This is a modern-English version of The Palace of Pleasure, Volume 1, originally written by unknown author(s).
It has been thoroughly updated, including changes to sentence structure, words, spelling,
and grammar—to ensure clarity for contemporary readers, while preserving the original spirit and nuance. If
you click on a paragraph, you will see the original text that we modified, and you can toggle between the two versions.
Scroll to the bottom of this page and you will find a free ePUB download link for this book.
The first seven pages of the printed book have been moved to the end of this section of the e-text.
The first seven pages of the printed book have been moved to the end of this section of the e-text.
In the introduction, the spelling “Giovanne” (Boccaccio) is used more often than “Giovanni”. Unless otherwise noted, brackets [ ] and question marks (?) are in the original.
In the introduction, the spelling “Giovanne” (Boccaccio) is used more often than “Giovanni.” Unless stated otherwise, brackets [ ] and question marks (?) are in the original.
Note that “Tome I” refers to the two-volume editions of Painter and Haslewood, while “Volume I” refers to Jacobs’s three-volume edition (the present text). Tome I goes up to Novel LXVI (i.66); Volume I ends at Novel XLVI (i.46).
Note that “Tome I” refers to the two-volume editions of Painter and Haslewood, while “Volume I” refers to Jacobs’s three-volume edition (the present text). Tome I goes up to Novel LXVI (i.66); Volume I ends at Novel XLVI (i.46).
Ballantyne Press
BALLANTYNE, HANSON AND CO.
EDINBURGH AND LONDON
TO
EDWARD BURNE-JONES
TABLE OF CONTENTS.
Indented or italicized items were added by the transcriber. Italicized terms do not appear in the printed text. The “Tome I” link leads to a separate file containing novels I - XLVI.
Indented or italicized items were added by the transcriber. Italicized terms do not appear in the printed text. The “Tome I” link leads to a separate file containing novels I - XLVI.
VOLUME I.
PAGE | |
PREFACE | ix |
INTRODUCTION | xi |
PRELIMINARY MATTER (FROM HASLEWOOD) | xxxvii |
Bibliographical Notices | xlv |
liii | |
lxiii | |
The Second Tome | lxxxi |
INDEX OF NOVELS | xcii |
Footnotes | end |
PREFACE.
The present edition of Painter’s “Palace of Pleasure,” the storehouse of Elizabethan plot, follows page for page and line for line the privately printed and very limited edition made by Joseph Haslewood in 1813. One of the 172 copies then printed by him has been used as “copy” for the printer, but this has been revised in proof from the British Museum examples of the second edition of 1575. The collation has for the most part only served to confirm Haslewood’s reputation for careful editing. Though the present edition can claim to come nearer the original in many thousands of passages, it is chiefly in the mint and cummin of capitals and italics that we have been able to improve on Haslewood: in all the weightier matters of editing he shows only the minimum of fallibility. We have however divided his two tomes, for greater convenience, into three volumes of as nearly as possible equal size. This arrangement has enabled us to give the title pages of both editions of the two tomes, those of the first edition in facsimile, those of the second (at the beginning of vols. ii. and iii.) with as near an approach to the original as modern founts of type will permit.
The current edition of Painter’s “Palace of Pleasure,” the collection of Elizabethan plots, mirrors page for page and line for line the privately printed and very limited edition created by Joseph Haslewood in 1813. One of the 172 copies he printed has been used as the source for the printer, but this has been proofread against the British Museum examples of the second edition from 1575. The comparison has mostly just confirmed Haslewood’s reputation for careful editing. Although this edition claims to stay closer to the original in many thousands of instances, our improvements over Haslewood are mainly in the finer details of capitals and italics; in the more significant aspects of editing, he shows very little error. However, we have split his two volumes into three for easier use, aiming for nearly equal size. This setup has allowed us to include the title pages of both editions from the two volumes, presenting the first edition in facsimile and the second (at the start of vols. ii. and iii.) as closely as possible to the original using modern typesetting.
I have also reprinted Haslewood’s “Preliminary Matter,” which give the Dryasdust details about the biography of Painter and the bibliography of his book in a manner not too Dryasdust. With regard to the literary apparatus of the book, I have x perhaps been able to add something to Haslewood’s work. From the Record Office and British Museum I have given a number of documents about Painter, and have recovered the only extant letter of our author. I have also gone more thoroughly into the literary history of each of the stories in the “Palace of Pleasure” than Haslewood thought it necessary to do. I have found Oesterley’s edition of Kirchhof and Landau’s Quellen des Dekameron useful for this purpose. I have to thank Dr. F. J. Furnivall for lending me his copies of Bandello and Belleforest.
I have also included Haslewood’s “Preliminary Matter,” which provides the necessary details about Painter’s biography and the bibliography of his book in an engaging way. As for the literary aspects of the book, I x may have added some information to Haslewood’s work. From the Record Office and the British Museum, I have gathered several documents related to Painter, and I managed to find the only surviving letter from our author. I have also explored the literary history of each of the stories in the “Palace of Pleasure” more thoroughly than Haslewood felt was needed. I found Oesterley’s edition of Kirchhof and Landau’s Quellen des Dekameron particularly helpful for this. I want to thank Dr. F. J. Furnivall for lending me his copies of Bandello and Belleforest.
I trust it will be found that the present issue is worthy of a work which, with North’s “Plutarch” and Holinshed’s “Chronicle,” was the main source of Shakespeare’s Plays. It had also, as early as 1580, been ransacked to furnish plots for the stage, and was used by almost all the great masters of the Elizabethan drama. Quite apart from this source of interest, the “Palace of Pleasure” contains the first English translations from the Decameron, the Heptameron, from Bandello, Cinthio and Straparola, and thus forms a link between Italy and England. Indeed as the Italian novelle form part of that continuous stream of literary tradition and influence which is common to all the great nations of Europe, Painter’s book may be termed a link connecting England with European literature. Such a book as this is surely one of the landmarks of English literature.
I believe this issue is worth a work that, along with North’s “Plutarch” and Holinshed’s “Chronicle,” served as a primary source for Shakespeare’s plays. It was also, as early as 1580, explored for stage plots and used by nearly all the major figures of Elizabethan drama. Beyond this interest, the “Palace of Pleasure” includes the first English translations of the Decameron, Heptameron, from Bandello, Cinthio, and Straparola, making it a connection between Italy and England. In fact, since the Italian novelle are part of the ongoing literary tradition and influence shared by all the great nations of Europe, Painter’s book can be seen as a link connecting England to European literature. A book like this is definitely one of the landmarks of English literature.
INTRODUCTION.
A young man, trained in the strictest sect of the Pharisees, is awakened one morning, and told that he has come into the absolute possession of a very great fortune in lands and wealth. The time may come when he may know himself and his powers more thoroughly, but never again, as on that morn, will he feel such an exultant sense of mastery over the world and his fortunes. That image1 seems to me to explain better than any other that remarkable outburst of literary activity which makes the Elizabethan Period unique in English literature, and only paralleled in the world’s literature by the century after Marathon, when Athens first knew herself. With Elizabeth England came of age, and at the same time entered into possession of immense spiritual treasures, which were as novel as they were extensive. A New World promised adventures to the adventurous, untold wealth to the enterprising. The Orient had become newly known. The Old World of literature had been born anew. The Bible spoke for the first time in a tongue understanded of the people. Man faced his God and his fate without any intervention of Pope or priest. Even the very earth beneath his feet began to move. Instead of a universe with dimensions known and circumscribed with Dantesque minuteness, the mystic glow of the unknown had settled down on the whole face of Nature, who offered her secrets to the first comer. No wonder the Elizabethans were filled with an exulting sense of man’s capabilities, when they had all these realms of thought and action suddenly and at once thrown open before them. There is a confidence in the future and all it had xii to bring which can never recur, for while man may come into even greater treasures of wealth or thought than the Elizabethans dreamed of, they can never be as new to us as they were to them. The sublime confidence of Bacon in the future of science, of which he knew so little, and that little wrongly, is thus eminently and characteristically Elizabethan.2
A kid man, raised in the strictest sect of the Pharisees, wakes up one morning to learn that he has gained an incredible fortune in land and wealth. There will come a time when he understands himself and his abilities better, but he will never again feel such a triumphant sense of control over his life and circumstances as he does on that morning. That image1 represents, better than any other, that remarkable surge of literary creativity that sets the Elizabethan Period apart in English literature, a phenomenon only matched in the world’s literature by the century after Marathon, when Athens discovered its own identity. With Elizabeth, England matured, gaining immense spiritual riches that were both new and vast. A New World promised adventures to the bold and untold wealth to the enterprising. The East was newly explored. The Old World of literature was revitalized. The Bible was spoken in a language understood by the people for the first time. Individuals confronted their God and their destiny without the mediation of Pope or priest. Even the ground beneath their feet began to shake. Instead of a universe with well-defined dimensions outlined with Dantesque detail, the mystical allure of the unknown enveloped the entire face of Nature, which revealed her secrets to anyone who sought them. It’s no surprise the Elizabethans were bursting with a sense of human potential when so many realms of thought and action were suddenly opened up to them. There was a confidence in the future and all it had xii to offer that will never be replicated, because while humanity may acquire even greater treasures of wealth or knowledge than the Elizabethans ever imagined, they will never be as fresh to us as they were to them. The incredible confidence of Bacon in the future of science, which he understood poorly, and that little he got wrong, is therefore strikingly and characteristically Elizabethan.2
The department of Elizabethan literature in which this exuberant energy found its most characteristic expression was the Drama, and that for a very simple though strange reason. To be truly great a literature must be addressed to the nation as a whole. The subtle influence of audience on author is shown equally though conversely in works written only for sections of a nation. Now in the sixteenth century any literature that should address the English nation as a whole—not necessarily all Englishmen, but all classes of Englishmen—could not be in any literary form intended to be merely read. For the majority of Englishmen could not read. Hence they could only be approached by literature when read or recited to them in church or theatre. The latter form was already familiar to them in the Miracle Plays and Mysteries, which had been adopted by the Church as the best means of acquainting the populace with Sacred History. The audiences of the Miracle Plays were prepared for the representation of human action on the stage. Meanwhile, from translation and imitation, young scholars at the universities had become familiar with some of the masterpieces of Ancient Drama, and with the laws of dramatic form. But where were they to seek for matter to fill out these forms? Where were they, in short, to get their plots?
The area of Elizabethan literature where this vibrant energy was most clearly expressed was Drama, and there’s a straightforward yet unusual reason for that. For literature to be truly great, it must engage the entire nation. The subtle effect of the audience on the author is evident, though in a different way, in works created solely for specific parts of a nation. In the sixteenth century, any literature aimed at the English nation as a whole—not necessarily every Englishman, but all social classes—couldn’t be in a literary form meant just for reading. Most English people couldn’t read. Therefore, they could only engage with literature through being read to or recited in church or theater. The latter was already familiar to them through the Miracle Plays and Mysteries, which the Church adopted as the best way to educate the public about Sacred History. The audiences of the Miracle Plays were ready for the depiction of human action on stage. Meanwhile, through translations and imitation, young scholars at the universities became acquainted with some of the great works of Ancient Drama and the principles of dramatic form. But where could they find the content to fill these forms? Where could they, essentially, get their plots?
Plot, we know, is pattern as applied to human action. A story, whether told or acted, must tend in some definite direction if it is to be a story at all. And the directions in which stories can go are singularly few. Somebody in the Athenæum—probably Mr. Theodore Watts, he has the habit of saying such things—has remarked that during the past century only two novelties in plot, xiii Undine and Monte Christo, have been produced in European literature. Be that as it may, nothing strikes the student of comparative literature so much as the paucity of plots throughout literature and the universal tendency to borrow plots rather than attempt the almost impossible task of inventing them. That tendency is shown at its highest in the Elizabethan Drama. Even Shakespeare is as much a plagiarist or as wise an artist, call it which you will, as the meanest of his fellows.
Plot, as we know, is the pattern applied to human action. A story, whether told or performed, needs to move in a specific direction to qualify as a story at all. The directions that stories can take are surprisingly limited. Someone in the Athenæum—most likely Mr. Theodore Watts, who often makes such observations—has noted that in the past century, only two innovations in plot, Undine and Monte Christo, have emerged in European literature. Regardless, what stands out to those studying comparative literature is the scarcity of plots across literature and the common tendency to borrow plots rather than tackle the nearly impossible challenge of creating original ones. This tendency is most evident in Elizabethan Drama. Even Shakespeare is as much a plagiarist or as clever an artist, however you want to view it, as the least of his contemporaries.
Not alone is it difficult to invent a plot; it is even difficult to see one in real life. When the denouement comes, indeed—when the wife flees or commits suicide—when bosom friends part, or brothers speak no more—we may know that there has been the conflict of character or the clash of temperaments which go to make the tragedies of life. But to recognise these opposing forces before they come to the critical point requires somewhat rarer qualities. There must be a quasi-scientific interest in life quâ life, a dispassionate detachment from the events observed, and at the same time an artistic capacity for selecting the cardinal points in the action. Such an attitude can only be attained in an older civilisation, when individuality has emerged out of nationalism. In Europe of the sixteenth century the only country which had reached this stage was Italy.
Not only is it hard to come up with a plot, but it's also tough to see one unfold in real life. When the denouement happens—when the wife runs away or takes her own life—when close friends separate, or brothers stop talking—we can understand that there has been a clash of personalities or differing temperaments that create life’s tragedies. But identifying these opposing forces before they reach a breaking point requires some rare qualities. There needs to be a nearly scientific interest in life as life, a detached observation of the events, and at the same time, an artistic ability to identify the key moments in the action. This mindset can only develop in a more advanced civilization, where individuality has evolved beyond nationalism. In sixteenth-century Europe, Italy was the only country that had reached this level.
The literary and spiritual development of Italy has always been conditioned by its historic position as the heir of Rome. Great nations, as M. Renan has remarked, work themselves out in effecting their greatness. The reason is that their great products overshadow all later production, and prevent all competition by their very greatness. When once a nation has worked up its mythic element into an epos, it contains in itself no further materials out of which an epos can be elaborated. So Italian literature has always been overshadowed by Latin literature. Italian writers, especially in the Middle Ages and the Renaissance, were always conscious of their past, and dared not compete with the great names of Virgil, Ovid, Horace, and the rest. At the same time, with this consciousness of the past, they had evolved a special interest in the problems and arts of the present. The split-up of the peninsula into so many small states, many of xiv them republics, had developed individual life just as the city-states of Hellas had done in ancient times. The main interest shifted from the state and the nation to the life and development of the individual.3 And with this interest arose in the literary sphere the dramatic narrative of human action—the Novella.
The literary and spiritual growth of Italy has always been shaped by its history as the successor of Rome. As M. Renan pointed out, great nations achieve their greatness through their own efforts. This happens because their remarkable accomplishments overshadow all subsequent works, eliminating any competition simply by their magnitude. Once a nation has transformed its mythic elements into an epic, it lacks additional materials from which to create another epic. Thus, Italian literature has always been eclipsed by Latin literature. Italian writers, especially during the Middle Ages and the Renaissance, were always aware of their heritage and hesitated to compete with the illustrious figures of Virgil, Ovid, Horace, and others. At the same time, this awareness of the past led them to develop a keen interest in contemporary issues and the arts. The fragmentation of the peninsula into numerous small states, many of which were republics, fostered individual life similar to the city-states of ancient Greece. The focus shifted from the state and the nation to the life and growth of the individual. And with this shift came the emergence in the literary world of the dramatic narrative of human action—the Novella.
The genealogy of the Novella is short but curious. The first known collection of tales in modern European literature dealing with the tragic and comic aspects of daily life was that made by Petrus Alphonsi, a baptized Spanish Jew, who knew some Arabic.4 His book, the Disciplina Clericalis, was originally intended as seasoning for sermons, and very strong seasoning they must have been found. The stories were translated into French, and thus gave rise to the Fabliau, which allowed full expression to the esprit Gaulois. From France the Fabliau passed to Italy, and came ultimately into the hands of Boccaccio, under whose influence it became transformed into the Novella.5
The genealogy of the Novella is brief but interesting. The first known collection of stories in modern European literature that explores the tragic and comic sides of everyday life was created by Petrus Alphonsi, a baptized Spanish Jew who had some knowledge of Arabic.4 His book, the Disciplina Clericalis, was initially meant to spice up sermons, and it must have been quite a strong seasoning. The stories were translated into French, which led to the creation of the Fabliau, allowing the full expression of the esprit Gaulois. From France, the Fabliau made its way to Italy, eventually landing in the hands of Boccaccio, who transformed it into the Novella.5
It is an elementary mistake to associate Boccaccio’s name with the tales of gayer tone traceable to the Fabliaux. He initiated the custom of mixing tragic with the comic tales. Nearly all the novelle of the Fourth Day, for example, deal with tragic topics. And the example he set in this way was followed by the whole school of Novellieri. As Painter’s book is so largely due to them, a few words on the Novellieri used by him seem desirable, reserving for the present the question of his treatment of their text.
It's a basic mistake to link Boccaccio’s name solely with the lighter tales found in the Fabliaux. He started the trend of blending tragic stories with comedic ones. Almost all the novelle from the Fourth Day, for instance, tackle tragic themes. The example he set was followed by the entire group of Novellieri. Since Painter’s book heavily relies on them, it makes sense to say a few words about the Novellieri he referenced while saving the discussion of his handling of their texts for now.
Of Giovanne Boccaccio himself it is difficult for any one with a love of letters to speak in few or measured words. He may have been a Philistine, as Mr. Symonds calls him, but he was surely a Philistine of genius. He has the supreme virtue of style. In fact, it may be roughly said that in Europe for nearly two centuries there is no such thing as a prose style but Boccaccio’s. xv Even when dealing with his grosser topics—and these he derived from others—he half disarms disgust by the lightness of his touch. And he could tell a tale, one of the most difficult of literary tasks. When he deals with graver actions, if he does not always rise to the occasion, he never fails to give the due impression of seriousness and dignity. It is not for nothing that the Decamerone has been the storehouse of poetic inspiration for nearly five centuries. In this country alone, Chaucer, Shakespeare, Dryden, Keats, Tennyson, have each in turn gone to Boccaccio for material.
It's challenging for anyone who loves literature to sum up Giovanne Boccaccio in just a few words. He may have been a Philistine, as Mr. Symonds puts it, but he was definitely a genius among Philistines. He has an outstanding writing style. In fact, it's fair to say that for almost two centuries in Europe, there hasn't been a prose style that compares to Boccaccio's. xv Even when he tackles more vulgar subjects—and he borrowed these from others—his light approach helps lessen any disgust. And he knew how to tell a good story, which is one of the toughest tasks in literature. When he addresses more serious topics, although he doesn't always meet the challenge, he consistently conveys a sense of seriousness and dignity. It’s no wonder that the Decamerone has been a treasure trove of poetic inspiration for nearly five centuries. In this country alone, Chaucer, Shakespeare, Dryden, Keats, and Tennyson have all drawn material from Boccaccio at different times.
In his own country he is the fountainhead of a wide stream of literary influences that has ever broadened as it flowed. Between the fifteenth and the eighteenth centuries the Italian presses poured forth some four thousand novelle, all avowedly tracing from Boccaccio.6 Many of these, it is true, were imitations of the gayer strains of Boccaccio’s genius. But a considerable proportion of them have a sterner tone, and deal with the weightier matters of life, and in this they had none but the master for their model. The gloom of the Black Death settles down over the greater part of all this literature. Every memorable outburst of the fiercer passions of men that occurred in Italy, the land of passion, for all these years, found record in a novella of Boccaccio’s followers. The Novelle answered in some respects to our newspaper reports of trials and the earlier Last Speech and Confession. But the example of Boccaccio raised these gruesome topics into the region of art. Often these tragedies are reported of the true actors; still more often under the disguise of fictitious names, that enabled the narrator to have more of the artist’s freedom in dealing with such topics.
In his own country, he is the source of a wide range of literary influences that have expanded over time. Between the fifteenth and eighteenth centuries, Italian presses produced around four thousand novelle, all undeniably tracing back to Boccaccio. Many of these were indeed imitations of the lighter aspects of Boccaccio’s genius. However, a significant number of them possess a more serious tone and address the heavier issues of life, with none but the master as their model. The shadow of the Black Death looms over much of this literature. Every notable explosion of intense emotions that occurred in Italy, the land of passion, during these years found a place in a novella written by Boccaccio’s followers. The Novelle served in some ways like our newspaper reports of trials and earlier Last Speech and Confession. Yet, Boccaccio's work elevated these grim subjects to an art form. Often, these tragedies are about real events; even more frequently, they are presented under fictitious names, allowing the storyteller more artistic freedom in tackling such themes.
The other Novellieri from whom Painter drew inspiration may be dismissed very shortly. Of Ser Giovanne Fiorentino, who wrote the fifty novels of his Pecorone about 1378, little is known nor need be known; his merits of style or matter do not raise him above mediocrity. Straparola’s Piacevole Notti were composed in Venice in the earlier half of the sixteenth century, and are chiefly interesting xvi for the fact that some dozen or so of his seventy-four stories are folk-tales taken from the mouth of the people, and were the first thus collected: Straparola was the earliest Grimm. His contemporary Giraldi, known as Cinthio (or Cinzio), intended his Ecatomithi to include one hundred novelle, but they never reached beyond seventy; he has the grace to cause the ladies to retire when the men relate their smoking-room anecdotes of feminine impudiche. Owing to Dryden’s statement “Shakespeare’s plots are in the one hundred novels of Cinthio” (Preface to Astrologer), his name has been generally fixed upon as the representative Italian novelist from whom the Elizabethans drew their plots. As a matter of fact only “Othello” (Ecat. iii. 7), and “Measure for Measure” (ib. viii. 5), can be clearly traced to him, though “Twelfth Night” has some similarity with Cinthio’s “Gravina” (v. 8): both come from a common source, Bandello.
The other Novellieri that Painter took inspiration from can be quickly summed up. Not much is known about Ser Giovan Fiorentino, who wrote the fifty stories in his Pecorone around 1378, and there isn’t much need to know; his writing style and content don't elevate him beyond mediocrity. Straparola’s Piacevole Notti were written in Venice in the earlier part of the sixteenth century and are mainly interesting because about a dozen of his seventy-four stories are folk tales taken directly from the people, making them the first collection of their kind: Straparola was the first Grimm. His contemporary Giraldi, known as Cinthio (or Cinzio), aimed for his Ecatomithi to include one hundred novelle, but it only reached seventy; he wisely made the ladies leave when the men share their smoking-room stories about feminine impudiche. Due to Dryden’s remark “Shakespeare’s plots are in the one hundred novels of Cinthio” (Preface to Astrologer), he is often viewed as the main Italian novelist from whom the Elizabethans sourced their plots. In reality, only “Othello” (Ecat. iii. 7) and “Measure for Measure” (ib. viii. 5) can clearly be linked to him, although “Twelfth Night” shares some similarities with Cinthio’s “Gravina” (v. 8): both originate from a common source, Bandello.
Bandello is indeed the next greatest name among the Novellieri after that of Boccaccio, and has perhaps had even a greater influence on dramatic literature than his master. Matteo Bandello was born at the end of the fifteenth century at Castelnuovo di Scrivia near Tortona. He lived mainly in Milan, at the Dominican monastery of Sta. Maria delle Grazie, where Leonardo painted his “Last Supper.” As he belonged to the French party, he had to leave Milan when it was taken by the Spaniards in 1525, and after some wanderings settled in France near Agen. About 1550 he was appointed Bishop of Agen by Henri II., and he died some time after 1561. To do him justice, he only received the revenues of his see, the episcopal functions of which were performed by the Bishop of Grasse. His novelle are nothing less than episcopal in tone and he had the grace to omit his dignity from his title-pages.
Bandello is really the next biggest name among the Novellieri after Boccaccio and may have even had a greater impact on dramatic literature than his mentor. Matteo Bandello was born at the end of the fifteenth century in Castelnuovo di Scrivia, near Tortona. He spent most of his life in Milan, at the Dominican monastery of Sta. Maria delle Grazie, where Leonardo painted his “Last Supper.” Since he was part of the French faction, he had to leave Milan when it was captured by the Spaniards in 1525. After some travels, he settled in France near Agen. Around 1550, he was appointed Bishop of Agen by Henri II, and he passed away sometime after 1561. To be fair, he only received the income from his see, while the episcopal duties were carried out by the Bishop of Grasse. His novelle are quite episcopal in tone, and he graciously left his title out from the title pages.
Indeed Bandello’s novels7 reflect as in a mirror all the worst sides of Italian Renaissance life. The complete collapse of all the older sanctions of right conduct, the execrable example given by the petty courts, the heads of which were reckless because their position was so insecure, the great growth of wealth and xvii luxury, all combined to make Italy one huge hot-bed of unblushing vice. The very interest in individuality, the spectator-attitude towards life, made men ready to treat life as one large experiment, and for such purposes vice is as important as right living even though it ultimately turns out to be as humdrum as virtue. The Italian nobles treated life in this experimental way and the novels of Bandello and others give us the results of their experiments. The Novellieri were thus the “realists” of their day and of them all Bandello was the most realistic. He claims to give only incidents that really happened and makes this his excuse for telling many incidents that should never have happened. It is but fair to add that his most vicious tales are his dullest.
Indeed, Bandello’s novels7 mirror all the worst aspects of Italian Renaissance life. The complete breakdown of traditional standards of proper behavior, the terrible examples set by the petty courts, whose leaders acted recklessly because their positions were so uncertain, and the significant rise in wealth and luxury all contributed to making Italy a massive breeding ground for blatant vice. The focus on individuality and a spectator mindset towards life led people to see life as one big experiment, where vice became just as relevant as right living, even if it ultimately turned out to be as boring as virtue. The Italian nobles approached life in this experimental manner, and the novels of Bandello and others reveal the outcomes of their experiments. The Novellieri were considered the “realists” of their time, with Bandello being the most realistic among them. He insists on presenting only events that actually occurred, using this as justification for including many events that should never have taken place. It's only fair to note that his most immoral stories are also his most tedious.
That cannot be said of Queen Margaret of Navarre, who carries on the tradition of the Novellieri, and is represented in Painter by some of her best stories. She intended to give a Decameron of one hundred stories—the number comes from the Cento novelle antichi, before Boccaccio—but only got so far as the second novel of the eighth day. As she had finished seven days her collection is known as the Heptameron. How much of it she wrote herself is a point on which the doctors dispute. She had in her court men like Clement Marot, and Bonaventure des Périers, who probably wrote some of the stories. Bonaventure des Périers in particular, had done much in the same line under his own name, notably the collection known as Cymbalum Mundi. Marguerite’s other works hardly prepare us for the narrative skill, the easy grace of style and the knowledge of certain aspects of life shown in the Heptameron. On the other hand the framework, which is more elaborate than in Boccaccio or any of his school, is certainly from one hand, and the book does not seem one that could have been connected with the Queen’s name unless she had really had much to do with it. Much of its piquancy comes from the thought of the association of one whose life was on the whole quite blameless with anecdotes of a most blameworthy style. Unlike the lady in the French novel who liked to play at innocent games with persons who were not innocent, Margaret seems to have liked to talk and write of things xviii not innocent while remaining unspotted herself. Her case is not a solitary one.
That can't be said of Queen Margaret of Navarre, who continues the tradition of the Novellieri, and is represented in Painter by some of her best stories. She aimed to create a Decameron of one hundred stories—the number inspired by the Cento novelle antichi, before Boccaccio—but only got as far as the second story of the eighth day. Since she completed seven days, her collection is known as the Heptameron. How much of it she wrote herself is a topic of debate among scholars. She had men like Clement Marot and Bonaventure des Périers in her court, who likely contributed some of the stories. Bonaventure des Périers, in particular, had done much in this genre under his own name, notably the collection known as Cymbalum Mundi. Marguerite’s other works don’t quite prepare us for the storytelling skill, the effortless grace of style, and the understanding of certain aspects of life found in the Heptameron. On the other hand, the framework, which is more complex than in Boccaccio or any of his contemporaries, certainly appears to come from one source, and the book does not seem something that could be linked to the Queen's name unless she was truly involved in it. Much of its charm comes from the thought of a person whose life was generally quite respectable being associated with stories of a very questionable nature. Unlike the lady in the French novel who enjoyed innocent games with those who weren't innocent, Margaret seems to have preferred discussing and writing about things xviii not innocent while remaining untainted herself. Her situation is not unique.
The whole literature of the Novella has the attraction of graceful naughtiness in which vice, as Burke put it, loses half its evil by losing all its grossness. At all times, and for all time probably, similar tales, more broad than long, will form favourite talk or reading of adolescent males. They are, so to speak, pimples of the soul which synchronise with similar excrescences of the skin. Some men have the art of never growing old in this respect, but I cannot say I envy them their eternal youth. However, we are not much concerned with tales of this class on the present occasion. Very few of the novelle selected by Painter for translation depend for their attraction on mere naughtiness. In matters of sex the sublime and the ridiculous are more than usually close neighbours. It is the tragic side of such relations that attracted Painter, and it was this fact that gave his book its importance for the history of English literature, both in its connection with Italian letters and in its own internal development.
The entire literature of the Novella has a charm of playful mischief where vice, as Burke described, loses much of its negativity by shedding its crudeness. Throughout history, and likely for all time, similar stories, more brief than extensive, will be a favorite source of conversation or reading for teenage boys. They are, in a way, the blemishes of the soul that coincide with similar imperfections of the skin. Some men have the knack for remaining youthful in this regard, but I can’t say that I envy them their everlasting youth. However, we aren't focusing on such stories today. Very few of the novelle picked by Painter for translation rely solely on mere mischief for their appeal. In matters of sex, the sublime and the ridiculous are often very close. It is the tragic aspect of these relationships that captivated Painter, and this is what made his book significant for the history of English literature, both in relation to Italian writing and in its own evolution.
The relations of Italy and England in matters literary are due to the revivers of the New Learning. Italy was, and still is, the repository of all the chief MSS. of the Greek and Latin classics. Thither, therefore, went all the young Englishmen, whom the influence of Erasmus had bitten with a desire for the New Learning which was the Old Learning born anew. But in Italy itself, the New Learning had even by the early years of the sixteenth century produced its natural result of giving birth to a national literature (Ariosto, Trissino). Thus in their search for the New Learning, Englishmen of culture who went to Italy came back with a tincture of what may be called the Newest Learning, the revival of Italian Literature.
The relationship between Italy and England in literary matters is thanks to the revivalists of the New Learning. Italy was, and still is, the storehouse of most of the important manuscripts of the Greek and Latin classics. So, young Englishmen influenced by Erasmus, who sparked their interest in the New Learning that reinterpreted the Old Learning, traveled there. However, even by the early years of the sixteenth century, the New Learning in Italy had already led to the emergence of a national literature (Ariosto, Trissino). As a result, English intellectuals who went to Italy in search of the New Learning returned home with a flavor of what can be called the Newest Learning—the revival of Italian literature.
Sir Thomas Wyatt and the Earl of Surrey “The Dioscuri of the Dawn” as they have been called, are the representatives of this new movement in English thought and literature, which came close on the heels of the New Learning represented by Colet, More, Henry VIII. himself and Roger Ascham. The adherents of the New Learning did not look with too favourable eyes on xix the favourers of the Newest Learning. They took their ground not only on literary lines, but with distinct reference to manners and morals. The corruption of the Papal Court which had been the chief motive cause of the Reformation—men judge creeds by the character they produce, not by the logical consistency of their tenets—had spread throughout Italian society. The Englishmen who came to know Italian society could not avoid being contaminated by the contact. The Italians themselves observed the effect and summed it up in their proverb, Inglese italianato è un diabolo incarnato. What struck the Italians must have been still more noticeable to Englishmen. We have a remarkable proof of this in an interpolation made by Roger Ascham at the end of the first part of his Schoolmaster, which from internal evidence must have been written about 1568, the year after the appearance of Painter’s Second Tome.8 The whole passage is so significant of the relations of the chief living exponent of the New Learning to the appearance of what I have called the Newest Learning that it deserves to be quoted in full in any introduction to the book in which the Newest Learning found its most characteristic embodiment. I think too I shall be able to prove that there is a distinct and significant reference to Painter in the passage (pp. 77-85 of Arber’s edition, slightly abridged).
Sir Thomas Wyatt and the Earl of Surrey, known as “The Dioscuri of the Dawn,” are key figures in the new movement of English thought and literature that emerged right after the New Learning led by Colet, More, Henry VIII himself, and Roger Ascham. The supporters of the New Learning didn't look too kindly on those who embraced the Newest Learning. They based their stance not only on literary grounds but also considering social behavior and ethics. The corruption of the Papal Court, which was the main reason for the Reformation—people evaluate beliefs based on the character they produce, not on the logical consistency of their ideas—had spread throughout Italian society. Englishmen who engaged with Italian society couldn’t help but be influenced by it. The Italians themselves noticed this impact and summed it up in their saying, Inglese italianato è un diabolo incarnato. What caught the Italians' attention must have been even more apparent to the English. We see this clearly in a note made by Roger Ascham at the end of the first part of his Schoolmaster, which, judging by internal evidence, was likely written around 1568, the year after Painter’s Second Tome was published.8 This entire passage is so telling of the relationship between the leading figure of the New Learning and the advent of what I’m calling the Newest Learning that it deserves to be quoted in full in any introduction to the book where the Newest Learning was most distinctly represented. I also believe I can demonstrate a specific and important reference to Painter in this passage (pp. 77-85 of Arber’s edition, slightly abridged).
But I am affraide, that ouer many of our trauelers into Italie, do not exchewe the way to Circes Court: but go, and ryde, and runne, and flie thether, they make great hast to cum to her: they make great sute to serue her: yea, I could point out some with my finger, that neuer had gone out of England, but onelie to serue Circes, in Italie. Vanitie and vice, and any licence to ill liuyng in England was counted stale and rude vnto them. And so, beyng Mules and Horses before they went, returned verie Swyne and Asses home agayne; yet euerie where verie Foxes with as suttle and busie heades; and where they may, verie Woolues, with cruell malicious hartes. A trewe Picture of a knight of Circes Court. A maruelous monster, which, for filthines of liuyng, for dulnes to learning him selfe, for wilinesse in dealing with others, for malice in hurting without cause, should carie at once in one bodie, the belie of a Swyne, the head of an Asse, the brayne of a Foxe, the wombe of a xx wolfe. If you thinke, we iudge amisse, and write to sore against you, heare, The Italians iudgement of Englishmen brought vp in Italie. what the Italian sayth of the English Man, what the master reporteth of the scholer: who vttereth playnlie, what is taught by him, and what learned by you, saying Englese Italianato, e vn diabolo incarnato, that is to say, you remaine men in shape and facion, but becum deuils in life and condition. This is not, the opinion of one, for some priuate spite, but the iudgement of all, in a common Prouerbe, which riseth, of that learnyng, and those maners, which you gather in Italie: The Italian diffameth them selfe, to shame the Englishe man. a good Scholehouse of wholesome doctrine, and worthy Masters of commendable Scholers, where the Master had rather diffame hym selfe for hys teachyng, than not shame his Scholer for his learnyng. A good nature of the maister, and faire conditions of the scholers. And now chose you, you Italian Englishe men, whether you will be angrie with vs, for calling you monsters, or with the Italianes, for callyng you deuils, or else with your owne selues, that take so much paines, and go so farre, to make your selues both. If some yet do not well vnderstand, An English man Italianated. what is an English man Italianated, I will plainlie tell him. He, that by liuing, and traueling in Italie, bringeth home into England out of Italie, the Religion, the learning, the policie, the experience, the maners of Italie.... These be the inchantements of Circes, brought out of Italie, to marre mens maners in England; much, by example of ill life, but more by preceptes of fonde bookes, Italian bokes translated into English. of late translated out of Italian into English, sold in euery shop in London, commended by honest titles the soner to corrupt honest maners: dedicated ouer boldlie to vertuous and honourable personages, the easielier to begile simple and innocent wittes. It is pitie, that those, which haue authoritie and charge, to allow and dissalow bookes to be printed, be no more circumspect herein, than they are. Ten Sermons at Paules Crosse do not so moch good for mouyng men to trewe doctrine, as one of those bookes do harme, with inticing men to ill liuing. Yea, I say farder, those bookes, tend not so moch to corrupt honest liuing, as they do, to subuert trewe Religion. Mo Papistes be made, by your mery bookes of Italie, than by your earnest bookes of Louain....
But I'm afraid that too many of our travelers to Italy don’t steer clear of Circe's Court: they rush there, eager to get to her. They go to great lengths to serve her; in fact, I could point out some people who have only left England to serve Circe in Italy. They see vanity and vice, as well as the freedom to live poorly in England, as old-fashioned and uncultured. So, like mules and horses, they return home as swine and donkeys; yet everywhere they behave like clever foxes, with sly and busy minds, and where they can, very much like wolves, with cruel and malicious hearts. A true picture of a knight of Circe's court. A bizarre creature, which, due to its filthy lifestyle, ignorance, cunning dealings, and harmfulness towards others, has a body that combines the belly of a pig, the head of a donkey, the brain of a fox, and the womb of a wolf. If you think we are unfairly judging you and being too harsh, listen, The Italians' judgment of Englishmen raised in Italy. to what the Italians say about the Englishman, as a teacher talks about a student: who clearly states what he teaches and what you have learned from him, saying Inglese Italianato, e un diabolo incarnato, which means you appear as men but live and behave as devils. This is the view of everyone, not just one individual out of private spite, but a common saying that reflects the learning and manners you acquire in Italy: The Italian defames themselves to shame the Englishman. a good place for healthy teachings with worthy masters of commendable students, where a teacher would rather tarnish his own reputation than embarrass his student for their learning. A good nature of the master and fine qualities of the students. And now you, Italian Englishmen, decide whether you want to be angry with us for calling you monsters, with the Italians for calling you devils, or with yourselves for working so hard to make yourselves both. If some still don’t understand well, An Englishman Italianated. what it means to be an Italianized Englishman, I will explain it clearly. It’s someone who, by living and traveling in Italy, brings back to England the religion, learning, policies, experiences, and manners of Italy... These are the enchantments of Circe, brought from Italy, ruining people's manners in England; much through the example of poor living, but even more through the teachings of foolish books, Italian books translated into English. recently translated from Italian into English, sold in every shop in London, praised under honest titles to more easily corrupt decent manners: boldly dedicated to virtuous and honorable individuals, making it easier to deceive simple and innocent minds. It's unfortunate that those who have the authority and responsibility to approve and ban books from being printed aren’t more careful about this. Ten sermons at Paul's Cross don’t guide people towards true doctrine as effectively as one of those books harms them by enticing them towards poor living. Yes, I’ll go further, those books tend not to just corrupt decent living but also to undermine true religion. More papists are made by your joyful books from Italy than by your serious books from Louvain...
Therfore, when the busie and open Papistes abroad, could not, by their contentious bookes, turne men in England fast enough, from troth and right iudgement in doctrine, than the sutle and secrete Papistes at home, procured bawdie bookes to be translated out of the Italian tonge, whereby ouer many yong willes and wittes xxi allured to wantonnes, do now boldly contemne all seuere bookes that founde to honestie and godlines. In our forefathers tyme, whan Papistrie, as a standyng poole, couered and ouerflowed all England, fewe bookes were read in our tong, sauyng certaine bookes of Cheualrie, as they sayd, for pastime and pleasure, which, as some say, were made in Monasteries, by idle Monkes, or wanton Chanons: as one for example, Morte Arthur. Morte Arthure: the whole pleasure of which booke standeth in two speciall poyntes, in open mans slaughter, and bold bawdrye: In which booke those be counted the noblest Knightes, that do kill most men without any quarrell, and commit fowlest aduoulteres by subtlest shiftes: as Sir Launcelote, with the wife of king Arthure his master: Syr Tristram with the wife of king Marke his vncle: Syr Lamerocke with the wife of king Lote, that was his owne aunte. This is good stuffe, for wise men to laughe att or honest men to take pleasure at. Yet I know, when Gods Bible was banished the Court, and Morte Arthure receiued into the Princes chamber. What toyes, the dayly readyng of such a booke, may worke in the will of a yong ientleman, or a yong mayde, that liueth welthelie and idlelie, wise men can iudge, and honest men do pitie. And yet ten Morte Arthures do not the tenth part so much harme, as one of these bookes, made in Italie, and translated in England. They open, not fond and common ways to vice, but such subtle, cunnyng, new, and diuerse shiftes, to cary yong willes to vanitie, and yong wittes to mischief, to teach old bawdes new schole poyntes, as the simple head of an Englishman is not hable to inuent, nor neuer was hard of in England before, yea when Papistrie ouerflowed all. Suffer these bookes to be read, and they shall soone displace all bookes of godly learnyng. For they, carying the will to vanitie and marryng good maners, shall easily corrupt the mynde with ill opinions, and false iudgement in doctrine: first, to thinke nothyng of God hym selfe, one speciall pointe that is to be learned in Italie, and Italian bookes. And that which is most to be lamented, and therfore more nedefull to be looked to, there be moe of these vngratious bookes set out in Printe within these fewe monethes, than haue bene sene in England many score yeare before. And bicause our English men made Italians can not hurt, but certaine persons, and in certaine places, therfore these Italian bookes are made English, to bryng mischief enough openly and boldly, to all states great and meane, yong and old, euery where.
So, when the busy and open Catholics abroad couldn't quickly convert people in England to the truth and right judgment in doctrine through their argumentative books, the clever and secretive Catholics at home organized the translation of scandalous books from Italian. This led too many young minds into immorality, causing them to openly disregard all serious works that promote honesty and godliness. Back in our ancestors' time, when Catholicism flooded all of England like a stagnant pool, there were very few books available in our language, aside from some chivalric tales, which were said to be for entertainment and pleasure. Many of these were reportedly created in monasteries by lazy monks or dissolute canons: for example, Morte Arthure, which focuses entirely on two main themes: open killing and bold immorality. In this book, the noblest knights are those who kill the most men without cause and commit the most shameful adulteries through cunning means, like Sir Launcelot with the wife of King Arthur; Sir Tristram with the wife of King Mark, his uncle; Sir Lamerocke with the wife of King Lote, who was his own aunt. This is great material for wise men to mock or for decent men to find enjoyment in. Yet I know that when God’s Bible was banned from the Court and Morte Arthure was welcomed into the Prince’s chamber, wise men can judge the kind of problems that daily reading of such a book can cause in the minds of young gentlemen or young ladies, living comfortably and idly, and honest men can only feel pity. And yet ten Morte Arthures do not cause a tenth of the harm that one of these books, created in Italy and translated into English, can do. They don’t just open simple and common paths to vice, but introduce subtle, clever, new, and varied tricks to lead young minds to vanity and young wits to mischief, teaching old seducers new techniques that a simple Englishman wouldn't think of, and that were never heard of in England even when Catholicism was widespread. Allow these books to be read, and they will soon replace all books of righteous learning. For they, leading minds to vanity and corrupting good morals, will easily poison the mind with bad opinions and false judgment in doctrine: first, making one think nothing of God himself, which is a crucial point that is to be learned in Italy and Italian books. The most lamentable part, and therefore the most necessary to monitor, is that more of these disgraceful books have been published in print in the last few months than have been seen in England for many decades. And because our Englishmen made Italians can do little harm, affecting only certain individuals and specific places, these Italian books are translated into English, bringing plenty of trouble openly and boldly to everyone, regardless of status, young or old, everywhere.
And thus yow see, how will intised to wantonnes, doth easelie allure the mynde to false opinions: and how corrupt maners in liuinge, breede xxii false iudgement in doctrine: how sinne and fleshlines, bring forth sectes and heresies: And therefore suffer not vaine bookes to breede vanitie in mens wills, if yow would haue Goddes trothe take roote in mens myndes....
As you can see, the desire for pleasure can easily mislead the mind into false beliefs. Corrupt behavior in life leads to wrong judgments in teachings. Sin and indulgence give rise to sects and heresies. So, don’t let meaningless books foster vanity in people's desires if you want God’s truth to take hold in their minds...
They geuing themselues vp to vanitie, shakinge of the motions of Grace, driuing from them the feare of God, and running headlong into all sinne, first, lustelie contemne God, than scornefullie mocke his worde, and also spitefullie hate and hurte all well willers thereof. Then they haue in more reuerence the triumphes of Petrarche: than the Genesis of Moses: They make more account of Tullies offices, than S. Paules epistles: of a tale in Bocace, than a storie of the Bible. Than they counte as Fables, the holie misteries of Christian Religion. They make Christ and his Gospell, onelie serue Ciuill pollicie: Than neyther Religion cummeth amisse to them....
They give in to vanity, ignoring the movements of Grace, dismissing the fear of God, and rushing headfirst into sin. First, they lustfully ignore God, then arrogantly mock His word, and spitefully hate and hurt everyone who supports it. They value Petrarch's achievements more than Moses's Genesis. They appreciate Cicero's writings more than Paul's letters, and a story from Boccaccio more than a biblical tale. They see the sacred mysteries of the Christian faith as just stories. They make Christ and His Gospel serve only political agendas. For them, neither religion seems out of place...
For where they dare, in cumpanie where they like, they boldlie laughe to scorne both protestant and Papist. They care for no scripture: They make no counte of generall councels: they contemne the consent of the Chirch: They passe for no Doctores: They mocke the Pope: They raile on Luther: They allow neyther side: They like none, but onelie themselues: The marke they shote at, the ende they looke for, the heauen they desire, is onelie, their owne present pleasure, and priuate proffit: whereby, they plainlie declare, of whose schole, of what Religion they be: that is, Epicures in liuing, and ἄθεοι in doctrine: this last worde, is no more vnknowne now to plaine Englishe men, than the Person was vnknown somtyme in England, vntill som Englishe man tooke peines to fetch that deuelish opinin out of Italie....
They boldly laugh at both Protestants and Catholics wherever they please. They ignore Scripture, dismiss general councils, and show contempt for the Church's consensus. They pay no attention to any scholars, mock the Pope, and criticize Luther. They don't support either side; their only concern is themselves. The goal they pursue, the end they seek, the paradise they desire, is purely for their own immediate pleasure and personal gain. This clearly indicates which school they belong to and what faith they practice: they are Epicureans in life and atheists in belief. The term "atheist" is as well-known to ordinary English speakers today as the person it once referred to was unknown in England until someone brought that devilish idea from Italy....
I was once in Italie my selfe: but I thanke God, my abode there, was but ix. dayes: Venice. And yet I sawe in that litle time, in one Citie, more libertie to sinne, than euer I hard tell of in our noble London. Citie of London in ix. yeare. I sawe, it was there, as free to sinne, not onelie without all punishment, but also without any mans marking, as it is free in the Citie of London, to chose, without all blame, whether a man lust to weare Shoo or Pantocle....
I was once in Italy for nine days, thank God: Venice. And yet, in that short time in one city, I witnessed more freedom to sin than I’ve ever heard of in our esteemed London. During my nine years in the City of London, I saw that it was just as easy to sin there, not only without any consequences but also without anyone even noticing, just like it’s accepted in the City of London to choose, without any judgment, whether someone wants to wear shoes or pants....
Our Italians bring home with them other faultes from Italie, though not so great as this of Religion, yet a great deale greater, than many good men will beare. Contempt of mariage. For commonlie they cum home, common contemners of mariage and readie persuaders of all other to the same: not because they loue virginitie, nor yet because they hate prettie yong virgines, but, being free in Italie, to go whither so euer lust will cary them, they do not like, that lawe and honestie should be soche a barre to their like libertie at home in England. And xxiii yet they be, the greatest makers of loue, the daylie daliers, with such pleasant wordes, with such smilyng and secret countenances, with such signes, tokens, wagers, purposed to be lost, before they were purposed to be made, with bargaines of wearing colours, floures and herbes, to breede occasion of ofter meeting of him and her, and bolder talking of this and that, etc. And although I haue seene some, innocent of ill, and stayde in all honestie, that haue vsed these thinges without all harme, without all suspicion of harme, yet these knackes were brought first into England by them, that learned them before in Italie in Circes Court: and how Courtlie curtesses so euer they be counted now, yet, if the meaning and maners of some that do vse them, were somewhat amended, it were no great hurt, neither to them selues, nor to others....
Our Italians bring back various flaws from Italy, but none are as serious as the issue of religion; however, they’re much more than what many decent people can stand. Disregard for marriage. Usually, they return home as people who disrespect marriage and are eager to persuade others to feel the same. This isn’t because they value virginity or dislike attractive young virgins, but because, being free in Italy to follow their desires, they resent that laws and decency impose restrictions on their freedom back home in England. And xxiii yet they are the biggest romantics, always flirting, using charming words, smiling and secretive expressions, making gestures, signs, and bets that are meant to be lost before they even begin, planning to wear colors, flowers, and herbs to create chances for more meetings and bolder conversations, and so on. While I have seen some innocent and upstanding individuals engage in these behaviors without any harm or suspicion of harm, these antics were first introduced to England by those who picked them up in Italy at Circe's Court; and regardless of how refined these flirtations are viewed now, a little improvement in the attitudes and behaviors of those who use them wouldn’t hurt anyone, including themselves...
An other propertie of this our English Italians is, to be meruelous singular in all their matters: Singular in knowledge, ignorant in nothyng: So singular in wisedome (in their owne opinion) as scarse they counte the best Counsellor the Prince hath, comparable with them: Common discoursers of all matters: busie searchers of most secret affaires: open flatterers of great men: priuie mislikers of good men: Faire speakers, with smiling countenances, and much curtessie openlie to all men. Ready bakbiters, sore nippers, and spitefull reporters priuily of good men. And beyng brought vp in Italie, in some free Citie, as all Cities be there: where a man may freelie discourse against what he will, against whom he lust: against any Prince, agaynst any gouernement, yea against God him selfe, and his whole Religion: where he must be, either Guelphe or Gibiline, either French or Spanish: and alwayes compelled to be of some partie, of some faction, he shall neuer be compelled to be of any Religion: And if he medle not ouer much with Christes true Religion, he shall haue free libertie to embrace all Religions, and becum, if he lust at once, without any let or punishment, Iewish, Turkish, Papish, and Deuilish.
Another characteristic of our English Italians is their striking individuality in everything they do: They are unique in their knowledge and aware of everything. So confident in their own wisdom that they hardly see any of the Prince's top advisors as their equals. They engage in conversation on all topics, eagerly searching for the most hidden matters, openly flattering the powerful, while secretly disapproving of the good. They speak gracefully, with smiling faces, and show great courtesy to everyone. They are quick to gossip, sharp-tongued, and spiteful in their reports behind the backs of good people. Growing up in Italy, in a free city, just like all cities there, one can freely discuss whatever they want, targeting whom they wish, whether it's against any prince, any government, or even against God and his entire religion. There, one must choose to be either Guelphe or Gibiline, either French or Spanish: always forced to belong to some group, some faction, but never required to stick to any religion. As long as he doesn't interfere too much with Christ's true religion, he has the freedom to adopt any religion he wants, and can, if he wishes, become at once, without any obstacles or punishment, Jewish, Turkish, Papist, or even devilish.
It is the old quarrel of classicists and Romanticists, of the ancien régime and the new school in literature, which runs nearly through every age. It might be Victor Cousin reproving Victor Hugo, or, say, M. Renan protesting, if he could protest, against M. Zola. Nor is the diatribe against the evil communication that had corrupted good manners any novelty in the quarrel. Critics have practically recognised that letters are a reflex of life long before Matthew Arnold formulated the relation. And in the disputing between Classicists and Romanticists it has invariably happened xxiv that the Classicists were the earlier generation, and therefore more given to convention, while the Romanticists were likely to be experimental in life as in literature. Altogether then, we must discount somewhat Ascham’s fierce denunciation, of the Italianate Englishman, and of the Englishing of Italian books.
It’s the same old debate between classicists and romanticists, between the old system and the new approach in literature, that continues through every era. It could be Victor Cousin critiquing Victor Hugo, or M. Renan arguing—if he could argue—against M. Zola. The criticism about bad influences ruining good manners isn’t new to this debate. Critics have acknowledged that literature reflects life long before Matthew Arnold pointed it out. In the conflict between classicists and romanticists, the classicists have always been the older generation, more tied to tradition, while the romanticists tend to experiment both in life and literature. So, we can somewhat dismiss Ascham’s harsh condemnation of the Italian-influenced Englishman and the adaptation of Italian works into English.
There can be little doubt, I think, that in the denunciation of the “bawdie stories” introduced from Italy, Ascham was thinking mainly and chiefly of Painter’s “Palace of Pleasure.” The whole passage is later than the death of Sir Thomas Sackville in 1566, and necessarily before the death of Ascham in December 1568. Painter’s First Tome appeared in 1566, and his Second Tome in 1567. Of its immediate and striking success there can be no doubt. A second edition of the first Tome appeared in 1569, the year after Ascham’s death, and a second edition of the whole work in 1575, the first Tome thus going through three editions in nine years. It is therefore practically certain that Ascham had Painter’s book in his mind9 in the above passage, which may be taken as a contemporary criticism of Painter, from the point of view of an adherent of the New-Old Learning, who conveniently forgot that scarcely a single one of the Latin classics is free from somewhat similar blemishes to those he found in Painter and his fellow-translators from the Italian.
There’s no doubt, I believe, that when condemning the “obscene stories” brought in from Italy, Ascham was mostly referring to Painter’s “Palace of Pleasure.” The entire passage was written after Sir Thomas Sackville passed away in 1566, and definitely before Ascham's death in December 1568. Painter’s First Tome was published in 1566, with the Second Tome following in 1567. Its immediate and remarkable success is undisputed. A second edition of the first Tome was released in 1569, the year after Ascham died, and a second edition of the entire work came out in 1575, with the first Tome having gone through three editions in nine years. It is therefore highly likely that Ascham had Painter’s book in mind9 in the passage above, which can be seen as a contemporary critique of Painter, from the perspective of someone who supports the New-Old Learning, who conveniently overlooked that hardly any of the Latin classics are free from similar flaws to those he identified in Painter and his fellow-Italian translators.
But it is time to turn to the book which roused Ascham’s ire so greatly, and to learn something of it and its author.10 William Painter was probably a Kentishman, born somewhere about 1525.11 He seems to have taken his degree at one of the Universities, as we find him head master of Sevenoaks’ school about 1560, and the head master had to be a Bachelor of Arts. In the next year, however, he left the pædagogic toga for some connection with arms, for on 9 Feb. 1561, he was appointed xxv Clerk of the Ordnance, with a stipend of eightpence per diem, and it is in that character that he figures on his title page. He soon after married Dorothy Bonham of Dowling (born about 1537, died 1617), and had a family of at least five children. He acquired two important manors in Gillingham, co. Kent, East Court and Twidall. Haslewood is somewhat at a loss to account for these possessions. From documents I have discovered and printed in an Appendix, it becomes only too clear, I fear, that Painter’s fortune had the same origin as too many private fortunes, in peculation of public funds.
But it's time to look at the book that really angered Ascham and learn a bit about it and its author. 10 William Painter was probably from Kent, born around 1525. 11 He seems to have graduated from one of the universities, as he is noted as the headmaster of Sevenoaks school around 1560, and headmasters needed to have a Bachelor of Arts degree. However, the following year, he left teaching behind to take on a military role. On February 9, 1561, he was appointed Clerk of the Ordnance, with a salary of eight pence per day, and it's in this role that he appears on his title page. Soon after, he married Dorothy Bonham from Dowling (born around 1537, died 1617) and they had at least five children together. He acquired two significant estates in Gillingham, Kent: East Court and Twidall. Haslewood struggles to explain how he came to own these properties. From the documents I found and included in an Appendix, it becomes painfully clear that Painter’s wealth, like too many others, likely stemmed from the misappropriation of public funds.
So far as we can judge from the materials at our disposal, it would seem that Painter obtained his money by a very barefaced procedure. He seems to have moved powder and other materials of war from Windsor to the Tower, charged for them on delivery at the latter place as if they had been freshly bought, and pocketed the proceeds. On the other hand, it is fair to Painter to say that we only have the word of his accusers for the statement, though both he and his son own to certain undefined irregularities. It is, at any rate, something in his favour that he remained in office till his death, unless he was kept there on the principle of setting a peculator to catch a peculator. I fancy, too, that the Earl of Warwick was implicated in his misdeeds, and saved him from their consequences.
Based on the information we have, it looks like Painter got his money through a very shameless scheme. It seems he moved gunpowder and other wartime supplies from Windsor to the Tower, billed them at the Tower as if they were newly purchased, and kept the cash. However, it's only fair to point out that we only have the accusations against him to go on, even though both he and his son admit to some vague irregularities. Still, it counts in his favor that he kept his position until his death, unless he was kept there as a way to catch another dishonest person. I also suspect that the Earl of Warwick was involved in his wrongdoings and helped him avoid the fallout.
His works are but few. A translation from the Latin account, by Nicholas Moffan, of the death of the Sultan Solyman,12 was made by him in 1557. In 1560 an address in prose, prefixed to Dr. W. Fulke’s Antiprognosticon, was signed “Your familiar friend, William Paynter,”13 and dated “From Sevenoke xxii. of Octobre;” and the same volume contains Latin verses entitled “Gulielmi Painteri, ludimagistri Seuenochensis Tetrastichon.” It is perhaps worth while remarking that this Antiprognosticon was directed against Anthony Ascham, Roger’s brother, which may perhaps account for some of the bitterness in the above passage from the Scholemaster. These slight productions, however, xxvi sink into insignificance in comparison with his chief work, “The Palace of Pleasure.”
His works are limited. He translated the Latin account of the death of Sultan Solyman, done by Nicholas Moffan, in 1557. In 1560, he signed an address in prose prefixed to Dr. W. Fulke’s Antiprognosticon as “Your familiar friend, William Paynter,” dated “From Sevenoke xxii. of Octobre;” and the same volume includes Latin verses titled “Gulielmi Painteri, ludimagistri Seuenochensis Tetrastichon.” It’s worth noting that this Antiprognosticon was aimed at Anthony Ascham, Roger’s brother, which might explain some of the bitterness in the earlier passage from the Scholemaster. However, these minor works fade into obscurity compared to his main work, “The Palace of Pleasure.”
He seems to have started work on this before he left Seven Oaks in 1561. For as early as 1562 he got a licence for a work to be entitled “The Citye of Cyuelite,” as we know from the following entry in the Stationers’ Registers:—
He seems to have started working on this before he left Seven Oaks in 1561. As early as 1562, he obtained a license for a work titled “The Citye of Cyuelite,” as we can see from the following entry in the Stationers’ Registers:—
W. Jonnes—Receyued of Wylliam Jonnes for his lycense for pryntinge of a boke intituled The Cytie of Cyuelitie translated into englisshe by William Paynter.
