then sayde sir Stricca: “At least wise drincke with mee before you depart.” But giuing him thankes he bad him farewell. Maister Stricca seing that hee could not cause him to tary, toke his leaue, and retourned into his house. Galgano gone from maistre Stricca, sayd to himselfe: “Ah, beast that I am, why did I not accept his offer? Why should shamefastness let me from the sight of her, whom I loue better than all the world besides.” And as he was thus pensife in complaintes his spaniells sprong a Partrich, wherat he let flee his Hauke, and the Partrich flying into sir Stricca his garden, his Hauke pursued and seassed vppon the same. Maister Stricca and his Ladye hearinge that pastime, ranne to the garden window, to see the killing of the Partrich: and beholding the valiante skirmishe betweene the foule and the hauke, the lady asked whose hauke it was: her husband made aunswere that he knew well inoughe the owner, by the goodnesse and hardines of the same. “For the owner of this hauke (quoth hee) is the trimmest and most valiaunt gentleman in all Siena, and one indued with beste qualities.” The lady demaunded what he was? “Maister Galgano (said her husband,) who euen now passed by the gate, and I prayed him very earnestly to supper, but hee woulde not be intreated. And truly wyfe, he is the comliest gentleman, and moste vertuous personage, that euer I knewe in my life.” With those wordes they wente from the windowe to supper: and Galgano, when he had lured his Hauke, departed awaye. The Lady marked those words and fixed them in minde. It fortuned within a while after, that sir Stricca was by the state of Siena sent in ambassage to Perugia, by reason wherof, his Lady at home alone, so sone as her husband had taken his iourney, sent her most secrete and trustie maide, to intreat maister Galgano, to come and speake with her. When the message was done to Galgano, (if his heart were on a merie pinne, or whether his spirits dulled with continuall sorrowe were againe reuiued, they knowe that most haue felte the painefull pangues of Loue, and they also whose flesh haue beene pearced wyth the amorous arrowes of the little boy Cupide:) he made aunswere that hee would willingly come, rendringe thanckes both to the maistresse and maide, the one for her paine, and the other for her good remembraunce. Galgano vnderstanding that sir Stricca was gone to Perugia, in the eueninge at conuenient time, repaired to the house of her whose sight he loued better than his owne eyes. And being come before his Lady, with great submission and reuerence hee saluted her, (like those whose hartes do throbe, as foretellinge the possession of good tournes and benefites, after which with longe sute and trauaile they haue aspired) wherewith the Lady delighted, very pleasantly took him by the hande, and imbracing him, said: “Welcome mine owne sweet Galgano, a hundred times I say welcome.” And for the time with kisses, makinge truce with their affections, the lady called for comfictes and wyne. And when they had dronke and refreshed themselues, the lady toke him by the hande and said: “My sweete Galgano, night beginneth to passe awaye, and the time of sleepe is come, therefore let vs yeld our selues to the seruice and commaundment of our very good Ladye, madame Cytherea, for whose sake I intreated you to come hither.” Galgano aunswered, that he was very wel contented. Being within the chamber, after much pleasaunte talke and louing discourse betweene them, the Lady did put of her clothes, and went to bed. Galgano being somewhat bashfull, was perceyued of the Lady, vnto whom she said: “Me thincke, Galgano, that you be fearful and shamefast. What do you lacke? Do I not please you? Doth not my personage content you? Haue you not the thing which you desire?” “Yes madame,” said Galgano: “God himself could not do me a greater pleasure, than to suffer me to be cleped within your armes.” And reasoning in this sort, he put of his clothes also, and laide himselfe by her, whom he had coueted and desired of long time. Being in the bed, he said: “Madame, I beseech you graunt me one resquest.” “What is that, Galgano?” (quoth she.) “It is this, madame,” said Galgano: “I do much maruell, why this night aboue all other, you haue sent for mee: considering how long I haue bin a suter vnto you, and although I haue prosecuted my sute, by great expence and trauaile, yet you would never yelde before now: what hath moued you now thus to do?” The Lady answered: “I wil tell you sir: true it is, that not many dayes agoe, passing by this house, with your Hauke on your fiste, my husband told me that so sone as he sawe you, he wente oute to meete you, of purpose to intreate you to supper, but you would not tarrie: then your Hauke pursued a Partrich, euen into my garden, and I seing the Hauke so egerly seasing vpon the same, demaunded of my husband whose Hauke it was. He told me that the Hauke did belong to the most excellent yong man of all Siena: and that he neuer in all his life knewe a gentleman better accomplished with all vertues and good qualities, and therewithal gaue vnto you singuler prayse and commendacion. Whereuppon hearing him in such wise to prayse you, and knowing righte well your affectionate minde and disposition towards mee, my hart attached with loue, forced me to sende for you that I mighte hereafter auoyde disdaine and other scornefull demeaner, to impeache or hinder your loue: and this briefely is the cause.” “Is this true?” said Galgano. “Most certaine and true,” aunsweared the Lady.” “Was there no other occasion?” “No, verely:” said the lady. “God defend,” (quoth Galgano,) “that I should recompence the curtesie and good will of so noble a gentleman (as your husband is) with reproch and villany. Is it meete that good turnes should be requited with vnkindnes? If euer man had cause to defende the honor of his vnknowen frend, cause haue I right good and apte. For now knowinge such a frende, that would by vertuous reportes haue aduaunced me to higher matters, than wherof I am in possession, should I reward with pollucion of his stocke and wife? No, no, lady! my raginge sute by loue, is by vertue quenched. Vertue onely hath staunched the flames of vile affections. Seeke another frende, to glut your lecherous minde. Finde out some other companion, to coole thy disordinate loue. Shal I be disloyal to him, that hath been faithfull vnto me? Shall I be traytor to him, that frendly hath commended me? What can be more required of humane hearte, or more desired of manlike mind, but wilfull bente, and fixed to do him good, that neuer erst by iuste desert deserued the same.” With which wordes sodenly hee lept out of the bed, and when he had furnished himselfe againe with his apparell, hee also put vppon him vertuous friendship, and takinge his leaue of the Lady, neuer after that time he gaue himself to matters of Loue. And maister Stricca he continually obserued both with singuler loue and dutifull friendship: whereby it is vncertaine whether was most singuler in him, his continency at the very instante by refrayning that vehement heate of loue, which so long time with great trauaile and coste he had pursued, or his regard of frendship to sir Stricca vppon wordes of commendacion spoken behinde his backe. Both no doubte be singuler vertues meete for all men to be obserued: but the subduing of his affections surmounted and passed.

[ THE FORTY-EIGHTH NOUELL.]

Bindo a notable Architect, and his sonne Ricciardo, with all his familie, from Florence went to dwell at Venice where being made Citizens for diuers monuments by them done there, throughe inordinate expences were forced to robbe the treasure house. Bindo beinge slaine by a pollicie deuised by the Duke and state, Ricciardo by fine subtelties deliuereth himselfe from foure daungers. Afterwards the Duke (by his owne confession) vnderstandinge the sleightes, giueth him his pardon and his doughter in marriage.

In the goodly citie of Venice there was once a duke, that was a noble gentleman and of greate experience and wisedome, called Valeriano di messer Vannozzo Accettani. In the chiefest Churche of which Citie called San Marco, there was a steple, very faire and sumptuous, and of greatest fame of any thinge at that time that was in Venice, which steeple was like to fall downe by reason of certaine faultes and decayes in the foundacion. Wherfore the Duke caused to be searched thorow out all Italie, some cunning workeman that would take in hand the reparacion and amendmente of the same: with promise of so much money as he would demaund for doing thereof. Whereuppon an excellent Architect of Florence, named Bindo, hearing tel of this offer, determined to go to Venice for the accomplishmente of that worke, and for that purpose with his onelye sonne and wyfe, hee departed Florence. And when he had seene and surueyed the steeple, he went straight to the Duke, and told him that he was come thither to offer his seruice for repayringe of the same, whom the Duke curteously intertayned and prayed him, that he would so sone as he coulde begin that worke. Whereunto Bindo accorded, and wyth great diligence and small time he finished the same, in better forme and surety than it was at the first: which greatly pleased the Duke, and gaue Bindo so much money as he demaunded, making him besides a Citizen of Venice, for the maintenaunce of whose state, hee allotted him a sufficient stipend: afterwards the Duke called him vnto him, and declared that he would haue a Treasure house made, wherein should be disposed and layde vp all the Treasure and common ornamentes for the furniture of the whole Citie, which Bindo by and by toke vppon him to do, and made it of such singuler beautie, as it excelled all the monuments of the Citie, wherein all the said Treasure was bestowed. In which worke hee had framed a stone by cunninge, that mighte be remoued at pleasure, and no man perceiue it: meaning thereby to goe into the Chamber when he liste: whereunto none in all the world was priuie but himselfe. When this Palace and Treasure house was done, he caused all the furnitures of Silkes, hanginges, wrought with Golde, Canapees, clothes of state, riche Chayres, Plate, and other Ornaments of Golde and Siluer to be caried thither, whiche he called La Turpea del Doge, and was kept vnder fiue keyes: whereof foure were deliuered to foure of the chiefe Citizens, deputed to that office, which were called Chamberlaynes of the Treasure house, and the fift keye the Duke himselfe did keepe, so that the Chamber coulde not bee opened excepte they were all fiue presente. Nowe Bindo and his famelie dwelling at Venice, and beinge a citizen there, beganne to spende liberallye and to liue a riche and wealthye life, and hys sonne Ricciardo consumed disordinatelye, whereby in space of time, they wanted Garmentes to furnishe their bodies, whiche they were not able to maintaine for their inordinate expences: wherefore the father vpon a night calling his sonne vnto him, got a ladder, and a certaine yron instrumente made for the purpose, and taking also with him a litle lime, went to the hole, which Bindo artificially had made, who taking out the stone, crept in, and toke out a faire cup of gold, which was in a closet, and afterward he wente out, cowching the stone againe in due place. And when they were come home, they brake the cup and caused it to be solde by peece meale, in certaine Cities of Lombardie. And in this sorte, they maintayned their disordinate life begonne. It chaunced not long after, that a Cardinall arriued at Venice, about affayres with the Duke, and the state, who the more honorablie to receiue him, opened the Treasure house to take oute certaine furnitures within, as plate, clothes of state, and other thinges. When the dore was opened, and had taken out the saide necessaries, they founde a cuppe lesse than oughte to be, wherewith the Chamberlaines contended amonge themselues, and wente to the Duke, telling him that there wanted a cuppe: whereat the Duke marueiled, and said that amonges them it must needes be gone. And after many denialls, and much talke, he willed them to saye nothing, till the Cardinall was departed. When the Cardinall was come, he was receyued with honorable interteignemente, and beinge departed, the Duke sente for the foure Chamberlaines, to consult about the losse of the cup, commaunding them not to departe the Palace before the same was found, saying that amongs them it muste needes be stolen. These four persons being together, and debating how and by what meanes the cup should be taken away, were at their wittes ende. At length one of them saide: “Let vs consider whether ther bee anye comminge into the Chamber besides the doore.” And viewinge it they coulde not perceiue anye entrie at all. And to proue the same more effectuallye, they strawed the chamber aboute with fyne fifted chaffe, setting the same on fier, which done, they shutte fast the windowes and doores, that the smoke and smoulder might not goe out. The force of which smoke was sutche as it issued through the hole that Bindo made, whereby they perceiued the way howe the robbery was committed, and went to the Duke to tell him what they had done. The duke vnderstanding the fact, wylled them to saye nothing, for that he woulde deuise a pollicie how to take the theefe: who caused to be brought into the chamber a caldron of pitche, and placed it directly vnder the hole, commaunding that a fyre should be kept daye and night vnder the caldron, that the same might continually boyle. It come to passe that when the money was spent which the father and sonne had receiued for the cup, one night they went agayne to the hole, and remouing the stone, the father went in as he did before, and fell into the caldron of pitche (which continually was boyling there) vp to the waste, and not able to liue any longer, he called his sonne vnto him, and fayde: “Ricciardo myne owne sweete sonne, death hath taken me prysoner, for halfe my body is dead, and my breath also is ready to departe. Take my head with thee, and burie it in some place that it be not knowen, which done, commend me to thy mother, whome I pray thee to cherishe and comforte, and in any wyse take hede that warely and circumspectlye thou doe departe from hence: and if any man do aske for me, say that I am gone to Florence about certaine businesse.” The sonne lamentably began to lament his father’s fortune, saying: “Oh deare father, what wicked furie hath thus cruelly deuised sodaine death.” “Content thy selfe, my sonne,” sayd the father, “and be quiet, better it is that one should dye, than twoo, therefore doe what I haue tolde thee, and fare well.” The sonne tooke vp his father’s head, and went his waye, the reste of his bodye remayned in the caldron, like a block without forme. When Ricciardo was come home, he buried his father’s head so well as he could, and afterwardes tolde his mother what was become of his father, who vnderstanding the maner of his death, began piteously to cry out, to whom her sonne holding up his hands, sayd: “Good mother holde your peace, and geue ouer your weeping: for our life is in great perill and daunger, if your outcrie be heard. Therefore good mother, quiet yourselfe, for better it were for vs to liue in poore estate, than to die with infamie, to the vtter reproche and shame of all our familie.” With whiche woordes he appeased her. In the morning the bodye was founde and caried to the Duke, who maruelled at it, and could not deuise what he should be, but sayd: “Surely there be two that committed this robberie, one of them we haue, let vs imagine how we may take the other.” Then one of the foure Chamberlaines sayd: “I haue found out a trap to catche the other, if it will please you to heare mine aduise, which is this: Impossible it is, but this theefe that is dead, hath either wife, children, or some kinsman in the citie, and therfore let vs cause the bodie to be drawen throughout the streates, and geue diligent hede whether anye persone doe complaine or lament his death: and if any such be found, let him be taken and examined: which is the next way as I suppose, to finde out his companion.” Which being concluded, they departed. The body was drawen throughout the citie with a guard of men attending vpon the same: as the executioners passed by the house of Bindo, whose carcasse laye vppon the hurdle, his wyfe stode at the wyndowe, and seing the body of her husband so vsed, made a great outcrie. At whiche noyse the sonne spake to his mother and sayde: “Alas, mother, what do you?” And beholding his father’s corps vpon the hurdle, he toke a knife and made a great gashe into his hande, that the bloud aboundantly issued out. The guarde hearing the noyse that the woman made, ran into the house, and asked her what she lacked. The sonne answered: “I was caruing a peece of stone with this knife, and by chaunce I hurt my hande, which my mother seeyng cryed out, thynking that I had hurt myselfe more than I haue.” The guarde seeing his hande all bloudy and cut, did belieue it to be true, and from thence went round about the liberties of the Citie, finding none that seemed to lament or bewayle that chaunce. And returning to the Duke, they tolde him howe all that labour was imployed in vayne, whereupon he appointed them to hang vp the dead body in the market-place, with secret watche in like maner, to espie if any person by day or night, would come to complaine or be sorrowefull for him. Which body was by the feete hanged vp there, and a continuall watche appointed to kepe the same. The rumor hereof was bruted throughout the Citie, and euery man resorted thither to see it. The woman hearing tell that her husbandes carcasse should be hanged vp in the market-place, saide diuerse times to her sonne, that it was a very great shame for him to suffer his father’s body in that shamefull sort to be vsed. To whom her sonne made answere, saying: “Good mother, for God’s sake be contented, for that whiche they do is for none other purpose, but to proue me: wherefore be pacient a while, till this chaunce be past.” The mother not able to abide it any longer, brake out many times into these words: “If I were a man as I am a woman, it should not be vndone now: and if thou wilt not aduenture thy selfe, I will one night giue the attempt.” The yong man seing the froward nature of his mother, determined to take away the body by this policie. He borrowed twelve friers frockes or cowles, and in the euening went downe to the hauen, and hired twelue mariners, and placed them in a backe house, geuing them so much meate and drinke as they woulde eate. And when they had well whitled and tippled themselues, he put vpon them those friers cowles, with visards vppon their faces, and gaue euery of them in their hands a burning torch, making them to seme as though they had ben Diuels of hel: and he himself rode vpon a horse al couered with blacke, beset rounde about with monstrous and vglie faces, euerye of them hauinge a burnyng candle in his mouthe, and riding before with a visarde of horrible shape vpon his head, sayde vnto them: “Doe as I doe:” and then marched forward to the market-place. When they came thether they ran vp and downe with roring voyces crying out like Deuils being then past midnight and very darke. When the watche sawe that straunge sight they were affrayde, thinking that they had bene Deuils indeede, and that he on horsebacke in that forme had ben the great Deuill Lucifer himselfe. And seing him runne towardes the gibet, the watche toke their legges and ran away. The yong man in the shape of the great Deuill toke downe the body and layd it before him on horsebacke, who calling his companie away, roode before in poste. When they were come home, he gaue them their money, and vncasing them of their cowles sent them away, and afterwardes buried the body so secretly as he could. In the morning newes came to the Duke that the bodye was taken awaye, who sent for the guarde to knowe what was become thereof. To whome they sayde these wordes: “Pleaseth your grace, about midnight last past there came into the market-place a companie of Deuils, among whom we sawe the great deuil Lucifer himselfe, who as wee suppose did eate vp the bodye, which terrible sight and vision made vs to take our legges.” The Duke by those wordes perceiued euidently that the same was but a practise to deceiue them of their purpose, notwithstanding he determined once again to deuise some meanes in the ende to knowe the truthe, and decreed a constitucion that for the space of xx dayes no fresh meate shoulde be solde in Venice: at which decree all the citie marueiled. Afterwardes he caused a verie faire fatte calfe to be solde, sessing the price of euery pounde at a fiorino, which amounteth to a French crowne or thereaboutes, and willed hym that solde it to note and marke them that bought it: thinking with himselfe, that he which is a theefe is licorous of mouth delicate in fare and would not stick to geue a good price, although it cost him a French crown for euery pound: making proclamation, that he which would buye any fresh meate should resort to the market-place where was to bee solde. All the Marchaunts and Gentlemen repaired to buye some of the veale, and vnderstanding that euery pound would not be solde under a Frenche crowne, they bought none at all. This calfe and the price was bruted in all places, and came to the knowledge of the mother of this yong man, who said vnto her sonne: “I haue a minde to eate some of the veale, now solde in the market.” Ricciardo aunswered. “Mother make no haste to buye it, first let it be cheapened by other, and at length I will deuise a meane that you shall have it: for it is not wysedome for vs to be the firste that shall desire it.” The mother like an ignoraunt and vnskilfull woman, was importunate to haue it. The sonne fearing that his mother would sende for some of the veale, by other, caused a Pie to be made, and prepared a flagon full of wyne, both which were intermixed with thinges to cause sleepe, and taking bread, the sayd Pie, and the flagon of wyne, when it was night, putting on a counterfait beard, and cloke, went to the stall where that veale was to bee solde, which as yet was whole and vnbought. And when he had knocked at the shop dore, one of the guard asked who was there. To whom Ricciardo said: “Can you tel me wher one Ventura doth kepe his shop?” Of whom one of them demaunded what Ventura? “I know not his surname,” sayde Ricciardo, “that I would he had bene hanged, when I came first to dwell with him.” “Why who sent thee?” said one of the guarde. “His wyfe (quod Ricciardo) who bade me cary him this meate and wyne for his supper: but I pray you (sayde Ricciardo,) let me leaue the same with you, till I goe home to know better where he kepeth his stall. And maruell not, my maisters, though I know not where his shop is, for it is not long sithens I came to dwell in this Citie.” And so leauing behind him the Pie, and the bread with the flagon of wyne, he made haste to departe, and tolde them that he wold come againe by and by. When he was gone, one of them toke the flagon and drancke, and afterwardes gaue it to his companion, and said: “Drinke, for thou neuer diddest tast of better wyne in all thy life.” His companion dranke, and merily communing of this matter, they fel a sleepe. Ricciardo loking in at a hole of the dore, seing them a slepe, went in, and toke the calfe, and caried it home whole as it was, and saide to his mother: “Hold, mother, there is your luste, cut it out:” and by and by she cut out a great pece. The duke so sone as he heard that the calfe was stolen, and the maner howe, did wonder very muche, purposing yet to knowe what hee was: and caused a hundred poore people to come before him, whose names being written, he said vnto them: “Get ye to all the houses in Venice, vnder colour to begge almes. And marke if you see in any house fleshe dressed, or any pece in making ready to be eaten at the fier, which if you doe, ye must be importunate in begging, till they giue you either flesh or broth. And he among all you that shal bring me the first newes, I wil giue him xx crownes.” These beggers dispersed themselues into euery corner of the Citie, crauing their almes, amongs whom one of them asked his almes at the house of Ricciardo, and approching nere, espied openly fleshe at the spit, and besought a morsell thereof for God’s sake: to whom the vndiscrete woman seeing that she had plentye, gaue a litle pece. The poore man thanked the good wife, and prayed God to saue her life. And as hee was going down the steps of the dore, Ricciardo met him with the flesh in his hand. Wherewithal astonned, he willed him to retourne, and sayde he would giue him more. The begger glad of that, went in againe, whome Ricciardo caried into his chamber, and when he was within, he strake suche a full blowe vpon his head with an axe, as he killed hym, and threwe him into a iakes, shutting the doore after him. In the euening, these poore men retourned to the duke, according to their promise, and sayde they coulde finde nothing. The Duke called them by their names, and compting the number founde one lesse than he had sent, whereat he maruelled. And after he had well aduised with himselfe, what should become of him that lacked, he sayde: “Certainely the poore man is Slayne.” Then causing the councell to be assembled, he declared what he had done: and yet sayde that it were meete the party were knowen. Whereunto one of the Senatours sayde: “Your grace hath duely made search by the belly and mouth, to finde out this verlet: I thinke it nowe necessarie that triall be made by lechery, whiche commonly accompanieth licorous mouthes.” Then it was concluded that the moste riotous and lecherous yong men, suche as the Duke had in greatest suspicion, to the number of XXV. should be warned to appeare before him: whiche accordingly was done, amonges whome was this Ricciardo. These yonge roisters assembled in the palace, euery of them maruelled wherefore the Duke had caused them to come thether. Afterwarde the Duke commaunded XXV. beddes to be made in one of his great chambers, to lodge euery of the sayd XXV. persons by hymself, and in the middes of the chamber he commaunded a riche bed of estate to be set vp and furnished, wher was appointed to ly his own daughter, which was an exceading faire creature. And in the night when these yong men were layde in their beddes, manye gentlewomen attendant vpon the Lady, came in to bryng her to her lodging: and her father deliuered to her a sawcer full of black die, or stayning, and saide vnto her: “If any of these yong men that doe lie here by thee, doe offer to come to thy bedde, looke that thou marke him in the face with this staining colour, that he may be knowen.” At which wordes all the yong men maruelled and therefore durste not attempt to goe vnto her, but said one to another: “Surely this commaundement of the Duke hath some secrete misterie in it.” Notwithstanding Ricciardo determined about midnight to go to her bedde: and when the candle was out being a wake of purpose, he rose vp and went to the gentlewoman’s bedde and began to imbrace and kisse her. The maiden when she felt him, sodainly dipped her finger in the colour and stained his face, not perceiued of him. When he had accomplished the thing he came for, hee retourned to his place: and then began to imagin vpon the Duke’s wordes, and for what policie he spake them. And lying a litle while still musing vpon the same, he went againe to the gentlewoman’s bedde, hauing throughly disposed himself to the pleasures of this paradise lambe: and perceiuing her to dippe her finger in the sawcer and rubbe his face, Ricciardo toke away the sawcer from the bedde’s side, and round about bestowed the colour vpon the faces of his felowes, who were so faste a sleepe that they did not fele him. Some he marked with two spottes, some with six and some with X. himselfe he painted but with foure besides those wherewith already he was berayed by the gentlewoman: whiche done he set the saucer agayne by the bedde’s side, and when he had bidden her farewell, faire and softly he returned againe to his bedde. In the morning betimes, the damosels of the chamber came in to helpe the ladye to make her readye, which done they wayted vpon her to the duke, who asked her how the matter stode. She aunswered well, for she had done his commaundement: and tolde him howe one came vnto her three times, and euery time she gaue him a tainte in his face. The duke by and by sent for them that were of his counsell. To whome he said: “Sirs, I haue founde out this good fellow, and therfore I haue sent for you, that we altogether may goe to see him.” They went all into the chamber, and viewing them round about, they perceiued all their faces coloured, whereat they fell into a great laughter: then one of them sayde to another: “Suerly this fellowe hath the subtilest head that euer was knowen:” and concluded that one of the company had set that colour in their faces. The yong men beholding one another paynted in that sorte, brake into great sporte and pastime. Afterwardes the duke examined euery of them, and seeing that he was not able by any meanes to vnderstande by whome it was done, he determined to knowe the man before he departed, and promised to him that should confesse the truthe, to giue his daughter to him in mariage, and with her a very great dowrie, and a generall pardon. Wherefore Ricciardo vnderstanding the duke’s minde, toke him asyde, and tolde hym the whole matter particularly from the beginning to the ende. The duke imbraced hym, and gaue him his pardon, and with great ioye and triumphe he solemnized the mariage betwene hym and his daughter. Wherewithal Ricciardo encouraged, proued a very stoute and valiaunt man in suche wyse almoste as the affaires of the whole state passed through his handes. And liued a long time after, with the loue and good wyll of the whole cominaltie of Venice.

[ THE FORTY-NINTH NOUELL.]

Philenio Sisterno, a Scholler of Bologna, being mocked of three faire Gentlewomen, at a banket made of set purpose he was reuenged on them all.