W. Jonnes—Received from William Jonnes for his license to print a book titled The City of Civility translated into English by William Paynter.
From his own history of the work given in the dedication of the first Tome to his patron, the Earl of Warwick, it is probable that this was originally intended to include only tales from Livy and the Latin historians. He seems later to have determined on adding certain of Boccaccio’s novels, and the opportune appearance of a French translation of Bandello in 1559 caused him to add half a dozen or so from the Bishop of Agen. Thus a book which was originally intended to be another contribution to the New Learning of classical antiquity turned out to be the most important representative in English of the Newest Learning of Italy. With the change of plan came a change of title, and the “City of Civility,” which was to have appeared in 1562, was replaced by the “Palace of Pleasure” in 1566.14
From his own history of the work mentioned in the dedication of the first volume to his patron, the Earl of Warwick, it seems likely that this was initially meant to feature only stories from Livy and other Latin historians. He later decided to add some of Boccaccio’s stories, and the timely release of a French translation of Bandello in 1559 led him to include about six from the Bishop of Agen. As a result, a book that was originally supposed to be another contribution to the New Learning of classical antiquity ended up being the most significant representation in English of the Newest Learning from Italy. With this change in direction came a new title, and “City of Civility,” which was set to be published in 1562, was replaced by “Palace of Pleasure” in 1566.14
The success of the book seems to have been immediate. We have seen above Ascham’s indignant testimony to this, and the appearance of the Second Tome, half as large again as the other, within about eighteen months of the First, confirms his account. This Second Tome was practically the Bandello volume; more than half of the tales, and those by far the longest, were taken from him, through the medium of his French translators, Boaistuau and Belleforest. Within a couple of years another edition was called for of the First Tome, which appeared in 1569, with the addition of five more stories from the Heptameron, from which eleven were already in the first edition. Thus the First Tome might be called the Heptameron volume, and the second, that of Bandello. Boccaccio is pretty xxvii evenly divided between the two, and the remainder is made up of classic tales and anecdotes and a few novelle of Ser Giovanni and Straparola. Both Tomes were reprinted in what may be called the definitive edition of the work in 1575.
The success of the book seems to have been immediate. As we’ve seen from Ascham’s angry testimony, the release of the Second Volume, which was about one-and-a-half times the size of the first, within around eighteen months of the First, backs up his account. This Second Volume was essentially the Bandello collection; over half of the stories, and those by far the longest, were taken from him through his French translators, Boaistuau and Belleforest. Within a couple of years, another edition of the First Volume was requested, which came out in 1569, adding five more stories from the Heptameron, which already had eleven in the first edition. Therefore, the First Volume could be called the Heptameron volume, and the second, the Bandello volume. Boccaccio is pretty evenly split between the two, and the rest consists of classic tales, anecdotes, and a few novelle by Ser Giovanni and Straparola. Both volumes were reprinted in what can be called the definitive edition of the work in 1575.
Quite apart from its popularity and its influence on the English stage, on which we shall have more to say shortly, Painter’s book deserves a larger place in the history of English Literature than has as yet been given to it. It introduced to England some of the best novels of Boccaccio, Bandello, and Queen Margaret, three of the best raconteurs of short stories the world has ever had. It is besides the largest work in English prose that appeared between the Morte Darthur and North’s Plutarch.15 Painter’s style bears the impress of French models. Though professing to be from Italian novellieri, it is mainly derived from French translations of them. Indeed, but for the presence of translations from Ser Giovanni and Straparola, it might be doubtful whether Painter translated from the Italian at all. He claims however to do this from Boccaccio, and as he owns the aid of a French “crib” in the case of Bandello, the claim may be admitted. His translations from the French are very accurate, and only err in the way of too much literalness.16 From a former dominie one would have expected a far larger proportion of Latinisms than we actually find. As a rule, his sentences are relatively short, and he is tolerably free from the vice of the long periods that were brought into vogue by “Ciceronianism.” He is naturally free from Euphuism and for a very good reason, since Euphues and his Englande was not published for another dozen years or so. The recent suggestion of Dr. Landmann and others that Euphuism came from the influence of Guevara would seem to be negatived by the fact that the “Letters of Trajan” in the Second Tome of Painter are taken from Guevara and are no more Euphuistic than the rest of the volume.
Aside from its popularity and impact on the English stage, which we'll discuss more shortly, Painter’s book deserves a bigger spot in the history of English Literature than it has received so far. It introduced England to some of the finest novels by Boccaccio, Bandello, and Queen Margaret, three of the greatest storytellers of short stories the world has ever known. Moreover, it is the largest work in English prose that appeared between the Morte Darthur and North’s Plutarch. 15 Painter’s style shows the influence of French models. Although he claims to be drawing from Italian novellieri, it mainly comes from French translations of them. In fact, if it weren't for the translations from Ser Giovanni and Straparola, it might be unclear whether Painter translated from the Italian at all. However, he does assert that he translated from Boccaccio, and since he acknowledges using a French “crib” for Bandello, this claim can be accepted. His translations from French are very accurate, though they sometimes lean too much towards being overly literal. 16 From a former teacher, we might expect a lot more Latin influence than we actually see. Generally, his sentences are relatively short, and he avoids the lengthy structures that became popular with “Ciceronianism.” He naturally steers clear of Euphuism for a very good reason, since Euphues and his Englande wasn’t published for another dozen years or so. The recent suggestion by Dr. Landmann and others that Euphuism originated from Guevara’s influence seems disproven by the fact that the “Letters of Trajan” in the Second Tome of Painter are taken from Guevara and aren’t any more Euphuistic than the rest of the volume.
Painter’s volume is practically the earliest volume of prose translations xxviii from a modern language into English in the true Elizabethan period after the influence of Caxton in literary importation had died away with Bourchier the translator of Froissart and of Huon of Bordeaux. It set the ball rolling in this direction, and found many followers, some of whom may be referred to as having had an influence only second to that of Painter in providing plots for the Elizabethan Drama. There can be little doubt that it was Painter set the fashion, and one of his chief followers recognised this, as we shall see, on his title page.
Painter’s collection is basically the first collection of prose translations from a modern language into English during the true Elizabethan period, after the impact of Caxton in bringing in literature had faded with Bourchier, the translator of Froissart and Huon of Bordeaux. It kicked off this trend and inspired many others, some of whom can be noted for having had an influence just behind Painter in offering plots for Elizabethan Drama. There’s no doubt that Painter established the trend, and one of his main followers acknowledged this, as we’ll see on his title page. xxviii
The year in which Painter’s Second Tome appeared saw George (afterwards Sir George) Fenton’s Certaine Tragicall Discourses writtene oute of Frenche and Latine containing fourteen “histories.” As four of these are identical with tales contained in Painter’s Second Tome it is probable that Fenton worked independently, though it was doubtless the success of the “Palace of Pleasure” that induced Thomas Marshe, Painter’s printer, to undertake a similar volume from Fenton. The Tragicall Discourses ran into a second edition in 1569. T. Fortescue’s Foreste or Collection of Histories ... dooen oute of Frenche appeared in 1571 and reached a second edition in 1576. In the latter year appeared a work of G. Pettie that bore on its title page—A Petite Palace of Pettie his Pleasure—a clear reference to Painter’s book. Notwithstanding Anthony à Wood’s contemptuous judgment of his great-uncle’s book it ran through no less than six editions between 1576 and 1613.17 The year after Pettie’s first edition appeared R. Smyth’s Stravnge and Tragicall histories Translated out of French. In 1576 was also published the first of George Whetstone’s collections of tales, the four parts of The Rocke of Regard, in which he told over again in verse several stories already better told by Painter. In the same year, 1576, appeared G. Turberville’s Tragical Tales, translated out of sundrie Italians—ten tales in verse, chiefly from Boccaccio. Whetstone’s Heptameron of Ciuill Discourses in 1582 was however a more important contribution to the English Novella, xxix and it ran through two further editions by 1593.18 Thus in the quarter of a century 1565-1590 no less than eight collections, most of them running into a second edition, made their appearance in England. Painter’s work contains more than all the rest put together, and its success was the cause of the whole movement. It clearly answered a want and thus created a demand. It remains to consider the want which was thus satisfied by Painter and his school.
The year Painter’s Second Tome came out, George (later Sir George) Fenton published his Certaine Tragicall Discourses written out of Frenche and Latine, which included fourteen “histories.” Since four of these stories are the same as those in Painter’s Second Tome, it’s likely that Fenton worked independently, although the success of the “Palace of Pleasure” probably led Thomas Marshe, Painter’s printer, to produce a similar work from Fenton. The Tragicall Discourses was reprinted in a second edition in 1569. T. Fortescue’s Foreste or Collection of Histories ... done out of Frenche came out in 1571 and was revised in a second edition in 1576. That same year, G. Pettie released his work titled A Petite Palace of Pettie his Pleasure, which clearly references Painter’s book. Despite Anthony à Wood’s dismissive opinion of his great-uncle’s book, it went through six editions between 1576 and 1613.17 The year after Pettie’s first edition was R. Smyth’s Stravnge and Tragicall histories Translated out of French. In 1576, George Whetstone published the first of his collections, the four parts of The Rocke of Regard, where he retold several stories already told better by Painter in verse. Also in 1576, G. Turberville’s Tragical Tales, translated out of sundrie Italians appeared—ten tales in verse, mainly from Boccaccio. Whetstone’s Heptameron of Ciuill Discourses in 1582, however, was a more significant addition to the English Novella, xxix and it went through two more editions by 1593.18 So, between 1565 and 1590, at least eight collections were published in England, most of which had second editions. Painter’s work alone surpasses all the others put together, and its success sparked the entire movement. It clearly fulfilled a need, thus creating a demand. Now, it's important to consider the need that Painter and his school satisfied.
The quarter of a century from 1565 to 1590 was the seed-time of the Elizabethan Drama, which blossomed out in the latter year in Marlowe’s Tamburlaine the Great. The only play which precedes that period, Gordobuc or Ferrex and Porrex, first played in 1561, indicates what direction the English Drama would naturally have taken if nothing had intervened to take it out of its course. Gordobuc is severely classical in its unities; it is of the Senecan species. Now throughout Western Europe this was the type of the modern drama,19 and it dominated the more serious side of the French stage down to the time of Victor Hugo. There can be little doubt that the English Drama would have followed the classical models but for one thing. The flood of Italian novelle introduced into England by Painter and his school, imported a new condition into the problem. It is essential to the Classical Drama that the plot should be already known to the audience, that there should be but one main action, and but one tone, tragic or comic. In Painter’s work and those of his followers, the would-be dramatists of Elizabeth’s time had offered to them a super-abundance of actions quite novel to their audience, and alternating between grave and gay, often within the same story.20 The very fact of their foreignness was a further attraction. At a time when all things were new, and intellectual curiosity had become a passion, the opportunity xxx of studying the varied life of an historic country like Italy lent an additional charm to the translated novelle. In an interesting essay on the “Italy of the Elizabethan Dramatists,”21 Vernon Lee remarks that it was the very strangeness and horror of Italian life as compared with the dull decorum of English households that had its attraction for the Elizabethans. She writes as if the dramatists were themselves acquainted with the life they depicted. As a matter of fact, not a single one of the Elizabethan dramatists, as far as I know, was personally acquainted with Italy.22 This knowledge of Italian life and crime was almost entirely derived from the works of Painter and his school. If there had been anything corresponding to them dealing with the tragic aspects of English life, the Elizabethan dramatists would have been equally ready to tell of English vice and criminality. They used Holinshed and Fabyan readily enough for their “Histories.” They would have used an English Bandello with equal readiness had he existed. But an English Bandello could not have existed at a time when the English folk had not arrived at self-consciousness, and had besides no regular school of tale-tellers like the Italians. It was then only from the Italians that the Elizabethan dramatists could have got a sufficient stock of plots to allow for that interweaving of many actions into one which is the characteristic of the Romantic Drama of Marlowe and his compeers.
The 25 years from 1565 to 1590 were the foundation of Elizabethan Drama, which really took off that year with Marlowe’s Tamburlaine the Great. The only play that came before this era, Gordobuc or Ferrex and Porrex, first performed in 1561, shows the direction English Drama might have naturally gone if nothing had changed its course. Gordobuc is strictly classical in its adherence to the unities; it follows the Senecan model. Throughout Western Europe, this was the style of modern drama, and it significantly influenced the more serious side of the French stage until Victor Hugo’s time. There’s little doubt that English Drama would have stuck to classical models if not for one thing. The influx of Italian novelle, brought into England by Painter and his contemporaries, introduced a new dynamic to the scene. Classical Drama demands that the audience already knows the plot, centers on one main action, and maintains a single tone, either tragic or comic. In Painter’s works and those of his followers, the aspiring dramatists of Elizabeth’s era were presented with a wealth of new plots, often shifting between serious and lighthearted, sometimes even within the same narrative. The very foreignness of these stories was also a draw. At a time when everything felt new and intellectual curiosity ran high, the chance to explore the diverse life of a historical country like Italy added even more appeal to the translated novelle. In an insightful essay on the “Italy of the Elizabethan Dramatists,” Vernon Lee notes that it was the strangeness and horror of Italian life, especially when compared to the mundane decorum of English homes, that fascinated the Elizabethans. She suggests that the dramatists were familiar with the lives they depicted. In reality, to my knowledge, not one of the Elizabethan dramatists personally knew Italy. Their understanding of Italian life and crime mostly came from the works of Painter and his contemporaries. Had there been similar works addressing the tragic elements of English life, the Elizabethan dramatists would have eagerly explored instances of English vice and crime. They readily used Holinshed and Fabyan for their “Histories.” They would have utilized an English Bandello just as easily if one had existed. However, an English Bandello couldn’t have emerged at a time when the English people had not yet developed self-awareness and lacked a structured tradition of storytellers like the Italians. Thus, it was only through the Italians that the Elizabethan dramatists could acquire enough plots to enable the intertwining of multiple actions into one single narrative, which characterizes the Romantic Drama of Marlowe and his peers.
That Painter was the main source of plot for the dramatists before Marlowe, we have explicit evidence. Of the very few extant dramas before Marlowe, Appius and Virginia, Tancred and Gismunda, and Cyrus and Panthea are derived from Painter.23 We have also references in contemporary literature showing the great impression made by Painter’s book on the opponents of the stage. In 1572 E. Dering, in the Epistle prefixed to A briefe Instruction, says: “To this purpose we have gotten our Songs and Sonnets, our Palaces of Pleasure, our unchaste Fables and Tragedies, and such like sorceries.... xxxi O that there were among us some zealous Ephesian, that books of so great vanity might be burned up.” As early as 1579 Gosson began in his School of Abuse the crusade against stage-plays, which culminated in Prynne’s Histriomastix. He was answered by Lodge in his Defence of Stage Plays. Gosson demurred to Lodge in 1580 with his Playes Confuted in Five Actions, and in this he expressly mentions Painter’s Palace of Pleasure among the “bawdie comedies” that had been “ransacked” to supply the plots of plays. Unfortunately very few even of the titles of these early plays are extant: they probably only existed as prompt-books for stage-managers, and were not of sufficient literary value to be printed when the marriage of Drama and Literature occurred with Marlowe.
That Painter was the main source of stories for the playwrights before Marlowe is well-documented. Of the few plays that still exist from before Marlowe, Appius and Virginia, Tancred and Gismunda, and Cyrus and Panthea all come from Painter. We also have references in contemporary literature showing the significant impact Painter’s book had on those opposed to the theater. In 1572, E. Dering, in the preface to A Briefe Instruction, states: “For this purpose, we have gathered our Songs and Sonnets, our Palaces of Pleasure, our immoral Fables and Tragedies, and similar forms of sorcery.... O that we had a zealous Ephesian among us, so that books of such great vanity could be burned.” As early as 1579, Gosson started his campaign against stage plays in his School of Abuse, which eventually led to Prynne’s Histriomastix. Lodge responded in his Defence of Stage Plays. Gosson replied to Lodge in 1580 with his Playes Confuted in Five Actions, in which he specifically mentions Painter’s Palace of Pleasure among the “racy comedies” that had been “plundered” for play plots. Unfortunately, very few titles of these early plays survive; they likely only existed as prompt-books for stage managers and weren’t considered valuable enough to be printed when Drama and Literature first came together with Marlowe.
But we have one convincing proof of the predominating influence of the plots of Painter and his imitators on the Elizabethan Drama. Shakespeare’s works in the first folio, and the editions derived from it, are, as is well known, divided into three parts—Comedies, Histories, and Tragedies. The division is founded on a right instinct, and applies to the whole Elizabethan Drama.24 Putting aside the Histories, which derive from Holinshed, North, and the other historians, the dramatis personæ of the Tragedies and Comedies are, in nineteen cases out of twenty, provided with Italian names, and the scene is placed in Italy. It had become a regular convention with the Elizabethans to give an Italian habitation and name to the whole of their dramas. This convention must have arisen in the pre-Marlowe days, and there is no other reason to be given for it but the fact that the majority of plots are taken from the “Palace of Pleasure” or its followers. A striking instance is mentioned by Charles Lamb of the tyranny of this convention. In the first draught of his Every Man in his Humour Ben Jonson gave Italian names to all his dramatis personæ. Mistress Kitely appeared as Biancha, Master Stephen as Stephano, and even the immortal Captain Bobabil as Bobadilla. Imagine Dame Quickly as Putana, and Sir John as Corporoso, and we can see what a profound xxxii influence such a seemingly superficial thing as the names of the dramatis personæ has had on the Elizabethan Drama through the influence of Painter and his men.
But we have one convincing piece of evidence showing the strong impact of the plots from Painter and his followers on Elizabethan Drama. Shakespeare’s works in the first folio, along with the editions based on it, are divided into three sections—Comedies, Histories, and Tragedies. This division reflects a keen insight and applies to all of Elizabethan Drama. Leaving aside the Histories, which come from Holinshed, North, and other historians, the characters in the Tragedies and Comedies mostly have Italian names, and the settings are often in Italy. It became a standard practice for Elizabethan playwrights to give their entire plays an Italian setting and names. This convention likely began before Marlowe's time, and the only reason for it seems to be that many plots are sourced from the “Palace of Pleasure” or its successors. A notable example highlighted by Charles Lamb illustrates the power of this convention. In the first draft of his *Every Man in his Humour*, Ben Jonson assigned Italian names to all his characters. Mistress Kitely was named Biancha, Master Stephen became Stephano, and even the memorable Captain Bobabil was called Bobadilla. Imagine Dame Quickly as Putana and Sir John as Corporoso, and we can see how deeply such a seemingly trivial aspect as character names has influenced Elizabethan Drama due to Painter and his contemporaries.
But the effect of this Italianisation of the Elizabethan Drama due to Painter goes far deeper than mere externalities. It has been said that after Lamb’s sign-post criticisms, and we may add, after Mr. Swinburne’s dithyrambs, it is easy enough to discover the Elizabethan dramatists over again. But is there not the danger that we may discover too much in them? However we may explain the fact, it remains true that outside Shakespeare none of the Elizabethans has really reached the heart of the nation. There is not a single Elizabethan drama, always of course with the exception of Shakespeare’s, which belongs to English literature in the sense in which Samson Agonistes, Absalom and Achitophel, Gulliver’s Travels, The Rape of the Lock, Tom Jones, She Stoops to Conquer, The School for Scandal, belong to it. The dramas have not that direct appeal to us which the works I have mentioned have continued to exercise after the generation for whom they were written has passed away. To an inner circle of students, to the 500 or so who really care for English literature, the Elizabethan dramas may appeal with a power greater than any of these literary products I have mentioned. We recognise in them a wealth of imaginative power, an ease in dealing with the higher issues of life, which is not shown even in those masterpieces. But the fact remains, and remains to be explained, that the Elizabethans do not appeal to the half a million or so among English folk who are capable of being touched at all by literature, who respond to the later masterpieces, and cannot be brought into rapport with the earlier masters. Why is this?
But the impact of this Italian influence on Elizabethan drama due to Painter goes much deeper than surface-level changes. It's been said that after Lamb’s pointed critiques, and we can add, after Mr. Swinburne’s enthusiastic praises, it’s pretty easy to recognize the Elizabethan playwrights again. But isn’t there a risk that we might find too much in them? No matter how we interpret it, it’s still true that outside of Shakespeare, none of the Elizabethans really connected with the heart of the nation. There isn’t a single Elizabethan play, with the exception of Shakespeare’s work, that truly belongs to English literature in the same way that Samson Agonistes, Absalom and Achitophel, Gulliver’s Travels, The Rape of the Lock, Tom Jones, She Stoops to Conquer, and The School for Scandal do. These plays lack the direct appeal that the works I mentioned still have after the generation that first encountered them is gone. To a small group of students, around 500 who genuinely care about English literature, the Elizabethan plays may resonate even more powerfully than any of those other literary works I mentioned. We see in them a richness of imaginative power and a knack for addressing the deeper issues of life that isn’t even evident in those masterpieces. But the reality is, and it needs to be explained, that the Elizabethans don’t appeal to the roughly half a million English people who can be moved by literature, who respond to the later masterpieces, but can’t connect with the earlier masters. Why is that?
Partly, I think, because owing to the Italianisation of the Elizabethan Drama the figures whom the dramatists drew are unreal, and live in an unreal world. They are neither Englishmen nor Italians, nor even Italianate Englishmen. I can only think of four tragedies in the whole range of the Elizabethan drama where the characters are English: Wilkins’ Miseries of Enforced Marriage, and A Yorkshire Tragedy, both founded on a recent cause celèbre of one Calverly, who was executed 5 August xxxiii 1605; Arden of Faversham, also founded on a cause celèbre of the reign of Edward VI.; and Heywood’s Woman Killed by Kindness. These are, so far as I remember, the only English tragedies out of some hundred and fifty extant dramas deserving that name.25 As a result of all this, the impression of English life which we get from the Elizabethan Drama is almost entirely derived from the comedies, or rather five-act farces, which alone appear to hold the mirror up to English nature. Judged by the drama, English men and English women under good Queen Bess would seem incapable of deep emotion and lofty endeavour. We know this to be untrue, but that the fact appears to be so is due to the Italianising of the more serious drama due to Painter and his school.
Partly, I think it's because the Italian influence on Elizabethan drama made the characters that the playwrights created feel unreal and placed them in an unrealistic world. They aren't really English, Italian, or even Italian-influenced English. The only four tragedies I can think of in the entire scope of Elizabethan drama that feature English characters are Wilkins’ Miseries of Enforced Marriage and A Yorkshire Tragedy, both based on a recent cause celèbre involving a guy named Calverly, who was executed on August 5, 1605; Arden of Faversham, which is also based on a cause celèbre from the reign of Edward VI; and Heywood’s Woman Killed by Kindness. To my knowledge, these are the only English tragedies among the roughly one hundred and fifty existing plays that truly deserve that title.25 Because of all this, the picture of English life we get from Elizabethan drama mainly comes from the comedies, or rather five-act farces, which seem to genuinely reflect English nature. Based on these plays, it would appear that English men and women under good Queen Bess were incapable of deep emotion and ambitious endeavors. We know this isn't true, but the impression comes from the Italianization of the more serious drama due to Painter and his followers.
In fact the Italian drapery of the Elizabethan Drama disguises from us the significant light it throws upon the social history of the time. Plot can be borrowed from abroad, but characterisation must be drawn from observation of men and women around the dramatist. Whence, then comes the problem, did Webster and the rest derive their portraits of their White Devils, those imperious women who had broken free from all the conventional bonds? At first sight it might seem impossible for the gay roysterers of Alsatia to have come into personal contact with such lofty dames. But the dramatists, though Bohemians, were mostly of gentle birth, or at any rate were from the Universities, and had come in contact with the best blood of England. It is clear too from their dedications that the young noblemen of England admitted them to familiar intercourse with their families, which would include many of the grande dames of Elizabeth’s Court. Elizabeth’s own character, recent revelations about Mistress Fitton, Shakespeare’s relations with his Dark Lady, all prepare for the belief that the Elizabethan dramatists had sufficient material from their own observation to fill up the outlines given by the Italian novelists.26 The Great Oyer of Poisoning—the case of Sir Thomas xxxiv Overbury and the Somersets—in James the First’s reign could vie with any Italian tale of lust and cruelty.
In fact, the Italian style of Elizabethan Drama hides the important insights it offers about the social history of that time. While plots can be borrowed from other countries, characterization must come from observing the people around the playwright. So, where did Webster and others get their portrayals of their White Devils, those powerful women who broke all the societal norms? At first glance, it might seem unlikely that the rowdy crowd of Alsatia would have had any close interactions with such high-born ladies. However, the playwrights, though they lived unconventional lifestyles, mostly came from noble backgrounds or at least had university educations and came into contact with England's elite. It’s also evident from their dedications that the young nobles of England welcomed them into their families, which included many of the prominent women of Elizabeth’s Court. Elizabeth’s own character, new information about Mistress Fitton, and Shakespeare’s connections with his Dark Lady all suggest that the Elizabethan playwrights had enough material from their observations to expand on the outlines provided by the Italian novelists. 26 The Great Oyer of Poisoning—the case of Sir Thomas Overbury and the Somersets—in the reign of James the First could rival any Italian story of lust and cruelty.
Thus in some sort the Romantic Drama was an extraneous product in English literature. Even the magnificent medium in which it is composed, the decasyllabic blank verse which the genius of Marlowe adapted to the needs of the drama, is ultimately due to the Italian Trissino, and has never kept a firm hold on English poetry. Thus both the formal elements of the Drama, plot and verse, were importations from Italy. But style and characterisation were both English of the English, and after all is said it is in style and characterisation that the greatness of the Elizabethan Drama consists. It must however be repeated that in its highest flights in the tragedies, a sense of unreality is produced by the pouring of English metal into Italian moulds.
In a way, the Romantic Drama was an outside addition to English literature. Even the incredible form it’s written in, the decasyllabic blank verse that Marlowe's genius shaped for drama, ultimately comes from the Italian Trissino, and it has never really taken hold in English poetry. So, both the formal elements of Drama, like plot and verse, were brought in from Italy. But the style and character development were distinctly English, and ultimately, it’s in these aspects that the greatness of the Elizabethan Drama lies. However, it’s important to note that in its most intense moments in the tragedies, a sense of unreality comes from using English elements within Italian frameworks.
It cannot be said that even Shakespeare escapes altogether from the ill effects of this Italianisation of all the externalities of the drama. It might plausibly be urged that by pushing unreality to its extreme you get idealisation. A still more forcible objection is that the only English play of Shakespeare’s, apart from his histories, is the one that leaves the least vivid impression on us, The Merry Wives of Windsor. But one cannot help feeling regret that the great master did not express more directly in his immortal verse the finer issues and deeper passions of the men and women around him. Charles Lamb, who seems to have said all that is worth saying about the dramatists in the dozen pages or so to which his notes extend, has also expressed his regret. “I am sometimes jealous,” he says, “that Shakespere laid so few of his scenes at home.” But every art has it conventions, and by the time Shakespeare began to write it was a convention of English drama that the scene of its most serious productions should be laid abroad. The convention was indeed a necessary one, for there did not exist in English any other store of plots but that offered by the inexhaustible treasury of the Italian Novellieri.
It can’t be said that even Shakespeare completely avoids the negative impacts of the Italianization of all the superficial aspects of drama. It’s reasonable to argue that by pushing unreality to its limits, you achieve idealization. A stronger point against this is that the only English play by Shakespeare, aside from his histories, is the one that leaves the least vivid impression on us, The Merry Wives of Windsor. However, one can’t help but feel disappointed that the great master didn’t express more directly in his timeless verse the finer issues and deeper emotions of the men and women around him. Charles Lamb, who seems to have captured everything worth saying about the dramatists in the dozen pages or so of his notes, has also shared his disappointment. “I am sometimes jealous,” he says, “that Shakespeare set so few of his scenes at home.” But every art has its conventions, and by the time Shakespeare started writing, it was a convention of English drama that the scenes of its most serious productions should take place abroad. This convention was necessary because there were no other sources of plots in English except for the endless treasury of the Italian Novellieri.
Having mentioned Shakespeare, it seems desirable to make an exception in his case,27 and discuss briefly the use he made of xxxv Painter’s book and its influence on his work. On the young Shakespeare it seems to have had very great influence indeed. The second heir of his invention, The Rape of Lucrece, is from Painter. So too is Romeo and Juliet,28 his earliest tragedy, and All’s Well, which under the title Love’s Labour Won, was his second comedy, is Painter’s Giletta of Narbonne (i. 38) from Bandello.29 I suspect too that there are two plays associated with Shakespeare’s name which contain only rough drafts left unfinished in his youthful period, and finished by another writer. At any rate it is a tolerably easy task to eliminate the Shakespearian parts of Timon of Athens and Edward III., by ascertaining those portions which are directly due to Painter.30 In this early period indeed it is somewhat remarkable with what closeness he followed his model. Thus some gushing critics have pointed out the subtle significance of making Romeo at first in love with Rosalind before he meets with Juliet. If it is a subtlety, it is Bandello’s, not Shakespeare’s. Again, others have attempted to defend the indefensible age of Juliet at fourteen years old, by remarking on the precocity of Italian maidens. As a matter of fact Bandello makes her eighteen years old. It is banalities like these that cause one sometimes to feel tempted to turn and rend the criticasters by some violent outburst against Shakespeare himself. There is indeed a tradition, that Matthew Arnold had things to say about Shakespeare which he dared not utter, because the British public would not stand them. But the British public has stood some very severe things about the Bible, which is even yet reckoned of higher sanctity than Shakespeare. And certainly there is as much cant about Shakespeare to be cleared away as about the Bible. However this is scarcely the place to do it. It is clear enough, however, xxxvi from his usage of Painter, that Shakespeare was no more original in plot than any of his fellows, and it is only the unwise and rash who could ask for originality in plot from a dramatic artist.
Having brought up Shakespeare, it’s worth making an exception in his case, 27 and briefly discussing how he used Painter’s book and its impact on his work. Young Shakespeare was indeed greatly influenced by it. His second major work, The Rape of Lucrece, came from Painter. So did Romeo and Juliet, 28 which is his earliest tragedy, and All’s Well, known as Love’s Labour Won, was based on Painter’s Giletta of Narbonne (i. 38) from Bandello.29 I also suspect that there are two plays attributed to Shakespeare that contain only rough drafts he left unfinished in his younger years, later completed by another writer. At any rate, it’s fairly easy to separate the Shakespearian parts of Timon of Athens and Edward III., by identifying the sections directly influenced by Painter.30 In this early stage, it’s somewhat striking how closely he followed his model. Some enthusiastic critics have highlighted the subtle significance of making Romeo initially infatuated with Rosalind before he encounters Juliet. If there’s any subtlety, it belongs to Bandello, not Shakespeare. Additionally, others have tried to justify the questionable age of Juliet at fourteen by commenting on the maturity of Italian girls. In reality, Bandello states she is eighteen years old. It’s these kinds of clichés that sometimes make one feel like lashing out at the critics with a forceful outburst against Shakespeare himself. There’s a story that Matthew Arnold had opinions about Shakespeare that he held back because the British public wouldn’t accept them. Yet the British public has tolerated some quite harsh critiques about the Bible, which is still considered more sacred than Shakespeare. And certainly, there’s as much nonsense to sift through regarding Shakespeare as there is about the Bible. However, this isn’t the right place for that. It’s clear enough from his use of Painter that Shakespeare was no more original in plot than any of his contemporaries, and it’s only the foolish and reckless who could expect originality in plot from a playwright.
But if the use of Italian novelle as the basis of plots was an evil that has given an air of unreality and extraneousness to the whole of Elizabethan Tragedy, it was, as we must repeat, a necessary evil. Suppose Painter’s work and those that followed it not to have appeared, where would the dramatists have found their plots? There was nothing in English literature to have given them plot-material, and little signs that such a set of tales could be derived from the tragedies going on in daily life. But for Painter and his school the Elizabethan Drama would have been mainly historical, and its tragedies would have been either vamped-up versions of classical tales or adaptations of contemporary causes celèbres.
But while using Italian novelle as the foundation for plots has made Elizabethan Tragedy feel unrealistic and detached, we must emphasize that it was a necessary compromise. If Painter’s work and those that came after it had never been published, where would playwrights have found their storylines? There was nothing in English literature that could provide them with plot material, and very few indications that a collection of tales could emerge from the real-life tragedies of the time. Without Painter and his contemporaries, Elizabethan Drama would have primarily been historical, and its tragedies would have mostly been rehashed versions of classic stories or adaptations of contemporary causes célèbres.
And so we have achieved the task set before us in this Introduction to Painter’s tales. We have given the previous history of the genre of literature to which they belong, and mentioned the chief novellieri who were their original authors. We have given some account of Painter’s life and the circumstances under which his book appeared, and the style in which he translates. We have seen how his book was greeted on its first appearance by the adherents of the New Learning and by the opponents of the stage. The many followers in the wake of Painter have been enumerated, and some account given of their works. It has been shown how great was the influence of the whole school on the Elizabethan dramatists, and even on the greatest master among them. And having touched upon all these points, we have perhaps sufficiently introduced reader and author, who may now be left to make further acquaintance with one another.
And so, we've completed the task laid out in this Introduction to Painter’s tales. We've provided the background of the literary genre to which they belong and mentioned the main authors who originally wrote them. We've shared some details about Painter’s life and the circumstances surrounding the release of his book, along with the style he uses in his translations. We've examined how his book was received when it first came out, both by supporters of the New Learning and by critics of the theater. We’ve listed the many followers who came after Painter and provided some information about their works. It’s been demonstrated how significant the whole movement's effect was on the Elizabethan playwrights, including even the greatest of them. After touching on all these points, we’ve likely introduced the reader and the author well enough, and they can now continue to get to know each other better.
HASLEWOOD’S
Introductory Remarks.
OF THE TRANSLATOR.
William Painter was, probably, descended from some branch of the family of that name which resided in Kent. Except a few official dates there is little else of his personal history known. Neither the time nor place of his birth has been discovered. All the heralds in their Visitations are uniformly content with making him the root of the pedigree.31 His liberal education is, in part, a testimony of the respectability of his family, and, it may be observed, he was enabled to make purchases of landed property in Kent, but whether from an hereditary fortune is uncertain.
William Painter was likely part of a branch of the family of the same name that lived in Kent. Aside from a few official dates, not much is known about his personal history. The exact time and place of his birth haven’t been found. All the heralds in their Visitations are consistently satisfied with making him the origin of the family tree.31 His well-rounded education is partly evidence of his family's respectability, and it can be noted that he was able to buy land in Kent, but it's unclear if this was due to inherited wealth.
The materials for his life are so scanty, that a chronological notice of his Writings may be admitted, without being deemed to interrupt a narrative, of which it must form the principal contents.
The materials for his life are so limited that a chronological account of his writings can be included without interrupting a narrative that should be its main focus.
He himself furnishes us with a circumstance,32 from whence we may fix a date of some importance in ascertaining both the time of the publication and of his own appearance as an author. He translated from the Latin of Nicholas Moffan, (a soldier serving under Charles the Fifth, and taken prisoner by the Turks)33 the relation of the Murder which Sultan Solyman caused to be xxxviii perpetrated on his eldest Son Mustapha.34 This was first dedicated to Sir William Cobham Knight, afterwards Lord Cobham, Warden of the Cinque Ports; and it is material to remark, that that nobleman succeeded to the title Sept. the 29th, 1558;35 and from the author being a prisoner until Sept. 1555, it is not likely that the Translation was finished earlier than circa 1557-8.
He provides us with a point, 32 that helps us establish a significant date for identifying both when his work was published and when he emerged as an author. He translated from the Latin of Nicholas Moffan, (a soldier who served under Charles the Fifth and was captured by the Turks) 33 the account of the murder that Sultan Solyman ordered against his eldest son, Mustapha. 34 This was initially dedicated to Sir William Cobham Knight, later known as Lord Cobham, Warden of the Cinque Ports; it’s important to note that this nobleman took on the title on September 29, 1558; 35 and since the author was a prisoner until September 1555, it’s unlikely that the translation was completed any earlier than around 1557-58.
In 1560 the learned William Fulke, D.D. attacked some inconsistent, though popular, opinions, in a small Latin tract called “Antiprognosticon contra invtiles astrologorvm prædictiones Nostrodami, &c.” and at the back of the title are Verses,36 by friends of the author, the first being entitled “Gulielmi Painteri ludimagistri Seuenochensis Tetrasticon.” This has been considered by Tanner as our author,37 nor does there appear any reason for attempting to controvert that opinion; and a translation of Fulke’s Tract also seems to identify our author with the master of Sevenoaks School. The title is “Antiprognosticon, that is to saye, an Inuectiue agaynst the vayne and unprofitable predictions of the Astrologians as Nostrodame, &c. Translated out of Latine into Englishe. Whereunto is added by the author a shorte Treatise in Englyshe as well for the utter subversion of that fained arte, as well for the better understandynge of the common people, unto whom the fyrst labour semeth not sufficient. Habet & musca splenem & formice sua bilis inest. 1560” 12mo. At the back of the title is a sonnet by Henry Bennet: followed in the next page by Painter’s Address. On the reverse of this last page is a prose address “to his louyng frende W. F.” dated “From Seuenoke XXII of Octobre,” and signed “Your familiar frende William Paynter.”38
In 1560, the educated William Fulke, D.D. challenged some inconsistent yet popular beliefs in a small Latin pamphlet titled “Antiprognosticon contra invtiles astrologorvm prædictiones Nostrodami, &c.” On the back of the title, there are verses by the author’s friends, with the first one called “Gulielmi Painteri ludimagistri Seuenochensis Tetrasticon.” Tanner has regarded this as our author, and there seems to be no reason to dispute that view; a translation of Fulke’s Tract also appears to connect our author with the headmaster of Sevenoaks School. The title translates to “Antiprognosticon, that is to say, an Invective against the vain and unprofitable predictions of the Astrologers like Nostradamus, &c. Translated from Latin into English. There is also a brief treatise added by the author in English for the complete dismantling of that fake art, as well as for the better understanding of the common people, to whom the initial effort seems insufficient. Habet & musca splenem & formice sua bilis inest. 1560” 12mo. On the back of the title is a sonnet by Henry Bennet, followed on the next page by Painter’s Address. On the back of this last page is a prose address “to his loving friend W. F.” dated “From Sevenoaks, October 22,” and signed “Your familiar friend, William Paynter.”
xxxix By the regulations of the school, as grammar-master, he must have been a bachelor of arts, and approved by the Archbishop of Canterbury, and to the appointment was attached a house and salary of £50 per annum.39
xxxix According to the school's rules, as the grammar master, he had to hold a Bachelor of Arts degree and be approved by the Archbishop of Canterbury. The role came with a house and a salary of £50 a year.39
Of the appointment to the School I have not been able to obtain any particulars. That situation40 was probably left for one under government, of less labour, as he was appointed by letters patent of the 9th of Feb. in the 2d of Eliz. (1560-1) to succeed John Rogers, deceased, as Clerk of the Ordinance in the Tower, with the official stipend of eightpence per diem, which place he retained during life.
Of the appointment to the School, I haven’t been able to get any details. That position40 was probably left for a government role with less work, since he was appointed by letters patent on February 9th in the 2nd year of Elizabeth's reign (1560-1) to succeed John Rogers, who had passed away, as Clerk of the Ordinance in the Tower, with an official salary of eight pence a day, which he held for life.
In 1562 there was a license obtained by William Jones to print “The Cytie of Cyvelite, translated into Englesshe by william paynter.” Probably this was intended for the present work, and entered in the Stationers Register as soon as the translation was commenced, to secure an undoubted copy-right to the Publisher. Neither of the stories bear such a title, nor contain incidents in character with it. The interlocutory mode of delivery, after the manner of some of the originals, might have been at first intended, and of the conversation introducing or ending some of those taken from the collection of the Queen of Navarre, a part is even now, though incongruously, retained.41 By rejecting the gallant speeches of the courtiers and sprightly replies of the ladies, and making them unconnected stories, the idea of civility was no longer appropriate, and therefore gave place to a title equally alliterative in the adoption of the Palace of Pleasure.
In 1562, William Jones obtained a license to print “The Cytie of Cyvelite, translated into Englesshe by William Paynter.” This was likely intended for the current work and was registered with the Stationers as soon as the translation began to ensure the publisher had undeniable copyright. Neither of the stories has that title or includes any related incidents. The dialogue format, similar to some of the originals, may have initially been planned; part of the conversation that introduces or concludes some of those adapted from the collection of the Queen of Navarre is still included, albeit inconsistently. By discarding the charming speeches of the courtiers and the lively responses of the ladies, and transforming them into unrelated stories, the concept of civility became irrelevant, leading to the adoption of a title that is equally catchy: the Palace of Pleasure.
Under this conjecture Painter was three years perfecting the xl Translation of the first volume of the Palace of Pleasure. He subscribes the dedicatory Epistle “nere the Tower of London the first of Januarie 1566,” using the new style, a fashion recently imported from France.42 It must be read as 1565-6 to explain a passage in another Epistle before the second volume, where he speaks of his histories “parte whereof, two yeares past (almost) wer made commune in a former boke,” concluding “from my poore house besides the Toure of London, the fourthe of November, 1567.” The two volumes were afterwards enlarged with additional novels, as will be described under a future head, and with the completion of this task ends all knowledge of his literary productions.
Under this assumption, Painter spent three years finishing the xl Translation of the first volume of the Palace of Pleasure. He signed the dedicatory letter “near the Tower of London the first of January 1566,” using the new style, a trend recently brought over from France.42 It should be read as 1565-6 to clarify a passage in another letter before the second volume, where he mentions his histories “part of which, almost two years ago, were made public in a former book,” ending with “from my humble home near the Tower of London, the fourth of November, 1567.” The two volumes were later expanded with more stories, as will be detailed in a future section, and with the completion of this work, all record of his literary achievements comes to an end.
It no where appears in the Palace of Pleasure that Painter either travelled for information, or experienced, like many a genius of that age, the inclination to roam expressed by his contemporary, Churchyard,
It doesn't seem that the Painter either traveled for knowledge or felt the urge to explore, like many other talented people of that time, including his contemporary, Churchyard.
“Of running leather were his shues, his feete no where could reste.”43
“His shoes were made of leather, and his feet could find no rest anywhere.”43
Had he visited the Continent, it is probable, that in the course of translating so many novels, abounding with foreign manners and scenery, there would have been some observation or allusion to vouch his knowledge of the faithfulness of the representation, as, in a few instances, he has introduced events common in our own history.
Had he visited the continent, it’s likely that while translating so many novels filled with foreign customs and settings, he would have made some comment or reference to confirm his understanding of the accuracy of the portrayal, as in a few cases he has included events that are common in our own history.
He probably escaped the military fury of the age by being appointed “Clerk to the great Ordinance,” contentedly hearing the loud peals upon days of revelry, without wishing to adventure further in “a game,” which, “were subjects wise, kings would not play at.” In the possession of some competence he might prudently adjust his pursuits, out of office, to the rational and not unimportant indulgence of literature,44 seeking in the retirement xli of the study, of the vales of Kent, and of domestic society, that equanimity of the passions and happiness which must ever flow from rational amusement, from contracted desires, and acts of virtue; and which the successive demands for his favourite work might serve to cheer and enliven.
He probably avoided the military chaos of his time by becoming the “Clerk to the great Ordinance,” happily listening to the loud celebrations during festive days, without wanting to take any risks in a “game” that, if subjects were wise, kings wouldn’t engage in. With some financial stability, he could wisely tailor his activities outside of work to the reasonable and valuable enjoyment of literature,44 seeking in the peace of his study, the valleys of Kent, and in family life, that balance of emotions and happiness that naturally comes from intelligent entertainment, limited desires, and virtuous actions; and which the ongoing demands for his favorite work might help to uplift and energize.
As the founder of the family45 his money must be presumed to have been gained by himself, and not acquired by descent. It would be pleasing to believe some part of it to have been derived from the labours of his pen. But his productions were not of sufficient magnitude to command it, although he must rank as one of the first writers who introduced novels into our language, since so widely lucrative to—printers. Yet less could there accrue a saving from his office to enable him to complete the purchases of land made at Gillingham, co. Kent.
As the head of the family45, his money is assumed to have been earned by him, not inherited. It would be nice to think that some of it came from his writing. But his works weren’t significant enough to earn him that kind of money, even though he is considered one of the first writers to bring novels into our language, which were very profitable for—printers. Still, he couldn’t save enough from his job to finish buying the land he started acquiring in Gillingham, co. Kent.
At what period he married cannot be stated. His wife was Dorothy Bonham of Cowling, born about the year 1537, and their six children were all nearly adults, and one married, at the time of his death in 1594. We may therefore conclude that event could not be later than 1565; and if he obtained any portion with his wife the same date allows of a disposition of it as now required.
At what time he got married isn’t clear. His wife was Dorothy Bonham from Cowling, born around 1537, and their six children were all almost adults, with one already married, at the time of his death in 1594. So, we can assume that this event couldn’t have been later than 1565; and if he received any inheritance with his wife, the same timeframe allows for how it was handled as needed.
It is certain that he purchased of Thomas and Christopher Webb the manor of East-Court in the parish of Gillingham, where his son Anthony P. resided during his father’s lifetime. He also purchased of Christopher Sampson the manor of Twidall in the same parish with its appurtenances, and a fine was levied for that purpose xlii in Easter Term 16 Eliz. Both the manors remained in the family, and passed by direct line from the above named Anthony, through William and Allington, his son and grandson, to his great grandson Robert, who resided at Westerham, in the same county, and obtained an Act of Parliament, 7 Geo. I. “to enable him to sell the manors of Twydal and East-Court.”46
He definitely bought the manor of East-Court in the parish of Gillingham from Thomas and Christopher Webb, where his son Anthony P. lived during his father's life. He also bought the manor of Twidall in the same parish from Christopher Sampson, and a legal agreement was made for that in Easter Term 16 Eliz. Both manors stayed in the family and transferred directly from Anthony to his son William and then to his grandson Allington, and finally to his great-grandson Robert, who lived in Westerham in the same county. He got an Act of Parliament, 7 Geo. I, “to allow him to sell the manors of Twydal and East-Court.”46
“In the name of God, Amen. The nineteenth day of February in the Year of our Lord God one thousand five hundred ninety four, in the seven and thirtieth year of the reign of our Sovereign Lady Elizabeth, &c. William Painter then Clerk of her Maj. Great Ordinance of the Tower of London, being of perfect mind and memory, declared and enterred his mind meaning and last Will and Testament noncupative, by word of mouth in effect as followeth, viz. Being then very sick and asked by his wife who should pay his son in law John Hornbie the portion which was promised him with his wife in marriage, and who should pay to his daughter Anne Painter her portion, and to the others his children which had nothing;47 and whether his said wife should pay them the same, the said William Painter answered, Yea. And being further asked whether he would give and bequeath unto his said wife all his said goods to pay them as he in former times used to say he would, to whom he answered also, yea. In the presence of William Pettila, John Pennington, and Edward Songer. Anon after in the same day confirming the premises; the said William Painter being very sick, yet of perfect memory, William Raynolds asking the aforesaid Mr. Painter whether he had taken order for the disposing of his Goods to his wife and children, and whether he had put all in his wives hands to deal and dispose of and to pay his son Hornby his portion,48 and whether he would make his said wife to be his whole Executrix, or to that effect, to whose demand the said Testator Mr. William Painter then manifesting his will and true meaning therein willingly answered, yea, in the presence of William Raynolds, John Hornbie and Edward Songer.”48
“In the name of God, Amen. On the nineteenth day of February in the year of our Lord 1594, during the thirty-seventh year of the reign of our Sovereign Lady Elizabeth, etc. William Painter, then Clerk of Her Majesty’s Great Ordinance of the Tower of London, being of sound mind and memory, stated his intentions and last Will and Testament verbally, as follows: While he was quite sick at the time, his wife asked him who would pay his son-in-law, John Hornbie, the promised portion in marriage, and who would give his daughter, Anne Painter, her portion, along with the other children who hadn’t received anything; and if his wife should be the one to pay them. William Painter answered, yes. Furthermore, when asked if he wanted to give all his goods to his wife to manage the payments as he had said he would before, he also answered, yes. This was done in the presence of William Pettila, John Pennington, and Edward Songer. Shortly after, on the same day, confirming what was mentioned, William Painter, still very sick but of sound memory, was asked by William Raynolds whether he had made arrangements for the distribution of his goods to his wife and children, whether he had entrusted everything to his wife to manage and pay his son Hornby his portion, and if he would name his wife as his sole Executrix, or something similar. The said Testator, Mr. William Painter, willingly responded, yes, in the presence of William Raynolds, John Hornbie, and Edward Songer.”
He probably died immediately after the date of the will. Among the quarterly payments at the ordinance office at Christmas 1594 is entered to “Mr. Painter Clerke of thõdiñce xvijlb, xvs.” and upon Lady Day or New Year’s Day 1595. “To Willm̅ Painter and to Sr. Stephen Ridleston49 Clarke of Thordñce for the xliv like quarter also warranted xvijlb. xvs.” He was buried in London.50 After his death the widow retired to Gillingham, where she died Oct. 19th 1617. Æt. 80, and where she was buried.51
He likely died right after the will was dated. The quarterly payments at the ordinance office for Christmas 1594 include an entry for “Mr. Painter, Clerk of Thordñce, £17, 15s.” and on Lady Day or New Year’s Day 1595, "To Willm̅ Painter and to Sir Stephen Ridleston, Clerk of Thordñce, for the same quarter also amounting to £17, 15s.” He was buried in London. After his death, the widow moved to Gillingham, where she passed away on October 19th, 1617, at the age of 80, and where she was buried.
[For some additional points throwing light on the way in which Painter gained his fortune, see Appendix. Collier (Extr. Stat. Reg. ii. 107), attributes to Painter A moorning Ditti vpon the Deceas of Henry Earle of Arundel, which appeared in 1579, and was signed ‘Guil. P. G.’ [= Gulielmus Painter, Gent.].—J. J.]
[For some additional points shedding light on how Painter made his fortune, see the Appendix. Collier (Extr. Stat. Reg. ii. 107) credits Painter with A Mourning Ditty upon the Death of Henry Earl of Arundel, which was published in 1579 and signed ‘Guil. P. G.’ [= Gulielmus Painter, Gent.].—J. J.]
BIBLIOGRAPHICAL NOTICES.
In the following section, text in boldface was originally printed in blackletter type.
In the following section, text in boldface was originally printed in blackletter type.
Of the first volume of THE PALACE OF PLEASURE there were three editions, but of the second only two are known. Each of these, all uncommonly fair and perfect, through the liberal indulgence of their respective owners, are now before me; a combination which has scarcely been seen by any collector, however distinguished for ardour of pursuit and extensiveness of research, since the age of Q. Elizabeth. Their rarity in a perfect state may render an accurate description, though lengthened by minuteness, of some value to the bibliographer. The account of them will be given in their chronological order.
Of the first volume of THE PLEASURE PALACE, there were three editions, but only two of the second edition are known. All of these are exceptionally fine and in perfect condition, thanks to the generous care of their respective owners, and they are now in front of me; a collection that has hardly been seen by any collector, no matter how passionate or knowledgeable, since the time of Queen Elizabeth. Their rarity in perfect condition makes a detailed description, even if lengthy, quite valuable to bibliographers. I will present the details in chronological order.
The Palace of Pleasure | Beautified, adorned and | well furnished with Plea- | saunt Histories and excellent | Nouells, selected out of | diuers good and commen- | dable authors. | ¶ By William Painter Clarke of the | Ordinaunce and Armarie. | [Wood-cut of a Bear and ragged Staff, the crest of Ambrose Earl of Warwick, central of a garter, whereon is the usual motto | HONI: SOIT: QVI: MAL: Y: PENSE. | 1566. | JMPRINTED AT—London, by Henry Denham, | for Richard Tottell and William Iones.52—4to. Extends to sig. Nnnij. besides introduction, and is folded in fours.
The Palace of Pleasure | Beautified, decorated, and | well furnished with Plea- | pleasant Stories and excellent | Short Tales, chosen from | various good and commendable | authors. | ¶ By William Painter, Clerk of the | Ordinance and Armory. | [Woodcut of a Bear and ragged Staff, the crest of Ambrose, Earl of Warwick, centered on a garter, which has the usual motto | Honi soit qui mal y pense. | 1566. | PRINTED AT—London, by Henry Denham, | for Richard Tottell and William Jones.52—4to. Extends to sig. Nnnij. besides introduction, and is folded in fours.
This title is within a narrow fancy metal border, and on the back of the leaf are the Arms of the Earl of Warwick, which fill the page. With signature * 2 commences the dedication, and at ¶ 2 is “a recapitulacion or briefe rehersal of the Arguments of euery Nouell, with the places noted, in what author euery of the same or the effect be reade and contayned.” These articles occupy four leaues each, and five more occupy the address “to the reader,” xlvi followed by the names of the Authors from whom the “nouels be selected;” making the whole introduction, with title, 14 leaves.
This title is inside a narrow decorative metal border, and on the back of the page are the Arms of the Earl of Warwick, which cover the entire page. The dedication starts with signature * 2, and at ¶ 2 is “a summary or brief review of the arguments of each novel, with references to where each one can be found and its essence summarized.” These topics take up four pages, and five more pages are dedicated to the address “to the reader,” xlvi followed by the names of the authors from whom the “novels are selected;” making the entire introduction, including the title, 14 pages.
The nouels being lx. in number, conclude with folio 345, but there are only 289 leaves, as a castration appears of 56.53 On the reverse of the last folio are “faultes escaped in the printing;” and besides those corrected, there are “other faultes [that] by small aduise and lesse payne may by waying the discourse be easely amended or lightly passed ouer.” A distinct leaf has the following colophon:
The novels total 60 in number, ending on page 345, but there are only 289 pages, indicating a loss of 56. 53 On the back of the last page are “errors missed in the printing;” and besides those fixed, there are “other errors that with a bit of advice and less effort may be easily corrected or lightly overlooked.” A separate page contains the following colophon:
Imprinted at Lon | don, by Henry Denham, | for Richard Tottell and | William Jones | Anno Domini. 1566 | Ianuarij 26. |These bookes are to be solde at the long shoppe | at the Weast ende of Paules.
Imprinted in London by Henry Denham, for Richard Tottell and William Jones, 1566, January 26. These books are for sale at the long shop at the west end of Paul's.
This volume is rarely discovered perfect. The above was purchased at the late sale of Col. Stanley’s library for 30l. by Sir Mark Masterman Sykes, Bt.
This book is seldom found in perfect condition. The one above was bought at the recent sale of Col. Stanley’s library for £30 by Sir Mark Masterman Sykes, Bt.
The second Tome | of the Palace of Pleasure | conteyning manifolde store of goodly | Histories, Tragicall matters and | other Morall argument, | very requisite for de- | light & profit. |Chosen and selected out of diuers good and commen- | dable Authors. | By William Painter, Clarke of the | Ordinance and Armarie. | ANNO. 1567. | Imprinted at London, in Pater Noster Rowe, by Henrie | Bynneman, for Nicholas | England.54 4to. Extends, without introduction, to signature P. P. P. P. p. iiij. and is folded in fours.
The second Tome | of the Palace of Pleasure | containing a variety of | stories, tragic events, and | other moral themes, | highly suitable for | enjoyment & benefit. |Selected from various good and commendable | authors. | By William Painter, Clerk of the | Ordinance and Armory. | YEAR. 1567. | Printed in London, on Pater Noster Row, by Henrie | Bynneman, for Nicholas | England.54 4to. Extends, without introduction, to signature P. P. P. P. p. iiij. and is folded in fours.
A broad metal border, of fancy pattern, adorns the title page. At signature a. ij. begins the Epistle to Sir George Howard, which the author subscribes from his “poore house besides the Toure of London, the fourthe of Nouember 1567:” and that is xlvii followed by a summary of the contents and authorities, making, with the title, 10 leaves. There are xxxiiij novels, and they end at fo. 426. Two leaves in continuation have “the conclusion,” with “divers faultes escaped in printyng,” and on the reverse of the first is the printer’s colophon.
A wide metal border with a decorative design embellishes the title page. At signature a.ij. begins the letter to Sir George Howard, which the author signs from his "poor house near the Tower of London, the fourth of November 1567:" and that is xlvii followed by a summary of the contents and references, bringing the total to 10 pages. There are 34 stories, concluding at page 426. Two additional pages contain "the conclusion," along with "various mistakes made in printing," and on the back of the first is the printer’s colophon.
Imprinted at London | by Henry Bynneman | for Nicholas Englande | ANNO M.D.LXVII. | Nouembris 8.
Imprinted in London | by Henry Bynneman | for Nicholas Englande | YEAR 1567. | November 8.
A copy of this volume was lately in the possession of Messrs. Arch, of Cornhill, Booksellers, with a genuine title, though differently arranged from the above, and varied in the spelling.55 When compared, some unimportant alterations were found, as a few inverted commas on the margin of one of the pages in the last sheet, with the correction of a fault in printing more in one copy than the other, though the same edition.56
A copy of this volume was recently held by Messrs. Arch, of Cornhill, Booksellers, with an authentic title, although arranged differently from the one above, and with variations in the spelling.55 When compared, some minor changes were noted, such as a few quotation marks in the margin of one of the pages in the last sheet, alongside the correction of a printing error that appeared in one copy more than the other, even though it’s the same edition.56
The Pallace | of Pleasure Beautified, | adorned and wel furnished with | Pleasaunt Historyes and excellent | Nouelles, selected out of diuers | good and commendable Authours. | ¶ By William Painter Clarke | of the Ordinaunce and | Armarie. | 1569. | Jmprinted at London in | Fletestreate neare to S. Dunstones | Church by Thomas Marshe.—4to. Extends to K k. viij, & is folded in eights.
The Palace | of Pleasure Beautified, | decorated and well-furnished with | delightful stories and excellent | news, selected from various | good and reputable authors. | ¶ By William Painter Clarke | of the Ordinance and | Armory. | 1569. | Printed in London | Flet Street near St. Dunstane's | Church by Thomas Marshe.—4to. Extends to K k. viij, & is folded in eights.
xlviii The title is in the compartment frequently used by Marsh, having the stationers’ arms at the top, his own initials at the bottom, and pedestals of a Satyr and Diana, surmounted with flowers and snakes, on the sides. It is a reprint of the first volume without alteration, except closer types. The introduction concludes on the recto of the eleventh leaf, and on the reverse of fo. 264 is the colophon. Jmprinted at London in Flete | streate neare unto Sainct Dunstones | Churche by Thomas Marshe | Anno Domini. 1569.57
xlviii The title is in the style often used by Marsh, featuring the stationers’ emblem at the top, his initials at the bottom, and images of a Satyr and Diana on pedestals, surrounded by flowers and snakes, on the sides. It’s a reprint of the first volume without any changes, except for tighter typesetting. The introduction ends on the front of the eleventh leaf, and on the back of folio 264 is the colophon. Printed in London in Fleet | Street near Saint Dunstan's | Church by Thomas Marshe | Year of our Lord. 1569.57
THE PALACE | of Pleasure Beautified | adorned and well furnished | with pleasaunt Histories and | excellent Nouels, selected out | of diuers good and commendable Authors. By William Painter Clarke | of the Ordinaunce | and Armarie. | Eftsones perused corrected | and augmented. | 1575. | Imprinted at London | by Thomas Marshe.—4to. Extends to signature O o, iiij. and is folded in eights.58
THE PALACE | of Pleasure Beautified | adorned and well furnished | with pleasant Histories and | excellent Tales, selected from | various good and commendable Authors. By William Painter Clarke | of the Ordinance | and Armory. | Revisited, corrected | and expanded. | 1575. | Printed in London | by Thomas Marshe.—4to. Extends to signature O o, iiij. and is folded in eights.58
Title in same compartment as the last. The introduction is given in nine leaves, and the novels commence the folio, and end at 279. The arguments of every novel, transposed from the beginning, continue for three leaves to reverse of O o iiij, having for colophon,
Title in the same section as the last. The introduction is presented in nine pages, and the novels start the folio and finish at 279. The summaries of each novel, moved from the beginning, go on for three pages to the back of O o iiij, with a colophon stating,
Imprinted at London by | Thomas Marshe.
Imprinted in London by | Thomas Marshe.
Seven novels were added to the former number, and the language improved.
Seven novels were added to the previous total, and the language was enhanced.
THE SECOND | Tome of the Palace of | Pleasure contayning store of goodlye | Histories, Tragical matters, & other | Morall argumentes, very requi- | site for delight and | profyte. | Chosē and selected out | of diuers good and commendable au- | thors, and now once agayn correc- | ted and encreased. | By Wiliam Painter, Clerke of the | Ordinance and Armarie. | Imprinted at London | In Fleatstrete by Thomas | MARSHE.—4to. Has signature Z z 4, and is folded in eights.
THE SECOND | Volume of the Palace of | Pleasure containing a collection of | Engaging Stories, Tragic Events, & other | Moral lessons, very suitable for enjoyment and | benefit. | Chosen and selected | from various reputable and commendable | authors, and now once again corrected | and expanded. | By William Painter, Clerk of the | Ordinance and Armory. | Printed in | London | In Fleet Street by Thomas | MARCH.—4to. Has signature Z z 4, | and is folded in eights.
Title in the compartment last described. The introduction has seven leaves, and the “conclusion” is at fo. 360.59 The summary of nouels, which stand as part of the introduction in the former edition, follows, making four leaves after discontinuing the folio. There is no printer’s colophon, and the type throughout is smaller than any used before. The translator added one historic tale, and made material alterations in the text.
Title in the compartment just mentioned. The introduction has seven pages, and the "conclusion" is at page 360.59 The summary of novels, which was part of the introduction in the previous edition, follows, adding four pages after the folio ends. There’s no printer’s mark, and the type is smaller than any used before. The translator included one historical story and made significant changes to the text.
With respect to the date the year 1582 has been several times given, and it is doubtful if I have discovered the source of the authority. Oldys, among the manuscript notes upon Langbaine, registers “W. Painter’s Palace of Pleasure, &c. 4to. 1569, and in 2 vols. 1575, and 1582:” and Mr. Bindley, whose friendly assistance it is always gratifying to record, pointed out to my attention the catalogue of the library of the Honorable Bryan Fairfax,60 where the volumes are increased in number, and with only a single date. It stands thus, Lot “336, Painter’s Palace of Pleasure, 3 vols.61 B.L. 1582:” again in the Osterley catalogue, p. 87, is No. l “26, Palace of Pleasure, 1582.”62 To decide positively on such an unexpected repetition of the date made it desirable to obtain a sight of the copy.63 That, with some difficulty, has been effected. On visiting Osterley, strange as it may appear, I found the two volumes bound in one, the same editions as those now printed from, and both wanting title pages!!
With regard to the year 1582, it has been mentioned several times, and I’m not sure if I’ve found the original source of the reference. Oldys, in his manuscript notes on Langbaine, records “W. Painter’s Palace of Pleasure, &c. 4to. 1569, and in 2 vols. 1575, and 1582:” and Mr. Bindley, whose help is always appreciated, pointed out to me the catalog of the library of the Honorable Bryan Fairfax, where the number of volumes has increased, but only one date is given. It reads like this, Lot “336, Painter’s Palace of Pleasure, 3 vols. B.L. 1582:” again in the Osterley catalog, p. 87, it’s No. l “26, Palace of Pleasure, 1582.” To reach a definite conclusion about such an unusual repetition of the date, it was important to see the copy. That has been achieved with some effort. When I visited Osterley, surprisingly, I found the two volumes bound together, the same editions that are currently being printed from, and both were missing title pages!!
There is not much temerity in decisively pronouncing that there never was an edition in three volumes; that the date of 1582 was intended by Oldys to be only applied to the second volume; and that that date was founded on an erroneous conjecture. Two of these points are already disposed of, and the last can require but few words. The translation of the tale of Sultan Soliman, from the circumstance of the dedication to Sir William Cobham, as shewn in a former page, must have been finished about 1557-8, and Painter, on the reprinting, mentions that fact as “twenty-two yeares past or thereabouts,” which decides that the printing the above volume could not be later than 1580.
There isn't much boldness in saying that there was never a three-volume edition; that the date of 1582 was meant by Oldys to only refer to the second volume; and that this date was based on a mistaken guess. Two of these points have already been addressed, and the last one requires only a few words. The translation of the story of Sultan Soliman, due to the dedication to Sir William Cobham, as shown on a previous page, must have been completed around 1557-58, and Painter, when reprinting, notes that as “twenty-two years ago or so,” which means that the printing of the above volume could not have been later than 1580.
The Palace of Pleasure, as enlarged by the Translator, is now reprinted. The text of the latest edition of each volume has been carefully preserved; except that, instead of numberless abbreviations, every word is given at length. The character of the work did not require such minuteness, being followed for authority; and the rejecting what might seem a disfigurement of the page, it is hoped, will obtain the sanction of the reader: and it may be observed, that in the later editions many words are contracted which were first printed at length, and others given at length which were before contracted.
The Palace of Pleasure, as expanded by the Translator, is now being reprinted. The text of the latest edition of each volume has been carefully preserved; however, instead of numerous abbreviations, every word is spelled out. The nature of the work didn't require such detail, as it is being followed for authority; and the removal of what might seem like a cluttered page is hoped to gain the reader's approval: it can be noted that in the later editions, many words are shortened that were initially written out fully, and others are written out fully that were previously shortened.
In the punctuation some slight alterations have been made, where the sense or uniformity materially required it.
In the punctuation, some minor changes have been made where the meaning or consistency significantly needed it.
li From Earl Spencer, with that marked attention which always distinguishes the interest his Lordship takes in every literary undertaking, I received the unsolicited offer of the use of the copy belonging to the library at Althorpe. As there was the first edition of the second volume, it proved a needful and valuable acquisition, and from that source several obscure passages have been corrected, and whole sentences restored, which, in the last edition, appear to have been negligently omitted in the hurry of the press.
li I received an unsolicited offer from Earl Spencer, whose keen interest in every literary project is always evident, to use the copy from the library at Althorpe. Since it included the first edition of the second volume, it turned out to be a necessary and valuable addition. From that source, several unclear passages have been corrected, and complete sentences have been restored, which seem to have been carelessly left out in the rush of printing the last edition.
For the purpose of collation, Sir Mark Masterman Sykes, Bart. obligingly assisted me with his copy, purchased at the Roxburghe sale; and has since also favoured me with the first edition, to perfect the Bibliographical Notices.
For the sake of collecting information, Sir Mark Masterman Sykes, Bart. kindly helped me with his copy, which he bought at the Roxburghe sale; and he has also generously provided me with the first edition to complete the Bibliographical Notices.
Of an hundred and one novels, the whole number, the larger portion have been traced, as supposed, to their respective originals. In attempting this task, I have derived material assistance from the extensive researches made in that class of literature by Mr. Weber, who, though personally unknown, most promptly supplied the wanted information. The ingenious conjecture as to the origin of the story of Gismonde and Guiscardo, is by Mr. Singer.
Of a hundred and one novels, most of them have been linked to their original sources. In trying to accomplish this task, I have received significant help from the thorough research done by Mr. Weber in that area of literature, who, despite being unknown to me, quickly provided the necessary information. The clever idea regarding the origin of the story of Gismonde and Guiscardo comes from Mr. Singer.
It is probable that many of the stories were appropriated as soon as published by the dramatic writers to the purposes of the English Stage.64 To the instances discovered by the indefatigable Langbaine I have made some addition.
It’s likely that many of the stories were taken as soon as they were published by playwrights for the English Stage. 64 I've added a few more examples to those found by the tireless Langbaine.
From the application of Mr. Freeling to Mr. Crewe, I obtained an inspection of the earliest records preserved in the Ordnance Office; and the research was further facilitated by the assistance of Mr. Banovin.
From Mr. Freeling's request to Mr. Crewe, I got a chance to look at the earliest records kept in the Ordnance Office; and the research was made easier with help from Mr. Banovin.
Sir Egerton Brydges, with his accustomed ardency to promote literary investigation, aided my endeavours to discover some trace of the translator as master of the school at Sevenoaks.
Sir Egerton Brydges, with his usual passion for encouraging literary research, supported my efforts to find some information about the translator as the head of the school in Sevenoaks.
When the present edition was announced, it was intended to consist of only one hundred and fifty copies. In order, however, to meet the common hazard of the press, seven quires of each sheet were printed, making about one hundred and sixty-five saleable copies; seven were also taken off on vellum.
When this current edition was announced, it was meant to be just one hundred and fifty copies. However, to account for the usual risks involved in printing, seven quires of each sheet were printed, resulting in about one hundred and sixty-five copies available for sale; seven copies were also printed on vellum.
JOSEPH HASLEWOOD.
JOE HASLEWOOD.
Conduit Street, November 5th 1813.
Conduit Street, November 5, 1813.
[It is only necessary to add that Haslewood’s edition was in two volumes, of which the first ran to 34 (Introductory Matter) + xviii. (Dedication and Table of Contents) + 492 pages. The Second Tome, which is mostly found bound in two parts, ran to xv. (Dedication and Table of Contents) + 700 pages.
[It is only necessary to add that Haslewood’s edition was in two volumes, of which the first had 34 pages (Introductory Matter) + xviii pages (Dedication and Table of Contents) + 492 pages. The Second Volume, which is usually found bound in two parts, had xv pages (Dedication and Table of Contents) + 700 pages.]
The present edition, it will be observed by the above, is really the fourth and a half edition—i.e., it is the fifth of the first Tome, and the fourth of the second. I have however ventured to neglect the reprint of the First Tome in 1569, and taken account only of complete editions. It follows Haslewood’s reprint page for page and line for line, except in two points. The Tables of Contents of the two Tomes have been brought together, and their literary history connected directly with the Summary of Contents. In a few cases, where Haslewood inserted passages from the first edition, I have enclosed the interpolations in square brackets. The other point of difference between Haslewood’s edition and the present is that we have divided the two Tomes into three volumes of as nearly equal size as possible. While Haslewood has been used as “copy” for the printer, it must be understood that every line has been collated with the British Museum copy of the original, and many thousands of corrections, mostly though not all of a minor kind, made in Haslewood’s text.
The current edition, as mentioned above, is technically the fourth and a half edition—i.e. it’s the fifth of the first volume and the fourth of the second. However, I have chosen to overlook the reprint of the First Tome from 1569 and only considered complete editions. This follows Haslewood’s reprint exactly, page for page and line for line, except for two points. The Tables of Contents for the two volumes have been combined, and their literary history has been linked directly to the Summary of Contents. In a few instances, where Haslewood added passages from the first edition, I have marked those additions in square brackets. The other difference between Haslewood’s edition and this one is that we have split the two volumes into three books that are as nearly equal in size as possible. While Haslewood was used as the “copy” for the printer, it should be noted that every line has been compared with the British Museum copy of the original, and many thousands of corrections, mostly minor, have been made to Haslewood’s text.
JOSEPH JACOBS.
JOSEPH JACOBS.
4 Haselmere Road, Kilburn,
4 Haselmere Road, Kilburn,
1st Aug. 1890.]
August 1, 1890.
APPENDIX.
DOCUMENTS RELATING TO PAINTER.
I.
Assignments for Painter (Abstract).
(Record Office Dom. State Papers, Eliz., xl. No. 36.)
July 24, 1566. Assignment by Edward Randolph, Esq., to William Painter, Clerk of the Ordinance, Richard Webb, Master-Gunner of England, and Edward Partridge, Keeper of the Queen’s Harquebutts, Dagges, and Curriers, of certain annuities or pensions for a term of years.
July 24, 1566. Assignment by Edward Randolph, Esq., to William Painter, Clerk of the Ordinance, Richard Webb, Master-Gunner of England, and Edward Partridge, Keeper of the Queen’s Harquebutts, Dagges, and Curriers, of certain annuities or pensions for a term of years.
II.
Petition from Hartnell, Saint Barbe, and Painter (Abst.).
(Brit. Mus. Lands. MS. 51, No. 25.)
Petition of Raulph Harknell, William Saintbarbe and William Painter to the Lord High Treasurer, c. 1586.
Petition from Raulph Harknell, William Saintbarbe, and William Painter to the Lord High Treasurer, circa 1586.
Having lately been called before Sir W. Mildmay, Chancor of the Exchequer, Mr. Fanshawe & Mr. Dodington for the sum of £7,075 and after conference the division was imposed upon Turville Bowland and Painter, and a brief was drawn, it pleased his Honour to will that if they could show cause why the said sums should not be burdened upon them they were to have allowance by petition which they have done and beseech his Honour to have regard to the present state of themselves their liv wives and children & by him to at once decide what sum they have to pay.
Having recently been called before Sir W. Mildmay, Chancellor of the Exchequer, Mr. Fanshawe and Mr. Dodington for the amount of £7,075, after discussions, a division was placed on Turville Bowland and Painter. A brief was prepared, and it pleased his Honor to state that if they could provide a valid reason why the said amounts should not be imposed on them, they could be granted allowance by petition, which they have done. They ask his Honor to consider the current situation of themselves, their wives, and children, and to promptly decide what amount they need to pay.
With regard to their estates:—
About their estates:—
Bowland’s goods came to but £431 : 6 : 8. His land is given to three children, the eldest not twelve years old. As the land cannot be sold during their nonage he humbly begs that the land may be extended and prays that some allowance may be made for the education of the children.
Bowland's goods totaled £431: 6: 8. His land has been assigned to three children, the oldest of whom is not yet twelve years old. Since the land can’t be sold while they are still minors, he respectfully requests that the land be extended and asks for some financial support to help with the children's education.
Turville’s substance was chiefly in debts, his household stuff was of the value of £120 : 3 : 4. Of this £1,441 : 19 : 7 is to go to William Saintbarbe, the most part of which sum remains in the hands of the Earl of Warwick and Sir Philip Sydney. Notwithstanding he is willing to pay as much as His Honour shall think good.
Turville's assets were mostly in debt, and his household items were worth £120: 3: 4. Out of this, £1,441: 19: 7 is to be paid to William Saintbarbe, most of which is still held by the Earl of Warwick and Sir Philip Sydney. Nevertheless, he is ready to pay as much as His Honor deems appropriate.
William Painter craves remembrance of a note of his estate delivered in 1586, expressing the particulars of all he has in the world to live upon in these his aged days, amounting to about £64 a year. He has a wife and five children all marriageable and unprovided for. He begs his Honour’s favourable consideration of his case and promises to be the occasion of saving unto Her Majesty of far greater sums than what he owes to her.
William Painter seeks recognition for a statement regarding his estate made in 1586, detailing everything he has to live on in his old age, which totals around £64 a year. He has a wife and five children, all ready for marriage and without provisions. He requests his Honorable consideration of his situation and promises that he will save Her Majesty much more than what he owes her.
III.
Charges against Turville, Bowland, and Painter (Abst.).
(Brit. Mus. Lansd. MS. 55, No. 3.)
Charge informed in the Exchequer by John Powell against Geoffrey Turville, Richard Bowland and William Painter.
Charge informed in the Exchequer by John Powell against Geoffrey Turville, Richard Bowland, and William Painter.
s | d | ||||||
£7,077 : | 8 : | 1 : | |||||
Of which | |||||||
Upon G. Turville | 2,715 : | 2 : | 8 | ||||
„ R. Bowland | 2,413 : | 2 : | 8 | ||||
„ W. Painter | 1,949 : | 2 : | 8 |
For Iron sold to the amount of For iron sold for the amount of |
£ 16 : | 8 : | 4 | |
For Powder sold for For powder sold for |
£ 4 : | 8 : | 10 | |
For things conveyed from the Storehouse at Woolwich For items sent from the Warehouse at Woolwich |
4 : | 0 : | 0 | |
For unserviceable shot sent into Barbary For unusable ammunition sent to Barbary |
173 : | 13 : | 4 | |
For Powder Munition &c. For Powder Munitions &c. |
205 : | 0 : | 0 | |
For sale of Sulphur For sale: Sulfur |
10 : | 10 : | 0 | |
Divers allowances Diverse allowances |
373 : | 6 : | 8 | |
Work done at Portsmouth Work done in Portsmouth |
8 : | 6 : | 8 |
He promises to pay what is due from him in reasonable time.
He promises to pay what he owes in a reasonable amount of time.
The value of the Lands in Gillingham, Kent, belonging to William Painter is £413 : 10 : 0, which brings him in £94 : 10 of which he has to pay £33 : 3 : 2 leaving him £61 : 6 : 10.
The value of the lands in Gillingham, Kent, owned by William Painter is £413.10.0, which provides him with £94.10, from which he has to pay £33.3.2, leaving him with £61.6.10.
The said William Painter owes £1200 for land in mortgage and is indebted to divers persons besides.
William Painter owes £1200 for a mortgage on land and has debts to various other people as well.
He humbly beseeches Her Majesty to have pitiful regard for his wife and marriageable children.
He respectfully asks Her Majesty to show compassion for his wife and unmarried children.
IV.
Powell's accusations against the Earl of Warwick and Painter (Abstract).
(Hatfield, Calendar iii., No. 581.)
September, 1587. John Powell to the Queen, offers to expose frauds in the Ordnance Office, and begs the Queen to grant him a hearing before the Lord Chancellor, Lord Treasurer, Lord Admiral, and Earl Warwick, which last named he accuses of great oppressions, and one Painter of false recording the office books.
September, 1587. John Powell to the Queen, offers to reveal frauds in the Ordnance Office and asks the Queen to allow him to speak before the Lord Chancellor, Lord Treasurer, Lord Admiral, and Earl Warwick, whom he accuses of serious abuses, and one Painter of inaccurately recording the office books.
V.
W. Painter's Confession.
(Record Office State Papers, Domestic, Eliz., vol. 224, No. 102.)
xxiijclo Junii 1589. Willm Painter confesseth that all those things that stande nowe charged upon Thearle of Warrewicke by the twoe bookes delivered by Mr. Coniers and Mr. Bartholme Vodoington were in truthe taken out of the Quenes stoare in the Towre of London and other places, and promiseth that before Michaelmas Tearme next he will in writing undr. his hand shewe discharge of so muche of the same as the said Earle is to be discharged of, and will charge his L. wth so muche thereof as in truth he ought to be charged wth by shewing of his owne warrant or other good proof that the same came to his L. hands or to suche as his Lo. did appoint for the receipt thereof, and the residue he will charge upon suche others as of right are to be charged therewth, and for his bettr instruction he placeth a coppie of the said twoe bookes delivered by the Auditors.
xxiijclo June 1589. Willm Painter admits that all the items currently associated with the Earl of Warwick by the two books given by Mr. Coniers and Mr. Bartholme Vodoington were actually taken from the Queen's store in the Tower of London and other locations. He promises that before Michaelmas Term next, he will provide in writing, under his signature, a discharge for the portion of the items that the Earl should be cleared of. He will also assign his Lordship the portion he should rightfully be responsible for by presenting his own warrant or other valid evidence that those items went to his Lordship or to those he designated for their receipt. The remainder will be attributed to others who should rightfully be held accountable. For better clarity, he includes a copy of the said two books provided by the Auditors.
signed W. PAINTER.
signed W. PAINTER.
endorsed. |
23 Junii, 1589. Mr. Painters aunsweare for the Charging the E. of Warwick in the 2 books delivered to the Auditors of the Presse. |
VI.
(Record Office Dom. Pap. Eliz. ccxxv., No. 38.)
June 22, 1589. Answer of John Powell, Surveyor of the Ordnance, to the informations given against him by Mr. Wm. Paynter. Examined in the office of the Ordnance before Sir Robert Constable and the rest of the officers, and noted in the margin accordingly.
June 22, 1589. Response from John Powell, Surveyor of the Ordnance, to the accusations made against him by Mr. Wm. Paynter. Reviewed in the Ordnance office in front of Sir Robert Constable and the other officers, and recorded in the margin accordingly.
VII.
Application of A. Painter on behalf of his Father (Abst.).
(Brit. Mus. Lansd. MS. 67, f. 47.)
April 6. 1591. He has many times besought his honour to accept of his serviceable endeavours with regard to his duty concerning the indirect government of the office of ordnance, the entries into the books &c. and as he knows that many irregularities have been committed for which he fears he and his aged father may be blamed he has thought it his duty to crave access to his Honour as well to advertise what has been heretofore done as to declare the manner how this office is managed, beseeching his honour, in regard his aged father is clerk of that office, whose duty it is to register all things, not to sign any proportion books of debt or monthe’s books but by the delivery of the said clerk or his deputy.
April 6, 1591. He has repeatedly asked his honor to acknowledge his efforts regarding the management of the ordnance office, including the record-keeping, etc. He knows that many mistakes have been made, and he fears that he and his elderly father may be held responsible. Therefore, he feels it is his duty to request a meeting with his honor to inform him about what has been done so far and to explain how this office operates. He respectfully asks his honor, considering that his elderly father is the clerk of that office whose responsibility it is to keep records, not to sign any debt books or monthly accounts without the approval of the said clerk or his deputy.
VIII.
Grant in Reversion of Painter's Position (Docquet).
(Record Off. Dom. State Papers, Eliz. ccxxxiii.)
1591. | Grant in reversion of John Grenewaie of the office of Clerk of the Ordnance, with a fee of 8d. per diem, after the death of Wm. Paynter. |
IX.
Ordnance Reports (Abstract).
(Record Off. Dom. State Papers, Eliz. ccxliii., No. 96.)
Accounts by John Powell, Wm. Painter and Thos. Bedcock for provisions and stores delivered unto her Majesty’s Ordnance up to 31 Dec. 1592. Total of debts £6,786 0s 5½d; of payments during lviii the last year £3,960 17s 6d; Balance due, £2,825 2s 9½d. Also of debts due for provisions brought into the stores, repairs, &c., during the year: total £4055 9s besides Sir Rob. Constable’s debt. With note that as the books of the office have been delivered to the two auditors, the writers cannot set down every particular debt but have done so as far as they could.
Accounts by John Powell, Wm. Painter, and Thos. Bedcock for supplies and materials delivered to Her Majesty’s Ordnance up to December 31, 1592. Total debts: £6,786 0s 5½d; payments made during the last year: £3,960 17s 6d; Balance due: £2,825 2s 9½d. Also, debts owed for supplies brought into storage, repairs, etc., during the year: total £4,055 9s in addition to Sir Rob. Constable’s debt. Note that since the office books have been handed over to the two auditors, the writers cannot list every specific debt but have done so as much as possible.
X.
Specific Charges against Painter.
(Brit. Mus.: Lansdown MS. 73, No. 59.)
In the following passage, syllables in [brackets] represent expanded abbreviations, chiefly “per”.
In the following passage, syllables in [brackets] represent expanded abbreviations, mainly “per”.
Right Honorable whearas I heartofore exhibited Articles vnto yor Lopp therin revealing and Justlie accusing William Painter clerke of Thordynaunce of notorious Deceiptes and abuses [per]petrated by him in Thexecution of his saide office vnto whiche he hathe made some Answeare as is reported./ May it ffurther please yor Lo I haue thoughte yt my parte to reveall such further and more deceiptes as I haue discovered of his lyke practizes and abuses when he tooke vppon him the charge and discharge of Thoffice as now his sonne seekethe to doe, which I Humblie prostrate heare inclosed. Cravinge of yor good Lo for proofe of bothe my Articles I may haue Aucthoritie to examine suche wittnesses as I can produce by othe before some Baron of Thexchequer as to Remaine vppon recorde leaste Deceasinge her Maties seruece therbye be hindered and I in some sorte descredited in skeming to Informe your Lopp wth matters I cannot proue./
Right Honorable, I previously submitted Articles to your Lordship, revealing and justly accusing William Painter, clerk of the ordnance, of numerous deceptions and abuses he committed while executing his duties. He has responded to some of these accusations, as reported. Furthermore, I believe it is my duty to disclose additional deceptions I have discovered related to his similar practices and abuses from when he took on the responsibilities of the office, which his son is now seeking to do. I humbly enclose these details here. I kindly request your Lordship's authority to examine the witnesses I can provide under oath before a Baron of the Exchequer, so that it may remain on record, lest Her Majesty's service be hindered and I be somewhat discredited for attempting to inform your Lordship of matters I cannot prove.
So lyke wise if to yor Ho yt shall seeme good to signe the warrantate here to fore by me [pre]sented Aucthorishinge me and others to [per]vse and vewe Thaccomptes of Sir Robert Constable Knyghte deceased and msr willm Sugdon for Tower matters. I will bringe to lighte suche matters agaynste his sonne whearby yt shall appeare that he is a moste unfitt man to execute anie office of charge or truste vnder her matie beinge so corrupte a man as I will prooue him to be./ Pardon Right Ho my boldnes for Dutifull zeale did pricke me to discouer that I and sithence they are lix abroache care of my credite dothe continuallie vrge mee not to be negligent or alowe vntill I haue by good proues confirmed and established them. So restinge Readie to [per]forme the same and accordinge to my Bounden dutie to do her hignes anie service to my vttermoste./ I Humblie cease to trouble yor Ho any further at this tyme. But never will omitt to pray Thalmightie to increase yor Honor with all healthe and happines.
So likewise, if it seems good to your Honor to sign the warrant presented by me authorizing me and others to review the accounts of Sir Robert Constable, Knight, deceased, and Mr. William Sugdon regarding Tower matters, I will bring to light such matters against his son that will show he is completely unfit to hold any office of responsibility or trust under her Majesty, being as corrupt a man as I will prove him to be. Please excuse my boldness, Right Honourable, for my duty-driven zeal compels me to reveal this, and since my concern for my reputation continually urges me not to be negligent or complacent until I have confirmed and established these matters with solid proof. Thus, I remain ready to fulfill this and, in accordance with my bounden duty, serve her Highness to the best of my ability. I humbly cease to trouble your Honor any further at this time, but I will never cease to pray that the Almighty increase your Honor with health and happiness.
Your Honors most humble
Your Honors, very respectfully
G. HOGGE.
G. HOGGE.
Endorsed |
November 1793 George Hogg to my L. |
Discouerie of certain abuses committed by Wm. Paynter clerk of the Ordinance wtin his office.
Discovery of certain abuses committed by Wm. Paynter clerk of the Ordinance wtin his office.
Wronges offered by Willm Painter Clerke of Thordenance entered in his Jornall booke ffor receiptes broughte into her maties Store Anno 1575 and 1576.
Wrongdoings recorded by Willm Painter, Clerk of Tordenance, entered in his journal for receipts brought into Her Majesty's Store in the years 1575 and 1576.
Right Honorable, first ther was a receipte for one Laste and a half of Serpentine powder broughte into her Maties Store and debenter made by Painter for the same as made of forraigne Peeter the xiiijth of Julie 1576, the which I will prooue vnto yor Ho that yt was her Maties owen powder brought from Windsor Castell the verie same Somer./ Wherein he deceaved her Matie, and made her pay for that wch was her owen./ Desyringe that my proofes may be taken bye Othe before one of the Barons of her Mties Exchecquer./
Right Honorable, first there was a receipt for one and a half lasts of serpentine powder brought into Her Majesty's store, with a debenture made by Painter for the same, as made of foreign Peter on the 14th of July 1576. I will prove to Your Honor that it was Her Majesty's own powder brought from Windsor Castle that very summer. In this, he deceived Her Majesty and made her pay for what was hers. I request that my proofs be taken by oath before one of the Barons of Her Majesty's Exchequer.
Secondlie, their was another Receipte made for xiie wht of corne powder As made of fforraine provision and brought into her maties Store and debenter made for the same the xxjth of Julie 1576 at the Rate of xijd the pownde, the wch did amounte to the some in money of lxlb the wch I will prove to be her maties Owen Powder as aforsayde./
Secondly, there was another receipt made for twelve ounces of corn powder that was made from foreign provisions and brought into Her Majesty's store, with a debenture made for the same on the 21st of July 1576 at the rate of twelve pence per pound, which amounted to a total of sixty pounds, which I will prove to be Her Majesty's own powder as stated above.
Third, there was another Receipte made for One Laste of Serpentine powder by the sayd Painter at xjd the pownde/ and debenter made for the same the xxjth of Julie 1576 as brought into her maties Store beinge made lykwyse of fforraigne provision the wch I will proove no such matter receaved into her maties saide store and lx therefore her matie flatlie Deceaved by him of the Some of one c and xlb ∴/./
Third, there was another receipt made for one last of serpentine powder by the said painter at 14 shillings per pound, and a debit entry made for the same on the 11th of July 1576, as brought into her majesty’s store, which was also made of foreign provisions, which I will prove no such matter was received into her majesty's said store and therefore her majesty was completely deceived by him of the sum of 101 and 16 pounds.
ffowerthlie there was lykewyse broughte into her Maties sayde store by one Constantine Watchindroppe the seconde of auguste 1576 certaine bowstaves to the number of fower Thousande after syxe Score to the Hundrethe at the Rate of xiijlb the Hundrethe the which dothe Amounte to vC and xxlb and entred by Painter in his Jornall booke and debenter made for the same I will proove vnto yor Ho notwithstandinge his debenter and entrie in his sayde booke that there was xjc of them neuer brought into her maties Store / and therfore her Matie Apparentlie Deceaved by him of the some of oneC xliijlb.
ffowerthlie, there was also brought into Her Majesty's store by one Constantine Watchindroppe on August 1576 a certain number of bowstaves totaling four thousand, at a rate of thirteen pounds per hundred, amounting to two hundred and twenty pounds. This was recorded by Painter in his journal and a debit was made for the same. I will prove to your Honor, notwithstanding his debit and entry in his said book, that there were one hundred and eleven of them never brought into Her Majesty's store; and therefore Her Majesty was clearly deceived by him out of the sum of one hundred forty-three pounds.
ffiftlie wheras there was a Deliverie made in Thoffice of Thordinance the xxvith of Aprill 1576 for Serpentine Powder Delivered out of her Maties Store for the shootinge of Thordinance vppon the wharfe he did enter into his Jornall xxc wht delivered whearas, I will proove vnto yor Ho there was but vc Di delivered but heare he Dothe shewe his conninge in the discharginge of the kee[per] of the Store for the overcharge layd vppon the sayd kee[per] by him on his Receipte before specified the xxjth of Julie 1576 whearas he did charge the kee[per] wth a laste of Powder which was never brought into the Store which he made her Matie pay for/
ffiftlie whereas there was a delivery made in the office of the ordinance on the 26th of April 1576 for serpent powder delivered from her Majesty's store for the shooting of the ordinance upon the wharf, he entered into his journal 200 what was delivered. However, I will prove to your Honor that only 100 was delivered. Here he shows his cunning in discharging the keeper of the store for the overcharge placed upon the said keeper by him on his receipt specified before on the 21st of July 1576, whereas he charged the keeper with a last of powder which was never brought into the store that he made her Majesty pay for.
Syxtlie he made a Delyuerie of fower hundrethe wht of Serpentine Powder the Laste of Aprill 1576 for the shootinge of Thordynaunce uppon May Є vo accordinge to the olde accustomed manners I will Proove there was but j Two hundredthe wht Delyvered whearin he hath abused her Matie as in the Article befor specified/.
Syxtlie he made a delivery of four hundred weight of Serpentine Powder at the end of April 1576 for the shooting of ordnance on May Є, according to the usual customs. I will prove that there were only two hundred weight delivered, in which he has deceived her Majesty, as mentioned in the article before specified.
This symbol, represented in the text by Cyrillic Є, has not been
identified. The following vo may be an error for
vo, meaning either “quinto” (5th) or “ultimo” (last).
This symbol, shown in the text as Cyrillic Є, has not been recognized. The following vo might be a mistake for vo, which could mean either “fifth” or “last.”
XI.
Application of J. Painter (Abstract).
Brit. Mus. Lansd. MS. 75, No. 55.)
Sept. 26. 1593.—The best experience of faithful and true endeavours is to be opposed by politic and malicious adversaries whose lxi slanderous informations have lately been used against him which he has truely answered and has been examined by Sir Geo: Carewe with the copies of the monthe’s books and therefore he trusts his Hon: will be satisfied. He hopes his slanderers will be punished, or it will be a precedent to others. He has served H. M. faithfully being encouraged by hopes of preferment. He yearly increases H. M. Store to the value of £2,000 by taking the returns of such munitions as return from the seas unspent in H. M. ships, which formerly were concealed and converted to private use. He has deciphered so many deceipts as amount to above £11,000. He is ready to show a number of abuses by which H. M. pays great sums of money which do not benefit her service, and finally by his experience he has been able to do Her Majesty profitable service, the particulars of which he is ready to show when required, and he trusts he deserves more favour and regard than to be utterly discredited and disgraced through the information of the person who through malice seeks to be revenged of him, because he saves H. M. £40 a year which this person sued for, for taking the aforesaid remains.
Sept. 26, 1593.—The best experience of being faithful and true is facing off against cunning and spiteful opponents whose lxi malicious claims have recently been used against him, which he has truthfully addressed and has been reviewed by Sir Geo: Carewe with the copies of the monthly records, and therefore he trusts his Hon: will be satisfied. He hopes his slanderers will be punished, as it would set a precedent for others. He has served H. M. diligently, motivated by hopes of advancement. He annually increases H. M.'s resources by £2,000 by reclaiming munitions that come back from the seas unused on H. M.'s ships, which were previously hidden and misused for personal gain. He has uncovered so many frauds that total over £11,000. He is prepared to expose numerous abuses through which H. M. spends large sums of money that do not benefit her service. Ultimately, due to his experience, he has managed to provide Her Majesty with valuable service, details of which he is ready to present when needed, and he believes he deserves more respect and recognition rather than being completely discredited and disgraced by the claims of someone who, out of spite, seeks revenge against him because he saves H. M. £40 a year that this person sued for regarding the aforementioned remains.
XII.
CHARGES AGAINST PAINTER’S SON.
(Brit. Mus.: Lansdown MS. 78, No. 29.)
Right Honourable, I thought it my duty to aduertise yor ho: of dywrse misdemeanors comytted against her Mate in and about the Tower, when yor lop shall please to command me to attend you in the meane tyme I hold it most fytt to give you to vnderstand that vnderstandinge of Mr. Anthonie Paynter should make his vawnt of his playnes and truth of thencising of his fathers place being deputye vnto him thus much I am able to averr that in false entryes false debentes ymbeseling of powder, and other deceipte as come XVcIi as by informand recd to be put in against him the last term begonn by hogg who had mistaking the daye lxii ffor his father I send yor lop matter of XXVIj mll Against him It is uery fitt if it may stand wth yor ho: good liking all booke and recorde ap[per]teying to her Mae be taken into the costody of some whom yo shall think mete to kepe them to her Mate vse And so leaving the same to yor honourable care I doe humbly take my leave the Tower this XXjth of february
Right Honourable, I felt it was my duty to inform you of various misdemeanors committed against her Majesty in and around the Tower. When you are ready, I will gladly attend to you. In the meantime, I think it’s important to let you know that Mr. Anthony Paynter seems to brag about his straightforwardness and the truth regarding the position of his father as his deputy. I can confirm that concerning false entries, fraudulent documents, embezzlement of powder, and other deceptions totaling £150, an indictment was prepared against him last term by Hogg, who mistakenly chose the wrong day for his father. I send you the matter regarding £26 against him. It would be very fitting, if it meets your approval, for all records and documents related to her Majesty to be taken into the custody of someone you deem appropriate to keep them for her Majesty’s use. Thus, I leave this matter in your honorable hands and humbly take my leave from the Tower this 21st of February.
Yr
ho: most humbly
Att Commandmet
N. Raynberd.
ho: most humbly Att Commandmet N. Raynberd.
Endorsed |
21 Feb. 1594 Mr Rainberd steward of ye Tower to my l: Informac͠on against Mr Paynter of abuses in his office. |
ANALYTICAL TABLE OF CONTENTS.
Title links lead to the named stories in a separate file.
Title links direct you to the specified stories in a separate file.
[In the following notes, Source refers to the origin whence Painter most probably obtained the tale; Origin to the earliest appearance of it in literature: these often coincide. I have included all the information given by Haslewood.]
[In the notes that follow, Source refers to the origin from which Painter likely acquired the story; Origin denotes its first appearance in literature: these often align. I have included all the information given by Haslewood.]
I. Horatii and Curiatii.
The Romaines and the Albanes being at warres, for iniuries mutually inferred, Metius Suffetius, the Albane captaine, deuised a waye by a combate to ioygne bothe the cities in one. Victorie falling to the Romaines, the Romaine victor killed his sister and was condemned to die. Afterwardes, upon his father’s sute, he was deliuered.
The Romans and the Albans were at war over mutual grievances. Metius Suffetius, the Albanian captain, devised a way to unite both cities through combat. Victory went to the Romans, but the Roman victor killed his sister and was sentenced to die. Later, due to his father's plea, he was pardoned.
[Source and Origin.—Livy, i. 26.
[Source and Origin.—Livy, i. 26.]
Parallels.—I. Ancient: Cicero, Pro Mil. 37; Dionys. Hal. iii. 21, 22; Plutarch, Par. Min. 16; Valerius Max. vi. 36; Florus, i. 3; Zonar, vii. 6. II. Mediæval: Holkot, Moral. 12. III. Modern: Wolgemuth, ii. 74; Kirchhof, Wendenmuth, i. 13, vi. 61; Albertinus, Lusthauss, 1619, 191; Corneille, Horace; Acerra Philologica, 1708, ii. 15.
Parallels.—I. Ancient: Cicero, Pro Mil. 37; Dionys. Hal. iii. 21, 22; Plutarch, Par. Min. 16; Valerius Max. vi. 36; Florus, i. 3; Zonar, vii. 6. II. Mediæval: Holkot, Moral. 12. III. Modern: Wolgemuth, ii. 74; Kirchhof, Wendenmuth, i. 13, vi. 61; Albertinus, Lusthauss, 1619, 191; Corneille, Horace; Acerra Philologica, 1708, ii. 15.
Painter, Ed. I. (1566) i. 1; II. (1575)65 i. 1; III. i. 1; IV. i. 15.]
Painter, Ed. I. (1566) i. 1; II. (1575)65 i. 1; III. i. 1; IV. i. 15.]
II. The Rape of Lucrece.
Sextus Tarquinius ravished Lucrece. And she, bewailing the losse of her chastitie, killed herselfe.
Sextus Tarquinius assaulted Lucrece. Overcome with grief at the loss of her purity, she took her own life.
[Source and Origin.—Livy, i. 57-60.
[Source and Origin.—Livy, i. 57-60.]
Parallels.—I. Ancient: Dionys. Hal. iv. 64; Cicero, De Fin. ii. 20-26; Val. Max. 6, i. 1; Ovid, Fasti, ii. 761; Aurel. De Vir. Ill. 9; Augustin, De Civit. Dei, i. 19. II. Mediæval: Vincent Bellov. Spec. Doct. iv. 100; Gesta Rom., 135; Violier, 113. III. Modern: Hans Sachs, i. 2, 184; 3, 21, Ein schön spil von der geschicht der edlen Römerin Lucretia, Strassburg, 1550, 8vo; Kirchhof, vi. 67-70; Eutrapelos, i. 92; Acerra, ii. 51; Histor. Handbüchlein, 247; Albertinus, 279; Abraham à Sta. Clara, Etwas für Alle, ii. 623.
Parallels.—I. Ancient: Dionys. Hal. iv. 64; Cicero, De Fin. ii. 20-26; Val. Max. 6, i. 1; Ovid, Fasti, ii. 761; Aurel. De Vir. Ill. 9; Augustin, De Civit. Dei, i. 19. II. Mediæval: Vincent Bellov. Spec. Doct. iv. 100; Gesta Rom., 135; Violier, 113. III. Modern: Hans Sachs, i. 2, 184; 3, 21, Ein schön spil von der geschicht der edlen Römerin Lucretia, Strassburg, 1550, 8vo; Kirchhof, vi. 67-70; Eutrapelos, i. 92; Acerra, ii. 51; Histor. Handbüchlein, 247; Albertinus, 279; Abraham à Sta. Clara, Etwas für Alle, ii. 623.
Derivates.—There can be no doubt Shakspeare derived his Rape of Lucrece from Painter, though he has expanded the four pages of his original into 164 stanzas. Heywood has also a play called The Rape of Lucrece.]
Derivates.—There's no doubt that Shakespeare based his Rape of Lucrece on Painter, even though he expanded the four pages of the original into 164 stanzas. Heywood also has a play called The Rape of Lucrece.
III. Mucius Scævola.
The siege of Rome by Porsenna, and the valiaunt deliuerie thereof by Mutius Scæuola, with his stoute aunswere vnto the kinge.
The siege of Rome by Porsenna and the brave rescue by Mutius Scævola, along with his bold reply to the king.
[Source and origin.—Livy, ii. 12. 13.
[Source and origin.—Livy, ii. 12. 13.]
Parallels.—I. Ancient: Plutarch, Public. 17; Valerius Max. 3. 3. I; Dionys. 5 27-30; Aurel. Vict. 72; Cicero, pro Sext. 21. 48; Flor. i. 105; Martial, i. 51; Orosius, ii. 5; Augustin, De Civit. v. 18; Zonar, vii. 12; Dio Cass. 45, 31; 46, 19; 53, 8. II. Modern: H. Sachs, I. 2. 156: 2. 3. 39; Kirchhof, i. 15; Acerra, i. 19; Albertinus, 287.
Parallels.—I. Ancient: Plutarch, Public. 17; Valerius Max. 3. 3. I; Dionys. 5 27-30; Aurel. Vict. 72; Cicero, pro Sext. 21. 48; Flor. i. 105; Martial, i. 51; Orosius, ii. 5; Augustin, De Civit. v. 18; Zonar, vii. 12; Dio Cass. 45, 31; 46, 19; 53, 8. II. Modern: H. Sachs, I. 2. 156: 2. 3. 39; Kirchhof, i. 15; Acerra, i. 19; Albertinus, 287.
Painter, I. i. 7; II. i. 7; III. i. 12; IV. 26.
Painter, I. i. 7; II. i. 7; III. i. 12; IV. 26.
Derivates.—A play called Mutius Scevola was played at Windsor in 1577 (Fleay, Hist. of Stage, p. 380).]
Derivatives.—A play called Mutius Scevola was performed at Windsor in 1577 (Fleay, Hist. of Stage, p. 380).]
IV. Coriolanus.
Martius Coriolanus goinge aboute to represse the common people of Rome with dearth of Corne was banished. For reuengement whereof he perswaded Accius Tullius king of the Volscians, to make warres upon the Romaynes, and he himselfe in their ayde, came in his owne person. The Citie brought to greate miserye, the fathers deuised meanes to deliuer the same, and sent vnto the Volscian campe, the mother, the wife and children of Coriolanus. Vpon whose complaintes Coriolanus withdrewe the Volscians, and the citie was reduced to quietnes.
Martius Coriolanus, trying to control the common people of Rome during a grain shortage, was banished. In revenge, he convinced Accius Tullius, the king of the Volscians, to wage war against the Romans, and he joined them himself. The city was brought to great suffering, and the Senate devised a plan to save it by sending Coriolanus's mother, wife, and children to the Volscian camp. After hearing their pleas, Coriolanus withdrew the Volscians, and the city returned to peace.
[Source and Origin.—Livy, ii. 35 seq.
[Source and Origin.—Livy, ii. 35 seq.
Parallels.—I. Ancient: Dionys. Hal. viii. 1; Zonar vii. 16; Plutarch Coriolanus; Val. Max. 5. 4. I; Dio Cass. (Exc. Vat.) 16 p. 148; Aur. Vict. 19. II. Mediæval: Holkot Narrat. 175; Gesta Rom., Lat. 137; Germ. 89; Violier, 115; Rosarium, i. 120. III. Modern: Abr. à St. Clara; Laubenhüt, I. 301; Acerra, 2. 17; Albertinus, 291; Kirchhof, vi. 73-6, 82.
Parallels.—I. Ancient: Dionys. Hal. viii. 1; Zonar vii. 16; Plutarch Coriolanus; Val. Max. 5. 4. I; Dio Cass. (Exc. Vat.) 16 p. 148; Aur. Vict. 19. II. Mediæval: Holkot Narrat. 175; Gesta Rom., Lat. 137; Germ. 89; Violier, 115; Rosarium, i. 120. III. Modern: Abr. à St. Clara; Laubenhüt, I. 301; Acerra, 2. 17; Albertinus, 291; Kirchhof, vi. 73-6, 82.
Painter, I. i. 9; II. i. 9; III. i. 35; IV. i. 29.
Painter, I. i. 9; II. i. 9; III. i. 35; IV. i. 29.
Derivates.—It is possible that Shakespeare first got the idea of the dramatic capabilities of the story of Coriolanus from Painter though he filled in the details from North’s Plutarch.]
Derivates.—Shakespeare may have initially drawn the idea for the dramatic potential of the story of Coriolanus from Painter, although he elaborated on the details from North’s Plutarch.
V. Appius and Virginia.
Appius Claudius, one of the Decemuiri of Rome, goeth about to rauishe Virginia a yonge mayden, which indeuour of Appius, when her father Virginius vnderstode being then in the warres, hee repaired home to rescue his doughter. One that was betrouthed vnto her, clamed her, whereupon rose great contention. In the ende her owne father, to saue the shame of his stocke, killed her with a Bocher’s knife, and went into the Forum, crying vengeance vpon Appius. Then after much contention and rebellion, the Decemuiri were deposed.
Appius Claudius, one of the Decemviri of Rome, attempted to abduct Virginia, a young woman. When her father, Virginius, learned of this while he was away at war, he rushed home to save his daughter. One man who was betrothed to her claimed her, which led to a huge argument. In the end, to protect his family's honor, her father killed her with a butcher's knife and went to the Forum, demanding justice against Appius. After much conflict and rebellion, the Decemviri were removed from power.
[Source.—Giovanni, Pecorone, giorn. xx. nov. 2.
[Source.—Giovanni, Pecorone, nov. 2.
Origin.—Livy, iii. 44, 47-57.
Origin.—Livy, III. 44, 47-57.
Parallels.—Mediæval: Gower, Conf. Amant. vii.; Chaucer, Cant. Tales, Doctour’s Tale; Modern: Macaulay, Lays.
Parallels.—Medieval: Gower, Confessio Amantis vii.; Chaucer, Canterbury Tales, Doctor’s Tale; Modern: Macaulay, Lays.
Painter, I. i. 13; II. i. 12; III. i. 31; IV. i. 35.
Painter, I. i. 13; II. i. 12; III. i. 31; IV. i. 35.
Derivates.—R. B., A new tragical comedy of Apius and Virginia, 1575.—Webster, Appius and Virginia. Hazlewood also refers to tragedies on the subject by Betterton, Crisp, Dennis, Moncrieff, Brooke, Bidlake, &c. Vincent Brooke, the actor, made his greatest hit in the part of Virginius.]
Derivates.—R. B., A New Tragical Comedy of Apius and Virginia, 1575.—Webster, Appius and Virginia. Hazlewood also mentions tragedies on the subject by Betterton, Crisp, Dennis, Moncrieff, Brooke, Bidlake, etc. Vincent Brooke, the actor, made his biggest success playing the role of Virginius.
VI. Candaules and Gyges.
Candaules king of Lidia, shewing the secretes of his wyues beautie to Gyges, one of his guarde: was by counsaile of his wife, slaine by the said Gyges, and depriued of his kingdome.
Candaules, the king of Lydia, showing the secrets of his wife's beauty to Gyges, one of his guards, was killed by Gyges at the request of his wife and lost his kingdom.
[Source and Origin.—Herodotus, i. 7-13.
[Source and Origin.—Herodotus, i. 7-13.]
Parallels—.Justin, i. 7. Mod.: Guicciardini, 44; Federmann, Erquickstunden, 1574, 65; Albertinus, 186; Kirchhof, iv. 1.
Parallels—.Justin, i. 7. Mod.: Guicciardini, 44; Federmann, Erquickstunden, 1574, 65; Albertinus, 186; Kirchhof, iv. 1.
Painter, I. i. 19; II. i. 18; III. i. 32; IV. i. 46.]
Painter, I. i. 19; II. i. 18; III. i. 32; IV. i. 46.]
VII. Crœsus and Solon.
King Cræsus of Lydia reasoneth with the wyseman Solon, of the happie life of man. Who little esteeming his good aduise, vnderstoode before his death, that no man (but by vertue) can in this life attaine felicitie.
King Cræsus of Lydia discusses with the wise man Solon about what it means to live a happy life. He undervalued Solon's advice and realized too late, before his death, that no one can achieve true happiness in this life without virtue.
[Source and Origin.—Herod, i. 50 seq.
[Source and Origin.—Herod, i. 50 seq.
Parallels.—I. Ancient: Diod. xvi. 56; Plutarch, Solon. II. Modern: Albertinus, 235; Kirchhof, Wendenmuth, i. 4; Wanley, Wonders of the Little World, ed. 1774. III. li. 7.
Parallels.—I. Ancient: Diod. xvi. 56; Plutarch, Solon. II. Modern: Albertinus, 235; Kirchhof, Wendenmuth, i. 4; Wanley, Wonders of the Little World, ed. 1774. III. li. 7.
Derivates.—A tragedy under this name was written by Earl Stirling about 1601.]
Derivates.—A tragedy under this title was written by Earl Stirling around 1601.]
VIII. Rhacon and Cartomes.
Of a father that made suite, to haue his owne sonne put to death.
Of a father who arranged to have his own son executed.
[Source and Origin.—Ælian, i. 34.
[Source and Origin.—Aelian, i. 34.]
Parallels.—Wanley, Wonders, IV. iii. 1.
Parallels. — Wanley, Wonders, IV. iii. 1.
Painter, I. i. 24; II. i. 22; III. i. 39; IV. i. 53.]
Painter, I. i. 24; II. i. 22; III. i. 39; IV. i. 53.]
IX. Artaxerces and Sinetas.
Water offered of good will to Artaxerxes King of Persia, and the liberall rewarde of the Kinge to the giuer.
Water was freely offered to Artaxerxes, King of Persia, and the generous reward from the King was given to the giver.
[Source and Origin.—Ælian, i. 32.
[Source and Origin.—Ælian, 1. 32.]
Painter, I. i. 24; II. i. 23; III. i. 40; IV. i. 54.]
Painter, I. i. 24; II. i. 23; III. i. 40; IV. i. 54.]
X. Chariton and Menalippus.
The loue of Chariton and Menalippus.
The love of Chariton and Menalippus.
[Source and Origin.—Ælian, ii. 17 [Melanippus].
[Source and Origin.—Ælian, ii. 17 [Melanippus].]
Painter, I. i. 25; II. i. 24; III. i. 42; IV. i. 56.]
Painter, I. i. 25; II. i. 24; III. i. 42; IV. i. 56.]
XI. Cyrus and Panthea.
Kinge Cyrus perswaded by Araspas, to dispose himselfe to loue a ladie called Panthea, entreth into a pretie disputation and talke of loue and beautie. Afterwards Araspas himselfe falleth in loue with the saide ladie, but she indued with greate chastitie, auoydeth his earnest sute. And when shee heard tell that her husbande was slaine in the seruice of Cyrus, she killed herselfe.
KIng Cyrus, influenced by Araspas, begins to open himself up to loving a lady named Panthea and engages in a charming discussion about love and beauty. Later, Araspas himself falls in love with Panthea, but she, possessing great chastity, rejects his serious advances. When she learns that her husband was killed while serving Cyrus, she takes her own life.
[Source.—Probably Bandello, iii. 9.
[Source.—Probably Bandello, iii. 9.
Origin.—Xenophon (given as source by Painter).
Origin.—Xenophon (cited as the source by Painter).
Parallels.—Anc.: Plutarch, Moralia; De curiositate. Modern: Belleforest; Hist. trag. iv. 265; Wanley, Wonders, I. xi. 30.
Parallels.—Anc.: Plutarch, Moralia; De curiositate. Modern: Belleforest; Hist. trag. iv. 265; Wanley, Wonders, I. xi. 30.
Derivates—Warres of Cyrus, with the tragical Ende of Panthea, a tragedy, was printed in 1594.]
Derivates—Wars of Cyrus, with the tragic End of Panthea, a tragedy, was printed in 1594.]
XII. Abdolominus King of Scythia.
Abdolominus is from poore estate, aduaunced by Alexander the Great, through his honest life, to be kyng of Sydone.
Abdolominus comes from a poor background, but Alexander the Great elevated him to become the king of Sidon because of his honorable life.
[Source and Origin.—Quinct. Curtius, IV. i. 19-16.
[Source and Origin.—Quinct. Curtius, IV. i. 19-16.]
Parallels—Anc.: Diod. Sic. xvii. Mod.: Wanley, Wonders, VI. xiv.
Parallels—Anc.: Diod. Sic. xvii. Mod.: Wanley, Wonders, VI. xiv.
Painter, I. i. 33; II. i. 31; III. i. 45; IV. i. 69.]
Painter, I. i. 33; II. i. 31; III. i. 45; IV. i. 69.]
XIII. Alexander and the Scythian Ambassadors.
The oration of the Scythian Ambassadours to Alexander the great, reprouing his ambicion, and desire of Empire.
The speech of the Scythian Ambassadors to Alexander the Great, criticizing his ambition and desire for empire.
[Source and Origin.—Quintus Curtius, ix. 2.
[Source and Origin.—Quintus Curtius, ix. 2.]
Painter, I. i. 34; II. i. 32; III. i. 57; IV. i. 71.]
Painter, I. i. 34; II. i. 32; III. i. 57; IV. i. 71.]
XIV. Metellus on Marriage.
The woordes of Metellus of mariage, and wiuing with the prayse and dispraise of the same.
The words of Metellus about marriage, and living with the praise and criticism of it.
[Source.—Aulus Gellius, Noct. Att. i. 6.
[Source.—Aulus Gellius, Noct. Att. i. 6.
Origin.—Livy, ii. 32.
Origin.—Livy, vol. ii, p. 32.
Parallels.—I. Ancient: Plut. Coriol. 6. Dio. Halic. vi. 76.
Parallels.—I. Ancient: Plut. Coriol. 6. Dio. Halic. vi. 76.
Painter, I. i. 36; II. i. 24; III. i. 60; IV. i. 74.]
Painter, I. i. 36; II. i. 24; III. i. 60; IV. i. 74.
XV. Lais and Demosthenes.
Of Lais and Demosthenes.
Of Lais and Demosthenes.
[Source and Origin.—A. Gellius, Noct. Att. i. 8.
[Source and Origin.—A. Gellius, Noct. Att. i. 8.]
Parallels.—Repeated in Painter II. xiii.
Parallels.—Repeated in Painter II. 13.
Painter, I. i. 38; II. i. 35; III. i. 63; IV. i. 77.]
Painter, I. i. 38; II. i. 35; III. i. 63; IV. i. 77.]
XVI. Fabricius and Pyrrhus.
C. Fabritius and Emillius Consuls of Rome, beyng promised that king Pyrrhus for a somme of money should be slayne (which was a notable lxviii enemie to the Romaine state) aduertised Pyrrhus thereof by letters, and of other notable thinges doen by the same Fabritius.
C. Fabritius and Emillius, the Consuls of Rome, were promised that King Pyrrhus would be killed for a sum of money (who was a significant enemy of the Roman state). They informed Pyrrhus about this in letters, as well as other notable actions taken by Fabritius.
[Source.—A. Gellius, Noct. Att. i. 14.
[Source.—A. Gellius, Noct. Att. i. 14.
Origin.—(?) Livy, Epit. xiii.
Origin.—(?) Livy, Epit. 13.
Parallels.—I. Ancient: Plutarch Pyrr. 18, 19; An seni sit, &c., 21; Cicero, Pro Cœl., 14, 24; Brut. 14, 55; 16, 61; Phil. i. 5, 11; Cato, vi. 16; Val. Max., viii. 13, 5; Sueton. Tib., 2; Justin, 18, 2; Ovid, Fasti, xvi. 203.
Parallels.—I. Ancient: Plutarch Pyrr. 18, 19; An seni sit, &c., 21; Cicero, Pro Cœl., 14, 24; Brut. 14, 55; 16, 61; Phil. i. 5, 11; Cato, vi. 16; Val. Max., viii. 13, 5; Sueton. Tib., 2; Justin, 18, 2; Ovid, Fasti, xvi. 203.
Painter, I. i. 38; II. i. 36; III. i. 64; IV. i. 78.]
Painter, I. i. 38; II. i. 36; III. i. 64; IV. i. 78.]
XVII. Camillus and Schoolmaster.
A Scholemaister traiterously rendring the noble mens sonnes of Faleria to the hands of Camillus, was wel acquited and rewarded for his paines and labour.
A schoolmaster deceitfully handing over the noblemen's sons of Faleria to Camillus was well compensated and rewarded for his efforts and work.