At Bologna, whiche is the noblest citie of Lombardie, the mother of studies, and accomplished with al things nedefull and requisite for sutch a florishing state, there was a yong scholler, a Gentleman of the countrie of Crete named Philenio Sisterno, of very good grace and behauiour. It chanced that in his time, there was a great feast made in the citie, wherunto were bidden the fayrest dames, and beste of reputation there: there was likewyse many Gentlemen and Schollers of Bologna, amonges whom was this Philenio Sisterno: who followyng the manner of young men, dallying sometime with one, sometime with another, and perceiuing them for his purpose determined to daunce with one of them: and comming to one whiche was called Emerentiana, the wyfe of sir Lamberto Bentiuoglia, hee prayed her to daunce: who, beyng verie gentle and of no less audacitie than beautiful, refused not. Then Philenio leading forth the daunce very softly, sometymes wrynging her by the hand, spake somewhat secretly vnto her these wordes: “Madame, your beautie is so great, that without doubt it surmounteth all that ever I sawe, and there is no woman in the world to whome I beare so great affection, as to your persone, whiche if it were correspondent to me in Loue, I would thinke myself the beste contented man in the world, otherwyse I shall in shorte tyme bee depriued of life, and then you shall be the cause of my death: and louing you (Madame) as I doe, and as my dutie requireth, you ought to take me for your seruaunt, vsing me and those litle goodes whiche I haue as your owne: and I doe assure you, that it is impossible for me to receiue greater fauour from heauen, then to see myselfe subiecte to sutch a gentlewoman, as you be, whiche hath taken me in a nette lyke a byrde.” Nowe Emerentiana, whiche earnestly had marked those sweet and pleasaunt woordes, like a wyse gentlewoman, semed to geue no eare thereunto, and made him no aunswere at all. The daunce ended, and Emerentiana being set down in her place, this young scholler went to take another gentlewoman by the hand, and began to daunce with her: whiche was not so sone begonne, but thus he said vnto her: “It nedeth not Madame, that by woordes I doe expresse the feruant Loue which I beare you, and will so doe, so long as my poore spirite shall gouerne and rule my members: and if I could obtaine you for my Maistresse and singuler Ladye, I would thinke myself the happiest man aliue. Then louing you as I do, and being wholly yours, as you may easely vnderstand, refuse me not I besech you for your humble seruaunt, sithe that my life and all that I haue dependeth vpon you alone.” The yong gentlewoman, whose name was Panthemia, perceiuing his meaning, did not aunswere him any thing at that time: but honestly proceded in her daunce: and the daunce ended, smyling a litle, she sat downe with the other dames. This done, amorous Philenio rested not vntil he had taken the thirde by the hand, (who was the gentlest, fairest, and trimmest dame in all Bologna,) and began to daunce with her, romyng abrode, to shewe his cunning before them that came to behold him. And before the daunce was finished, he saide thus vnto her: “Madame, it may so be, as I shall seme vnto you very malapert to manifest the secret Loue that I haue and doe beare you at this instant, for which you ought not to blame me but your beautie, which rendreth you excellent aboue al the rest, and maketh me your slaue and prysoner. I speake not of your commendable behauiour, of your excellent and maruellous vertues, which be such and of so great effect, as they would make the gods descend to contemplate the same. If then your excellent beautie and shape, so well fauoured by nature, and not by art, may seeme to content the immortall Gods, you ought not to be offended, if the same do constraine me to loue you, and to inclose you in the priuie cabane of my harte: I beseeche you then, gentle Madame (the onely comfort of my life) to haue pitie vpon him that dieth a thousand times a daye for you. In so doing, my life shall be prolonged by you, commending me humbly vnto your good grace.” This faire gentlewoman called Simphorosia, vnderstanding the sweete and pleasaunt woordes vttered from the very harte of Philenio, could not dissemble her sighes, but waying her honor, because she was maried, gaue him no answere at all. And the daunce ended, she retourned to her place. Nowe it chaunced, as these three ladies did sit together iocundly disposed to debate of sundrie mery talke, behold Emerentiana, the wife of Seignior Lamberto, not for any euill, but in sporting wise said vnto her companions: “Gentlewomen, I haue to tell you a pleasaunt matter which happened to this day.” “What is that?” said her companions. “I haue gotten this night, (said she) in dauncing, a curteous louer, a very faire Gentleman, and of so good behauiour as any in the worlde: who said that he was so inflamed with my beauty that he tooke no rest day nor night:” and from point to point, rehearsed vnto them, all that he had said. Which Panthemia and Simphorosia vnderstanding, answered that the like had chaunced vnto them, and they departed not from the feaste before eche of theim knewe him that was their louer: whereby they perceiued that his woordes proceded not of faithfull Loue, but rather of follie and dissimulation, in suche wise as they gaue so lyghte credite thereunto, as of custome is geuen to the woordes of those that bee sicke. And they departed not from thence vntill all three with one accorde, had conspired euery one to giue him mocke. Philenio continuing thus in Loue, sometime with one, sometime with another, and perceiuing that euery of them seemed to Loue him, hee determined with himselfe, if it were possible to gather of them the last frute of his Loue. But he was greatly deceyued in his desire, for that all his enterprise was broken: and that done, Emerentiana whiche could not any longer dissemble the loue of the foolishe scholer called one of her maydes, which was of a fayre complexion and a ioly wenche, charging her that she should deuise meanes to speake with Philenio, to geue him to vnderstande the loue which her maistresse bare vnto him: and when it were his pleasure she willingly would one night haue him at home at her house. Which newes when Philenio heard, he greatly reioyced, and said to the maid: “Returne to your Maistresse, faire maide, and commend me vnto her, telling her in my behalf, that I doe praye her to loke for me this euening, if her husband be not at home.” During which time, Emerentiana caused a certaine number of fagots of sharpe thornes to be made, and to be layd vnder her bedde still wayting for her minion. When night was come, Philenio toke his sworde, and went to the house of his enemy, and calling at the dore with the watchworde the same incontinently was opened: and after that they had talked a litle while together, and banketted after the best maner, they withdrew themselues into the chamber to take their reste. Philenio had no soner put of his clothes to goe to bedde, but Seignior Lamberto her husband came home: which the Maistresse of the house perceiuing, made as though she had bene at her wittes ende, and could not tell whether to conuey her minion, but prayed him to hide himself vnder the bedde. Philenio seeing the daunger, wherein both he and the wife were, not taking with him any other garmentes, but only his shirte, crept vnder the bed where he was so cruelly prickt and scratched with the thornes, as there was no parte of his body (from the toppe of his head to the sole of his foote) free from bloud, and the more he sought to defende himselfe in that darke place, the more sharpely and piteously he was tormented, and durst not crie for feare least Seignior Lamberto would kill him. I will leaue to your consideration in what plight this poore wretche was in, who by reason of his miserable being, as he was brechelesse in that terrible purgatorie, even so was he speachlesse and durst not speake for his life. In the morning when Segnior Lamberto was gone forth, the poore scholler put on his clothes so well as he could, and all bloudy as he was, returning to his lodging, was like to die: but being deligently cured by phisicians, in short time he recouered his former health. Shortly after, Philenio began to pursue again his loue towardes the other two, that is to say, Panthemia and Simphorosia, and found conuenient time one euening to speake to Panthemia, to whom he rehearsed his griefes and continuall tormentes, praying her to haue pitie vpon him. The subtile and wise wenche Panthemia, fayning to haue compassion vppon him, excused her selfe by lacke of meanes to content his desire, but in thend vanquished with faire supplications and maruellous sighes, shee made him to come home to her house, and being vnready, dispoyled of al his apparell to go to bed with his Lady she required hym to go with her into a litle closet, wher all her swete smels and perfumes were, to the intent he might be well perfumed before he went to bedde. The yong dolt not doubting the subtiltie of this wicked woman, entred the closet and setting his foote vpon a borde vnnnayled from the ioyst, fell so depe into a store house where marchauntes vse to lay there cottons and wolles, as he thought he had broken his necke and his legges, notwithstanding as fortune would he had no hurt. This poore scholler being in that darke place, began to seke for some dore or ladder to go out, and finding nothing for his purpose he cursed the houre and time that euer he knew Panthemia. When the dauning of the day began to appeare, the simple sot discried in one place of the storehouse certain ventes in the wall, which gaue some light, because they wer old and couered ouer with mosse, in such wise, as he began with maruelous force, to pluck out the stones in the moste decaied place of the wall, and made so great a hole, as he went out. And being in a lane hard by the great streate, barefoote and bare legged, and in his shirt, he went home to his lodging vnknowen of any. A litle whyle after Simphorosia vnderstanding of the deceits whiche the other twoo had done to Philenio, attempted to geue hym the thirde, whiche was not inferior to the other twayne. And for that purpose, she began a farre of to caste her amorous lokes vpon him, letting hym to knowe that shee was in great distresse for his Loue. This poore soule hauing already forgotten his fortune paste, began to walke vp and downe before her house, like a man altogether tormented and pained with Loue. Then Simphorosia, seing him to be farre in loue with her, sent hym a letter by an old woman, whereby she aduertised hym, that his beautie and good behauior, so puissantly did gouerne her affections as she could take no rest night nor day, for the earnest loue that she bare him: wherefore she praied him if it were his pleasure to come and speake with her. Philenio receiuing that letter, and perusing the contentes, not considering the deceite prepared for him, ne yet any longer remembring the iniuries past, was more ioyfull and glad then euer he was before: who taking pen and paper, aunswered her againe, that he for his parte suffered no lesse tormentes for her sake, yea and in respect of vnfayned Loue, that he loued her farre better than she did hym, and at al tymes when shee pleased, hee woulde be at her commaundement to doe her seruice: the aunswere read, and oportunitie found, Simphorosia caused him to come home to her house, and after many false sighes, she saide vnto him: “My deare frend Philenio, I knowe none other in all the world, that hath brought me into this state and plighte wherein presently I am, but you, because your beautie, good grace and pleasaunt talke, haue so sette my harte on fyre as I feele it to kindle and burne like drye woode.” Which talke Maister scholler hearing, thought assuredly that she consumed for loue of him: this poore Nodgecock, contriuing the time in sweete and pleasaunt woordes, with his dareling Simphorosia, the time approched that he should go to bed with his faire lady, who said vnto him: “My swete frend Philenio, abide a whyle, and let vs make some banket and collation:” who taking him by the hande, caried him into her closet adioyning, wher was a table ready furnished with exquisit conficts and wynes of the best. This gentlewoman had made a composition in the wyne, to cause this yong gallant to sleepe for a certain time. Philenio thinking no hurte, toke the cup and filled it with the wyne, and dranke it vp at one draught. His spirits reuiued with this refreshing, after he had bene very well perfumed and washed in swete waters, he went to bedde and within a while after this drinke began to woorke, and hee slepte so soundly, as canon shot, or the greatest gonnes of the worlde were not able to wake hym: then Simphorosia perceiuing the drinke beginne to woorke, called one of her sturdy maides that wel was instructed in the game of this pageant: both whiche carying this poore sleepy scholler by the feete and armes, and opening the dore very softlye, they fayre and well bestowed hym in the middeste of the streete, a good stone’s caste of from the house, where he lay all the nighte. But when the dawning of the daye dyd appeare, or an houre before, the drynke lost his vertue, and the poore soule began to awake, and thinking that he had bene a bedde with the gentlewoman he perceiued hymself brechelesse and in his shirt more dead then aliue, through the colde that he had endured, by lying starke naked vppon the earth. The poore wretche was not able to help himselfe so much as with his armes and legges, ne yet to stande vppon his feete without great paine: notwithstanding, through creping and sprawling, hee got home to his house, vnseene of anye, and prouided so well as hee could for recouery of his health: and had it not been for his youth, which did helpe him at that instant, his sinewes had been benommed for euer. In the ende, hauing atteined his former state of health he still remembred the iniuries past, and without shewing any signe of anger or displeasure, made as though he loued them all three better then euer he did before, and sometime seemed to be in loue with the one, and sometime with an other: they againe for their part nothing mistrusting the malice of Philenio, set a good face on the matter, vsinge amorous cheere and countenance towards him, but when his backe was tourned, with mockes and floutes they toke their pleasure. He bearing in his brest secrete despite, was still desirous with his hand to marke them in the face, but like a wise man, waying the natures of women, he thought it woulde redounde to his greate shame and reproche, if hee did them any hurt: and therefore restrayning the heate of his choler vsed pacience. And yet by deuising and practising, how he might be euen with them and reuenged, hee was in great perplexitie. Very shortly after it chaunced that the scholler had inuented a meane, easely to satisfie his desire, and so sone as hee had fully resolued what to do, fortune therunto was fauorable: who hyred in the citie of Bologna a very faire house which had a large hall, and comodious chambers: and purposed to make a greate and sumptuous feast, and to inuite many Ladies and Gentlewomen to the same: amongs whom these three were the first that should be bidden: which accordingly was done: and when the feast day was come the three gentlewomen that were not very wise at that instante, repaired thither nothing suspecting the scholler’s malice. In the end a litle to recreate the Gentlewomen and to get them a stomacke, attendinge for supper time, the Scholler toke these his three louers by the hand, and led them friendly into a chamber, somewhat to refresh them. When these three innocent women were come into the Scholler’s Chamber, hee shut fast the doore, and going towards them, he sayde: “Beholde faire ladies, now the time is come for me to be reuenged vpon you and to make you suffer the penaunce of the torment wherwith ye punished me for my great Loue.” The Gentlewomen hearing those cruell woordes, rather dead then aliue, began to repent that euer they had offended him, and besides that, they cursed themselues, for giuinge credit vnto him whom they ought to haue abhorred. The Scholler with fierce and angry countenaunce commaunded them vpon paine of their liues to strippe themselues naked: which sentence when these three goddesses heard, they began to loke one vppon another, weeping and praying him, that although he woulde not for their sakes, yet in respect of his owne curtesie and naturrall humanitie, that hee woulde saue their honor aboue all thinges. This gallant reioysing at their humble and pitifull requestes was thus curteous vnto them, that he would not once suffer them to stand with their garmentes on in his presence: the women casting themselues downe at his feete wept bitterly, beseeching him that he woulde haue pitie vpon them, and not to be the occasion of a slaunder so great and infamous. But he whose hart was hardened as the Diamonde, said vnto them, that this facte was not worthy of blame but rather of reuenge. The women dispoyled of their apparel (and standing before him, so free from couering as euer was Eue before Adam) appeared as beautifull in this their innocent state of nakednes, as they did in their brauerie: in so much that the yong scholler viewing from toppe to toe, those fayre and tender creatures, whose whitenesse surpassed the snow, began to haue pitie vppon them: but calling to his remembraunce the iniuries past and the daunger of death wherein he was, he reiected all pitie and continued his harde and obstinate determination. Then he toke all their apparell, and other furnitures that they did weare, and bestowed it in a little chamber, and with threatning words commaunded all three to lie in one bed. The women altogether astonned, began to say to themselues: “Alas, what fooles be we? what wil our husbands and our frendes say, when they shal vnderstand that we be found naked and miserablie slaine in this bed? It had been better for vs to haue died in our cradels, than apprehended and found dead in this state and plight.” The Scholler seeing them bestowed one by another in the bed, like husband and wyfe, couered them with a very white and large sheete, that no part of their bodies might be seene and knowen, and shutting the Chamber doore after him Philenio went to seeke their husbands, which were dauncing in the hall: and the daunce ended, he intreated them to take the paines to goe with him: who was their guide into the Chamber where the three Muses lay in their bedde, saying vnto them: “Sirs, I haue broughte you into this place to shewe you some pastime and to let you see the fayrest thinges that euer you saw in your liues.” Then approching neere the bed, and holding a torch in his hand, he began fayre and softly to lift vp the shete at the bed’s feete, discouering these fayre ladies euen to the knees. Ye should haue seen then, how the hushands did behold their white legges and their wel proporcioned feete, which don he disclosed them euen to the stomack, and shewed their legges and thighes farre whiter than alablaster, which seemed like two pillers of fine marble, with a rounde body so wel formed as nothing could be better: consequently he tourned vp the sheete a litle further, and their stomackes appeared somewhat round and plumme, hauing two rounde breasts so firme and feate, as they would haue constrayned the great God Iupiter to imbrace and kisse them. Whereat the husbandes toke so great pleasure and contentmente, as coulde be deuised: I omitte for you to thincke in what plighte these poore naked women weare, hearinge theyr husbandes to mocke them: all this while they laye very quiet, and durst not so much as to hem or coughe, for feare to be knowen: the husbands were earnest with the Scholler to discouer their faces, but hee wiser in other mennes hurtes than in his owne, would by no meanes consent vnto it. Not contented with this, the yong scholler shewed their apparel to their husbands, who seing the same were astonned, and in viewing it with great admiration, they said one to another: “Is not this the gowne that I once made for my wife? Is not this the coyfe that I bought her? Is not this the pendant that she weareth about her necke? be not these the rings that set out and garnisht her fingers?” Being gone out of the chamber for feare to trouble the feast, he would not suffer them to depart, but caused them to tarie supper. The Scholler vnderstandinge that supper was ready, and that the maister of the house had disposed all thinges in order, he caused the geastes to sit downe. And whiles they were remouing and placing the stooles and chayres, he returned into the chamber, wher the three dames lay, and vncouering them, he sayd vnto them: “Bongiorno, faire Ladies: did you heare your hushandes? They be here by, and do earnestly tarie for you at supper. What do ye meane to do? Vp and rise ye dormouses, rubbe your eyes and gape no more, dispatche and make you ready, it is time for you now to repayre into the hall, where the other gentlewomen do tarie for you.” Behold now how this Scholer was reuenged by interteigning them after this maner: then the poore desolate women, fearing least their case would sorte to som pitiful successe, dispayring of their health, troubled and discomforted, rose vp expecting rather death than any other thing: and tourning them toward the scholler they said vnto him: “Maister Philenio, you haue had sufficient reueng vpon vs: the best for you to do now, is to take your sword, and to bereue us of oure life, which is more lothsome vnto vs than pleasaunt: and if you will not do vs that good tourne, suffer vs to go home to our houses vnknowen, that our honours may be saued.” Then Philenio thinking that he had at pleasure vsed their persons, deliuered them their apparel, and so sone as they were ready, he let them out at a litle dore, very secretlye vnknowen of anye, and so they went home to their houses. So sone as they had put of their fayre furnitures, they folded them vp, and layd them in their chestes: which done, they went about their houshold busines, till their husbands came home, who being retourned they founde their wives sowing by the fire side in their chambers: and because of their apparell, their ringes and iewels, which they had seene in the Scholler’s Chamber, it made them to suspect their wiues, euery of them demaunding his seuerall wife, where she had bin that nighte, and where their apparell was. They well assured of themselues, aunswered boldly, that they were not out of their house all the euening, and taking the keyes of their cofers shewed them their aparell, their ringes and other things, which their husbandes had made them. Which when their husbandes saw, they could not tell what to say, and forthwith reiected all suspicion, which they had conceiued: telling them from point to point, what they had seen that night. The women vnderstanding those woordes, made as though they knew nothing and after a little sport and laughter betweene them, they went to bed. Many times Philenio met his Gentlewomen in the streates and sayde vnto them: “Which of you was most afraide or worste intreated?” But they holding downe their heads, passed forth not speaking a word: in this maner the Scholler was requited so well as he could of the deceites done against him, by the three Gentlewomen aforesaid.

[ THE FIFTYETH NOUELL.]

The piteous and chaste death of one of the muleters wiues of the Queene of Nauarre.

In the citie of Amboise, there was a muleter that serued the Queene of Nauarre, sister to king Fraunces the firste of that name, which was broughte a bedde of a sonne at Blois: to which towne the said muleter was gone to be paide his quarter’s wages: whose wyfe dwelled at Amboise beyond the bridges. It chaunced that of long time one of her husband’s seruauntes did so disordinately loue her, as vppon a certaine day he could not forbeare but he muste vtter the effect of his loue borne vnto her. Howbeit shee being a right honest woman, tooke her man’s sute in very ill part, threatning to make her husband to beat him, and to put him away, and vsed him in suche wyse, that after that time he durst not speake thereof any more, ne yet to make signe or semblance: keeping yet that fier couered within his brest, vntill his Maister was ridden out of the towne, and that his Maistresse was at euensong at Saint Florentine’s, a Church of the Castle, farre from her house: who now being alone in the house, began to imagine how he might attempt that thinge by force, which before by no supplication or seruice he was able to attaine. For which purpose, hee brake vp a borde betweene his Maistresse chamber and his: but because the curteins of his maister and maistresse bed, and of the seruauntes of the other side couered and hid the walles betweene, it could not be perceyued, nor yet his malice discried vntill suche time as his Maistresse was gone to bed, with a litle wenche of XII. yeares of age: and so sone as the poore woman was fallen into her first sleepe, this varlet entred in at a hole which he had broken, and conueyed himself into her bed in his shirt, with a naked sworde in his hande: who so sone as she felt him layed downe by her, lepte out of her bed, perswading him by all possible meanes meete for an honest woman to do: and he indued with beastly loue, rather acquainted with the language of his mulets than with her honest reasons, shewed himselfe more beastly then the beasts with whom he had of long time bin conuersant: for seing her so oft to runne about the table that he could not catch her, and also that she was so strong, that twise she ouercame him, in dispaire that he should neuer enioy her aliue, hee gaue her a great blow with his sword ouer the raines of the back, thinking that if feare and force could not make her to yeld, paine and smart should cause her. Howbeit, the contrarie chaunced: for like as a good man of armes when he seeth his owne bloud, is more set on fier to be reuenged vpon his enemies to acquire honor: euen so the chaste hart of this woman, did reenforce and fortefie her courage in double wise, to auoyde and escape the hands of this wicked varlet, deuising by all meanes possible by fayre words to make him acknowledge his fault: but he was so inflamed with furie, there was no place in him to receiue good counsell. And eftsones with his sword, he gashed her tender bodye with diuers and sondry strokes, for the auoydiug wherof, so fast as her legges could beare her, she ran vp and downe the chamber: and when through want of bloud she perceiued death approch, lifting vp her eyes vnto heaven, and ioyning her hands together, gaue thanckes vnto God, whom she termed to be her force, her vertue, her pacience and chastitie, humblie beseeching him to take in good part the bloude whiche by his commandemente was sheade in honor of that precious bloude, which from his owne sonne did issue vppon the Crosse, whereby shee did beleeue, firmelye and stedfastlye that all her sinnes were wiped awaye and defaced from the memorye of his wrathe and anger, and in sayinge: “Lorde receiue my soule which was dearely bought and redeemed with thy bounty and goodnes:” shee fell downe to the ground vpon her face where the wycked villaine inflicted her bodye with manifold wounds: and after she had lost her speache and the force of her body, thys most wicked and abhominable varlet toke her by force, whiche had no more strength and power to defende herselfe: and when he had satisfied his cursed desire, he fled away in such hast, as afterwards for all the pursute made after him he could not be found. The yong wench which lay with her, for feare hid herselfe vnder the bed. But when she perceyued the villaine departed, shee came vnto her Maistresse and finding her speachlesse and without mouing, she cryed out at the window vnto the nexte neighbours to come to succour her: and they which loued her and esteemed her so wel as any woman in the towne, came presently vnto her, and brought diuers surgeons with them, who findinge vpon her body XXV. mortall woundes, they did so much as in them laye to helpe her: but it was impossible. Howbeit shee laye one houre without speache, makinge signes with hir eyes and hands, declaring that she had not lost her vnderstanding: being demaunded by the priest, of the fayth wherin she died, and of her saluacion, she aunswered by such euident signes, as her liuely speach and communication coulde not haue declared it better, howe that her trust and confidence was in the death of Iesus Christ, whom she hoped to see in the Celestiall citie, and so with a ioyfull countenaunce, her eyes erected vp to the heauens, she rendred her chast body to the earth, and her soule to her Creator: and when shee was shrouded ready to the buriall, as her neighbours were attending to followe her to the Church, her poore husbande came home, and the first sight he sawe, was the body of his dead wife before his doore, wherof before that instant hee had no newes. And when he vnderstode the order of her death, he then doubled his sorrowe, in such wyse that he was also like to die. In this sort was this marter of chastitie buried in the church of S. Florentine, where all the honest dames and wiues of the citie endeuoured themselues to accompany her, and to honour her with suche reuerence as they were able to do: accomptinge themselues most happie to dwell in that towne, where a woman of such vertuous behauiour did dwell. The foolish and wanton seing the honour done to that deade bodye, determined from that time forth to renue their former life, and to chaunge the same into a better.

[ THE FIFTY-FIRST NOUELL.]

A king of Naples, abusing a Gentleman’s wife, in the end did weare the hornes himselfe.

In the citie of Naples when king Alphonsus raigned, in whose time wantonnesse bare chiefest sway, there was a Gentleman so honest, beautifull and comely, as for his good conditions and wel knowen behauiour an old Gentleman gaue to him his daughter in mariage, which in beautie and good grace was passingly well beloued and comfortable to her husband. The Loue was great betwene them, till it chaunced vpon shrouetide that the king went a masking into the citie, where euery man endeuoured to intertaine him the best he could. And when he came to this Gentleman’s house, he was best receyued of any place in all the towne, aswell for banqueting, as for musicall songes, and the Gentlewoman, the fayrest that the king sawe in all the citie to his contentacion. And vpon the end of the banket, she sang a song with her husbande, with a grace so good as it greatly augmented her beautie. The king seeing so many perfections in one body, conceyued not so great pleasure in the sweete accords of her husband and her, as he did howe to deuise to interrupt and breake them: and the difficultie for bringinge that to passe, was the great amitie that hee sawe betweene them, wherefore he bare in his hart that passion so couert, as he possibly could. But partly for his owne solace and comforte, and partly for good will of all, hee feasted all the Lords and Ladyes of Naples, where the Gentleman and his wife were not forgotten. And because man willingly beleeueth that he doth see, he thought that the lokes of that gentlewoman promised vnto him some grace in time to come, if the presence of her husband were no let therunto. And to proue whether his coniecture were true, he sent her husbande in commission to Rome, for the space of XV. dayes or III. wekes. And so sone as he was gone, his wyfe which hitherto had not felt any long absence from her husband, made great sorrow for the same, whereof she recomforted by the king, many times by sweete perswasions and by presents and gifts, in such sort, that she was not onely comforted, but contented with her husbande’s absence. And before the three weekes were expired of his returne, she was so amorous of the king as she was no lesse sorowful of his comming home, then she was before for his departure. And to the intent the king’s presence might not be loste, they agreed together, that when her husband was gone to his possessions in the countrie, she should send word to the king, that he might haue safe repair vnto her, and so secretly that his honour, (which he feared more then he did the fact) might not be impaired. Vpon this hope, this Ladie’s hart was set on a merie pin: and when her husband was come home, shee welcomed him so wel, that albeit he knewe how the king made much of her in his absence, yet he would not beleeue that he so did for any dishonest fact. Howbeit by continuance of time, this fier that could not be couered, by litle and litle began to kindle, in such wise as the husband doubted much of the truth, and watched the matter so neere, as he was almost oute of doubt. But for feare, least the partie which did the wrong, should do him greater hurt, if he seemed to know it, he determined to dissemble the matter: for he thought it better to liue with some griefe, then to hazard his life for a woman that did not loue him: notwithstanding, for this displeasure, he thought to be euen with the king if it were possible. And knowinge that many times despite maketh a woman to do that which Loue cannot bring to passe, specially those that haue honourable harts and stoute stomacks, was so bold without blushing, vpon a day in speaking to the Queene, to say unto her, that he had pitie vpon her, for that shee was no better beloued of the king her husband. The Queene which heard tell of the loue betwene the king and his wife: “I cannot (quoth she) both enioy honour and pleasure together: I knowe well that honor I haue, whereof one receiueth the pleasure, and as she hath the pleasure, so hath not she the honor.” He which knewe wel by whom those words were spoken, said vnto her: “Madame, honor hath waited vpon you euen from your birth, for you be of so good a house, as to be a queene or Empresse, you cannot augment your nobilitie, but your beautie, grace, and honestie, hath deserued so much pleasure, as she that depriueth you of that which is incident to your degree, doth more wrong to her self then to your person. For she for a glorie that hath turned her to shame, hath therewithall lost so much pleasure, as your grace or any Lady in the realme may haue. And I may saye vnto you (Madame) that if the kinge were no king as he is, I thincke that he could not excel me in pleasing of a woman: being sure that to satisfie such a vertuous personage as you be, he might exchaunge his complexion with mine.” The Queene smiling, answered him: “Although the king be of more delicate and weaker complexion than you be, yet the loue that he beareth mee, doth so much content mee, as I esteeme the same aboue all thinges in the world.” The gentleman said vnto her: “Madame, if it were so, I woulde take no pitie vpon you, for I know wel that the honest loue of your hart, would yeld vnto you great contentment, if the like were to be found in the king: but God hath foreseene and preuented the same, least enioyinge your owne desire, you would make him your God vppon earth.” “I confesse vnto you (saide the Queene) that the Loue I beare him, is so great, as the like place he could not find in no woman’s hart, as he doth in mine.” “Pardon me, madame (saide the Gentleman) if I speake more francklye, your grace hath not sounded the depth of ech man’s harte. For I dare be bold to say vnto you, that I do know one that doth loue you, and whose loue is so great, as your loue in respecte of his is nothing. And for so much as he seeth the kinge’s loue to faile in you his doth grow and increase, in such sort, that if your loue were agreable vnto his, you should be recompensed of all your losses.” The Queene aswel by his words as by his countenaunce, began to perceiue, that the talke proceded from the bottom of his hart, and called to her remembraunce that long time he had endeuored to do her service, with such affection, as for loue he was growen to be melancolike, which she thought before, to rise through his wiue’s occasion, but now she assuredly beleued that it was for her sake. And thus the force of Loue, which is well discryed when it is not fayned, made her sure of that, which was vnknowen to all the world. And beholding the gentleman which was more amiable than her husband, and seing that he was forsaken of his wife, as she of the king, pressed with despite and ialousie of her husband, and prouoked with loue of the gentleman, began to say with finger in eye, and sighing sobbs: “O my God, must vengeaunce get and win that at my hand, which Loue cannot doe?” The gentleman well vnderstanding her meaning, aunsweared: “Madame, vengeance is sweete vnto him which in place of killinge an ennemye, giueth life to a perfecte freinde. I thincke it time that trouth doe remoue from you the foolishe loue, that you beare to him which loueth you not: and that iust and reasonable loue should expell from you the feare, which out not remaine in a noble and vertuous hart. But now madame, omittinge to speake of the greatnesse of your estate, let vs consider that we be both man and woman, the most deceiued of the world, and betrayed of them which we haue most dearely loued. Let vs now be reuenged (madame) not onely to render vnto them, what they deserue, but to satisfie the loue which for my part I can no longer beare, except I should die. And I thincke, that if your harte be not harder than flinte, or Diamont, it is impossible but you must perceiue som sparke of fier, which increaseth more than I am able to dissemble: and if pitie of me which dieth for your loue, doth not moue you to loue me, at least wyse let loue of your self constraine you, which (being so perfect a creature as you be) doth deserue to enioy the hartes of the noblest and most vertuous of the world. Suffer I say, the contempt and forsaking of him, [to] moue you, for whom you haue disdayned al other persons.” The Queene hearing those wordes, was so rauished, as for feare to declare by her countenaunce the trouble of her spirite, leaning vppon the Gentleman’s arme, went into a garden hard by her Chamber, where she walked a long time not able to speake a woord. But the Gentleman seeing her halfe wonne, when he was at the ende of the Alley where none could see them, hee certified her by effect, the loue which so long time he kept secrete from her. And both with one consent reioyced in reuenge, whereof the passion was importable. And there determined, that so oft as hee went into the Country, and the king from his Castell into the Citie, he should retourne to the Castel to see the Quene. Thus deceyuing the deceyuers, all foure were partakers of the pleasure, which two alone thought to enioy. The accord made, they departed, the Lady to her Chamber, and the Gentleman to his house, with such contentacion, as they had quite forgotten al theyr troubles past. And the feare which either of them had of the assembly of the king and of the Gentlewoman, was tourned to desire, which made the Gentleman to go more oft then he was wonte to doe into the countrye, being not past halfe a mile of. And so sone as the king knew therof, he fayled not to visite his Lady, and the gentleman the night following went to the Castle to salute the Queene, to do the office of the kinge’s Lieutenaunt, so secretly as no man did perceiue it. This voyage endured long time, but the king because he was a publike person, could not so well dissemble his Loue, but all the worlde did vnderstand it, and all men pitied the gentleman’s state. For diuers light persons behinde his backe would make hornes vnto him, in signe of mockerie, which he right well perceyued. But this mockerie pleased him so wel, as he esteemed his hornes better then the king’s Crowne. The king and the Gentleman’s wife one day, could not refraine (beholding a Stagge’s head set vp in the Gentleman’s house) from breaking into a laughter before his face, saying, how that head became the house very well. The gentleman that had so good a hart as he, wrote ouer that head these words.

These hornes I weare and beare for euery man to view,

But yet I weare them not in token they be trew.

The king retourning againe to the Gentleman’s house, finding this title newlye written, demaunded of the gentleman the signification of them.

Who said vnto him:

“If princesse secret things, be from the horned hart concealed,

Why should like things of horned beastes, to Princes be revealed.

But content your selfe: all they that weare hornes be pardoned to weare their capps vpon their heads: for they be so sweete and pleasaunt, as they vncappe no man, and they weare them so light, as they thincke they haue none at all.” The king knew well by his wordes that he smelled something of his doings, but he neuer suspected the loue betwene the Queene and him. For the Queene was better contented wyth her husbande’s life, and with greater ease dissembled her griefe. Wherefore eyther parts lived long time in this loue, till age had taken order for dissolucion thereof. “Behold Ladyes (quoth Saffredante) this Historye which for example I have willinglye recited to thintente that when your husbands do make you hornes as big as a Goate, you maye render unto him the monstrous heade of a Stagge.” “Peace (quoth Emarsuite smyling) no more wordes, least you reuiue some sleeping sweet soule, which without stur would not awake; with any whispring.”

[ THE FIFTY-SECOND NOUELL.]

The rashe enterprise of a Gentleman against a Princesse of Flaunders, and of the shame that he receyued thereof.

There was in Flaunders a Lady of an honorable house, which had two husbands, by whom shee had no children that were then liuinge. Duringe the time of her widowhoode shee dwelte within one of her brothers, that loued her very well, which was a noble man, and had maried a king’s doughter. This yong Prince was muche giuen to pleasure, louinge huntinge, pastime, and the company of fayre Ladyes, accordingly as youth requireth. He had a wyfe that was curst and troublesome, whom the delectations of her husband in no wyse did contente and please: wherefore this noble man caused his sister daily to keepe company with his wyfe. This Gentlewoman his sister was of pleasaunt conuersation, and therewithal very honest and wyse. There was in the house of this noble man, a Gentleman whose worship, beautye and grace did surpasse all the rest of his companions. This Gentleman perceyuing the sister of his Lorde and Maister to be pleasaunte and of ioyfull countenaunce, thoughte to proue if the attempt of an honest frende would be vouchsaued, but he founde her aunswere to be contrary to her countenaunce: and albeit that her aunswere was such as was meete for a Princesse and right honest Gentlewoman, yet because she perceyued him to be a goodly personage, and curteous, she easily pardoned his bold attempt, and seemed that she toke it not in ill part when he spake vnto her. Neuerthelesse shee warned him, after that time, to moue no such matter, which he promised, because he would not lose his pleasure, and the honour that hee conceyued to entertaine her. Notwithstanding, by processe of time his affection increased so much as he forgot the promise which he had made her, wherefore he thoughte good not to hazarde his enterprise by wordes, for that hee had to long against his wyll experimented her wyse and discrete aunsweares: and therewithall he thought if he could finde her in some conueient place (because she was a yong widow, of lusty yeares and good complexion) it were possible shee woulde take pitie vppon him, and of herself. And that he might bring his purpose to effecte, he said to his Maister that he had besides his owne house very goodlie game, and that if it pleased him to kill three or foure Stagges in the moneth of May, he should see very good pastime. The Lord aswell for the loue hee bare to the Gentleman, as for the pleasure he had in hunting, graunted his request: and went to his house, which was so faire and well furnished, as the best Gentleman in all the countrey had no better. The gentleman lodged his Lord and Lady in one side of the house, and in the other directly against it her whome he loued better than himselfe. The Chamber where his maistres laye, was so well hanged with tapistrie, and so trimely matted, as it was impossible to perceiue a falling dore, harde by the bed’s side, descending to his mother’s chamber, which was an old Lady, much troubled with the Catarre and Rume. And because she had a cough, fearing to disease the Princesse which laye aboue her, she chaunged her chamber with her sonne. And euery night the olde Gentlewoman brought comficts to the Lady for her recreation, vpon whom the Gentleman wayted, who (for that he was well beloued and very familier with her brother) was not refused to be present at her rising and going to bedde. Whereby he daily toke occasion to increase his loue and affection: in suche sorte as one night, after he had caused the Ladye to sit vp late, (she being surprised with sleepe) he was forced to depart the chamber, and to repaire to his own. Wher when he had put on the most brauest perfumed shirt that he had, and his cap for the night so trimmely dressed, as there wanted nothing, he thought in beholding himself, that there was no Lady in the world that would refuse his beautie and comlinesse. Wherefore promising himselfe a happie successe in his enterprise, hee went to his bed where he purposed not long to abide, for the desire that he had to enter into another, whiche should be more honourable and pleasaunt vnto him. And after he had sent his men away, he rose to shut the dore after them, and hearkened a good while, whether he could heare any noyse in the Ladie’s chamber aboue. And when he was sure that euery man was at rest, he began to take his pleasaunt iourney, and by litle and litle opened the falling dore, whiche was so well trimmed with cloth, that it made no noyse at all, and went vp to the Ladie’s bed side, which then was in her first sleepe, and without respecte of the bonde and promise that he made vnto her, or the honorable house wherof she came, without leaue or reuerence, he laid himselfe down besides her, who felt him betwene her armes before she perceiued his comming. But she which was somewhat strong, vnfolded her self out of his handes, and in asking him what he was, began to strike, to bite and scratche, in suche wyse, as he was constrained (for feare least she should crye out) to stoppe her mouth with the couerlet, which was impossible for him to do. For when she sawe him to presse with all his force to despoyle her of her honor, she spared no part of her might to defende and kepe her selfe, and called (so loude as she could) her woman of honor, that laye in her chamber, whiche was a very auncient and sober gentlewoman, who in her smock, ran straight to her maistresse. And when the Gentleman perceiued that hee was discouered, hee was so fearfull to be knowen of the Ladye, as sone as he could hee shifted himself down by his trapdore. And where before he conceiued hope and assuraunce to be welcome, now he was brought in despaire for retourning in so vnhappy state. When he was in his chamber, he found his glasse and candle vpon the table, and beholding his face all bloudy with the scratchings and bitinges, whiche shee had bestowed vpon him, the bloud wherof ran down his fayre shyrt, better bloudied then gilted, he began to make his moone in this wise: “O beautie, thou art nowe payed thy desert, for vppon thy vayne promise haue I aduentured a thing impossible. And that which might haue bene the augmenting of my delight is nowe the redoubling of my sorowe. Being assured that if she knewe howe contrary to my promise I haue enterprised this foolishe fact, I should vtterly forgoe the honest and common conuersation whiche I haue with her aboue al other. That which my estimation, beautie and good behauiour doe deserue, I ought not to hyde in darkenesse. To gaine her loue, I ought not to haue assayed her chaste bodye by force, but rather by seruice and humble pacience, to wayte and attend till loue did vanquishe. For without loue all the vertue and puissance of man is of no power and force.” Euen thus he passed the night in such teares, griefes and plaintes, as can not be well reported and vttered. In the morning, when he beheld his bloudy face all mangled and torne, he fained to be very sicke, and that he could abide no light, til the company were gone from his house. The Ladye whiche thus remained victorious, knowing that there was no man in all her brother’s Court, that durst attempt a deede so wicked, but her hoste which was so bolde to declare his loue vnto her, knew well that it was he. And when she and her woman of honour had searched all the corners of the chamber to knowe what he was, and could not finde hym, she sayd vnto her woman in great rage: “Assure your selfe it can be none other, but the Gentleman of the house, whose villanous order I wyll reueale to my brother in the morning, in such sorte, as his head shalbe a witnesse and testimony of my chastitie.” Her woman seing her in that furie, sayd vnto her; “Madame, I am right glad to see the loue and affection which you beare to your honor, for the increase wherof you doe not spare the life of one, which hath aduentured himselfe so muche for the loue that hee beareth vnto you. But many times such one thinketh by those meanes to increase loue, which altogether he doth diminishe. Wherefore (Madame) I humbly beseche you to tell me the truthe of this facte.” And when the Ladie had recompted the same at lengthe, the woman of honour sayd vnto her: “Your grace doth say that he got no other thyng of you, but scratches and blowes with your fistes.” “No, I assure you (quod the Ladie) and I am certaine if hee gette hym not a good Surgeon, the markes will be seene to morowe.” “Wel Madame (quod the gentlewoman) sithens it is so, me thinketh you haue greater occasion to prayse God, then to muse vpon reuenge: For you may beleue, that sithens he had the courage to enterprise so great an exploit, and that despite hath failed him of his purpose, you can deuise no greater death for him to suffer, then the same. If you desire to be reuenged, let Loue and shame alone bring that to passe, who knowe better which way to tormente him than your selfe, and with greater honor to your persone. Take heede Madame from falling into such inconuenience as he is in, for in place of great pleasure whiche he thought to haue gayned, he hath receiued the extremest anoyance, that any gentleman can suffer. And you Madame, by thinking to augment your honor, you may decrease and diminish the same. And by making complaint, you shal cause that to be knowen, which no man knoweth. For of his part (you may be assured) there shall neuer be anything reuealed. And when my Lorde your brother at your requeste, shall execute the iustice which you desire, and that the poore Gentleman shal be ready to die, the brute will runne that he hath had his pleasure vpon you. And the greatest numbre will say, that it is very difficult for a Gentleman to doe suche an enterprise, except the Lady minister some great occasion. Your grace is faire and yong, frequenting your life in pleasant company, there is none in all the Court, but seeth and marketh the good countenaunce you beare to that Gentleman, whereof your selfe hath some suspicion: which will make euery man suppose that if he hath done this enterprise, it was not without some consent from you. And your honor which hetherto hath borne your port a loft, shall be disputed vpon in all places where this historie shall be remembred.” The Princesse well waying the good reasons and aduise of her gentlewoman, knewe that she spake the truthe: and that by moste iust cause she should be blamed: considering the familiaritie and good countenaunce which dayly she bare vnto the Gentleman. Wherefore she inquired of her woman of honour, what was beste to bee done. Who aunswered her thus. “Madame, sith it pleaseth you to receiue mine aduise, by waying the affection whereof it procedeth, me thinke you ought in your hart to reioyce, that the goodliest, and moste curteous Gentleman that liueth, could neither by loue, or force, despoile you of your greatest vertue and chastitie. For which (Madame) you are bounde to humble your selfe before God, acknowledging that it is not done by your vertue, bicause many women walking in a more paineful and more vnpleasaunt trade then you do, haue humiliated and brought low by men farre more vnworthy of loue, then he which loueth you. And ye ought now to feare more than euer you did, to vse any semblance and take of amitie, bicause there haue bene many that haue fallen the second time into daungers and perils, which they haue auoyded at the first. Remember (Madame) that loue is blind, who blaseth mens eyes in such sort, as where a man thinketh the waye moste sure, ther his most readie to fal. And I suppose Madame, that you ought not to seme to be priuie of this chaunce, neither to him, ne yet to any els, and when he remembreth anye thing to you, doe make as though you did not vnderstande his meaning, to auoyde twoo daungers. The one of vaine glorie for the victorie you haue had, the other to take pleasure in remembring things, that be so pleasaunt to the flesh, which the most chaste haue had much a do to defend theimselues from feling some sparkes, although they seke meanes to shunne and auoyde them with all their possible power. Moreouer, Madame, to thende that he thinke not by suche hazard and enterprise to haue done a thing agreable to your minde, my counsell is, that by litle and litle, you doe make your selfe straunge, and vse no more your wonted grace vnto him, that he may know how much you despise his folly and consider how great your goodnesse is, by contenting your self with the victory which God hath geuen you, without seeking any further vltion or reuengement. And God graunt you grace (Madame) to continue that honestie which hee hath planted in your hart, and by acknowledging that all goodnesse procedeth from him, you may loue him and serue him, better than euer ye did.” The Princesse determined to credite the counsayle of her gentlewoman, slepte with so great ioye as the poore gentleman waked with sorrow. On the morrow the noble man ready to depart, asked for his hoste, vnto whom answere was made that he was so sicke, as he could not abide the light, or endure to heare one speake. Wherof the Prince was sore abashed, and would haue visited him, but that it was told him he was a slepe, and was very loth to wake him. Wherefore without bidding him farewell, he departed, taking with him his wife and sister, who hearing the excuse of the Gentleman that would not see the Prince, nor yet his companie, at their departure, was persuaded that it was he, that had done her al that torment, and durst not shew the markes which she had signed in his face. And although his Maister did sende oftimes for him yet came he not to the Court, vntill he was healed of his woundes, except that whiche loue and despite had made in his harte. When he came to the Courte and appeared before his victorious enemie, he blushed for shame of his ouer throwe. And he which was the stoutest of all the company was so astonned as many times being in her presence, hee could not tell which way to loke or tourne his face. Wherfore she was assured that her suspicion was certain and true, by litle and litle estraunging her self from him, but it was not done so sleightly or politikely but that he perceiued well enough, and yet he durst make no semblaunce, for feare of worse aduenture. Notwithstanding he conserued both loue in his hart, and pacience in his minde, for the losse of his Ladie’s fauour, which he had right well deserued.