[Source.—A. Gellius, Noct. Att. xvii. 24.
[Source.—A. Gellius, Noct. Att. xvii. 24.
Origin.—Livy, v. 26.
Origin.—Livy, vol. 26.
Parallels.—I. Ancient: Plutarch, Camillus, 10; Dion. Halic. excerp. Vatec. 13, 1; Frontinus, Strat. iv. 4, 1; Polyænus, Strat. viii. 7; Val. Max. vi. 5, 1; Aur. Victor, De vir. ill. 33; Zonar. vii. 32. II. Modern: Enxemplos, 187. III. Modern: Gallensis, Commumilog. 1489, i. 11; H. Sachs, III. ii. 46; Hanmer, Hist. Roseng. 1654, 437; Acerra, i. 100; Kirch, i. 18.
Parallels.—I. Ancient: Plutarch, Camillus, 10; Dion. Halic. excerpt. Vatec. 13, 1; Frontinus, Strat. iv. 4, 1; Polyænus, Strat. viii. 7; Val. Max. vi. 5, 1; Aur. Victor, De vir. ill. 33; Zonar. vii. 32. II. Modern: Enxemplos, 187. III. Modern: Gallensis, Commumilog. 1489, i. 11; H. Sachs, III. ii. 46; Hanmer, Hist. Roseng. 1654, 437; Acerra, i. 100; Kirch, i. 18.
Painter, I. i. 39; II. i. 37; III. i. 66; IV. i. 80.]
Painter, I. i. 39; II. i. 37; III. i. 66; IV. i. 80.]
XVIII. Papyrius Prætextatus.
The Hystorie of Papyrius Prætextatus [and how he misled his mother].
The Story of Papyrius Prætextatus [and how he deceived his mother].
[Source and Origin.—A. Gellius, Noct. Att. i. 23.
[Source and Origin.—A. Gellius, Noct. Att. i. 23.]
Parallels.—Sabell. Exemp. i. 3; Bruson, Facet. iv. 4; Wanley, Wonders, III. xlvii. 4.
Parallels.—Sabell. Exemp. i. 3; Bruson, Facet. iv. 4; Wanley, Wonders, III. xlvii. 4.
Painter, I. i. 41; II. i. 38; III. i. 69; IV. i. 83.]
Painter, I. i. 41; II. i. 38; III. i. 69; IV. i. 83.]
XIX. Plutarch’s Anger.
How Plutarche did beate his man, and of pretie talke touching signes of anger.
How Plutarch beat his servant, and some interesting talk about signs of anger.
[Source and Origin.—A. Gellius, Noct. Att. i. 26.
[Source and Origin.—A. Gellius, Noct. Att. i. 26.]
Painter, I. i. 42; II. i. 39; III. i. 71; IV. i. 85.]
Painter, I. i. 42; II. i. 39; III. i. 71; IV. i. 85.]
XX. Æsop’s Fable of the Lark.
A pretie tale drawne out of the Larke of Æsope.
A pretty tale drawn from the Fables of Aesop.
[Source.—A. Gellius, Noct. Att. ii. 29.
[Source.—A. Gellius, Noct. Att. vol. ii, p. 29.]
Origin and Parallels.—Cf. Caxton’s Æsop, ed. Jacobs, Ro. i. 20; vol. i. p. 238.
Origin and Parallels.—See. Caxton’s Æsop, ed. Jacobs, Ro. i. 20; vol. i. p. 238.
Painter, I. i. 42; II. i. 40; III. i. 72; IV. i. 86.
Painter, I. i. 42; II. i. 40; III. i. 72; IV. i. 86.
Derivates.—A ballad on the subject, entitled A mirror most true, was licensed to Richard Jones 1576-7.]
Derivates.—A ballad on the subject, titled A Mirror Most True, was approved for Richard Jones in 1576-7.
XXI. Hannibal and Antiochus.
A merie geste, uttered by Hanniball to King Antiochus.
A witty remark made by Hannibal to King Antiochus.
[Source and Origin.—A. Gellius.
[Source and Origin.—A. Gellius.]
Painter, I. i. 44; II. i. 41; III. i. 74; IV. i. 88.]
Painter, I. i. 44; II. i. 41; III. i. 74; IV. i. 88.]
XXII. Androdus.
The marueilous knowledge of a Lion, being acquainted with a man, called Androdus.
The remarkable knowledge of a lion, being familiar with a man named Androdus.
[Source.—A. Gellius, Noct. Att. v. 14, 10.
[Source.—A. Gellius, Noct. Att. v. 14, 10.
Origin and Parallels.—Cf. Caxton’s Æsop, ed. Jacobs, Ro. iii. 1, vol. i. p. 243.
Origin and Parallels.—See Caxton’s Æsop, ed. Jacobs, Ro. iii. 1, vol. i. p. 243.
Painter, I. i. 44; II. i. 41; III. i. 79; IV. i. 89.]
Painter, I. i. 44; II. i. 41; III. i. 79; IV. i. 89.]
XXIII. Favorinus.
A pretie disputation of the philosopher Phauorinus, to perswade a woman not to put forth her child to nursse, but to nourishe it herselfe with her owne milke.
A pretty discussion by the philosopher Phauorinus, to persuade a woman not to hire someone to nurse her child, but to feed it herself with her own milk.
[Source and Origin.—A. Gellius, Noct. Att. xvii. 12.
[Source and Origin.—A. Gellius, Noct. Att. xvii. 12.]
Painter, I. i. 45; II. i. 42; III. i. 77; IV. i. 91.]
Painter, I. i. 45; II. i. 42; III. i. 77; IV. i. 91.]
XXIV. Sertorius.
Of Sertorius, a noble Romaine capitaine.
Of Sertorius, a noble Roman captain.
[Source and Origin.—A Gellius, Noct. Att.
[Source and Origin.—A Gellius, Noct. Att.
Painter, I. i. 48; II. i. 45; III. i. 81; IV. i. 95.
Painter, I. i. 48; II. i. 45; III. i. 81; IV. i. 95.
Derivates.—A tragedy with this title, by J. Bancroft, appeared in 1679, but it is scarcely likely to have been derived from Painter.]
Derivates.—A tragedy with this title, by J. Bancroft, came out in 1679, but it’s unlikely that it came from Painter.
XXV. Sibylline Leaves.
Of the bookes of Sybilla.
Of the books of Sybilla.
[Source.—A. Gellius, Noct. Att. i. 19.
[Source.—A. Gellius, Noct. Att. i. 19.
Origin.—Pliny, Hist. Nat. xiii. 28.
Origin.—Pliny, Natural History xiii. 28.
Painter, I. i. 49; II. i. 46; III. i. 84; IV. i. 98.]
Painter, I. i. 49; II. i. 46; III. i. 84; IV. i. 98.]
XXVI. Master and Scholar.
A difference and controuersie betwene a maister and a scholler, so subtile that the iudges coulde not geue sentence.
A disagreement and dispute between a teacher and a student, so subtle that the judges couldn't make a ruling.
[Source and Origin.—A. Gellius.
[Source and Origin.—A. Gellius.]
Painter, I. i. 80; II. i. 46; III. i. 85; IV. i. 99.]
Painter, I. i. 80; II. i. 46; III. i. 85; IV. i. 99.]
XXVII. Seleucus and Antiochus.
Seleucus king of Asia, gaue his wife to his owne sonne in mariage, being his mother in lawe; who so feruently did loue her, that he was like to die, whiche by a discrete and wyse inuention, was discouered to Seleucus by a Phisition.
Seleucus, the king of Asia, gave his wife to his own son in marriage, making her his mother-in-law; he was so passionately in love with her that he was on the verge of dying, which was revealed to Seleucus by a clever and wise physician.
[Source and Origin.—Plutarch, Demetrius (probably in Amyot’s translation).
[Source and Origin.—Plutarch, Demetrius (likely in Amyot’s translation).]
Parallels—.Val. Max. v. 7; Wanley, Wonders, III. ix. 4.
Parallels—.Val. Max. v. 7; Wanley, Wonders, III. ix. 4.
Painter, I. i. 51; II. i. 48; III. i. 88; IV. i. 102.]
Painter, I. i. 51; II. i. 48; III. i. 88; IV. i. 102.]
XXVIII. Timon of Athens.
Of the straunge and beastlie nature of Timon of Athens, enemie to mankinde, with his death, buriall, and Epitaphe.
Of the strange and beastly nature of Timon of Athens, enemy to mankind, with his death, burial, and epitaph.
[Source and Origin.—Plutarch, Marc Antonius (probably through Amyot’s translation).
[Source and Origin.—Plutarch, Marc Antonius (likely through Amyot’s translation).]
Parallels—.Erasmus, Adagio; Sabell. Exemp. ii. 2; Reynolds, Treatise of Passions, c. 13; Wanley, Wonders, II. ix. 8.
Parallels—.Erasmus, Adagio; Sabell. Exemp. ii. 2; Reynolds, Treatise of Passions, c. 13; Wanley, Wonders, II. ix. 8.
Painter, I. i. 57; II. i. 54; III. i. 98; IV. i. 112.
Painter, I. i. 57; II. i. 54; III. i. 98; IV. i. 112.
Derivates.—Shakespeare’s Timon of Athens (c. 1608) is founded on this, though much expanded. There is a play of Timon anterior to Shakespeare’s, and printed by Mr. Hazlitt.]
Derivates.—Shakespeare’s Timon of Athens (c. 1608) is based on this, but has many additions. There is an earlier version of Timon before Shakespeare's, published by Mr. Hazlitt.
XXIX. Marriage of Widow and Widower.
The mariage of a man and woman, hee being the husband of xx. wiues: and shee the wife of xxii. husbandes.
The marriage of a man and woman, he being the husband of 20 wives, and she the wife of 22 husbands.
Origin.—St. Jerome.
Origin.—St. Jerome.
Painter, I. i. 59; II. i. 55; III. i. 100; IV. i. 114.]
Painter, I. i. 59; II. i. 55; III. i. 100; IV. i. 114.]
XXX. The Three Rings.
How Melchisedech a iewe, by telling a pretie tale of three Ringes, saued his life.
How Melchisedech survived by telling a clever story about three rings.
[Source.—Boccaccio, Decameron, giorn. i., nov. 3.
[Source.—Boccaccio, Decameron, day 1, tale 3.]
Origin.—Cento novelle antichi, 72 (through Busone), L’avventuroso Ciciliano; cf. Landau, Die Quellen2 183. Probably original source was Jewish. Cf. G. Paris in Revue des études juives, t. xvii., and A. Wünsche in Lessing-Mendelssohn Gedenkbuch.
Origin.—Cento novelle antichi, 72 (via Busone), L’avventuroso Ciciliano; see Landau, Die Quellen2 183. The original source was likely Jewish. See G. Paris in Revue des études juives, vol. xvii., and A. Wünsche in Lessing-Mendelssohn Gedenkbuch.
Parallels.—Med.: Shebet Jehuda (Heb.), Gesta Rom. 89. Lessing, Nathan der Weise.
Parallels.—Med.: Shebet Jehuda (Heb.), Gesta Rom. 89. Lessing, Nathan der Weise.
Painter.—I. i. 60; II. i. 56; III. i. 102; IV. i. 116.]
Painter.—I. i. 60; II. i. 56; III. i. 102; IV. i. 116.
XXXI. Borsieri and Grimaldi.
One called Guglielmo Borsiere with certaine wordes well placed, taunted the couetous life of Ermino Grimaldi.
One named Guglielmo Borsiere, with carefully chosen words, mocked the greedy lifestyle of Ermino Grimaldi.
[Source.—Boccaccio, Dec., giorn. i., nov. 8.
[Source.—Boccaccio, Dec., day 1, nov. 8.
Origin.—Benvenuto Rambaldi. Commentary on Inferno xvi.
Origin.—Benvenuto Rambaldi. Commentary on Inferno xvi.
Painter.—I. i. 61; II. i. 57; III. i. 105; IV. i. 119.]
Painter.—I. i. 61; II. i. 57; III. i. 105; IV. i. 119.]
XXXII. Alberto of Bologna.
Maister Alberto of Bologna, by a pleasaunt aunsweare made a gentlewoman to blushe, which had thoughte to haue put him out of countenaunce, in telling him that he was in loue with her.
Maister Alberto of Bologna, with a clever response, made a lady blush, who had thought to embarrass him by saying that he was in love with her.
[Source and Origin.—Boccaccio, Dec. i. 10.
[Source and Origin.—Boccaccio, Dec. i. 10.
Painter.—I. i. 63; II. i. 58; III. i. 108; IV. i. 122.]
Painter.—I. i. 63; II. i. 58; III. i. 108; IV. i. 122.]
XXXIII. Rinaldo of Este.
Rinaldo of Esti being robbed, arrived at Castel Guglielmo, and was succoured of a wydowe: and restored to his losses, retourning saulfe and sounde home to his owne house.
Rinaldo of Esti, after being robbed, arrived at Castel Guglielmo, where he was helped by a widow, and was compensated for his losses, returning safe and sound to his own house.
[Source.—Boccaccio, Dec. ii. 2.
[Source.—Boccaccio, Dec. ii. 2.]
Origin.—Pantschatantra (Fables of Bidpai), II. iv. tr. Benfey, 183.
Origin.—Pantschatantra (Fables of Bidpai), II. iv. tr. Benfey, 183.
Painter.—I. i. 64; II. i. 60; III. i. 111; IV. i. 125.
Painter.—I. i. 64; II. i. 60; III. i. 111; IV. i. 125.
Derivatives.—The Widow, attributed to Ben Jonson, Fletcher and Middleton, seems to have been derived from this.]
Derivatives.—The Widow, which is attributed to Ben Jonson, Fletcher, and Middleton, appears to have come from this.
XXXIV. The King of England’s Daughter.
Three yonge men hauing fondlye consumed all that they had, became verie poore, whose nephewe (as he retourned out of Englande into Italie,) by the waye fell into acquaintaunce with an abbote, whome (vpon further familiaritie) he knewe to be the king of Englande’s doughter, whiche toke him to husbande. Afterwardes she restored his vncles to all their losses, and sent them home in good state and reputation.
Three young men, having foolishly wasted everything they had, became very poor. One of their nephews, as he returned from England to Italy, met an abbot along the way, who upon getting to know him better, he realized was the king of England's daughter. She took him as her husband. Later, she returned all of her uncles' losses and sent them home in good condition and with their reputations intact.
[Source and Origin.66—Boccaccio, Dec., giorn. ii., nov. 3.
[Source and Origin.66—Boccaccio, Dec., giorn. ii., nov. 3.]
Painter.—I. i. 68; II. i. 63; III. i. 116; IV. i. 130.]
Painter.—I. i. 68; II. i. 63; III. i. 116; IV. i. 130.]
XXXV. Landolfo Ruffolo.
Landolpho Ruffolo being impooerished, became a pirate and taken by the Geneuois, was in daunger of drowning, who sauing himselfe vpon a litle coafer full of rich iewels, was receiued at Corfu, and beinge cherished by a woman, retourned home very riche.
Landolpho Ruffolo, who was poor, became a pirate and was captured by the Genoese. In danger of drowning, he managed to save himself on a small chest full of valuable jewels. He was taken in by a woman in Corfu, and after her support, he returned home very wealthy.
[Source and Origin.—Boccaccio, Decamerone, giorn. ii., nov. 4.
[Source and Origin.—Boccaccio, Decameron, day ii., tale 4.]
Painter.—I. i. 73; II. i. 68; III. i. 124; IV. i. 138.]
Painter.—I. i. 73; II. i. 68; III. i. 124; IV. i. 138.]
XXXVI. Andruccio.
Andreuccio of Perugia being come to Naples to buy horses, was in one night surprised, with three marueilous accidentes. All which hauinge escaped with one Rubie he retourned home to his house.
Andreuccio of Perugia went to Naples to buy horses and was caught off guard one night by three incredible events. Having made it through all of them with just one ruby, he returned home.
[Source.—Boccaccio, Decamerone, giorn. ii., nov. 5.
[Source.—Boccaccio, Decameron, day ii., nov. 5.]
Origin.—Fabliau, Boivin de Provins. Barbazan, i. 357.
Origin.—Fabliau, Boivin de Provins. Barbazan, vol. 1, p. 357.
Parallels.—Mod.: Pitré, Nov. pop. sic. No. 163. Nerucci, Nov. montalesi, No. 45. Gianandrea, Trad. Marchigiane (cf. T. F. Crane, Academy, 22 Mar. 1879). Schiefner, Mahâkâtjâjana, 23.
Parallels.—Mod.: Pitré, Nov. pop. sic. No. 163. Nerucci, Nov. montalesi, No. 45. Gianandrea, Trad. Marchigiane (see T. F. Crane, Academy, March 22, 1879). Schiefner, Mahâkâtjâjana, 23.
Painter.—I. 76; II. i. 71; III. i. 129; IV. i. 143.]
Painter.—I. 76; II. i. 71; III. i. 129; IV. i. 143.]
XXXVII. The Earl of Angiers.
The erle of Angiers being falsely accused, was banished out of Fraunce, and left his two sonnes in sondry places in Englande, and retourning (vnknowen) by Scotlande, founde theim in great authoritie, afterwardes he repayred in the habite of a seruaunte, to the Frenche kinges armie, and being knowen to be innocent, was againe aduaunced to his first estate.
The Earl of Angiers, wrongfully accused, was exiled from France and left his two sons in different places in England. Later, he returned (disguised) through Scotland and found them in positions of great authority. He then went back to the French king's army dressed as a servant, and once it was revealed that he was innocent, he was restored to his former status.
[Source.—Boccaccio, Decamerone, giorn. ii., nov. 8.
[Source.—Boccaccio, Decameron, day ii., tale 8.]
Origin.—Dante, Purg. vi. 22, and frame of Seven Wise Masters.
Origin.—Dante, Purg. vi. 22, and frame of Seven Wise Masters.
Parallels.—Mediæval: Guillaume de la Barre, ed. P. Meyer; Jacob à Voragine, Legenda aurea, 176; Gesta Rom. 48; Mod.: Goethe, Vertriebener Graf.
Parallels.—Medieval: Guillaume de la Barre, ed. P. Meyer; Jacob à Voragine, Golden Legend, 176; Gesta Rom. 48; Modern: Goethe, Expelled Count.
Painter.—I. i. 85; II. i. 78; III. i. 142; IV. i. 156.
Painter.—I. i. 85; II. i. 78; III. i. 142; IV. i. 156.
Derivates.—Ayres, the German dramatist (+ 1605), who derived much from the English comedians, had a drama called Graf von Angiers.]
Derivatives.—Ayres, the German playwright (+ 1605), who took a lot from the English comedians, wrote a play called Graf von Angiers.
XXXVIII. Giletta of Narbonne.
Giletta, a Phisition’s doughter of Narbon, healed the French King of a Fistula, for reward whereof she demaunded Beltramo Counte of Rossiglione to husband. The Counte being maried against his will, for despite fled to Florence and loued another. Giletta his wife, by pollicie founde meanes to lye with her husbande, in place of his louer, and was begotten with childe of two sonnes: which knowen to her husband, he receiued her againe, and afterwards he liued in great honour and felicitie.
Giletta, a physician's daughter from Narbonne, healed the French King of a fistula, and in return, she asked for Beltramo, Count of Rossiglione, as her husband. The Count, married against his will, fled to Florence and fell in love with someone else. Giletta, his wife, cleverly found a way to be with her husband instead of his lover, and she became pregnant with twins. When her husband discovered this, he took her back, and they lived happily and honorably ever after.
[Source.—Boccaccio, Decamerone, giorn. iii., nov. 9.
[Source.—Boccaccio, Decameron, day iii, story 9.]
Origin.—? Terence Hecyra.
Source.—? Terence Hecyra.
Parallels.—Mediæval: Somadeva Katha-sarit-sagara, 29; Von der Hagen, Gesammt. No. 32; Fauche Tetrade, ii. No. 6; Mod.: Gipsy Tale, by F. Miklosich, Denks. K. Akad., Wien, xxiii. p. 14.
Parallels.—Mediæval: Somadeva Katha-sarit-sagara, 29; Von der Hagen, Gesammt. No. 32; Fauche Tetrade, ii. No. 6; Mod.: Gipsy Tale, by F. Miklosich, Denks. K. Akad., Vienna, xxiii. p. 14.
Painter.—I. i. 95; II. i. 87; III. i. 157; IV. i. 171.
Painter.—I. i. 95; II. i. 87; III. i. 157; IV. i. 171.
Derivates.—The main plot of Shakespeare’s All’s Well that Ends Well certainly comes from Painter.]
Derivates.—The main plot of Shakespeare’s All’s Well that Ends Well definitely comes from Painter.
XXXIX. Tancred and Gismonda.
Tancredi Prince of Salerne, caused his doughter’s louer to be slayne, and sente his harte vnto her in a cup of golde: whiche afterwardes she put into poysoned water, and drinking thereof died.
Tancredi, Prince of Salerno, ordered his daughter's lover to be killed and sent his heart to her in a cup of gold. She later put it into poisoned water, and when she drank it, she died.
[Origin.—Boccaccio, Decamerone, giorn. iv., nov. i.
[Origin.—Boccaccio, Decameron, day iv, story i.]
Source.—Romance of Raoul de Couçy.
Source.—Romance of Raoul de Coucy.
Parallels.—Med.: Aretini, De Amore Guiscardii, F. Beroaldo, Latin verse, Paris, 1599; J. Fleury, L’amour parfaite de Giusgardu, Paris, 1493; A. Guasco in ottava rima, Venice, 1600; W. Walter, Amorous hysterie of Guistard, 1532; Howell, Letters, ed. Jacobs, p. 323; Wanley, Wonders, II. xii. 24.
Parallels.—Med.: Aretini, De Amore Guiscardii, F. Beroaldo, Latin verse, Paris, 1599; J. Fleury, L’amour parfaite de Giusgardu, Paris, 1493; A. Guasco in ottava rima, Venice, 1600; W. Walter, Amorous hysterie of Guistard, 1532; Howell, Letters, ed. Jacobs, p. 323; Wanley, Wonders, II. xii. 24.
Painter.—I. i. 100; II. i. 92; III. i. 166; IV. i. 180.
Painter.—I. i. 100; II. i. 92; III. i. 166; IV. i. 180.
Derivates.—R. Wilmot, Tancred and Gismund (performed 1568, printed 1591); Turberville, Tragicall Tales, iv.]
Derivatives.—R. Wilmot, Tancred and Gismund (performed 1568, printed 1591); Turberville, Tragicall Tales, iv.]
XL. Mahomet and Irene.
Mahomet one of the Turkish Emperours, executeth curssed crueltie vpon a Greeke maiden, whome hee tooke prisoner, at the wynning of Constantinople.
Mahomet, one of the Turkish Emperors, inflicts terrible cruelty on a Greek maiden whom he captured during the conquest of Constantinople.
[Source and Origin.—Bandello, Part i., nov. 10 (through French translation of Boaistuau, 1559, no. 2).
[Source and Origin.—Bandello, Part i., nov. 10 (through French translation of Boaistuau, 1559, no. 2).
Parallels.—Belleforest, Histories tragiques, i. 30 seq.; Knowles, Turk. Hist. 350 seq.; Wanley, Wonders, IV. x. 6.
Parallels.—Belleforest, Histories tragiques, i. 30 seq.; Knowles, Turk. Hist. 350 seq.; Wanley, Wonders, IV. x. 6.
Painter.—I. i. 107; II. i. 94; III. i. 176; IV. i. 190.
Painter.—I. i. 107; II. i. 94; III. i. 176; IV. i. 190.
Derivates.—Peele’s Famous play of the Turkish Mahomet and Hyren the Fair Greek, played in 1594 and 1601 (not extant). Ayres had also a drama on Mahomet. Also, L. Carlell, Osmond the Great Turk, 1657; G. Swinhoe, Unhappy fair Irene, 1658; C. Goring, Irene, 1708; Dr. Johnson, Irene, 1749.]
Derivates.—Peele’s Famous play of the Turkish Mahomet and Hyren the Fair Greek, performed in 1594 and 1601 (not available today). Ayres also wrote a play about Mahomet. Additionally, L. Carlell, Osmond the Great Turk, 1657; G. Swinhoe, Unhappy fair Irene, 1658; C. Goring, Irene, 1708; Dr. Johnson, Irene, 1749.]
XLI. Lady Falsely Accused.
A Ladie faslie accused of adultrie, was condempned to be deuoured of Lions: the maner of her deliuerie, and how (her innocencie being knowen) her accuser felt the paines for her prepared.
A lady falsely accused of adultery was condemned to be eaten by lions. The way she was delivered, and how her accuser suffered the consequences once her innocence was revealed.
[Source and Origin.—Bandello (through Belleforest’s translation, 1559, no. 2).
[Source and Origin.—Bandello (via Belleforest’s translation, 1559, no. 2).]
Painter.—I. i. 112; II. i. 103; III. i. 184; IV. i. 198.]
Painter.—I. i. 112; II. i. 103; III. i. 184; IV. i. 198.]
XLII. Didaco and Violenta.
Didaco a Spaniarde, is in loue with a poore maiden of Valencia, and secretly marieth her, afterwardes lothinge his first mariage, because she was of base parentage, he marieth an other of noble birth. His first lxxv wyfe, by secrete messenger prayeth his company, whose request he accomplisheth. Being a bedde, shee and her maide killeth him. She throweth him into the streate: shee in desperate wise confesseth the facte before the Maiestrates, and is put to death.
Didaco, a Spaniard, is in love with a poor maiden from Valencia and secretly marries her. Later, he grows to despise his first marriage because she comes from a lowly background and marries someone else of noble birth. His first lxxv wife secretly asks for his company, which he fulfills. While in bed, she and her maid kill him. She throws him into the street and, in desperation, confesses the deed to the authorities, and is sentenced to death.
[Source.—Boaistuau, 1559, no. 5.
[Source.—Boaistuau, 1559, no. 5.]
Origin.—Bandello, Part i., nov. 42.
Origin.—Bandello, Part 1, Nov. 42.
Painter.—I. i. 125; II. i. 114; III. i. 204; IV. i. 218.
Painter.—I. i. 125; II. i. 114; III. i. 204; IV. i. 218.
Derivates.—T. Achely put the story into verse, 1576. Beaumont and Fletcher’s Triumph of Death, the second of their Four Plays in One.]
Derivates.—T. Achely turned the story into verse, 1576. Beaumont and Fletcher’s Triumph of Death, the second of their Four Plays in One.
XLIII. Lady of Turin
Wantones and pleasaunt life being guides of insolencie, doth bring a miserable end to a faire ladie of Thurin, whom a noble man aduaunced to high estate: as appereth by this historie, wherein he executeth great crueltie vpon his sayde ladie, taken in adulterie.
Wantonness and a pleasant life, being the guides of arrogance, lead to a miserable end for a beautiful lady of Thurin, whom a noble man elevated to a high position. This is shown in this story, where he commits great cruelty against his said lady, caught in adultery.
[Source.—Boaistuau, 1559, no. 4.
[Source.—Boaistuau, 1559, no. 4.]
Origin.—Bandello, Part ii., nov. 12.
Origin.—Bandello, Part 2, Nov. 12.
Parallels.—Belleforest, i. 78 seq. Q. Margaret, Heptameron, nov. 32 (cf. Painter I. 57, infra and parallels there).
Parallels.—Belleforest, i. 78 seq. Q. Margaret, Heptameron, nov. 32 (see Painter I. 57, below and parallels there).
Painter.—I. i. 135; II. i. 127; III. i. 226; IV. i. 240.]
Painter.—I. i. 135; II. i. 127; III. i. 226; IV. i. 240.]
XLIV. Aleran and Adelasia.
The loue of Alerane of Saxone, and of Andelasia the doughter of the Emperour Otho the thirde of that name. Their flight and departure into Italie, and how they were known againe, and what noble houses of Italie descended of their race.
The love of Alerane of Saxone and Andelasia, the daughter of Emperor Otho the third of that name. Their escape and journey to Italy, how they were recognized again, and which noble houses in Italy descended from their lineage.
[Source and Origin.—Bandello, Part ii., nov. 27 (Belleforest, 1559, no. 1).
[Source and Origin.—Bandello, Part ii., nov. 27 (Belleforest, 1559, no. 1).]
Parallels.—Belleforest, i. 57 seq.
Parallels.—Belleforest, i. 57 etc.
Painter.—I. i. 20 (sic); II. i. 130; III. i. 245; IV. i. 249.]
Painter.—I. i. 20 (sic); II. i. 130; III. i. 245; IV. i. 249.]
XLV. Duchess of Savoy.
The Duchesse of Sauoie, being the kinge of England’s sister, was in the Duke her husbandes absence, vniustlye accused of adulterie, by a noble man, his Lieutenaunte: and shoulde haue beene put to death, if by the prowesse and valiaunt combate of Don Iohn di Mendozza, (a gentleman of Spaine) she had not beene deliuered. With a discourse of maruelous accidentes, touchinge the same, to the singuler praise and commendation of chaste and honest Ladies.
The Duchess of Savoy, being the sister of the King of England, was unjustly accused of adultery by a nobleman, who was her husband's lieutenant, during her husband's absence. She would have been put to death if it weren't for the bravery and valor of Don John de Mendoza, a gentleman from Spain, who rescued her. This tale is filled with incredible events and highlights the exceptional courage of chaste and honorable women.
Origin.—Bandello, Part ii., nov. 44 (from Val. Baruchius).
Origin.—Bandello, Part ii., nov. 44 (from Val. Baruchius).
Parallels.—Belleforest, i. 107, seq.
Parallels.—Belleforest, i. 107, etc.
Painter.—I. i. 226; II. i. 153; III. i. 271; IV. i. 285.
Painter.—I. i. 226; II. i. 153; III. i. 271; IV. i. 285.
Derivates.—De la Peend, History of John Lord Mandozze, 1565 (cf. Brit. Bibliographer, ii. 523). De la Peend must have had proof sheets of Painter.]
Derivates.—De la Peend, History of John Lord Mandozze, 1565 (cf. Brit. Bibliographer, ii. 523). De la Peend must have had proof sheets of Painter.
XLVI. The Countess of Salisbury.
A King of England loued the daughter of one of his noble men, which was Countesse of Salesburie, who after great sute to atchieue that he could not winne, for the entire loue he bare her, and her greate constancie, hee made her his queene and wife.
A King of England loved the daughter of one of his noblemen, who was the Countess of Salisbury. After much effort to win her over, which he couldn’t achieve, due to the deep love he had for her and her great steadfastness, he made her his queen and wife.
[Source.—Bandello, Part ii., nov. 26 (through Boaistuau, no. 1).
[Source.—Bandello, Part ii., nov. 26 (through Boaistuau, no. 1).]
Origin.—Froissart, i., cc. 77-89. (N.B.—There is a confusion between Edward III. and the Black Prince, who was really the Countess’ lover.)
Origin.—Froissart, i., cc. 77-89. (N.B.—There’s a mix-up between Edward III and the Black Prince, who was actually the Countess’ lover.)
Parallels.—Belleforest, i. § 18.
Parallels.—Belleforest, vol. i, § 18.
Painter.—I. i. 258; II. i. 182; III. i. 320; IV. 334.
Painter.—I. i. 258; II. i. 182; III. i. 320; IV. 334.
Derivates.—The Shakespearian part of Edward III. is derived from the work of Painter.]
Derivates.—The Shakespearean section of Edward III. comes from Painter's work.
XLVII. Galgano and Madonna Minoccia.
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 husband had spoken of him, and for recompence he refused to dishonest her.
A man named Galgano had long been pursuing Madonna Minoccia. Her husband, Sir Stricca, unaware of this, often praised and spoke highly of Galgano. One day, when her husband wasn't around, she called for him and offered herself to him, sharing the compliments her husband had made. In response, he refused to take advantage of her.
[Source and Origin.—Ser Giovanne Fiorentino, Peccorone, I. i.
[Source and Origin.—Sir Giovanne Fiorentino, Peccorone, I. i.]
Parallels.—Masuccio, Novellino, 1450, nov. 21.
Parallels.—Masuccio, Novellino, 1450, Nov. 21.
Painter.—I. i. 279; II. i. 199; III. i. 351; IV. ii. 3.]
Painter.—I. i. 279; II. i. 199; III. i. 351; IV. ii. 3.]
XLVIII. Bindo and Ricciardo.
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 lxxvii 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 mariage.
Bindo, a well-known architect, and his son Ricciardo, along with their entire family, moved from Florence to Venice. There, they became citizens due to various monuments they created, but because of excessive spending, they were forced to steal from the treasury. Bindo was killed through a scheme devised by the Duke and the state. Ricciardo cleverly escaped from four dangers. Later, the Duke, admitting to his own awareness of the tricks, granted him pardon and offered him his daughter in marriage.
[Source and Origin.—Ser Giovanne, Pecor., giorn. ix., nov. 1.
[Source and Origin.—Ser Giovanne, Pecor., day 9, new 1.]
Parallels.—Anc.: Herod ii. 121, 122; Diod. Sic. i. 62; Pausanius ix. 37, § 4. Med.: L. Valla. Mod.: H. Stephen, Traité preparatif à l’Apologie; Bandello, Part I. nov. xxv.
Parallels.—Anc.: Herodotus ii. 121, 122; Diodorus Siculus i. 62; Pausanias ix. 37, § 4. Med.: L. Valla. Mod.: H. Stephen, Preparatory Treatise to the Apology; Bandello, Part I, nov. xxv.
Painter.—I. i. 282; II. i. 202; III. i. 356; IV. ii. 8.
Painter.—I. i. 282; II. i. 202; III. i. 356; IV. ii. 8.
Derivates.—Henslowe’s Diary, 4 Mar. and 5 June 1592, has references to a tragedy of Bindo and Ricardo, evidently derived from this.]
Derivates.—Henslowe’s Diary, March 4 and June 5, 1592, includes mentions of a tragedy about Bindo and Ricardo, clearly based on this.
XLIX. Filenio Sisterno.
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.
Philenio Sisterno, a student from Bologna, was ridiculed by three beautiful ladies at a banquet that was intentionally arranged. He got his revenge on all of them.
[Source and Origin.—Straparola, Piac. Notti, II., nov. 2.
[Source and Origin.—Straparola, Piac. Notti, II., nov. 2.]
Painter.—I. i. 289; II. i. 208; III. i. 366; IV. i. 18.]
Painter.—I. i. 289; II. i. 208; III. i. 366; IV. i. 18.]
L. Muleteer’s Wife.
The piteous and chaste death of one of the muleters wiues of the Queene of Nauarre.
The sad and pure death of one of the muleteers' wives of the Queen of Navarre.
[Source and Origin.—Q. Margaret, Heptameron 2.
Source and Origin. —Q. Margaret, Heptameron 2.
Painter.—I. i. 296; II. i. 214; III. i. 377; IV. ii. 29.]
Painter.—I. i. 296; II. i. 214; III. i. 377; IV. ii. 29.]
LI. King of Naples.
A king of Naples, abusing a Gentleman’s wife, in the end did weare the hornes himself.
A king of Naples, who mistreated a gentleman's wife, ultimately ended up with the horns himself.
[Source and Origin.—Q. Margaret, Heptameron, 3.
[Source and Origin.—Q. Margaret, Heptameron, 3.
Parallels.—Bandello, Part iv., nov. 10.
Parallels. — Bandello, Part 4, Nov. 10.
Painter.—I. i. 298; II. i. 216; III. i. 380; IV. i. 32.]
Painter.—I. i. 298; II. i. 216; III. i. 380; IV. i. 32.]
LII. Princess of Flanders.
The rashe enterprise of a Gentleman against a Princesse of Flaunders, and of the shame that he receyued thereof.
The rash actions of a gentleman against a princess of Flanders, and the shame he received as a result.
[Source and Origin.—Q. Margaret, Heptameron, 4.
[Source and Origin.—Q. Margaret, Heptameron, 4.]
Painter.—I. i. 302; II. i. 219; III. i. 386; IV. ii. 38.]
Painter.—I. i. 302; II. i. 219; III. i. 386; IV. ii. 38.]
LIII. Amadour and Florinda.
The loue of Amadour and Florinda: wherein be conteined mani sleightes and dissimulations, together with the renowmed chastitie of the said Florinda.
The love of Amadour and Florinda: which contains many tricks and deceptions, along with the renowned purity of the mentioned Florinda.
[Source and Origin.—Q. Margaret, Heptameron, 10.
[Source and Origin.—Q. Margaret, Heptameron, 10.
Painter.—I. i. 306; II. i. 223; III. i. 393; IV. ii. 45.]
Painter.—I. i. 306; II. i. 223; III. i. 393; IV. ii. 45.]
LIV. Duke of Florence.
The incontinencie of a duke and of his impudencie to attaine his purpose, with the iust punishment which he receiued for the same.
The recklessness of a duke and his shamelessness to achieve his goals, along with the just punishment he received for it.
[Source and Origin.—Q. Margaret, Heptameron, 12.
[Source and Origin.—Q. Margaret, Heptameron, 12.]
Painter.—I. i. 326; II. i. 270; III. i. 423; IV. ii. 75.]
Painter.—I. i. 326; II. i. 270; III. i. 423; IV. ii. 75.]
LV. Francis I. and Count Guillaume.
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.
One of the French kings, named Francis the First, showed his kind nature to Count William, who had wanted to kill him.
[Source and Origin.—Q. Margaret, Heptameron, 17.
[Source and Origin.—Q. Margaret, Heptameron, 17.]
Painter.—I. i. 330; II. i. 243; III. i. 429; IV. ii. 81.]
Painter.—I. i. 330; II. i. 243; III. i. 429; IV. ii. 81.]
LVI. Gentlewoman of Pampelunæ.
A pleasaunt discours of a great Lord to enioy a Gentlewoman of Pampelunæ.
A pleasant conversation of a great Lord enjoying a Gentlewoman from Pamplona.
[Source and Origin.—Q. Margaret, Heptameron, 26.
[Source and Origin.—Q. Margaret, Heptameron, 26.]
Painter.—Not in I.; II. i. 245; III. i. 432; IV. ii. 84.]
Painter.—Not in I.; II. i. 245; III. i. 432; IV. ii. 84.]
LVII. A Strange Punishment of Adultery.
A punishment more rigorous than death, of a husband towarde his wife that had committed adulterie.
A punishment harsher than death, from a husband towards his wife who committed adultery.
[Source.—Q. Margaret, Heptameron, nov. 32.
[Source.—Q. Margaret, Heptameron, nov. 32.
Origin.—? Bandello, Part ii., nov. 10.
Origin.—? Bandello, Part II, Nov. 10.
Parallels.—Med.: Gesta, Gower; Conf. Amant. i. Mod.: Bandello, iii., nov. 15; Belleforest, i. 297; Whetstone, Heptameron, 3rd day; Stollberg, Ballad.
Parallels.—Med.: Gesta, Gower; Conf. Amant. i. Mod.: Bandello, iii., nov. 15; Belleforest, i. 297; Whetstone, Heptameron, 3rd day; Stollberg, Ballad.
Painter.—I. i. 332; II. i. 252; III. i. 445; IV. ii. 97.
Painter.—I. i. 332; II. i. 252; III. i. 445; IV. ii. 97.
LVIII. President of Grenoble.
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.
A President of Grenoble, informed about the poor management of his wife, took care to ensure that his integrity was not compromised, while still seeking revenge for the wrongdoing.
[Source and Origin.—Q. Margaret, Hept., nov. 36.
[Source and Origin.—Q. Margaret, Hept., nov. 36.]
Parallels.—Bandello, Part i., nov. 35.
Parallels.—Bandello, Pt. 1, Nov. 35.
Painter.—I. i. 334; II. i. 254; III. i. 449; IV. ii. 101.
Painter.—I. i. 334; II. i. 254; III. i. 449; IV. ii. 101.
Derivates.—Shirley’s Love’s Cruelty.]
Derivatives.—Shirley’s Love’s Cruelty.
LIX. Gentleman of Perche.
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.
A man from Perche, suspecting that his friend had wronged him, challenged him to prove the reason for his suspicion.
[Source and Origin.—Q. Margaret, Hept., nov. 47.
[Source and Origin.—Q. Margaret, Hept., nov. 47.]
Painter.—I. i. 336; II. i. 256; III. i. 452; IV. ii. 104.]
Painter.—I. i. 336; II. i. 256; III. i. 452; IV. ii. 104.]
LX. Gentleman that Died of Love.
The piteous death of an Amorous Gentleman, for the slacke comfort geuen him to late, by his beloued.
The tragic death of a Lovesick Gentleman, due to the late comfort given to him by his beloved.
[Source and Origin.—Q. Margaret, Hept., nov. 9.
[Source and Origin.—Q. Margaret, Hept., nov. 9.]
Painter.—Not in I.; II. i. 258; III. i. 455; IV. ii. 107.]
Painter.—Not in I.; II. i. 258; III. i. 455; IV. ii. 107.]
LXI. Lady of the French Court.
A Gentlewoman of the Courte, very pleasauntly recompenced the seruice of a kinde seruaunte of her’s, that pursued her with service of loue.
A lady from the court pleasantly rewarded the efforts of a devoted servant of hers, who pursued her with acts of love.
[Source and Origin.—Q. Margaret, Hept., nov. 58.
[Source and Origin.—Q. Margaret, Hept., nov. 58.]
Painter.—Not in I.; II. i. 26; III. i. 461; IV. ii. 113.]
Painter.—Not in I.; II. i. 26; III. i. 461; IV. ii. 113.]
LXII. Rolandine the Chaste.
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.
The genuine and amazing love between a noblewoman and a man of humble origins, and how a queen interfered and prevented their marriage, along with the clever response of the woman to the queen.
Painter.—Not in I.; II. i. 263; III. i. 464; IV. ii. 116.]
Painter.—Not in I.; II. i. 263; III. i. 464; IV. ii. 116.]
LXIII. The Prudent Lady.
The Wisedome of a woman to withdrawe the foolishe loue of her husband, wherewith he was tormented.
The wisdom of a woman to withdraw the foolish love of her husband, with which he was tormented.
[Source and Origin.—Q. Margaret, Hept., nov. 37.
[Source and Origin.—Q. Margaret, Hept., nov. 37.]
Painter.—Not in I.; II. i. 263; III. i. 483; IV. ii. 135.]
Painter.—Not in I.; II. i. 263; III. i. 483; IV. ii. 135.]
LXIV. The Lady of Tours.
The notable charitie of a woman of Tours towards her husbande.
The remarkable kindness of a woman from Tours towards her husband.
[Source and Origin.—Q. Margaret, Hept., nov. 38.
[Source and Origin.—Q. Margaret, Hept., nov. 38.]
Painter.—Not in I.; II. i. 276; III. i. 487; IV. ii. 139.]
Painter.—Not in I.; II. i. 276; III. i. 487; IV. ii. 139.]
LXV. Miracle at Lyons.67
The simplicitie of an old woman, that offered a burning candle to S. Iohn of Lions.
The simplicity of an old woman who offered a burning candle to St. John of Lions.
[Source and Origin.—Hept., nov. 65.
[Source and Origin.—Hept., nov. 65.
Painter.—I. i. 338; II. i. 277; III. i. 489; IV. ii. 141.]
Painter.—I. i. 338; II. i. 277; III. i. 489; IV. ii. 141.]
LXVI. Doctor of Laws.
A Doctor of the Lawes boughte a cup, who by the subtiltie of two false varlets, lost both his money and the cuppe.
A lawyer bought a cup, but through the trickery of two deceitful scoundrels, he lost both his money and the cup.
[Source.—“Out of a little Frenche booke called ‘Comptes du Monde Avantureux.’”
[Source.—“From a small French book titled ‘Adventurous World Accounts.’”
Origin.—Massanio, Novellino, Part II. nov. 17.
Origin.—Massanio, Novellino, Part II. Nov. 17.
Parallels.—Mensa Philosophica.
Parallels.—Mensa Philosophica.
Painter.—I. i. 339; II. i. 278; III. i. 490; IV. ii. 142.
Painter.—I. i. 339; II. i. 278; III. i. 490; IV. ii. 142.
Derivates.—Marston’s Dutch Courtesan, 1605; and Anon.: The Cuckqueanes and Cuckolds Errant, a Comedye, 1601, formerly in Haslewood’s possession.]
Derivates.—Marston’s Dutch Courtesan, 1605; and Anon.: The Cuckqueanes and Cuckolds Errant, a Comedye, 1601, formerly in Haslewood’s possession.]
THE SECOND TOME.
I. The Amazons.
The hardinesse and conquests of diuers stout, and aduenturous women, called Amazones, the beginninge, and continuance of their Reigne, and of the great iourney of one of their Queenes called Thalestris to visit Alexander the great: with the cause of her trauaile.
The toughness and victories of various bold and adventurous women, known as Amazons, the start and ongoing reign of their rule, and the significant journey of one of their queens named Thalestris to visit Alexander the Great, along with the reason for her journey.
[Source and Origen.—Herod, iv. 110.
[Source and Origin.—Herod, iv. 110.
Parallels.—Acerra, ii. 58; Albertinus, 55; Kirchhof, Wendenmuth, iv. 182.
Parallels.—Acerra, ii. 58; Albertinus, 55; Kirchhof, Wendenmuth, iv. 182.
Painter.—I. ii. 1; II. ii. 1; III. ii. 1; IV. ii. 159.]
Painter.—I. ii. 1; II. ii. 1; III. ii. 1; IV. ii. 159.]
Derivates.—A Masque of the Amazons was played March 3, 1592 (Henslowe).]
Derivates.—A Masque of the Amazons was performed on March 3, 1592 (Henslowe).
II. Alexander and Sisigambis.
The great pitie and continencie of Alexander the great and his louinge entertaynment of Sisigambis the wife of the great monarch Darivs after he was vanquished.
The great compassion and self-control of Alexander the Great and his loving treatment of Sisigambis, the wife of the great monarch Darius, after he was defeated.
[Source and Origin.—Q. Curtius, x. 5.
[Source and Origin.—Q. Curtius, x. 5.]
Parallels.—Justin, xiii. 1.
Parallels.—Justin, 13. 1.
Painter.—I. ii. 5; II. ii. 4; III. ii. 8; IV. ii. 166.]
Painter.—I. ii. 5; II. ii. 4; III. ii. 8; IV. ii. 166.]
III. Timoclia of Thebes.
Timoclia, a gentlewoman of Thebes, vnderstandinge the couetous desire of a Thracian knight, that had abused hir, and promised her mariage, rather for her goods than loue, well acquited hir selfe from his falshoode.
Timoclia, a lady from Thebes, understanding the greedy intentions of a Thracian knight who had wronged her and promised to marry her more for her wealth than for love, effectively defended herself against his deceit.
[Source and Origin.—Plutarch, Alexander, (Amyot).
[Source and Origin.—Plutarch, Alexander, (Amyot).
Parallels.—Zonar, Ann. i. f. 32; Wanley, Wonders, III. xxx. 6.
Parallels.—Zonar, Ann. i. f. 32; Wanley, Wonders, III. xxx. 6.
Painter.—I. ii. 9; II. ii. 7; III. ii. 14; IV. ii. 172.
Painter.—I. ii. 9; II. ii. 7; III. ii. 14; IV. ii. 172.
Derivates.—A play entitled Timoclia, doubtless derived from Painter, is mentioned in the Revel’s Account. It was played at Merchant Taylors’ in 1574. Fleay, History, 381.]
Derivates.—A play called Timoclia, likely taken from Painter, is referenced in the Revel’s Account. It was performed at Merchant Taylors’ in 1574. Fleay, History, 381.]
IV. Ariobarzanes.
Ariobarzanes great steward to Artaxerxes king of Persia, goeth about to exceede his soueraigne lord and maister in curtesie; where in be conteyned many notable and pleasaunt chaunces, besides the great patience and loyaltie naturally planted in the sayd Ariobarzanes.
Ariobarzanes, the chief steward to King Artaxerxes of Persia, tries to outdo his sovereign lord in kindness; this involves many notable and amusing events, as well as the great patience and loyalty that are naturally inherent in Ariobarzanes.
[Source and Origin.—i-Bandello, Pt. i., nov. 2.
[Source and Origin.—i-Bandello, Pt. i., nov. 2.]
Parallels.—Belleforest iv. f. 9 seq.
Parallels.—Belleforest iv. f. 9 etc.
Painter.—I. ii. 11; II. ii. 9; III. ii. 18; IV. ii. 176.]
Painter.—I. ii. 11; II. ii. 9; III. ii. 18; IV. ii. 176.]
V. Aristotemus the Tyrant.
Lucivs one of the garde to Aristotimvs the Tyrant of the cittye of Elis, fell in loue with a fayre mayden called Micca, the daughter of one Philodemvs and his cruelty done upon her. The stoutnesse also of a noble matron named Megistona in defence of hir husbande and the common wealth from the tyranny of the said Aristotimvs: and of other actes done by the subjects vppon that Tyrant.
Lucius, one of the guards of Aristotimus, the tyrant of the city of Elis, fell in love with a beautiful maiden named Micca, the daughter of Philodemus, and the cruelty he inflicted upon her. The bravery of a noble woman named Megistona in defending her husband and the common good from the tyranny of Aristotimus, along with other actions taken by the subjects against that tyrant.
[Source and Origin.—Bandello, Part iii. nov. 5.
[Source and Origin.—Bandello, Part iii. nov. 5.]
Parallels.—Belleforest, t. iv. f. 234.
Parallels.—Belleforest, vol. iv, p. 234.
Painter.—I. ii. 32; II. ii. 26; III ii. 51; IV. ii. 209.]
Painter.—I. ii. 32; II. ii. 26; III ii. 51; IV. ii. 209.]
VI. Tanaquil.
The maruaylous courage and ambition of a gentlewoman called Tanaquil, the Queene and wife of Tarqvinivs Priscvs the fift Roman king, with his persuasions and pollicy to hir husbande for his aduauncement to the kingdom, her lyke encouragement of Servivs Tvllivs, wherein also is described the ambition of one of the II. daughters of Servivs Tvllivs the sixt Roman king, and her cruelty towards her owne natural father: with other accidents chaunced in the new erected common welth of Rome, specially of the last Romane king Tarqvinivs Svperbvs, who with murder atteined the kingdome, with murder maynteined it, and by the murder and insolent lyfe of his sonne was with al his progeny banished.
The incredible courage and ambition of a noblewoman named Tanaquil, the Queen and wife of Tarquin Priscus, the fifth Roman king, along with her persuasive tactics to help her husband rise to power, her similar encouragement of Servius Tullius, and the ambition of one of Servius Tullius's two daughters—the sixth Roman king—and her cruelty towards her own father: along with other events that occurred in the newly established Roman Republic, especially those involving the last Roman king, Tarquin the Proud, who obtained the kingdom through murder, maintained it through murder, and was ultimately banished, along with all his descendants, due to the murder and reckless actions of his son.
[Source and Origin.—Livy, i. 34-41.
[Source and Origin.—Livy, i. 34-41.]
Painter.—I. ii. 40; II. ii. 33; III. ii. 63; IV. ii. 221.]
Painter.—I. ii. 40; II. ii. 33; III. ii. 63; IV. ii. 221.]
VII. Sophonisba.
The vnhappy end and successe of the loue of King Massinissa, and Queene Sophonisba his wyfe.
The unhappy ending and outcome of the love between King Massinissa and his wife, Queen Sophonisba.
[Source.—Bandello, Part i. nov. 41.
[Source.—Bandello, Part 1, novella 41.]
Origin.—Petrarch, Trionfi.
Origin.—Petrarch, Triumphs.
Parallels.—Belleforest, I. iii., f. 356; Trissino, Sophonisba (tragedy), 1524; Raleigh, Hist. V. iii. 8; Wanley, Wonders, III. liii. 2.
Parallels.—Belleforest, I. iii., f. 356; Trissino, Sophonisba (tragedy), 1524; Raleigh, Hist. V. iii. 8; Wanley, Wonders, III. liii. 2.
Painter.—I. ii. 49; II. ii. 39; III. ii. 78; IV. ii. 236.
Painter.—I. ii. 49; II. ii. 39; III. ii. 78; IV. ii. 236.
Derivates.—Marston, Wonder of Women, or Sophonisba, her tragedy, printed 1606; N. Lee, Sophonisba, or Hannibal’s Overthrow, 1676; J. Thomson, Sophonisba, acted 28 Feb. 1730.68]
Derivatives.—Marston, Wonder of Women, or Sophonisba, her tragedy, published in 1606; N. Lee, Sophonisba, or Hannibal’s Overthrow, 1676; J. Thomson, Sophonisba, performed on February 28, 1730.68]
VIII. Theoxena and Poris.
The crueltye of a Kynge of Macedone who forced a gentlewoman called Theoxena, to persuade hir children to kill and poyson themselves: after which fact, she and hir husband Poris ended their lyfe by drowninge.
The cruelty of a King of Macedon who forced a woman named Theoxena to convince her children to kill and poison themselves: after this act, she and her husband Poris ended their lives by drowning.
[Source and Origin.—Livy, xl. 4.
[Source and Origin.—Livy, xl. 4.]
Painter.—-I. ii. 39; II. ii. 48; III. ii. 94; IV. ii. 252.]
Painter.—-I. ii. 39; II. ii. 48; III. ii. 94; IV. ii. 252.]
IX. Lady of Hidrusa.
A straunge and maruellous vse, which in old time was obserued in Hidrvsa, where it was lawfull, with the licence of a magistrate ordayned for that purpose, for every man, and woman that list, to kill them selues.
A strange and wonderful practice, which was observed in Hidrvsa long ago, where it was lawful, with the permission of a magistrate appointed for that purpose, for any man or woman who wished to do so, to take their own lives.
[Source and Origin.—Bandello, Part i., nov. 56.
[Source and Origin.—Bandello, Part i., nov. 56.]
Parallels.—Belleforest, t. iv., f. 214.
Parallels.—Belleforest, vol. iv., p. 214.
Painter.—I. ii. 61; II. ii. 50; III. ii. 98; IV. ii. 256.]
Painter.—I. ii. 61; II. ii. 50; III. ii. 98; IV. ii. 256.]
X. The Empress Faustina.
The dishonest Loue of Favstina the Empresse, and with what remedy the same loue was remoued and taken away.
The deceitful love of Faustina the Empress, and how that love was removed and taken away.
Parallels.—Belleforest, t. iv., f. 83.
Parallels.—Belleforest, vol. iv., p. 83.
Painter.—I. ii. 65; II. ii. 52; III. ii. 102; IV. ii. 260.]
Painter.—I. ii. 65; II. ii. 52; III. ii. 102; IV. ii. 260.]
XI. Two Maids of Carthage.
Chera hid a treasure: Elisa going about to hang her selfe, and tying the halter about a beame found that treasure, and in place thereof left the halter. Philene the daughter of Chera going for that treasure, and busily searching for the same, found the halter, wherewithal for dispayre she would haue hanged hir selfe, but forbidden by Elisa, who by chaunce espied hir, she was restored to part of hir losse, leading afterwards a happy and prosperous lyfe.
Chera hid a treasure: Elisa, about to hang herself and tying the noose around a beam, discovered that treasure and left the noose in its place. Philene, Chera's daughter, searching for that treasure, found the noose instead, and in her despair, she considered hanging herself. However, Elisa, who happened to see her, stopped her, and Philene was able to recover part of what she had lost, eventually leading a happy and prosperous life.
[Source and Origin.—Cinthio, Ecatomithi, giorn. ix., nov. 8.
[Source and Origin.—Cinthio, Ecatomithi, day 9, story 8.]
Parallels.—“Heir of Linne” in Percy; Guellette, Contes tartares.
Parallels.—“Heir of Linne” in Percy; Guellette, Contes tartares.
Painter.—I. ii. 67; II. ii. 54; III. ii. 106; IV. ii. 264.]
Painter.—I. ii. 67; II. ii. 54; III. ii. 106; IV. ii. 264.]
XII. Letters of the Emperor Trajan.
Letters of the Philosopher Plutarch to the noble and vertuous Emperour Traiane, and from the sayd Emperour to Plutarch: the lyke also from the said Emperour to the Senate of Rome. In all which be conteyned godly rules for gouernment of Princes, obedience of Subiects, and their duties to common wealth.
Letters of the Philosopher Plutarch to the noble and virtuous Emperor Trajan, and from said Emperor to Plutarch: also from said Emperor to the Senate of Rome. In all of these, there are godly rules for the governance of princes, the obedience of subjects, and their duties to the commonwealth.
[Source and Origin.—Guevara.
[Source and Origin.—Guevara.]
Painter.—I. ii. 76; II. ii. 62; III. ii. 121; IV. ii. 279.]
Painter.—I. ii. 76; II. ii. 62; III. ii. 121; IV. ii. 279.]
XIII. Lamia, Flora and Lais.
A notable History of three amorous Gentlewomen called Lamia, Flora, and Lais: conteyning the sutes of noble Princes and other great Personages made vnto them, with their answeres to diuers demaundes: and the manner of their death and funerals.
A notable history of three lovestruck women named Lamia, Flora, and Lais: containing the advances made to them by noble princes and other important figures, along with their responses to various requests, and the details of their deaths and funerals.
[Source and Origin.—“Pausanias and Manitius” (text).
[Source and Origin.—“Pausanias and Manitius” (text).
Parallels.—Painter I. nov. xv.; for Lais, Fenton, Wonderful Secretes 1569, ff. 65-7.
Parallels.—Painter I. nov. xv.; for Lais, Fenton, Wonderful Secretes 1569, ff. 65-7.
Painter.—I. ii. 123 [89]; II. ii. 73; III. ii. 143; IV. ii. 301.]
Painter.—I. ii. 123 [89]; II. ii. 73; III. ii. 143; IV. ii. 301.]
XIV. Zenobia Queen of Palmyra.
The lyfe and giftes of the most Famous Queene Zenobia with the Letters of the Emperour Avrelianvs to the sayde Queene, and her stoute aunswere thereunto.
The life and gifts of the most famous Queen Zenobia, along with the letters from Emperor Aurelian to said queen, and her strong response to them.
[Source and Origin.—Tacitus, Ann. xii. 51.
[Source and Origin.—Tacitus, Ann. 12.51.]
Painter.—I. ii. 89 [95]; II. ii. 78; III. ii. 153; IV. 311.
Painter.—I. ii. 89 [95]; II. ii. 78; III. ii. 153; IV. 311.
Derivates.—A Zenobia was played at the Rose Theatre in 1591.]
Derivates.—A Zenobia was performed at the Rose Theatre in 1591.