[ THE FIFTY-THIRD NOUELL.]

The loue of Amadour and Florinda: wherein be conteined mani sleightes and dissimulations, together with the renowmed chastitie of the said Florinda.

In the Countie of Arande, in Aragon, a region in Spaine, there was a Ladie whiche in the best time of her youth, continued the widow of the Earle of Arande, with one sonne, and one daughter, called Florinda. The sayde Lady brought vp her children in all vertue and honestie, meete and conuenable for Lordes and Gentlemen, in such sorte, as her house was renowmed to be one of the most honorable in all the Region of Spaine. Many times she repaired to Tolledo, where the kinge of Spaine helde his Court, and when she came to Sarragosa, which was harde adioyning to the court, she continued long with the Queene, and in the Courte, where she was had in so good estimation as any Lady might be. Vpon a time going towardes the king, according to her custome, which was at Sarragosa, in his castle of Iafferie, this Lady passed by a village that belonged to the Viceroy of Catalongne, who still continued vppon the frontiers of Parpignon, for the great warres that were betwene the Frenche king and him. Howebeit, at that time peace being concluded, the Viceroy with all his captaines were come to do reuerence to the king. The Viceroy knowing that the Countesse of Arrande did passe through his countrie, went to mete her, as well for auncient amitie, as for the honor he bare vnto her being allied to the kyng. Nowe this Viceroy had in his companye diuers honest Gentlemen, whiche through the frequentation and continuance of the long warres, had gotten suche honour and fame, as euery man that might see them and behold them did accompt them selues happy. But amonges all other, there was one called Amadour, who although he was but XVIII. or XIX. yeares of age, yet he had such an assured grace and witte so excellent, as he was demed amongs a thousand persones worthy to haue the gouernement of a common wealth, whiche good witte was coupled with maruellous naturall beautie, so that there was no eye, but did content it self eftsones to beholde hym. And this beautie so exquisite, was associated with wonderfull eloquence, as doubtfull to say, whether merited greatest honor, either his grace and beautie, or his excellent tongue. But that which brought him into best reputation, was his great hardinesse, whereof the common reporte and brute was nothing impeached or staied for all his youth. For in so many places he shewed his chiualrie, as not only Spain but Fraunce and Italie, did singularly commend and set forth his vertue: bicause in all the warres wherin he was present, he neuer spared him self for any daunger. And when his countrie was in peace and quiet, he sought to serue in straunge places, being loued and estemed both of his frendes and enemies. This Gentleman for the loue of his Captaine was come into that countrey, where was arriued the Countesse of Arande, and in beholding the beautie and good grace of her daughter, which was not then past XII. yeres of age, he thought that she was the fairest and most vertuous personage that euer he sawe: and that if he could obtaine her good will, he should be so well satisfied as if he had gained all the goods and pleasures of the worlde. And after he had a good whyle viewed her, for all the impossibilitie that reason could deuise to the contrary, he determined to loue her, although some occasion of that impossibilitie might ryse through the greatnesse of the house wherof she came, and for want of age which was not able as yet to vnderstande the passions of loue. But against the feare thereof he was armed with good hope, persuading himselfe, that time and patience would bring happie ende to his trauayle: and from that time gentle Loue whiche without any other occasion than by his own force was entred the harte of Amadour, promised him fauour and helpe by all meanes possible to attaine the same. And to prouide for the greatest difficultie, which was the farre distance of the countrie wher he dwelt, and the small occasion that he had thereby any more to see Florinda, he thought to marry against his determination made with the ladies of Barselone and Parpignon, amonges whom he was so conuersant by reason of the warres, as he semed rather to be a Cathelan, than a Castillan, although he wer borne by Tollede, of a riche and honourable house, yet bicause he was a yonger brother, he inioyed no great patrimonie or reuenue. Notwithstanding, loue and fortune seing him forsaken of his parentes, determined to accomplishe some notable exployt in him, and gaue him (by meanes of his vertue) that which the lawes of his countrey refused to geue. He had good experience in factes of warre, and was so well beloued of al Princes and Rulers, as he refused many times their goodes, being resolued not to care or esteme the benefites of Fortune. The Countesse of whome I spake, arriued thus at Saragossa, was very well intertained of the king, and of his whole Court. The Gouernour of Catalogne, many times came thither to visite her, whom Amadour neuer failed to accompany, for the onely pleasure he had to talke with Florinda: and to make himselfe to be knowen in the company, hee went to Auenturade, whiche was the daughter of an old knight that dwelt hard by the house, whiche from her youth was brought vp with Florinda, in such familiar sorte, as she knewe all the secrets of her harte. Amadour, as well for the honestie that he found in her, as for the liuing of III.M. ducates by the yeare which she should haue with her in mariage, determined to geue her such intertaignement, as one that was disposed to marry her. Wherunto the gentlewoman did willingly recline her eare: and bicause he was poore, and the father of the damosell rich, she thought that her father would neuer accorde to the mariage, except it were by meanes of the Countesse of Arande. Wherupon she went to madame Florinda, and saide vnto her: “Madame, you see this Castillan gentleman, which so oftentimes talketh with me, I doe beleue that his pretence is to marry me: you do know what a father I haue, who will neuer geue his consent, if he be not persuaded therunto by my Lady your mother and you.” Florinda which loued the damosell as her selfe, assured her that shee would take vpon her to bring that matter to passe, with so earnest trauaile as if the case were her own. Then Auenturade brought Amadour before Florinda, who after he had saluted her, was like to fall in a sowne for ioy, and although he were compted the moste eloquent persone of Spaine, yet was he now become mute and dumb before Florinda, wherat she maruelled much: for albeit she was but XII. yeares of age, yet she vnderstode that there was no man in Spaine that had a better tongue, or a more conuenable grace than he. And seing that he said nothing vnto her, she spake vnto him in this wise: “The fame which is bruted of you (sir Amadour) throughout the whole countrie of Spaine, is such as it maketh you knowen and estemed in this company, and giueth desire and occasion to those that know you, to imploy themselues to do you pleasure: wherefore if there be any thing wherin I may gratifie you, vse me I besech you.” Amadour that gased vpon the beautie of that lady, was rapt and surprised, not well able to render thankes vnto her. And although Florinda maruelled to see him without aunswere, yet she imputed it rather to bashfulnesse than to any force of loue, and departed without further talke. Amadour knowing the vertue which in so tender yeares began to appeare in Florinda, saide vnto her whome he purposed to marry: “Doe not maruell, though my speache do fayle before Madame Florinda, for the vertues and discretion, hidden in that yonge personage, did so amase mee, as I wiste not what to saye: but I praye you Auenturade (quod he) who knoweth all her secretes, to tell me, if it be otherwyse possible, but that she hath the harte of all the Lordes and Gentlemen of the Court: for they which know her and doe not loue her, be stones, or beastes.” Auenturade whiche then loued Amadour more than all the men in the worlde, and would conceale nothing from him, said vnto him: that Madame Florinda was generally beloued: but for the custome of the countrie, fewe men did speake unto her. “And (quod she) as yet I se none that make any semblance of loue vnto her, but two young Princes of Spaine, which desire to marry her, whereof the one is the sonne of the Infant Fortune, and the other of the Duke of Cadouce.” “I praye you then (quod Amadour) to tell me which of them as you think, doth loue her best.” “She is so wise” said Auenturade, “that she will confesse or graunt her loue to none, but to such as her mother pleaseth. But yet so far as we can iudge she fauoureth muche better the sonne of the Infant Fortune, than the Duke of Cadouce: and for that I take you to be a man of good iudgment, this day you shall haue occasion to consider the truth: for the sonne of the Infant Fortune is brought vp in Court, and is one of the goodliest and perfectest yong Gentlemen in al christendome: and if the mariage do procede, according to our opinion, which be her women, he shalbe assured to haue Madame Florinda: and then shalbe ioyned together the goodliest couple in the world. And you must vnderstand, that although they be both very yong, she of XII. yeares of age, and he of XV. yet is there three yeares past since their loue first began: and if you be disposed aboue other to obtain her fauour, mine aduise is, that ye become friend and seruaunt vnto him.” Amadour was very ioyfull to heare tell that his Lady loued some man, trusting that in tyme he should wynne the place, not of husbande, but of seruaunt: for he feared nothing at all of her vertue, but a lacke of disposition to loue. And after this communication, Amadour bent himselfe to haunt the societie of the sonne of the Infant Fortune, whose good will he sone recouered, for all the pastimes whiche the yong Prince loued, Amadour could doe right well: and aboue other, he was very cunning in riding of horsses, and in handling al kindes of armes and weapons, and in all other pastimes and games meete for a yong Gentleman. Warres began in Languedoc, and Amadour was forced to retire with the Gouernour, to his great sorrowe and grief, for he had there no meane to returne to the place where he might se Florinda. For which cause he spake to his owne brother, whiche was Steward of the king of Spaine’s houshold, and declared vnto him what courtesie he had found in the house of the Countesse of Arande, and of the damosel Auenturade: praying him that in his absence he would do his indeuour, that the mariage might proceede, and that he would obtaine for him the credit and good opinion of the king and Queene, and of al his friendes. The Gentleman which loued his brother, as well by nature’s instigation, as for his great vertues, promised him his trauaile and industrie to the vttermoste. Which he did in such wise as the old man her father, nowe forgetting other naturall respect, began to marke and beholde the vertues of Amadour, which the Countesse of Arande, and specially faire Florinda, painted and set foorth vnto him, and likewyse the Yong earl of Arande whiche increased in yeares, and therewithall in loue of those that were vertuous, and geuen to honest exercise. And when the mariage was agreed betweene the parentes, the said Steward sent for his brother whilest the truce endured betwene the two kings. About this time, the king of Spain retired to Madric, to auoyd the euil aire that was in many places, where by the aduise of diuers of his counsell, and at the request of the Countesse of Arande, he made a mariage betwene the yong Duchesse the heire of Medina Celi, and the yong Earle of Arande, as wel for the vnion of their house, as also for the loue he bare to the said Countesse. And this mariage was celebrated in the Castell of Madric, whereunto repaired Amadour, who so well obtained his suite, as he maried her, of whom he was muche better beloued, than his smal loue toward her deserued, sauing that it was a couerture and meanes for him to frequent the place where his minde and delight incessantly remained: after he was maried, he became well acquainted and familiar in the house of the Countesse, so that he was so conuersaunt amonges the Ladies, as if he had bene a woman: and although hee was then but XXII. yeares of age, he was so wise and graue, as the Countesse imparted vnto him all her affaires, commaunding her sonne and daughter to intertayne him, and to credite all thinges wherein hee gaue counsell. Hauing wonne this great estimation, he behaued him selfe so wyse and politike, that euen the partie whiche he loued knewe no parte of his affection: but by reason of the loue that Florinda bare to the wife of Amadour, whome shee loued more than any other woman, she was so familiar with him, as shee dissembled no part of her thought, declaring vnto him all the loue that she bare the sonne of the Infant Fortune: and he that desired nothing more than throughly to winne her, ceassed not from continuance of talke, not caring whereof he spake, so that he might hold her with long discourse: Amadour had not after his mariage continued a moneth in that companie, but was constrained to retire to the warres, where hee continued more than twoo yeares, without retourne to see his wife, who still abode in the place where she was brought vp. During the time, Amadour wrote many letters vnto his wife, but the chiefest substance therof consisted in commendations to Florinda, who for her part failed not to render like vnto him, many times writing some pretie worde or posie with her own hand, in the letter of Auenturade. Which made her husband Amadour diligent many times to write again vnto her, but in al this doing Florinda conceiued nothing, but that he loued her with such like loue as the brother oweth to the sister. Many times Amadour went and came, but in the space of fiue yeares he neuer sawe Florinda twoo monethes together: notwithstanding, Loue in despite of their distaunce and long absence, ceassed not to increase: and it chaunced that hee made a voyage home to see his wyfe, and founde the Countesse farre from the court, bicause the kyng of Spain was done to Vandelousie, and had taken with him the yong Earle of Arande, whiche then began to bere armes. The Countesse was retired to a house of pleasure, which shee had vpon the frontiers of Arragon and Nauarre, and was right ioyfull when shee see Amadour, who almoste three yeares had bene absent. He was very well recieued of euery man, and the countesse commaunded that he should be vsed and entreated as her howne sonne. During the time that he soiourned with her, she communicated vnto him all the affaires of her house, and committed the greatest trust thereof to his discretion, who wan such credite in the house as in all places where he liste, the dores were opened vnto him: whose wysedome and good behauiour made him to be estemed like a Sainct or Aungell. Florinda, for the loue and good wyll she bare unto his wyfe and him, made muche of him in all places where she sawe him: and therfore tooke no hede vnto his countenaunce, for that her hart as yet felt no passion, but a certen contentation in her selfe, when she was in the presence of Amadour, and of any other thing she thought not. Amadour to auoyde the iudgement of them that haue proued the difference of Louers countenaunces, was very ware and circumspect: for when Florinda came to speake vnto hym secretly (like one that thought no hurt) the fier hydden in his breste, burned so sore, as he could not staye the blushyng colour of his face, nor the sparkes whiche flewe out of his eyes: and to the intent, that through long frequentation, none might espie the same, he intertaigned a very fayre Ladye called Paulina, a woman in his tyme accompted so fayre, as fewe men whiche behelde her, coulde escape her bondes, This Ladye Paulina vnderstanding howe Amadour vsed his Loue at Barselone and Parpignon, and how he was beloued of the fayrest Ladies of the Countrie, and aboue all of the Countesse of Palamons, whiche in beautie was prysed to be the fayrest in all Spayne, and of many other, sayde vnto hym: “That shee had great pitie of hym, for that after so manye good Fortunes, he had maried a wyfe so foule and deformed.” Amadour vnderstanding well by those woordes, that she had desyre to remedy her owne necessitie, vsed the best maner he coulde deuise, to the intent that in makyng her beleue a lye, he should hyde from her the truthe. But shee subtile and well experimented in Loue, was not contente with talke, but perceyuing well that his harte was not satisfied with her Loue, doubted that hee coulde not serue his Lady in secrete wise, and therefore marked hym so nere, as daylye she had a respecte and watche vnto hys eyes, whiche hee coulde so well dissemble, as she was able to iudge nothyng, but by darke suspicion, not without great payne and difficultie to the Gentleman, to whome Florinda (ignoraunt of all their malice) dyd resorte many tymes in presence of Paulina, whose demeaner then was so familiar, as he with maruellous payne refrayned his lookes against his harte and desire: and to auoyde that no inconuenience should ensue, one daye speaking to Florinda, as they were both leaning at a wyndow, sayd these words: “Madame, I beseche you to tell mee whether it is better to speake or to die.” Whereunto Florinda answered readily, saying, “I will euer geue councell to my frendes to speake and not to dye: for there be fewe wordes spoken but that they may be amended, but the life lost cannot be recouered.” “Promise me then” said Amadour, “that not onely ye will accept those wordes which I will say, but also not to be astonned or abashed, till ye haue heard the end of my tale.” To whom she aunswered: “Say what it please you, for if you do affray me none other shall assure me.” Then he began to saye vnto her: “Madame, I haue not yet bene desirous to disclose vnto you the great affection which I beare you, for twoo causes: the one, bicause I attend by my long seruice, to shewe you the experience thereof: the other, for that I doubted you would thinke a great presumption in me (which am but a poore gentleman) to insinuate my selfe in place whereof I am not worthy: and although I were a Prince as you be, the loyaltie yet of your harte, will not permitte any other, but him which hath already taken possession (the sonne I meane of the Infant Fortune) to vse in talke any matter of loue: but Madame, like as necessitie in time of great warr constraineth men to make hauoke of their owne goodes, and to consume the greene corne, that the enemy take no profit and reliefe thereof, euen so doe I hazard to aduaunce the frute, which in time I hope to gather, that your enemies and mine may inioye thereof none aduauntage. Knowe ye Madame, that from the time of your tender yeares, I haue in such wyse dedicated my selfe to your seruice as I ceasse not still to aspire the meanes to achieue your grace and fauour: and for that occasion, I did marry her whome I thought you did loue best: and knowing the loue you beare to the sonne of the Infant Fortune, I haue indeuoured to serue him as you haue sene: and that wherein I thought you dyd delighte, I haue accomplished to the vttermoste of my power. You doe see that I haue gotten the good wil of the Countesse your mother, of the Earle your brother, and of all those that doe beare you good wyll: in sutche sorte as in this house I am estemed, not like a seruaunt, but as a sonne: and all the labour whiche I haue sustayned these fiue yeares past, was for none other cause, but to lyue all the daies of my life with you: and vnderstand you wel that I am none of those whiche by these meanes doe pretende to receiue of you anye profite or pleasure, other than that which is good and vertuous: I do know that I can neuer marrie you, and if I could I would not for letting the loue that you beare vnto him, whom I desire to be your husbande, likewise to loue you in vicious sorte, like them that hope to recompence their seruice with dishonour of their Ladies, I am so farre of from that affection, as I had rather be dead than to see you by desert worthy of lesse loue, and that your vertue shoulde by any meanes be diminished for any pleasure that might happen vnto mee. I do pretend and craue for the ende and recompence of my service, but one thing: which is, that you will continue my loyall and faithfull maistresse, neuer to withdrawe from me your wonted grace and fauour, and that you will maintaine mee in that estate wherein I am. Reposinge your trust and fidelitie in me more than in any other, making your selfe so assured of me, as if for your honor or any cause touching your person, you stand in neede of the life of a Gentleman, the same shal right willingly be employed at your commaundement: in like maner all thinges vertuous and honest which euer I shal attempt I beseech you to thinke to be done onely for the loue of you: and if I haue done for Ladies of lesse reputacion than you be, any thing worthy of regard, be assured that for such a maistresse as you be, my enterprises shal increase in such sort, as the things which I found difficult and impossible, shall be easelie for me to accomplishe; but if you do not accept mee to be wholy yours, I determine to giue ouer armes, and to renounce valiaunce, because it hath not succoured me in necessitie: wherfore, Madame, I humblie beseech you that my iust request may not be refused, sith with your honour and conscience you cannot well denie the same.” The yong Lady hearing this vnaccustomed sute, began to chaunge her colour, and to caste downe her eyes like an amased woman, notwithstandinge, being wyse and discrete she said vnto him: “If (Amadour) your request vnto me be none other than you pretende, wherefore have you discoursed this long Oration? I am afraid lest vnder this honeste pretence there lurketh some hidden malice to deceiue the ignoraunce of my youth, wherby I am wrapt in great perplexitie how to make you aunswere: for to refuse the honest amitie which you haue offered, I shall doe contrary to that I haue done hitherto, for I haue reposed in you more trust than in any liuing creature: my conscience or mine honour cannot gainesay your demaunde, nor the loue that I beare to the sonne of the Infant Fortune, which is grounded vpon fayth of mariage: where you say that you pretende nothinge but that is good and vertuous, I cannot tell what thing should let me to make you aunswere according to your request, but a feare that I conceiue in hart, founded vpon the small occasion that you haue to vse that speache, for if you haue alreadye what you demaunde, what doth constraine you to speake so affectuouslie?” Amadour that was not without an aunsweare, said vnto her: “Madame, you speake very wisely, and you do me so much honour, for the confidence and truste which according to your sayinge you do repose in me, as if I doe not content my selfe with such a benefite, I were the vnworthiest man aliue: but vnderstande Madame, that he which goeth about to builde a perpetual mansion, ought to haue regard to a sure and firme foundacion: wherfore I which desire perpetually to remaine your seruaunte, doe seeke not onely the meanes to kepe my selfe neare about you, but also to foresee that none doe vnderstand the great affection that I do beare you: for although my mind be so vertuous and honest, as the same may disclose it selfe before the whole worlde, yet there bee some so ignorant and vnskilfull of louers harts, as manye times will iudge contrary to trouth, wherof proceedeth so ill brute and report, as if the effectes were wicked: the cause which hath made me so bold to say and declare vnto you thus much, is the suspicion that Paulina hath conceyued, for that I cannot loue her: who doth nothing els but marke and espie my countenaunce in euerye place, and when you vse your familiar talke with me before her, I am so afraide to shewe any signe whereby shee maye grounde or verifie her iudgemente, that I fall into that inconuenience, which I would willingly auoyde: wherefore I haue thought good to beseech you (before her and those which you do know to be so malicious) to refraine from talkinge with mee so sodainlye, for I had rather dye, than anye liuinge creature should haue mistrust thereof: and were it not for the loue which I beare vnto your honour, I had not yet declared the same vnto you, for I do hold my selfe sufficiente happy and content of the onely loue and affiaunce that you put in me, crauing nought els butt the continuance of the same.” Florinda wel satisfyed with this aunswere, began to feele in harte a further thing to growe than euer she did before: and hearing the honest reasons alleaged by him, said, that her honestie and vertue shoulde make aunsweare for her, and therewithall assented to his demaunde: whereof whether Amadour were ioyful, Louers neede not doubt: but Florinda credited more his counsell, than he would haue had her. For shee being fearefull and timerous, not onely before Paulina, but in all other places, vsed farre other countenaunce than she was wont to do: and in this alienation of her former familiarity, she misliked the conuersation that Amadour had with Paulina, whose beauty was such, that she could not otherwise beleeue, but that hee loued her: and Florinda to passe ouer her heauinesse, daily vsed the company of Auenturade, that began maruelously to be ialous betweene her husbande and Paulina, whereof shee made complaint many times to Florinda, who comforted her so well as shee coulde, like one attached with the same disease: Amadour coniecturinge by the countenaunce of Florinda, that not onely shee was estraunged from hym through his former aduertisement, but also that there was some other displeasure conceyued, comming vpon a time, from euensong out of the Monasterie, he sayd vnto her: “Madame, what countenaunce do you make me?” “Such as I thincke doth please you best,” answered Florinda. Then Amadour suspecting a matter, to know whether it were true, began to saye: “Madame, I haue so vsed Paulina, as she beginneth to give ouer her opinion of you.” She answered him: “Ye cannot do a better thing either for your selfe or for me: for in doing your selfe a pleasure, you do honour vnto me.” Amadour iudged by these words that she thought he toke pleasure to talke of Paulina, wherewith he became so desperate, as hee could not forbeare to say vnto her in anger: “Madame, you begin very sone to torment your seruante: there was neuer paine more greeuous vnto mee, than to be forced to speake to her whom I loue not: and sithens al that which I do for your seruice is taken in ill part, I wil neuer speake againe vnto her, whatsoeuer happen: and to dissemble mine anger and contentacion, I wil addresse my selfe to some place hereby, till your fancie be ouer past: but I hope I shall receiue newes from my captaine, to retourne to the warres, where I will so longe continue, as you shall well knowe, that nothing els but you alone doth force me to tarrie here.” And in saying so, without attending for her aunswere, hee incontinently departed, and shee remayned so sad and pensive as any woman coulde be: and loue began to shewe his greate force in such wyse as shee knowing her wrong incessantly, wrote to Amadour praying him to retourne home, which he did within a few dayes after that his choler was past, and to tell you what businesse there was, to interrupte and breake the ialousie conceiued, it were superfluous: but in the ende, he wanne the field, so that she promised him, not onely to beleeue that he loued not Paulina, but also helde her selfe assured that it should be to him a martirdome intollerable, to speake vnto her or any other, except it were to do her seruice: after that loue had vanquished this presente suspicion, and that the two louers began to take more pleasure in their mutuall talke than euer they did before: newes came that the king of Spaine was about to addres his Armie to Saulse, wherfore he that was wont to be there with the first, was not like now to fayle to augment his honour: but true it is, that his griefe was presently more greate, than at other times before, aswell for losinge the pleasure which he enioyed, as for feare to finde some mutacion and chaunge at his returne, because he saw Florinda pursued by great Princes and Lords, and alreadye come to the age of XV. yeares, and thought that if she were maried in his absence, he should neuer haue occasion to see her againe, except the Countesse of Arande would appointe his wyfe to waite vppon her: for accomplishment wherof he made such frends, as the Countesse and Florinda promised him, that into what soeuer place she were maried his wyfe Auenturade should attende vpon her: and although it was in question that Florinda should be maried into Portugall, yet determined that his wyfe should neuer forsake her: and vppon this assuraunce, not without vnspeakeable sorow, Amadour departed and left his wife with the Countesse. When Florinda was alone, her seruaunt departed, shee gaue her selfe to all vertuous life, hopinge thereby to atteine the fame of a most perfecte Lady, and to be counted worthie the interteignemente of such a seruaunt. Amadour arriued at Barsalone, was banqueted and intertayned of the Ladies after the old maner, but they finding him so altered and chaunged, thought that Mariage could neuer haue had such power vppon man, as it had ouer him: for he seemed then to disdaine, what somtime he greatly desired, and specially the Countesse of Palamons, whom he derely loued, could deuise by no meanes to make him go alone home to his lodging: Amadour tarried at Barsalone so little while as hee coulde, because hee might not come late to the place where hee purposed to winne and atchiue honour: and being arriued at Saulse, great and cruell warres were comenced betwene the two kinges, which I purpose not to recite, ne yet the noble enterprises done by Amadour, whose fame was bruted aboue the rest of his companions. The duke of Nagyers arriuinge at Parpignon, had charge of two thousand men, and prayed Amadour to be his Lieuetenaunte, who with that hand serued so well, as no crie was hard in al the skirmishes, other than of Nagyers. It chaunced that the king of Thunis, which of long time had warre with the Spaniards, vnderstandinge howe the kinges of Spaine and Fraunce were together by the eares at Parpignon and Narbonne, thought that in better time he could not anoye the king of Spaine: wherefore he sent a great nomber of Foists and other vessels, to robbe and spoile those frontiers which were ill guarded and kept: they of Barsalone seing a nomber of Shippes passe before the Towne, aduertised the king that was at Saulse, who immediatly sent the Duke of Nagyers to Palamons: and when the shippes discried that the place was well guarded, they made as though they would passe further: but about midnight they retourned, and landed so many men, that the Duke of Nagyers was taken prisoner. Amadour which was very vigilant, hearing allarme, presently assembled so many men as he could, and defended him self so wel, as the force of his enemies a long time could not hurt him: but in thende knowing that the Duke of Nagyers was taken prisoner, and that the Turks were determined to burn the Citie of Palamons, and then to fier the house which he strongly had forced againste them, hee thought it better to render himself, than to be cause of the losse of so manye good souldiors as were vnder his gouernmente, and also by putting himselfe to raunsome, he hoped in time to come to see Florinda: then he submitted himselfe to a Turke called Derlyn, the gouernor of the king of Thunis, who conueyed him home to his maister, where he was well entertaigned, and better kept: for they thought that hauing him in their hands, they had gotten the only Achilles of Spaine. In this sort Amadour continued almost the space of two yeares, in the seruice of the king of Thunis: newes came into Spaine of this ouerthrow, wherof the frends of the Duke of Nagyers, were very sorowfull: but they that loued the honor of their countrie, thoughte Amadour to bee the greatest losse, the brute wherof was noysed in the house of the Countesse of Arande, wher at that time the poore gentlewoman Auenturade lay very sore sicke. The Countesse suspecting very much the affection that Amadour bare vnto her daughter, which he suffered and dissembled for his vertue’s sake, called her daughter aside, and told her the pitious newes. Florinda which could well dissemble said unto her, that it was a great losse for al their house, but specially she pitied the state of his poore wife, because at that time she was so sore sicke. But seing her mother weepe so bitterly, she let fal some teares to keepe her company, least through to much dissimulacion her loue might be discouered. After that time, the Countesse spake to her many times, but she could neuer perceiue by her countenance, any cause of certaine suspicion. I will leaue to speake of the voyages, the prayers, the supplications and fastings, which Florinda did ordinarily make for the safegard and prosperitie of Amadour, who incontinently so sone as he was ariued at Thunis, sent newes to his frends, and by a sure messenger aduertized Florinda, that he was in good health and hope to retourne. Which newes was to the poore Lady, the only meanes to releue and ease her sorow. And doubt ye not, but the meanes of writing, was vtterly debarred from Amadour, wherof Florinda acquited herself so diligently, as by her letters and epistles, he receiued great consolation and comfort. The Countesse of Arande receiued commaundement from the king to repaire to Saragosa, where hee that time was arriued. And there she found the yong Duke of Cardonne making sute to the king and Queene, for mariage of her daughter. The Countesse vnwilling to disobey the king, agreed, thinkinge that her daughter being very yonge, had none other affection, but that which already had taken sure impression. When the accorde was concluded, shee sayde vnto her daughter, that she had chosen that matche, as best worthy to ioyne with her person. Her daughter considering howe in a thing already done it was to late to take counsell, said vnto her, that God was to be praised in all things. And seing her mother so far alienated from her intent, she thought it better to shew her selfe obedient, than to take pitie vpon herselfe. And to comfort her in that sorowe, she vnderstode that the infant Fortune was at the point of death. But before her mother or any other person, she shewed not so much as one signe or token therof, strayning her grief so much, as the teares by force retiringe to her harte, did cause the bloud to issue forth at her Nose, in such abundance, as her life was in present daunger. And to recouer her of that disease, shee was maried vnto him, for whose sake shee had rather haue chaunged her life for present death. After the mariage, Florinda went wyth her husbande into the Duchy of Cardonne, and in her company Auenturade, to whom she secretly made complaint, as wel of her mother’s rigor, as also of the sorow she conceyued for the losse of the sonne of the Infant Fortune. But of her griefe for Amadour, she spake no worde, but by way of comforting her. This yong lady then determined to haue God and the respect of her honoure before her eies, and so wel to dissemble her griefes, as none at any time should perceiue that shee misliked her husband. In this sort Florinda passed long time, in a life no lesse pleasaunt than death. The report whereof she sent to her good seruaunt Amadour, who vnderstanding her great loue, and wel disposed hart, and the loue shee bare to the Infant Fortune, thought that it was impossible she could liue long, and lamented her state more than his owne. This griefe augmented his paine of imprisonmente, wishinge to haue remayned a slaue all the days of his life, so that Florinda had had a husbande respondent to her desire, forgettinge his owne griefe by feeling that his frende did suffer. And because he vnderstode by a secret friend which he had gotten in the Court of the king of Thunis, that the king was minded to offer him the gibbet, or els to make him renounce his fayth, for the desire hee had to retaine him still, and to make him a good Turke, he behaued himself so well, wyth him that toke him prisoner, that he gaue him leaue to depart vpon his fayth, taxing him at so greate raunsome, as he thought a man of so small substance was neuer able to pay. And so without speaking to the king his maister, hee let him go vpon his fayth. After he had shewed himselfe at the Court of the king of Spaine, he departed incontinently to his frends to get his raunsome, and went straight to Barsalone, whether the yong Duke of Cardonne, his mother, and Florinda, was gone aboute certaine affaires. Auenturade so sone as she heard tell that her husband was come, declared the same to Florinda, who seemed for her sake greatly to reioyce therat. But fearing that the desire she had to see him would make her chaunge countenaunce, and that they which knew not the cause therof, would conceiue some ill opinion, she stode still at a window to see him come a far of: and so sone as she espied him, shee went downe a paire of darke staires that none mighte perceiue her chaunge of colour. When she had imbraced Amadour, shee led him into her chamber, and from thence to her mother in law, which had neuer seene him before. He had not continued there two dayes, but he was so well beloued, as he was before in the house of the Countesse of Arande. I will omitte the words and talke betwene Florinda and Amadour, and the complaintes which he made vnto her of his ill aduenture, that hee had sustayned in his absence. And after manye teares vttered by her, for the heauines she had taken, aswel for the mariage against her wil, as for the losse of him that she loued so dearely, and for him whom she thoughte neuer to see againe, shee determined to take her consolation in the loue and fidelitie that she bare to Amadour, which notwithstanding she durst not open and declare: but he that much doubted therof, lost no occasion and time to let her know and vnderstande the great loue he bare her. And euen vppon the point that she was ready to receiue him, not as a seruaunt, but for her assured and perfect frend, there chaunced a maruellous fortune: for the king, for certaine matters of importance, incontinently sent forth Amadour, wherof his wyfe conceyued such sorrow, as hearing those newes, she souned and fell from the stayres where she stode, wherewith she hurte herselfe so sore, as neuer after she reuiued. Florinda (that by the death of her had lost all comfort) made such sorrow, as one that was destitute of good frends and kinsfolke, but Amadour toke the same in worst part: for he had not onely lost one of the most honest women that euer was, but also the meanes that he should neuer after that time haue occasion to visit Florinda. For which cause he fell into such sicknes, as he was like to haue died sodainly. The old Duchesse of Cardonne, incessantly did visite him, and alledged many philosophical reasons to make him paciently to receiue death, bu it auayled nothing: for if death of thone side did torment him, loue on the other did augment his martirdome. Amadour seing that his wyfe was buried, and that the king had sent for him, (hauing no occasion of longer abode there) he entred into such dispaire, as hee seemed to be oute of his wittes. Florinda which in comforting him was almost desolate, remayned by him one whole afternone, vsinge very honest and discrete talke vnto him, thinking thereby to diminishe the greatnesse of his sorrowe, and assured him that shee would deuise wayes how he might visite her more oft than he did thinke for. And because he must depart the next morning, and was so feeble and weake that he could not rise from his bed, he intreated her to come and se him at night after euery man was retired to bed: which she promised to doe, not knowing that loue’s extremety was voyd of reason. And he that saw no hope euer after that time to see her againe, whom so long time he had serued: and of whom he had neuer receyued other interteignment than that you haue heard, was so beaten and ouercom with loue long dissembled, and of the despaire he conceiued, that (all meanes to vse her company taken away) he purposed to play double or quit, either to lose her, or to win her fauour for euer, and to pay himself at one instant the rewarde which he thought he had right wel deserued. Wherfore he caused the curtaines of his bed to be drawen, that they which came into the chamber mighte not see him, complayning of sicknes more than he was wont to do, wherby they of the house thought he would not haue liued XXIV. houres. After euery one of the house had visited him at night, Florinda (at the special request of her husband) came to see him, thinking for his comfort to vtter vnto him her affection, and how aboue all other she would loue him, so far as her honor did permit: and sitting downe in a chayre at the bed’s head, she began to comfort him, and therwithal powred out many teares. Amadour seing her sorowful and pensife, thought that in her great torment he might easely attaine the effect of his intent, and lifted himself vp in his bed, which Florinda perceyuing, she would haue staied him, because she thought that through weakenes he was not able to moue: and kneeling vpon his knees, he said vnto her: “Must I for euermore forgo your sight mine owne deare Lady?” And in saying so he fel downe betwene her armes like one that fainted for lack of strength. Then poore Florinda imbraced him, and of long time held him vp, doing all that was possible for his comfort. But the medecine she gaue him to ease his sorow, did rather increase the same more strong: for in fayning himself half dead, without speaking any word, he attempted that which the honor of womanhode doth defend. When Florinda perceiued his ill intent, she could scarce beleue the same, considering his honest requests made before time, and therfore asked him what it was that he desired. But Amadour fearing to heare her aunswere which he knew well could be none other but chaste and vertuous, without further talke, pursued his purpose so earnestly as he could, wherwith Florinda beinge astonned did suspect he had bin out of his wittes rather than beleue that he wente about her dishonor. Wherefore with loude voice she called a gentleman that was in the chamber. Which Amadour hearing, vtterly in dispaire, threw himself so sodenly into his bed, as the gentleman thought he had beene dead. Florinda rising out of the chaire, said vnto him: “Goe quickly and fetch some good vineger.” Which the gentleman did. Then Florinda began to say vnto him: “Amadour, what follie hath inchaunted your wisedome? And what is that which you would haue done unto me?” Amadour that through the force of loue had lost al reason, said vnto her: “Doth my long seruice merite a recompence of such cruelty?” “And wher is the honesty then,” said Florinda, “which so many times you haue preached vnto me?” “Ah, madame!” said Amadour: “I beleue it is impossible your selfe more faithfully to loue your owne honour than I do. For when you were vnmaried, I could so wel subdue my harte and affection, as you did neuer vnderstand my will and desire. And now that you be maried, to the intente your honour may reste in couerte, what wrong do I to aske that which is mine owne, for by force of loue I haue won you? He that first enioyed your harte, hath so ill followed the victorie of your bodye, as hee hath well deserued to lose altogether. He that possesseth your body, is not worthy to haue your hart, wherefore your body is none of his, ne yet he hath no title in the same. But I Madame, these fiue or sixe yeares haue susteyned suche paynes and trauaile for your sake, as you are not ignoraunt but to me appertayneth both your body and harte, for whose sake I haue vtterlye forgotten mine owne. And if you can finde in your hart to defende mee from my right, doubt ye not but they which haue proued the forces of loue, wil lay the blame on you, which hath in this sort robbed me from my libertie, and with your heauenly graces hath obscured my sences, that not knowing hereafter what to do, I am constrayned to go without hope for euer to see you againe. Notwithstanding warrante your selfe, that in what place so euer I am, you shall still possesse my harte, which shall continue your’s for euer, be I vppon the lande or water, or betweene the hands of my moste cruell enemies. But if I could recouer before my departure, that surety of you which the greatnesse of my loue deserueth, I shall be strong enough paciently to beare the griefes of my long absence. And if it please you not to graunt me this request, you shal shortly heare tell that your rigor hath rendred vnto me a most vnhappy and cruel death.” Florinda no lesse astonned than sorie, to heare such words proceede from him, of whom she neuer had any such suspicion, weepinge saide unto him: “Alas, Amadour, is this the meaning of those vertuous words which sithens the beginning of my youth ye haue vttered vnto me? Is this the honor of the conscience, which you haue many times perswaded me rather to die than lose the same? Haue you forgotten the good examples recited vnto me of vertuous dames that haue resisted foolish loue? And is this the maner of your contempt of Ladies that were foolish and vaine, whose light behauiour you dissembled so much to abhorre? I cannot beleeue Amadour that you are driuen into such madnes and furie, as the feare of GOD, your owne conscience, and the estimacion of mine honor, should be altogether out of your minde and memorie. But if it so be as you say, I do praise the goodnes of God, which hath preuented the mishap that nowe I am fallen into, in shewing me by your words, the hart which I did not know. For hauing lost the sonne of the Infant Fortune, who not onely is maried into another place, but also loued another, and I now maried to him, which I cannot loue, I thought and determined wholly, with all mine hart and affection to loue you, founding the same vpon that vertue which I knew to be in you, which loue by your meanes onelye I haue conceiued, and therfore did more esteeme my honor and conscience, than the price of mine owne life. Vppon assurance of this stone of honestie, I am come hither thinking to build a most sure foundacion. But (Amadour) in one moment thou haste declared, how in place of a pure foundacion, thy buildinge is reared vpon a light sand, and vnconstant ground, or els vpon a filthy and foul quamire. And where I began to erect a good part of the lodgings of this building vpon the ground of the fidelitie, hoping to dwel there for euer, sodenly thou hast ouerthrowen the whole plot. Wherfore, you must immediately breake in sonder the hope and credit that euermore you haue found in me, and determine that in what place soeuer I be, not to pursue me either by worde or countenaunce. And do not thinke, that I can or will at anye time hereafter chaunge this mine opinion, reciting this my last adieu with great sorrow and griefe. But if I had made an othe of this perfect amitie and loue, I know mine harte would haue died vpon this breach, although the astonishment in that I am deceiued, is so great, as I am wel assured it will make my life either short or sorowfull: and therefore I bid you farewel and that for euer.” I purpose not to tel you the sorow which Amadour felt by hearing those words, because it is impossible not only to write them, but also to thincke them, except it be of such as haue had experience of the like. And seing that vppon this cruel conclusion she would haue gone away, he caught her by the arme, knowing well that if he did not remoue that ill opinion, which by his owne occasion she had conceyued, hee should lose her for euer. Wherfore he said vnto her with a very faint chere: “Madame, al the dayes of my life I haue desired to loue a woman endued with honestie and vertue: and because I haue found so few, I would fain haue tried whether your person had bin worthy of estimacion and loue, wherof now I am wel assured, and humblie do praise God therefore, because mine hart is addressed to such perfection: beseching you to pardon this fond and bold attempt, sith you see that the end doth redound to your owne honor and contentacion.” Florinda, which began to know by him the malice of other men, like as she was hard to beleue the euill wher it was, euen so she was more difficile to credite the good where it was not, and said vnto him: “I pray to God your words be true: yet am I not so ignorant but that the state of mariage wherein I am, hath made me euidently to know the strong passion of blind loue which hath forced you vnto this follie: for if God had losed my hande, I am wel assured you would not haue plucked back the bridle: they that attempt to seeke after vertue, do not take the way that you do tread: but this is sufficient if I haue lightly beleeued any honestie in you, it is time for me now to know the truth, that I may rid my self from you.” And in saying so, Florinda went out of the chamber, and all the nighte long, she neuer left weeping, feeling such great griefe in that alteracion, as her hart had much to do, to sustaine the assaults of sorrow that loue had made: for although reason thoughte neuer to loue him againe, yet the hart which is not subiect to our fancie, would not accord to that crueltie: for which consideracion, she loued him no lesse than she was wont to do, and knowing that loue was the cause of that fault, she purposed for satisfaction of loue, to Loue him with all her hart, and yet for the obedience and fealtie due to her honor, she thought neuer to make any semblance. In the morning Amadour departed in this sort, troubled as you haue hearde, neuerthelesse his couragious heart centred not in dispaire, but renued a fresh hope once againe to see Florinda, and to win her fauour: then he toke his iourney towards the Court of Spaine (which was at Tolledo) taking his way by the Countesse of Arande, wher late in an euening he arriued, and found the Countesse verye sicke for the absence of her daughter Florinda: when shee saw Amadour, shee kissed and imbraced him, as if he had beene her owne child, aswel for the loue she bare vnto him, as for the like which she doubted that he bare to Florinda, of whom very earnestly she inquired for newes, who tolde her the best that he could deuise, but not the whole truth, and confessed vnto her the loue betweene Florinda and him, (which Florinda had still conceiled and kept secrete) praying her ayde to bring him againe into her fauour: and so the next morning he departed. And after he had done his businesse with the Queene, he repayred to the warres, so sadde and chaunged in all his condicions, as the Ladies, Captaynes and all they that were wonte to keepe him companie, did not know him. His apparell was all blacke, mourning for the death of his wife, wherby he couered the sorrow which was hid in his hart. In this wyse Amadour passed three or 4 yeres before he returned to the Court. And the Countesse of Arande which heard tell that Florinda was so much altered, as it would haue moued any hart to behold her, sent for her, hoping that she would haue come, but her expectacion was frustrate, for when Florinda vnderstode that Amadour had told her mother the good will betweene them, and that her mother being so wise and vertuous giuing credite to Amadour, did beleue his report, she was in marueilous perplexitie, because of the one side she saw that her mother did esteeme him so well, and on the other side if she declared vnto her the truth, Amadour woulde conceiue displeasure: which thing she had rather die than to do: wherefore she thought herselfe strong inough to chastise him of his folly, without helpe of frends. Againe, she perceyued that by dissembling the euil which she knew by him, she should be constrained by her mother and her frends, to speake and beare him good countenaunce, wherby she feared he would be the more encoraged: but seing that he was far of, she passed the lesse of the matter: and when the Countesse her mother did commaunde her, she wrote letters vnto him, but they were such as he might wel gather that they were written rather vpon obedience, than of good wil, the reading wherof bred sorrow vnto him in place of that ioye he was wonte to conceiue in her former wrytings. Within the terme of two or three yeres, after he had done so many noble enterprises as al the paper of Spaine could not containe them, he deuised a new inuention, not to wynne and recouer the harte of Florinda (for he demed the same quite lost) but to haue the victorie ouer his enemy, sithens she had vsed him in that sorte, and reiecting al reason and specially feare of death, into the hazarde wherof he hasted himselfe, he concluded and determined his enterprise in such sorte, as for his behauiour towardes the Gouernour, hee was deputed and sent by him to treate with the king of certaine exploytes to be done at Locates, sparing not to impart his message to the Countesse of Aranda, before he told the same to the king, to vse her good aduise therein: and so came in poste straight into the Countie of Aranda, where he had intelligence in what place Florinda remained, and secretly sent to the Countesse one of his frendes to tell her of his comming, and to pray her to keepe it close, and that he might speake with her that night in secrete wise that no man might perceiue: the Countesse very ioyfull of his comming, tolde it to Florinda, and sent her into her husbande’s chamber, that she might be ready when she should send for her after eche man was gone to bed. Florinda whiche was not yet well boldened by reason of her former feare, making a good face of the matter to her mother, withdrewe her selfe into an oratorie or chappell, to recommend her selfe to God, praying him to defend her hart from al wicked affection, and therwithal considered how often Amadour had praysed her beautie, which was not impaired or diminished, although she had bene sicke of longe time before: wherefore thinking it better to doe iniurie to her beautie by defacing it, than to suffer the harte of so honest a personage by meanes thereof wickedly to be inflamed, shee tooke vp a stone which was within the Chappell, and gaue her selfe so great a blowe on the face that her mouthe, eyes and nose, were altogether deformed: and to thintent no man might suspect what she had done, when the Countesse sent for her in going out of the Chappell, she fell downe vppon a great stone, and therewithall cried out so loude, as the Countesse came in and founde her in pitious state, who incontinently dressing her face, and binding it vp with clothes, conueyed her into her chamber, and prayed her to goe into her closet to entertaigne Amadour, tyll she were weary of his companie: whiche she did, thinking that there had bene somebody with hym: but finding him alone, and the doore shut vpon her, Amadour was not so well pleased as she was discontented: who nowe thoughte eyther with loue or force to get that, whiche hee had so long tyme desyred: and after he had spoken a fewe woordes vnto her, and found her in that mynde hee lefte her, and that to dye for it shee woulde not chaunge her opinion, desperatly he sayde vnto her: “By God madame, the fruite of my labour shall not be thus taken from me for scruples and doubtes: and sithe that Loue, pacience, and humble desires, cannot preuayle, I will not spare by force to get that, which except I haue it will be the meanes of mine overthrowe.” When Florinda sawe his face and eyes so altered, and that the fairest die and colour of the world, was become so red as fier, with his most pleasaunt and amiable loke transformed into horrible hew and furious, and therewithall discried the very hote burning fier, to sparkle within his harte and face: and how in that fury with one of his strong fistes he griped her delicate and tender hands: and on the other side shee seeing all her defences to fayle her, and that her feete and handes were caught in suche captiuitie as she could neither run away nor yet defend her selfe: knewe none other remedie, but to proue if he had yet remaining in him any griftes of the former loue, that for the honour therof he might forget his crueltie. Wherefore she sayd vnto him: “Amadour, if now you doe accompt me for an enemy, I besech you for the honestie of the loue which at other times I haue found planted in your harte, to geue me leaue to speake before you doe torment me.” And when shee saw him recline his eare, she pursued her talk in this wyse: “Alas, Amadour, what cause haue you to seke after the thing wherof you shall receiue no contentation, inflicting vppon me such displeasure as there can be no greater? you haue many times proued my wil and affection in the time of my youthfull dayes, and of my beautie farre more excellent than it is now, at what tyme your passion might better be borne with and excused, than nowe: in such wyse as I am nowe amased to see that you haue the harte to torment me at that age and great debilitie wherewith I am affected: I am assured that you doubt not but that my wyl and mind is such as it was wont to be: wherefore you can not obtayne your demaunde but by force: and if you sawe howe my face is arrayed, you would forget the pleasure whiche once you conceiued in me, and by no meanes would forcibly approche nere vnto me: and if there be lefte in you yet any remnantes of loue, it is impossible but that pitie may vanquishe your furie: and to that pitie and honestie whereof once I had experience in you, I do make my plaint, and of the same I do demaund grace and pardon, to thintent that according to theffect of your wonted perswasion and good aduise you may suffer me to liue in that peace and honestie, which I haue determined and vowed during life: and if the loue which you haue borne me be conuerted into hatred, and that more for reuengement than affection, you doe purpose to make me the moste unhappy of the world, I assure you, you shall not be able to bryng your intent to passe, besides that you shall constrayne me against my determination, to vtter and reueale your villany and disordinate appetite towardes her which did repose in you an incredible affiance: by discouering whereof, thinke verely that your lyfe cannot continue without perill.” Amadour breaking her talke sayde vnto her: “If I die for it, I will presently be acquieted of my torment: but the deformitie of your face (whiche I thinke was done by you of set purpose) shall not let me to accomplishe my will: for since I can get nothing of you but the bones and carcase, I will holde them so fast as I can.” And when Florinda sawe that prayers, reason, nor teares could not auayle, but that with crueltie he woulde nedes followe his villanous desire, which she had hetherto still auoided by force of resistence, she did helpe her selfe so long, till she feared the losse of her breath, and with a heauy and piteous voice she called her mother so loud as shee could crie, who hearing her daughter crie and cal with rufull voyce, began greatly to feare the thing that was true: wherfore she ran so fast as she could into the warderobe. Amadour not being so nere death as he saide he was, left of his holde in suche good time, as the Ladye opening her closet, founde him at the dore, and Florinda farre enough from him. The Countesse demaunded of him, saying: “Amadour what is the matter? tell me the truthe.” Who like one that was neuer vnprouided of excuse, with his pale face and wanne, and his breath almoste spent, sayde vnto her: “Alas, madame, in what plight is my lady Florinda? I was neuer in all my life in that amase wherin I am now: for as I sayd vnto you, I had thought that I had inioyed part of her good will, but nowe I know right well that I haue none at all: I thinke madame, that sithe the time she was brought vp with you, shee was neuer lesse wise and vertuous than shee is nowe, but farre more daungerous and squeimishe in speaking and talking then behoueth, and euen nowe I would haue loked vpon her, but she would not suffer me: and when I viewed her countenaunce, thinking that it had bene some dreame or vision, I desired to kisse her hande, according to the fashion of the countrey, which shee vtterly refused. True it is Madame, I haue offended her, wherof I craue pardon of you, but it chaunced only for that I toke her by the hand, which I did in a maner by force, and kissed the same demaunding of her no other pleasure: but she like one (as I suppose) that hath sworne my death, made an outcry for you (as you haue hearde) for what cause I know not, except that shee were afraide I would haue forced some other thing: notwithstanding Madame, whatsoeuer the matter be, I protest vnto you the wrong is myne, and albeit that she ought to loue al your honest seruaunts, yet fortune so willeth as I alone, the moste affectioned of them all, is clerely exempt out of her fauour: and yet I purpose still to continue towardes you and her, the same man I came hither, beseching the continuance of your good grace and fauour, sithens that without desert I haue loste hers.” The Countesse which partely beleued, and partelye mistrusted his talke, went vnto her daughter, and demaunded wherfore she cried out so loud. Florinda answered that she was afrayde: and albeit the Countesse subtilly asked her of many things, yet Florinda would neuer make other answere, for that hauing escaped the handes of her enemy, she thought it punishement enough for him to lose his labour: after that the Countesse had of long tyme communed with Amadour, she lefte him yet once againe to enter in talke with Florinda before her, to see what countenaunce shee would make him. To whom he spake fewe wordes except they were thankes for that she had not confessed the truthe to her mother, praying her at least wise that seing he was dispossessed out of her hart, she would suffer none other to receiue his place: but she answering his former talke, saide: “If I had had any other meanes to defend my selfe from you than by crying out, she should neuer haue heard me, and of me you shall neuer heare worse, except you doe constrayne me as you haue done, and for louing any other man, you shall not neede to feare: for sithe I haue not found in your harte (which I estemed the most vertuous in all the world) the good successe that I desired, I wyll neuer beleue hereafter that vertue is planted in any man. And this outrage shall make me free from all passions that Loue can force.” And in saying so she tooke her leaue. The mother which behelde her countenaunce, could suspecte nothing, and after that tyme, shee was persuaded that her daughter bare no more affection to Amadour, and thought assuredly that she was voyde of reason, because she hated al those things which she was wont to loue: and from that time forth there was such warre betwene the mother and the daughter, as the mother for the space of VII. yeares would not speake vnto her, except it were in anger: which she did at the request of Amadour: during which time, Florinda conuerted the misliking of her husband, into mere and constant loue, to auoyde the rigour and checkes of her mother: howbeit, seing that nothing could preuayle, she purposed to beguile Amadour, and leauing for a day or two her straunge countenance towards him, she counselled Amadour to loue a woman, whiche as she sayd, did commonly dispute and talke of their loue. This lady dwelt with the Queene of Spaine, and was called Lorette, who was very ioyfull and glad to get such a seruant: and Florinda founde meanes to cause a brute of this newe loue to be spred in euery place, and specially the Countesse of Arande (being at the Court) perceiued the same, who afterwards was not so displeased with Florinda, as she was wont to be: Florinda vpon a tyme heard tel that a Captain the husband of Loret, began to be ialous ouer his wife, determining by some meanes or other, he cared not howe, to kill Amadour. Florinda notwithstanding her dissembled countenance, could not suffer any hurt to be done to Amadour, and therefore incontinently gaue him aduertisement thereof: but he retourning againe to his former follies, answered, that if it would please her to intertaigne him euery day three houres, he would neuer speake againe to Lorette, whereunto by no meanes shee would consent. Then Amadour saide vnto her: “If you will not haue me to liue, wherefore go ye about to defend me from death? except ye purpose to torment me aliue with greater extremitie then a thousand deathes can do: but for so much as death doth flie from me, I will neuer leaue to seeke him out, by whose approche only I shall haue rest.” Whilest they were in these tearmes, newes came that the kyng of Granado was about to enter into great warres against the king of Spain: in suche wyse as the king sent against hym the Prince his sonne, and with hym the constable of Castile, and the Duke of Albe, twoo auncient and sage Lordes. The duke of Cardonne and the counte of Arande not willing to tarie behinde, besought the kyng to geue eyther of them a charge: whiche hee did according to the dignitie of their houses, appointing Amadour to be their guide: who during that warre, did sutche valiaunt factes as they seemed rather to be desperately than hardily enterprysed: and to come to the effect of this discourse, his great valiaunce was tryed euen to the death: for the Moores making a bragge as though they would geue battayle, when they sawe the army of the Christians, counterfaited a retire, whome the Spaniardes pursued, but the olde Constable and the duke of Albe doubting their pollicie, stood still, against the will of the Prince of Spaine, not suffering him to passe ouer the Ryuer, but the counte of Arande and the Duke of Cardonne, (although they were countremanded) did followe the chase, and when the Moores sawe that they were pursued with so small a number, they returned, and at one recountrie kylled the Duke of Cardonne, and the Counte of Arande was so sore hurte as hee was lefte for dead in the place. Amadour arriuing vpon this ouerthrowe, inuaded the battayle of the Moores with sutche rage and furie, as hee rescued the twoo bodyes of the Duke and Countie, and caused them to be conueyed to the Prince’s campe, who so lamented their chaunce, as if they had bene his owne brethren: but in searching their woundes, the Countie of Arande was founde to be aliue, and was sent home to his own house in a horselitter, where of long time he was sicke, and likewise was conueied to Cardonne the dead bodie of the yong Duke. Amadour in rescuing those two bodies, tooke so little heede to him selfe, as he was inclosed with a great number of the Moores, and because he would bee no more taken, as well to verifie his faith towardes God, as also his vowe made to his Lady, and also considering that if he were prysoner to the kyng of Granado, either hee should cruelly be put to death, or els forced to renounce his faith, he determined not to make his death or taking glorious to his enemies: wherefore kissing the crosse of his sworde, and rendring his body and soule to the handes of almighty God, he stabbed him selfe into the body with sutche a blow, as there neded no second wound to rid him of his life: in this sorte died poore Amadour, so muche lamented as his vertues did deserue. The newes hereof was bruted throughout Spaine, and came to Florinda who then was at Barselone, where her husbande in his life tyme ordeined the place of his buriall: and after shee had done his honourable obsequies, without making her own mother, or mother in law priuie, she surrendred her selfe into the monasterie of Iesus, there to liue a religious life, receiuing him for her husband and friende, whiche had deliuered her from the vehement loue of Amadour, and from a displeasaunt life so great and vnquiet as was the company of her husband. In this wise she conuerted all her affections, to pietie and the perfit loue of God, who after she had long time liued a religious life, shee yelded vp her soule in such ioye as the Bridegrom doth when he goeth to visite his spowes.