XV. Euphemia and Acharisto.
Euphimia the Kyng of Corinth’s daughter fell in love with Acharisto, the seruaunt of her father, and besides others which required hir in mariage, she disdayned Philon the King of Peloponesvs, that loued hir very feruently. Acharisto conspiring against the King, was discouered, tormented, and put in prison, and by meanes of Euphimia deliuered. The King promised his daughter and kingdome to him that presented the head of Acharisto. Evphimia so wrought, as hee was presented to the King. The King gave him his daughter to wyfe and when he died made him his heyre. Acharisto began to hate his wyfe, and condemned hir to death as an adulteresse. Philon deliuered hir: and upon the sute of hir subiects, she is contented to mary him, and thereby he is made Kynge of Corinth.
Euphimia, the daughter of the King of Corinth, fell in love with Acharisto, her father's servant. Despite other suitors asking for her hand in marriage, she rejected Philon, the King of Peloponnesus, who loved her very passionately. Acharisto plotted against the King but was discovered, tortured, and imprisoned, and with Euphimia's help, he was freed. The King promised his daughter's hand and his kingdom to whoever brought him Acharisto's head. Euphimia manipulated the situation so that Acharisto was presented to the King. The King gave Acharisto his daughter as a wife, and when he passed away, he made Acharisto his heir. Acharisto then grew to hate his wife and accused her of adultery, condemning her to death. Philon saved her, and at the request of her subjects, she agreed to marry him, which made him the King of Corinth.
[Source and Origin.—Cinthio, Ecaton, viii., nov. 10.
[Source and Origin.—Cinthio, Ecaton, viii., nov. 10.]
Painter.—I. 101; II. ii. 82; III. ii. 162; IV. ii. 320.]
Painter.—I. 101; II. ii. 82; III. ii. 162; IV. ii. 320.]
XVI. The Marchioness of Monferrato.
The Marchionesse of Monferrato, with a banket of Hennes, and certaine pleasant wordes, repressed the fond loue of Philip the French Kynge.
The Marchioness of Monferrato, with a banquet of hens and some charming words, turned down the foolish love of Philip, the French King.
[Source.—Boccaccio, Decamerone, giorn. i., nov. 5.
[Source.—Boccaccio, Decameron, day 1, tale 5.]
Origin.—Seven Wise Masters.
Origin.—Seven Smart Masters.
Parallels.—Anc.: II. Sam. c. xi. Med.: Sindibad, and plls.
Parallels.—Anc.: II. Sam. c. xi. Med.: Sindibad, and plls.
Painter.—I. ii. 112; II. ii. 91; III. ii. 180; IV. ii. 338.]
Painter.—I. ii. 112; II. ii. 91; III. ii. 180; IV. ii. 338.]
XVII. Ansaldo and Dianora.
Mistresse Dianora demaunded of maister Ansaldo a garden so faire in Ianuary, as in the moneth of May. Mayster Ansaldo (by meanes of an lxxxvi obligation which he made to a Nicromancer) caused the same to bee done. The husband agreed with the gentlewoman that she should do the pleasure which maister Ansaldo required, who hearinge the liberality of hir husband, acquited hir of hir promise, and the Necromancer discharged maister Ansaldo.
Mistress Dianora asked Master Ansaldo for a garden that looked as beautiful in January as it did in May. Master Ansaldo (thanks to a deal he made with a Necromancer) got it done. The husband agreed with the lady that she would please Master Ansaldo as requested, but when he heard of her husband's generosity, he released her from her promise, and the Necromancer freed Master Ansaldo.
[Source.—Boccaccio, Decamerone, giorn. x., nov. 5.
[Source.—Boccaccio, Decameron, day x, tale 5.]
Origin.—Cukasaptati, cf. Forty Viziers, c. 14.
Origin.—Cukasaptati, see Forty Viziers, c. 14.
Parallels.—Med.: Chaucer, Cant. Tales. Mod.: Andræ, Chymische Hochzeit; cf. Campbell, West Highland Tales, No. 19, and R. Kohler’s variants in Orient und Occedent, ii.
Parallels.—Med.: Chaucer, Cant. Tales. Mod.: Andræ, Chymische Hochzeit; cf. Campbell, West Highland Tales, No. 19, and R. Kohler’s variants in Orient und Occedent, ii.
Painter.—I. ii. 114; II. ii. 93; III. ii. 184; IV. ii. 342.
Painter.—I. ii. 114; II. ii. 93; III. ii. 184; IV. ii. 342.
Derivates.—Beaumont and Fletcher, Triumph of Honour (but perhaps from Chaucer); Two Merry Milkmaids.]
Derivates.—Beaumont and Fletcher, Triumph of Honour (but maybe from Chaucer); Two Merry Milkmaids.]
XVIII. Mithradanes and Nathan.
Mithridanes enuious of the liberality of Nathan, and goinge aboute to kill hym, spake vnto him vnknowne, & being infourmed by himself by what meanes he might do the same he found him in a little wood accordingly as hee had tolde him, who knowinge him, was ashamed, and became his friende.
Mithridanes, jealous of Nathan's generosity, plotted to kill him. Disguising himself, he spoke to Nathan without revealing his identity. After learning from Nathan how he could carry out his plan, Mithridanes found him in a small woods, just as Nathan had mentioned. Upon recognizing him, Nathan felt ashamed and decided to befriend him.
[Source.—Boccaccio, Decamerone, giorn. x., nov. 3.
[Source.—Boccaccio, Decameron, day x, story 3.]
Origin.—? Sadi, Orchard, story of Chatemtai and King of Yemen.
Origin.—? Sadi, Orchard, story of Chatemtai and the King of Yemen.
Painter.—I. ii. 118; II. ii. 96; III. ii. 190; IV. ii. 348.]
Painter.—I. ii. 118; II. ii. 96; III. ii. 190; IV. ii. 348.]
XIX. Catherine of Bologna.
Mayster Gentil of Carisendi being come from Modena, tooke a woman out of hir graue that was buried for dead, who after she was come agayne, brought forth a sonne, which mayster Gentil rendred afterwardes with the mother to mayster Nicholas Chasennemie her husband.
Mayster Gentil of Carisendi came from Modena and took a woman out of her grave who had been buried for dead. After she came back to life, she gave birth to a son, which Mayster Gentil later returned to her husband, Mayster Nicholas Chasennemie, along with the mother.
[Source and Origin.—Boccaccio’s Decamerone, giorn. x., nov. 4.
[Source and Origin.—Boccaccio’s Decameron, day x., tale 4.]
Parallels.—Storia di Ginevra (printed, Pisa, 1863); Bandello, Part ii., nov. 41; Marie de France, Lai d’Eliduc; Uhland, Todten von Lustnau. See Liebrecht’s discussion, Zur Volkskunde, pp. 60-5.
Parallels.—History of Geneva (printed, Pisa, 1863); Bandello, Part ii., nov. 41; Marie de France, Lai d’Eliduc; Uhland, Death of Lustnau. See Liebrecht’s discussion, On Folklore, pp. 60-5.
Painter.—I. ii. 123; II. ii. 100; III. ii. 197; IV. ii. 355.]
Painter.—I. ii. 123; II. ii. 100; III. ii. 197; IV. ii. 355.
XX. Thorello and Saladine.
Saladine in the habite of a Marchaunt, was honourably receyued into the house of mayster Thorello, who went ouer the Sea, in company of the Christians, and assigned a terme of his wyfe when she should mary agayne. He was taken, and caried to the Sovldan to be his Faulconer, who knowing him, and suffering himself to be knowen, did him great honour. Mayster Thorello fell sicke, and by Magique Art, was caried in a night to Pavie, where he found his wyfe about to mary agayne, who knowinge him, returned home with him to his owne house.
Saladine, dressed as a merchant, was warmly welcomed into the home of Master Thorello, who had traveled across the sea with the Christians and had set a time for his wife to remarry. He was captured and taken to the Sultan to be his falconer; the Sultan recognized him and honored him greatly. Master Thorello fell ill, and through magical means, was transported overnight to Pavia, where he found his wife about to remarry. Recognizing him, she returned home with him to their own house.
[Source.—Boccaccio, Decamerone, giorn. x., nov. 9.
[Source.—Boccaccio, Decameron, day x, tale 9.]
Origin.—Busone da Gubbio, L’avventuroso Siciliano.
Origin.—Busone da Gubbio, The Adventurous Sicilian.
Painter.—I. ii. 128; II. ii. 104; III. ii. 205; IV. ii. 363.]
Painter.—I. ii. 128; II. ii. 104; III. ii. 205; IV. ii. 363.]
XXI. Anne Queen of Hungary.
A Gentleman of meane callinge and reputation, doth fall in loue with Anne, the Queene of Hungarie, whom shee very royally requited.
A man of modest profession and reputation falls in love with Anne, the Queen of Hungary, who returns his affection in a very royal manner.
[Source and Origin.—Bandello, Part i., nov. 45.
[Source and Origin.—Bandello, Part i., nov. 45.]
Painter.—I. i. 140; II. ii. 114; III. ii. 225; IV. ii. 383.]
Painter.—I. i. 140; II. ii. 114; III. ii. 225; IV. ii. 383.]
XXII. Alexander De Medice and the Miller’s Daughter.
The gentle and iust act of Alexander de Medices Duke of Florence, vpon a gentleman whom he fauoured, who hauing rauished the Daughter of a poore Myller, caused him to mary hir, for the greater honour and celebration whereof, he appoynted hir a rich and honourable Dowry.
The kind and fair action of Alexander de Medici, Duke of Florence, towards a gentleman he favored, who had raped a poor miller's daughter, led him to arrange their marriage. To honor this union, he provided her with a generous and respectable dowry.
[Source and Origin.—Bandello, Part ii., nov. 15.
[Source and Origin.—Bandello, Part ii., nov. 15.]
Painter.—I. ii. 155; II. ii. 127; III. ii. 248; IV. ii. 406.
Painter.—I. ii. 155; II. ii. 127; III. ii. 248; IV. ii. 406.
Derivates.—Fletcher, Maid of the Mill.]
Derivatives.—Fletcher, Maid of the Mill.
XXIII. The Duchess of Malfy.
The infortunate mariage of a Gentleman, called Antonio Bologna, wyth the Duchesse of Malfi, and the pitiful death of them both.
The unfortunate marriage of a gentleman named Antonio Bologna to the Duchess of Malfi, and the tragic deaths of both of them.
[Source and Origin.—Bandello, Part i., nov. 26.
[Source and Origin.—Bandello, Part i., nov. 26.
Parallels.—Belleforest, edit. 1565, nov. 19.
Parallels.—Belleforest, edit. 1565, Nov. 19.
Painter.—I. ii., 169; II. ii. 139; III. ii. 271; IV. iii. 3.
Painter.—I. ii., 169; II. ii. 139; III. ii. 271; IV. iii. 3.
Derivates.—Webster, Duchess of Malfy.]
Derivatives.—Webster, Duchess of Malfy.
XXIV. The Countess of Celant.
The disordered Lyfe of the Countesse of Celant, and how shee (causinge the County of Masino to be murdered,) was beheaded at Millan.
The chaotic life of the Countess of Celant, and how she had the County of Masino killed, resulted in her being executed in Milan.
[Source and Origin.—Bandello, Part i. nov. 4 (Belleforest, 1565, no. 20).
[Source and Origin.—Bandello, Part i. nov. 4 (Belleforest, 1565, no. 20).]
Parallels.—Fenton, Tragical Discourses; Whetstone, Castle of Delight, Heptameron.
Parallels.—Fenton, Tragical Discourses; Whetstone, Castle of Delight, Heptameron.
Painter.—I. ii. 195; II. ii. 160; III. ii. 312; IV. iii. 44.
Painter.—I. ii. 195; II. ii. 160; III. ii. 312; IV. iii. 44.
Derivates.—Marston, Insatiate Countess.]
Derivatives.—Marston, Insatiable Countess.
XXV. Romeo and Juliet.
The goodly Hystory of the true, and constant Loue between Rhomeo and Ivlietta, the one of whom died of Poyson, and the other of sorrow, and heuinesse: wherein be comprysed many aduentures of Loue, and other deuises touchinge the same.
The beautiful story of the true and constant love between Romeo and Juliet, one of whom died from poison and the other from grief and sadness; in which many adventures of love and other schemes related to this are included.
[Source.—Bandello, Part ii., nov. 9 (through Boaistuau, 1559, no. 3).
[Source.—Bandello, Part ii., nov. 9 (through Boaistuau, 1559, no. 3).
Origin.—Luigi da Porto, 1535 (fr. Masuccio, 1476, nov. xxxiii.).
Origin.—Luigi da Porto, 1535 (from Masuccio, 1476, novel xxxiii.).
Parallels.—Belleforest, t. i.; otto novelle rarissime; A. Brooke, 1562; Lopez de Vega, Los Castelveses y Monteses; F. de Roscas, Los Vandos de Verona; L. Groto, Hadriana, 1578.
Parallels.—Belleforest, t. i.; otto novelle rarissime; A. Brooke, 1562; Lopez de Vega, Los Castelveses y Monteses; F. de Roscas, Los Vandos de Verona; L. Groto, Hadriana, 1578.
Painter.—I. ii. 118; II. ii. 179; III. ii. 348; IV. iii. 80.
Painter.—I. ii. 118; II. ii. 179; III. ii. 348; IV. iii. 80.
Derivates.—Shakespeare’s Romeo and Juliet is partly founded on Painter, partly on Brooke’s poem. The English comedians played it in Germany. Sloane MS., 1775, contains a Latin play on this subject.]
Derivates.—Shakespeare’s Romeo and Juliet is based in part on Painter and partly on Brooke's poem. The English actors performed it in Germany. Sloane MS., 1775, includes a Latin play on this topic.
XXVI. Two Ladies of Venice.
Two gentlemen of Venice were honourably deceiued of their Wyues, whose notable practises, and secret conference for atchieuinge their desire, occasioned diuers accidentes, and ingendred double benefit: wherein also is recited an eloquent oration, made by one of them, pronounced before the Duke and state of that Cittye: with other chaunces and acts concerninge the same.
Two gentlemen from Venice were cleverly tricked by their wives, whose clever schemes and secret meetings aimed at achieving their goals led to various events and unexpectedly beneficial outcomes. This also includes a powerful speech delivered by one of them, presented before the Duke and the government of that city, along with other happenings and actions related to the same.
[Source and Origin.—Bandello, Part i., nov. 15.
[Source and Origin.—Bandello, Part 1, story 15.]
Parallels.—Belleforest, t. iii. p. 58.
Parallels.—Belleforest, vol. iii, p. 58.
Derivates.—The underplot of Marston’s Insatiate Countess is derived from Painter, cf. supra.]
Derivates.—The subplot of Marston’s Insatiate Countess comes from Painter, cf. supra.
XXVII. The Lord of Virle.
The Lorde of Virle, by the commaundement of a fayre younge Wydow called Zilia, for hys promise made, the better to attaine hir loue, was contented to remayne dumbe the space of three yeares, and by what meanes he was reuenged, and obtayned hys suite.
The Lord of Virle, at the request of a beautiful young widow named Zilia, agreed to stay silent for three years to win her love, and this is how he took his revenge and got what he wanted.
[Source and Origin.—Bandello, Part iii., nov. 17.
[Source and Origin.—Bandello, Part iii., nov. 17.]
Parallels.—Belleforest, t. i. f. 289; Fenton, Trag. Disc. hist. xi.
Parallels.—Belleforest, t. i. f. 289; Fenton, Trag. Disc. hist. xi.
Painter.—I. ii. 268; II. ii. 22; III. ii. 425; IV. iii. 157.]
Painter.—I. ii. 268; II. ii. 22; III. ii. 425; IV. iii. 157.]
XXVIII. Lady of Bohemia.
Two Barons of Hungarie assuring themselues to obtayne their sute to a fayre Lady of Boeme, receyued of hir a straung and maruelous repulse, to their great shame and Infamy, cursinge the tyme that euer they aduentured an enterprise so foolish.
Two Barons of Hungary, confident they would win the favor of a beautiful lady from Bohemia, received a strange and incredible rejection from her, bringing them great shame and infamy, and cursing the day they ever embarked on such a foolish quest.
[Source and Origin.—Bandello, Part i., nov. 21.
[Source and Origin.—Bandello, Part i., nov. 21.
Parallels.—Whetstone, Arbour of Vertue.
Parallels.—Whetstone, Arbour of Virtue.
Painter.—I. ii. 292; II. ii. 238; III. ii. 463; IV. iii. 195.
Painter.—I. ii. 292; II. ii. 238; III. ii. 463; IV. iii. 195.
Derivates.—Massinger, The Picture.]
Derivatives.—Massinger, The Picture.
XXIX. Diego and Ginevra.
Dom Diego a Gentleman of Spayne fell in loue with fayre Gineura, and she with him: their loue by meanes of one that enuied Dom Diego his happy choyse, was by default of light credit on his part interrupted. He constant of mynde, fell into despayre, and abandoninge all his frends and liuing, repayred to the Pyrene Mountaynes, where he led a sauage lyfe for certayne moneths, and afterwardes knowne by one of hys freendes, was (by marueylous circumstaunce) reconciled to hys froward mistresse, and maryed.
Dom Diego, a gentleman from Spain, fell in love with the beautiful Gineura, and she with him. Their love, due to the jealousy of someone who envied Dom Diego's good fortune, was interrupted because he was not believed. Despite this, he remained steadfast in his feelings and fell into despair, abandoning all his friends and life as he knew it. He retreated to the Pyrenean Mountains, where he lived a wild life for several months. Later, he was recognized by one of his friends and, through a remarkable turn of events, was reconciled with his difficult mistress and got married.
[Source and Origin.—Bandello, Part i., nov. 27.
[Source and Origin.—Bandello, Part i., nov. 27.]
Parallels.—Belleforest, t. i., f. 382; Fenton, Trag. Disc., hist. xiii.; Whetstone, Garden of Unthriftness.
Parallels.—Belleforest, t. i., f. 382; Fenton, Trag. Disc., hist. xiii.; Whetstone, Garden of Unthriftness.
Painter.—I. ii. 309; II. ii. 252; III. ii. 490; IV. iii. 222.]
Painter.—I. ii. 309; II. ii. 252; III. ii. 490; IV. iii. 222.]
XXX. Salimbene and Angelica.
A Gentleman of Siena, called Anselmo Salimbene, curteously and gently deliuereth his enemy from death. The c00ondemned party seeing the kinde parte of Salimbene, rendreth into his hands his sister Angelica, with whom he was in loue, which gratitude and curtesie, Salimbene well markinge, moued in conscience, woulde not abuse hir, but for recompence tooke hir to his wyfe.
A gentleman from Siena, named Anselmo Salimbene, kindly and gently saves his enemy from death. The condemned man, seeing Salimbene's kind action, hands over his sister Angelica, whom he loved. Recognizing this gratitude and kindness, Salimbene, feeling a sense of duty, decides not to take advantage of her and instead marries her as a form of repayment.
[Source.—Bandello, Part i., nov. 46.
[Source.—Bandello, Part 1, nov. 46.]
Origin.—G. Sermini.
Source.—G. Sermini.
Parallels.—Fenton, Trag. Disc., hist i.
Parallels.—Fenton, Tragic Discourse, hist i.
Painter.—I. ii. 350; II. ii. 286; III. ii. 556; IV. iii. 288.]
Painter.—I. ii. 350; II. ii. 286; III. ii. 556; IV. iii. 288.]
XXXI. Helena of Florence.
A wydow called mistresse Helena, wyth whom a scholler was in loue, (shee louing an other) made the same scholler to stande a whole Wynter’s night in the snow to wayte for hir, who afterwardes by a sleyght and pollicie, caused hir in Iuly, to stand vppon a tower starke naked amongs flies and gnats, and in the sunne.
A widow named Mistress Helena, whom a scholar was in love with, (she loved another) made the scholar wait for her in the snow all night during winter. Later, through a trick and clever plan, she made her stand on a tower completely naked among flies and gnats in July, under the sun.
[Source.—Boccaccio, giorn. viii., nov. 8.
[Source.—Boccaccio, day 8, story 8.]
Origin.—? Fabliau, Barbazan, i. 296.
Origin.—? Fabliau, Barbazan, vol. 1, p. 296.
Painter.—I. ii. 376; II. ii. 307; III. ii. 597; IV. iii. 329.]
Painter.—I. ii. 376; II. ii. 307; III. ii. 597; IV. iii. 329.]
XXXII. Camiola and Roland.
A gentlewoman and wydow called Camiola of hir own mind raunsomed Roland the kyng’s sonne of Sicilia, of purpose to haue him to hir husband, who when he was redeemed vnkindly denied hir, agaynst whom very eloquently she inueyed, and although the law proued him to be hir husband, yet for his vnkindnes, shee vtterly refused him.
A gentlewoman and widow named Camiola chose to ransom Roland, the king's son of Sicily, with the intention of making him her husband. However, when he was freed, he cruelly rejected her. She expressed her feelings about this eloquently, and even though the law recognized him as her husband, she completely turned him down because of his unkindness.
[Source and Origin.—Bandello, Part i., nov. xxxv.
[Source and Origin.—Bandello, Part i., nov. xxxv.]
Painter.—I. ii. 391; II. ii. 320; III. ii. 622; IV. iii. 354.]
Painter.—I. ii. 391; II. ii. 320; III. ii. 622; IV. iii. 354.]
XXXIII. Lords of Nocera.
Great cruelties chaunced to the Lords of Nocera, for adultry by one of them committed with the captayne’s wyfe of the forte of that citty, with an enterprise moued by the captaine to the cittyzens of the same xci for rebellion, and the good and dutyfull aunswere of them: with other pityfull euents rysing of that notable and outragious vyce of whoredom.
Great cruelty happened to the Lords of Nocera because one of them committed adultery with the captain's wife from the fort of that city. This led to a scheme initiated by the captain against the citizens for rebellion, and the honorable and responsible response from them, along with other tragic events resulting from that notorious and outrageous vice of infidelity.
[Source and Origin.—Bandello, Part i., nov. 55.
[Source and Origin.—Bandello, Part i., nov. 55.]
Parallels.—Belleforest, t. ii. f. 162 (ed. 1565, no. 23).
Parallels.—Belleforest, t. ii. f. 162 (ed. 1565, no. 23).
Painter.—I. ii. 217; II. ii. 324; III. ii. 631; IV. iii. 363.]
Painter.—I. ii. 217; II. ii. 324; III. ii. 631; IV. iii. 363.]
XXXIV. Sultan Solyman.
The horrible and cruell murder of Sultan Selyman, late the emperor of the Turkes and father of Selym that now raigneth, done vpon his eldest sonne Mvstapha, by the procurement, and meanes of Rosa his mother in lawe, and by the speciall instigation of one of his noble men called Rvstanvs: where also is remembred the wilful death of one of his sons named Giangir, for the griefe he conceiued to see Mvstapha so miserably strangled.
The brutal and cruel murder of Sultan Suleiman, the late emperor of the Turks and father of Selim, who now reigns, was carried out upon his eldest son Mustafa, with the help and influence of his mother-in-law, Roxelana, and through the specific urging of one of his nobles named Rustam. Also mentioned is the intentional death of one of his sons, named Jahangir, due to the grief he felt upon witnessing Mustafa so tragically strangled.
[Source and Origin.—N. à Moffa.
[Source and Origin.—N. à Moffa.
Painter.—Not in I.; II. ii. 341; III. ii. 663; IV. iii. 395.
Painter.—Not in I.; II. ii. 341; III. ii. 663; IV. iii. 395.
Derivates.—Latin Tragedy of same name Solyman et Mustapha was played in 1581 (Fleay, History, 421).]
Derivatives.—Latin Tragedy of the same name Solyman et Mustapha was performed in 1581 (Fleay, History, 421).
XXXV. The King of Morocco.
The great curtesie of the kyng of Marocco, (a citty in Barbarie) toward a poore fisherman, one of his subiects, that had lodged the kyng, being strayed from his company in hunting.
The great courtesy of the king of Morocco, (a city in Barbary) toward a poor fisherman, one of his subjects, who had taken in the king when he got separated from his group while hunting.
[Source and Origin.—Bandello, Part i. nov. 57.
[Source and Origin.—Bandello, Part i. nov. 57.]
Parallels.—Belleforest, t. ii. f. 190 (ed. 1565, no. 24).
Parallels.—Belleforest, vol. ii, p. 190 (ed. 1565, no. 24).
Painter.—I. ii. 410; II. ii. 348; III. ii. 684; IV. iii. 416.]
Painter.—I. ii. 410; II. ii. 348; III. ii. 684; IV. iii. 416.]
INDEX OF NOVELS.
[Double titles are repeated under both headings, e.g., “Romeo and Juliet” will also be found under “Juliet and Romeo.” Roman numbers indicate the Tome of Painter.]
[Double titles are listed under both headings, e.g., “Romeo and Juliet” will also be found under “Juliet and Romeo.” Roman numerals indicate the Tome of Painter.]
Abdolominus | i. 12 | |
Acharisto and Euphemia | ii. 15 | |
Adelasia and Aleran | i. 44 | |
Adultery, Punishment of | i. 57 | |
Æsop’s Fable of Lark | i. 20 | |
Alberto of Bologna | i. 32 | |
Aleran and Adelasia | i. 44 | |
Alexander and Scythians | i. 13 | |
Alexander and Sisigambis | ii. 2 | |
Alexander de Medici | ii. 22 | |
Amadour and Florinda | i. 53 | |
Amazons | ii. 1 | |
Androdus (Androcles) | i. 22 | |
Andruccio | i. 36 | |
Angelica and Salimbene | ii. 30 | |
Angiers, Earl of | i. 37 | |
Anne of Hungary | ii. 21 | |
Ansaldo and Dionora | ii. 17 | |
Antiochus and Hannibal | i. 21 | |
Antiochus and Seleucus | i. 27 | |
Appius and Virginia | i. 5 | |
Ariobarzanes | ii. 4 | |
Aristotemus | ii. 5 | |
Artaxerxes and Sinetas | i. 9 | |
Athens, Timon of | i. 28 | |
Bohemia, Lady of | ii. 28 | |
Bologna, Alberto of | i. 32 | |
Bologna, Katharine of | ii. 19 | |
Borsieri and Grimaldi | i. 31 | |
Camillus and Schoolmaster | i. 17 | |
Camiola and Roland | ii. 32 | |
Candaules and Gyges | i. 6 | |
Carthage, Maids of | ii. 11 | |
Carthomes and Rhacon | i. 8 | |
Chariton and Menalippus | i. 10 | |
Coriolanus | i. 4 | |
Countess of Celant | ii. 24 | |
Countess of Salisbury | i. 46 | |
Crœsus and Solon | i. 7 | |
Curiatii and Horatii | i. 1 | |
Cyrus and Panthea | i. 11 | |
Daughter of King of England | i. 34 | |
Demosthenes and Lais | i. 15 | |
Didaco and Violenta | i. 42 | |
Diego and Ginevra | ii. 29 | |
Dionora and Ansaldo | ii. 17 | |
Doctor of Laws | i. 66 | |
Duchess of Malfy | ii. 23 | |
Duchess of Savoy | i. 45 | |
Duke of Florence | i. 54 | |
Duke of Venice and Ricciardo | i. 48 | |
Duke of Angiers | i. 37 | |
Este, Rinaldo of | i. 33 | |
Euphemia and Acharisto | ii. 15 | |
Fabricius and Pyrrhus | i. 16 | |
Faustina | ii. 10 | |
Favorinus | i. 23 | |
xciv Filenio Sisterno | i. 49 | |
Flanders, Princess of | i. 52 | |
Flora, Lamia, and Lais | ii. 13 | |
Florence, Duke of | i. 54 | |
Florence, Helena of | ii. 31 | |
Florinda and Amadour | i. 53 | |
Francis I. and Guillaume | i. 55 | |
Galgano and Minoccia | i. 47 | |
Gentleman of Perche | i. 59 | |
Gentleman that died of love | i. 60 | |
Giletta of Narbonne | i. 38 | |
Ginevra and Diego | ii. 29 | |
Gismonda and Tancred | i. 39 | |
Grenoble, President of | i. 58 | |
Grimaldi and Borsieri | i. 31 | |
Gyges and Candaules | i. 6 | |
Hannibal and Antiochus | i. 21 | |
Helena of Florence | ii. 31 | |
Hidrusa, Lady of | ii. 9 | |
Horatii and Curiatii | i. 1 | |
Hungary, Anne of | ii. 21 | |
Irene and Mahomet | i. 40 | |
Juliette and Romeo | ii. 25 | |
Katy of Bologna | ii. 19 | |
King of England’s Daughter | i. 34 | |
King of Naples | i. 51 | |
King of Morocco | ii. 35 | |
Women of Venice | ii. 26 | |
Lady falsely accused | i. 41 | |
Lady of Bohemia | ii. 28 | |
Lady of French Court | i. 61 | |
Lady of Hidrusa | ii. 9 | |
Lady of Pampluna | i. 56 | |
Lady of Tours | i. 64 | |
Lady of Turin | i. 42 | |
Lady, Prudent | i. 63 | |
Lais and Demosthenes | i. 15 | |
Lamia, Flora, and Lais | ii. 13 | |
Landolfo Ruffolo | i. 35 | |
Lark, Fable of | i. 20 | |
Laws, Doctor of | i. 66 | |
Letters of Trajan | ii. 12 | |
Lord of Virle | ii. 27 | |
Lords of Nocera | ii. 33 | |
Lucrece, Rape of | i. 2 | |
Lyons, Miracle at | i. 65 | |
Housekeepers of Carthage | ii. 11 | |
Mahomet and Irene | i. 40 | |
Malfy, Duchess of | ii. 23 | |
Master and scholar | i. 26 | |
Medici, Alexander of | ii. 22 | |
Menalippus and Chariton | i. 10 | |
Metellus on Marriage | i. 14 | |
Minoccia and Galgano | i. 47 | |
Miracle at Lyons | i. 65 | |
Mithridanes and Nathan | ii. 18 | |
Monteferrato, Marchioness of | ii. 16 | |
Morocco, King of | ii. 35 | |
Mucius Scævola | i. 3 | |
Muleteer’s Wife | i. 50 | |
Naples, King of | i. 51 | |
Narbonne, Giletta of | i. 38 | |
Nathan and Mithridanes | ii. 18 | |
Nocera, Lords of | ii. 33 | |
Pamplona, Lady of | i. 56 | |
Panthea and Cyrus | i. 10 | |
Papyrius Prætextatus | i. 15 | |
Perche, Gentleman of | i. 59 | |
Plutarch’s Anger | i. 19 | |
Poris and Theoxena | ii. 8 | |
President of Grenoble | i. 58 | |
Princess of Flanders | i. 52 | |
Prudent Lady | i. 63 | |
Pyrrhus and Fabricius | i. 16 | |
sexual assault of Lucrece | i. 2 | |
Rhacon and Carthomes | i. 8 | |
Ricciardo and Duke of Venice | i. 48 | |
Rinaldo of Este | i. 33 | |
Rings, The Three | i. 30 | |
Roland and Camiola | ii. 32 | |
Rolandine | i. 62 | |
Romeo and Juliet | ii. 25 | |
Ruffolo, Landolfo | i. 35 | |
xcv Saladin and Thorello | ii. 20 | |
Salimbene and Angelica | ii. 30 | |
Salisbury, Countess of | i. 46 | |
Savoy, Duchess of | i. 45 | |
Scævola, Mucius | i. 3 | |
Scholar and Master | i. 26 | |
Schoolmaster and Camillus | i. 17 | |
Scythians and Alexander | i. 13 | |
Seleucus and Antiochus | i. 27 | |
Sertorius | i. 24 | |
Sibylline Leaves | i. 25 | |
Sinetas and Artaxerxes | i. 9 | |
Sisigambis and Alexander | ii. 2 | |
Sisterno, Filenio | i. 49 | |
Solon and Crœsus | i. 7 | |
Sophonisba | ii. 7 | |
Sultan Solyman | ii. 34 | |
Tanaquil | ii. 6 | |
Tancred and Gismonda | i. 39 | |
Theoxena and Poris | ii. 8 | |
Thorello and Saladin | ii. 20 | |
Three Rings | i. 30 | |
Timoclea of Thebes | ii. 3 | |
Timon of Athens | i. 28 | |
Tours, Lady of | i. 64 | |
Trajan, Letters of | ii. 12 | |
Turin, Lady of | i. 43 | |
Venice, Duke of and Ricciardo | i. 48 | |
Venice, Two Ladies of | ii. 26 | |
Violenta and Didaco | i. 42 | |
Virginia and Appius | i. 5 | |
Virle, Lord of | ii. 27 | |
Widowed and Widower | i. 29 | |
Zenobia | ii. 14 |
Footnotes
1. It was suggested to me, if I remember right, by my friend Mr. R. G. Moulton.
1. If I recall correctly, my friend Mr. R. G. Moulton suggested it to me.
2. There was something Elizabethan in the tone of men of science in England during the “seventies,” when Darwinism was to solve all the problems. The Marlowe of the movement, the late Professor Clifford, found no Shakespeare.
2. There was something reminiscent of the Elizabethan era in the attitude of scientists in England during the 1870s, when Darwinism was expected to answer all the questions. The Marlowe of the movement, the late Professor Clifford, did not find a Shakespeare.
3. See Burckhardt, Cultur der Renaisance in Italien, Buch II., especially Kap. iii.
3. See Burckhardt, Culture of the Renaissance in Italy, Book II., especially Chap. III.
4. On Peter Alphonsi see my edition of Caxton’s Æsop, which contains selections from him in Vol. II.
4. For information on Peter Alphonsi, check out my edition of Caxton’s Æsop, which includes selections from him in Volume II.
5. Signor Bartoli has written on I Precursori di Boccaccio, 1874, Landau on his Life and Sources (Leben, 1880, Quellen des Dekameron, 1884), and on his successors (Beiträge zur Geschichte der ital. Novelle, 1874). Mr. Symonds has an admirable chapter on the Novellieri in his Renaissance, vol. v.
5. Signor Bartoli has written on I Precursori di Boccaccio, 1874, Landau on his Life and Sources (Leben, 1880, Quellen des Dekameron, 1884), and on his successors (Beiträge zur Geschichte der ital. Novelle, 1874). Mr. Symonds has an excellent chapter on the Novellieri in his Renaissance, vol. v.
6. Specimens of these in somewhat wooden English were given by Roscoe in his Italian Novelists.
6. Samples of these in somewhat stiff English were provided by Roscoe in his Italian Novelists.
7. The Villon Society is to publish this year a complete translation of Bandello by Mr. John Payne.
7. The Villon Society is set to release a full translation of Bandello by Mr. John Payne this year.
9. Ascham was shrewd enough not to advertise the book he was denouncing by referring to it by name. I have failed to find in the Stationer’s Register of 1566-8 any similar book to which his remarks could apply, except Fenton’s Tragicall Discourses, and that was from the French.
9. Ascham was clever enough not to name the book he criticized, avoiding giving it extra attention. I haven't been able to find any similar books in the Stationer’s Register from 1566-1568 that match his comments, except for Fenton’s Tragicall Discourses, which was based on a French work.
10. See Haslewood’s account, reprinted infra, p. xxxvii., to which I have been able to add a few documents in the Appendix.
10. See Haslewood’s account, reprinted infra, p. xxxvii., to which I've been able to add a few documents in the Appendix.
11. His son, in a document of 1591, speaks of him as his aged father (Appendix infra, p. lvii.).
11. His son, in a document from 1591, refers to him as his elderly father (Appendix infra, p. lvii.).
12. Reprinted in the Second Tome of the “Palace,” infra, vol. iii. p. 395.
12. Reprinted in the Second Volume of the “Palace,” below, vol. iii. p. 395.
13. In his own book, and in the document signed by him, the name is always “Painter.”
13. In his own book, and in the document he signed, the name is always “Painter.”
14. The Dedication is dated near the Tower of London 1 January 1566, which must have been new style (introduced into France two years before).
14. The Dedication is dated near the Tower of London, January 1, 1566, which must have been in the new style (introduced in France two years earlier).
15. Always with the exception of exceptions, the Bishop’s Bible.
15. Always with the exception of exceptions, the Bishop's Bible.
16. Mr. P. A. Daniel, in his edition of Painter’s “Romeo and Juliet,” in the New Shakespere Society’s Originals and Analogues, i., 1876, gives the few passages in which Painter has misunderstood Boaistuau. For lexicographical use, however, it would be well to consult Painter’s original for any very striking peculiarities of his vocabulary.
16. Mr. P. A. Daniel, in his edition of Painter’s “Romeo and Juliet,” in the New Shakespeare Society’s Originals and Analogues, i., 1876, highlights the few passages where Painter has misinterpreted Boaistuau. For dictionary purposes, it would be beneficial to refer to Painter’s original text for any notable features of his vocabulary.
17. The tales are ten—1. Sinorix and Camma [=Tennyson’s Cup]; 2. Tereus and Progne; 3. Germanicus and Agrippina; 4. Julius and Virginia; 5. Admetus and Alcest; 6. Silla and Minos; 7. Curiatius and Horatia; 8. Cephalus and Procris; 9. Pigmalion and his Image; 10. Alexius.
17. There are ten stories—1. Sinorix and Camma [=Tennyson’s Cup]; 2. Tereus and Progne; 3. Germanicus and Agrippina; 4. Julius and Virginia; 5. Admetus and Alcest; 6. Silla and Minos; 7. Curiatius and Horatia; 8. Cephalus and Procris; 9. Pygmalion and his Image; 10. Alexius.
18. M. Jusserand gives a list of most of these translations of French and Italian novels in his just issued English Novel in the Elizabethan Age, 1890, pp. 80-1. He also refers to works by Rich and Gascoigne in which novels occur.
18. M. Jusserand provides a list of many of these translations of French and Italian novels in his newly released English Novel in the Elizabethan Age, 1890, pp. 80-1. He also mentions works by Rich and Gascoigne that include novels.
19. A partial exception is to be made in favour of the Spanish school, which broke loose from the classical tradition with Lope de Vega.
19. An exception can be made for the Spanish school, which broke away from the classical tradition with Lope de Vega.
20. It is probable however that the “mixture of tones” came more directly from the Interludes.
20. It’s likely, though, that the “mix of tones” came more directly from the Interludes.
21. Euphorion, by Vernon Lee. Second edition, 1885, pp. 55-108.
21. Euphorion, by Vernon Lee. Second edition, 1885, pp. 55-108.
22. It has, of course, been suggested that Shakespeare visited Venice. But this is only one of the 1001 mare’s nests of the commentators.
22. It has, of course, been suggested that Shakespeare visited Venice. But this is just one of the countless misconceptions from the commentators.
23. Altogether in the scanty notices of this period we can trace a dozen derivatives of Painter. See Analytical Table on Tome I. nov. iii., v., xi., xxxvii., xxxix., xl., xlviii., lvii.; Tome II. nov. i., iii., xiv., xxxiv.
23. Overall, in the limited records from this time, we can identify about twelve variations of Painter. See Analytical Table on Volume I, notes iii., v., xi., xxxvii., xxxix., xl., xlviii., lvii.; Volume II, notes i., iii., xiv., xxxiv.
24. In the Warning for Fair Women there is a scene in which Tragedy, Comedy, and History dispute for precedence.
24. In the Warning for Fair Women, there’s a scene where Tragedy, Comedy, and History argue about who should take the lead.
25. Curiously enough, two of the four have been associated with Shakespeare’s name. It should be added, perhaps, that one of the Two Tragedies in One of Yarington is English.
25. Interestingly, two out of the four have been linked to Shakespeare’s name. It might be worth mentioning that one of the Two Tragedies in One by Yarington is English.
26. The frequency of scenes in which ladies of high birth yield themselves to men of lower station is remarkable in this connection.
26. The number of times when noblewomen give themselves to men of lower social status is striking in this context.
27. The other Elizabethan dramatists who used Painter are: Beaumont (I. xlii.; II. xvii.), Fletcher (I. xlii.; II. xvii., xxii.), Greene (I. lvii.), Heywood (I. ii.), Marston (I. lxvi.; II. vii., xxiv., xxvi.), Massinger (II. xxviii.), Middleton (I. xxxiii.), Peele (I. xl.), Shirley (I. lviii.), Webster (I. v.; II. xxiii.). See also I. vii., xxiv., lxvi.
27. The other Elizabethan playwrights who used Painter are: Beaumont (I. xlii.; II. xvii.), Fletcher (I. xlii.; II. xvii., xxii.), Greene (I. lvii.), Heywood (I. ii.), Marston (I. lxvi.; II. vii., xxiv., xxvi.), Massinger (II. xxviii.), Middleton (I. xxxiii.), Peele (I. xl.), Shirley (I. lviii.), Webster (I. v.; II. xxiii.). See also I. vii., xxiv., lxvi.
28. Shakespeare also used Arthur Brook’s poem. On the exact relations of the poet to his two sources see Mr. P. A. Daniel in the New Shakespere Society’s Originals and Analogies, i., and Dr. Schulze in Jahrb. d. deutsch. Shakespeare Gesellschaft xi. 218-20.
28. Shakespeare also drew from Arthur Brook’s poem. For details on the poet's connections to his two sources, see Mr. P. A. Daniel in the New Shakespeare Society’s Originals and Analogies, vol. i, and Dr. Schulze in Jahrb. d. deutsch. Shakespeare Gesellschaft vol. xi, pages 218-20.
29. Delius has discussed Shakespeare’s “All Well” und Paynter’s “Giletta von Narbonne” in the Jahrbuch xxii. 27-44, in an article which is also reprinted in his Abhandlungen ii.
29. Delius has talked about Shakespeare’s “All Well” and Paynter’s “Giletta von Narbonne” in Jahrbuch xxii. 27-44, in an article that is also included in his Abhandlungen ii.
30. I hope to publish elsewhere detailed substantiation of this contention.
30. I hope to publish more detailed evidence for this argument elsewhere.
31. The Visitation Book of 1619, in the Heralds College, supplied Hasted with his account. There may also be consulted Harl. MSS. 1106, 2230 and 6138.
31. The Visitation Book of 1619, located in the Heralds College, provided Hasted with his information. You can also check Harl. MSS. 1106, 2230, and 6138.
33. The translation is reprinted in the second volume. Of the original edition there is not any notice in Herbert.
33. The translation is reprinted in the second volume. There's no mention of the original edition in Herbert.
34. This happened in 1552, and Moffan remained a captive until Sept. 1555.
34. This happened in 1552, and Moffan stayed a prisoner until September 1555.
35. Brydge’s Peerage, Vol. IX. p. 466. Banks’s Dormant Peerage, Vol. II. p. 108.
35. Brydge’s Peerage, Vol. IX. p. 466. Banks’s Dormant Peerage, Vol. II. p. 108.
36. These verses were answered by another Kentish writer. “In conuersium Palengenii Barnabæ Gogæ carmen E. Deringe Cantiani,” prefixed to the firste sixe bokes of the mooste christian poet Marcellus Palingenius, called the Zodiake of Life. Translated by Barnabe Googe, 1561. 12mo. See Cens. Lit. Vol. II. p. 212. Where it appears that Barnaby Googe was connected with several Kentish families. He married a Darell. His grandmother was Lady Hales.
36. These verses were responded to by another writer from Kent. “In the conversation of Palengenus Barnabæ Gogæ, the poem E. Deringe Cantiani,” which was added to the first six books of the most Christian poet Marcellus Palingenius, called the Zodiac of Life. Translated by Barnabe Googe, 1561. 12mo. See Cens. Lit. Vol. II. p. 212. Where it shows that Barnaby Googe was linked to several families from Kent. He married a Darell. His grandmother was Lady Hales.
37. Bibliotheca, p. 570.
__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__ Bibliotheca, p. 570.
38. M.S. Ashmole, 302. Mr. H. Ellis has kindly furnished me with the above, during a late visit to Oxford, and observes that the reference to Tanner is wrongly stated, the article being in Ashmole’s study.
38. M.S. Ashmole, 302. Mr. H. Ellis kindly provided me with the above during a recent visit to Oxford and notes that the reference to Tanner is incorrect; the article is in Ashmole’s study.
40. If Painter had laid in this School the foundation of that fortune, which he afterwards appears to have realised in land, he did no more than was done by a celebrated successor, Thomas Farnaby, a well-known annotator on Horace, who settled his male posterity at Keppington, in the parish of Sevenoaks, where they remained in rank and opulence, till the late Sir Charles Farnaby, Bart., who at one time in the present reign represented the County of Kent, sold that seat and estate to Francis Motley Austen, Esq., the present owner.
40. If Painter laid the groundwork for the fortune he later seemed to achieve in property, he was doing no more than what a famous successor, Thomas Farnaby, a well-known commentator on Horace, did. Farnaby established his male descendants at Keppington, in the parish of Sevenoaks, where they enjoyed prominence and wealth until the late Sir Charles Farnaby, Bart., who once represented the County of Kent during the current reign, sold that estate to Francis Motley Austen, Esq., the current owner.
41. George Whetstone has An Heptameron of Civill Discourses, &c. 1582.
41. George Whetstone has An Heptameron of Civil Discourses, &c. 1582.
42. In France the style was altered in 1564. Clavis Calendaria. Vol I. p. 64.
42. In France, the style changed in 1564. Clavis Calendaria. Vol I. p. 64.
43. Bibliographical Miscellanies, 1813. p. 2.
__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__ Bibliographical Miscellanies, 1813, p. 2.
44. This is confirmed by his making the following observation: “When labour resteth him selfe in me, and leisure refresheth other affairs, nothing delights more that vacant tyme than readinge of Histories in such vulgar speache, wherein my small knowledge taketh repast.” Epistle Dedicatory, Vol. II. p. 4.
44. This is confirmed by his following observation: “When work rests in me, and free time refreshes other pursuits, nothing pleases me more in my spare time than reading histories in plain language, where my limited knowledge can have a feast.” Epistle Dedicatory, Vol. II. p. 4.
45. Some of the following notices, probably, relate to branches of the family.—William Paynter “de Vkefielde,” possessed lands at Horsemonden, Benynden, and Merden, co. Kent. He left three sons, Alexander, John and Robert. His will dated 25th Feb. 24. Hen. 7th. (1509) and proved in November following.—John P. Citizen and Freemason of London, by Will dated 26th Nov. 1532, proved 1537, gave to the children of his late brother Richard P. late of Littleport, co. Kent, 6s. 8d. each. He was to be buried at St. Albans, Wood Street, where on inquiry I am informed the Registers of that period do not exist.—John P. twice mayor of Dover, died 14th July, 1540, buried at Rainham, same co. See Weever’s Funeral Monuments.—Edmonde P. Steward to the Bishop of Ely, held a patent place, and by his will dated 7th Sept. 14 Eliz. (1572) gave to his brother’s daughter “Johane” forty pounds. Probably the eldest daughter of our Author.
45. Some of the following notices likely refer to branches of the family. William Paynter “de Vkefielde” owned lands in Horsemonden, Benynden, and Merden, Kent. He had three sons: Alexander, John, and Robert. His will, dated February 25, 24 Hen. 7th (1509), was proved in the following November. John P., a Citizen and Freemason of London, by his will dated November 26, 1532, proved in 1537, left six shillings and eight pence to each of the children of his late brother Richard P., who had lived in Littleport, Kent. He requested to be buried at St. Albans, Wood Street, where, upon inquiry, I've been informed that the registers from that time don't exist. John P., who served as mayor of Dover twice, passed away on July 14, 1540, and was buried in Rainham, also in Kent. Refer to Weever’s Funeral Monuments. Edmonde P., Steward to the Bishop of Ely, held a patent position, and in his will dated September 7, 14 Eliz. (1572), left forty pounds to his brother’s daughter “Johane.” She was probably the eldest daughter of our Author.
46. Hasted’s History of Kent. art. Gillingham. The following pedigree of the family is collected from Hasted and the Harleian MSS.
46. Hasted’s History of Kent. art. Gillingham. The following family tree is gathered from Hasted and the Harleian manuscripts.
William Painter,a of Twedall, parish of Gillingham, the author. Ob. 1594. | = Dorothy, daughter of —— Bonham, of Cowling. Ob. Oct. 19, 1617, Æt. 80. | |||||
| | | | | | | | | | | | |
Joanna =(1) Nathaniel Partrich =(2) John Orwell |
Dorothy = John Bagenhall |
Helena = John Hornby |
Anthony | = Catherine, coheiress of Robt. Harris, Master in Chancery. | Catherine = —— Champ, Co. Suff. |
Anna.b |
| | ||||||
William of Gillingham, died about the time of the Restoration of Charles II. | = Elizabeth, daughter of Walter Hickman, of Kew, Co. Surrey, Esq. relict of George Allington, jun. | |||||
| | | | | | ||||
Allington | = |
Elizabeth.c | Anna.c | |||
Robert, who obtained an act of parliament to alienate the manors of Twedall and East Court. | = Eleanora, youngest daughter of Sir Thomas Seyliard, Bart. buried at Westerham. |
ARMS. Gules, a chevron between three griffins’ heads erased or, on a chief of the second an helmet sable between two pellets. CREST. A lizard (as supposed) vert, escaping from the trunk of an old tree, proper.
ARMS. Red, a chevron between three gold griffins’ heads cut off, on a gold chief a black helmet between two balls. CREST. A green lizard (as assumed) escaping from the trunk of an old tree, natural.
a. Also spelt Paynter and Payneter; but neither used by the above-named William Painter, if we may rely upon the repetition of ten printed authorities.
a. Also spelled Paynter and Payneter; but neither is used by the previously mentioned William Painter, if we can trust the repetition of ten printed sources.
b. That Anna was the youngest child, is doubtful, from her father only naming her, besides Helena, as entitled to a portion. She resided with her mother, unmarried, 1617.
b. It's uncertain whether Anna was the youngest child since her father only mentioned her, along with Helena, as having a share. She lived with her mother, unmarried, in 1617.
47. Dorothy P. (the Executrix) by her will, dated 3d July, 1617, gave a specific legacy to her granddaughter Thomasine Hornby, which was to be void if she sued or impleaded her executor, relative to any gift, legacy or bequest, under the above will; from which it may be concluded the portion of John Hornby’s wife was never properly adjusted.
47. Dorothy P. (the Executrix) in her will, dated July 3, 1617, left a specific legacy to her granddaughter Thomasine Hornby, which would be canceled if she sued or took legal action against her executor regarding any gift, legacy, or bequest in the will mentioned above; from this, we can conclude that the share for John Hornby’s wife was never properly settled.
48. Proved in the Prerogative Court of Canterbury, 3d Feb. 1595.
48. Proved in the Prerogative Court of Canterbury, February 3, 1595.
49. His patent, dated 21st June 1595, gives all emoluments from the day of the death of William Painter.
49. His patent, dated June 21, 1595, grants all benefits from the day William Painter passed away.
50. In the will of Dorothy P., already noticed, is the following direction. “In case I dye or departe this life in the Citie of London, to be buryed in the same parish in London where my late loving husband Mr. William Paynter, Clerke of the great Ordinance of the Tower of London, was buryed, and as neere to the place where he was buryed as conuenyentlie may be, with some memoriall there to be engraven sett vp or placed as shalbe devised and appoynted by my executor and overseers hereafter named; yf elsewhere then allso at their like discretions and with the like memoriall.” Had she set up such a memorial for her husband, the name would probably have been found in Stowe’s Survey of London. It does not occur in the Registers of the Tower Chapel; Allhallows Barking; St. Catherine’s; or Aldgate. At St. Dunstan’s, Tower Street, the register has been destroyed, and also at St. Alban’s, Wood Street, where there was probably a family vault, and not being the church frequented when he lived by the Tower, the name might have been forgotten by the widow.
50. In the will of Dorothy P., already mentioned, is the following instruction. “In case I die or depart this life in the City of London, I want to be buried in the same parish in London where my late beloved husband Mr. William Paynter, Clerk of the Great Ordinance of the Tower of London, was buried, and as close as possible to the place where he was buried, with some memorial to be engraved and placed as my executor and named overseers hereafter decide; if buried elsewhere, then also at their discretion and with a similar memorial.” If she had set up such a memorial for her husband, the name would probably have been found in Stowe’s Survey of London. It does not appear in the Registers of the Tower Chapel; Allhallows Barking; St. Catherine’s; or Aldgate. At St. Dunstan’s, Tower Street, the register has been destroyed, and also at St. Alban’s, Wood Street, where there was likely a family vault, and since it wasn’t the church he frequented while living near the Tower, the name may have been forgotten by the widow.
51. Her Will was not proved until July 1620. It is unusually long, and the bequests are trifling. She particularizes all her grand-children, whom, in the language then used, she calls nephews and nieces. There had probably been some difference in the family to occasion the following passage, whereby she bequeaths the only memorial mentioned of our author. “Item, whereas my very welbeloued niephue William Paynter, and I, and all my children, nowe are and I trust in God so shall continue loving hartie and inward frends, whereof I receyue great ioye and contentment, vnto the which my saied neiphue, for a gentle remembraunce, I give and bequeethe my tablet of gould with a pearle to yt which sometymes was his graundfather’s, beyng nowe all readie in his owne keeping and possession.” The will is subscribed with a cross, which the feebleness of age might render necessary.
51. Her will wasn't proved until July 1620. It's unusually long, and the bequests are trivial. She mentions all her grandchildren, who, in the language used back then, she refers to as nephews and nieces. There had likely been some family issues to prompt the following passage, where she leaves the only memorial mentioned of our author. “Item, whereas my very beloved nephew William Paynter, and I, and all my children, are now and I trust in God will continue to be loving, heartfelt, and close friends, of which I receive great joy and contentment, to which my said nephew, as a gentle reminder, I give and bequeath my gold tablet with a pearl that sometimes belonged to his grandfather, now already in his own keeping and possession.” The will is signed with a cross, which the frailty of age might have made necessary.
52. Herbert has this edition entered as printed by Thomas Marshe, upon the authority of Mr. William White, p. 856. It was licensed to Jones as “certen historyes collected out of dyuers Ryght good and profitable authours by William Paynter.” ib. 1319.
52. Herbert has this edition listed as printed by Thomas Marshe, based on Mr. William White's authority, p. 856. It was licensed to Jones as “certain histories collected from various very good and useful authors by William Paynter.” ib. 1319.
53. There is a lapse of signatures from O o. j. to A a a. j. and of folios from 145, (misprinted 135) to 201. What occasioned the castration it is impossible to conjecture; the volume is certainly perfect, as the table of Contents has no article for the omitted leaves.
53. There is a lack of signatures from O o. j. to A a a. j. and of pages from 145 (incorrectly printed as 135) to 201. It's impossible to guess what caused the omission; the book is definitely complete, as the table of Contents has no entry for the missing pages.
54. Herbert, 967. Entered in the Stationers’ Register (as Mr. G. Chalmers obligingly informs me) in 1566-7, “to Nycholas Englonde.”
54. Herbert, 967. Registered in the Stationers’ Register (as Mr. G. Chalmers kindly lets me know) in 1566-7, “to Nycholas Englonde.”
It stands thus: The second Tome | of the Palace of Pleasure, | conteyning store of goodly Histories | Tragicall matters and other mo- | rall argument, very re- | quisite for delighte | and profit, | Chosen and selected out of | divers good and commen- | dable authors. | By William Painter, Clerke of the | Ordinance and Armarie | Anno. 1567.—Imprinted &c.
Here it is: The second volume | of the Palace of Pleasure, | featuring a collection of great stories | about tragic events and other moral lessons, | essential for enjoyment | and benefit, | carefully chosen | and selected from | various reputable and worthy authors. | By William Painter, Clerk of the | Ordinance and Armory | Year 1567.—Printed &c.
Similar differences are found in the earliest stage of the English press. Thus a copy of Caxton’s Cato, 1483, in possession of the Duke of Devonshire, has the first line
Similar differences are found in the earliest stage of the English press. Thus a copy of Caxton’s Cato, 1483, in possession of the Duke of Devonshire, has the first line
¶ Here begynneth the prologue or prohemye of the book callid:
¶ This is the prologue or preface of the book titled:
and in the fine copy belonging to the Library of Lee Priory, it stands
and in the nice copy owned by the Library of Lee Priory, it stands
Here begynneth the prologue or prohemye of the booke callyd.
This is the prologue or preface of the book titled.
56. The second volume is undoubtedly the rarest of the two. The industrious Langbaine does not appear to have seen it, as in the Account of the English Dramatic Poets, 1691, he refers more than once to the originals for stories contained in that volume.
56. The second volume is definitely the rarer of the two. The diligent Langbaine doesn’t seem to have encountered it, as in the Account of the English Dramatic Poets, 1691, he mentions the original sources for the stories found in that volume more than once.
57. Dr. Farmer’s copy was Vol. I. 1569, and Vol. II. 1567. Purchased at the sale by Mr. Payne for fifteen guineas. [Bibl. Farm. No. 5993.] The opinion Dr. Farmer entertained of their rarity may be given in his own words: “The Two Tomes, which Tom Rawlinson would have called justa volumina, are almost annihilated. Mr. Ames, who searched after books of this sort with the utmost avidity, most certainly had not seen them, when he published his Typographical Antiquities, as appears from his blunders about them: and possibly I myself might have remained in the same predicament, had I not been favoured with a copy by my generous friend, Mr. Lort.” Essay on the learning of Shakespeare.
57. Dr. Farmer’s copy was Vol. I. 1569, and Vol. II. 1567. Purchased at the sale by Mr. Payne for fifteen guineas. [Bibl. Farm. No. 5993.] The opinion Dr. Farmer had about their rarity can be expressed in his own words: “The Two Tomes, which Tom Rawlinson would have called justa volumina, are nearly extinct. Mr. Ames, who searched for books like these with great enthusiasm, definitely hadn’t seen them when he published his Typographical Antiquities, as shown by his mistakes about them: and perhaps I would have remained in the same situation if I hadn’t been given a copy by my generous friend, Mr. Lort.” Essay on the learning of Shakespeare.
58. Hence Tanner and others have been erroneously supposed to describe an edition in Octavo, and I have seen copies where the margin, cropped by the intolerable plough of the binder, might have been shown in proof of the conjecture.
58. So, Tanner and others have mistakenly been thought to refer to a version in octavo, and I've come across copies where the margin, cut off by the overzealous binder, could have been taken as evidence for this theory.
59. Folios 225 and 6 are repeated, and several others are erroneously numbered.
59. Pages 225 and 6 are duplicated, and several others are incorrectly numbered.
60. Prepared for sale by auction by Mr. Prestage, of Savile Row, in April, 1756, and sold by private contract to Mr. Child. It forms the principal part of the library at Osterley Park.
60. Prepared for auction by Mr. Prestage, of Savile Row, in April 1756, and sold privately to Mr. Child. It makes up the main part of the library at Osterley Park.
61. It might be expected that the third volume was formed by adding the inferior performance of George Pettie, who imitated our author’s title; but that was the article in the succeeding lot. Pettie’s work is called: A petite Pallace | of Pettie his Pleasure: | contayning many pretie Histories | by him set foorth in comely colours | and most delightfully dis-coursed. | Omne tulit punctum, | qui miscuit vtile dulci. | Col. Printed at London, by R[ichard] W[atkins]. n. d. but entered in the Stationers’ books 1576. Again by Wolfe, n. d. and other editions 1598, 1608, and 1613. The contents of the volume are described in an article by Mr. Utterson in the British Bibliographer, Vol. II. p. 392. For an Account of the author see Wood’s Ath. Oxon. by Bliss, 1813, Vol. I. col. 552.
61. You might think that the third volume was just created by adding the lesser work of George Pettie, who copied our author's title; but that was in the next batch. Pettie’s work is titled: A Petite Palace of Pettie his Pleasure: containing many pretty Histories by him presented in appealing styles and most delightfully narrated. Omne tulit punctum, qui miscuit vtile dulci. Col. Printed in London, by R[ichard] W[atkins]. n. d. but listed in the Stationers’ records in 1576. Again by Wolfe, n. d. and other editions in 1598, 1608, and 1613. The contents of the volume are detailed in an article by Mr. Utterson in the British Bibliographer, Vol. II. p. 392. For information about the author, see Wood’s Ath. Oxon. by Bliss, 1813, Vol. I. col. 552.
62. Class (or rather case, the library not being classed) IX.; division 2; shelf 7; book 26. This explains the numerals used in the Osterley Cat.
62. Class (or rather case, since the library isn’t classified) IX.; division 2; shelf 7; book 26. This explains the numbers used in the Osterley Cat.
63. To the unequalled store of bibliography, possessed by the Rev. T. F. Dibdin there has lately been added a copy of the Fairfax catalogue, priced according to the private valuation. There may be found Caxton’s Prince Arthur rated at only fifty-five shillings, and lot 336 (the P. of Pleasure) at four guineas: undoubtedly, from the above description in the catalogue, the copy was supposed UNIQUE.
63. Recently, Rev. T. F. Dibdin's unmatched collection of bibliographies gained a new addition: a copy of the Fairfax catalog, priced based on a private appraisal. Within it, Caxton’s Prince Arthur is listed at just fifty-five shillings, and item 336 (the P. of Pleasure) is priced at four guineas: clearly, based on the description in the catalog, this copy was believed to be UNIQUE.
64. Malone, in a note on the Historical Account of the English Stage, has the following extract from Gosson’s Plays confuted in five Actions, printed about the year 1580. “I may boldly say it (says Gosson) because I have seene it, that The Palace of Pleasure, The Golden Asse, The Æthiopian Historie, Amadis of Fraunce, The Round Table, bawdie comedies in Latin, French, Italian and Spanish, have beene thoroughly ransackt to furnish the playe-houses in London.”—Reed’s Shakespeare, Vol. III. p. 40.
64. Malone, in a note on the Historical Account of the English Stage, includes the following extract from Gosson’s Plays Confuted in Five Actions, published around 1580. “I can say this with confidence (says Gosson) because I have seen it, that The Palace of Pleasure, The Golden Ass, The Ethiopian History, Amadis of France, The Round Table, and bawdy comedies in Latin, French, Italian, and Spanish have been thoroughly ransacked to supply the theaters in London.” —Reed’s Shakespeare, Vol. III. p. 40.
65. The reprint of 1569 is not taken into account in giving the pagination.
65. The 1569 reprint is not considered when providing the page numbers.
66. Landau, Quellen2, p. 331, points out that the tale is related to the “Youngest-best” folk tales, which deal with the successes of the youngest.
66. Landau, Quellen2, p. 331, points out that the story is related to the “Youngest-best” folk tales, which focus on the achievements of the youngest.
67. By error omitted in Table of Contents to Vol. II.
67. Accidentally left out in the Table of Contents for Vol. II.
68. The celebrated line, “O Sophonisba, Sophonisba O!” has kept its memory alive.
68. The famous line, “Oh Sophonisba, Sophonisba Oh!” has kept its memory alive.
Anglistica & Americana
Georg Olms Hildesheim
WILLIAM PAINTER
THE PALACE OF PLEASURE
Anglistica & Americana
A Series of Reprints Selected by
Bernhard Fabian, Edgar Mertner,
Karl Schneider and Marvin Spevack
3
1968
GEORG OLMS VERLAGSBUCHHANDLUNG
HILDESHEIM
WILLIAM PAINTER
The Palace of Pleasure
Edited by Joseph Jacobs
(1890)
Vol. I
1968
GEORG OLMS VERLAGSBUCHHANDLUNG
HILDESHEIM
Note
The present slightly reduced facsimile is reproduced
from a copy in the possession of the University of
Münster (Englisches Seminar).
Shelfmark: XVI 4043/4.
The current slightly smaller facsimile is reproduced from a copy held by the University of Münster (English Seminar).
Shelfmark: XVI 4043/4.
M. S.
M.S.
Reprographischer Nachdruck der Ausgabe London 1890
Printed in Germany
Herstellung: fotokop wilhelm weihert, Darmstadt
Best-Nr. 5101932
PALACE OF PLEASURE
VOL. I.
Of this Edition five hundred and fifty copies have been
printed,
five hundred of which are for sale.
The Palace of Pleasure
ELIZABETHAN VERSIONS OF ITALIAN AND FRENCH NOVELS
FROM BOCCACCIO, BANDELLO, CINTHIO, STRAPAROLA,
QUEEN MARGARET OF NAVARRE,
AND OTHERS
DONE INTO ENGLISH
by WILLIAM PAINTER
NOW AGAIN EDITED FOR THE FOURTH TIME
by JOSEPH JACOBS
VOL. I.
[Publisher’s Device: “IN NUCE LIBELLUS”]
LONDON: PUBLISHED BY DAVID NUTT IN THE STRAND
MDCCCXC
Volume I: Novels I - XLVI (i.1 - i.46)
Spelling irregularities and error handling are explained at the end of this file.
Spelling mistakes and how to deal with errors are explained at the end of this file.
Note that “Tome I” refers to the two-volume editions of Painter and Haslewood, while “Volume I” refers to Jacobs’s three-volume edition (the present text). Tome I goes up to Novel LXVI (i.66); Volume I ends at Novel XLVI (i.46).
Note that “Tome I” refers to the two-volume editions of Painter and Haslewood, while “Volume I” refers to Jacobs’s three-volume edition (the present text). Tome I goes up to Novel LXVI (i.66); Volume I ends at Novel XLVI (i.46).
TOME I.
TITLE (FACSIMILE OF FIRST EDITION) | 1 | |
DEDICATION TO EARL OF WARWICK | 3 | |
LIST OF AUTHORS | 9 | |
TO THE READER | 10 | |
NOVEL | ||
I. | HORATII AND CURIATII | 15 |
II. | RAPE OF LUCRECE | 22 |
III. | MUCIUS SCÆVOLA | 26 |
IV. | CORIOLANUS | 29 |
V. | APPIUS AND VIRGINIA | 35 |
VI. | CANDAULES AND GYGES | 46 |
VII. | CRŒSUS AND SOLON | 49 |
VIII. | RHACON AND CARTOMES | 53 |
IX. | ARTAXERXES AND SINETAS | 54 |
X. | CHARITON AND MENALIPPUS | 56 |
XI. | CYRUS AND PANTHEA | 58 |
XII. | ABDOLOMINUS KING OF SCYTHIA | 69 |
XIII. | ALEXANDER AND THE SCYTHIAN AMBASSADORS Alexander and the Scythian Envoys |
71 |
XIV. | METELLUS ON MARRIAGE | 74 |
XV. | LAIS AND DEMOSTHENES | 77 |
XVI. | FABRICIUS AND PYRRHUS | 78 |
XVII. | viii CAMILLUS AND SCHOOLMASTER | 80 |
XVIII. | PAPYRIUS PRÆTEXTATUS | 83 |
XIX. | PLUTARCH’S ANGER | 85 |
XX. | AESOP’S FABLE OF THE LARK | 86 |
XXI. | HANNIBAL AND ANTIOCHUS | 88 |
XXII. | ANDRODUS (Androcles) | 89 |
XXIII. | FAVORINUS | 91 |
XXIV. | SERTORIUS | 95 |
XXV. | SIBYLLINE LEAVES | 98 |
XXVI. | MASTER AND SCHOLAR | 99 |
XXVII. | SELEUCUS AND ANTIOCHUS | 102 |
XXVIII. | TIMON OF ATHENS | 112 |
XXIX. | MARRIAGE OF WIDOW AND WIDOWER WIDOW AND WIDOWER MARRY |
114 |
XXX. | THE THREE RINGS | 116 |
XXXI. | BORSIERI AND GRIMALDI | 119 |
XXXII. | ALBERTO OF BOLOGNA | 122 |
XXXIII. | RINALDO OF ESTE | 125 |
XXXIV. | KING OF ENGLAND’S DAUGHTER | 130 |
XXXV. | RANDOLPHO RUFFOLO | 138 |
XXXVI. | ANDRUCCIO | 143 |
XXXVII. | EARL OF ANGIERS | 156 |
XXXVIII. | GILETTA OF NARBONNE | 171 |
XXXIX. | TANCRED AND GISMONDA | 180 |
XL. | MAHOMET AND IRENE | 190 |
XLI. | LADY FALSELY ACCUSED | 198 |
XLII. | DIDACO AND VIOLENTA | 218 |
XLIII. | LADY OF TURIN | 240 |
XLIV. | ALERAN AND ADELASIA | 249 |
XLV. | DUCHESS OF SAVOY | 285 |
XLVI. | COUNTESS OF SALISBURY | 334 |
ADVERTISEMENT TO READER | 364 |
To the Right Honourable, my very good Lord, Ambrose Earle of Warwike, Baron of Lisle, of the most noble order of the Garter Knight, Generall of the Queenes Maiesties Ordinaunce within her Highnes Realmes and Dominions.
To the Right Honourable, my very good Lord, Ambrose Earl of Warwick, Baron of Lisle, of the most noble order of the Garter Knight, General of the Queen's Majesty’s Ordinance within her Highness's Realms and Dominions.
Provoked, or rather vehemently incited and moued, I haue been (right honorable my very good Lorde) to imagin and deuise all meanes possible to auoyde that vglie vice of ingratitude (which as it is abhorred amonge creatures voyde of reason and deuine knowledge, so of men indued and full possessed with both, specially to be detested.) And that I might not be touched with that vnkind vice, odible to God and man, I haue many times, with myselfe debated how I might by any meanes shew my selfe thanckfull and beneuolent to your honour, which hath not onely by frequent talke vnto my frendes priuately, but also vpon my selfe openly imployed benefits and commendation vndeserued. The one I haue receiued by frendly report of your dere and approued frends, the other I do feele and tast to my great stay and comfort. For when it pleased your honour of curteous inclination, vpon the first vew, willingly to consent and agree to the confirmation of that which I do enioy: for that bounty then, euer sithens I haue studied by what meanes I might commend my good will and affection to the same. Wherefore incensed with the generositie, and naturall instinct of your noble minde, I purposed many times to imploy indeuor by some small beginninges, to giue your honor to vnderstande outwardly, what the inwarde desire is willinge to do, if abilitie thereunto were correspondent. And as oportunitie serued (respiring as it were from the waighty affaires of that office wherin it hath pleased our most drad Soueraigne Ladye worthely to place you the chiefe and Generall) I perused such volumes of noble Authors as wherwith my poore 4 Armarie is furnished: and amonges other chaunced vpon that excellent Historiographer Titus Liuius. In whom is contayned a large campe of noble facts and exploites atchieued by valiaunt personages of the Romaine state. By whom also is remembred the beginning and continuation of their famous common wealth. And viewing in him great plenty of straung Histories, I thought good to select such as were the best and principal, wherin trauailing not far, I occurred vpon some which I deemed most worthy the prouulgation in our natiue tongue, reducing them into such compendious forme, as I truste shall not appeare vnpleasant. Which when I had finished, seing them but a handfull in respect of the multitude I fully determined to procede in the rest. But when I considered mine owne weakenes, and the maiestie of the Authour, the cancred infirmitye of a cowardlye minde, stayed my conceyued purpose, and yet not so stayed as vtterlye to suppresse mine attempt. Wherefore aduauncing againe the Ensigne of courage, I thought good (leauing where I left in that Authour, till I knew better how they would be liked) to aduenture into diuers other, out of whom I decerped and chose (raptim) sondry proper and commendable Histories, which I may boldly so terme, because the Authors be commendable and well approued. And thereunto haue ioyned many other, gathered oute of Boccatio, Bandello, Ser Giouanni Fiorentino, Straparole, and other Italian and French Authours. All which I haue recueled and bound together in this volume, vnder the title of the Palace of Pleasure, presuming to consecrate the same and the rest of my beneuolent minde to your honour. For to whom duly appertayneth mine industry and dilligence, but to him that is the patrone and imbracer of my wel doinges? Whereunto also I may apply the words of that excellent Orator Tullie, in his firste booke of Offices. De beneuolentia autem, quam quisq’; habeat erganos, primum illud est in officia, vt ei plurimum tribuamus, à quo plurimum diligimur. Of beneuolence which ech man beareth towards vs, the chiefest duty is to giue most to him, of whom wee be most beloued. But how well the same is done, or how prayse worthy the translation I referre to the skilful, crauing no more prayse, than they shall attribute and 5 giue. To nothing do I aspyre by this my presumption (righte honourable) but cherefull acceptation at your handes: desirous hereby to shew my selfe studious of a frend of so noble vocation. And where greater thinges cannot be done, these small I truste shall not be contempned: which if I doe perceiue, hereafter more ample indeuor shal be imployed to atchieue greater. In these histories (which by another terme I call Nouelles) be described the liues, gestes, conquestes, and highe enterprises of great Princes, wherein also be not forgotten the cruell actes and tiranny of some. In these be set forth the great valiance of noble Gentlemen, the terrible combates of couragious personages, the vertuous mindes of noble Dames, the chaste hartes of constant Ladyes, the wonderful patience of puissaunt Princes, the mild sufferaunce of well disposed gentlewomen, and in diuers, the quiet bearing of aduers Fortune. In these Histories be depainted in liuelye colours, the vglye shapes of insolencye and pride, the deforme figures of incontinencie and rape, the cruell aspectes of spoyle, breach of order, treason, ill lucke and ouerthrow of States and other persons. Wherein also be intermixed, pleasaunte discourses, merie talke, sportinge practises, deceitfull deuises, and nipping tauntes, to exhilarate your honor’s minde. And although by the first face and view, some of these may seeme to intreat of vnlawfull Loue, and the foule practises of the same, yet being throughly reade and well considered, both old and yonge may learne how to auoyde the ruine, ouerthrow, inconuenience and displeasure, that lasciuious desire and wanton wil doth bring to their suters and pursuers. All which maye render good examples, the best to be followed, and the worst to be auoyded: for which intent and purpose be all things good and bad recited in histories, Chronicles and monumentes, by the first authors and elucubrators of the same. To whom then may these histories (wherin be contayned many discourses of nobilitie) be offered with more due desert than to him that in nobilitie and parentage is not inferiour to the best? To whom may factes and exploites of famous personages be consigned, but to him whose prowesse and valiant actes be manifest, and well knowen to Englishmen, but better to straungers, which 6 haue felt the puissance thereof? To whom may the combats, gests, and courses of the victorious be remembred, but to him whose frequent vse of mightye incountrie and terrible shocke of Shielde and Launce: is familier in Court, and famous in towne and country? In whom may pacient bearing of aduersitie, and constante suffrance of Fortune’s threates more duly to the world appeare, than in him that hath constantly susteyned and quietly passed ouer the bruntes thereof? To whom may be giuen a Theatre of the world, and stage of humaine misery, more worthely than to him that hath with comely gestures, wise demeanor, and orderly behauiour, been an actor in the same? Who is he that more condignelye doth deserue to be possest in a Palace of Pleasure, than he that is daily resiant in a Palace of renowmed fame, guided by a Queene adorned with most excellent beautie indued and garnished with great learning, passing vertues and rare qualities of the minde. To whom (I say) may constancie of Ladies, and vertuous dedes of Dames, more aptly be applied than to him that hath in possession a Lady and Countesse of noble birthe (whose sire was the old Earle of Bedford, a graue and faithfull councelor to her Maiesties most noble progenitors, and father is the same, in deare estimation and regard with her highnesse, vnder whom he trustily and honourably serueth) whose curteous and countesse like behauiour glistereth in court amongs the troupe of most honourable dames: and for her toward disposition, first preferred by her Maiesty into her secret Chamber, and after aduaunced to be Countesse of your noble Earldome. Besides all which rare giftes, by nature grated in your honor, and by her bountifully bestowed, the perfect piety and brotherly loue betweene you and the right noble and vertuous the Earle of Leycester your honourable brother is had in greatest admiration. Whose noble courage in deedes of honour and passing humanity to his inferiours, is very commendable to the worlde. But here I wyll staye, leste whilest I goe about to extolle your fames, I doe (for want of perfit skill in due prayse) seeme to diminishe that whiche among all men by commune proofe is sufficientlye renowmed. And as your honor doth with great prudence gouerne that 7 office of the Ordinance (whereof I am a member) euen so, the same hath with greate care and diligence commended suche vnto her highnes, to ioyne and serue, right worthy their vocations, specially the worshipfull Edward Randolfe Esquire, Lieutenaunt of that office a man for his experience and good aduise rather fostred in the bosome of Bellona, than nourced in kentish soile (although in the scholehouse of curtesie and humanitie he appeareth ful carefully to haue ben trained vp by his vertuous parents) which is famiarly knowne vnto me and other that domestically (as it were) do frequent his companie. But alas my Lorde, among the mid of my reioyce of those before remembred, I cannot pretermit the lamentable losse of the best approued Gonner that euer serued in our time his Prince and countrie, Robert Thomas, the Maister Gonner, who for skill and seruice, a title of Prince of Gonners iustly did deserue: And see the lucke, when he thought best to signifie his good will, by honouring Hymeneus bed, at nuptial night, a clap of that he neuer feared did ende his life. Such is the dreadful furie of Gonners art, and hellish rage of Vulcane’s worke. And therefore that daungerous seruice by skilful men is specially to be recommended and cherished. Whereunto as your honour hitherto hath borne singuler affection, by preferring to her Maiestie suche as from their infancie haue bene trayned vp in that necessarie seruice and very painefullye haue imployed their time, euen so I humbly beseche your honour for continuance of the same, specially in those, that be indewed with greatest experience, in whome only resteth the brunte of our defence. A seruice and science so rare and nedefull, as none more. But what neede I to prouoke your willing mynde, whiche is more prest to cherishe such, than I am able by wyshing heart for to conceiue? Finallie yet once againe, I humblie besech your honour gratefully to accept this booke, and at your Leisure and conuenient time to reade and peruse it. By reuoluing whereof your honour I trust shall be delighted with the rare Histories and good examples therin contained, such as to my knowledge heretofore haue not bene published. And which with all my good wil and indeuour I dutifully exhibite. Beseching 8 almightie God fauourably to defende and gouerne your honour, prosperously to maintaine and keepe the same, godlye to directe my right honourable Ladie in the steppes of perfect vertue, bountifully to make you both happye parentes of manie children: and after the expence of Nestor’s yeares in this transitorie life mercifully to conducte you both to the vnspeakeable ioyes of his kingdome.
Provoked, or rather forcefully stirred and inspired, I have been (right honorable my very good Lord) to think of and come up with all possible ways to avoid that horrible vice of ingratitude (which, as it is detested among beings devoid of reason and divine knowledge, is especially to be despised by those men who possess both). To ensure I am not affected by that unkind vice, loathsome to God and humanity, I have often debated with myself about how I might express my gratitude and goodwill towards your honor. You have not only conferred undeserved benefits and praise upon me through private conversations with my friends, but you have also done so openly to my face. I have recognized the first through friendly reports from your dear and trusted friends, and I feel the second as a great support and comfort. For when your honor graciously agreed at first glance to confirm what I enjoy, I have since studied means to express my goodwill and affection in return. Encouraged by your generosity and the natural inclination of your noble spirit, I often planned to make an effort, albeit small, to show your honor outwardly what my inner desire is willing to do, if only my ability matched it. As opportunities arose (as if taking a breath from the important matters of the role where it pleased our most revered sovereign lady to appoint you as chief and General), I reviewed various volumes of noble authors that fill my humble library, and among others I came across that excellent historian Titus Livius. Within him lies a rich collection of noble deeds and exploits achieved by valiant figures of the Roman state. He also reminds us of the beginning and ongoing narrative of their famous commonwealth. Observing the wealth of foreign histories in his work, I decided to choose the best and most significant ones, and not far into my search, I discovered some that I deemed most worthy of promotion in our native tongue, reducing them into such a concise format that I trust will not seem displeasing. Upon completion of these, seeing they were but a handful compared to the multitude, I fully planned to proceed with the others. However, when I contemplated my own limitations and the majesty of the author, the chronic weakness of a cowardly mind halted my intended initiative, though not entirely suppressing my attempt. Thus, re-raising the banner of courage, I thought it best (setting aside what I left with that author until I better understood how they would be received) to venture into various others, from which I selected various proper and commendable histories, which I can confidently term as such because the authors are commendable and well-regarded. Additionally, I have joined many others gathered from Boccaccio, Bandello, Ser Giovanni Fiorentino, Straparola, and other Italian and French authors. All of which I have collected and bound together in this volume under the title of the Palace of Pleasure, hoping to dedicate it and my goodwill to your honor. For to whom does my hard work and diligence rightly belong but to him who is the patron and supporter of my good deeds? To this end, I may also apply the words of that excellent orator Cicero in his first book of Offices: De beneuolentia autem, quam quisq’; habeat erganos, primum illud est in officia, ut ei plurimum tribuamus, à quo plurimum diligimur. Of the benevolence that each man bears towards us, the primary duty is to give the most to him of whom we are most beloved. But how well this is done, or how praiseworthy the translation is, I leave to the skilled, seeking no more praise than they will assign and give. I aspire not to anything by this presumption (right honorable) but cheerful acceptance from you; eager to show my dedication to a friend of such noble vocation. And where greater things cannot be achieved, I trust these small efforts will not be dismissed; for if I perceive such, I shall in the future devote more considerable effort to achieve greater aims. In these histories (which I also call Novels), we describe the lives, deeds, conquests, and bold enterprises of great princes, wherein the cruel acts and tyranny of some are not overlooked. Here, the great valor of noble gentlemen, the fierce battles of brave individuals, the virtuous minds of noble ladies, the chaste hearts of steadfast women, the incredible patience of powerful princes, and the gentle endurance of well-mannered women are highlighted, and in many cases, the quiet acceptance of adversity is painted. In these Histories, vivid colors depict the ugly shapes of arrogance and pride, the distorted figures of lust and violation, the cruel features of plunder, breaches of order, treason, misfortune, and the downfall of states and their people. Interspersed among these are pleasant discourses, merry talk, lighthearted practices, deceitful schemes, and witty barbs to uplift your honor's spirits. Although at first glance, some of these might appear to address unlawful love and its sordid practices, upon thorough reading and careful consideration, both young and old can learn how to avoid the ruin, downfall, inconveniences, and displeasures that lustful longing and wanton will bring upon their suitors and pursuers. All of which can offer good examples, illustrating the best to be followed and the worst to be avoided; for which purpose are all good and bad things recounted in histories, chronicles, and records by the original authors and laborers of these narratives. To whom then can these histories (containing many discussions of nobility) be offered with more just merit than to him who in nobility and lineage is not inferior to the best? To whom should the deeds and exploits of famous figures be entrusted, but to him whose prowess and brave acts are evident to Englishmen and even more to strangers who have felt its strength? To whom can the battles, triumphs, and daring deeds of victors be remembered, if not to him whose frequent engagement in mighty encounters and the shocking clash of shield and lance is familiar in court and renowned in town and country? In whom can the patient endurance of adversity and steadfastness to fortune's threats more rightly appear than in him who has consistently withstood and quietly endured the brunt of it? To whom can a theater of the world and a stage of human misery be awarded more justly than to him who has, with graceful gestures, wise demeanor, and orderly conduct, participated in the same? Who deserves to be housed in the Palace of Pleasure more fittingly than he who daily resiant in a palace of renowned fame, guided by a queen adorned with incredible beauty, blessed with great learning, surpassing virtues, and rare qualities of the mind? To whom (I ask) can the constancy of ladies and virtuous deeds of women be more suitably ascribed than to him who possesses a lady and countess of noble birth (whose father was the old Earl of Bedford, a grave and faithful counselor to her Majesty’s most noble ancestors, and whose father holds the same position in high esteem with her highness, under whom he serves honorably and faithfully) whose courteous and countess-like behavior shines in court among the assembly of the most honorable ladies: and by her worthy disposition, was first preferred by her Majesty into her private chamber, and then elevated to be Countess of your noble Earldom. Besides all these rare gifts, bestowed upon your honor by nature, and generously given by her, the perfect piety and brotherly love between you and the right noble and virtuous Earl of Leicester, your honorable brother, is held in the highest admiration. His noble courage in honorable deeds and exceptional humanity towards his inferiors is very commendable to the world. But here I will pause, lest while I endeavor to extol your fame, I seem, from lack of perfect skill in proper praise, to diminish what is, by common proof, sufficiently renowned among all men. As your honor governs that office of the Ordinance (of which I am a member) with great wisdom, so it has thoughtfully commended such individuals to her highness, to join and serve, especially the honorable Edward Randolph Esquire, Lieutenant of that office—a man, for his experience and good advice, more inclined to the bosom of Bellona than nurtured in Kentish soil (though in the schoolhouse of courtesy and humanity he appears to have been carefully trained by his virtuous parents)—which is well-known to me and others who frequently associate with him. But alas my Lord, amidst the joy of those previously mentioned, I cannot overlook the lamentable loss of the best-approved Gunner who ever served in our time, Robert Thomas, the Master Gunner, who, for his skill and service, justly deserved the title of Prince of Gunners: And see the fate; when he wished to demonstrate his goodwill by honoring the marriage bed on his wedding night, a sudden misfortune he never anticipated ended his life. Such is the dreadful fury of a Gunner's art, and the hellish rage of Vulcan's work. Therefore, that dangerous service by skilled individuals deserves special recommendation and support. To which, as your honor has always shown singular affection by preferring those who have been trained in that necessary service from childhood, I humbly beseech your honor to continue this practice, especially with those endowed with the greatest experience, in whom alone rests the burden of our defense. A service and knowledge so rare and essential, that none is more so. But what need is there for me to stimulate your willing mind, which is more ready to nurture such individuals than I am able to wish for? Finally, once again, I humbly request your honor to graciously accept this book, and when convenient, to read and examine it. By contemplating it, I trust you will find delight in the rare histories and good examples contained within, such as to my knowledge have not been published before. With all my goodwill and effort, I dutifully present this. I beseech Almighty God to favorably defend and guide your honor, to prosperously maintain and keep the same, to kindly direct my right honorable lady in the path of perfect virtue, and to richly bless you both as happy parents of many children. And after the labor of Nestor’s years in this transitory life, mercifully to guide you both to the unspeakable joys of his kingdom.
Nere the Tower of London the first of Ianuarie, 1566.
Nearing the Tower of London on January 1, 1566.
By your L. most bounden
By your L. most loyal
William Painter.
William Painter.
Authours out of whom these Nouelles be selected, or which be remembred in diuers places of the same.
Authours from which these stories are chosen, or that are mentioned in various parts of it.
GREEKE AND LATINE AUTHORS. | |
Titus Liuius. Titus Livius. Herodotus. Herodotus Aelianus. Aelianus. Xenophon. Xenophon. Quintus Curtius. Quintus Curtius. Aulus Gellius. Aulus Gellius. S. Hierome. St. Jerome. |
Cicero. Cicero. Polidorus Virgilius. Polidorus Virgil. Aeneas Syluius. Aeneas Silvius. Paludanus. Paludanus. Apuleius. Apuleius. L. Cælius Rhodoginus. L. Cælius Rhodoginus. |
ITALIAN, FRENCH, AND ENGLISHE. | |
Pietro Messia di Siuiglia. Pietro Messia di Siuiglia. Boccaccio. Boccaccio. Bandello. Bandello. Ser Giouanni Fiorentino. Sir Giovanni Fiorentino. Straporole. Strap role. The Queene of Nauarre. The Queen of Navarre. |
A booke in French intituled Comptes du Monde. A book in French titled Comptes du Monde. Francois Belleforest. Francois Belleforest. Pierre Boaistuau, surnamed Launay. Pierre Boaistuau, aka Launay. Froisarde. Froisarde. Fabian. Fabian. |
TO THE READER.
Nothing in mine opinion can be more acceptable vnto thee (friendly Reader) then oft reading and perusing of varietie of Hystories, which as they be for diuersitie of matter pleasaunt and plausible, euen so for example and imitation good and commendable. The one doth reioyce the werie and tedious minde, many times inuolued with ordinarie cares, the other prescribeth a directe pathe to treade the tracte of this present life. Wherefore if in these newes or Nouelles here presented, there do appeare any thing worthy of regarde, giue thankes to the noble gentleman to whome this booke is dedicated, for whose sake onely, that paine (if any seme to bee) was wholy imployed. Inioy therefore with him this present booke, and curteously with frendly talke report the same, for if otherwise thou do abuse it, the blame shal light on thee, and not on me, which only of good will did meane it first. But yet if blaming tongues and vnstayed heades, wil nedes be busy, they shal sustain the shame, for that they haue not yet shewen forth any blamelesse dede to like effect, as this is ment of me, which when they do, no blame but prayse they can receiue. For prayse be they well worthy for to haue which in well doing do contende. No vertuous dede or zelous worke can want due prayse of the honest, though faulting fooles and youthly heades full ofte do chaunt the faultles checke, that Momus mouth did once finde out in Venus slipper. And yet from faultes I wyll not purge the same, but whatsoeuer they seme to be, they be in number ne yet in substaunce such, but that thy curteous dealing may sone amende them or forget them. Wherefore to giue the full aduertisement of the whole collection of these nouels, vnderstande that sixe of them haue I selected out of Titus Liuius, two out of Herodotus, certayn out of Aelianus, Xenophon, Aulus Gellius, Plutarche, and other like approued authors. Other Nouels haue I adioyned, chosen out of diuers Italian and Frenche wryters. Wherein I confesse my selfe not to be so well trayned, peraduenture as the fine heads of suche trauailers would desire, and yet I trust sufficiently 11 to expresse the sense, of euerye of the same. Certaine haue I culled out of the Decamerone of Giouan Boccaccio, wherin be conteined one hundred Nouelles, amonges whiche there be some (in my iudgement) that be worthy to be condempned to perpetual prison, but of them such haue I redemed to the libertie of our vulgar, as may be best liked, and better suffered. Although the sixt part of the same hundreth may full well be permitted. And as I my selfe haue already done many other of thesame worke, yet for this present I haue thought good to publish only tenne in number, the rest I haue referred to them that be able with better stile to expresse the authour’s eloquence, or vntil I adioyne to this another tome, if none other in the meane time do preuent me, which with all my heart I wishe and desire: because the workes of Boccaccio for his stile, order of writing, grauitie, and sententious discourse, is worthy of intire prouulgation. Out of Bandello I haue selected seuen, chosing rather to follow Launay and Belleforest the French Translatours, than the barren soile of his own vain, who being a Lombard, doth frankly confesse himselfe to be no fine Florentine, or trimme Thoscane, as eloquent and gentle Boccaccio was. Diuers other also be extracted out of other Italian and French authours. All which (I truste) be both profitable and pleasaunt, and wil be liked of the indifferent Reader. Profitable they be, in that they disclose what glorie, honour, and preferment eche man attaineth by good desert, what felicitie, by honest attempts, what good successe, laudable enterprises do bring to the coragious, what happy ioy and quiet state godly loue doth affecte the imbracers of the same. Profitable I say, in that they do reueale the miseries of rapes and fleshly actions, the ouerthrow of noble men and Princes by disordered gouernment, the tragical ends of them that vnhappely do attempt practises vicious and horrible. Wilt thou learne how to behaue thy selfe with modestie after thou hast atchieued any victorious conquest, and not to forget thy prosperous fortune amyd thy glorious triumphe, by committing a facte vnworthy of thy valiaunce: reade the first Nouel of the fortunate Romane Horatius? Wilt thou vnderstande what dishonour and infamie, desire of libidinous lust doth bring, read the rape of Lucrece? Wilt thou 12 know what an vnkinde part it is vnnaturally to abuse the state of thine own countrie, reade Martius Coriolanus? Wilt thou learne what fruite is reaped of wicked luste, to dispoyle virgins and maydens of their greatest vertue see the hystorie of Appius Claudius and Sir Didaco the Spanish knight? Desirest thou to knowe howe closely thou oughtest to keepe the secrets of honorable mariage, peruse the history of Candaules? Dost thou covet to be aduertised what is true felicitie, reade of kyng Cræsus and the wyse man Solon? Hath the Lady, Gentlewoman, or other of the feminine kinde a desire to beholde a mirrour of chastitie, let theim reade ouer the nouelles of the lady Panthea, of the Duchesse of Sauoy, of the Countesse of Salesburie, of Amadour and Florinda? Is the nobleman affected to vnderstand what happy end the vertue of loyaltie and fidelitie doth conduce, the Earle of Angiers may be to him a right good example? Will gentlemen learne howe to prosecute vertue, and to profligat from their minde, disordinate Loue, and affection, I referre theim to the Historie of Tancredi, and to Galgano of Siena? Is not the marchaunt contented with his goodes already gotten, but will needes go seeke some other trade, let him note and consider the daungers wherein the Aduenturer Landolpho was. Is he disposed to sende his factor beyonde the seas, about his affaires, let him first bidde him to peruse Andreuccio, and then commaunde him to beware of Madame Floredelice? If the yeoman intendeth to be carefull of his businesse, meaning to reape that he hath sowen in due time, let him take hede howe he repose any trust in friendes and kinsmen, least in haruest he be deceiued, which Æsope’s larke doth pretely note. If the artificer will not faithfully deale according to the truste reposed in him, I would not wyshe him to suffer that whiche Bindo did, but aduisedly to reade the Historie, and trustelye to accomplishe that he taketh in hande. If scornefull speache or flouting sport do flowe in ripe wittes and lauishe tongues of womankinde let them beware they do not deale with the learned sort, least Maister Alberto with phisicke drougues, or Philenio with Sophist art do staine their face, or otherwise offende them with the innocencie of their great Graundmother Eue when she was somoned from Paradise ioye. If the poore mayden of base 13 birth be aduaunced (by fortune’s grace) to highe estate: let her fixe in mynde the lady of Thurin. Finallye, for all states and degrees, in these Nouelles be sette forth singuler documentes and examples, right commodious and profitable to them that will vouchsafe to reade them.
Nothing in my opinion can be more enjoyable for you (dear reader) than frequently reading and exploring a variety of stories, which, while being diverse in content, are both pleasant and engaging, as well as good examples to learn from and emulate. One lifts the weary and tired mind, often bogged down by everyday concerns, while the other provides a clear path to navigate this life. Therefore, if you find anything in these news or tales here presented that deserves attention, thank the noble gentleman to whom this book is dedicated, for whose sake this effort (if any seems to be) was completely devoted. So enjoy this book with him and kindly share your thoughts about it, for if you mishandle it, the blame will be yours, not mine, since I meant only well from the start. But if critical voices and restless minds insist on being busy, they will bear the shame for not having shown any flawless deed to rival this one, which I offer. When they do, they can expect praise instead of blame. For praise is certainly deserved by those who strive to do good. No virtuous deed or zealous work can lack the proper praise from the honest, though foolish critics and youthful hotheads often sing the faultless critique that Momus once found in Venus’s slipper. Yet I will not cleanse these tales of faults; whatever they may be, they are not so numerous or in substance so great that your kind handling cannot quickly correct or overlook them. So to give you a full overview of this collection of tales, understand that I have selected six from Titus Livius, two from Herodotus, several from Aelianus, Xenophon, Aulus Gellius, Plutarch, and other reputable authors. I have also included other stories chosen from various Italian and French writers. I admit I'm not as well-trained in this as the skilled minds of such travelers may wish, but I trust I can sufficiently convey the meaning of each. I’ve selected some from Boccaccio’s Decameron, which contains one hundred tales, among which there are some (in my judgment) that deserve to be condemned to permanent imprisonment, but I have freed those that might be best appreciated and better tolerated. Though the sixth part of the hundred can be quite acceptable. Even though I have done many other works of this kind, for now, I felt it good to publish only ten, leaving the rest for those more capable of expressing the author’s eloquence, or until I can add another volume, unless someone else beats me to it, which I truly wish and hope for: because Boccaccio's works, for their style, structure, gravity, and thoughtful discourse, deserve complete attention. From Bandello, I have chosen seven, preferring to follow Launay and Belleforest, the French translators, rather than the barren ground of his own vain style, who, being a Lombard, openly admits he is no polished Florentine or refined Tuscan, like the eloquent and gentle Boccaccio. Various others have also been drawn from different Italian and French authors. All of these (I trust) are both beneficial and enjoyable, and will please the fair-minded reader. They are beneficial in that they reveal what glory, honor, and advancement each person achieves through good deeds, what happiness comes from honest efforts, what good outcomes commendable undertakings bring to the courageous, and what joy and peace godly love brings to those who embrace it. They are beneficial, I say, because they expose the miseries of rapes and immoral acts, the downfall of noble men and princes due to disorderly governance, and the tragic ends of those who foolishly attempt wicked and horrible practices. Do you wish to learn how to behave with modesty after you’ve achieved a victorious conquest, and not to forget your fortune amid your glorious triumph by committing an act unworthy of your valor: read the first tale of the fortunate Roman Horatius? Do you want to understand the dishonor and shame that desire for lust brings? Read the tale of Lucrece's rape. Would you like to know how unkind it is to abuse the state of your own country? Read about Martius Coriolanus. Do you want to learn what fruits are borne of wicked lust, to rob virgins and maidens of their greatest virtue? See the history of Appius Claudius and Sir Didaco the Spanish knight. Do you wish to know how carefully you should guard the secrets of honorable marriage? Peruse the tale of Candaules. Do you crave to be informed about true happiness? Read of King Cræsus and the wise man Solon. If ladies or gentlewomen or other women want to see a mirror of chastity, they should read the tales of Lady Panthea, the Duchess of Savoy, the Countess of Salisbury, and Amadour and Florinda. If a nobleman wishes to understand what happy ending loyalty and fidelity can bring, the Earl of Angiers may serve as a shining example. If gentlemen wish to learn how to pursue virtue and rid their minds of disorderly love and affection, I refer them to the story of Tancredi and Galgano of Siena. If a merchant is not satisfied with his possessions and wants to seek out new trade, let him reflect on the dangers faced by the adventurer Landolpho. If he intends to send his agent overseas for his affairs, let him first advise him to read about Andreuccio and then instruct him to be cautious of Madame Floredelice. If the yeoman aims to be diligent about his affairs, hoping to reap what he has sown at the right time, let him take heed not to place trust in friends and relatives, lest he be deceived at harvest, as Aesop's lark wisely points out. If the artisan will not faithfully act according to the trust placed in him, I wouldn’t wish for him to suffer what Bindo did, but to carefully read the story and truthfully complete what he undertakes. If scornful words or mocking humor pour out in clever minds and loose tongues of women, let them be careful not to tangle with the learned ones, lest Master Alberto with his medicinal drugs, or Philenio with his sophistry, tarnish their image or offend them with the innocence of their great grandmother Eve when she was called from the joys of Paradise. If the poor maiden of humble birth is elevated (by fortune’s grace) to high estate, let her remember the lady of Thurin. Finally, for all classes and degrees, these tales offer unique lessons and examples, very useful and beneficial to those who will take the time to read them.
Pleasaunt they be, for that they recreate, and refreshe weried mindes, defatigated either with painefull trauaile, or with continuall care, occasioning them to shunne and auoid heauinesse of minde, vaine fantasies, and idle cogitations. Pleasaunt so well abroade as at home, to auoyde the griefe of Winter’s night and length of Sommer’s day, which the trauailers on foote may vse for a staye to ease their weried bodye, and the iourneors on horsback for a chariot or lesse painful meane of trauaile, insteade of a merie companion to shorten the tedious toyle of wearie wayes. Delectable they be (no doubt) for al sortes of men, for the sad, the angry, the cholericke, the pleasaunt, the whole and sicke, and for al other with whatsoeuer passion rising either by nature or vse they be affected.
Pleasant they are, as they refresh and rejuvenate tired minds, worn out from hard work or constant worry, helping them to avoid feelings of heaviness, pointless fantasies, and idle thoughts. They are enjoyable both outdoors and at home, helping to escape the gloom of winter nights and the long summer days. Travelers on foot can use them to ease their weary bodies, while those on horseback can have a more comfortable means of transport instead of a dull journey to break up the exhausting trek. They are delightful for all kinds of people: the sad, the angry, the irritable, the cheerful, the healthy and the sick, and everyone else, regardless of the emotions stirred by nature or experience.
The sad shal be discharged of heauinesse, the angrie and cholericke purged, the pleasaunt mainteined in mirthe, the whole furnished with disporte, and the sicke appaysed of griefe. These Nouelles then, being profitable and pleasaunt Histories, apt and meete for all degrees, I truste the indifferent Reader, of what complexion, nature and disposition so euer he bee, will accepte in good parte, althoughe perchaunce not so set foorth or decked with eloquent stile, as this age more braue in tongue then manners dothe require, and do praye thee to receiue them into thy curteous hands, with no lesse good wil (though not with like regard) then Alphonsus king of Arogon did Q. Curtius, out of whome be some of these selected, Who vpon a time beinge sicke at Capua, receiuing at the handes of diuers Phisitions manye medicines, in his greatest fit called for the historie of Q. Curtius, in whome hauing great delight for his eloquent description of gestes and factes of king Alexander, when he was restored to health, sayd: Farewell Auicen, Adieu Hipocrates and other Phisitians, welcome Curtius the restitutor and recouerie of my health. Whereby he declared what pleasure he had in the exercise 14 and reading of Histories, not contempning for all that, the honorable science of Phisicke, which in extremities be holsomely vsed. What commoditie and pleasure histories doe yelde to the diligent serchers and trauailers in the same, Tullie in his fift booke De finibus bonorum et malorum ad Brutam, doth declare who affirmeth that he is not ignorant, what pleasure and profit the reading of Histories doth import. And after hee hath described what difference of commoditie, is betweene fained fables, and liuely discourses of true histories, concludeth reading of histories to be a certain prouacation and allurement to moue men to learne experience. If Tullie then, the Prince of Orators, doth affirme the profite and pleasure to be in perusing of histories, then fitlye haue I intituled this volume the Palace of Pleasure. For like as the outwarde shew of Princesse Palaces be pleasaunt at the viewe and sight of eche man’s eye, bedecked and garnished with sumptuous hanginges and costlye arras of splendent shewe, wherein be wrought and bet with golde and sylke of sondrye hewes, the dedes of noble states: Euen so in this our Palace here, there bee at large recorded the princely partes and glorious gestes of renowmed wights represented with more liuely grace and gorgeous sight then Tapestrie or Arras woorke, for that the one with deadlye shape doth shewe, the other with speaking voyce declare what in their time they were. Vpon whom do wayte (as meete it is) inferiour persones, eche one vouchsafing to tell what hee was, in the transitorie trade of present life.
The sad will be freed from heaviness, the angry and hot-tempered will be calmed, the joyful will be kept in mirth, the whole will be filled with entertainment, and the sick will be soothed from their pain. These stories, then, which are both useful and enjoyable, suitable for all levels, I trust the impartial reader—regardless of their temperament or nature—will accept with goodwill, even if perhaps they are not presented or decorated in an eloquent style as this age, which favors language over manners, might expect. I ask you to receive them into your kind hands, with no less goodwill (though not the same regard) than Alphonsus, King of Aragon, showed to Q. Curtius, from whom some of these have been selected. Once, while being sick in Capua, he received many medications from various physicians, and during a severe attack, he called for the history of Q. Curtius, which he was greatly pleased with for its eloquent descriptions of the deeds and achievements of King Alexander. When he regained his health, he said: “Farewell Avicenna, goodbye Hippocrates, and other physicians; welcome Curtius, the restorer and recoverer of my health.” By this, he revealed the pleasure he found in studying and reading histories, not dismissing the honorable field of medicine, which is notably useful in extreme situations. The benefits and enjoyment that histories provide to diligent researchers and explorers are outlined by Cicero in his fifth book *De finibus bonorum et malorum ad Brutam*, where he states that he is not unaware of the pleasure and profit that comes from reading histories. After describing the difference in benefits between fabricated tales and true stories, he concludes that reading histories serves as a specific motivation and encouragement for people to learn from experience. If Cicero, the master of orators, asserts that there is profit and pleasure in studying histories, then it’s fitting that I have titled this volume the Palace of Pleasure. Just like the outward appearance of royal palaces is pleasant to behold, adorned and decorated with sumptuous hangings and costly tapestries of brilliant display, depicting the deeds of noble figures, in this Palace of ours, the princely qualities and glorious feats of renowned individuals are vividly recorded, presented with more lively grace and stunning sight than tapestry or embroidery, because while the former displays their dead forms, the latter narrates with a speaking voice what they were in their time. Inferior persons wait upon whom it is proper to honor, each one willing to share their story of what they were in the fleeting journey of present life. 14
Wherefore accepte the same in gratefull wise, and thinke vpon the mynde of him that did the same, which fraughted is with no lesse plentie of good will, then the coafers of kyng Cræsus were, with store of worldlye pelfe. Farewell.
Wherefore, accept this with gratitude, and consider the mindset of the one who did this, which is filled with just as much goodwill as King Cræsus's coffers were filled with wealth. Goodbye.
THE PALACE OF PLEASURE.
THE FIRST NOUELL.
The Romaines and the Albanes being at warres, for iniuries mutually inferred, Metius Suffetius the Albane captaine deuised a waye by a combate, to ioygne bothe the cities in one. Victorie falling to the Romaines, the Romaine victor killed his sister and was condemned to die. Afterwardes vpon his fathers sute he was deliuered.
The Romans and the Albans were at war, due to mutual wrongs committed. Metius Suffetius, the Albanian captain, came up with a plan for a battle to unite both cities. With victory going to the Romans, the Roman victor killed his sister and was sentenced to death. Later, upon his father's request, he was released.
As the name of Palace doth carie a port of Maiestie as propre for princes and greatest estates, and as a Palace and Court by glorious viewe of loftie Towers, doe set forth an outwarde showe of greate magnificence; and as that glittering sight without importeth a brauer pompe and state within, whose worthiest furniture (besides the golden and curious ornamentes) resteth in the Princely train of courtly personages, most communely indowed with natures comliest benefites and rarest giftes incident to earthly Goddes, as well for the mindes qualities, as for the bodies acts. So, here at our first entrie, I thought to staye as it were at the gate of this palace, to discouer the incountrie of sixe renowmed Gentlemen, brethren of equal numbre, that, by consent of either state, fought and vsed dedes of armes, not for sportes of Ladies, or for precious prises, but for Countrie quarell and libertie of Natiue soyle. For the vpper hand and vniting two most mighty Italian cities, that before bare eche other moste mortall spite and deadlye foode, whiche in ende after the bloudie skirmishe of those chosen brethren (for sauing of a bloudier battell) were conioyned in 16 vnited Monarchie. An historie though dreadfull to hearing as fitter for the Campe then Courte, yet, for the worthinesse of the quarell, not to bee shunned from tendrest eares, for that it spreadeth foorth a victorious paterne of valiant Chiualrie. And so do the rest succeding, which speake of glorious chastitie, of inuincible mindes, of bold Aduentures for Countries saufetie, of naturall pietie in parentes and children, and the othe of other honorable causes, fitte to be displaied to eche degree, and practised by such, whose functions, principally do, or ought to aspire semblable valiaunce, for defence of that whiche their Elders by bloudie swette haue honorably gotten, and most carefully kept. But not by tedious proeme to holde the desirous minde from what is promised, thus it beginneth.
As the name of the Palace carries a sense of majesty suited for princes and the highest estates, its grand appearance with tall towers presents an impressive display of great magnificence. That dazzling sight outside suggests a greater splendor and state within, where the finest decorations, alongside the golden and intricate ornaments, are found among the princely entourage of courtly individuals. These individuals are generally endowed with nature’s most attractive qualities and rarest gifts, both in terms of their minds and their physical abilities. So, as we enter here, I thought to pause at the entrance of this palace to explore the tales of six renowned gentlemen, brothers of the same number, who, by mutual agreement, fought and engaged in acts of arms—not for the entertainment of ladies or for valuable prizes, but for the sake of their country and the freedom of their native land. For the upper hand and the unification of two powerful Italian cities, which previously harbored deep animosity and deadly rivalries, eventually came together after the bloody skirmish of those chosen brothers (to prevent an even bloodier battle), united in a 16 single monarchy. Although this history is dreadful to hear and more fitting for the battlefield than the court, the worthiness of the cause makes it suitable for even the most sensitive ears, as it lays out a victorious pattern of valiant chivalry. The following tales will also speak of glorious chastity, unyielding spirits, bold adventures for the safety of their countries, and the natural piety of parents and children, along with other honorable causes, fit to be displayed to all, and practiced by those whose roles should aspire to similar bravery to defend what their elders have honorably earned through blood and sweat and have preserved with great care. But rather than a lengthy preamble to distract the eager mind from what has been promised, let us begin.
Numa Pompilius the second king of the Romaines being dead, Tullus Hostilius succeded, which was a lustie and couragious younge Gentleman: And as Numa was giuen to peace, so was he to warres and valiance. It chaunced in his time that certaine peasauntes of the Romaine dition, and the like of the Albanes, were foraging and driuing of booties the one from the other. At that time raigned in Alba one C. Cluilius, from whence and from Rome, Ambassadours were sent to redemaunde the thinges stollen. Tullus commaunded his people that they should deliuer nothing till commaundement were giuen in that behalfe: for than he knewe right well that the Alban king would not restore at all, and therefore might vpon iust cause, proclaime warres. Hee receiued the Alban Ambassadours in verie courteous manner, and they as courteously celebrated his honourable and sumptuous intertaignement. Amitie proceded on either parties, till the Romanes began to demaunde the first restitution which the Albanes denied, and summoned warres to bee inferred vppon them within thirtie daies after. Whereupon the Ambassadours craued licence of Tullus to speake, which being graunted, they first purged themselues by ignoraunce, that they knewe no harme or iniurie done to the Romaines, adding further, that if any thing were done that should not please Tullus, it was against their willes, hoping he would remember that they 17 were but Ambassadours, subiect to the commaundement of their Prince. Their comming was to demaunde a restitution, without whiche, they were straightlye charged to proclayme defiaunce. Whereunto Tullus aunswered: “Tell your maister, that the king of the Romaines doth call the Gods to witnes, whether of them first maketh the quarel, to thintent all men may expect the reuenge of those warres.” Which answere the Albane Ambassadours retourned to their maister. Great prouision for the warres was made on both partes, much like to a ciuile contention, almost betwene the father and the sonne, for the citie of Lauinium was builded by the Troians, and Alba by the Lauinians, of whose stocke the Romaines toke their beginning. The Albanes seing that they were defied of the Romaines, began first to enter in armes, and with a maine power perced the land of the Romaines, and encamped within fiue miles of the citie, enuironing their campe with a trenche, which afterwardes was called Fossa Cluilia, of their capitaine, wherin Cluilius the king died. Then the Albanes appointed one Metius Suffetius, to be their Dictator. Tullus vnderstanding the death of their Prince, with great expedition marched into the countrie about Alba, pssiang by the Albanes campe in the night which by the watche and scoutes was skried. Then he retired to lodge as nere the enemie as hee could, sending an Ambassadour before, to require Tullus that he would come to parle before they fought, and than he had a thing to saye, no lesse profitable to the Romaines, then to the Albanes. Tullus not contempning that condition, agreed. Whereupon both did put them selues in readines, and before they ioyned, both the captaines with certain of their chiefe officers, came forth to talke, where Metius sayde these wordes: “The mutuall iniuries that hath been done, and the withholding and keping of thinges caried away, contrary to the truce, and that our king Cluilius, is the authour and beginner of these warres, I do heare and assuredly vnderstande for a trothe. And I do not doubte, Tullus, but thou also doest conceiue the same, to be the only occasion of this hostilitie. Notwithstandinge, if I may speake rather the truthe, then vtter any glosing woordes by waye of flatterie, the ambicious desire of both the Empires, doth moste of all stimulate and prouoke both the 18 cities, being of one affinitie, and neighbours, to vse this force of Armes. But whether this my coniecture bee righte or wrong, they oughte to consider, whiche firste began the warres. The Albanes haue created me their Captaine of this enterpryse. I come to geue aduertisement to thee, O Tullus, of this one thing. Which is, that the Thuscans being a great nation, and of power right famous, doth inuirone vs both rounde about, and the nerer they be vnto you, the more knowledge you haue of them. They be mightie vpon lande, and of great power vpon Sea. Call to thy remembraunce and consider, that when thou geuest the signe and watch worde of the battell, our twoo armies shall bee but a ridiculous spectacle to them. So sone as they doe perceiue vs twoo to bee spent, and weried with fighting, they will bothe assayle the vanquished, and him also that doeth ouercome. Wherefore if the Goddes do fauour eyther of vs, let vs not shewe our selues to bee wearie of our libertie and franchise that is certaine, and hazard the dice to incurre perpetuall seruitude and bondage. Therfore let vs deuise some other waye, wherby the one of vs may gouerne the other without effusion of eithers bloud.”
Numa Pompilius, the second king of the Romans, passed away, and Tullus Hostilius succeeded him. He was a vigorous and brave young man: while Numa was inclined towards peace, Tullus was drawn to war and valor. During his reign, some peasants from Rome and their counterparts from Alba were raiding each other's territory. At that time, C. Cluilius ruled in Alba, and ambassadors were sent from both sides to negotiate the return of the stolen goods. Tullus instructed his people not to give anything back until a command was issued, knowing full well that the Alban king wouldn't restore anything and that he could justly declare war. He received the Alban ambassadors very courteously; in turn, they praised his honorable and lavish hospitality. Friendship continued between both parties until the Romans first demanded the return of the stolen items, which the Albans denied, summoning war against them to be declared within thirty days thereafter. The ambassadors then asked Tullus for permission to speak, which he granted. They first tried to clear themselves of any wrongdoing, claiming they knew of no harm done to the Romans, adding that if anything had happened to upset Tullus, it was against their will, hoping he would remember they were merely ambassadors subject to their prince's commands. Their mission was to demand restitution, or else they were ordered to declare defiance. Tullus replied, “Tell your king that the Roman king calls the gods to witness who started the quarrel, so that everyone may expect the revenge of this war.” The Alban ambassadors returned with this response to their king. Significant preparations for war were made on both sides, resembling a civil conflict, almost like a dispute between father and son, since the city of Lavinium was founded by the Trojans, and Alba by the Lavinians, from whom the Romans descended. The Albans, seeing they were defied by the Romans, began to arm themselves first, sending a large force into Roman lands and encamping within five miles of the city, surrounding their camp with a trench, which was later called Fossa Cluilia, after their leader, where Cluilius the king died. Then the Albans appointed Metius Suffetius as their Dictator. Tullus, upon learning of their king's death, hurriedly marched into Alba's territory, passing by the Alban camp at night, which was observed by the watch and scouts. He then retired to camp as close to the enemy as possible, sending an ambassador ahead to ask Tullus if he would come to parley before they fought, stating he had a proposal that would be beneficial for both the Romans and the Albans. Tullus, not dismissing this request, agreed. So both sides prepared themselves, and before they engaged, the two leaders, along with some of their top officers, came forward to talk, where Metius said these words: “The mutual injuries that have been done, and the holding onto things taken away, contrary to the truce, with our king Cluilius being the instigator of this war, I hear and understand to be true. I don't doubt, Tullus, that you also see this as the main cause of this hostility. However, if I must speak the truth rather than flatter you, the ambitious desires of both empires stir up and provoke both cities, which are of one affinity and neighboring, to use this force of arms. But whether my conclusion is right or wrong, they should consider who actually started the war. The Albans have made me their captain for this endeavor. I come to give you, Tullus, a piece of advice. The Etruscans, a powerful and renowned nation, surround us on all sides, and the closer they are to you, the more you know about them. They are strong on land and powerful at sea. Remember that when you give the signal for battle, our two armies will just be a ridiculous sight to them. As soon as they see us worn out from fighting, they will attack both the defeated and the victor. Therefore, if the gods favor either of us, let's not show ourselves weary of our certain liberty and risk falling into perpetual servitude. Instead, let’s devise another way for one of us to govern the other without spilling each other’s blood.”