[ THE FIFTY-FOURTH NOUELL.]

The incontinencie of a duke and of his impudencie to attaine his purpose, with the iust punishement which he receiued for the same.

In the Citie of Florence (the chiefest of all Thuscane) there was a Duke that maried the Lady Margaret the bastarde daughter of the Emperour Charles the fift. And bicause shee was very young, it was not lawfull for him to lye with her, but taryng till she was of riper yeres, he interteigned an vsed her like a noble gentleman. And who to spare his wife, was amorous of certaine other Gentlewomen of the citie. Amonges whom he was in loue with a very fayre and wyse Gentlewoman, that was sister to a Gentleman, a seruaunt of his, whome the Duke loued so well as himselfe, to whome he gaue so muche authoritie in his house, as his word was so wel obeied and feared as the Duke’s him self, and there was no secrete thing in the Duke’s minde, but he declared the same vnto him, who might ful wel haue bene called a second himself. The duke seing his sister to be a woman of great honestie, had no wayes or meanes to vtter vnto her the loue that he bare her (after he had inuented all occasions possible) at length he came to this Gentleman which he loued so well, and said vnto him: “My friend, if there were any thing in all the world, wherein I were able to pleasure thee, and woulde not doe it at thy request, I should be afraid to say my fantasie, and much ashamed to craue your help and assistance: but the loue is such which I bare thee, as if I had a wife, mother, or daughter, that were able to saue thy life, I would rather imploy them, than to suffer thee to die in torment: and if thou doe beare vnto me that affection which am thy maister, thinke verely that I doe beare vnto thee the like. Wherefore I will disclose vnto thee suche a secrete and priuie matter, as the silence thereof hath brought me into sutche plight as thou seest, whereof I doe loke for none amendement but by death or by the seruice whiche thou maiest doe me, in a certayne matter which I purpose to tell thee.” The Gentleman hearing the reasons of his maister, and seing his face not fayned, but all besprent with teares, tooke great compassion vpon him and sayd: “My Lorde, I am your humble seruaunt: all the goodes and worship that I haue doth come from you. You may saye vnto me as to your moste approued frende. Assure your self, that all which resteth in my power and abilitie, is already at your commaundement.” Then the Duke began to tell him of the loue that hee bare vnto his sister, which was of sutche force, as if by his meanes he did not enioye her, his life could not long continue. For he saide, that he knew right well that intreatie and presentes were with her of no regard. Wherfore he praied him, that if he loued his life, so well as he did his, to finde meanes for him to receiue that benefite, which without him he was in despaire neuer to recouer. The brother which loued his sister and honor of his kindred, more than the Duke’s pleasure, made a certain reuerence vnto him, humbly beseeching him to vse his trauaill and pain in all other causes sauing in that, bicause it was a sute so slaunderous and infamous, as it would purchase dishonor to his whole familie, adding further, that neither his hart nor his honor could serue him, to consent to do that seruice. The Duke inflamed with vnspeakeable furie, put his finger betwene his teeth, and biting of the nayle, said unto him in great rage: “Well then sithe I finde in thee no frendship, I know what I haue to doe.” The Gentleman knowing the crueltie of his Maister, being sore afraide, replied: “My Lorde, for so much as your desire is vehement and earnest, I will speake vnto her and brynge you aunswere of her mynde.” And as he was departing, the Duke sayde vnto him: “See that thou tender my life as thou wylt that I shall doe thyne.” The Gentleman vnderstanding well what that woorde did meane, absented him selfe a day or twaine to aduise what were best to be done. And amonges diuers his cogitations, there came to his remembraunce the bounden dutie which he dyd owe to his Maister, and the goodes and honours which he had receyued at his handes, on the other syde, hee considered the honour of his house, the good life and chastitie of his syster, who (he knewe well) would neuer consent to that wickednesse, if by subtiltie shee were not surprised, or otherwyse forced, and that it were a thing very straunge and rare, that he should goe about to defame hymselfe and the whole stocke of his progenie. Wherefore hee concluded, that better it were for hym to die, than to commit a mischief so great vnto his sister, whiche was one of the honestest women in all Italie. And therewithall considered how he might deliuer his countrie from sutch a tyrant, which by force would blemishe and spot the whole race of his auncient stock and familie. For he knew right wel that except the duke were taken away, the life of him and his affinitie could not be in securitie and safegarde: wherfore without motion made to his sister of that matter, he deuised how to saue his life and the reproche that should follow. Vpon the second daye he came vnto the duke, and tolde hym in what sorte he had practised with his sister, and that although the same in the beginning was harde and difficult, yet in the ende he made her to consent, vpon condicion that hee would keepe the same so secrete as none but hymselfe and he myght knowe of it. The duke desirous and glad of those newes, dyd sone belieue hym, and imbracing the messanger, promised to geue him whatsoeuer he would demaunde, praying hym with all speede that hee might inioye his desyred purpose. Whereupon they appointed a tyme: and to demaunde whether the duke were glad and ioyfull of the same, it were superfluous. And when the desired night was come, wherin he hoped to haue the victorie of her whom he thought inuincible, he and the gentleman alone withdrewe themselues together, not forgetting his perfumed coif and swete shirte wrought and trimmed after the best maner. And when eche wight was gone to bed, both they repayred to the appointed lodging of his Lady, where being arriued they founde a chamber in decent and comly order. The gentleman taking of the Duke’s night gowne, placed hym in the bedde, and sayde vnto hym: “My Lorde, I wil nowe goe seeke her, which can not enter into this chamber without blushing, howbeit I truste before to morrowe morning she wyll be very glad of you.” Which done, he left the Duke, and went into his own chamber, where he founde one of his seruantes alone, to whome he sayde: “Hast thou the harte to followe me into a place where I shall be reuenged vpon the greatest enemie that I haue in the worlde?” “Yea sir,” aunswered his man. Whereupon the Gentleman toke him with him so sodainly, as he had no leasure to arme him selfe with other weapon but with his onely dagger. And when the Duke heard him come againe, thinking he had brought her with hym that he loued so derely, hee drewe the curteine, and opened his eyes to behold and receiue that ioye which he had so long loked for, but in place of seeing her which he hoped should be the conseruation of his life, he sawe the acceleration of his death, which was a naked sworde that the Gentleman had drawen, who therwithall did strike the Duke, which was in his shirte voyde of weapon, although well armed with courage, and sitting vp in his bedde grasped the Gentleman about the body, and sayde: “Is this thy promise whiche thou hast kept?” And seeing that he had no other weapon but his teeth and nayles, he bitte the gentleman in the arme, and by force of his owne strengthe he so defended himselfe, as they bothe fell downe into the flower. The gentleman fearing the match, called for hys manne, who finding the Duke and his maister fast together, that he wyst not whether to take, he drewe them both by the feete into the middest of the chamber, and with his dagger assayde to cut the Duke’s throte. The duke who defended himselfe, till suche time as the losse of his bloud made him so weake and feeble that he was not able to contende any longer. Then the Gentleman and his man laide him againe into his bed, where they accomplished the effect of that murther. Afterwardes drawing the curteine, they departed and locked the dead body in the chamber. And when he saw that he had gotten the vicctorie of his enemy, by whose death he thought to set at libertie the common wealth, he supposed his facte to be vnperfect if he did not the like to fiue or sixe of them which were nerest to the Duke, and best beloued of him. And to attaine the perfection of that enterpryse, he bad his man to doe the like vnto them one after another, that hee had done to the Duke. But the seruaunt being nothing hardie or coragious, said vnto his maister: “Me thinke, sir, that for this time ye haue done enough, and that it were better for you now to deuise waye howe to saue your owne life, than to seeke meanes to murder any more. For if we do consume so long space of time to kill euery of them, as we haue done in murdering of the Duke, the day light will discouer our enterprise before we haue made an ende, yea although wee finde them naked and without defence.” The gentleman whose euill conscience made him fearfull, did beleue his seruaunt, and taking him alone with him, went to the bishop that had in charge the gates of the citie, and the vse of the Postes, to whom he sayd: “This euening (my Lord) newes came vnto me that mine owne brother lieth at the point of death, and crauing licence of the Duke to goe se him he hath giuen me leaue. Wherefore I beseche you commaunde the Postes to deliuer me two good horse, and that you will sende worde to the porter that the gates may be opened.” The bishop which estemed no lesse his request than the commaundement of the Duke his maister, incontinently gaue him a billet, by vertue wherof both the gates were opened, and the horse made ready according to his demaunde. And vnder colour and pretence of visiting his brother, he rode to Venice, where after he had cured himselfe of the duke’s bitinges fastened in his fleshe, he trauailed into Turkey. In the morning the duke’s seruauntes seing the time so late before their maister retourned, suspected that he was gone forth in visiting of some Ladye, but when they sawe he taried so long, they began to seke for him in euery place. The poore Duchesse into whose harte the loue of her husbande strongly did inuade, vnderstanding that he could not be founde, was very pensife and sorowfull. But when the Gentleman which he so dearely loued, was not likewyse seene abroade, searche was made in his chamber, where finding bloud at the chamber dore, they entred in, but no man was there to tell them any newes, and following the tract of the bloud the poore seruantes of the Duke went to the chamber dore, where he was, which dore they found fast locked, who incontinently brake open the same: and seing the place all bloudy, drew the curteine, and found the wretched carcasse of the Duke lying in the bedde, sleeping his endlesse sleepe. The sorrow and lamentation made by the duke’s seruauntes, carying the dead bodye into his palace, is easie to be coniectured. Wherof when the Bishop was aduertised, he repaired thether, and tolde how the Gentleman was gone awaye in the night in great haste, vnder pretence to goe to see his brother: whereupon it was euidently knowen that it was he that had committed the murder. And it was proued that his poore sister was neuer priuie to the facte, who although she was astonned with the sodaynes of the deede, yet her loue towardes her brother was farre more increased, bicause he had deliuered her from a Prince so cruell, the enemy of her honestie: for doing whereof he did not sticke to hazard his owne life. Whereupon she perseuered more and more in vertue, and although she was poore, by reason her house was confiscate, yet both her sister and shee matched with so honest and riche husbandes as were to be founde in Italie: and afterwardes they both liued in good and great reputation.