This condition nothing displeased Tullus, although in courage, and hope of victorie, he was more fierce and bolder then the other. And being in consultation about the purpose, fortune ministred an apt occasion to them both: for in either campes there were thre brethren, of age and valiance semblable. The brethren that were in the Romaine campe were called Horatij, the other Curiatij. Whereupon a combate was thought meete betwene these sixe persones. After the Romaines had vsed their solempne maners of consecrating the truces, and other rites concerning the same, either partes repaired to the combate. Both the armies stode in readines before their campes, rather voyde of present perill then of care: for the state of either of their Empires, consisted in the valiance and fortune of a fewe. Wherfore theire mindes were wonderfullye bent and incensed vpon that vnpleasant sight. The signe of the combat was giuen. The thre yonge men of either side do ioigne with furious and cruel onset, representing the courages of two battelles of puissaunt armies. For the losse consisted in neither those three, but the publique gouernement or 19 common thraldome of both the cities, and that was the future fortune, whiche they did trie and proue. So sone as the clashing armoure did sound at their first incountrie, and their glittering swordes did shine, an incredible horror and feare perced the beholders, and hope inclining to either partes, their voyce and myndes were whist and silent. But after they were closed together, not onely the mouing of their bodies, and doubtfull welding and handling of their weapons, but bloudye woundes appeared, two of the Romaines falling downe starke dead one vppon an other: But before the three Albanes were sore hurt. Whereat the Albane hoste shouted for ioye. The Romaine Legions were voyde of hope, amazed to see but one remayne against three: It chaunced that hee that liued whyche as hee was but one alone (an vnmeete matche for the rest) so he was fierce, and thought himselfe good enough for them all. Therefore to separate their fight, he flede backe, meaning thereby to geue euery of them their welcome as they followed. When he was retired a good space from the place wher they fought, loking back, he sawe them followe some distance one from an other, and as one of them approched, he let driue at him with great violence. And whiles the Albane hoste cried out vpon the Curiatij, to helpe their brother, Horatius had killed his enemie, and demaunded for the seconde battaile. Then the Romaines incouraged their champion with acclamations and shoutes, as fearefull men be wont to do vpon the sodaine, and Horatius spedeth himselfe to the fight. And before the other could ouertake him, which was not farre off, hee had killed an other of the Curiatij. Nowe were they equally matched one to one, but in hope and strengthe vnlike. For the one was free of wounde or hurte: cruell and fierce by reason of double victorie, the other faint for losse of bloud, and wearie of running, and who with panting breath, discomfited for his brethrens slaughter, slaine before him, is now obiected to fight with his victorious enemy. A match altogether vnequall. Horatius reioysing sayd, two of thy brethren I haue dispatched, the thirde, the cause of this battaill, I will take in hand: that the Romaines maye bee lordes of the Albanes. Curiatius not able to sustaine his blowe, fell downe, and lying vpon his backe, he thrust him into the throte with his sworde, 20 whiche done he dispoyled him of his armure. Then the Romanies in great triumphe and reioyse intertaigned Horatius, and their ioye was the greater, for that the feare of their ouerthrowe was the nearer. This combate being ended, the Albanes became subiecte to the Romaines, and before Metius departed, he asked Tullus if hee would commaunde him any further seruice. Who willed him to kepe the younge souldiours still in intertaignement, for that hee woulde require their aide against the Veientes. The armie dissolued, Horatius like a Conquerour marched home to Rome, the three spoyles of his ennemies being borne before hym.
This situation didn't bother Tullus at all, even though he was more fierce and bold than the others, filled with courage and hope for victory. While discussing their plans, fortune provided a perfect opportunity for both sides: in each camp, there were three brothers of similar age and bravery. The brothers in the Roman camp were called the Horatii, while the others were known as the Curiatii. It was decided that these six would engage in combat. After the Romans performed their customary rituals for consecrating the truce, both sides prepared for the fight. Both armies were ready in front of their camps, more anxious than in immediate danger; the fate of their empires rested on the bravery and fortune of a few. Therefore, their minds were intensely focused on this unpleasant sight. The signal for combat was given. The three young warriors from each side charged with fierce and brutal attacks, embodying the spirits of two powerful armies. The stakes didn't just involve those three, but the future governance and potential subjugation of both cities. 19 As the clash of armor rang at their first encounter and their gleaming swords shone, an overwhelming horror and fear gripped the spectators. With hope wavering for both sides, their voices and minds fell silent. Once they locked in combat, not only was there the movement of their bodies and the uncertain wielding of their weapons, but bloody wounds also emerged, with two of the Romans falling dead one on top of the other, while the three Albans were severely wounded. The Alban army shouted in joy. The Roman legions, devoid of hope, were stunned to see only one Roman remaining against the three. The survivor, though he was alone and facing an unfair match, was fierce and believed he could take on all of them. To break up the fight, he retreated, intending to deal with each of them as they followed. After he had moved a good distance from the battleground and looked back, he saw them trailing behind, spaced out. As one of them approached, he attacked with great force. While the Alban army called upon the Curiatii to help their brother, Horatius killed his foe and demanded to fight the second. The Romans cheered on their champion with shouts, as fearful men often do in times of crisis, and Horatius rushed into battle. Before the others could catch up, which wasn't far off, he killed another of the Curiatii. Now it was an even fight of one against one, but they were unequal in hope and strength. One was unhurt and fierce from his victories; the other was weak from blood loss and exhausted from running, demoralized by the sight of his slain brothers. This was a completely unequal match. Horatius, rejoicing, declared, "I've dispatched two of your brothers; I'll take on the third, the reason for this battle, so that the Romans can be lords over the Albans." The Curiatius, unable to withstand his blow, fell to the ground on his back, and Horatius thrust his sword into his throat. 20 After dispatching him, he stripped him of his armor. The Romans then celebrated Horatius with great triumph and joy, and their happiness was amplified because the fear of their own defeat had lessened. With this battle concluded, the Albans became subject to the Romans, and before Metius left, he asked Tullus if there were any further orders. Tullus instructed him to keep the young soldiers entertained, as he would need their help against the Veientes. As the army disbanded, Horatius marched home to Rome like a conqueror, with the three trophies from his enemies carried in front of him.
The said Horatius had a sister, which was espoused to one of the Curiatij that were slaine, who meeting her brother in the triumphe, at one of the gates called Capena, and knowing the coate armure of her paramour, borne vpon her brothers shoulders, which she had wrought and made with her owne handes: She tore and rent the heare of her heade, and most piteouslye bewayled the death of her beloued. Her brother being in the pride of his victorie taking the lamentation of his sister, in disdainful part, drew oute his sword, and thruste her through speaking these reprochfull woordes: “Auaunt with thy vnreasonable loue, gette thee to thy spouse. Hast thou forgotten the deathe of thy two brethren that be slaine, the prosperous successe of thy victorious brother, and chiefelye the happye deliueraunce of thy countrie: Let that Romaine woman whatsoeuer she be, take like rewarde, that shall bewaile the death of the ennemie.” Which horrible facte seemed most cruell to the fathers and people. For which offence he was brought before the kinge, whom he deliuered to be iudged according to the lawe. The law condempned him, then he appealed to the people. In which appeale P. Horatius his father spake these wordes: “My doughter is slaine, not without iust desert, which if it were not so, I would haue sued for condigne punishmente, to be executed vpon my sonne, according to the naturall pietie of a father: Wherfore I beseech you do not suffer me, whom you haue seene in time past, beautified with a noble race and progenie of children, nowe to be vtterlye destitute and voyde of all together.”
The Horatius had a sister who was married to one of the Curiatii that was killed. When she encountered her brother during the triumph at one of the gates called Capena, and recognized the armor of her beloved that her brother was wearing, which she had crafted with her own hands, she tore her hair and mournfully lamented the death of her lover. Her brother, caught up in the pride of his victory, took her sorrow lightly, pulled out his sword, and stabbed her while uttering these scornful words: “Enough with your unreasonable love, go back to your husband. Have you forgotten the death of your two brothers, the success of your victorious brother, and especially the happy deliverance of your country? Let that Roman woman, whoever she is, receive the same reward as those who mourn the death of the enemy.” This horrific act seemed incredibly cruel to the fathers and the people. For this offense, he was brought before the king, who turned the case over to be judged according to the law. The law condemned him, and then he appealed to the people. In this appeal, P. Horatius's father spoke these words: “My daughter is dead, and not without just cause; if it were otherwise, I would have sought appropriate punishment to be meted out to my son, in keeping with a father's natural duty. Therefore, I beg you, do not let me, who you have seen in the past adorned with a noble lineage and a family of children, now be left utterly destitute and empty of all.”
Then hee embrased his sonne amonges them all, and shewed the 21 spoiles of the Curatiens, sayinge: “Can you abide to see this noble Champion (O ye Romaines) whom lately ye behelde to go in order of triumphe in victorious maner, to lye nowe bounde vnder the gibet, expecting for tormentes of death: Which cruell and deformed sight, the Albanes eyes can not well be able to beholde, goe to then thou hangman, and binde the handes of him, who hath atchieued to the Romaine people a glorious Empyre: Goe, I saye, and couer the face of him that hath deliuered this citie out of thraldome and bondage. Hang him vpon some vnhappie tree, and scourge him in some place within the Citie, either amongs these our triumphes, where the spoiles of our enemies do remaine, or els without the walles, amonges the graues of the vanquished. Whether can yee deuise to carrie him, but that his honourable and worthye actes, shal reueng the villanie of his cruel death.” The people hearing the lamentable talke of his father, and seinge in him an vnmoueable minde, able to sustaine al aduersity, acquited him rather through the admiration of his vertue and valiance, then by iustice and equity of his cause. Such was the straite order of iustice amonges the Romaines, who although this yonge gentleman had vindicated his countrie from seruitude and bondage (a noble memorye of perfecte manhode) yet by reason of the murder done vppon his owne sister, were very straite and slacke to pardon: because they would not incourage the posteritie to like inconuenience, nor prouoke wel doers in their glorye and triumphe, to perpetrate thinges vnlawfull.
Then he embraced his son among them all and showed the 21 spoils of the Curatiens, saying: “Can you bear to see this noble champion (O you Romans), whom you recently saw parading in triumph in a victorious manner, now lying bound under the gallows, awaiting a cruel death? This horrific and twisted sight is too much for the Albans to bear. Go on then, executioner, and bind the hands of the one who has achieved a glorious empire for the Roman people. Go, I say, and cover the face of the one who has freed this city from bondage. Hang him on some wretched tree and scourge him somewhere within the city, either among our triumphs, where the spoils of our enemies remain, or outside the walls, among the graves of the vanquished. Where can you take him, except that his honorable and worthy deeds will avenge the villainy of his cruel death?” The people, hearing the sorrowful words of his father and seeing in him an unwavering spirit capable of enduring all adversity, favored him more out of admiration for his virtue and bravery than out of justice and fairness toward his cause. Such was the strict standard of justice among the Romans, who although this young man had freed his country from servitude (a noble memory of perfect manhood), were very strict and reluctant to pardon him due to the murder of his own sister. They did not want to encourage future generations to commit similar wrongs or provoke the well-doers in their glory and triumph to engage in unlawful acts.
THE SECOND NOUELL.
Sextus Tarquinius rauished Lucrece. And she bewayling the losse of her chastitie, killed her selfe.
Sextus Tarquinius assaulted Lucrece. And she, mourning the loss of her purity, took her own life.
Great preparation was made by the Romaines, against a people called Rutuli, who had a citie named Ardea, excelling in wealth and riches which was the cause that the Romaine king, being exhausted and quite voyde of money, by reason of his sumptuous buildinges, made warres vppon that countrie. In the time of the siege of that citie the yonge Romaine gentlemen banqueted one another, amonges whom there was one called Collatinus Tarquinius, the sonne of Egerius. And by chaunce they entred in communication of their wiues, euery one praysing his seueral spouse. At length the talke began to grow hot, whereupon Collatinus said, that words were vaine. For within few houres it might be tried, how much his wife Lucretia did excel the rest, wherefore (quoth he) if there be any liuelihod in you, let us take our horse, to proue which of oure wiues doth surmount. Wheruppon they roode to Rome in post. At their comming they found the kinges doughters, sportinge themselues with sondrye pastimes: From thence they went to the house of Collatinus, where they founde Lucrece, not as the other before named, spending time in idlenes, but late in the night occupied and busie amonges her maydes in the middes of her house spinning of woll. The victory and prayse wherof was giuen to Lucretia, who when she saw her husband, gentlie and louinglie intertained him, and curteouslye badde the Tarquinians welcome. Immediately Sextus Tarquinius the sonne of Tarquinias Superbus, (that time the Romaine king) was incensed wyth a libidious desire, to construpate and defloure Lucrece. When the yonge gentlemen had bestowed that night pleasantly with their wiues, they retourned to the Campe. Not long after Sextus Tarquinius with one man retourned to Collatia vnknowen to Collatinus, and ignorant to Lucrece and the rest of her houshold, for what purpose he came. Who being well intertayned, after supper was conueighed to his chamber. Tarquinius burninge 23 with the loue of Lucrece, after he perceiued the housholde to be at reste, and all thinges in quiet, with his naked sworde in his hande, wente to Lucrece being a sleepe, and keeping her downe with his lefte hande, saide: “Holde thy peace Lucrece, I am Sextus Tarquinius, my sworde is in my hand, if thou crie, I will kill thee.” The gentlewoman sore afrayed, being newely awaked oute of her sleepe, and seeing iminent death, could not tell what to do. Then Tarquinius confessed his loue, and began to intreate her, and therewithall vsed sundry minacing wordes, by all meanes attempting to make her quiet: when he saw her obstinate, and that she woulde not yelde to his request, notwithstanding his cruell threates, he added shameful and villanous speach, saying: That he would kill her, and when she was slaine, he woulde also kill his slaue, and place him by her, that it might be reported howe she was slaine, being taken in adulterie. She vanquished with his terrible and infamous threate, his fleshlye and licentious enterprice, ouercame the puritie of her chaste and honest hart, which done he departed. Then Lucrece sent a post to Rome to her father, and an other to Ardea to her husbande, requiringe them that they would make speede to come vnto her, with certaine of their trustie frendes, for that a cruell facte was chaunced. Then Sp. Lucretius with P. Valerius the sonne of Volesius, and Collatinus with L. Iunius Brutus, made hast to Lucrece: where they founde her sitting, very pensife and sadde, in her chamber. So sone as she sawe them she began pitiously to weepe. Then her husband asked her, whether all thinges were well, vnto whom she sayde these wordes.
Awesome preparations were made by the Romans against a people called the Rutuli, who had a city named Ardea, rich in wealth and resources. This led the Roman king, having been drained of funds due to his extravagant building projects, to wage war against that territory. During the siege of that city, the young Roman gentlemen held a banquet, among whom was a man named Collatinus Tarquinius, the son of Egerius. By chance, they started discussing their wives, each one praising his own spouse. Eventually, the conversation heated up, prompting Collatinus to say that words were pointless. He suggested that within a few hours, it could be proven how much his wife Lucretia surpassed the others. Therefore, he declared, if there was any spirit in them, they should ride out to test which of their wives was superior. Consequently, they rode to Rome in haste. Upon arrival, they found the king's daughters engaged in various pastimes. From there, they went to Collatinus's house, where they found Lucretia, unlike the others, busy at night among her maids spinning wool. The victory and praise were given to Lucretia, who, upon seeing her husband, welcomed him gently and affectionately and graciously greeted the Tarquinians. Immediately, Sextus Tarquinius, the son of Tarquin the Proud (the Roman king at the time), was inflamed with a lustful desire to violate and defile Lucretia. After the young gentlemen enjoyed a pleasant night with their wives, they returned to camp. Soon after, Sextus Tarquinius covertly returned to Collatia with one man, unknown to Collatinus and unaware to Lucretia and the rest of her household of his intentions. Upon being warmly received, he was guided to his room after dinner. Tarquinius, burning with love for Lucretia, after he perceived the household to be at rest and everything quiet, entered Lucretia's chamber with his naked sword in hand. Holding her down with his left hand, he said: “Stay quiet, Lucretia, I am Sextus Tarquinius, my sword is in my hand. If you scream, I will kill you.” The poor woman, terrified, having just awoken from sleep and seeing imminent death, was at a loss for what to do. Then Tarquinius confessed his love and began to plead with her, using various threatening words to force her into submission: when he noticed her stubbornness and that she would not yield to his demands despite his cruel threats, he added shameful and vile words, saying that he would kill her, and after she was dead, he would also kill his slave and place him by her so it would be reported how she was killed for committing adultery. Overcome by his dreadful and disgraceful threat, his lustful and immoral intent overcame the purity of her chaste and honest heart, after which he left. Then Lucretia sent a messenger to Rome to her father and another to Ardea to her husband, asking them to hurry and come to her with some trusted friends because a terrible act had taken place. Then Sp. Lucretius, P. Valerius the son of Volesius, Collatinus, and L. Junius Brutus hurried to Lucretia, where they found her sitting very pensive and sad in her chamber. As soon as she saw them, she began to weep pitifully. Then her husband asked her if everything was alright, to which she replied with these words.
“No dere husbande, for what can be well or safe vnto a woman, when she hath lost her chastitie? Alas Collatine, the steppesof an other man, be now fixed in thy bed. But it is my bodye onely that is violated, my minde God knoweth is giltles, whereof my death shalbe witnesse. But if you be men giue me your handes and trouth, that the adulterer may not escape vnreuenged. It is Sextus Tarquinius whoe being an enemie, in steede of a frende, the other night came vnto mee, armed with his sword in his hand, and by violence caried away from me (the Goddes know) a woful ioy.” Then euery one of them gaue her their 24 faith, and comforted the pensife and languishing lady, imputing the offence to the authour and doer of the same, affirming that her bodye was polluted, and not her minde, and where consent was not, there the crime was absente. Whereunto shee added: “I praye you consider with your selues, what punishmente is due for the malefactour. As for my part, though I cleare my selfe of the offence, my body shall feele the punishment: for no vnchast or ill woman, shall hereafter impute no dishonest act to Lucrece.” Then she drewe out a knife, which she had hidden secretely, vnder her kirtle, and stabbed her selfe to the harte. Which done, she fell downe grouelinge vppon her wound and died. Whereupon her father and husband made great lamentation, and as they were bewayling the death of Lucrece, Brutus plucked the knife oute of the wound, which gushed out with aboundance of bloude, and holding it vp said: “I sweare by the chast bloud of this body here dead, and I take you the immortall Gods to witnes, that I will driue and extirpate oute of this Citie, both L. Tarquinius Superbus, and his wicked wife, with all the race of his children and progenie, so that none of them, ne yet any others shall raigne anye longer in Rome.” Then hee deliuered the knife to Collatinus. Lucretius and Valerius, who marueyled at the strangenesse of his words: and from whence he should conceiue that determination. They all swore that othe. And followed Brutus, as their captaine, in his conceiued purpose. The body of Lucrece was brought into the market place, where the people wondred at the vilenesse of that facte, euery man complayning vppon the mischiefe of that facinorous rape, committed by Tarquinius. Whervpon Brutus perswaded the Romaynes, that they should cease from teares and other childishe lamentacions, and to take weapons in their handes, to shew themselues like men.
“No, dear husband, what can be good or safe for a woman once she has lost her innocence? Oh, Collatine, another man's footprints are now in your bed. But it is only my body that has been violated; God knows my mind is innocent, and my death will bear witness to that. If you are men, give me your hands and your word that the adulterer will not escape unpunished. It was Sextus Tarquinius who came to me as an enemy instead of a friend the other night, armed with a sword, and by force took from me (the Gods know) a sorrowful joy.” Then each of them gave her their word and comforted the grieving and weakened lady, blaming the offense on the perpetrator, affirming that her body was tainted, but not her mind, and where there was no consent, the crime was absent. To that she added, “Please consider among yourselves what punishment is due for the wrongdoer. As for me, although I clear myself of the offense, my body will suffer the punishment: for no unchaste or wicked woman shall ever again attribute any dishonorable act to Lucrece.” Then she drew out a knife, which she had secretly hidden under her dress, and stabbed herself to the heart. After doing this, she fell down, writhing on her wound and died. Her father and husband mourned greatly, and as they lamented Lucrece's death, Brutus pulled the knife out of the wound, which gushed out with a lot of blood, and holding it up said: “I swear by the pure blood of this dead body, and I call upon the immortal Gods to witness that I will drive out of this city both L. Tarquinius Superbus and his wicked wife, along with all his children and descendants, so that none of them will reign in Rome any longer.” He then handed the knife to Collatinus. Lucretius and Valerius, who were astonished by the strangeness of his words and wondered where he could have conceived such determination. They all swore that oath and followed Brutus as their leader in his determined intent. The body of Lucrece was brought to the marketplace, where the people were appalled by the wickedness of that act, everyone lamenting the horror of the atrocious rape committed by Tarquinius. Then Brutus urged the Romans to cease their tears and childish lamentations, and to take up weapons in their hands, to show themselves like men.
Then the lustiest and most desperate persons within the citie, made themselues prest and readie, to attempte any enterprise: and after a garrison was placed and bestowed at Collatia, diligent watche and ward was kept at the gates of the Citie, to the intent the kinge should haue no aduertisement of that sturre. The rest of the souldiours followed Brutus to Rome.
Then the most eager and desperate people in the city got themselves ready to attempt any venture. After a garrison was stationed at Collatia, careful watch was kept at the city gates to ensure the king wouldn’t hear about the commotion. The other soldiers followed Brutus to Rome.
When he was come thither, the armed multitude did beate a 25 marueilous feare throughout the whole Citie: but yet because they sawe the chiefeste personages goe before, they thought that the same enterprise was taken in vaine. Wherefore the people out of all places of the citie, ranne into the market place. Where Brutus complained of the abhominable Rape of Lucrece, committed by Sextus Tarquinius. And thereunto he added the pride and insolent behauiour of the king, the miserie and drudgerie of the people, and howe they, which in time paste were victours and Conquerours, were made of men of warre, Artificers, and Labourers. He remembred also the infamous murder of Seruius Tullius their late kinge. These and such like he called to the peoples remembraunce, whereby they abrogated and deposed Tarquinius, banishing him, his wife, and children. Then he leuied an armie of chosen and piked men, and marched to the Campe at Ardea, committing the gouernemente of the Citie to Lucretius, who before was by the king appointed Lieutenant. Tullia in the time of this hurlie burlie, fledde from her house, all the people cursing and crying vengeaunce vpon her. Newes brought into the campe of these euentes, the king with great feare retourned to Rome, to represse those tumultes, and Brutus hearinge of his approche, marched another waye, because hee woulde not meete him. When Tarquinius was come to Rome, the gates were shutte against him, and he himselfe commaunded to auoide into exile. The campe receiued Brutus with great ioye and triumphe, for that he had deliuered the citie of such a tyraunte. Then Tarquinius with his children fledde to Cære, a Citie of the Hetrurians. And as Sextus Tarquinius was going, he was slaine by those that premeditated reuengemente, of olde murder and iniuries by him done to their predecessours. This L. Tarquinius Superbus raigned XXV yeares. The raigne of the kinges from the first foundation of the citie continued CCxliiii. yeares. After which gouernmente two Consuls were appointed, for the order and administration of the Citie. And for that yeare L. Iunius Brutus, and L. Tarquinius, Collatinus.
When he arrived there, the armed crowd created a tremendous fear throughout the entire city. However, because they saw the leading figures walking ahead, they thought the effort was futile. Consequently, people from all areas of the city rushed to the marketplace. There, Brutus expressed his outrage over the horrible assault on Lucrece, which was committed by Sextus Tarquinius. He also highlighted the pride and arrogant behavior of the king, the misery and hard labor of the people, and how those who were once victors and conquerors had become soldiers, craftsmen, and laborers. He recalled the infamous murder of Servius Tullius, their recent king. He brought these issues to the people's attention, prompting them to reject and remove Tarquinius, banishing him, his wife, and children. Then he raised an army of select and skilled men and marched to the camp at Ardea, leaving governance of the city to Lucretius, who had previously been appointed lieutenant by the king. During this chaos, Tullia fled her home, with the people cursing and calling for vengeance against her. News of these events reached the camp, causing the king to return to Rome in great fear to quell the disturbances, while Brutus, hearing of his approach, took a different route to avoid meeting him. When Tarquinius reached Rome, the gates were shut against him, and he was ordered into exile. The camp welcomed Brutus with great joy and celebration for having freed the city from such a tyrant. Then Tarquinius and his children fled to Cære, a city of the Etruscans. As Sextus Tarquinius was leaving, he was killed by those seeking revenge for the old murders and wrongs he had committed against their ancestors. L. Tarquinius Superbus ruled for twenty-five years. The reign of the kings from the founding of the city lasted 244 years. After this rule, two consuls were appointed for the management and administration of the city. That year, L. Junius Brutus and L. Tarquinius Collatinus were elected.
THE THIRD NOUELL.
The siege of Rome by Porsenna, and the valiaunt deliuerie thereof by Mutius Scœuola, with his stoute aunswere vnto the kinge.
The siege of Rome by Porsenna and the brave rescue by Mutius Scœuola, along with his bold response to the king.
When P. Valerius and T. Lucretius were created Consuls, Porsenna kinge of Hetruria, vppon the instigation of the banished Tarquinians, came before the citie with a huge armie. The brute wherof did wonderfully appall the Senate: for the like occasion of terrour, neuer before that time chaunced to the Romaines, who did not onely feare their enemies, but also their owne subiects, suspecting lest they should be forced to retaine the kinges againe. All which afterwards, were through the wisedome and discretion of the fathers quietlye appeased, and the citie reduced to such vnitie and courage, as all sorts of people despised the name of king. When the enemies were approched, the rurall people abandoning their colonies, fled for rescue into the citie. The citie was diuided into garrisons: some kept the walles, and some the waye ouer Tiber, which was thought very safe and able to be defended. Althoughe the wodden bridge made ouer the Riuer, had almost been an open way for the enemies entrie, whereof Horacius Cocles, as fortune serued that day, had the charge. Who so manfully behaued himselfe, as after he had broken vp and burned the bridge, and done other notable exploites, he defended that passage with such valiance, that the defence therof seemed miraculous, to the great astonishment of the enemies. In fine Porsenna seing that he coulde litle preuaile in the assault, retourned to the Campe, determining neuerthelesse to continue his siege. At which time one Caius Mutius, a yonge gentleman of Rome, purposed to aduenture some notable enterprise: saying to the Senators these wordes: “I determine to passe the Riuer, and enter if I can, into the campe of the enemies, not to fetch spoile, or to reuenge mutuall iniuries, but to hazard greater matters, if the Gods be assistant vnto me.” The senate vnderstanding the effect of his indeuour, allowed his deuise. And then hauinge a sword vnder his garment, went forth. When 27 he was come into the throng, he conueighed himselfe as nere the kinges pauilion as he could. It chaunced that he was paying wages that day to his souldiours, by whom his Secretarie did sit in such apparell, almost as the king himselfe did weare. Mutius being afraide to demaunde which of them was the king, lest he should bewray himselfe, sodainly killed the Secretarie in steede of the king, and as he was making waye with his bloudie sworde to escape, he was apprehended and brought before the king, and with maruailous stoutnesse and audacitie, spake these wordes: “I am a citizen of Rome, and my name is Mutius, and beinge an enemy, I woulde faine haue killed mine enemie. For which attempt I esteeme no more to die, then I cared to commit the murder. It is naturally giuen to the Romaines, both valiantly to do and stoutly to suffer. And not I alone haue conspired thy death, but a greate nomber of vs, haue promised the like, and hope to prosecute semblable prayse and glorie: wherfore if this beginninge do not please thee, make thy selfe ready euerye houre to expect like perill, and to fight for thy selfe. And make accompt, that euery day euen at the dore of thine owne lodging, thy enemye armed doth waite for thee: we alone yong gentlemen of the Citie do stand at defiance, and pronounce vppon thee this kinde of battaile. Feare no armies or other hostilitie, for with thee alone, and with euerye one of vs these warres shalbe tryed.” The king astonied with that bold and desperate enterprise, fell into a great rage and furie, commaundinge Mutius presentlye to be consumed with fyre, vnlesse he would out of hand tell him the order of the purposed and deuised treason. “Behold O king (quoth hee) how litle they care for theyr bodies, that do aspire and seeke for fame and glorie.” And then he thrust his right hand into the fire, and rosted the same in the flame, like one that had been out of his wits. The king amazed wyth the straungnes of the fact, stepped downe from the seate, and caused him to be taken from the fire, saying: “Away, frend (quoth the king) thou hast killed thy selfe, and aduentured hostilitie vppon thy selfe rather then against mee. Surely I would thincke mine estate happie, if like valiaunce were to be found wythin the boundes of my countrye. Wherfore by law of Armes I set the at libertie to go whither thou 28 list.” Whereunto Mutius for acquiting that desert, aunswered: “For as much as thou hast thus honourably delt with me, I wil for recompence of this benefite, saye thus muche vnto thee, whych by threates thou shouldest neuer haue gotten at my handes. Three hundred of vs that be yonge noble men of Rome, haue conspired thy death, euen by the like attempt. It was my lot to come first, the reste when fortune shall giue opportunitie, euerye one in his tourne will giue the aduenture.” Whereupon he was dismissed, and afterwards was called Scæuola, for the losse of his right hande. Then peace was offered to the Romaynes, who vpon conditions that the enemies garrisons should be withdrawen from Ianiculum, and that the country wonne of the Veientines, should be restored againe, gaue hostages. Amonges whom there was a gentlewoman called Cloelia deliuered into the handes of the Hetrurians, who deceyuinge her keepers, conueighed herselfe and the other pledges from their enemies, and swimming ouer the riuer of Tiber, arriued at Rome in safetye, which being redemaunded by Porsenna, were sent backe againe. The king driuen into a wonderfull admiration for the desperate and manly enterprises, done by the Romaine Nation, retourned the maiden home againe to Rome. In whose honour the Romaines erected an Image on horse backe, placed at the vpper ende of the streate called Sacra via. And so peace was concluded betweene Porsenna and the Romaynes.
When P. Valerius and T. Lucretius were made Consuls, Porsenna, king of Etruria, urged on by the exiled Tarquinians, marched up to the city with a massive army. This threat deeply alarmed the Senate, as the Romans had never faced such a terrifying situation before. They not only feared their enemies but also worried about their own subjects, fearing they might be forced to restore the kingship. Eventually, through the wisdom and prudence of the Senate, the situation was peacefully resolved, and the city united with such courage that all kinds of people disregarded the title of king. When the enemy approached, the rural population abandoned their farms and sought refuge in the city. The city was divided into garrisons: some defended the walls, while others held the safe crossing over the Tiber. Though the wooden bridge over the river almost became an open route for the enemy's entry, Horatius Cocles happened to be in charge that day. He fought so bravely that after breaking up and burning the bridge and performing other heroic deeds, he defended that passage with such courage that his defense seemed miraculous, astonishing the enemies. Ultimately, seeing that he couldn’t make much headway in the assault, Porsenna returned to his camp, still determined to continue the siege. At that time, a young Roman named Caius Mutius decided to undertake a notable mission, telling the Senators: “I plan to cross the river and, if I can, enter the enemy’s camp, not to loot or to take revenge for past wrongs, but to risk greater matters, with the gods as my helpers.” The Senate understood the intent behind his endeavor and approved his plan. He then concealed a sword beneath his clothing and set out. When he mingled in the crowd, he made his way as close to the king's tent as possible. It just so happened that the king was paying his soldiers that day, and his secretary was dressed similarly to the king. Fearing to ask who the king was and risk exposing himself, Mutius suddenly killed the secretary instead of the king. As he tried to escape with his bloody sword, he was captured and brought before the king. With remarkable bravery and audacity, he said: “I am a citizen of Rome, and my name is Mutius. As an enemy, I wished to kill my enemy. For this attempt, I value my life no more than I did when I committed the murder. It is naturally in the Romans to both act valiantly and endure bravely. And not only I have conspired for your death, but a large number of us have pledged to do the same and hope to pursue similar honor and glory. Thus, if this attempt does not please you, prepare yourself to expect similar danger at any hour, and to fight for your own safety. Consider that every day, right at your door, an armed enemy waits for you: we young men of the city stand ready and declare this kind of battle against you. Fear not armies or other hostility, for with you alone, and with each of us, these wars shall be decided.” The king, astonished by such bold and desperate action, fell into a great rage and ordered Mutius to be burned, unless he immediately revealed the details of the planned treason. “Look, O king,” he said, “how little they care for their bodies, who strive for fame and glory.” Then he thrust his right hand into the fire and roasted it in the flames, like someone out of their mind. The king, amazed by the strangeness of the act, stepped down from his throne and ordered him to be pulled from the fire, saying: “Go, friend. You’ve killed yourself and risked injury upon yourself rather than against me. Truly, I would consider my situation fortunate if such valor could be found within my own lands. Therefore, by the laws of war, I grant you the freedom to go wherever you wish.” To which Mutius replied: “Since you have treated me so honorably, I will repay this kindness by revealing something to you that threats would never have gotten from me. Three hundred of us young nobles from Rome have conspired your death, each waiting for their opportunity. It was my luck to be the first; the others will strike when fortune allows.” Following this, he was released and later called Scaevola for the loss of his right hand. Then peace was offered to the Romans, with the condition that the enemy's garrisons would withdraw from Janiculum and that the territory taken from the Veientines would be returned. Among the hostages was a young woman named Cloelia, who, deceiving her guards, escaped with the other hostages from their captors by swimming across the Tiber and safely reached Rome. When Porsenna demanded their return, they were sent back. The king, profoundly impressed by the daring and brave actions of the Roman people, sent the girl back to Rome. In her honor, the Romans erected a statue of her on horseback at the top of the street called Sacra Via. And so peace was established between Porsenna and the Romans.
THE FOURTH NOUELL.
Martius Coriolanus goinge aboute to represse the common people of Rome with dearth of Corne was banished. For reuengement whereof he perswaded Accius Tullius king of the Volscians, to make warres upon the Romaynes, and he himselfe in their ayde, came in his owne person. The Citie brought to greate miserye, the fathers deuised meanes to deliuer the same, and sent vnto the Volscian campe, the mother, the wife and children of Coriolanus. Vpon whose complaintes Coriolanus withdrewe the Volscians, and the citie was reduced to quietnes.
Martius Coriolanus, trying to control the common people of Rome during a grain shortage, was banished. In retaliation, he convinced Accius Tullius, the king of the Volscians, to wage war against the Romans, and he himself joined them in person. The city suffered greatly, and the leaders came up with a plan to save it by sending Coriolanus's mother, wife, and children to the Volscian camp. After hearing their pleas, Coriolanus withdrew the Volscian forces, and peace returned to the city.
In the yeare that Titus Geganius and Publius Minutius were Consuls, when all thinges were quiet abrode, and dissention at home appeased, an other great mischiefe inuaded the citie. First a dearth of victuals, for that the land was vntilled, by the peoples departure, then a famine, such as chaunceth to the besieged: which had brought a great destruction of people, had not the Consuls forseene the same, by prouision in forren places. They sent purueiors into Scicilia: but the malice of the cities adioyning, stayed the prouision that was made a farre of. The Corne prouided at Cumas was stayed for the goodes of Tarquinius by Aristodemus the tyrant, that was his heire. The next yere followinge, a greate masse of Corne was transported oute of Scicile, in the time of the Consuls, M. Minutius and A. Sempronius. Then the Senate consulted, vppon the distribution of the same vnto the people. Diuers thought that the time was then come, to bridle and suppresse the people, that thereby they mighte the rather recouer those priuileges, which were extorted from the fathers. Amonges whom Martius Coriolanus a yonge gentleman was the chiefest, who being an enemie to the Tribune authoritie, said these woords. “If the people will haue victuals and corne at that price, whereat it was assised and rated in time past, then it is meete and necessarie, that they render to the fathers, their auncient aucthoritie and priuilege: for to what purpose be the plebeian Magistrates 30 ordained? For what consideration shall I suffer my selfe to be subiugate vnder the authoritie of Sicinius, as though I were conuersaunte amonges theeues? Shal I abide these iniuries any longer to continue, then is necessarie? I that could not suffer Tarquinius the king, shal I be pacient with Sicinius? Let Sicinius depart if he will, let him draw the people after him: the way yet is open to the sacred hill, and to the other mountaines. Let them rob vs of our corne which they toke away from our owne land, as they did three yeares paste, let them enioy the victuals which in their furie they did gather. I dare be bold to saye thus much, that being warned and tamed, by this present penurie, they had rather plow and til the land, then they would suffer the same to be vncultured, by withdrawing themselues to armure. It is not so easy to be spoken, as I thincke it may with facilitie be brought to passe, that vpon conditions the prices of victuals should be abated, the fathers might remoue the aucthoritie of the Tribunes and disanul all those lawes, which against their wills were ratefied and confirmed.” This sentence seemed cruel to the fathers, and almost had set the people together by the eares, whoe woulde haue torne him in peeces, had not the Tribunes appointed a day for his appearance. Whervpon their furie for that time was appeased, Coriolanus seinge the peoples rage to encrease, and consideringe that they should be his Iudge, when the day of his apparance was come, he absented himselfe, and therfore was condempned. Then he fled to the Volscians, of whom he was gently interteigned: and lodged in the house of Accius Tullius, the chiefe of that citie, and a deadly enemie to the Romaynes. Vpon daily conference and consultation had betwene them, they consulted by what sleight or pollicie, they might comence a quarrell against the Romaines. And because they doubted, that the Volscians would not easely be perswaded thereunto, beinge so oft vanquished and ill intreated, they excogitated some other newe occasion. In the meane time T. Latinius one of the plebeian sorte, perceyuing that the Romaynes went about to institute great pastimes, conceiued a dreame, wherein hee sawe Iuppiter to speake vnto him, and said that he liked not the towardnes of those games, and in case the same were not celebrated, with 31 great royaltie and magnificens, they would ingender perill to the citie, which dreame he declared to the Consuls. Then the Senate gaue order, that the same shoulde be addressed with great pompe and triumphe: whereunto through th’instigacion of Accius, a greate nomber of the Volscians resorted. But before the plaies begunne, Tullius according to the compact agreed vpon, betwene him and Coriolanus, secretely repaired to the Consuls, and taking them a syde, declared that he had to say vnto them a matter touching the publique wealth of their citie, in these words. “I am forced against my will to signifie vnto you a matter, that toucheth the condition of mine owne subiects and countrie men. I come not to accuse them, as thoughe they had already admitted any thinge, but I come to giue you a premonition, lest they should perpetrate some occasion, contrary to the order of your Citie. The disposition of my countrie men, is more inconstant then I would wish: which we haue felt, to our great losse and decaie. The cause of oure security at this present, is rather suffered by your pacience, then by our desert. Here be at this instant a great multitude of Volscians: Here be games prepared, and the citie throughlye bent to behold them. I do remember what was done vpon like occasion in this citie by the Romain youth: I tremble to thincke, what may be rashly attempted, wherfore I thought good both for your owne sakes and for auoyding of mutual displeasure, to foretel you of these things. And for mine owne part I purpose immediatlye to returne home, because I wil auoide the daunger and peril, that maye chaunce by my presence.” When he had spoken those words, he departed. The Consuls immediatly recompted the request of Accius to the Senate: who more esteming the personage, from whence the same did procede, then the matter that was spoken, determined to prouide a remedie for the same, and immediatlye caused the Volscians to auoide the citie, sending officers about, to commaund them to depart that night: vpon which sodain edict, at the first they began to marueile. And afterwards they conceiued great griefe and offence, for that their vnneighbourlye entertaignment, and as they were passing out of the citie in a long traine, Tullius being vpon the top of the hill called Ferrentine, to waite for the people, as they passed by, called vnto him the chiefe and 32 principal parsonages, to prouoke them to take that aduauntage, and then assembled the multitude in the valleie, hard by the high way, to whom he pronounced these words. “Forgetting all iniuries and displeasures past, done by the Romaine people against the Volscians, how can you abide the shame you suffer this daye, wherein to oure great reproch, they begin to ostentate and shew forth their plaies. Do not you beleeue, that euen to day, they triumph ouer you? Is not your departure (thincke ye) ridiculous to all the Romaines, to strangers, and other cities adioyning? Be not your wiues and children (trow ye) now passing homewards, laughed to scorne? What thincke ye your selues to be, which were warned to depart, at the sound of the trumpet? What (suppose ye) wil all they thinke, which do meete this multitude retiring homewards, to their great reproch and shame? Truly excepte there be some secrete occasion, whereby we should be suspected to violate the plaies or commit some other crime, and so forced to relinquish the company and fellowship of the honest, I know not what should be the cause of this repulse? Were we lyuing, when we made such festination to depart? If it may be called a departure, and not a running away, or shamefull retire. I perceiue ye did not accompt this to be a citie of our enemies, wher I thinck if ye had taried but one day longer, ye had all beene slaine. They haue denounced warres vppon you, which if you be men of courage, shall redounde to the vtter destruction of them, which first gaue the defiaunce.” The Volscians perceyuing themselues greatly derided, for considerations before remembred, determined by common accord, to inferre warres vppon the Romaines, vnder the conduction of Actius Tullius, and Coriolanus. After they had recouered diuers of the Romaine cities, they proceded further, and in sondrie places spoiled and destroyed the same, encamping themselues fiue miles from Rome, besides the trenches called Fossas Cluilias. In the meane time contention rose betwene the people and the fathers, howbeit the feare of forren partes, linked their mindes together, in the bands of concord. The Consuls and fathers reposed their whole confidence in battel, which the common people in no wise could abide. Wherfore they were constrained to assemble the Senate, in which consult was determined, that Ambassadours 33 should be sent to Coriolanus to demaund peace: who retourned them againe with a froward answere, to this effect: that first they should restore to the Volscians their countrie, which they had conquered, and that done, he willed them to seke for peace. Yet they sent againe Ambassadours, but in no wise they were suffered to come into their campe. Then the priestes cladde in their ornamentes, and other diuine furniture, were sent humblye to make peticion for peace: And yet they coulde not perswade theim. Then the Romaine Dames repayred to Veturia the mother of Coriolanus, and to his wyfe Volumnia. But whether the same was done by common consent, or by the aduise of the feminine kind, it is vncertaine. It was appointed that Veturia, being an auncient gentlewoman, and mother of Coriolanus and Volumnia his wife, with her two yonge children, should repaire to the campe, to the intent that they by their pitiful lamentacion, might defende the citie, which otherwise by force, was not able to be kept. At their arriuall, Veturia was knowen by one of her sonnes familier frends, standing betwene her doughter in law, and her two neuies, who caried word immediatlye to Coriolanus, how his mother, his wife and children, were come into the Campe to speake with him. Coriolanus hearing him say so, descended from his seate, like one not wel in his wits, and went forth to embrace his mother. The old gentlewoman from supplications, fell into a great rage, speakinge these woordes. “Abide a while before I do receiue thy embracementes, let me knowe whether I am comen to mine enemie, or to my sonne, or whether I am a prisoner in thy Campe, or thy mother. Alacke how long haue I prolonged these auncient yeares, and hoare heares most vnhappie, that nowe first I do behold thee an exile, and then view thee mine enemie. Canst thou finde in thy harte, to depopulate and destroy this thy country, wherin thou wast begotten and brought vp? Could not thy rage and furie be appeased, when thou diddest first put foote into the limites of this thy country? Did not natural zeale pearce thy cruel hart, when thou diddest first cast thine eyes upon this citie? Is not the house of thy mother, and her domesticall Goddes, conteyned within the walles of yonder Citie? Do not thy sorrowful mother, thy deare wife and children, inhabite within the compasse of yonder citie? 34 (O I, cursed creature!) if I had neuer had childe, Rome had not been now assailed. If I had neuer brought forth a sonne, I should haue laied mine old bones and ended my life in a free countrie. But I coulde neuer haue susteined, or suffred more miserie, then is nowe fallen vnto mee, nor neuer more dishonour, then to beholde thee in pitifull plight, a traytour to thy natife soile. And as I am the moste wretched wight of all mothers, so I trust I shal not long continue in that state. If thou procede in this enterprise, either sodaine death, or perpetuall shame bee thy rewarde.” When his mother had ended these woordes, the whole traine of gentlewomen, brake into pitifull teares: bitterly bewayling the state of their Countrie, whiche at lengthe did mitigate the stomacke of Coriolanus. And when he had imbraced his wife and children, hee dismissed them. Then hee withdrewe the Volscian campe from the citie, and out of the Romaine Prouince. Vpon the displeasure of whiche facte, he died. It is sayd that when he was an old man, hee vsed many times to speake and vtter this sentence. “That verie miserable it is, for an olde man to liue in banishement.” The Romains disdaigned not to attribute to women, their due prayse: for in memorie of this deliuerie of their Countrie, they erected a Temple, Fortunæ Muliebri, to Womens Fortune.
In the year when Titus Geganius and Publius Minutius were Consuls, with everything calm abroad and domestic disputes settled, another significant crisis hit the city. First, there was a shortage of food because the land went uncultivated due to people leaving, followed by a famine similar to what besieged cities experience, which would have caused mass destruction if the Consuls hadn't anticipated it and arranged for provisions from overseas. They sent agents to Sicily, but the hostility from nearby cities blocked the supply that had been gathered. The grain collected at Cumae was seized for the goods of Tarquinius by Aristodemus, the tyrant who was his heir. The following year, a large amount of grain was shipped from Sicily during the time of Consuls M. Minutius and A. Sempronius. The Senate then deliberated on how to distribute it to the people. Some believed it was time to rein in and suppress the people to reclaim the privileges that had been wrested from their ancestors. One prominent figure among them was Martius Coriolanus, a young nobleman who opposed the authority of the Tribunes and said, “If the people want grain at the price it used to be, then it’s right and necessary that they return to the elders their ancient authority and privilege. What’s the point of having plebeian leaders? Why should I submit to the authority of Sicinius as if I were consorting with thieves? Should I tolerate these insults longer than necessary? I, who couldn't stand even King Tarquinius, should I then be patient with Sicinius? If Sicinius wants to leave, let him; he can take the people with him. The way to the sacred hill and other mountains remains open. Let them take our grain, which they snatched from our own land three years ago; let them enjoy the food they gathered in their fury. I dare say that, when warned and humbled by this current scarcity, they would rather till the land than allow it to lie uncultivated while they take up arms. It isn’t easy to say, but I think it could be managed: if the prices of food are lowered, the elders could strip the Tribunes of their authority and repeal all those laws that were ratified against their will.” This speech seemed harsh to the elders and nearly incited the people to violence, who would have torn him apart had not the Tribunes set a day for his defense. Their anger was quelled for the time being; however, Coriolanus, seeing the people's fury rise and realizing they would be his judges when the day of his appearance arrived, chose to absent himself and was consequently condemned. He then fled to the Volscians, who welcomed him warmly, and he stayed in the house of Accius Tullius, a leading figure in that city and a bitter enemy of the Romans. In their daily discussions, they plotted ways to spark a conflict with the Romans. Fearing the Volscians' reluctance to go along with this since they had been often defeated and poorly treated, they devised a new cause for war. Meanwhile, T. Latinius, one of the common people, noticed that the Romans were preparing grand games and had a dream in which Jupiter spoke to him, expressing disapproval of the upcoming festivities. He said that if the games weren't conducted with great pomp and splendor, they would bring danger to the city. He shared this dream with the Consuls. The Senate then ordered that the games be organized with great fanfare, which, following Accius's urging, drew many Volscians. But before the games began, Tullius, according to his agreement with Coriolanus, secretly approached the Consuls and told them he needed to discuss something concerning the public safety of their city in these words: “I am compelled against my will to inform you of something that affects my subjects and fellow countrymen. I come not to accuse them as if they had already committed wrongdoing, but I come to warn you, lest they embark on actions contrary to your city's order. The disposition of my countrymen is more unpredictable than I would like; we have experienced this to our great loss. Our current safety is more due to your patience than our merit. At this moment, a large number of Volscians are here; there are games planned, and the city is fully set to watch them. I remember what happened on a similar occasion in this city with the Roman youth: I shudder to think of what recklessness might take place, which is why I felt it best for your sakes, and to avoid mutual anger, to inform you of these matters. Personally, I intend to return home immediately to avoid any danger that might arise from my presence.” After he spoke, he left. The Consuls promptly reported Accius's request to the Senate, who, valuing the source of the request more than the content, decided to take action and sent the Volscians out of the city that night, with officials ordering them to leave. Initially, they were surprised by the sudden order, and later they felt considerable grief and offense at their unneighborly treatment. As they proceeded in a long procession out of the city, Tullius, standing atop the hill called Ferrentine to intercept them as they passed, called to the leading figures among them, urging them to take advantage of the situation, and then gathered the crowd in the valley near the highway, where he delivered these words: “Forgetting all the past injuries and grievances done by the Romans against the Volscians, how can you bear the shame of today, when, to our great dishonor, they begin to flaunt their games? Do you not realize that today they are triumphing over you? Is your withdrawal (do you think) seen as anything but ridiculous to the Romans, to outsiders, and to neighboring cities? Do you not think your wives and children returning home are being laughed at? What do you think people will say when they see this group leaving, a sight that brings great disgrace? Truly, unless there is some secret reason to suspect us of disrupting the games or committing another crime, forcing us to abandon the company of the honorable, I don’t see why we should be repulsed. Were we not alive when we hurried to leave? Is this a departure or a retreat in shame? I perceive you do not consider this to be an enemy city, where I believe if you had stayed just one more day, you'd all have been killed. They have declared war upon you, which if you are men of courage, will lead to the utter destruction of those who first issued the challenge.” The Volscians, feeling greatly mocked due to the earlier reasons mentioned, resolved unanimously to launch an attack on the Romans under the leadership of Actius Tullius and Coriolanus. After retaking several Roman cities, they went further, looting and destroying in various places, setting up camp five miles from Rome, beyond the trenches known as the Cluilian Ditches. Meanwhile, tensions rose between the people and the elders, although fear of external threats kept them somewhat united. The Consuls and elders put their full trust in battle, which the common people strongly opposed. Consequently, they were forced to convene the Senate, where it was decided to send ambassadors to Coriolanus to seek peace; he responded with a harsh answer, demanding that first they return the Volscians' homeland they had taken and once that was done, then they could seek peace. They sent ambassadors again, but they were not allowed into his camp. Then the priests, dressed in their ceremonial robes, along with other religious officials, were sent humbly to petition for peace, but they too could not persuade him. Then the Roman women turned to Veturia, Coriolanus's mother, and his wife Volumnia. It is uncertain whether this was done by common consensus or through feminine insight. It was decided that Veturia, an elderly lady and Coriolanus’s mother, along with Volumnia and her two young children, should go to the camp so that their heartfelt pleas might defend the city, which could not withstand force. Upon their arrival, Veturia was recognized by one of her son’s close friends, standing between her daughter-in-law and her two grandsons, who immediately reported to Coriolanus news of his mother, wife, and children coming to see him. Hearing this, Coriolanus rose from his seat, appearing as if he were not in his right mind, and went out to embrace his mother. The elderly woman, full of supplication, fell into a deep rage, speaking these words: “Wait a moment before I accept your embrace; let me know whether I have come to my enemy or to my son, or if I am a prisoner in your camp or your mother. Alas, how long have I endured these ancient years and my white hairs in misfortune, that now I see you as an exile, and then face you as my enemy. Can you find it in your heart to devastate and ruin this country where you were born and raised? Was your rage and fury not eased when you first set foot in the boundaries of this country? Did not natural love pierce your cruel heart when you first laid eyes on this city? Is not your mother’s house and her domestic deities contained within the walls of that city? Do not your sorrowful mother, your beloved wife, and children live within the confines of that city? (Oh, I, accursed being!) If I had never had a child, Rome would not be under siege now. If I had never given birth to a son, I would have laid my aging bones to rest in a free country. But I could never have endured more misfortune than what has now befallen me, nor more dishonor than to see you in such a wretched state, a traitor to your native soil. And since I am the most miserable of all mothers, I trust I will not remain in this state much longer. If you persist in this endeavor, may sudden death or perpetual shame be your reward.” When his mother finished speaking, all the accompanying noblewomen broke into tears, lamenting the fate of their country, which eventually softened Coriolanus’s heart. After embracing his wife and children, he sent them away. He then withdrew the Volscian camp from the city and from the Roman territory. Due to the anger over this action, he died. It is said that when he was old, he often expressed this sentiment: “It is truly miserable for an old man to live in exile.” The Romans did not shy away from ascribing women their deserved praise; in memory of this deliverance of their country, they erected a temple, Fortunæ Muliebri, to Women’s Fortune.
THE FIFTE NOUELL.
Appius Claudius, one of the Decemuiri of Rome, goeth about to rauishe Virginia, a yonge mayden, which indeuour of Appius, when her father Virginius vnderstode being then in the warres, hee repaired home to rescue his doughter. One that was betrouthed vnto her, clamed her, whereupon rose great contention. In the ende her owne father, to saue the shame of his stocke, killed her with a Bocher’s knife, and went into the Forum, crying vengeance vpon Appius. Then after much contention and rebellion, the Decemuiri were deposed.
Appius Claudius, one of the Decemuiri of Rome, tries to assault Virginia, a young woman. When her father Virginius, who was away at war, heard about Appius's intentions, he hurried home to save his daughter. Someone who was engaged to her claimed her, leading to a massive conflict. In the end, to protect his family's honor, her father killed her with a butcher's knife and went to the Forum, demanding justice against Appius. After a lot of conflict and rebellion, the Decemuiri were removed from power.