[ THE FIFTY-FIFTH NOUELL.]

One of the Frenche kinge’s called Frauncis the firste of that name, declared his gentle nature to Counte Guillaume, that would haue killed him.

In Digeon a town of Burgundie, there came to the seruice of king Frauncis, (whiche was father to Henry the second of that name, whiche Henry was kylled by Mounsier Mongomerie, in a triumphe at the Tilt, and graundfather to Charles the IX. that now raigneth in Fraunce) an Earle of Allemaigne called Guillaume, of the house of Saxon, whereunto the house of Sauoie is so greatly allied, as in old time they were but one. This Counte for so much as he was estemed to be so comely and hardy a Gentleman as any was in Almaigne, was in sutche good fauour with the king, as he tooke him not onely into seruice, but vsed him so nere his persone, as he made him of his priuy chamber. Vpon a day the Gouernour of Burgundie, the Lorde Trimouille (an auncient knight and loyall seruaunt of the kyng) like one suspicious and fearfull of the euill and hurte of his Maister, had daylie espies ouer his enemies, vsing his affaires so wysely, as very fewe thinges were concealed from hym. Among other aduertisementes, one of his friendes wrote vnto him that the Counte Guillaume had receiued certain sommes of money, with promise of more, if by any meanes he could deuise which waye to kill the king. The Lorde of Trimouile hearing of this, failed not to come to the kyng to giue him knowledge thereof, and disclosed it lykewyse to Madame Loyse of Sauoye his mother, who forgetting her amitie and aliaunce with the Almaigne Earle, besought the king forthwith to put hym awaye. The kyng prayed his mother to speake no more thereof, and sayde, that it was impossible that so honest a Gentleman would attempt to doe a deede so wicked. Within a while after, there came other newes of that matter, confirming the first: whereof the Gouernour for the intire loue he bare to his Maister, craued licence either to expel him the countrie, or to put him in warde. But the king gaue speciall commaundement that he should not make any semblaunce of displeasure, for that hee purposed by some other meanes to knowe the truthe. Vpon a time when he went a hunting he girded about him the best sworde that hee had, to serue for all armes and assayes, and toke with him the Counte Guillaume, whome he commaunded to wayte vpon him, the firste and chiefest next his owne persone. And after he had followed the hart a certayne tyme, the kyng seing that his traynes was farre from hym, and no man neare him sauing the Counte, tourned hym selfe rounde about, and when hee sawe that hee was alone, in the mydde of the forest, hee drew out his sworde, and sayd to the Counte: “How saye you, (sir counte) is not this a fayre and good swoorde?” The counte feling it at the point, and well viewyng the same, aunswered that he neuer sawe a better in all his life. “You haue reason,” sayde the kyng, “and I beleue that if a Gentleman were determined to kyll mee, and did knowe the force of myne armes, and the goodnesse of myne harte accompanied with this sword, he would bee twyse well aduised before hee attempted that enterprise. Notwithstanding I would accompt him but a cowarde, wee being alone withoute witnesses, if he did not attempt that, which he were disposed to do.” The Counte Guillaume with bashfull and astonned countenaunce aunsweared: “Sir, the wickednesse of the enterprise were very great, but the folly in the execution were no lesse.” The king with those wordes fell in a laughter, and put the sword in the skaberd againe: and hearing that the chase drewe neare him, he made to the same so faste as he coulde. When he was come thether, he said nothing of that which had passed betweene theim, and verelye thoughte that the Counte Guillaume although that he was a stronge and stoute gentleman, yet he was no man to do so great an enterprise. But the Counte Guillaume, fearing to be bewrayed or suspected of the fact, next day morning repayred to Robertet the Secretarie of the kinge’s reuenues, and saide that hee had well wayed the giftes and annuities which the kinge would giue him to tarrie, but he perceiued that they were not sufficient to interteigne him for halfe a yeare, and that if it pleased not the king to double the same, hee should be forced to departe, praying the sayde Robertet to know his grace’s pleasure so sone as he coulde, who sayd vnto him, that he himselfe could without further commission disbursse no more vnto him, but gladly without further delay he would repaire to the king: which he did more willingly, because he had seene the aduertisements of the Gouernor aforesaid. And so sone as the kinge was awake, he declared the matter vnto him in the presence of Monsier Trimouille and Monsier Bouinet, lord admirall, who were vtterly ignorant of that which the king had done. To whom the kinge said: “Loe, ye haue bene miscontented for that I would not put away the Counte Guillaume, but now ye see he putteth away himselfe. Wherefore Robertet (quoth the king) tell him, that if he be not content with the state which he receiued at his first entrie into my seruice, whereof many gentlemen of good houses would thinke themselues happie, it is meete that he seeke his better fortune, and tell him that I would be lothe to hinder him, but wilbe very well contented, that he seeke where he may liue better, accordingly as he deserueth.” Robertet was so diligent to beare this aunsweare to the Counte, as he was to present his sute to the kinge. The counte said that with his licence he would gladly go forthwith: and as one whom feare forced to depart, he was not able to beare his abode 24 houres. And as the king was sitting downe to dinner, fayning to be sorye for his departure, but that necessitie compelled him to lose his presence, hee toke his leaue. He went likewise to take leaue of the king’s mother, which she gaue him with so great ioy, as she did receiue him, being her nere kinsman and freind. Then he went into his countrie: and the king seing his mother and seruantes astonned at his sodaine departure, declared vnto them the Al Arme, which he had giuen him, saying, that although he was innocent of the matter suspected, soe was his feare greate ynoughe, to departe from a maister wyth whose condicions hitherto he was not acquainted.

[ THE FIFTY-SIXTH NOUELL.]

A pleasaunt discours of a great Lord to enioy a Gentlewoman of Pampelunæ.

There was in the time of king Lewes the XII. of that name, a young Lord, called the lorde of Auannes sonne to the Lorde Alebret, and brother to king John of Nauarre, with whom the said Lord of Auannes ordinarely remayned. Now this yong Lorde was of the age of XV. yeares, so comely a personage, and full of curtesie and good behauiour, as he seemed to be created for none other purpose, but to be beloued and regarded: and so he was in deede of al those that did wel behold and note his commendable grace and condicion, but chiefly of a woman, dwelling in the citie of Pampelunæ in Nauarre, the wife of a rich man, with whom she liued honestly: and although she was but 23 yeres of age, and her husband very nere fiftie, yet her behauior was so modest, as she seemed rather a widow than a maried wyfe, who vsed not to frequent and haunte any mariages, banquets, or common assemblies without the company of her husbande, the vertue and goodnes of whom she so greatly esteemed, as she preferred the same before the beautie of al others. The husband, hauing experience of her wisedome, put such trust in her, as he committed al thaffaires of his house to her discretion: vpon a day this rich man with his wife, were inuited to a mariage of one that was nere kinne vnto him: to which place (for the greater honor of the mariage) repaired the yong Lord of Auannes, who naturally was giuen to dauncing, and for his excellencie in dauncing there was not his like to be found in his time: after dinner when they prepared to daunce, the Lord of Auannes was intreated thereunto by the rich man: the said lord asked him with what gentlewoman hee should lead the daunce. He aunsweared him: “My Lord if there were any one more beautifull, or more at my commaundement then my wyfe, I would present her vnto you, beseeching you to do mee so much honour as to take her by the hande.” Which the yong Lorde did, and by reason of his youthfull courage he toke more pleasure in vaultinge and dauncinge, then in beholding the beautie of the Ladies: and she whom he ledde by the hand, contrarywyse regarded more the grace and beautie of the said yong Lord, then the daunce wherin she was, albeit for her great wisedome she made therof no semblance at al. When supper time was come, the Lord of Auannes badde the companie farewell and went home to the castle: whether the riche man accompanied him vppon his moile: and riding homewards together, hee saide vnto him: “My Lord, this day you haue done so great honor vnto my kinsemen and mee, that it were great ingratitude is I should not offer my selfe with all the goods I haue to do you seruice: I knowe sir that such Lordes as you be which haue nere and couetous fathers, many times do lacke money which we by keeping of smal houshold, and vsing good husbandrie do heape and gather together. Now thus it is sir, that God hauing giuen mee a wife accordinge to my desire he would not in this world altogether indue mee with heauenly pleasures, but hath left me voyde of one ioy which is the ioye that fathers haue of children. I know sir that it is not my dutie, and belongeth not to my state to adopt you for such a one, but if it maye please you to receiue mee for your seruaunt, and to declare vnto me your small affaires, so farre as a hundred thousande Crownes shall extende, I will not sticke to helpe your necessities.” The yong Lorde of Auannes was very ioyfull of this offer, for he had suche a father as the other had described vnto him: and after he had giuen him hartie thanckes, he called him his friendlye father. From that time forth the sayd riche man conceiued such loue in the yong Lord, as daily he ceased not to inquire of his lacke and want, and hid not from his wyfe the deuocion which he bare to the said Lorde of Auannes, for which she rendred vnto him double thanckes. And after that time the said yong Lord lacked not what he desired, and many times resorted to that rich man’s to drincke and eate with him, and finding him not at home, his wyfe rewarded him with his demaunde: whoe admonished her by wyse and discrete talke to be vertuous, because he feared and loued her aboue all the women of the worlde. She which had God and her honor before her eyes, was contente with his sight and talke, wherin consisted the satisfaction of his honestie and vertuous loue: in such wise as she neuer made any signe or semblaunce, wherby he might thinke and iudge that shee had anye affection vnto him, but that which was both brotherlie and christian. During this couerte amitie, the Lord of Auannes through the foresaid ayde, was very gorgious and trimme, and approching the age of XVII. yeares, began to frequent the company of Gentlewomen more then he was wont to do: and although he had a more willing desire, to loue that wyse and discrete dame aboue other, yet the feare which he had to lose her loue (if shee misliked her sute) made him to hold his peace, and to seeke els wher: and gaue himself to the loue of a Gentlewoman dwelling hard by Pampelunæ, which had to husband a yong gentleman, that aboue all thinges loued and delighted in dogges, horsse, and Hawkes. This noble Gentleman began (for her sake) to deuise a thousand pastimes, as Torneyes, running at the Tilt, Mommeries, Maskes, feastes and other games, at all which this yong dame was present: but because that her husband was very fantasticall, and saw his wyfe to be faire and wanton, hee was ialous of her honour, and kepte her in so straite, as the sayde Lord of Auannes colde get nothing at her hands but words, shortly spoken, in some daunce, albeit in litle time and lesse speache, the sayde Lorde perceyued that there wanted nothing for full perfection of their loue, but time and place: wherfore he came to his new adopted father the rich man, and said vnto him that he was minded with great deuocion to visite our Lady of Montferrat, intreating him to suffer his houshoulde traine to remaine with him, because he was disposed to go thither alone. Whereunto he willingly agreed: but his wyfe whose hart the great prophet loue had inspired, incontinently suspected the true cause of that voyage, and cold not forbeare to saye vnto the Lord of Auannes these woords: “My Lord, my Lorde, the pilgrimage of the Lady whom you worshippe, is not farre without the walles of the Citie, wherefore I beseech you aboue all thinges to haue regarde vnto your health.” Hee which feared her, and loued her, blushed at her words, and without talke by his countenaunce he seemde to confesse the trothe: whereupon he departed, and when he had bought a couple of faire Genets of Spaine he clothed himself like a horsekeeper and so disguised his face as no man knew him. The Gentleman which had maried that fonde and wanton gentlewoman, louinge aboue all thinges (as is sayde before) fayre horses, espyed those two Genets which the lord of Auannes did lead, and incontinently came to buy them: and after he had bought them, hee beheld the horse-keeper which rode and handled them passing well, and asked him if he were willing to serue him: the Lord of Auannes answeared yea, and added further how he was a poore horse-keeper vnskilfull of other science but of keepinge of horse, which practize hee could do so well, as he doubted not but he should content and please him: the Gentleman very glad thereof, gaue him charge of all his horse, and called forth his wyfe vnto him, vnto whom he recommended his horse and horsekeper, and told her that he himself was disposed to go to the castel: the gentlewoman so well to please her husband as for her owne delight and pastime, wente to loke vpon her horse and to behold her new horskeper, who seemed to be a man of good bringing vp, notwithstanding she knewe him not. He seing that she had no knowledge of him, came to do reuerence vnto her after the maner of Spaine, and taking her by the hand kissed the same, and by kissing of her hand, he disclosed himself so much as she knew him: for in dauncing with her many times he vsed the like curtesie: and then she ceased not to deuise place wher she might speake to him a part: which she did the very same euening: for being bidden to a feast wherunto her husband would faine haue had her to go, she fayned herselfe to be sicke and not able: and her husband loth to faile his frends request, said vnto her: “For so much (my good wyfe) as you be not disposed to go with me, I pray you to haue regard to my dogges and horse that they may lack nothing.” The Gentlewoman was very wel contented with that comission: howbeit without chaung of countenance she made him answere that sith in better things he would not imploie her, she would not refuse the least, to satisfie his desire: and her husband was no soner out of the gates, but she went down into the stable, where she founde faulte wyth diuers things: for prouision whereof she committed such seueral busines to her men on euery side, that shee remayned alone with the master horskeper: and for feare least any should come vpon them vnwares, she said vnto him: “Go into my garden and tarie my comming in the litle house at the ende of the alley.” Which he did so diligently as hee had no leasure to thancke her, and after that she had giuen order to the yeomen of the stable, shee went to see the dogges, counterfaiting like care and diligence to haue them wel intreated: in such wise as she seemed rather a mayde of the chamber then a maistresse of the house: which done shee returned into her chamber, where she made her self to be so werie, as she went to bed, saying that she was disposed to sleepe. All her women left her alone except one in whom she reposed her greatest trust, and vnto whom she said: “Go downe into the garden, and cause him whom you shall finde at the end of the alley, to come hither.” The mayde wente downe and founde the Maister horskeeper there, whom forthwith shee brought vnto her maistresse: and then the gentlewoman caused her mayd to go forth to watch when her husbande came home. The lord of Auannes seing that he was alone with his maistres, put of his horsekeeper’s apparrel, plucked from his face his false nose and beard, and not as a feareful horsekeeper, but like such a Lord as he was, without asking leaue of the Gentlewoman, boldly laied him downe beside her: where hee was of that foolishe woman receiued so ioyfully, as his estate and goodly personage did require, continuing with her vntil the retorne of her husband: at whose comming putting vpon him againe his counterfaite attire, left the pleasure which by policie and malice he had vsurped. The gentleman when hee was within, hearde tell of the dilligence which his wife had vsed vppon his commaundemente, and thanked her very hartelie. “Husband (said the gentlewoman) I do but my dutie, and do assure you that if there be no ouerseer to checke and commaunde your negligent seruaunts, you shal haue neyther dogge nor horse well kept and ordred: forasmuche as I knowe their slouth, and your good wil, you shalbe better serued then you haue bin heretofore.” The gentleman who thought that he had gotten the best horsekeeper of the worlde, asked her how she liked him. “I assure you sir (quoth she) he doth his busines so well as any seruaunt, howbeit he had neede to be called vppon, for you know seruaunts in these dayes without an ouerseer, wilbe be slow and carelesse.” Thus of long time continued the husbande and wyfe in greater amitie and loue then before, and gaue ouer all the suspicion and ialousie which hee had conceyued, because before time his wyfe louinge feastes, daunces and companies, was become intentife and diligente about her household: and perceiued that now many times she was contented in homely garmentes to go vp and downe the house wher before she was accustomed to be 4 houres in trimming of herselfe: whereof shee was commended of her husbande, and of euery man that knew not how the greater deuill had chased awaye the lesse. Thus liued this yonge dame vnder the hypocrisie and habite of an honest woman, in suche fleshlye pleasure as reason, conscience, order and measure, had no longer resting place in her: which insaciat lust the yong Lord of delicate complexion was no longer able to susteine, but began to waxe so pale and feeble, as he needed no visarde for disfiguring of himselfe. Notwithstanding the folish loue which he bare to that woman so dulled his sence, as he presumed vppon that force which fayled in the monstruous giant Hercules, whereby in the ende constrayned with sicknes and councelled by his maistresse, which loued not the sicke so well as the hole, demaunded leaue of his maister to go home to his frends: who to his great griefe graunted him the same: and caused him to make promise that when he was recouered hee should returne againe to his seruice. Thus went the Lord of Auannes on foote away from his maister, for he had not paste the lenght of one streate to trauaile. And when he was come to the rich man’s house his new father, he found none at home but his wyfe, whose vertuous loue shee bare him was nothing diminished for al his voyage: but when she saw him so leane and pale, she could not forbeare to say vnto him: “Sir, I knowe not in what staye your conscience is, but your body is litle amended by this pilgrimage, and I am in doubte that the way wherein you traueiled in the night, did wearie and paine you more, then that vppon the daye: for if you had gone to Hierusalem on foote, you mighte perhappes haue returned more Sunne burned, but more leane and weake it had bin impossible. Now make accompt of your pilgrimage here, and serue no more such Sainctes, for in place of raysinge the deade from life, they do to death those that be on liue: moreouer I shall saye vnto you, that if your bodye were neuer so sinfull, I see well it hath suffred such penaunce, as I haue pitie to renewe anye former payne.” When the Lorde of Auannes had hearde all her talke he was no lesse angrie with himselfe then ashamed, and saide vnto her: “Madame, I haue sometimes heard tell that repentaunce insueth sinne, and now I haue proued the same to my cost, praying you to excuse my youth that could not be corrected but by experience of that euill, which before it would not beleeue.” The Gentlewoman chaunging her talke, caused him to lye downe vppon a fayre bedde, where he lay the space of XV. dayes, feedinge onely vppon restoratiues: and the husband and wyfe kept him so good companye, as one of theim neuer departed from him: and albeit that he had committed those follies, (suche as you haue heard) against the minde and aduise of that wyse and discrete dame, yet shee neuer diminished the vertuous loue which shee bare him, for shee still hoped that after he had spent his yonger dayes in youthly follies, he would retire at length when age and experience should force him to vse honest loue, and by that meanes would be altogether her owne. And during those fifteene dayes that he was cherished in her house, she vsed vnto him womanly and commendable talke, onely tending to the loue of vertue, which caryed such effect as he began to abhorre the follie that he committed: and beholding the gentlewoman which in beautie passed the other wanton, with whom he had delt before, he imprinted in minde more and more the graces and vertues that were in her, and was not able to keepe in harte the secrete conceipt of the same, but abandoning all feare, he sayd vnto her: “Madame, I see no better means, to be such one, and so vertuous as you by wordes desire me for to be, but to settle my harte, and giue my selfe to be holie in loue with vertue, and the qualities therunto appertinent. I humblie beseech you therfore (good madame) to tel me if your selfe wil not vouchsafe to giue me al your ayde and fauor that you possiblie can, for thobteyning of the same.” The maistresse very ioyful to heare him vse that language, made him aunswere: “And I do promise you sir, that if you wilbe in loue with vertue as it behoueth so noble a state as you be, I wil do you the seruice that I can to bring you thereunto with such power and abilitie as God hath planted in mee.” “Well madame,” saide the Lorde of Auannes, “remember then your promise, and vnderstande that God vnknowen of the Christian but by fayth, hath dayned to take flesh, like to that our sinful which we beare about vs, to thend that by drawing our flesh into the loue of his humanity, he may draw also our minde to the loue of his diuinitie, and requireth to be serued by thinges visible to make vs loue by fayth that diuinity which is inuisible: in like maner the vertue which I desire to imbrace all the dayes of my life, is a thing inuisible and not to be seen but by outward effects. Wherfore needeful it is, that she now do put vpon her some body or shape to let herselfe be knowen amonges men: which in deede she hath don by induing herself with your form and shape, as the most perfect that she is able to find amonges liuing creatures. Wherfore I do acknowledge and confesse you to be not onely a vertuous creature, but euen very vertue it self. And I which see the same to shine vnder the glimsing vaile of the most perfect that euer was: I will honor and serue the same during my life, forsaking (for the same) all other vaine and vicious loue.” The gentlewoman no lesse content then marueling to here those words dissembled so wel her contented minde as she said vnto him: “My Lord, I take not vpon me to aunswere your diuinity, but like her that is more fearefull of euill then beleful of good, do humblie beseech you to cease to speake to me those words of prayse, that is not worthy of the least of them. I know right wel that I am a woman, not onely as another is, but so imperfect, as vertue might do a better acte to transforme me into her, then she to take my forme, except it be when she desires to be vnknowen to the world: for vnder such habite as mine is, vertue cannot be knowen, according to her worthines: so it is sir, that for mine imperfection, I wil not cease to bere you such affection, as a woman ought or maye do that feareth God, and hath respect to her honour: but that affection shal not appere, vntill your harte be able to receiue the pacience which vertuous loue commaundeth. And now sir I know what kinde of speach to vse, and thincke that you do not loue so well, your owne goodes, purse or honour, as I doe with all my hart tender and imbrace the same.” The lord of Auannes fearefull with teares in eyes, besought her earnestly that for her woordes assuraunce, shee woulde vouchsafe to kisse him: which she refused, saying that for him, she would not breake the countrie’s custome: and vppon this debate the husband came in, to whom the Lord of Auannes said: “My father, I knowe my selfe so much bounde to you and to your wife, as I besech you for euer to repute me for your sonne.” Which the good man willingly did. “And for surety of that amitie, I pray you,” said Monsier D’Auannes, “that I may kisse you.” Whiche he did. After he said vnto him: “If it were not for feare to offend the Law, I would do the like to my mother your wyfe.” The husbande hearinge him saye so, commaunded his wyfe to kisse him, which she did although she made it straunge, either for the Lord’s desire or for husband’s request to do the same: then the fier (which words had begunne to kindle in the harte of the poore Lorde) beganne to augmente by that desired kisse, so strongly sued for, and so cruelly refused: which done the sayde Lord of Auannes repayred to the Castell to the kinge his brother, where he told many goodly tales of his voyage to Montferrat, and vnderstode there, that the kinge his brother was determined to remoue to Olly and Taffares, and thinking that the iorney woulde be longe, conceiued great heauines, which made him to muse how he mighte assaye before his departure, whether the wise Gentlewoman bare him such good will, as shee made him beleeue shee did: and therefore hee toke a house in the streate where she dwelt, which was old and ill fauoured and built of Timber: which house about midnight of purpose he set on fier, wherof the crye was so great throughout the Citie as it was hard within the rich man’s house. Who demaunding at his window wher the fier was, vnderstode it to be at the Lord of Auannes, wherunto he incontinentlye repayred with all the people of his house, and found the yonge Lord in his shirt in the middest of the streat, whom for pitie he toke betweene his armes, and couering him with his nighte Gowne, caried him home to his house with al possible speede, and saide vnto his wife which was a bed: “Wife, I giue you to kepe this prisoner, vse him as my selfe.” So sone as he was departed the sayd Lord of Auannes, who had good wil to be interteigned for her husband, quicklie lept into the bed, hoping that the occasion and place would make that wise woman to chaunge her minde, which he founde to be contrary: for so sone as he lept into the bed of thone side, shee speedelie went out of the other, and putting on her night Gowne she repaired to the bed’s head, and said vnto him: “How now sir, do you thincke that occasions can chaunge a chaste harte? beleeue and thincke that as gold is proued in the Fornace, euen so an vnspotted hart in the middest of temptacion: wherein many times an honest hart sheweth it selfe to be more strong and vertuous, then els where, and the more it is assailed by his contrary, the coulder be the desires of the same: wherefore be you assured that if I had bin affected with other minde then that which many times I haue disclosed vnto you, I would not haue fayled to finde meanes to haue satisfyed the same: praying you that if you will haue me to continue the affection which I beare you, to remoue from your minde for euer not onely the will but the thoughte also, for any thinge you be able to doe to make me other then I am.” As she was speaking of these words her women came into the chamber, whom she commaunded to bring in a colacion of all sortes of comficts and other delicats: but that time hee had no appetite either to eate or drincke, hee was fallen into suche dispaire for fayling of his enterprise: fearing that the demonstracion of his desire, would haue caused her to giue ouer the secrete familiaritie betweene them. The husbande hauinge ceased the fier, retorned and intreated the Lord of Auannes that night to lodge in his house, who passed that night in such nomber of cogitacions as his eyes were more exercised with weeping then sleeping, and early in the morninge he bad them farewell in their bedde, where by kissing the Gentlewoman hee well perceiued that she had more pitie upon his offence, then euill will against his person, which was a cole to make the fier of loue to kindle more fiercely. After dinner he rode with the king of Taffares, but before his departure he went to take his leaue of his newe alied father and of his wyfe: whoe after the furst commaundement of her husband, made no more difficultie to kisse him then if he had bin her owne sonne. But be assured the more that vertue stayed her eye and countenaunce to shew the hidden flame, the more it did augment and become intollerable, in such wyse as not able to indure the warres which honour and loue had raysed within her hart, (who notwithstanding was determined neuer to shewe it, hauing lost the consolacion of her sight, and forgeuen the talke with him for whom she liued) a continuall feuer began to take her, caused by a Melancholicke and couert humor, in such wyse as the extreme partes of her body waxed cold, and those within burnt incessantly. The Phisitions (in the hands of whom man’s life doth not depend) began greatly to mistrust health by reason of a certaine opilacion which made her melancholicke: who counceiled the husbande to aduertise his wife to consider her conscience, and that she was in the handes of God (as thoughe they which be in health were not in his protection): the husbande which intirely loued his wyfe, was wyth their woordes made so heauye and pensife, as for his confort he wrote to the Lord of Auannes, beseechinge him to take the paynes to visite them, hoping that his sight would greatly ease and relieue the disease of his wife. Which request the Lord of Auannes immediatly vppon the recepte of those letters slacked not, but by poste arriued at his father’s house: at the entrye whereof hee founde the seruauntes and women makinge great sorrowe and lamentacion accordinglie as the goodnes of their maistresse deserued: wherewith the sayde Lorde was so astonned as he stoode stil at the doore like one in a traunce, vntil he sawe his good father: who imbracing him beganne so bitterlie to weepe, that he was not able to speake a worde. And so conueied the sayd Lorde of Auannes vp into the Chamber of his poore sicke wyfe: who casting vp her languishing eyes looked vppon him: and reaching his hand vnto her, she strayned the same with all her feeble force, and imbracinge and kissinge the same made a marueylous plainte, and sayd vnto him. “O my Lord, the houre is come that all dissimulacion must cease, and needes I must confesse vnto you the troth, which I to my greate paine haue concealed from you: which is, that if you haue borne vnto me greate affection, beleeue that mine rendred vnto you, hath bin no lesse: but my sorrow hath farre surpassed your griefe, the smarte whereof I do feele now against myne hart and will: wherefore, my lord, yee shall vnderstand, that GOD and mine honour would not suffer mee to disclose the same vnto you, fearing to increase in you that which I desired to be diminished: but knowe yee, my Lorde, that the woordes which so many tymes you haue vttered vnto mee, haue bred in me such griefe, as the same be the Instrumentes and woorkers of my death, wherewyth I am contente sith God did giue mee the grace not to suffer the violence of my Loue, to blotte the puritye of my conscience and renowne: for lesse fire then is wythin the kindled harte of mine, hath ruinated and consumed most famous and stately buildinges. Nowe my hart is well at ease, sithe before I dye, I haue had power to declare myne affection, which is equall vnto yours, sauing that the honor of men and women be not a like: beseechinge you, my Lorde, from henceforth not to feare to addresse your selfe to the greatest and moste vertuous Ladies that you can finde: for in such noble hartes do dwell the strongest passions, and there the same be moste wisely gouerned: and God graunt that the grace, beautie and honestie, which be in you, do not suffer your loue to trauell wythout fruite: haue in remembrance good, my Lord, the stabilitie of my constante minde, and do not attribute that to crueltie which ought to be imputed to honor, conscience and vertue: which are thinges a thousande times more acceptable, then the expence and losse of transitorie life. Nowe, farewell, my Lorde, recommendinge vnto your honour the state of my husband your good father, to whom I pray you to reherse the troth of that which you doe know by mee, to the intent that he may be certefied how dearely I haue loued God and him: for whose sake I beseech you to absente your selfe out of my sight: for from henceforth I do meane holye to giue my selfe to the contemplacion of those promises which God hath louingly decreed, before the constitucion of the world.” In saying so shee kissed him, and imbraced him wyth all the force of her feeble armes. The sayde Lorde, whose hart was dead for compassion, as her’s was in dying through griefe and sorrow, without power to speake one onely worde, withdrew himselfe out of her sight and laye downe vpon a bed within an inner chamber: where he fainted many times. Then the gentlewoman called for her husbande, and after she had giuen him many goodly lessons, shee recommended him to the Lord of Auannes, assuringe him that nexte to his parson, of all the men in the worlde shee had him in greateste estimacion: and soe kissinge her husbande shee badde him farewell. And then was brought vnto her the holye Sacramente, which shee receyued with such ioye, as one certaine and sure of her Saluacion, and perceyuinge her sighte begynne to fayle, and her strength diminishe she pronounced aloude: In manus tuas, &c. At which crie the Lorde of Auannes rose vp from the bedde, and piteously beholding her, he viewed her with a swete sighe, to rendre her gloriouse ghost to him which had redemed it. And when he perceiued that shee was dead, hee ran to the dead bodie, which liuing he durst not approche for feare, and imbraced and kissed the same in such wise, as muche a doe there was to remoue her corps out of his armes: wherof the husband was very much abashed, for that he neuer thought that he had borne his wife such affection. And in saying vnto him: “My Lord, you haue done enough:” they withdrew them selues together. And after long lamentation, the one for his wife, and the other for his Lady: the Lord of Auannes told him the whole discourse of his Loue, and howe vntill her death she neuer graunted him not so muche as one signe or token of loue, but in place therof a rebellious minde to his importunate sutes: at the rehersall whereof, the husbande conceiued greater pleasure and contentment than euer he did before: which augmented or rather doubled his sorrow and griefe for losse of such a wife. And all his life time after, in al seruices and duties he obeyed the Lord of Auannes, that then was not aboue eightene yeres of age, who retourned to the Courte, and continued there many yeares without will to see or speake to any woman, for the sorrow which he had taken for his Lady, and more then two yeres he wore blacke for mourning apparell. Beholde here the difference betweene a wise and discrete woman, and one that was wanton and foolish, both which sortes expressed different effectes of loue: whereof the one receiued a glorious and commendable death, and the other liued to long to her great shame and infamie. The one by small sute sone won and obteyned, the other by earnest requestes and great payne pursued and followed. And till death had taken order, to ridde her from that pursute, she euer continued constant.

[ THE FIFTY-SEUENTH NOUELL.]

A punishment more rigorous than death, of a husband towarde his wife that had committed adulterie.

King Charles of Fraunce, the eight of that name, sent into Germany a gentleman called Bernage, lorde of Cyure besides Amboise: who to make speede, spared neither daye nor nighte for execution of his Prince’s commaundement. In sutch wyse as very late in an euening he arriued at the Castle of a Gentleman, to demaunde lodging, which very hardly he obtained. Howbeit, when the gentleman vnderstode that he was the seruaunt of such a kyng, he prayed him not to take it in ill parte the rudinesse of his seruantes because vppon occasion of certain his wiue’s frends which loued him not, he was forced to kepe his house so straight. Then Bernage tolde him the cause of his iourney, wherein the Gentleman offered to doe to the king his maister all seruice possible. Leading him into his house where he was feasted and lodged very honorably. When supper was ready, the Gentleman conueyed him into a parler wel hanged with fayre Tapistrie. And the meate being set vpon the table, and he required to sit down, he perceiued a woman comming forth behind the hanging, which was so beautifull as might be seene, sauing that her head was all shauen, and apparelled in Almaine blacke. After bothe the Gentlemen had washed, water was brought to the Gentlewoman, who when she had washed she sat down also, without speaking to any, or any word spoken vnto her againe. The Lorde Bernage beholding her well, thought her to be one of the fayrest Ladies that euer he sawe, if her face had not bene so pale and her countenaunce so sadde. After she had eaten a litle, she called for drinke, which one of the seruauntes brought vnto her in a straunge cup: for it was the head of a dead man trimmed with siluer, wherof she drancke twice or thrice. When she had supped and washed her handes, making a reuerence to the Lord of the house, shee retourned backe againe that way shee came, without speaking to any. Bernage was so much amased at that straunge sighte, as he waxed very heauie and sadde. The gentleman who marked hym, sayde vnto hym: “I see well that you be astonned at that you saw at the table, but seyng your honest demeanour, I wyll not keepe it secrete from you, because you shal not note that crueltie to be done without greate occasion. This gentlewoman whiche you see, is my wyfe, whom I loued better than was possible for any man to loue his wyfe. In such sorte as to marry her I forgat all feare of friendes, and brought her hither in despite of her parentes. She likewyse shewed vnto me suche signes of loue, as I attempted a thousande wayes to place her here for her ioye and myne, where wee lyued a long tyme in suche reste and contentation, as I thought my self the happiest Gentleman in Christendome. But in a iourney whiche I made, the attempt whereof myne honour forced me, shee forgot bothe her selfe, her conscience, and the loue whiche shee bare towardes mee, and fell in loue with a Gentleman that I brought vp in this house, whiche her loue vpon my retourne I perceiued to be true. Notwithstanding the loue that I bare her, was so great as I had no mistrust in her, tyll sutch tyme as experience did open myne eyes, and sawe the thynge that I feared more than death. For whiche cause my loue was tourned into furie and dispayre, so greate, as I watched her so nere, that vppon a daye fayning my selfe to goe abroade, I hydde my selfe in the chamber where now shee remayneth. Into the whiche sone after my departure shee repayred, and caused the Gentleman to come thether. Whome I did beholde to doe that thinge, which was altogether vnmeete for any man to doe to her, but my selfe. But when I sawe him mounte vppon the bed after her, I stepped forth and tooke him betwene her armes, and with my dagger immediatly did kill him. And because the offence of my wife semed so great as the doing of her to death was not sufficient to punish her, I deuised a torment which in mine opinion is worse vnto her than death. For thus I vse her, I doe locke her vp in the chamber wherein she accustomed to vse her delightes, and in the companie of hym that she loued farre better than me. In the closet of which chamber I haue placed the Anatomie of her friend, reseruing the same as a precious Iewell. And to the ende shee may not forget him at meales, at the table before my face, she vseth his skulle in steade of a cup to drinke in, to the intent she may behold him (aliue) in the presence of hym whom through her owne fault she hath made her mortal enemy, and him dead and slain for her sake, whose loue she preferred before mine. And so beholdeth those twoo thinges at dinner and supper which ought to displease her moste, her enemie liuing, and her friend dead, and al through her own wickednesse, howbeit I doe vse her no worse than my self, although shee goeth thus shauen: for the ornament of the heare doth not appertaine to an adultresse, nor the vayle or other furniture of the head to an unchast woman. Wherefore she goeth so shauen, in token she hath lost her honestie. If it please you, sir, to take the payne to see her, I wil bring you to her.” Whereunto Bernage willingly assented. And descending into her chamber whiche was very richely furnished, they founde her sitting alone at the fier. And the Gentleman drawing a Curteine, whiche was before the Closet, he sawe the Anatomie of the dead man hanging. Bernage had a great desire to speake vnto the Ladye, but for feare of her husband he durst not. The Gentleman perceiuin the same, said vnto him: “If it please you to speake vnto her, you shal vnderstand her order of talke.” Therwithall Bernage sayde vnto her: “Madame, if your pacience be correspondent to this torment, I deme you to be the happiest woman of the worlde.” The lady with teares trickeling down her eyes with a grace so good and humble as was possible, spake thus vnto him: “Sir, I doe confesse my fault to be so great, as all the afflictions and torment that the Lorde of this place (for I am not worthy to call him husbande) can doe vnto me, be nothing comparable to the sorrowe I haue conceiued of myne offence.” And in sayinge so, she began pitifully to weepe. Therewithall the Gentleman toke Bernage by the hande, and led him forth. The next day morning he departed about the businesse which the king had sent him. Notwithstanding, in bidding the Gentleman fare well, he sayde vnto hym: “Sir, the loue whiche I beare vnto you, and the honor and secretes wherewith you haue made me priuie, doth force me to saye vnto you howe I doe thinke good (seing the great repentance of the poore Gentlewoman your wife) that you doe shewe her mercie. And bicause you be yong and haue no children, it were a verie great losse and detriment to lose such a house and ligneage as yours is. And it may so come to passe, that your enemies thereby in time to come may be your heires, and inioye the goodes and patrimonie whiche you doe leaue behinde you.” The Gentleman which neuer thought to speake vnto his wife, with those wordes paused a great while, and in thend confessed his saying to be true, promising him that if she would continue in that humilitie, he would in time shew pittie vppon her, with whiche promise Bernage departed. And when he was retourned towardes the king his maister, hee recompted vnto him the successe of his iourneyes. And amonges other thinges he tolde him of the beautie of this Ladie, who sent his Painter called Iohn of Paris, to bring him her counterfaicte: which with the consent of her husband, he did. Who after that long penaunce, for a desire he had to haue children, and for the pitie hee bare to his wyfe which with great humblenesse receiued that affliction, tooke her vnto hym agayne, and afterwardes begat of her many children.

[ THE FIFTY-EIGHTH NOUELL.]

A President of Grenoble aduertised of the ill gouernement of his wife, took such order, that his honestie was not diminished, and yet reuenged the facte.

In Grenoble (the chiefe citie of a Countrie in Fraunce called Daulphine, which citie otherwise is named Gratianapolis) there was a President that had a very fayre wyfe, who perceiuing her husbande beginne to waxe olde, fell in loue with a yong man that was her husband’s Clark, a very propre and handsome felowe. Vpon a time when her husband in a morning was gone to the Palace, the clarke entred his chamber and tooke his Maister’s place, whiche thing one of the presidente’s men, that faithfully had serued him the space of XXX. yeres like a trustie seruant perceiuing, could not keepe it secret, but tolde his Maister. The President whiche was a wise man, would not beleue it vpon his light report, but sayde that he did it of purpose to set discord betwene him and his wife, notwithstanding if the thing were true as he had reported, he might let him see the thing it selfe, whiche if he did not, he had good cause to thinke that he had deuised a lye to breake and dissolue the loue betwene them. The seruaunt did assure him that he would cause him to see the thing wherof he had tolde him. And one morning so sone as the President was gone to the Court, and the Clarked entred into his chamber, the seruaunt sent one of his companions to tel his maister that he might come in good time, to see the thing that he had declared vnto him, he himself standing stil at the doore to watch that the partie might not goe out. The President so sone as he sawe the signe that one of his men made vnto him, fayning that he was not wel at ease, left the audience, and spedely went home to his house, where he founde his olde seruaunt watching at the chamber dore, assuring him for truth that the Clarke was within, and that he should with spede to goe in. The President sayd to his seruant: “Do not tarrie at the dore, for thou knowest ther is no other going out or comming in but onely this, except a litle closet wherof I alone do beare the keye.” The president entred the chamber, and found his wife and the Clarke a bed together, who in his shirt fell downe at the president’s feete, crauing pardon, and his wife much afraid began to weepe. To whome the President sayde: “For so muche as the thing which thou hast done is such, as thou maist well consider, that I can not abyde my house (for thee) in this sort to be dishonored, and the daughters which I haue had by thee to be disauaunced and abased: therfore leaue of thy weeping, and marke what I shall doe. And thou Nicolas (for that was his Clarke’s name) hide thy selfe here in my closet, and in any wise make no noyse.” When he had so done, he opened the dore and called in his olde seruaunt, and sayde vnto him: “Diddest not thou warrant and assure me that thou wouldest let me see my Clarke and wyfe in bedde together? And vppon thy words I am come hether, thinking to haue killed my wife, and doe finde nothing to be true of that which thou diddest tell me. For I haue searched the chamber in euery place as I will shewe thee.” And with that he caused his seruant to looke vnder the beddes, and in euery corner. And when the seruant founde him not, throughly astonned, he sayde to his maister: “Sir, I sawe him goe into the chamber, and out he is not gone at the dore: and so farre as I can see he is not here: therefore I thinke the Diuel must nedes carrie him awaye.” Then his maister rebuked him in these words: “Thou art a villayn, to set such diuision betwene my wife and me, wherefore I doe discharge thee from my seruice, and for that which thou hast done me, I will paye the thy dutie, with the aduauntage: therefore get thee hence, and take hede that thou doest not tarrie in this town aboue XXIIII. houres.” The President for that he knew him to be an honest and faithfull seruaunt, gaue him five or sixe yeares wages, and purposed otherwise to preferre him. When the seruaunt (with ill will and weping teares) was departed, the President caused his Clark to come out of his Closet: and after he had declared to his wife and him, what hee thought of their ill behauiour, he forbad them to shewe no likelyhode of any such matter, and commaunded his wyfe to attire and dresse her selfe in more gorgeous apparell, than she was wont to weare, and to haunt and resort to company and feastes, willing the Clarke to make a better countenaunce on the matter then hee did before, but whensoeuer he rounded him in the eare and bad him depart, he charged him after that commaundement not to tarry foure houres in the towne. And when he had thus done, he retourned to the palace Courte, as though there hadde no sutche thing chaunced. And the space of fiftene dayes (contrary to his custome) he feasted his frendes and neighbours, and after euery those bankettes, he caused the minstrels to play, to make the Gentlewomen daunce. One daye he seing his wife not to daunce, he commaunded his Clarke to take her by the hande, and to leade her forth to daunce, who thinking the President had forgotten the trespasse past, very ioyfully daunced with her. But when the daunce was ended, the President faining as though he would haue commaunded him to doe some thing in his house, bad him in his eare to get him away and neuer to retourne. Now was the Clark very sorowfull to leaue his Ladye, but yet no lesse ioyfull he was that his life was saued. Afterwardes when the President had made all his frendes and kinsfolkes, and all the countrey, beleue what great loue he bare to his wife, vppon a faire day in the moneth of May, he went to gather a sallade in his garden, the herbes whereof after she had eaten, she liued not aboue XXIIII. houres after, whereof he counterfaited suche sorrowe, as no man could suspect the occasion of her death. And by that meanes he was reuenged of his enemy, and saued the honour of his house.

“¶ I will not by this Nouell (said Emarsuitte) prayse the conscience of the President, but herein I haue declared the light behauiour of a woman, and the great pacience and prudence of a man: Praying you good Ladies all, not to be offended at the truthe.” “If all women (quo Parlamente) that loue their Clarkes or seruauntes, were forced to eate such sallades, I beleue they would not loue their gardens so well as they doe, but woulde teare and plucke vp all the herbes bothe roote and rinde, to auoyde those thinges that by death might aduaunce the honor of their stock and ligneage.” “If sallades be so costly (quod Hircan) and so daungerous in May, I will prouoke appetite with other sawces, or els hunger shall be my chiefest.”

[ THE FIFTY-NINTH NOUELL.]

A gentleman of Perche suspecting iniurie done vnto him by his friend, prouoked him to execute and put in proufe the cause of his suspicion.

Besides the countrie of Perche, there were two Gentlemen, which from the tyme of theyr youthe lyued in sutche great and perfect amitie, as there was betwene them but one harte, one bed, one house, one table, and one purse. Long time continued this perfect frendship: betwene whom there was but one will and one woorde, no difference in either of them: in so muche as they not onely semed to be two brethren, but also they appeared in al semblances to be but one man. One of them chaunced to mary: notwithstanding they gaue not ouer their frendship, but perseuered in their vsual amitie as they were wont to doe: and whan they happened to be strained to straight lodging, the maried gentleman would not stick to suffer his friend to lie with him and his wife. But yet you ought for frendship sake to consider that the maried man lay in the mids. Their goodes were common betwene them, and the mariage did yelde no cause to hinder their assured amitie. But in processe of time, the felicitie of this worlde (whiche carieth with it a certaine mutabitie) could not continue in the house, which was before right pleasaunt and happy: for the maried man forgetting the faithfull fidelitie of his friend, without any cause conceiued a greate suspicion betwene hym and his wyfe, from whom he could not dissemble the case, but sharpely tolde her his mynde. She therewithall was wonderfully amazed: howbeit, he commaunded her to doe all thinges (one thing excepted) and to make so muche of his companion as of himselfe. Neuerthelesse he forbade her to speake vnto hym except it were in the presence of many. All which she gaue her husbande’s companion to vnderstande, who would not beleue her, knowyng that hee had neither by thought or deede done anye thing whereof his companion had cause to be offended. And likewise because he used to kepe nothing secrete from hym, he tolde him what he had sayde, praying hym to tell him the truthe of the matter, because he purposed neither in that, ne yet in any other thing, to geue occasion of breach of that amitie which of long time they had imbraced. The maried Gentleman assured him that he neuer thought it, and how they which had sowen that rumor, had wickedly belied him. Whereunto his companion replied: “I knowe wel enough that Ielousie is a passion so intollerable as loue it selfe. And when you shall conceiue that opinion of Ialousie, yea and it were of my selfe, I should do you no wrong, for your selfe were not able to kepe it. But of one thing which is in your power, I haue good matter whereof to complayne, and that is because you will concele from me your maladie, sith there was no passion or opinion which you conceiued, that before this time you kept secret from me. Likewise for my owne parte if I were amorous of your wife, you ought not to impute it as a fault vnto me, because it is a fier which I bare not in my handes, to vse at my pleasure. But if I kepe it to my selfe from you, and indeuour to make youre wife knowe it by demonstration of my loue, I might then be accompted that vntrustiest friend that euer liued: and for me I doe assure you that shee is a right honest and a good woman, and one that my fansie doth lest fauour (although she were not your wife) of all them that euer I sawe. But now sithens there is no cause, I do require you that if you perceiue any suspicion, be it neuer so litle, to tell me of it, because I would so vse myself, as our frendship which hath indured so long tyme, might not bee broken for a woman: and if I did loue her aboue any thing in the worlde, yet surely I would neuer speake worde vnto her, bicause I doe esteme our frendship better then the greatest treasure.” His companion swore vnto him very great othes that he neuer thought it, praying him to vse his house as he had done before. Whereunto he aunswered: “Sithe you will haue me so to doe, I am content: but I praye you if hereafter you doe conceiue any sinistre opinion in me, not to dissemble the same, which if you doe I will neuer continue longer in your companie.” In processe of time, liuing together according to their custome, the maried Gentleman entred againe into greater Ielousie than euer he did, commaunding his wife to beare no more that countenaunce towards him that she was wont to doe. Whiche commaundement she tolde her husbande’s companion, praying him after that time to forbeare to speake vnto her, for that she was forbidden to doe the like to him. The gentleman vnderstanding by wordes and certaine countenaunces, that his companion had not kept promise, he sayd vnto him in great choler: “To be Ialous (my companion) is a thing naturall: but bicause thou diddest sweare vnto me by othes not to dissemble, I can by no meanes forbeare any longer: for I did euer thinke that betwene thyne harte and mine, there could be no let and interruption: but to my great griefe and without anye fault on my part, I doe see the contrarie. For as muche as thou art not only very Ialous betwene thy wife and mee, but also thou wouldest dissimulate and couer the same, so that in the ende thy maladie and disease continuing so long, is altered into mere malice, and lyke as oure loue hath bene the greateste that hathe bene seene in oure tyme, euen so our displeasure and hatred is nowe moste mortall. I haue done so mutche as lyeth in mee, to auoyde this inconuenience, but sithe thou hast suspected me to be an ill man, and I haue still shewed my selfe to be the contrary, I doe sweare, and therwithal assure thee, by my faith, that I am the same thou thinkest me to be, and therefore from henceforth take hede of me: for since suspicion hath separated the from my loue and amitie, despite shall deuide me from thine.” And albeit that his companion would haue made him beleue the contrarie, and that hee mistrusted hym nothing at all, yet he withdrewe his part of his moueables and goodes that before were common betweene them, so that then both their hartes and goodes were so farre separated as before they were vnited and ioyned together. In such wyse as the vnmaried Gentleman neuer ceassed till he had made his companion cockolde, according to his promise.

[ THE SIXTIETH NOUELL.]

The piteous death of an Amorouse Gentleman, for the slacke comfort geuen him to late, by his beloued.

Betwene Daulphine and Prouence, there was a gentleman, more riche and better furnished with beautie, vertue, and good condicions, then with the goodes of fortune: who fill in loue with a gentlewoman that for this time shall want a name, for respecte of her parentes that are come of honorable houses, and the Gentleman’s name also shalbe vntolde, for like respecte, although altogether not so honorably allied, as the Gentlewoman that he loued, and yet the historie very certen and true. And bicause his degree was not so high as hers, hee durst not discouer his affection: for the loue which he bare her, was so good and perfect, as rather would he haue bene tormented with the panges of death, then couet the least aduauntage that might redounde to her dishonor. And seing his state to base in respecte of hers, had no hope to marry her. Wherefore he grounded his loue vpon none other foundation and intent, but to loue her with all his power so perfectlye as was possible, which in the ende came vnto her knowledge. And the Gentlewoman knowing and seing the honest amitie which he bare her, to be ful of vertue, ioyned with chast and comly talke, felt her selfe right happie to be beloued and had in prise, of a personage so well condicioned, practising dayly cherefull countinaunce towardes him (whiche was the best rewarde he pretended to haue) whereof he conceiued great ease and contentment. But malice the cancred enemy of all reste and quiet, could not long abide this honest and happie life. For some frowning at his good happe, (as malice euer accompanieth a well disposed mynde) tolde the mother of the mayden, howe they marueiled that the Gentleman should bee so familiar in her house, inferring therewithall that the beautie of her daughter was the only cause, with whom they sawe him many times to vse secrete and priuat speach. The mother which by no meanes doubted the honestie of the Gentleman, no more then shee did of her own children, was very sorie to vnderstand that some shold be offended at that their familiarity. She thought therfore to shunne the cause of their offence. And at length, (fearing that slaunder might be raised of malice) she required the Gentleman for a tyme to haunt no more her house, as he was wont to doe. A thing to him of harde digestion, knowing his own innocencie, and lesse desert to be estranged from the house, for respect of the honest talke he vsed to the yonge gentlewoman. Notwithstanding, to stoppe the rage of malicious tongues, he withdrew himself, till he thought the brute was ceased, and then retourned after his wonted maner: whose absence nothing abridged his auncient good will. And he began no soner to be familiar there again, but he vnderstode that the mayden should be maried to a Gentleman, that was not so ritche and noble (as semed to hym) and therfore he thought he should receiue great wrong, if she were bestowed vpon that Gentleman, and not on hym, that had bene so long a sutor. And thereupon conceiued corage to preferre hym selfe in playne tunes, if choyse were geuen to the maiden. Howebeit, the mother and other of her kynne, sollicited and chose the other gentleman because (in dede) he was more welthie. Whereat the poore gentleman fretted with displeasure, seing that his Ladie should for worldly mucke be defrauded of her greatest ioye, by little and little without other maladie, began to languishe, and in litle tyme was so altered, as in his face appeared the visage of death. Neuerthelesse he could not forbeare the house of his beloued, but continually from time to time made his repaire thether to fede himselfe with the baulme of that beautie, which he thought would prolong his dayes, but it was the onely abridgement. In thend the poyson he sucked by the viewe of that beautie, consumed his strength, and force failing him, was constrained to kepe his bedde. Whereof he would not aduertise her whome he loued, for greuing her, knowing well that she would bee tormented with the newes. And so suffring him selfe to runne the race of past recourye, lost also his appetite to eate or drinck, and therewithall his slepe and rest fayled, in suche plight as within short space he was consumed in visage and face, as it grewe to be vglie and cleane out of knowledge. Brought to this lowe estate, one of his frends certified the mother of his mistres, that was a very charitable and kinde Gentlewoman, and loued so well the man, as if all their parentes and kinne had bene of her’s and the mayden’s opinion they would haue preferred the honestie of him, before the great substance of the other. But the frendes of the father’s side by no meanes would consent vnto it. Yet the good Gentlewoman and her daughter (for all the other’s frowardnes) vouchsafed to visit the poor gentleman whom they founde, rather declining towards death, then in hope of life. And knowing his ende to approche, he was shriuen and receiued the holy Sacrament, purposing of present passage by panges of death, neuer to see any of his frendes againe. Being in this case and yet seing her, whome he counted to be his life and sauftie, felte suche soudden recouerie, as hee threwe hym selfe alofte his bedde and spake these wordes vnto her: “What cause hath drieuen you hither (mistres myne) by takyng paines to visite him, who hath one of his feet alreadie within the graue, the other stepping after with conuenient speede, for execution whereof you bee the onely Instrument.” “Howe so, sir?” sayde the mother. “Is it possible that hee, whom we so derely loue, can receiue death by our offences? I pray you sir to tell me, what reason leadeth you to speake these wordes.” “Madame,” sayde he, “so long as I could, I dissembled the loue that I bare to my deare mistres your daughter: so it is that my parentes and frendes speaking of a mariage betwene her and me, haue clattred thereof moe nedeles woordes then I desired, by waying the mishap that might insue, and nowe doth happe past all hope not for my particular pleasure, but bicause I knowe with none other she shalbe so well intreated nor beloued as she should haue bene with me. The benefit which I see she hath lost, is the most perfect frende the best affected seruaunt that euer shee had in this worlde, the losse wherof summoneth death to arrest the carcase, that should haue bene imployed for her seruice, which intierly was conserued and should haue bene for her sake: but sithe nowe it can serue her to no purpose, the simple losse shall redounde to greatest gaine. I meane my selfe (good Ladies bothe) that lieth bewrapped in death before your faces, whose withered clammes hath catched the same within her reach, and hath warned the clocke to tolle the dolefull bell for his poor lovyng ghoste, nowe stretchynge out for the winding shete to shrowde his maigre corps, all forworne with the watche and toile, that such poore men (affected with like care) do feele. It is my selfe, that erst was rouing amid the troupe of Courtlie knightes decked with comely face, whose hewe dame Nature stayned with the colours of her golden art. It is I that of late was loued of that Nymphe, and earthie Goddesse, who with courtinge countenaunce imbraced the place where I did stande, and kissed the steps wherein I trode. It is my selfe I saye, that whilom in painefull blisse, did bath my selfe, and fedde mine eyes with the happie viewe of the heauenliest creature that euer God did make. And by forgoing of those ioyes by to to much mishap, and sacred famine of cursed mucke, I am thus pined as ye see, and wrapte in hopeles state.” The mother and doughter hearinge this complainte, did their indeuour to cheere him vp, and the mother sayde unto him: “Be of good courage sir, and I promise you my fayth, that if God giue you health, my doughter shal haue none other husband but you, and behold her here, whom I commaunde to make you present promise.” The mayden weeping with a virginall shamefastnes, consented to her mother’s hest. But knowing when he was recouered, that he should not haue her, and that the mother was so liberal of her fayre words, to recomfort him and assaye if she might restore him: he said vnto them, that if those words had bin pronounced three monethes past, he had bin the lustiest and most happie gentleman of Fraunce: but helpe offred so late, was past beliefe and hope. But when he saw, that they went about to force him to beleeue it, he said vnto them: “Now that I see ye go about to promise the good tourne which can neuer chaunce vnto mee, yea although consent ioyned with vnfayned promise desires the effect, for respect of the feeble state wherein I am: yet let me craue one thing at your hands, farre lesse then that ye offer, which hitherto I neuer durst be so bolde to aske.” Whereunto they both assented and swore to performe it, intreating him not to be ashamed to requyre it. “I humbly beseech ye (quoth hee) to deliuer her into mine armes whom ye haue promised to be my wife, and commaunde her to imbrace and kisse me.” The mayden not vsed to such priuie sutes, ne yet acquainted with such secrete facts, made some difficultie, but her mother gaue her expresse commaundement to doe it, perceyuing in him no likelihode or force of a man to liue. The maiden then vpon that commaundement, aduaunced herselfe uppon the bedde of the poore pacient, saying vnto him: “Sir, I beseech you to be of good cheere.” The languishing creature, so hard as he could for his extreeme debilitie, stretched forth his faint consumed armes, and with al the force of his body imbraced the cause of his death, and kissinge her with his colde and wanne mouth, held her so long as he could, and then spake vnto the mayden: “The loue which I haue borne you hath bin so great, and the good will so honest, as neuer (mariage excepted) I wished anye other thinge of you, but that which I presentlye haue, throughe the wante whereof and with the same I will ioyfully render my spirite to God, who is the parfaicte Loue, and truest Charitie, whoe knoweth the greatnes of my loue and the honestie of my desire: humblie beseeching him, (that nowe I hauing my desire betweene mine armes,) to interteigne my ghost within his blessed bosome.” And in saying so he caught her againe betweene his armes with such vehemencie, as the feeble hart not able to abide that assault, was abandoned of all powers and mouinges: for the instant ioye so dilated and stretched forth the same, as the siege of the soule gaue ouer, making his repaire and flighte to his Creator: and because the senceles bodye rested withoute life, it gaue ouer his holde. Howbeit the loue, which the Damosell had still kept secrete, at that time shewed it self so strong and mightie, as the mother and seruauntes of the dead Gentleman had much a do to separate that vnion, but by force they haled away the liuing, almost deade with the deade. After the funerall was done with honourable exequies: but the greatest triumph was spent in teares, weepinges and cryes, specially by the gentlewoman, which so much more were manifeste after his death, as before in his life time they were dissembled, bestowinge them as an expiacion or sacrifice, to satisfie the wrong she had done vnto him. And afterwards (as I haue heard tell) she was maried to one, for mitigacion of her sorow, that neuer was partaker of the ioye of her harte. See here good Ladies an Image of perfect loue, that so muche had seazed vpon thaffections of this amorous Gentleman, as the pange neuer gaue ouer, till death (the rest of all troubles) had diuided life from the body. Yet some perchaunce for the desperate part of this hopeles louer, will terme him to be a fonde louing foole: and say that it is not meete that they should neglecte theyr liues for womens sakes, which were not created but for their helpe and comforte. And that being true as verifyed and auouched by Scriptures, there is no cause of feare to demaunde that of them, which God hath enioyned them to giue vs. In deede a sensuall loue, and such as is grounded to satisfye beastly luste, is a thinge horrible to Nature, and abhominable in the sight of him that made both those creatures, whom he fraughted with reason and knowledge for the refusall of those vices, which are onely to be applied to beastes voyde of reason. But loue founded in the soyle of Vertue, for auoyding carnall lust exercized in the state of Wedlocke, or first begonne and practized for that ende, is very ciuil and to be honoured. And if that loue attaine not equall successe, through parents default or vnkindnes of frendes or other humane accidents, if that loue so perce the hart, or otherwyse afflict the pacient with dispaire of helpe, and so occasioneth death, it is not to be termed follie or dotage, but to be celebrated with honourable titles. The honest amitie then of this gentleman, borne long time to this gentlewoman, meriteth euerlasting praise: for to finde such great chastitie in an amorous hart, is rather a thing deuine then humaine. A mocion moued aboue amongs the heauenly route, and not an ac wrought in the grosenes of man’s infirmitie.

[ THE SIXTY-FIRST NOUELL.]

A Gentlewoman of the Courte, very pleasauntly recompenced the seruice of a kinde seruaunte of her’s, that pursued her with seruice of loue.

In the Courte of king Fraunces, the first of that name, not longe sithens Frenche king, the graunde father of Henry the 3 of that name now raigning: there was a Gentlewoman of good grace and interteignment, wanting not both minde and witte, such as the like of her sexe, are not to seeke, vnder what climate soeuer they be borne and bred, whose comly demeaner, curteous behauiour and eloquent speache, was agreeable to her other qualities of nature’s giftes: whereby she gayned the hartes and good minds of nombers of seruauntes, with whom shee was cunning ynough to spend her time, (hauing respect to the sauftie and saufgard of her honor, which she preferred before all other solace) by such delectable consumption of time, as they that could not tell howe els to imploie their leasure, thoughte themselues most blessed, if they might attaine the delightfull presence of this well nourtered Dame. For they that made greatest assuraunce of her fidelitie, were in dispayre, and the most desperat were yet in some hope to winne her. Howbeit in deceyuing the most nomber, she could not forbeare intirely to loue one, who for his part was not able to plaie the counterfait, to colour the substance of his longe pursute: but as nothing is sure and stable, their loue tourned to displeasure, and by frequent renewing of what was well knowen the hole Court was not ignoraunt, what deuocion thone did beare to thother. One day the Gentlewoman, aswell to let him know that his affection was not bestowed in vaine, as to make him to feele some smart and paine for his louing seruice, the more louingly to forde him on, with preety morsells of her dissembling concept, made show vnto him of greater fauour, then euer she did before: for which cause he that was faultles either in deedes of armes, or in prowesse of loue, began liuely and valiantly to folow her, to whom long before with gentlenes and humilitie he had many times bin a suppliante. Who fayning that she was not able any longer to rest obstinate, made semblance of a womanly pitie and accorded to his demaund. Telling him that for respect of his tedious trauaile, she was now disposed to go to her chamber, (which was in a Gallerie of the Castell where that time the kinge did lie) where shee knew was none that could hinder what they two intended: willing him not to faile but so sone he saw her depart the place she was in, to folow after to her chamber, where he should finde her alone, tarying for him with good deuocion. The gentleman beleeuinge her appointmente, was readie to leape out of his skinne for ioye: and therewithall began to dalye and sport with other Ladies, attending the time of her departure. She wanting not the practize of any fine sleight or subtile pollicie, most pregnaunte in birds of her Ayrie, called two of the greatest Ladies to the present chamber window and said vnto them: “If it may please you good Ladies, I will discouer vnto you the pretiest pastime of the world.” They which hard the grief of melancholie, besoughte her to tell what it was. “Thus it is” (quoth shee) “such a gentleman, whom you know very well, to be both honest and vertuous, hath longe time (as partlie you haue by to much experience seene,) gone about diuers wayes to winne that, which he shall neuer get: for when I began to applie my fancie towards him, he (vnconstant) ceased not to couet and folow other Ladies with like pursute hee did me: whereat I conceyued such more then spitefull hatred, as notwithstanding my outwarde semblaunce, I coueted reuenge. Nowe therefore maistresse, Occasion hath lente me a porcion of oportunitie, to be requited of his vaine and fickle sute: which is, that hauinge appointed him to come to my chamber, whither he meaneth presently to follow me, it maye please you to giue heedefull eye and watch: and that when hee hath passed alonge the Galerie, and is gone vp the stayers, that both of you wil recline your heads out of this window to helpe me singe the holding of the Caroll, that I meane to chaunte vnto him. And then shall you see the raging choler of this Gentleman, that at other times presumed to be a quiet Suter: wherat perhaps through his malapert boldnes, it cannot dash his blushles face, but yet if he do not deale vnto me like spiteful reproch in open hearing, I know full well in hart he will wishe me X. M. mischifes.” This conclusion was not spoken without treble laughter: for there was no gentlemen in all the Courte, that had warred so much with the woman kind as hee, and yet welbeloued and esteemed of euery one, that listed not to be intrapped within his daunger. Therfore these Ladies thinking to carie awaye some part of the glorie, which one alone hoped to atchieue vpon this gentleman, were contente to assent to the other’s liking. So sone then as they saw her depart, that purposed this enterprise, they began to espie the countenaunce of the betrayed partie, who paused not long before he exchaunged the place: and when he was oute of the chamber, the Ladies trayned after, to lose no part of the sport, and went the faster that he might not be out of theyr sight. And he that doubted not the successe, threwe his cape about his necke to hide his face, and went downe the staiers out into the Court, and afterwards mounted vp againe: but perceyuing some approche which he was loth should be a witnes, he went downe againe, returning another way on the other side. All which the Ladies sawe, vnknowen to him. But when he came to the stayers where he beleeued verely, that he might surely enter into his Maistres chamber, the two Ladies put they heads out of the window, and incontinently perceyued the gentlewoman alofte, crying out a lowde, “A theefe, a theefe:” wherunto they two below aunswered with so vehement voyce, doubling the other’s outcrie, as all the castell ronge of it. I leaue for you to consider in what despite this gentleman fled to his lodginge, but not so closely, but that he was ouertaken by those that knew this misterie: who afterwards oftentimes reproched this fact vnto him, speciall she that had deuised the reuenge: but hee had armed himselfe with aunswers and defences so readely, as he told them that he foreknew their deuise, and mente nothing by his pilgrimage but to solace his beloued. For of her loue long time before he was out of all hope, as hauing reasonable proofe by his longe pursute and seruice. Howbeit the Ladyes would not hold his excuse for a veritie, which euen to this day hangeth in suspence.

[ THE SIXTY-SECOND NOUELL.]

The honest and maruellous loue of a mayden of noble house, and of a gentleman that was base borne, and howe a Queene did impeche and let their mariage, with the wise aunswere of the mayde to the Queene.

There was in Fraunce a Queene, who in her company and traine broughte vp many maydens, that were issued of great and honourable progenie: amonges other that serued this Queene there was one named Rolandine, which was nere kinne to the Queene. But she for a certaine displeasure conceyued against her father, bare vnto the yonge gentlewoman no greate good will. This Maiden, although shee was none of the fayrest, yet so wyse and vertuous as many great Lords and personages made sute to her for mariage, to whom she rendred for earnest sutes, cold aunsweares: because shee knew her father to be more bent to keeping of money, then to thaduauncement of his children: and her Maistresse (as is before said) bare vnto her so little fauour as they which esteemed the Queene’s good grace, woulde neuer make anye sute vnto her. Thus by father’s negligence and Maistres disdaine, the poore gentlewoman remayned long time vnmaried. And as shee that forcibly was payned, not so much for griefe of mariage, as for that shee was not required or sued vnto, became so werie of worldly life, as deuoutly she bent herselfe to God, and by forsakinge the toyes and brauerie of the Courte, passed her time in prayer, or els in other vertuous exercise: and by withdrawing herselfe to this kinde of life, she spent her youth so soberlie and deuoutly as was possible for a woman to do. When she approched nere the age of XXX. yeares, there was a gentleman a bastarde borne, of right honorable house, a uery curteous and honest personage, whose every riches and beautie was such, as no Lady or gentlwoman for pleasure would haue chosen him to husband. This poore gentleman was voide of frends for maintenaunce of lyuing, and vnhappie in mariage sutes, although he pursued many, till at length he borded this poore Gentlewoman Rolandine: for their Fortunes, complexions and condicions were very like, and by vse of seuerall complaints made one to another, ech of them fell in ernest loue with the other: and being both thrall vnto mishap, they sought desired comforte by vertuous and honest talke: and by that vse and frequentacion greater loue increased and grew betwene them. Those which had seene the maiden so straungly retired from wonted demeanor, as she would speake to none, now marking her continuallie to interteigne the bastard gentleman, incontinently conceiued ill opinion of her, and told the mother of the Queene’s maids (called Modesta) that she ought not to suffer such familiaritie betweene them. Which report Modesta reuealed to Rolandine, sayinge that diuers persons did speake euill of her, for that she vsed to talke with the bastard, that neither was of sufficient abilitie for her to marie, ne yet of beautie worthie to be beloued. Rolandine which daily was more rebuked for her austeritie of life, then for worldly toyes, sayd vnto Modesta her gouernesse: “Alas, mother, you see that I cannot haue a husband according to the worthines of my bloud, and that dailye I haue auoyded those which be beautifull and yonge: for feare to incurre the inconuenience wherinto I haue seene other to fall: and now hauing chosen this wise and vertuous gentleman, who preacheth vnto me words that be good and godly, what wrong do they to me that make this report, sith in this honest order I doe receiue consolacion of my griefes?” The good old Lady who loued the maiden (which she called maistresse) as herselfe, said vnto her: “I see well, that you are worse delt withall at your father and maistres handes then you deserue. Howbeit sith such reporte is made of your honor, you ought to refuse to speake vnto him, although he were your naturall brother.” Rolandine weeping saide vnto her: “Mother, for so much as you aduise me therunto, I will performe your request, although it be very straunge that without slaunder, a woman can haue no comfort or seeke freedome without misreport.” The bastard gentleman, as he was before accustomed, came to visite her, but she tolde him (a farre of) those words which her gouernesse had said vnto her: and with teares prayed him to refraine for a time to speake vnto her, vntill the brute and rumor were somewhat appaised: which thing he did at her request. But during this long time, either of them hauing loste their consolacion, began to feele such torment within themselues, as shee for her part neuer felte the like. She ceased not from praying vnto God, from goinge on pilgrimage, and fasting: for this vnacquainted loue brought her to such disquiet as she could not rest the space of one houre. Wherewith the noble bastard was no lesse tormented: but he which had alreadie minded in hart to loue her and pursue her till mariage, and hauing respecte (for loue sake) to the honor he should acquire by the same, thought to finde meanes to declare his minde vnto her, and aboue al things to get the good wil of her gouernesse: which he did, declaring vnto her the miserie wherein her poore maistresse remayned, which was voide of al comfort and other frendship. Then the poore old Lady Modesta, gaue him thankes for the honest affection that hee bare to her maistresse: and deuised meanes how the two louers might impart their minds together. Rolandine fayned herselfe to be sicke of a Mygrim and paine in her heade, the brute of whose maladie was feared to be greater then it was, and so concluded betwene them that when her companion were gone into the chamber, they two should remaine together alone to satisfie ech other with mutuall talke. The bastard gentleman was very glad, and ruled himselfe holy by the councell of the Gouernesse, in such sort as when he liste, he spake vnto his louer and vertuous Lady: but this contencaion did not indure: for the Queene who loued her but a little, inquired what Rolandine did so long in her Chamber, and one made aunswere that it was by reason of her sicknes. Albeit there was another which knewe to well the cause of her absence, sayde vnto her, that the ioye which Rolandine had to speake vnto the bastard was able to ease her Mygrim. The Queene which found out the veniall sinnes of other, by mortall offences in herselfe, sent for her, and forbad her in any wyse not to speake vnto the bastard, except it were in the hall or within her owne Chamber. The Gentlewoman made as though she vnderstode her not, but mildlie aunswered that, is shee knew any talke betweene them might offend her maiestie, she would neuer speake vnto him againe. Notwithstanding she determined to finde out some other secret meanes that the Queene should not know of their meeting: which was this. The Wednesday, Fridaye, and Saturday, the gentlewoman vsed to fast, and for that purpose kept her Chamber with her Gouernesse Modesta, where she had leysure to talke (whilest the reste did suppe) with him whom she began so earnestlie to loue: and as constrainte of time did force their talke to be shorte, the greater was their affection in vtteraunce of the same: because for the doing therof they stole time, as the theefe doth his desired praye. This order of their contentacion could not proceede so secretely, but that a certaine varlet a yeoman of the Chamber, chaunced to see him resort vnto her vpon a fasting day, and told it in such place wher of some hearer, it was disclosed to the Queene herself, who was so sore offended as neuer after that time the poore bastard gentleman durste once attempt to go into the maiden’s chamber againe. And to thintent that he might not lose the commodity of talke with her, whom he so derely loued, oftentimes he fayned himselfe to go on pilgrimage, and in the euening returned to the Church and chapell of the Castel, in the habite of a frier, or Iacobin (so wel disguised and altered, as no creature could know him) and thither repaired the gentlewoman Rolandine, with her Gouernesse to enterteigne him. He marking the great loue that she bare him, feared not to say vnto her: “Madame, you see the daunger which I hasard for your seruice, and the warnings that the Queene hath giuen for our talke. You see on thother side what a father you haue, who careth not after what sort he bestow you in mariage: and you hauinge refused so many greate states and noble men, I know not one, either farre or neare, that is minded to haue you. I confesse my selfe to be but poore, and that you may marie diuers gentlemen of greater reputacion and richesse, then I am: but if loue and good wil were deemed treasure and richesse, then woulde I presume to be the richest gentleman of the world. God hath indowed you with great plentie of goodes, and you are yet in choise to haue more: and if I were so happie as you would vouchsafe to chose me for your husband, I would accompt my selfe to be vnto you both husband, frend and seruaunt, all the dayes of my life: and againe, if you should take one equall to your nobilitie (a thinge very harde to finde) he would rule and gouerne ouer you, and haue more respecte to your goodes, then to your person, to your beautie then to your vertue: and in triumphinge with dispence of that you haue, hee maye chaunce to intreate you otherwise then you deserue. The desire of this contentacion, and the feare that I haue, least you should graunte it to some other, do force me to beseech you, that by one only meanes you would make me happie and your selfe the most contented and best intreated woman that euer was.” Rolandine giuing eare to that communication which shee herselfe ment to haue pronounced, aunswered him with stoute courage: “I am very glad and wel pleased that you haue begunne the sute your self, which I of long time haue determined to breake vnto you: for which cause these two yeres past as you know, I haue not ceased to thincke and deuise all the reasons and arguments for and against you, that I could inuent: but in thend for so much as I do meane to take vpon me the state of Matrimonie, it is time that I begin to chose such husbande, with whom I shall in my conscience like to liue at rest and quiet all the dayes of my life: and amidde all the troupe of my thoughts in choise, I cannot finde anye one, were he neuer so faire, riche or noble, with whom my hart and minde can so well agree and match as with you. I know that by marying of you I shall not offende God, but rather do the thinge that hee commaundeth. And touching my Lord my father, he hath had so litle consideracion of my perferment, and so often refused it, as the law now will suffice, that I giue my selfe in mariage withoute his consent, and therefore cannot disenherite me, or worthely thincke ill of me: and by hauing a husband (a thing appertinent to women kinde) such as you be, I shall esteeme my selfe the richest woman of the worlde. As for the Queene my maistresse, I oughte not to take any care or remorse of conscience by displeasing her, to obey God: for she hath not ceased to hinder that aduauncement, which in my youth I mighte haue had, and by paine and diligence towards her did well deserue: but to thend you may vnderstand, that the loue and good will which I beare you, is founded vppon vertue and honor, you shall promise me, that if I doe accorde this mariage, you shall neuer purchase or require the consummacion thereof, Vntill my father be deade, or els do finde some meanes to make him consente hereunto.” Which the bastard gentleman willingly did graunt: and vppon these promises and termes, either of them gaue eche other a ringe in the name of mariage, and did kisse together in the Church before God, whom they toke to witnes of their assurance, and neuer after betwene them was any other priuie fact committed, but only kissing. This litle easement of mind did greatly satisfie the harts of these two perfect louers: and were a great while without seing ech other, liuing only by this assurance. There was no place where honour mighte be gotten, but thereunto the bastarde made his repaire with so great delight, as he thought he could neuer be poore for respect of that riche wife which God had prouided for him. Which wyfe in his absence, did euer continue her absolute amitie towards that gentleman: and although many made sute yet they receyued none other aunswere from her but deniall, and for that she had remayned so long time vnmaried, she was minded neuer to take vppon her that state. This her aunswere was so generall as the Queene heard of it, and asked her for what occasion shee was so determined. Rolandine saide vnto her, that it was to obey her: for that shee knew shee would neuer suffer her to marie, because in time and place where she might haue bin honorablie matched to her well liking, she denied the same, and that the vertue of pacience had taught her to contente herselfe with the state wherein she was. And still as she was sued for in mariage, she rendred like aunswere. When the warres were ended, and the bastarde returned to the Courte, shee neuer spake vnto him in open presence, but wente alwayes into some Church to interteigne him vnder colour of Confession: for the Queene had forbidden both him and her, that they should not talke together, vnlesse it were before companye vpon paine of losse of their liues. But honest loue, which feareth no defence, was more prest to find meanes, for their mutuall talke, then their enemies were ready to separate the same: and vnder the habite or colour of all the religions they could deuise, they continued that honest amitie, vntil the king remoued into a house of pleasure, not so nere as the Ladies were able to go on foote to that Church, as they were to the Church of the Castell, which was not situate in such conueniente wyse for their purpose, as they could secretely repaire (vnder colour of confession) to talke together: notwithstanding if on the one side occasion fayled, loue found out another for their contentment: for there arriued a Lady to the Court, to whom the bastard was very nere kin. This Lady with her sonne were lodged in the king’s house, and the chamber of this yong prince was far beyond the body of the lodging, where the king himselfe did lie: but so nere vnto Rolandine’s Chamber as he might both see and speake vnto her, for their windowes were properlie and directly placed at either corner of the house: in which chamber (being ouer the hall) were lodged al the Ladies of honor, the companions of Rolandine. Who beholding many times the yong king at that window, caused the bastard to be aduertized therof by her gouernesse: who after he had well beholden the place, made as though he had great delighte to read vpon a booke of the Knightes of the Round Table, that lay in the chamber window of the yong king: and when euery man was gone to dinner, he prayed the yeoman to suffer him to make an end of the historie, and to shut him within the chamber. The other which knew him to be the kinsman of his maistres, and an assured man, suffred him to read so long as he liste. On thother side Rolandine came vnto her window, who to find occasion to tarrie there the longer, fayned to haue a paine in her leg, and dined and supped in so good time, as she went no more to the ordinarie of the Ladies: wher she began to set herselfe a worke about the making of a bed of Crimson silke, placing her worke vpon the window, as desirous to be alone. And when she saw no man to be there, shee interteigned her husband, to whom she might speake in secret wise, so as none was able to vnderstande them: and when any person came nere, she coughed and made a signe that the bastard might withdraw himselfe. They that were appointed to watche them, thought vndoubtedlie that their loue was past and ended, because she went not out of the Chamber, wher safely he coulde not see her, for that hee was forbidden the same. Vppon a day the mother of the yong Prince being in her sonne’s Chamber, repayred to the windowe where that great booke did lie, and shee had not staied there long, but one of Rolandine’s fellowes which was within her Chamber saluted her. The lady asked her how Rolandine did, who sayd that shee might very wel see her, if it were her pleasure: and caused her to come to the window wyth her night geare vppon her head. And after they had talked a while of her sicknes they withdrew themselues. The other ladie espying the great booke of the Round Table, sayde to her yeoman of the Chamber: “I do marueille much why yong men do imploie themselues to read such follies.” The yeoman made aunsweare, that he marueled much more, why men of good yeres, counted and esteemed wise and discrete, should haue greater delight in reading of such trifles, then those that were yong. And to iustifie that maruel hee told her how her cosin the bastard did spend 4 or 5 houres in a day to read vppon the same. Vpon which words by and by she conceyued the cause of his deepe studie, and charged him to hide himselfe in some place to mark what he did. Which commaundement the yeoman performed, and perceiued that the booke which the bastard read vpon, was the window out of which Rolandine talked with him: and therewithal called to remembrance many wordes of the loue which they thought to keepe very secreete. The next day he rehersed the same vnto his maistresse, who sent for her cosin the bastard, and after many tales told him, she forbad him to resort thither any more, and at night she gaue like warning to Rolandine, threatninge her that if she continued in her fond and foolish loue, she woulde tell the Queene the whole circumstaunce of her lighte demeaner. Rolandine (nothing astonied with those woords) did sweare that sith the time she was forbidden by her maistresse the queene’s maiesty, she neuer spake vnto him: the troth whereof shee might learne aswel of the gentlewomen her companions, as of other seruauntes of the house: and touching the window whereof she spake, she boldly aduouched that she neuer talked with the Bastard there. Who (poore gentleman) fearing that his affayres would be reuealed, kept himselfe farre out from daunger, and longe time after did not retourne to the Courte. Howbeit, he wrote many times to Rolandine by such secret meanes as for all the espiall that the Queene had put, there passed no weeke but twise at least shee hearde newes from him: and when one meanes did fayle hym, hee deuised another, and many tymes sent a litle Page clothed in colours (so often altered and chaunged as he was sent) who staying at the gates when the Ladies passed by, delyuered his letters priuelye in the middest of the prease. Vpon a time as the Queene for her pleasure walked into the fieldes, one which knew the Page and had charge to take hede vnto those doings, ranne after him: but the Page which was a fine boye, doubtinge leaste hee should be searched, conueyed hym selfe into a poore woman’s house, where spedelie he burnt his letters in the fier, ouer whiche a potte was boyling with meate for her poore familie. The gentleman that followed him stripped him naked and searched his clothes, but when he sawe that he could finde nothing, he let him goe: and when he was departed, the olde woman asked him wherefore he searched the boye: who aunswered: “to finde letters which he thought he had about him.” “Tush,” (quod she) “serch no more, for he hath hidden them very well.” “I pray thee tell me,” (quod the Gentleman) “In what place:” hoping to haue recouered the same. But when hee vnderstode that they were throwen into the fire, he well perceiued that the boye was craftier then him selfe. All whiche incontinently hee tolde the Queene, notwithstanding from that time forthe, the bastard vsed no longer the Page, but sent one other of his olde seruauntes, whom he faithfully trusted, and he (forgetting feare of death which hee knewe well the Queene threatned on them that had to doe in those affaires) tooke vpon him to carie his maister’s letters to Rolandine. And when hee was entred the Castell, hee wayted at a certen doore placed at the foote of a paire of staiers, by whiche the ladies passed to and fro: where he had not taried long, but a yeoman which at other times had sene him, knewe him and thereof told the maister of the Queene’s house, who soudainly made searche to apprehende him. The fellowe which was wise and politique, seing that diuers loked vpon him a farre of, retourned towardes the wall (as though he would haue made his water) tearing his letters in so many small peces as he could doe for his life, and threw them behinde an old gate: who had no soner done the facte, but hee was apprehended and throughly searched, and when they could finde nothing about him, they made him weare whether he had brought any letters or not, vsing him partly by rigor, and somewhat by faire perswasion to make him confesse the truthe: but neither through promise or threate, they could get any thing at his handes. Report hereof was brought to the Queene, and one of the companie gaue aduise that searche should be made behind the gate, where he was taken: in which place they founde nothing but litle peces of letters. Then they caused the kinge’s Confessor to be sent for, who recouering the peces layd them vpon a table, and red the lettre throughout, where the veritie of the mariage (so much dissembled) was throughly discifered, for the bastard in those letters called her nothing els but wife. The Queene not meaning to conceale the fault of her kinswoman, (which she ought to haue done) fil into a great rage and storme, commaunding that the poore man by al meanes possible should be forced to confesse the true tenor of that letter, to thintent that the same by his affirmacion might not be denied: but doe what they could, they were not able to make him alter his former tale. They which had commission to examine him, brought him to the Riuer side and did put him into a sack, saying that he did lie before God and the Queene, and against an approued trothe. He that had rather lose his life than accuse his maister, prayed them to suffer him to haue a ghostly father that like a Christian he might ende his life, and so entre the ioyes prepared for all repentant sinners, and after that he had clered his conscience, he said vnto them: “Maisters, tell my Lorde and maister the Bastarde, that I recommend vnto him the poore estate of my poore wife and children, trusting his honour will haue consideration of them for my sake, for so mutch as with good and loyall harte, I doe imploye my life for his honor and suretie: and with me doe what you list, for you get nothing at my handes that shall redounde to his hurt and preiudice.” Then to put him in greater feare, they bounde him within the sacke and threwe him into the water, crying unto him, if thou wilt tell the trouth thou shalt be saued: but they seing that he would make no aunswer drew him out againe, making reporte to the Queene of his faith and constancie. Who then sayd, that neither the king nor she were so happy in seruauntes as the Bastarde was, that had not wherewith to recompence such fidelitie. The Quene did what she coulde to get him from his seruice, but the poore fellowe would in no wise forsake his maister. Notwithstanding in thende by his said maister’s leaue, he was put into the Queene’s seruice, where he liued many happy dayes. The Queene after she vnderstode by the bastarde’s letters the trouth of the mariage, sent for Rolandine, and in great rage, called her caitife and miserable wretche, in stede of cosin, reciting vnto her the disparagement of her noble house, and the villanie she had committed against the honorable race whereof she came, and against the will of her which was her Queene, kinswoman and maistres, by contracting mariage without the licence of the king and her. Rolandine whiche of long time knewe the small devocion that her maistres bare vnto her, vsed her with like affection: and bicause she was werie of the Quene’s displeasure, thinking that her correction vttered in presence of many proceded not of loue, but rather to make her ashamed, abandoned feare, and conceiuing courage, when she sawe the Queene in her chiefest rage, with gladsome and firme countenaunce answered her in this wise: “Madame, if you cannot conceiue the malice of your owne harte, I will set before your eyes the rancour and displeasure of the same, which malice of long time you haue borne towardes the Lorde my father and me: whereof madame, I doe fele the smarte, to my great losse and grief: for if it had pleased you to haue borne vnto me that good wil which you do to those that are not so nere about you as I am, I had before this tyme been placed and preferred in mariage as well to the likyng of your honour as to my greate satisfaction: but you haue regarded mee as one forgotten, and cleane out of fauour, in such wyse as all the noblemen, with whome I might haue been matched, haue contempned me, as well through the negligence of my Lorde my father, as for the like estimation and accompt that you haue made of me: by meanes whereof I fell into that dispaire which if my health could haue susteined the order and state of religion, I would willingly haue taken it vpon me, to haue seuered my selfe from the continuall hatred and enuy which your grace ful rigorously hath showen vnto me: and being in this dispaire, I chaunced to finde out him, that is proceded of so noble a house as my selfe. If the loue of twoo persones is to be regarded, that meane to accomplishe the holy state of wedlock: for you knowe that his father in nobilitie farre excelled myne. He hath of long time loued me, and made great sute vnto me, but you madame, whiche neuer pardoned me for any small offence, ne yet praysed anye good acte of myne (although you know by experience that I haue not vsed to talke of matters of loue or other worldlie affaires, and that I minded aboue all things to leade a more religious life then any other) doe make it an hainous matter that I should talke with a Gentleman (so infortunate as my selfe), by whose loue, I thought or sought for nothing els but the ease and comfort of my minde. And seing my selfe voyde and frustrate of mine expectation, I shall imploie indeuour so well to seeke my rest and quiet, as you haue gone about to dispoyle me of the same: and then will celebrate the mariage which is already assured by promises and by a ring. Wherefore, madame, I thinke that you doe me great wrong by terming me to be a wicked woman, sithe that in so great and perfect amitie I might haue founde occasion (if I would) to haue committed euills: but there was neuer betwene him and me any priuie fact, other then that is honest, hoping that God wil shewe me such fauour, as before the mariage be consumat, I shall obtaine the fauour and good will of my Lorde my father: wherby I do neither offende God, nor my conscience, for I haue taried till the age of XXX. yeares, to see what you and my father would doe for me. I haue kept my selfe so chast and honest, as no man liuing is able to laye the contrarie to my charge. And with that reason wherewith God hath indued me, being olde and voyde of hope, to finde a husbande agreable to my nobilitie, I am determined to marie sutche a one as I like beste, not for the pleasure or satisfaction of the eye (for you know he is not faire) nor for lust of the flesh (for there hath bene no carnall fact committed) ne yet for pryde and couetousnes (for he is but poore and of litle estimation) but I haue a sincere respecte and pure regarde to his vertue, honestie and good grace, for whiche the worlde doth geue him praise, and the great loue also that he beareth me, maketh me hope to finde with him great rest and quiet. And after I had deuised and considered the good and euill that might insue by this my choise, I still persisted in that mind, and haue well wayed and pondered the same these twoo yeares past, being throughly resolued to waste and spende the rest of my dayes with him which I meane still firmely to kepe in despite of all the tormentes and cruelties, that the greatest enemies I haue, be able to make my poore bodie suffre, no not death it selfe shall force me to refuse hym. Wherefore Madame, I beseech you to accept this my reasonable excuse, whereunto your self is nowe made priuie, and suffer me to liue in that peace, whiche I hope for euer through him, in these mine elder to finde.” The Queene wel marking her stout wordes and countenaunce, and knowing the same to be very true, was not able to aunswere her againe with reason: but continuing, her rebukes and taunting checkes began to waste, and at length fell out into this rage: “Ah, presumptuous drabbe, and caitife wretch, in stede of humbling thy selfe and repenting thine offence, thou carpest boldly without dropping or sheading any teare, whereby thou doest manifestly declare that stubbornes and hardnes of thy harte: but if the king, and thy father, would follow mine aduise, they should put thee into a place, where force should make thee to vse other language.” “Madame,” said Rolandine, “because you haue accused me of bolde talke and presumptous speache, I meane from henceforth to hold my peace, except you geue me leaue to make mine aunswere.” And when she was commaunded to tell forth her mynde, she said: “It is not my part, Madame, boldly or without duetifull reuerence to speake before your maiestie (whiche is my maistresse, and the greatest Princesse in Christendome). The wordes which I haue said, be not spoken (Madame) of presumption, but to declare that I haue none other aduocate to pleade for me, but the trouth of my cause. And therefore am bolde without blushing feare to disclose the same, hoping that if your grace did knowe the secret concept of my poore faithfull harte, you woulde not iudge mee to be that woman which you terme me to be. I doe not doubt that any mortall creature vnderstanding my behauiour in those matters wherwith I am charged, would blame me, for my liberall speache, sithe I am sure that God and myne honor in no point I haue offended. The cause which maketh me thus without feare to saye my minde is, because I am assured that he whiche seeth my harte, is the geuer of my life also, and remaineth with me. If then such a Iudge and Guide doe order and dispose my life, why should I be afrayd of them that be subiect vnto his iudgement? And why then Madame, should I wayle or wepe, sithe mine honor and conscience without remorse or grudge do wel like of these my doings, which if they were newly to begin, I would not repente me to doe the same againe. But it is you (Madame) that hath good cause to wepe, as well for the great displeasure, euer borne me from my youthfull dayes, as for the wrong you doe me nowe by reprehending me before the face of all the worlde for a faulte, whiche ought rather to be imputed vnto you then vnto me. For if I had offended God, the king, or you, my parentes, or my conscience, I were well worthy to be counted very obstinate, if with great repentaunce I did not lament the same, but for a dede that is right good and vertuous, I ought not to wepe, whereof there was neuer other rumor spred but verie honorable, except the slaunder which your selfe hath raised, whereby your desire to increase my shame and dishonor appeareth to be greater then the respecte you haue to conserue the nobilitie of your house, or kindred wherof you come. But because it pleaseth you, Madame, so to vse me, I purpose not to withstand you. For when you shall ordeine that punishment for me, which you like best, I shal reioyse no lesse to suffer the same without desert, then you be willing to bestowe it vpon me without cause. Wherefore Madame, commaunde my Lorde my father to put me to what tormente you will, for the execution wherof you shall not finde him vnwilling. And I shall not be altogether without ioy, to see him prest and redie to obey your wilfull mynde. But I haue a father in heauen, who (I am sure) will geue me suche pacience, as I shall be able to abide and indure, what affliction soeuer you prepare for me, in whom only is al my hope and trust.” The Queene, so angrie as she could be, commaunded her out of her sight, and to be shutte into a chamber alone, that none might speake vnto her. In which imprisonment shee was not depriued from the companie of her gouernesse, by whose meanes she let the Bastarde vnderstande all her fortune, and she likewise vnderstode what he thought best for her to doe. Who thinking that the seruice which he had done to the king, would stand him in some stede, came vnto the Court with all spede, and founde the king in the fieldes, to whome hee rehearsed the trouth of the facte, beseching his maiestie that vnto him (who was a poore gentleman) he would shewe such fauour and grace as the rigor of the Queene’s maiestie might be appeased, and the mariage fully consumat and ended. The king made him none other aunswere, but saide: “Is it true that thou hast maried her?” “Yea sir,” saide the Bastarde: “by wordes only as yet: but if it please your maiestie, the same may be throughly made perfit.” The king nodded his hed, and for that time geuing him none other aunswere, hee retourned straite to the Castell, and when he was almost there, he called the Captaine of his Guarde, and commaunded him to apprehend the Bastarde. Notwithstanding one of his frendes which knewe the kinge’s countenaunce, willed him to absent himselfe, and to retire to one of his houses, and if the king made serche after him (as he suspected) he would incontinently aduertise him therof, that he might auoyde the realme: and when the king’s displeasure was pacified, he would sende him worde. The Bastarde beleued him, and vsed such diligence as the Captain of the Guarde could not finde him. The king and the Queene councelled together what they might doe with this poore damsell, whiche was their kinswoman, and by the Queene’s aduise it was concluded, that she should be sent home to her father, with the true aduertisement of the whole matter. But before she was sent, diuerse Diuines and learned men of the Clergie, were demaunded their opinions of the priuat mariage, and the Counsell also did sit vpon the same, who concluded that for so muche as the mariage was not celebrated but by wordes, it might easely be vndone, vntill one of them had acquited the other. Which the king commaunded to be performed for the honor of the house wherof she came. But she made them aunswere, that in all thinges she was redie to obey the king, except it were in matter against her conscience, sayinge, that those whome God had coupled together by heauenly aduise, could not bee separated by man’s decree, praying them not to attempt a thing so vnreasonable: for if loue and good will founded vpon the feare of God, were the true and sure knot of mariage, then she was so wel bounde and tied, as neither iron, fier, or water coulde breake that band, but death alone. Wherunto, and to none other constitution, she was determined to rendre her ring and othe, praying them not to speake, do, or proceede, to any thing that were contrarie vnto that: wherin she was so stedfastly resolued, as she had rather die by keping her faith, then liue to denie the same. The Commissioners retorned to the king and Queene the constant answere of the Gentlewoman, and when they sawe no remedie could be found to make her renounce her husband, they conueyed her home to her father, in such pitifull sorte, as by the way she passed, eche man and woman lamented her fortune. And albeit shee had offended, yet the punishement and affliction she suffred was so great and her constancie so firmely bent, as she made her fault to be estemed a vertue. The father receiuing those pitifull newes, would not see her, but sent her to his castell that stoode in a forest, which he had before time builded for an occasion, worthy to be rehersed hereafter, and there kept her in prison a long time, sending worde vnto her, that if shee would forsake her husband, he would take her for his doughter, and set her at libertie. Who for all that offer was firme and constant, and loued her prison the better by obseruing the bond of mariage, then al the libertie of the world, without the hauing of her husband. And it semed by her countenaunce, that al the paynes she had indured were most pleasaunt pastimes, for that she suffred the same for his sake, whome she loued best. What should I speake of men? This Bastarde at length became vnmindeful of her, and fled into Alemaine, where he had many frendes. Whose inconstancie afterwardes appeared so manifest, as the vertue of true and perfit loue outwardly seming to remain in him, was conuerted into the vice of odible ingratitude, whereby it was euident, that the causes that made him so hotte a Suter, were the vglie monsters of Auarice and Ambition, where he fill in loue with an Almaine Ladie, he forgetting to visite her with letters, that for his sake had susteined so great and manifold tribulations. For what rigor or affliction soeuer Fortune offred, coulde neuer before that tyme put awaye the meanes from writing one to an other, but onely the vices before named, and the foolish and wicked loue wherin he suffred him selfe to fall. Which sudden and newe loue so perced the hart of Rolandine, and so fiercely assailed the same, as she could no more content and rest her self. Afterwards vpon the viewe of his wrytinges and letters, seing him to be so chaunged and altered from his accustomed stile, what tormentes then she suffred, they doe knowe that haue felte and tasted the bitter cup of like passions. And yet her perfecte loue would not suffer her to fixe certaine iudgement vpon this aduertisement, and therefore deuised secretly to sende one of her seruaunts whome shee trusted best, to espie, and priuely make serche whether the same were true or not. Whiche her seruaunt being retourned, hee truely tolde her, howe the Bastarde Gentleman was in loue with a Ladie of Almaine, and howe the brute was that he made great sute vnto her for mariage, because shee was very ritche. These newes brought sutche extreme sorrowe and grief to the harte of poore Rolandine, as being not able to abide the bruntes thereof, she fill very sicke. Those whiche vnderstode the originall of her disease, sayde vnto her (in the behalfe of her father) that for so muche as nowe she knewe the great villanie of the Bastarde, shee might iustly forsake hym: persuading her thereunto with the greatest reasons they could deuise. But for all those persuasions, no remedie could be founde to make her chaunge opinion: in whiche her laste tentacion shee declared the great constancie wherewith she was affected: for like as loue was decreased in him: so the same augmented in her, whiche remained and persisted in despite of all the malice of the worlde. For that loue, whiche fayled, and was fledde from him, tourned and retired into her. And when she perceiued her selfe alone fully possessed with that whiche before was deuided betwene them bothe, shee determined to obserue the same vntill death had made an ende of her fatall dayes. Wherefore the goodnes of God (which is perfect charitie and true loue) had pitie vpon her sorrowe, and regarded her pacience in such wise, as within few daies after the Bastarde died in the pursute of the other ladie’s Loue. Wherof Rolandine being dauertised by those which saw him buried, prayed them to trauell with her father by humble sute, that he would vouchsafe to giue her leaue to speake vnto him. Who at their request, (although he neuer spake vnto her before, during the tyme of her imprisonment) incontinently was pleased so to doe. And after that he had herde the discourse of her iuste reasons, in place of rebukes, and his promise made to kill her (which many times he threatened by woordes) he cleped her betweene his armes, and bitterly weping, sayde vnto her: “Daughter, I wel perceiue your vertue and constant mynde, which farre surmounteth any thing that is good in mee, for if there be any faulte or lacke of consideration of your estate, I am the principal occasion thereof: but sith the goodnes of God hath thus ordeined it, I wil make satisfaction for mine offence past.” And afterwardes he sent her home to his house, where he vsed and interteigned her like his derest and eldest daughter. In the ende she was demaunded in mariage by a Gentleman of name and armes, to her estate and bloud not inferior. Who was bothe wise and vertuous, and so louingly regarded Rolandine (whome he many times visited) as he attributed vnto her the prise of prayse for that, which others accompted worthy of rebuke, knowing that her intent of former loue was grounded vpon the foundation of vertue. The mariage was well liked of her father, was acceptable to Rolandine, and was forthwith concluded. True it is that a brother she had, the only inheritour of her father’s landes, who would not agree that she should receiue her childe’s porcion, obiecting that she had disobeied her father. And after the death of the good old man (her father) her brother vsed her very rigorously and cruelly. For her husbande was but a yonger brother, and had wherewithal scarce able to liue: for which want, God bountifully prouided: for the brother whose gredie minde did craue in one daie to be possessor of al, by sodain death was depriued, as well of his sister’s porcion as of al the rest. By whose death she remained the whole inheritor of that honorable house: and afterwardes liued an honorable and stately life, in great wealth and pleasure, and was welbeloued and duetifully intreated of her husband. Finally hauing by her husband two goodly sonnes, she very vertuously brought them vp, and finishing her aged dayes, she ioyfully rendred her soule vnto him, in whom of long time she had reposed her onely trust and confidence. Now good ladies let them come forth that be the common displaiers of women’s inconstancie, and let them bring forth in presence, so good and perfect a husband as this was a good and constant woman, indued with semblable faith and vertue. I am sure to bring this to passe the matter wilbe very difficult: and therfore I had rather discharge them of this my chalenge, then put them to payne to trauell and seeke for such a one. Whose vertuous loue and godlye continuance of the same, is worthye to bee sounded by Trompe of fame to the extreame partes of the Earth. And yet I would aduise yonge Ladies and gentlewomen to beware how they be inamoured, and pursue the trade of loue, contrarie to the will of parentes, who ought in time of infancie to be their guide, and also in riper yeares to procure them mariage according to their worthines: which they may the better and soner do, is by vertuous education they arme and instruct their tender and youthly age.

[ THE SIXTY-THIRD NOUELL.]

The Wisedome of a woman to withdrawe the foolishe loue of her husband, wherwith he was tormented.

Many yeares are not yet expired sithens there was a Gentlewoman of noble house (whose name I may not disclose), so wise and vertuous as shee was wel beloued and esteemed of her neighbours: her husband (not without good cause) trusted her in al his affaires, which she ordred and gouerned so wisely, as her house by her meanes grew to be one of the richest and best apparelled, that was in the countrie wherein she dwelled. Liuing thus a long time with her husbande, by whom shee had many goodly children, their happie state and felicitie (after which daily insue their contraries) began to decaie, because that he, defatigated with to much quiet, abandoned restfull life, to seeke after troublesom trauell: and had gotten a custome when his wife was a sleepe to rise from her side, and not to returne vntill it was very nere morning. The gentlewoman misliking this maner of life, became very ielous of her husband, and yet made as though she mistrusted nothing: but that spitefull passion entred her stomacke so farre, as in thende shee forgot thaffayres of her house, the diligence of her person, and good gouernment of her familie, like vnto one that verely supposed that (do what shee could) she had lost the fruite of her paine and labour, which was the great loue of her husband, for continuance whereof shee spared no trauaile or toile: but losinge altogether as shee manifestly perceiued, shee grew to be so carelesse of her housholde state and houswiferie, as speedelie appeared the fruites of slouth and negligence: for her husband for his part spent without order, and she staied her trauell from matters of houshold: in such wise as the same was growen to so great penurie, as the high and stately woodes were felled downe to the stubbe, and the goodly maners deliuered into the handes of sir Mathewe Morgage. One of the gentlewoman’s frendes and kinsemen which knew her disease, tolde her of her fault, and rebuked her for that carelesse life: sayinge, that if loue of husband could not make her to haue respecte of housholde profite: zeale and regarde of poore children’s state ought to moue her thereunto. This good councell of her frende touched her very nere, and the pitie of her children at lengthe made her to recouer her spirits, and to assaie by all meanes possible to wynne againe her husbande’s loue. See here the nature of honestie, and condicion of well disposed life: this gentlewoman was infected with the plague of Ielousie (an ordinarie disease in women,) and not without iust cause: for what Grisilde could suffre her wedded husband, assembled in bedde, in depthe of slepe, to rise and runne a straie like a wylde horse, neying after the straied female kinde of that sorte? This good Gentlewoman, I saye, almoste besides her wittes for alienation of her deserued loue, now growen careles of worldly thinges, as you haue heard, is vpon the louing admonicion of her nerest frend, pricked with naturall regarde of Infantes: launching forth that festred sore of Ialousie, serched meanes by policie to wynne that which Ialousie could not get, whiche was her husbande’s loue, whom with curteouse wiuely shame not before assemblie of neighbours, or straungers audience, by huy and crye as many doe, but in domesticall boundes, within the compas of housholde, and within the circuit of secret chambre, shee made him blushe from former life, and to deteste all filthie and beastly factes in future time. Suche be the frutes of a right matrone’s life. Suche be the gaines of the milde and quiet wife. Such a wife, I say, is the honor of her husband’s name, the onely vpholder and restoratife of his renowme and fame. But turne we againe to the experienced wisedome of this Gentlewoman. The next day she diligently watched by false slepe, the time of his vprising from her: and when he was gone, shee rose likewyse, putting her night gowne about her, causing the bedde to bee made, and saying her prayers, she waited the retourne of her husband, who being retired into his chambre, she came before him to kisse hym, and brought him a basen with water to washe his handes: and musing at the vnaccustomed order of his wife, he tolde her that he was come but from the priuie, and therfore neded not to washe. Whereunto she answered, that although it were no great matter, yet cleanly and honest, to washe the handes, being come from an vncleane and stinking place, by which wordes she was desirous to let him vnderstande his follie thereby to hate his dishonest and filthie life. But for all that wyse and pretie taunte hee amended nothing at all: Howbeit she continued that ordre the space of one yere. And when she sawe, that her diligence could not reforme his vsuall trade of lyfe, on a tyme wayting for her husband, which taried longer then he was wont to doe, shee was desirous to seeke hym out, and went from chamber to chamber, till at lengthe shee founde hym a bedde in a back chambre and a sleepe with the moste ill fauoured, foule and filthiest Slutte of her house, such a homely pece and durty beaste, as the lyke was not to be founde in a countrie. The gentlewoman beholding this manerly sight, thought to teache him a lesson howe to remembre the difference betwene the sweete and pleasaunt lodging, with a fayre and duetifull wife, and the vncleanly couching with a stinking and lothsome Queane. Wherupon she caused a burden of Strawe and worne rushes to be brought vnto her, setting the same on fier in the middes of the chamber, but when she sawe her husband almoste choked with the great smother, she waked hym, and plucked him out of the bed by the armes, crying: “fier, fier.” If the husbande were ashamed, and offended with him selfe to be founde in a bedde with such an vncleanly matche, by his faire and honest wife, I referre the iudgement to all indifferent men, that be coupled with like wiues. Then his wyfe said vnto him: “Sir I haue assaied the space of one whole yeare, to withdrawe you from this vile and wicked life, by gentlenes and pacience, and shewed example by washing you without, that you might also clense your selfe within. But when I sawe myne endeuour could take no place, I attempted to helpe my selfe with the element that shall ende and consume vs all: assuring you, sir, that if this doe not amende you, I cannot tell if the seconde time, I be able likewise to ridde you from the daunger that may happen. I praye you sir to thinke and consider that there is no greater dispayre or dispite, then that whiche is conceiued of loue: and had I not set before mine eyes the feare of God, I could not haue practised suche pacience, as I haue done.” The husband very glad, that he had escaped that misfortune, promised her neuer to geue occasion, that shee should take like payne to bring him to order. Whiche promise the Gentlewoman very willingly beleued, and with her husbande’s consent, she expelled out of her house, that which did displease her moste: and from that time forth, they louingly liued together, and the former faultes of this reformed life, was an increase of ioyful and mutuall delightes. I beseche you Gentlewomen (if there be any in the place where this nouell is redde) if God doe geue you such husbandes to beware of dispaire, vntill ye haue assayed all possible meanes to reduce them to good ordre. For there be in the daye XXIIII. houres, in euery of whiche houres a man may chaunge opinion: and a woman ought to accompt her selfe moste happie, if by pacience and long suffraunce she wynne her husbande, excepte fortune and frendes haue procured one that is alreadie perfecte. This example therefore maye serue al sortes of maried women. Let her take example that list (quod Dame Partelot) for it is impossible for me to vse suche long pacience. But let Dame Partelot speake her pleasure, I would aduise all husbandes to lyue honestly with their honest wiues, and doe praie to God to plant mo sutch wiues to store the barren worlde that neuer or seldome bryngeth forth such increase.

[ THE SIXTY-FOURTH NOUELL.]

The notable charitie of a woman of Tours towards her husbande.

Another hystorie of like example I thincke meete to bee annexed: which telleth howe in the Cittie of Tours in Fraunce, there was a fayre and honest wyfe which for her vertues was not onelye beloued, but also feared and esteemed of her husband. So it was that he followinge the fragilitie of those men, which be wearie of delicate fare, fill in loue with a woman of the Countrye that kepte his house there, and many times departed from Tours to visite his countrie woman, where he commonlye taried II. or III. dayes before his retorne: and when he came home againe to Tours, he ordinarely did take cold, whereof his good wife had much to do to recouer him. And so sone as he was hole, hee failed not to returne to the place, where pleasure made him forget all his former griefe and sicknes. His wife which aboue all thinges loued his life and tendred his health, seinge him commonly broughte into so poore estate, went into the Countrye, where she founde out the yong woman that her husband loued. Vnto whom (not in choler but with smilinge cheere and countenaunce) shee sayd: “How she knew well that oftentimes her husband repaired thither to visite her, and that she was not well content that she vsed him no more carefully, for when he came home from her he toke so great cold as long time after she had much a doe to recouer him.” The poore woman as wel for the reuerence of the Dame, as for the trouth of the matter, could not denie the facte, and therefore fallinge downe vppon her knees, asked her forgiuenes. The maistresse required to see the bedde and chamber, where her husband laie, which she perceiued to be so cold, ill fauoured, and out of order, as she pitied and lamented the case: wherefore incontinently she sent for a good bedde furnished with sheetes, blanquets and Couerlet, accordingly as she knew her husband loued, causing the chamber to be repaired, hanged, and dressed vp, after the best maner: she gaue her also plate and vessell to serue her husband at meales, together with a punchion of wyne, spice, and other confections: and then prayed the woman to sende home her husbande, no more so sicke, but to interteigne and cherishe him after the most delicate and carefull maner she could. The husband taried not long at home, but after his olde custome wente againe into the countrie to visit his woman, and marueiled much to finde her poore lodging so trimlye garnished, but much more he wondred when calling for drincke he sawe her to bringe him a siluer potte, asking her where she had gotten all those goodes. The poore woman sayde vnto him weeping, that it was his wife, which hauing so great pitie vppon his ill intreatie, had furnished her house, and had committed vnto her the charge and regard of his health. Hee seing the greate humilitie and goodnes of his wyfe, and that shee for the vnkindnes he shewed vnto her, had requited him with that curtesie and louing kindnes, well pondering and regarding his owne frailtie, and the honeste demeanor of his wyfe, afterwards rewarded the poore woman with money, and perswaded her from that time foorth to liue an honest life. And then returned home to his wyfe, confessing vnto her the negligence of his dutie, and that excepte she had vsed that kinde of curtesie and goodnes towards him, it had bin impossible for him to forsake and giue ouer his vngodlye life: and afterwardes vtterly abandoning his behauiour past, they liued together in great rest and quietnes. Belieue me if ye list (to you good wiues I speake) that there be verye few ill husbands, whom the pacience and loue of the wyfe, is able at lengthe to winne, or els they be more harde then stones, which the soft and feble water by continuance of time, is able to weare and make holow: for when the wiue’s lenitie shall enter his carelesse stomacke, and her pacient suffraunce renew remembraunce of dutie, then doth conscience bite, and gnaw the cancred cord that tyeth vp the good consideracion of his office, and regarde to maried life: then doth age abhorre the lewdnes of former life, and commeth home to cherish the holsome Nourice of his pleasant state. Then regardeth he the bande wherewith matrimonie hath bound him, and both at bedde and borde obserueth the ful perfections of the same.

[ THE SIXTY-FIFTH NOUELL.]

The simplicitie of an olde woman, that offered a burning candle to S. Iohn of Lions.

In the Church of S. Iohn at Lions, there was a very darke Chappell, and within the same a Tombe made of stone, erected for great personages, with pictures liuely wroughte, and about the same Tombe there doe lie manye worthie knightes of great fame and valiaunce. Vpon a hote Sommer’s daye, a souldiour walking vp and downe the Church had great delight to sleape, and beholding that darcke chappell which was colde and fresh of ayre, thoughte to reste vpon the Tombe as other did, besides whom he layde him downe to sleepe. It chaunced that a good old woman very deuoute, came thether when the souldior was in the depth of his sleepe. And after shee had sayd her deuocions, wyth a wax candle in her hande, she would haue fastened the same vpon the Tombe, and repayring nere the place where the souldiour lay, desirous to sticke it vppon his forehead, thinking it had been the stone, the waxe would take no hold. The old woman, which thought the cause that her candle would not cleaue was the coldnesse of the Image, she warmed the souldior’s forehead with the flame of the candle, to sticke it faste. But the Image which was not insensible, beganne to cry oute, whereat the poore woman was so afraide, as like one straught of her wittes, she brake into exclamacion crying: “A miracle! A miracle!” They within the Church hearing an outcry of a miracle, ranne in heapes as though they had been madde, some to ring the belles, and some to see the miracle: whom the good woman broughte to see the Image, which then was remoued: whereat many began to laughe. But diuers priestes not willing so to give ouer so great a Miracle, determined afterwards to vse that tombe in reuerence, therby to get money.

[ THE SIXTY-SIXTH NOUELL.]

A Doctor of the Lawes boughte a cup, who by the subtiltie of two false varlets, lost both his money and the cuppe.

To conclude our nomber of Nouels, I haue thought good (gentle reader) to bringe in place a Doctour and his wyfe, to giue thee a merye farewell: because thou haste hitherto so frendly and pacientlye suffred thy selfe to be stayed in reading of the reste: wherefore with a pleasaunt Adieu in a short and merie tale, which discloseth the subtiltie of two false knaues to beguile a poore Doctor and his wyfe, I meane to end. And therfore do saye, that in the Citie of Bologna in Italie, there was a worshipful Doctor of the Lawes, called Maister Florien, which in other thinges sauing his profession was but a slouen, and of so ill behauiour as none of his facultie the like: who by sauing of many crustes, had layed vp so good store of Crownes, as he caused to be made a very great and costly Cup of siluer, for payment of which Cup he went to the Goldsmithe’s house, and hauinge payed for the siluer, the guilt, and for the fashion, being without his Clarke to carie it home, he prayed the Goldsmith to lend him his man. By chaunce there were newly come to the Citie, two yonge men that were Romaynes, which ranged vp and downe the streates with eares vpright, to view and marke euery thinge done in the same, bearing about them counterfait Iewels and lingots, guilt of S. Martine’s touche, to deceiue him that would playe the foole to buy them. One of them was called Liello and the other Dietiquo. These two Marchantes being at good leasure to wander the streates, beholding the passangers to and fro, by fortune espied the Goldsmithe’s man, who (to set forth the workemanship and making of the cup) caried the same open. These gallants bearing a spite to the cup, more for the siluer than for other malice, purposed to inuent some sleight to get the Cuppe, and a farre of with slie pase, followed the Goldsmithe’s man, of whom they craftelie inquired of the owner of the Cup, and where hee had left maister Florien. When they had concluded vppon their enterprise, Liello (the finest boye of them both) went straight to buy a Lamprey of great price, and hiding the same vnder his cloake, repayred directly to Maister Doctour’s house, where finding his wife of semblable wit and behauiour that her husband was, with vnshamefast face and like grace, said vnto her: “Maistresse, Maister Florien your husbande hath sent you a fishe, and prayeth you to dresse it and to make dinner readie, because he bringeth a company of other Doctoures with him: in the meane time he requireth you, to retorne vnto him the Cuppe againe, whiche hee sent you this morning by the Goldsmithe’s man, because he had forgotten to stampe his armes vppon it.” The woman receyuinge the fishe, franckly deliuered him the Cup, and went about to prepare dinner. Liello (which hunted after gaine but better caught his prey) hied him a pace and conueyed himselfe with speede to the house of one of his Countriemen, and there reioyced with his companion, attending for the comming of the Royster Dietiquo, who taried in the Towne, wayting and viewing what pursute was made after his fellowe. Sone after maister Florien retourned to his house and finding his dinner more delicate than it was wont to be, marueyled, and asked his wyfe who was at all that coste. His wyfe very scornefully aunswered: “Why sir, haue you forgotten that you sente me word this morning that you woulde bring home with you diuers Gentlemen to dinner?” “What” (quoth the Doctour) “I thincke you be a foole.” “I am not” (sayd shee) “and for better witnesse you sent mee this fishe, that I would you had been better aduised before you had bestowed such coste.” “I assure thee:” quoth hee, “I sent thee no fishe, but belike it was some folishe knaue that had forgotten his arrant and mistaken the house: but howsoeuer it was wyse, we at this time will be content to fare well, at other mennes charge.” “Why sir (sayd his wyfe) call your selfe to better remembraunce, for hee that brought the Lampry, came to me for your Cup, by this token that you would haue your armes engrauen vppon the same.” At those words the poore Doctour, after he had discharged three or foure Canons laden with haile shot of scolding words wente out into the streate, running hither and thither demaunding of al them he met, if they saw none carrie a Lampry home to his house. And you would haue said if you had seen the Doctour wyth his hode hanging at one side, that he had been out of his wittes. Dietiquo stode still in a corner, and beheld the Doctour’s frantike order, and albeit that he was sure the stealinge of the Cuppe by Liello his companion was impossible to be knowen, yet being sorye that the Lampry cost so much, determined also to play his part, and seinge the doctour stayed from making further complaintes and pursute, he went home to the Doctour’s house, where smiling with a good grace and bould countenaunce saide vnto his wyfe: “Maistresse Doctour, good newes, the Cup is founde, one whom you know caused the same to be done in sport to bring your husband Maister Florien in a choler, who now is amonges diuers of his frendes iesting at the pleasuant deceipt, and hath sent me hither to fetch their dinner, wherein they praye you to remember the Lamprey, and to come your selfe to take part of the same, bicause they purpose to be mery.” The woman ioyful of those newes, began some what to complaine of the griefe which she had taken for losse of the cup, and deliuered to Dietiquo the rosted Lamprey with the sause, betwene two platters who incontinently hid the same vnder his cloke, and wyth so much speede as he could, went to seeke out his companion Lielo, and their countrimen, which all that while had taried for him: and God knoweth whether those good fellowes did laugh and mocke the poore Doctour, and his wife or not, and when she had made herself gay and trimme to go eate part of the Lamprey, as she was going out she met Maister Florien lookinge lowringlie vppon the matter, to whom she said (smiling like a frumenty pot) “How now, sir, come they hither to dinner? I haue sent you that Lamprey ready dressed.” Then Maister Doctor after faire talke, beganne to discharge his double Cannons, callinge his wyfe Whore, bitch, and beaste, and vnderstandinge that he was twice begiled and could not tell by whom, for spite and despayre he tare of his beard, and the heare of his head, which bruted and knowen in the Citie, the Iesters and pleasaunt felowes bent themselues to laugh, and deuise pastime at the poore begiled Doctour and his wyfe.

FINIS.

[Tome II: Title Page Text]

[ To the Right Worshipful] Sir George Howard Knight, Maister of the Quene’s Maiestie’s Armarye.

Every science hauing his peculier commodity, and conducinge to the trauayler and dilligent searcher, a due deserued benefyte (besydes the exercise and shunninge the pestilent monster Idlenes) discloseth the miraculous effect of the Diuinity, and the excellency of his Creature: who breathing life into that sencelesse worke, framed within the mould of humayn Conception, forceth in him by nature and timely institution such capacitye of Science, as not onelye by that knowledge hee glorifyeth his Creator, but also besydes himselfe, helpeth and doth good to other. For profe whereof the Science of that surpassing and delightsome pasture of Theologie, is profitable to teache, argue, reproue, and instruct, that by pacience and consolation, we may conceiue hope of Eternitye. The knowledge of Philosophie cureth the Mynde, auoydeth childish care, expelleth feare, and shunneth fond desyres. O Philosophye, the guide of life, (exclameth Tullie) the inquisitor of Vertue and expeller of vice. Rethorike (affirmeth he) causeth vs to learne that we know not and that we know to teach to other: by the same we exhort, with that we perswade, with that we comfort the afflicted, by it we encourage the astonned, and appease the outragious. Musike, easeth the troubled mynde, lenifyeth sorrowe, comforteth the heauye harted, and erecteth a contemplatyon of heauenlye thinges. Astronomye, reuealeth the nature of the Starres and Planets, presageth dayes and times for the helpe and maintenaunce of life. Poesie teacheth amendment of manners, directeth what things be mete for imitation, and with what detriment wantonnes anoyeth the bodye of man. By meanes of it (Sainct Augustine saith,) he learned many good lessons to profite himselfe and do good to other. To be short euery science is so necessary, as the same taken away, reason is depriued and the Life of Man (of due order and gouernment) defrauded. Thinke (sayth a Greke Oratour) the knowledge of many thinges to bee more precious and excellent, then a Chest heaped vp with abundance of money: for the one quickly fayleth, and the other for euer lasteth. For Scientia (affirmeth hee) is the onelye immortall storehouse of all possessions. Amonges which troupe of Sciences, the knowledge and search of Histories deserueth a place in the chefest rank, and is for example of humaine affayres, a Christal light to shew the pathes of our Auncestors. The same displaieth the counsels, aduises, pollicies, actes, successe, and endes of Kinges, Princes and great men, with the order and discription of time and place. And like a liuely image representeth before our eies the beginning, end and circumstaunce of ech attempt. The same (like a Mistresse of our life) by probable examples stirreth vp our sluggish mindes, to aspyre the eternal glorie of praise and fame, and terrifyeth the desperate and aduenturous, from enterprise of things vnseemely. The same is a passing picture of verity, and an absolute paterne framinge the matter greatter nor lesse then it is. And because I am not ignorant what Encomia innumerable Authors in time past, and wryters of our tyme do attribute vnto that science, and with what titles the Prince of them all decketh the praise of Historicall knowledge, I only refer the worthines to the practisers, and the syngularitye of Histories trauel and delight, to ech willing minde that imploye their leasure and tyme therin. And I for my parte do confesse (that by reading of Histories) I fynd the saying which Tullie aduoucheth of Publius Scipio to bee true: that he was neuer lesse idle, then when he was idle, and neuer lesse alone, then when he was alone, meaning therby, that when he was at best leisure, he was neuer idle, nor when he was alone vnoccupied. For when labor resteth him selfe in me, and leisure refresheth other affaires nothing delights more that vacant tyme, than readinge of Histories in such vulgar speache, wherein my small knowledge taketh repast. And for that my priuat reading might not delyte and pleasure me alone, to auoid the nature of that cankred churle and foe of humain companye, Timon of Athens, that liued but for him selfe, I haue (after my skill) culled some floures and fruites from that pleasaunt store of those my readinges to impart for vniversal gayne and benefite, chosynge rather hereby to followe the liberalitye of Cimon a gentleman of that Cittye, who knowynge hymselfe to bee borne to profite other and for the enriching of his Couutry, not only atchiued maruailous matters for furtherance of Comon wealth, but lefte his Gardens and Orchards open for all men to participate the Fruictes of his pleasure and trauell. Wherby so wel as I can I follow the tract and practice of other, by whose meanes, so manifold sciences in our known toung and translation of Histories be frequent and rife amonge vs. Al which be done after our commodity, pleasure, solace, preseruation and comfort, and without the which we cannot long be sustayned in this miserable lyfe, but shal become not much vnlyke the barbarous, ne discrepant from the sauage sorte. The inuestigatours and bringers to light, wherof direct their eyes and meaning to none other end but for the benefyte of vs and our posteritye, and that our faces be not taynted with the blushing coloure to se the passing diligence of other Countryes by curious imbelishinge of their states with the troublous trauaile of their brayne, and laboursom course of penne. Who altogeather imploi those paynes, that no Science lurke in Corner, that no Knowledge be shut vp in cloysters, that no History remaine vnder the maske and vnknowne attyre of other tongues. Among which crew (I say) I craue an inferiour place and haue vndertaken the vnfolding of sundry Histories from the couerture of foren language for none other purpose and intent but to vniuersal benefyte. Part whereof, two yeares past (almost) were made commune in a former boke, now succedeth a second, furnished withlike ornaments that the other was. The first (by duties chalenge) was addressed to the right honorable the Earle of Warwik, for respect of his honour, and my calling. This the second by lyke band, your worship may iustly clayme as a iust tribute now this moneth of Nouember, payable. Or if your curtesye would not deale so roughly with youre bounden creditoure, yet for duty sake I must acquite and content that which hath so long ben due. The same I offer now not with such vsury and gayne as your beneuolence and syngular bounty, by long forbearing hath deserued, but with such affected will and desyre of recompence, as any man alyue can owe to so rare a friend. Your worship I haue chosen for the firste person of this boke, and the protector of the same (the matter moste specially therin comprised, treating of courtly fashions and maners, and of the customes of loue’s gallantise, and the good or yll successe therof,) because you be an auncient Courtier, and one of the eldest Trayne, and such as hath bene imployed by sundry our Princes, in their affayres of greatest wayght and importance, and for that your selfe in your lustiest tyme (euer bred and brought vp in Court,) haue not ben vnacquainted with those occurrants. If I shoulde stand particularlye to touch the originall of your noble Auncestry, the succession of that renowmed line, their fidelity for graue aduise and counsel, your honowrable education, the mariage of a mighty kyng with one of your sisters, the valiant exploites of your parents againste the Frenche and Scottes, the worthye seruice of your selfe in fielde, wherby you deseruedly wanne the order of Knighthode, the trust which her maiestie reposeth in you, by disposing vnder your charge the store of her Armure, and your worthy preferment to be Maister of her Armary generall. If I should make recitall of your careful industry and painful trauel sustayned, for aunswearing her Maiestye’s expectation, your noble cherishing of the skilful in that science, your good aduancemente of the best to supply the vacant romes, your refusall of the vnworthy: and finally of your modest and curteous dealings in that office, I feare lacke of ability (and not of matter) would want grace and order by further circumstaunce to adde sufficient prayse: yea although my selfe do say nothinge, (but reserue the same in silence to auoyd suspecte of adulation) the very armure and their furnitures do speake, vniuersal testimony doth wonder, and the Readines of the same for tyme of seruice doth aduouch. Which care of things continually resting in your breast, hath atchyued such a tymely diligence, and successe, as when her Maiestye’s aduersary shal be readye to molest, she shal be prest (by God’s assistance) to defend and march. But not to hold your worship long by length of preamble, or to discourse what I might further saye, either in fauour of this boke, or commendation of youre selfe, I meane (for this instant) to leaue the one to general iudgment, and the other to the particular sentence of ech of your acquaintance. Humblye making this onlye sute that my good wil may supplye the imperfection of myne abilitye. And so with my harty prayer for your preseruation to him that is the auctor of life and health, I take my leaue.

From my pore house besides the Tower of London,
the iiij. of Nouember,
1567.

Your most bounden

William Painter./p>

[ TO THE READER.]

As shewed curtesie deserueth grateful acquital and frendly fauour forceth mutual merit. So for gentle acceptation of my other boke, I render to thy delite and profit a second Tome, for which I craue but like report: albeit, neither worthy of any: or other then the rude artificer gayneth by tryal of his art. Who hauing committed to his skil and workmanship, some substance of gold, or other precious matter, fashioneth the same with such bungled shape and order, as (besydes disprayse) it carieth the vnablenes of the workman. Howsoeuer (then) the ablenes or perfection herof vniuersally shal content or particularly displease: the boke craueth mild construction, for imploied paines. And yet the same (liking or lothing the licorous diet, and curious expectation of som) shal beare regarde with those that more delite in holsom viandes (voyd of variety) than in the confused mixture of foren drugges fetched farr of. Who no doubt will supply with fauorable brute, default of ablenes and riper skil in the Histories of forren spech. Which is the guerdon (besides publike benefyte) after which I gaze, and the best stipend that ech wel willinge mind (as I suppose) aspireth for their trauel, and briefly to touch what comodity thou shalt reape of these succeding Histories, I deme it not vnapt for thine instruction, to vnfold what pith and substance, resteth vnder the context of their discourse.

In the Nouel of the AMAZONES, is displayed a straunge or miraculous port, (to our present skill) of womens gouernment, what state they subdued, what increase of Kingdome, what combats and conflictes they durst attempt contrary to the nature of that sexe.

In ALEXANDER the greate, what ought to bee the gratitude and curtesye in a puissant Prince, toward his slaue and captiue, and to what perilous plunge he slippeth by exchange of vice for vertue.

In TIMOCLIA and THEOXENA the stoutnesse of two noble Dames to auoyde the beastly lust and raging fury of Tyrantes.

ARIOBARZANES telleth the duty of a subiect to his Prince: and how he ought not to contende with his souerayn in matters of curtesy, at length also the condition of courting flatterers: and the poison of the monster Enuy.

ARISTOTIMVS disgarboyleth the intralles of Tiranny, describing the end whereunto Tirants do attein and how that vice plagueth their posterity.

The two Romayne QUEENS do point (as it wer) with their fyngers, the natures of Ambition and cruelty, and the gredy lust (hidden in that feeble sexe) of souerainty.

SOPHONISBA reporteth the force of beauty, and what poyson distilleth from that licourous sappe to inuenim the hartes of valiant gentlemen.

The gentlewomen of HYDRVSA the ficlenes of Fortune.

The Empresse FAUSTINA, and the countesse of CELANT, what blossoms blome of whorish life, and what fruictes therof be culled.

The letters of the Emperour TRAIANE, do paynt a right shape of vertue, a good state of gouernment, and the comly form of obedience.

Three Amorous Dames reueale the sleights of loue the redines of Nobles to be baited with the amorous hoke, and what desire such infamous strumpets haue to be honored.

Queene ZENOBIA, what the noble Gentlewomen (whom the fates ordayne to rule) ought to do, how farre their magnanimity ought to stretch, and in what boundes to conteine their souerainty.

EVPHIMIA a king’s daughter of Corinth, and the vnfortunate Duchesse of Malfi, what match of mariage Ladies of renowne, and Dames of Princelye houses ought to chose.

Mistresse DIANORA, MITHRIDANES and NATHAN, KATHERINE of Bologna, and SALADINE, the mutual curtesies of noble and gentle Personages, and for what respectes.

Quene ANNE of Hungarie, the good nature and liberalitye of a Quene: and with what industry Gentlewomen of priuy chamber ought to preferre the sutes of the valiant, and of such as haue wel serued the common welth.

ALEXANDRE de Medices, Duke of Florence, the iustice of a Prince, and gouernour to the wronged party, what vertues ought to shine in Courtiers, and with what temperance their insolence is to be repressed.

IVLIETTA and RHOMEO disclose the harty affections of two incomparable louers, what secret sleights of loue, what danger either sort incurre which mary without the aduise of Parentes.

Two Gentlewomen of VENICE, the wisedom and pollicy of Wiues to chastice and restrain the follies of husbands, and the stoutnes they ought to vse in their defense.

The Lord of VIRLE, and the widow ZILIA, geue lessons to Louers, to auoyde the immoderate panges of loue, they prognosticate the indiscretion of promised penance, they warne to beware al vnseemly hestes, lest the penaltyes of couetise and vayn glory be incurred.

The Lady of BOEME, schooleth two noble Barons that with great boast assured themselues to impair her honor.

DOM DIEGO and GINEVRA, record the cruelty of women bent to hate and the voluntarye vow performed by a passionate Knight, with the parfect friendship of a true frend in redresse of a frend’s mishap.

SALIMBENE and ANGELICA, the kindnes of a gentleman in deliuerie of his ennemy, and the constant mynd of a chast and and vertuous mayden.

Mistresse HELENA of Florence discouereth what lothsom lustes do lurk vnder the bark of fading beauty, what stench of filthy affection fumeth from the smoldring gulfe of dishonest Loue what prankes such dames do play for deceit of other, and shame of themselves.

CAMIOLA reproueth the mobility of youth such chiefly as for noble auncestry regarded ritches more than vertue, she lyke a mistresse of constancye lessoneth her equalles from wauering myndes, and not to aduenture vpon vnstedie contracts: with those that care not (vnder what pretence) they com by riches.

The lords of NOCERA fortel the hazardes of whordom, the rage of Ielousy, the difference of duty betwene Prince and subiect, the fruites of a Rebell, the endes of Traitery and Tiranny, and what monstruous successe such vices do attain.

The king of MAROCCO describeth the good nature of the homely and loial subiect, the maruaylous loue of a true and symple Countryman towarde his liege and soueraygne Lorde, and the bounty of a curteous Prince, vpon those that vnder rude attyre, be garnisht with the floures of vertue.

To be short, the contentes of these Nouels from degre of highest Emperour, from state of greattest Quene and Lady, to the homelye Cuntry peasant and rudest vilage girle, may conduce profite for instruction, and pleasure for delight. They offer rules for auoiding of vice and imitation of vertue to al estates. This boke is a very Court and Palace for al sortes to fixe their eies therein, to vew the deuoyres of the Noblest, the vertues of the gentlest, and the dutyes of the meanest. Yt is a stage and Theatre for shew of true Nobilitye, for profe of passing loialty and for tryal of their contraries. Wherfore as in this I haue continued what erst I partelye promised in the first so vppon intelligence of the second signe of thy good wil, a third (by Gods assistance) shal come forth. Farewell.

[Authorities from whence] these Nouelles be collected: and in the same auouched.

Strabo.

Plinie.

Quintus Curtius.

Plutarche.

Titus Liuius.

Dionysius Halicarnassæus.

Appianus Alexandrinus.

Ouide.

Horace.

Propertius.

Cicero.

Valerius Max.

Trebelius Pollio.

Xenophon.

Homere.

Virgilius.

Baptista Campofulgosus.

Bandello.

Bocaccio.

Gyraldi Cynthio.

Belleforrest.

Boustuau.

Petro di Seuiglia.

Antonio di Gueuarra.