Spurius Posthumius Albus, Aulus Manlius, and P. Sulpitius Camerinus, were sent Ambassadours to Athenes, and commaunded to wryte out the noble Lawes of Solon, and to learne the Institutions, orders, and Lawes of other Greeke cities. Vpon whose retourne, the Tribunes were verie instant that at length lawes might be enacted and confirmed. And for that purpose certaine officers were appointed, called Decemuiri: with soueraigne authoritie and power to reduce the same into wryting, whiche were thought meete and profitable for the common wealth. The principall and chiefe of which nomber was Appius Claudius, who committed no lesse filthy facte, then was done by Tarquinius, for the rape of Lucrece. The sayde Appius conceiued a libidinous desire, to rauishe a yong virgine, the doughter of one Lucius Virginius, then a captain in the warres at Algidum, a man of honest and sober life, whose wife was also of right good behauiour, and their children accordingly brought vp, and instructed. They had betrouthed their doughter, to one L. Icilius of the order of the Tribunes, a man of great stoutnesse and tried valiance in the cause of the people. This yong maide being of excellent beautie, Appius at the first began to woe by giftes and faire promises: but when he sawe that she was impregnable, he deuised by wicked and cruell pollicie, to obteine her, committing the charge of that enterprise to one of his frendes, called Marcus Claudius, who went about to 36 proue and maintaine, that the maide was his bondwoman, and in no wise would giue libertie to her friendes to haue time to answere the processe made in that behalfe, thinking by that meanes, in the absence of her father, hee might at his pleasure enioye her. As the virgine was going to schole in the Forum, the said Claudius, the minister of mischief, layd handes vpon her, claimed her to be his bondwoman, for that she was borne of a seruile woman, and commaunded her to folow him. The mayde being afraide was amazed, and the Nursse that wayted vpon her, cried out. Whereupon the people ran out of their doores, to knowe the cause of the sturre. Claudius seing the maide like to be rescued by the multitude that was assembled, said, that there was no neede of that hurlie burlie, for that he attempted nothing by force, but that he was able to proue by lawe. Whereupon he cited the mayde to appere, her frendes promised that she should according to the Lawe, make her apperance. Being come before the consistorie, where Appius set in iudgement, Claudius began to tell a tale and processe of the cause, whereof Appius being the deuiser, vnderstode the effect. The tenor of the tale was, that the maide was borne in his house, and was the doughter of his owne bondwoman, who afterwardes being stolen awaye, was caried to the house of Virginius, and supposed to be his childe, which thing he said, he was well able to proue and would referre the iudgement of his cause to Virginius him selfe: vnto whom the greater part of his iniurie did apertaine. In the meane time, he sayde, that it was meete the maide should folowe her maister: wherunto the Aduocates of the mayde replied, and said, that Virginius was absent about the affaires of the commonwealth, but if he were aduertised of the matter, they knewe wel he would bee at home within twoo dayes after: wherefore, they sayd, that it were against equitie and iustice, that processe and suite should bee made for clayme of chyldren in the absence of the parentes, requiring them to deferre the matter tyll the retourne of the father. Appius not regarding the iustice of the case, to the intent hee myght satisfie his owne luste and pleasure, ordeyned in the meane tyme, that Claudius the Assertor and playntife, shoulde haue the keping and placing of the mayde, till the father were returned. Against whiche wrong, many did grudge, although 37 none durst withstand it. But as fortune chaunced immediatly after that decree and order was so pronounced: Publius Numitorius, the maydes vncle by her mother’s side, and Icilius her beloued, were comen home: vpon whose retourne, incontinentlye Icilius approched nere to Appius, and being put backe by the Sergeant, hee cried out a loude in these wordes: “Thou oughtest to put me back from hence (O Appius) with a sworde that thou mightest without let, enioye the thing thou wouldest haue kepte close and secrete. It is I that purpose to mary this maide, who I doubte not, is very honest and chaste: wherefore cal together thy Sergeantes, and cause the roddes and axes, to be made prest and ready. For I assure thee, the spouse of Icilius shall not remayne out of her father’s house. No! although thou hast taken away from the Romaine people their Tribunes aide and appeales, whiche be twoo strong fortes and holdes of their common libertie. Is authoritie geuen thee, libidinously to abuse our wyues and children? Exercise thy crueltie behinde our backes, and vppon our lives if thou liste, so that thou doe not contaminate and defile the vertue of chastitie. Whereunto if thou inferre any damage or iniurie, I will for mine owne parte, and for the loue of my beloued, crie out for the ayde of the Romaines that be present, and Virginius shall do the like of the souldiours, in the quarell of his owne doughter. And all wee together, will implore for the succour of Goddes and men. And truste to it, that thou shalt not enioye thy purpose before some of vs haue lost our liues. Wherefore Appius I aduise thee, take hede in time, for when Virginius doth come, hee will seke remedie to defende his doughter, and will knowe in what condition and sorte shee is ordred, if shee be referred to the seruitude of this man. And for my part, my life shall soner fayle in defending her libertie, then my faithe to her betrouthed.” Appius perceiuing the constancie of Icilius, and that the people was in a great mutine and sturre, differred the cause of Virginia til the next daye: whose frends hoped by that time, that her father would be at home: wherefore with all expedition they addressed messengers vnto him in the campe, bicause the saufgarde of his doughter consisted in his presence. In the meane time the Assertor required the mayde, offering to put in baile; the like offer made Icilius, 38 of purpose to contriue and spende the time, till the ariuall of Virginius. The multitude of their owne accordes, helde vp their hands promising to become suretie for Icilius, vnto whome hee gaue thankes, weping for ioye, to se their kinde behauiour, and said: “I thanke you moste hartely my beloued frendes, to morowe I wil vse your frendly offer, but at this present I haue sureties sufficient.” Whereupon Virginia was bailed. Then Appius repaired home, and wrote to his frendes in the campe, that in no wyse they should giue Virginius leaue to come to Rome, whiche vngracious deuise came to late, and tooke none effecte. Whereupon Virginius retourned home, and in poore and vile apparell, repaired to the Forum, after whom followed a great nomber of matrones and aduocates. Then he began to require them all of succour and ayde, alledging that he was a Souldiour, and one that aduentured him selfe, for the saufegarde and defence of them al: with such like perswasions to the multitude. Semblable wordes were vttered by Icilius. All which doinges being viewed and marked by Appius, in a greate furie he ascended the consistorie. Then M. Claudius the plaintife began to renewe his sute: and before the father of the mayden could make answere to that plea, Appius gaue sentence that the mayde was bonde: which sentence semed so cruell, as it appalled the whole multitude. And as Claudius was laying handes vppon the virgine, Virginius stepped to Appius, and said: “I haue betrouthed my doughter to Icilius, and not to thee Appius. My care in the bringing of her vp, was to marrie her, and not to suffer her to be violated and defloured. It is your maner, like sauage and cruell beastes, indifferentlye thus to vse your fleshly affections: I can not tell whether the multitude here present will supporte this enormitie, but I am sure the armed Souldiours, and men of warre, will not suffer it.” Marcus Claudius being repulsed by the women, and Aduocates that were present, silence was proclaymed by the Trumpet. Then Appius began to declare how he vnderstoode, that all the night before, certaine companies were assembled within the citie, to excite and moue sedicion, for whiche cause hee came with armed men, not to hurte any that was quiet, but according to the authoritie of his office to bridle and represse those, that were troublers of the publique state. 39 “Wherefore goe Seargeant (quod he) make roume emonges the multitude, that the maister may enioye his seruante.” Which wordes he thundered out with great furie, and therewithall the multitude gaue place, leauing the poore Puselle to be a praye to the ennemy. Her father seeing that hee was voyde of succoure and helpe, to defende the innocencie of his doughter, spake to Appius in this sorte: “I firste doe beseche thee Appius, if I haue vsed any vnreasonable woordes against thee, to pardone mee, and to impute the same to the Father’s griefe and sorowe. Suffer mee I praye thee, to examine the Noursse, in the presence of the wenche, of the whole circumstance of this matter, to the intent that if I be but a supposed father, I maye departe hence with quiet conscience satisfied and contented.” Virginius hauing licence to talke with his doughter and Noursse, departed a side into a place called Cloacina, where the shoppes be, nowe called Tabernæ Nouæ, and plucking a sharpe knife from a Bocher that stode by, he thrust the same to the harte of his doughter, sayinge: “By this onely meanes (doughter) I can make thee free:” And looking againe to the iudgement seate, he said: “This bloud Appius I consecrate and bestowe vpon thee.” Whiche done, with his sworde he made waye, to passe through the thronge to conueighe him selfe out of the citie. Then Icilius and Numitorius tooke vp the dead bodie, and shewed it to the people, who cryed out vpon the wickednesse of Appius, bewayling the vnhappie beautie of that fayre maiden, and deplored the necessitie of the father. The women exclaimed in lamentable wyse, saying: “Is this the condicion and state of them that bring foorth children? Be these the rewardes of chastitie?” With suche like pitifull cries, as women are wonte to make vpon suche heauie and dolorous euentes. Virginius being arriued in the campe, whiche then was at the mount Vicelius, with a traine of fower hundred persones, that fled out of the Citie, shewed to the Souldiours the bloudie knife, that killed his doughter, whiche sighte astonied the whole Campe: in so muche as euery man demaunded, what was the cause of that sodain chaunce. Virginius could not speake for teares, but at length he disclosed vnto them, the effecte of the whole matter, and holding vp his handes towardes the heauens, sayd: “I beseche you (deare companions) do not 40 impute the wickednesse of Appius Claudius vpon mee, ne yet that I am a paricide and murderer of mine own children: the life of my dear doughter had bene more acceptable to me then mine owne life, if so be shee might haue continued a free woman, and an honest virgine. But when I sawe she was ledde to the rape like a bondwoman, I considered, that better it wer her life to be loste, then suffered to liue in shame: wherefore my naturall pitie was conuerted to a kynde of crueltie. And for myne owne parte, I doe not passe to lyue long after her, if I thought I should not haue your helpe and succour to reuenge her death. Consider that your selues haue doughters, sisters, and wyues, thinke not therefore, that the fleshlye desire of Appius is satisfied with the death of my doughter. And the longer that he doth continue in this securitie, the more vnbrideled is his appetite. Let the calamitie of an other be a sufficient document for you, to beware like iniuries. My wife is dead, by naturall fate and constellation, and bicause my doughter could continewe no longer in honeste and chaste life, death is befallen vnto her: whiche although it be miserable, yet the same is honourable. There is nowe no place in my house for Appius to satisfie his filthie luste: and I will fayle of my purpose, if I do not reuenge the death of my doughter with so good will vpon his fleshe, as I did discharge the dishonour and seruitude of her from his violent and cruell handes.” This succlamation and pitifull complainte, so stirred the multitude, that they promised all to helpe and relieue his sorowe. Whereupon, the whole Campe were in a mutine and marched in order of battayle to the mounte Auentine, where Virginius perswaded the Souldiours, to chose ten principall Captaines, to bee head and chiefe of that enterprise: whiche with honourable titles of the field, should be called Tribuni. And Virginius him selfe being elected the chiefe Tribune, sayde these wordes to the Souldiours: “I praye you reserue this estimation, whiche you conceiue of me, vntill some better tyme and apter occasion, as well for your commoditie, as for my selfe. The death of my doughter, will suffer no honour to bee pleasaunt or welcome to me, duringe my life. Moreouer in this troubled state of the common wealth, it is not meete for them to be your gouernours, that be subiect and occurrant to enuie and reproch, 41 if my seruice shall bee profitable vnto you when you haue thus created me a Tribune, it shall be no less commodious if I doe still remaine a priuate man.” When he had spoken those wordes, they chose tenne Tribunes. And like as the campe at the mounte Auentine, was prouoked and stirred to this sedition, euen so by meanes of Icilius and Numitorius before remembred, the Armie then beinge against the Sabines began to reuolte and made the like nomber of Tribunes, which in array of battaile, marched through the citie, at the gate Colina, with banner displaied, to ioyne with the campe vpon the mount Auentine. And when both the campes were assembled, they chose out two amonges the twenty Tribunes, to be their generalles, called M. Opius and Sextus Manilius. The Senate, careful and pensife for these euentes, eftsons assembled, but no certaine determinations was agreed vpon. At length they concluded, that Valerius and Horatius, should bee sent to the mount Auentine to perswade the people, but they vtterlye refused the message, vnlesse the Decemuiri were first deposed. The Decemuiri made aunswere, that they would not geue ouer their authoritie, til such time as those lawes were ratified, which were treated vpon, before they wer elected to that office. Of all these contentions the people was aduertised by M. Duillius their Tribune. And when both their armies were ioyned at the mount Auentine, aforesayd, al the multitude of the citie, men, women, and children, repaired thither in sorte, that Rome was like a forlorne and abandoned place. The fathers seing the citie thus relinquished, Horatius and Valerius, with diuers of the fathers, exclamed in this wise. “What do ye expect and looke for, ye fathers conscript? Will ye suffer al thinges to runne to extreame ruine and decay? Shall the Decemuiri still persiste in their stubburne and froward determinacions? What maner of gouernement is this (O ye Decemuiri) that ye thus lay holde vpon and enioye? Will ye pronounce and make lawes within your owne houses, and the limites of the same? Is it not a shame to se in the Forum a greater nomber of your catchpolles and Sergeantes, then of other sober and wise Citizens? But what will ye doe, if the enemie vpon the sodaine, dothe approche the walles? What will ye do if the people vnderstanding that we care not for their departure, do in 42 armes assaile vs? Will ye finishe your gouernement, with the ouerthrowe of the citie: But either wee must expell and abandon the people, or els wee must admitte the Tribunes. We shall soner wante our Fathers and Senatours, then they their plebeian officers. They bereued and toke awaye from vs the fathers a newe kinde of authoritie, which was neuer sene before, who now feeling the sweetnesse thereof, will neuer geue it ouer. For we can not so well temper our authoritie and gouernement, as they be able to seke helpe and succour.” The Decemuiri perceiuing that they were hated, so well of the Senate, as of the people, submitted themselues. And therupon Valerius and Horatius were sent to the campe, to reuoke the people vpon suche conditions as they thought moste meete. Then the Decemuiri were commaunded, to take heede of the peoples furie. So sone as the Commissioners were come to the campe, they were received with great ioye and gladnesse of the people, because they were the beginners of that sturre, and supposed that they would make an ende of the commocion, for whiche cause they rendred to them their humble thankes. Then Icilius was appointed to speake for the people, who required to haue the authoritie of the Tribunes restored, and their appeale renewed, with restitution of those lawes, which before the erection of the Decemuiri, were ratified and confirmed. They demaunded also an impunitie and free pardon to those that firste encouraged and incited the Souldiers to that enterprise, and the restoring of their liberties. They required to haue their enemies the Decemuiri, to be deliuered into their handes. Whom they threatened to put to death by fire. Whereunto the Commissioners aunswered in this wise: “Your requestes bee so reasonable, that they ought willingly to be graunted. All which ye desire to obtaine, as a defence and comfort for your libertie, and not to persecute and infeste others. Your furie and anger ought rather to be pardoned, then permitted or graunted. Yee beare a face and seeme to detest and hate seueritie, and ye your selues incurre, and runne headlong into all kinde of crueltie: and before ye be made free your selues, ye desire to bee Lordes ouer your aduersaries. Shall our citie neuer bee voide of tortures and oppressions: sometime of the fathers towardes the people, sometime of the people towardes the fathers: you had more 43 neede of a shilde to defende you, then of a sworde to fight. That man is of a base state and courage we suppose, that liueth in a citie and beareth him self so vpright, as neither he inferreth iniurie to others, ne yet suffereth wrong him selfe. If ye shew your selues so terrible, then it is to be supposed, that after ye haue recouered your lawes and magistrates, and be placed again in your former authoritie and preeminence: ye will also ordeine and appointe lawes ouer vs, that shall concerne our liues and goodes, and euery other light matter. But for this present I would wishe you, to be contented with your former freedome.” After the commissioners had willed theim to consulte vppon some determinate aunswere, they retourned to Rome, to make reporte to the Senate, of the peoples requestes. The Decemuiri perceiuing, that contrarie to their expectation, no likelihode was of any persecution, to be done vpon them, condescended to those demaundes. Appius being a man of nature cruell and malicious, measuring the malice of others, by his owne maligne disposition, spake these woordes: “I am not ignoraunte what fortune is nowe imminente: for I do plainely see that whiles weapons be deliuered to our aduersaries, the combate is deferred against vs: with bloude, enuie muste be rewarded. I will not any longer delaie the time, but depriue my selfe of the decemuirate.” When the Senate was aduertised by the Commissioners, Valerius and Horatius, of the peoples aunswere, they decreed that the Decemuiri should be deposed, and that Q. Furius the chief bishop, should create that plebeian Tribunes. Wherin also was enacted, that the departure of the people, and mutine of the souldiours should be pardoned.
Spurious Posthumius Albus, Aulus Manlius, and P. Sulpitius Camerinus were sent as ambassadors to Athens to write down the noble laws of Solon and learn the institutions, orders, and laws of other Greek cities. Upon their return, the Tribunes were very insistent that laws should finally be enacted and confirmed. For this purpose, certain officials called Decemuiri were appointed, with supreme authority to put into writing those laws deemed suitable and beneficial for the commonwealth. The chief among them was Appius Claudius, who committed a disgraceful act reminiscent of what Tarquinius did regarding the rape of Lucrece. Appius developed a lustful desire to violate a young girl, the daughter of Lucius Virginius, a captain in the war at Algidum, a man of good character, and whose wife was just as virtuous; their children were well-raised and educated. They had promised their daughter to L. Icilius, a Tribune, known for his bravery and valor for the people. This young woman, known for her remarkable beauty, was initially courted by Appius through gifts and sweet promises. But when he found her resistant, he devised a wicked and cruel plan to obtain her, entrusting the matter to a friend named Marcus Claudius, who sought to prove that the girl was his slave and denied her friends the opportunity to respond to the lawsuit, believing that in her father's absence, he could have her as he pleased. As she headed to school in the Forum, Claudius, the agent of mischief, seized her, claiming her as his slave since she was born of a female slave, and commanded her to follow him. The girl was terrified and in shock, and her nurse cried out. The commotion drew people out of their homes to see what was happening. Seeing that the girl might be rescued by the gathered crowd, Claudius said there was no need for the disturbance, insisting that he was not acting with force, but could prove his claims legally. He summoned the girl to appear, and her friends assured that she would appear as required by law. When they arrived before the court, with Appius presiding, Claudius began to present his case, which Appius, the architect of the situation, understood all too well. The gist of his story was that the girl was born in his household, the daughter of his female slave, who had since been stolen and taken to Virginius' home, where she was mistakenly thought to be his child. Claudius claimed he could prove it and would refer the issue to Virginius himself, as most of the injustice pertained to him. Meanwhile, he insisted that the girl should follow her master, to which the advocates for the girl replied that Virginius was absent due to public duties, but if he were informed, he would be home within two days. Therefore, they argued it was unjust to commence proceedings for claims over children in the parents' absence, asking to delay until the father returned. Appius, disregarding the justice of the situation to satisfy his own desires, ordered that Claudius the Plaintiff should keep custody of the girl until her father returned. Many were upset over this injustice, but none dared to object. As fate would have it, immediately after the decree was announced, Publius Numitorius, the girl's maternal uncle, and Icilius, her beloved, returned home. Upon their return, Icilius approached Appius, only to be blocked by a sergeant and cried out loudly, "You should have to fend me off with a sword if you wish to enjoy what you want to keep hidden. I intend to marry this girl, who I believe is chaste and honorable. So call your sergeants, and prepare your rods and axes! I assure you, the bride of Icilius will not be kept away from her father's house, not even if you have stripped the Roman people of their tribunes' assistance and appeals, which are the strongholds of their liberty. Is authority given to you so that you can abuse our wives and children? Use your cruelty against us and our lives if you wish, but do not violate the sanctity of chastity. If you inflict any harm or injury, I will call for the help of the Romans present and Virginius will do the same with his soldiers on behalf of his daughter. Together, we will implore the aid of both gods and men. And rest assured, you will not achieve your desires before some of us have lost our lives. So, Appius, I advise you to heed this warning, for when Virginius arrives, he will seek justice to protect his daughter and will want to know how she is being treated, if she has been placed into the servitude of this man. For my part, I will defend her honor with my life, rather than betray my promised faith." Appius, seeing Icilius's determination and the crowd's unrest, postponed Virginia's case until the next day, hoping that by then her father would have returned. Meanwhile, the Plaintiff demanded the girl, offering to put up bail; Icilius made a similar offer, intending to prolong the matter until Virginius's arrival. The crowd collectively raised their hands, promising to become sureties for Icilius, to whom he expressed heartfelt thanks, weeping with joy at their kindness, and said, "Thank you so much, my dear friends, tomorrow I will take you up on your generous offer, but I currently have sufficient guarantees." Consequently, Virginia was bailed. Then Appius went home and wrote to his friends in the camp, instructing them not to allow Virginius to come to Rome—this wicked plan, however, arrived too late and had no effect. Accordingly, Virginius returned home, dressed in shabby and ragged clothes, making his way to the Forum, followed by a large number of women and advocates. He began to seek help and support from all, claiming that he was a soldier risking himself for their safety and defense, with similar persuasion from Icilius. All of this was observed and noted by Appius, who, in great anger, ascended the court. M. Claudius, the plaintiff, renewed his case, and before the girl’s father could respond, Appius declared that she was a slave. This sentence was so cruel that it stunned the entire crowd. As Claudius laid hands on the girl, Virginius stepped toward Appius and said, "I have betrothed my daughter to Icilius, not to you, Appius. My care in raising her was to marry her off, not to allow her to be violated or defiled. You behave like savage and cruel beasts, indiscriminately acting upon your passions. I don’t know if the crowd here will support this atrocity, but I am sure the armed soldiers will not allow it." Marcus Claudius was driven back by the women and advocates present, and a trumpet signaled for silence. Appius began to declare that he understood there were certain groups gathered in the city the previous night, inciting and stirring up discord, for which reason he arrived with armed men, not to harm the peaceful, but to restrain and suppress those disrupting public order. "So go, Sergeant," he said, "make room among the crowd, that the master may enjoy his servant." With these words thundered out in fury, the crowd parted, leaving the poor virgin at the mercy of the enemy. Her father, realizing he was devoid of support to defend his innocent daughter, spoke to Appius in this manner: “I first beseech you, Appius, if I have spoken unreasonable words against you, to forgive me and attribute them to a father's grief and sorrow. Please, allow me to question the nurse in the presence of the girl, about the circumstances of this matter, so that if I am not her true father, I may leave in peace, satisfied and contented.” Virginius was permitted to speak with his daughter and the nurse, and he stepped aside to a place called Cloacina, where the shops now called Tabernæ Novæ are, and taking a sharp knife from a butcher nearby, he pierced his daughter's heart, saying, "This is the only means, daughter, by which I can make you free." And looking again toward the judge's seat, he said, "This blood, Appius, I dedicate to you." Having done this, with his sword, he carved a path to escape through the throng and out of the city. Then Icilius and Numitorius lifted the dead body and displayed it to the people, who cried out against Appius's wickedness, mourning the tragic beauty of that fair maiden, lamenting the father's desperate state. The women lamented, saying, "Is this the condition of those who bear children? Are these the rewards of chastity?" With such pitiful cries as women usually wail over such heavy and sorrowful events. Upon arriving at the camp, which was then at Mount Vicelius, Virginius, with a group of four hundred people fleeing from the city, showed the soldiers the bloody knife that killed his daughter, which astounded the whole camp, as everyone asked for the reason behind this sudden event. Virginius could not speak for tears but eventually revealed the full story and raising his hands toward the heavens, said: "I beg you, dear comrades, do not blame me for the wickedness of Appius Claudius, nor for being a parricide or murderer of my own children. The life of my dear daughter was more precious to me than my own, had she been able to remain a free woman and an honorable virgin. But when I saw she was being led to dishonor like a slave, I realized it was better for her to lose her life than to live in shame; thus, my natural pity turned into a kind of cruelty. And for my part, I do not care to live long after her, if I were not to have your help and support to avenge her death. Remember that you yourselves have daughters, sisters, and wives; do not think that Appius's lust will be satisfied with my daughter's death. The longer he remains unchallenged, the more untamed his appetites become. Let the misfortune of another serve as a sufficient lesson for you to beware of similar injustices. My wife has died, by natural fate and circumstance, and because my daughter could no longer continue in an honorable and chaste life, she has met her death. Though this is tragic, it is still honorable. There is now no space in my house for Appius to satisfy his filthy desires; I will not fail to seek revenge for my daughter's death with the same eagerness as I freed her from his violent and cruel hands." This outcry and sorrowful complaint stirred the people so much they all promised to help alleviate his grief. Thus, the entire camp was in an uproar and marched in battle formation to Mount Aventine, where Virginius advised the soldiers to select ten chief captains to lead the campaign, who, with honorable titles of the field, would be called Tribunes. Virginius himself, being elected the chief Tribune, said to the soldiers: "I ask you to reserve this regard you have for me until a better time and more suitable occasion for your benefit as well as mine. The death of my daughter will not allow any honor to be pleasant or welcomed to me while I live. Moreover, in this troubled state of affairs, it is not appropriate for those subject to envy and reproach to govern you. If my service will be beneficial to you once I am made Tribune, it will be just as valuable if I remain a private citizen." After he spoke, they elected ten Tribunes. Just as the camp at Mount Aventine was stirred into this rebellion, Icilius and Numitorius, having been mentioned earlier, incited the army against the Sabines to revolt and created the same number of Tribunes, who marched through the city in battle array at the Colina gate, banners displayed, heading to join the camp on Mount Aventine. When both camps gathered, they chose two from among the twenty Tribunes to be their generals, named M. Opius and Sextus Manilius. The Senate, concerned about these events, met again but could not agree on any definitive actions. Finally, they decided to send Valerius and Horatius to Mount Aventine to persuade the people, but they outright refused the message unless the Decemuiri were first removed. The Decemuiri replied that they would not relinquish their authority until those laws they had been working on were ratified, which had been discussed prior to their election. The people were informed of all these struggles by M. Duillius, their Tribune. When both armies were assembled at Mount Aventine as mentioned, the entire populace of the city, men, women, and children, gathered there, leaving Rome feeling abandoned and desolate. Seeing the city thus deserted, the fathers, Horatius and Valerius, along with several from among them, cried out: "What do you expect and wait for, you conscript fathers? Will you allow everything to descend into complete ruin and decay? Will the Decemuiri persist in their stubborn and defiant resolutions? What kind of governance is this (O Decemuiri) that you grip and enjoy so tightly? Will you enact and impose laws only within your own homes and limits? Is it not shameful to see more of your agents and sergeants in the Forum than other reasonable and wise citizens? What will you do if the enemy suddenly approaches our walls? What will you do if the people, realizing we do not care for their departure, attack us in arms? Will you finish your government with the city's destruction? We must either expel the people or accept the Tribunes. We will more likely be without our fathers and senators than they without their plebeian officers. They have taken from us the fathers a new form of authority, never seen before, and now that they have tasted its sweetness, they will never let it go. For we cannot balance our authority and governance as well as they can seek help and support." Realizing they were hated both by the Senate and the people, the Decemuiri submitted. Subsequently, Valerius and Horatius were sent to the camp to reconcile the people under terms they deemed most appropriate. The Decemuiri were warned of the people's fury. Upon the arrival of the commissioners at the camp, they were greeted with great joy and happiness by the people, because they were the initiators of the uproar and believed they would end the turmoil, for which reason they expressed their deep gratitude to them. Then Icilius was chosen to speak on behalf of the people, demanding that the authority of the Tribunes be restored and their rights of appeal reinstated, along with the reinstatement of those laws ratified before the establishment of the Decemuiri. They also sought immunity and pardons for those who first encouraged and incited the soldiers to that endeavor, as well as the restoration of their freedoms. They demanded that their enemies, the Decemuiri, be handed over to them, threatening to execute them by fire. To this, the commissioners replied: "Your requests are so reasonable that they should be granted willingly. All that you ask for is a defense and comfort for your freedom, not to persecute or harass others. Your fury and anger should rather be forgiven than permitted or granted. You present a face that seems to condemn and hate harshness, yet you yourselves rush headlong into all kinds of cruelty; and before you are freed, you seek to lord over your adversaries. Will our city never be devoid of tortures and oppression: sometimes from the fathers to the people, sometimes from the people to the fathers? You need a shield to protect you more than a sword to fight. We believe that a man of low character lives in a city uprightly if he neither inflicts harm on others nor suffers wrong himself. If you show yourselves to be so fearsome, it follows that once you regain your laws and magistrates, and are restored to your former authority and rank, you will also enact and impose laws over us that will concern our lives and possessions, as well as every other minor matter. But for now, I would advise you to be satisfied with your previous freedoms." After the commissioners urged them to deliberate for a definitive response, they returned to Rome to report to the Senate regarding the people's demands. The Decemuiri, realizing that contrary to their expectations there was little likelihood of any retaliation against them, agreed to those demands. Appius, a man of inherently cruel and malevolent nature, gauging the malice of others by his own spiteful disposition, stated: "I am not unaware of what fate looms ahead: for I can clearly see that while weapons are provided to our adversaries, the fight is being postponed against us; with blood, jealousy must be repaid. I will not delay any longer but will renounce my decemvirate." When the Senate was informed by the commissioners, Valerius and Horatius, of the people's response, they decreed that the Decemuiri be deposed, and that Q. Furius, the chief priest, should appoint the plebeian Tribunes. It was also enacted that the departure of the people and the insurrection of the soldiers be forgiven.
When these lawes were renewed, the Decemuiri went foorth, and openly in the assemblie deposed them selues, to the great ioye and comforte of them all. All whiche being reported to the people: both the souldiours, and the rest of the multitude, were somoned to appeare before the commisioners, unto whom they spake these wordes. “We now besech you al, to retourne into your countrie, to your domesticall goddes, your wiues, and children, which we truste shal be right good, happie and profitable vnto you, and to the common wealth. But your modestie and sober behauiour, for that no mans grounde is violated and destroyed, considering 44 many thinges, could not suffice the hugenesse of this multitude, that part of modestie, I saye, cary with you into the citie, to your immortall fame and glorie. Get ye therfore to the mounte Auentine, from whence ye departed, where, as in a place moste happie ye renewed the foundacions of your auncient libertie, and there yee shall create your Tribunes: the chiefe bishop shal be present, to kepe the comitialles.” Then the Romaine people made Aulus Virginius, Lucius Icilius, and P. Numitorius the Tribunes, who with their assistantes, first aduanced and confirmed the libertie of the people. Afterward Virginius was appointed to be the accuser, and Appius chosen to be the defendant. At the day appointed, Appius resorted to the Forum, with a great companie of yong gentlemen, of the patricial order, where Virginius began to renewe the cruel and abhominable facte, which Appius committed in the time of his authoritie, and said: “Oration was first deuised and found out, for ambiguous and doubtfull causes: therefore I will neither consume time, in accusing him before you, from whose crueltie, ye haue by force defended your selues, nor yet I wyll suffer hym to coyne to his former wickednesse, any impudente aunswere for his defence. Wherefore Appius, all those thynges whiche wyckedlye and cruellye one vpon an other, thou haste done these twoo yeares past, I doe freely forgeue thee: but if thou canst not purge thyselfe of this one thing, that against the order and forme of lawe (thou thy selfe being judge) wouldest not suffer the freman, to enioye the benefite of his freedome, during the processe made of seruitude, I will presently commaunde the to pryson.” Appius Claudius being nowe a prysoner, and perceiuing that the iust complaintes of Virginius did vehemently incite the people to rage and furie, and that the peticions and prayers of his frendes in no wise could mollifie their hartes, he began to conceiue a desperation, and within a whyle after slewe him selfe. Spurius Oppius, also an other of the Decemuiri, was immediatly sent to prison, who before the daye of his iudgement died. The reste also of that order fled into exile, whose goods were confiscate. M. Claudius also the assertor was condempned: howbeit Virginius was contented he should be banished the citie, and then he fled to Tybur. Thus vpon the filthie affection of 45 one noble man, issued paricide, murder, rebellion, hatred, depriuing of magistrates, and great mischiefes succedinge one in an others necke; whereupon the noble and victorious citie, was lyke to be a praye to forren nations. A goodlie document to men of like calling, to moderate them selues, and their magisterie with good and honest life, thereby to giue incouragement of vertue, to their vassalles and inferiours: who for the most parte doe imitate and followe the liues and conuersation of their superiours.
When these laws were renewed, the Decemviri went out and publicly stepped down, much to the joy and comfort of everyone. Once this was reported to the people, both the soldiers and the rest of the crowd were summoned to appear before the commissioners, who spoke these words: “We now ask all of you to return to your homes, to your household gods, your wives, and children, which we trust will be very good, happy, and beneficial to you and the commonwealth. But your modesty and sober behavior, since no one’s land has been violated or destroyed, considering many things, cannot suffice for the enormous size of this crowd. That part of modesty, I say, take with you into the city, for your immortal fame and glory. Therefore, go to Mount Aventine, from where you departed, where, in this most fortunate place, you renewed the foundations of your ancient liberty, and there you will create your Tribunes: the chief magistrate will be present to oversee the elections.” Then the Roman people made Aulus Virginius, Lucius Icilius, and P. Numitorius the Tribunes, who with their assistants, first advanced and confirmed the liberty of the people. Later, Virginius was appointed to be the accuser, and Appius chosen to be the defendant. On the appointed day, Appius came to the Forum with a large group of young men from the patrician order, where Virginius began to recount the cruel and abominable act that Appius committed during his authority, and said: “Speech was first invented for ambiguous and uncertain matters: therefore, I will neither waste time accusing him before you, from whose cruelty you have defended yourselves by force, nor will I allow him to make any shameless response to justify his previous wickedness. Thus, Appius, all those things that you have wickedly and cruelly done over the past two years, I freely forgive you: but if you cannot clear yourself of this one thing, that you, being the judge, would not allow the freeman to enjoy the benefit of his freedom during the proceedings regarding servitude, I will immediately command you to prison.” Appius Claudius, now a prisoner, realizing that Virginius's just complaints were inciting the people to rage and fury, and that the petitions and pleas of his friends could not soften their hearts, began to feel despair and soon after killed himself. Spurius Oppius, another one of the Decemviri, was immediately sent to prison, where he died before his trial. The rest of that body fled into exile, their properties were confiscated. M. Claudius, the defender, was condemned; however, Virginius agreed to his banishment from the city, and then he fled to Tibur. Thus, because of the filthy desires of one noble man, there followed parricide, murder, rebellion, hatred, the removal of magistrates, and great mischief succeeding one after another; whereupon the noble and victorious city was close to becoming prey to foreign nations. A great lesson for men of similar standing to moderate themselves and their authority with good and honest lives, thereby encouraging virtue among their vassals and inferiors, who mostly imitate and follow the lives and conduct of their superiors.
THE SIXTH NOUELL.
Candaules king of Lidia, shewing the secretes of his wyues beautie to Gyges, one of his guarde: was by counsaile of his wife, slaine by the said Gyges, and depriued of his kingdome.
Candaules, king of Lydia, showing the secrets of his wife's beauty to Gyges, one of his guards, was killed by Gyges on the advice of his wife and was stripped of his kingdom.
Of all follies wherewith vayne men be affected, the follie of immoderate loue is moste to bee detested. For that husband, which is beautified with a comely and honest wife, whose rare excellencie doth surpasse other, aswel in lineaments, proporcion, and feature of bodie, as with inwarde qualities of minde: if he can not retaine in the secrecie and silence of his breast, that excelling gifte and benefite, is worthy to be inaugured with a Laurel crown of follie. Beautie eche man knoweth, is one of natures ornamentes, by her wisedome ordeined, not to enter in triumphe, as victours vse vpon gaine of victorie, with brauerie to ostentate their glorie, by sound of Shalme and Dromme, but thankefully for the same, to proclaime the due praise to the authour of nature. For there is nothing more fraile and fading, then the luring lookes of dame beauties eies, altogether like the flaring Marigold floure, which in the moste feruent heate of the Sommers day, doth appeare most glorious, and upon retire of the nights shadowe, appeareth as though it had neuer bene the same. And therfore he that conceiueth, reioyce in her vncertayne state, is like to him that in his slombring dreame, doth imagine he hath founde a perelesse iewell, of price inestimable, beset with the glistring Diamonde: and perfectly awaked, knoweth he hath none such. If God hath indued a man with a wife that is beautifull and honest, hee is furnished with double pleasure; such, as rather thankes to him, then vain ostentation is to be remembred: otherwise, he doateth, either in Jelosie or openeth proude vauntes therof, to suche as he thinketh to be his most assured frendes. What ioye the sequele therof doth bring, let the historie insuing reporte.
Of all the foolish things that vain people are drawn to, the foolishness of excessive love is the most to be condemned. For that husband who is blessed with a beautiful and virtuous wife, whose rare qualities surpass others, both in appearance and in character, if he can’t keep that exceptional gift to himself, deserves to be crowned with a laurel of folly. Beauty, everyone knows, is one of nature’s ornaments, wisely created not to be flaunted like victors celebrating a win with pomp and sound of trumpets and drums, but rather to be appreciated and to give due credit to the creator of nature. For there is nothing more fragile and fleeting than the captivating looks of beautiful women, much like the bright marigold flower that appears most glorious in the heat of summer but seems to vanish as night falls. Therefore, he who takes joy in her uncertain state is like someone dreaming, thinking he has found a priceless jewel adorned with sparkling diamonds, only to wake and realize he has nothing of the sort. If God has blessed a man with a beautiful and virtuous wife, he has been given double pleasure; such a gift is more deserving of gratitude than vain bragging. Otherwise, he pines, either out of jealousy or openly boasts about it to those he considers his closest friends. Let the following story reveal the joy that comes from such circumstances.
Candaules king of Lydia, had a marueilous beautifull gentlewoman to his Queene and wife, whome hee loued very dearlye, 47 and for that great loue whiche he bare her, thought her the fayrest creature of the worlde. Being in this louing concept, hee extolled the prayse of his wife, to one of his guarde called Gyges, the sonne of Dascylus (whom he loued aboue all the reste of his housholde, and vsed his counsayle, in all his weightie causes) within a whyle after he sayde vnto Gyges these woordes. “It semeth vnto mee Gyges, that thou doest not greatlye beleue the woordes whiche I speake vnto thee, of the beautie of my wyfe, but because eyes bee better witnesses of thinges then eares, thou shalt see her naked.” With these woordes Gyges being amazed cryed out, saying: “What woordes be these (sir king) me thynke you are not well aduised, to require mee to viewe and beholde the Lady my maistres in that sorte? For a woman seene naked, doth with her clothes, put of also her chastitie. In olde tyme honest thinges were deuised for mannes instruction, emonges which was vsed this one thyng. That euery man ought to beholde, the thinges that were his owne. But sir, I do beleue assuredly that she is the fairest woman in the world, wherfore desire me not to thynges that bee vnlawefull.” In this sorte Gyges replied, and yet feared lest some daunger might happen vnto hym. Whome Candaules encouraged, saying: “Bee of good chere, and be not afrayde, that either I or my wyfe, goe about to deceiue thee, or that thou shalt incurre anye daunger. For I wyll take vpon me so to vse the matter, as she by no meanes shall knowe that thou haste seene her. I wyll place thee behynde the portall of our chamber. When I goe to bedde, my wyfe commonly doth followe. And she being in the Chamber, a chayre is sette readye, vppon whiche shee layeth her clothes, as she putteth them of. Whiche done shee sheweth her selfe a good tyme naked: and when she ryseth from her chayre to goe to bedde, her backe beyng towarde thee, thou mayest easilye conueyghe thy selfe out again, but in any wyse take heede, she doe not see thee, as thou goest out. Whereunto I praye thee, to haue a speciall regarde.” Gyges seyng that by no meanes, hee could auoyde the vayne requeste of the king, was readie at the tyme appoynted. Candaules about the howre of bedde tyme, went into the Chamber, and conueighed Gyges into the same, and after the kyng the queene followeth, whome 48 Gyges behelde at her going in, and at the putting of her clothes. When her back was towardes him, (as he was going out) she perceiued him. The queene vnderstanding by her husbande, the circumstance of the facte, neyther for shame did crie out, ne yet made countenaunce as though shee had seen Gyges; but in her minde purposed, to reuenge her husbandes follie. For emonges the Lydians (as for the most part, with all other nations) it is coumpted a great shame, to see a naked man. The gentlewoman counterfaited her grief, and kepte silence. In the morning when she was redie, by such of her seruaunts, whome she beste trusted, shee sent for Gyges, who thought that shee had knowen nothing of that whiche chaunced. Being come before her presence; she sayde vnto hym, “Gyges I offer vnto thee nowe twoo conditions, take whether thou wylte. For eyther thou must kill Candaules, and take mee to thy wyfe, and the kyngdome also, or els thou must dye thy selfe, that thou maiest vnderstande, how in all thynges not meete to be knowen, it is not necessarye to obeye Candaules. For eyther hee muste needes dye, whiche gaue thee that counsayle, or thy selfe, which diddest see me naked, and thereby committed a thing vnlawfull.” Whiche words for a while, did wonderfully amase Gyges, then he besought the Queene that she woulde pardon him from that vnlawfull choise. When he saw that he coulde not perswade her; he required her to shewe him by what meanes he might attempt that enterprise. “Marie (quoth she) euen in that place where thou sawest me naked, when he is a sleepe thou shalt commit that facte.” After they had deuised the treason, night approched. And Gyges with stoute courage, bent himselfe thereunto, for he saw no remedye, but that he must kill, or els be killed. Wherefore with a Dagger which the Queene deliuered him, he killed Candaules, when he was a sleepe; and so gotte from him both his wife and kingdome. A goodly example to declare, that the secrets of Marriage, ought not to be disclosed: but with reuerence to be couered, lest God do plague such offences with death or other shame, to manifest to the world, howe dearely hee esteemeth that honourable state.
Candaules, king of Lydia, had a remarkably beautiful woman as his queen and wife, whom he loved very dearly. 47 Because of this great love he had for her, he thought she was the fairest creature in the world. Being in this loving sentiment, he praised his wife to one of his guards named Gyges, the son of Dascylus (whom he loved more than all the others in his household and consulted on all important matters). Soon after, he said to Gyges, “It seems to me, Gyges, that you don’t really believe my words about my wife’s beauty, but since seeing is believing, you shall see her naked.” At these words, Gyges was shocked and exclaimed, “What are you saying, my king? I think you’re not thinking straight to ask me to see my mistress in that way! A woman seen naked loses her modesty along with her clothes. In ancient times, noble things were devised for the instruction of men, among which was this: that every man should only look at what is his own. But sir, I truly believe she is the fairest woman in the world, so please do not ask me to do anything unlawful.” Gyges replied in this manner and yet feared some danger could come to him. Candaules reassured him, saying: “Be of good cheer and don’t be afraid that either I or my wife are trying to deceive you or that you'll be in any danger. I will arrange things such that she will not know you have seen her. I’ll place you behind the door of our chamber. When I go to bed, my wife usually follows. Once she is in the chamber, a chair is ready for her, on which she lays her clothes as she takes them off. After that, she stays naked for a while, and when she rises from her chair to go to bed, with her back to you, you can easily make your way out, but be careful that she does not see you as you leave. Please pay special attention to this.” Gyges, seeing that he could in no way avoid the king's ridiculous request, was ready at the appointed time. Candaules, around bedtime, went into the chamber and led Gyges in with him, and soon after the queen followed, whom 48 Gyges watched as she entered and as she took off her clothes. When her back was turned to him (as he was leaving), she noticed him. The queen, understanding the circumstances from her husband, neither cried out in shame nor pretended as if she had not seen Gyges; instead, she planned to take revenge for her husband’s folly. For among the Lydians (as among most other nations), it is considered a great shame to see a naked man. The lady pretended to feel sorrow and kept silent. The next morning, when she was ready, she sent for Gyges through some of her most trusted servants, who she believed would not betray her. Gyges thought that she did not know what had happened. When he came before her, she said to him, “Gyges, I offer you two choices; choose which you prefer. Either you must kill Candaules and take me as your wife and seize the kingdom, or you must die yourself, so you understand that in all matters that are not meant to be known, it is unnecessary to obey Candaules. For either he must die, who gave you this advice, or you, who saw me naked and thus committed an unlawful act.” These words amazed Gyges for a moment, and then he begged the queen to spare him from this unlawful choice. When he realized he could not persuade her, he asked her to show him how he might carry out this plot. “Well,” she said, “right in the place where you saw me naked, when he is asleep, you shall commit that act.” After they devised the treason, night approached. With courage, Gyges prepared himself for the task ahead, knowing he had no choice but to kill or be killed. So, with the dagger the queen had given him, he killed Candaules while he was asleep, and in doing so, won both his wife and the kingdom. This serves as a clear example that the secrets of marriage should not be revealed but should be kept with reverence, lest God punish such offenses with death or shame, manifesting to the world how dearly he values that honorable state.
THE SEUENTH NOUELL.
King Cræsus of Lydia reasoneth with the wyseman Solon, of the happie life of man. Who little esteeming his good aduise, vnderstoode before his death, that no man (but by vertue) can in this life attaine felicitie.
King Cræsus of Lydia talks with the wise man Solon about what makes a happy life. He didn't really value Solon's advice and, before he died, realized that no one can achieve true happiness in this life without virtue.
A Noble Gentleman of Athens called Solon, by th’ appointement of the Athenians, made lawes for that citie, and because none of the same lawes shoulde be abrogated, for the space of tenne yeares, hee bounde the Citizens by othe. And that the same mighte the better be obserued; he himselfe traueyled into farre countries, as into Egipt to visite king Hamasis, and so to Sardis to kinge Cræsus, where he was liberallie intertayned. This Cræsus was king of Lydia, sonne of Haliattes, that brought to subiection great countries in Asia and Græcia, and gathered together an innumerable masse of moneye and riches. Who three or foure dayes after the arriuall of Solon (which was led aboute by his seruauntes, to viewe his notable wealth and substaunce) said vnto Solon these wordes. “My frende of Athens, because thy famous wysedome is well knowen to the worlde, and I haue heard tell of the excellencie therof, and of the greatnes of thy trauaile, where thou hast attaigned to the singuler knowledge of Philosophie; I desire to learne of thee (now hauing seene my great treasures) who is the happiest man and most blessed, that thou knowest in this world.” Thinking he would haue iudged him to be the same. But Solon made aunswere, that, “Tellus was the happiest; who was an Athenien, and had vertuous and honest sonnes, and they likewise had honest children, all which were that time liuing. And when by the space of many yeares he had ledde a vertuous and godly life, he died an honourable death in the warres which the Athenians had with theyr neighbours, at the battaile of Eleusina. Wher he was indued with sumptuous funerals, to his great honour and prayse.” Then Cræsus asked him: “Who was happie next Tellus;” thinking hee would haue attributed to him the second 50 place. “Forsoth (quoth he) that is Cleobis and Bito, which were Argiues, and liued a contented life. And in all pastimes to proue force and maisterie, they bare away the prise and victorie. And of them these thinges be remembred; when the feastfull day of Iuppiter was celebrated amonges the Argiues; their mother should be caried to the Temple in a Chariot, drawen with a yoke of Oxen, which were not come out of the countrie at the appointed time. The yonge men seinge that the hower was come, entred into the yoke themselues, and drewe the chariotte the space of XLV. stades to the Temple. After this acte seene of all the people there, th’ende of their life was such, as certainly God gaue to vnderstand by them, that better it is to die, then liue. For the Argiues that were assembled about Bito and Cleobis, with shoutes and acclamations, praised the good willes of those children, and the women themselues said, ‘That happie was the mother, which brought forth such lineage.’ Their mother then ioyfull for that fact, and of the reputation of her sonnes, kneeled downe before the Image of Iuno, humbly beseechinge her to giue her sonnes the thinge that were best for a man to attaine vnto. Her prayer ended, she made her sacrifice, which done, the two yonge men presently died in the temple. In token of whose noble liues, the Argiues erected two Images at Delphos.” And to them Solon appointed the second place of blisfulnes. Cræesus moued with these words, said vnto Solon. “Thou straunger of Athens, is our felicitie in such litle reputation with thee that thou doest preferre before vs these priuate men?” Solon aunswered: “Sir shal I assure you of humaine things, knowing that God enuieth the state of men, and troubleth them so often: in length of time many thinges be seen, which men would not see, and many thinges be suffred, that men would not suffer. Let vs assigne to mans life the terme of LXX. yeres: in which yeares are the nomber of XXV.M.CC. dayes, in which computation the leape moneth, which is February, is not comprehended. But if you wil that other yeres be longer, by reason of that moneth, to th’ end the howers may be adioyned to them, that want then the leape monethes, maketh the time to amount (aboue LXX. yeares) to XXV. monethes, and the dayes of those monethes amount to M.V.C. But admit that LXX. yeares with their leape monethes, be 51 the total summe of man’s life, then is producted the summe of XXV. M. CC. dayes. Truly one day is not like an other in effect, euen so Cræsus I conclude, that man is ful of miserie. But althoughe your grace, seeming both in wealth, and also in multitude of men, to be a riche and mightie king, yet I cannot aunswere fullye your demaunde, before I see howe well you doe ende your life: for the rich man is not more happie, because he hath long life, except to his riches fortune graunt that he lead a good and honest life. Many men be very rich, and yet for all that be not blessed and happie: and manye that haue but meane wealth, be fortunate. He that is rich and wealthie, and therewithal not happie, excelleth him that is fortunate and happy onely in two thinges, but th’other surmounteth the riche man in many thinges. The two thinges wherein the rich excelleth th’other be these. Th’one in satisfying his lust and affection, th’other in power and abilitie, to susteine harde fortune and aduersitie; and as the meane man is inferiour to the rich in these two points, which by fortune be denied him, yet he doth excell him, because he neuer hath experience of them; he liueth in good and prosperous health, he neuer feeleth aduersitie, he doth nothing that is wicked, he is a father of good children, he is indued with formosity and beautie, who if (besides all those thinges) he die well, it is he to aunswere your demaunde that worthely may be called happie; for before he die he cannot be so called: and yet fortunate he may be termed. For to obtaine all (whiles you be a liuing man) it is impossible: for as one countrie is not able to serue it selfe with all commodities, but hauing one it lacketh an other: yet the same countrie that hath most commodities is the beste: and as a man’s bodie hauing one perfection is not perfect, because in hauing one he lacketh another: euen so he that hath most vertue, and is indued with greatest nomber of the aforesaid commodities, and so quietly departeth his life, he in mine opinion is worthy to be intitled with the name of a king. A man must expect th’ende of euery thinge whereunto it tendeth: for God plucketh vppe by the rootes many men, to whom hee hath giuen abundaunce of wealth and treasure.” Cræsus misliking the woordes of Solon suffred him to depart saying: “He was a foole that measured present pleasures with no better regard.” After 52 whose departure, the gods began to bende their indignation and displeasure vpon him, because he thoughte himselfe the happiest man aliue. Long time after, Cræsus receyuing courage and comfort from Apollo at Delphos, attempted warres against Cyrus kinge of Persia, who in those warres was ouerthrowen, and taken prisoner after he had raigned XIIII. yeares, and was broughte by the Persians to Cyrus. Then Cyrus caused a stacke of woode to be piled vp, and Cræsus fettred with giues, was set vpon the same: who then remembring the saying of Solon, that no liuing man was blessed, or in all pointes happie, cried out in lamentable wyse, “O Solon! Solon! Solon!” which Cyrus hearing, caused his interpreters to demaund of him, what the same Solon was. Cræsus with much difficultie toulde what he was, and declared all the talke betwene him and Solon. Wherof when Cyrus heard the report, he acknowledged himselfe to be also a man, and sore repented that he went about to burne him, which was equal vnto him in honour and riches, confessing nothing to be stable and certaine in the life of man. Wherupon he commaunded the fire to be taken awaye, which then began to flame. And so with much a doe, he was deliuered. Then Cyrus asked him, who gaue him counsaile to inuade his countrie, to make his frende his foe. “Euen my selfe (saide Cræsus) through vnhappie fate, by the perswasion of the Greekish God which gaue me counsaile, to make warres vpon thee: for there is no man so madde, that had rather desire warre then peace. For in peace sonnes burie their fathers, but in warres, fathers burie their children. But that these thinges be come to passe, I maye thancke the deuil’s good grace.” Afterward Cyrus intertained him very honourablie, and vsed his counsell, which he found very holsome and good.
A Hero Gentleman of Athens named Solon, appointed by the Athenians, created laws for the city. To ensure that none of these laws would be abolished for ten years, he bound the citizens by oath. To make sure they followed the laws, he traveled to distant lands, visiting Egypt to see King Amasis, and then to Sardis to meet King Croesus, where he was generously welcomed. Croesus, the king of Lydia and son of Alyattes, had conquered vast territories in Asia and Greece, accumulating immense wealth. Three or four days after Solon arrived, Croesus, showing off his notable riches, asked Solon, “My friend from Athens, since your renowned wisdom is well known worldwide and I’ve heard of its excellence and the extent of your travels that gave you deep philosophical knowledge, I want to know who you believe is the happiest and most blessed person in the world.” He thought Solon would name him. But Solon responded, “Tellus was the happiest; he was an Athenian with virtuous sons, who also had honorable children, all of whom were alive at that time. After living a virtuous and pious life for many years, he died an honorable death in battle during the Athenians' conflict with their neighbors at the Eleusinian battle, receiving lavish funerals that honored his memory.” Then Croesus asked him who was next happiest after Tellus, assuming Solon would name him as second. “Indeed,” Solon replied, “that would be Cleobis and Biton, who were Argives, and lived a fulfilling life. In all athletic competitions, they always achieved victory. Their story is remembered during a festival of Jupiter among the Argives; their mother needed to be transported to the temple in a chariot pulled by oxen that hadn’t arrived on time. Seeing that time was running out, the young men hitched themselves to the yoke and pulled the chariot the distance of XLV. stades to the temple. After this act was witnessed by all, their end was such that it was evident God signified it’s better to die than to live. Because the people gathered around Biton and Cleobis praised their good deeds with shouts and cheers, their mother, filled with joy for her sons’ actions and their reputation, knelt before the image of Juno, humbly praying for her sons to receive the greatest gifts a man can obtain. After her prayer, she made her sacrifice, and soon after, the two young men died in the temple. In honor of their noble lives, the Argives erected two statues at Delphi.” Thus, Solon granted them the second place of happiness. Croesus, affected by these words, said to Solon, “You Athenian stranger, is our happiness held in such low regard by you that you would place these ordinary men above us?” Solon responded, “Sir, I must assure you about human matters, knowing that God often envies human fortunes and disrupts them. Over time, many things come to light that men would rather remain veiled, and many endure hardships that they would prefer to avoid. If we consider a man’s life to average LXX. years, that’s a total of XXV.M.CC. days—excluding leap days. Yet if you include those longer years, due to the leap month of February, the overall time can extend (beyond LXX. years) to XXV. months, adding days that total MVC. If we take LXX. years plus leap months as the sum of a man’s life, it totals XXV. M. CC. days. However, truly, one day isn’t like another, which leads me to conclude, Croesus, that man is full of misery. Even if you appear to be a wealthy and powerful king in both riches and followers, I cannot give a complete answer to your question without seeing how well you end your life: for wealth alone doesn’t guarantee happiness unless accompanied by a good and virtuous life. Many who are very rich are not happy despite their riches, while many with moderate wealth are fortunate. A wealthy person who is unhappy surpasses a happy person only in two areas, but the latter exceeds the rich in many respects. The two advantages of the rich are their ability to satisfy desires and their capacity to endure adversity; while the average person may lack those two benefits due to fortune, they excel because they never experience them; they live in good health, never feel hardship, do nothing wicked, and are often good parents. If, in addition to all those things, they die well, they can truly be called happy; before death, no one can claim such a title, though they may be considered fortunate. It is impossible to obtain everything in life: just as a country cannot provide for all its needs, lacking one always means another is needed; the country with the most resources is the best. Similarly, a man isn’t perfect with merely one virtue; so it follows that the one with the most virtues and the greatest number of these benefits is, in my opinion, deserving of being called a king. One must anticipate the end that all things aim towards, for God uproots many individuals to whom He has granted abundance. Croesus, unhappy with Solon’s words, let him leave, saying, “It was foolish to equate present pleasures without careful consideration.” After Solon left, the gods began to show their anger and displeasure toward him since he believed himself the happiest man alive. A time later, Croesus, gaining courage and comfort from Apollo at Delphi, decided to wage war against Cyrus, the king of Persia. He was ultimately defeated in that war and taken prisoner after reigning for XIV. years, eventually brought before Cyrus. Cyrus then ordered a pile of wood to be stacked, and Croesus, bound in chains, was placed on top. Remembering Solon’s words that no living man is truly blessed or completely happy, he lamented, “O Solon! Solon! Solon!” Cyrus, hearing this, had his interpreters ask who Solon was. Croesus, with great difficulty, explained who he was, sharing the conversation between them. Upon hearing this, Cyrus recognized himself as just a man and deeply regretted trying to burn someone equal to him in honor and wealth, realizing nothing in human life is stable or certain. Consequently, he commanded the fire to be extinguished before it ignited. After much ado, he was spared. Then Cyrus asked Croesus who advised him to invade his territory and turn a friend into an enemy. “It was my own doing,” Croesus said, “through unfortunate fate, persuaded by the Greek god advising me to wage war against you; no one sane prefers war over peace. In peace, sons bury their fathers, but in war, fathers bury their children. I can only thank the devil’s good fortune for these events.” Later, Cyrus treated him with great honor and sought his counsel, finding it very beneficial and wise.
THE EIGHTH NOUELL.
Of a father that made suite, to haue his owne sonne put to death.
Of a father who made a request to have his own son executed.
There was a man borne in Mardus (which is a Countrie adioyning vnto Persia) called Rhacon, that had seuen children. The yongest of them (named Cartomes,) afflicted diuers honest men with greate harmes and mischiefes. For which cause the father began to reforme him with words, to proue if he would amend. But he litle waying the good discipline of his father, it chaunced vpon a time that the Iustices of the countrie, repaired to the Sessions in that towne, where the father of the childe did dwell, Who taking his sonne, and binding his handes behinde him, brought him before the Iudges. To whom hee remembred by waye of accusation, all the mischiefes, which his sonne from time to time had committed, and desired the Iudges, that he might be condempned to die. The Iudges amazed with that request, would not themselues giue sentence against him, but brought both the father and the sonne, before Artaxerxes the king of Persia: in whose presence the father still persisted in the accusation of his sonne. “Why (quoth the king) canst thou finde in thy harte, that thine owne sonne should be put to death before thy face?” “Yea truly (quoth the father,) for at home in my garden, when the yong Lactuse begin to growe, I cutte of the bitter and sower stalkes from them: for pitie it were the mother Lactuse should sustaine sorow, for those bastard and degenerate shrubbes: which beinge taken awaye, she prospereth and encreaseth to great sweetenesse and bignes. Euen so (O kinge) if he be hanged that hurteth my whole familie, and offendeth the honest conuersation of his brethren, both my selfe shalbe increased, and the reste of my stocke and linage shall in like sort prosper and continue.” The king hearing those words, did greatly praise the wisedom of Rhacon, and chose him to be one of his Iudges, pronouncing these wordes before the multitude. “Hee that dare thus seuerely and iustly pronounce sentence vpon his owne child, doubtles he wil shew himselfe to be an incorrupt and sincere Iudge vpon the offences of other.” Then the kinge deliuered the yongman, from that presente faulte, threatninge him with most cruell death, if after that time, he were apprehended with like offence.
There was a man born in Mardus (a region next to Persia) named Rhacon, who had seven children. The youngest of them, named Cartomes, caused great harm and trouble to various honest people. Because of this, the father started to discipline him with words, hoping he would change. However, not taking his father's good guidance seriously, it happened that the local justices came to hold court in the town where the father and son lived. The father took his son, bound his hands behind him, and brought him before the judges. He recounted all the misdeeds his son had committed over time and asked the judges to condemn him to death. The judges, shocked by this request, refused to pass judgment themselves and brought both the father and son before Artaxerxes, the king of Persia. In the king's presence, the father continued to accuse his son. "Why," the king said, "can you bear the thought of having your own son put to death right in front of you?" "Yes, truly," the father replied, "for at home in my garden, when young lettuce starts to grow, I cut off the bitter and sour stalks. It would be a pity for the mother lettuce to suffer for those weak and flawed plants. By removing them, she thrives and grows sweet and strong. Likewise, O king, if he is hanged for harming my whole family and damaging the good behavior of his siblings, I will benefit, and the rest of my family lineage will similarly prosper." Hearing this, the king greatly praised Rhacon's wisdom and chose him to be one of his judges, declaring to the crowd, "He who dares to pronounce such a severe and just verdict against his own child will undoubtedly prove to be an incorrupt and fair judge regarding the offenses of others." Then the king released the young man from this immediate fault, threatening him with a cruel death if he was caught committing similar offenses again.
THE NINTH NOUELL.
Water offered of good will to Artaxerxes King of Persia, and the liberall rewarde of the Kinge to the giuer.
Water was offered kindly to Artaxerxes, King of Persia, and the generous reward of the King was given to the donor.
There was a certaine Persian called Sinetas, that farre from his owne house mette king Artaxerxes, and had not wherwith to present him. For it was an order amonges the Persians, instituted by law, that euery man which met the king, should giue him a present. Wherfore the poore man because he would not neglecte his dutie, ranne to a Riuer called Cyrus, and taking both his hands full of water, spake to the king in this wise. “I beseech God that your maiestie may euermore raigne amonges vs. As occasion of the place, and mine ability at this instant serueth, I am come to honour your maiesty, to the intent you may not passe without some present, for which cause I giue vnto you this water. But if your grace had ones encamped your selfe, I would go home to my house, for the best and dearest thinges I haue to honour your maiestie withall. And peraduenture the same shall not be much inferiour to the giftes, which other now do giue you.” Artaxerxes delighted with this fact, sayde vnto him. “Goode fellowe I thancke thee for this presente, I assure thee, the same is so acceptable vnto me, as the most precious gift of the worlde. First, because water is the best of all thinges, then because the Riuer, out of the which thou diddest take it, doth beare the name Cyrus. Wherefore I commaunde thee to come before me when I am at my campe.” In speakinge those wordes, he required his Eunuches to take the present, and to put it into a cuppe of gold. The king when he was lodged in his pauilion, sent to the man a Persian robe, a Cuppe of Golde, and a thousande Darices, (which was a coigne amonges the Persians, wherupon was the Image of Darius) willinge the messenger to saye vnto him, these wordes. “It hath pleased the king, that thou shouldest delighte thy selfe, and make mery with this gold, because thou diddest exhilarate his minde, in not suffering him to passe, without the honour of a present: but as necessitie 55 did serue thee, diddest humblie salute him with water. His pleasure is also, that thou shalt drincke of that water in this Cuppe of gold, of which thou madest him partaker.”
There was a Persian named Sinetas who, while far from his own home, met King Artaxerxes and had no gift to present him. It was a law among the Persians that every man who encountered the king should offer him a gift. So, the poor man, not wanting to neglect his duty, ran to a river called Cyrus, and filled both of his hands with water, speaking to the king in this way: “I pray that your majesty may always reign among us. Given the situation and my current means, I have come to honor your majesty, so that you do not pass by without some offering; for this reason, I give you this water. However, if you had camped nearby, I would have gone home to bring the best and most valuable things I have to honor you. Perhaps those would not be much less than the gifts others are giving you now.” Artaxerxes, pleased with this gesture, replied, “Good fellow, I thank you for this gift; I assure you, it is as welcome to me as the most precious gift in the world. First, because water is the most valuable of all things, and then because the river from which you took it bears the name Cyrus. Therefore, I command you to come before me when I am at my camp.” As he said this, he instructed his eunuchs to accept the gift and put it into a gold cup. Once settled in his pavilion, the king sent the man a Persian robe, a gold cup, and a thousand Darices (which was a coin among the Persians that had the image of Darius), instructing the messenger to tell him these words: “The king wishes for you to enjoy and celebrate with this gold, because you lifted his spirits by not allowing him to pass without the honor of a present; and since necessity allowed you, you humbly greeted him with water. He also wishes for you to drink from that water in this gold cup, of which you made him a partaker.”
Artaxerxes hereby expressed the true Image of a princely minde, that would not disdaine cherefully to behold the homelie gifte (in our estimation rude, and nothing worth) at the handes of his poore subiect: and liberally to reward that duetifull zeale, with thinges of greate price and valour. To the same Artaxerxes, riding in progresse through Persia, was presented by one called Mises, a very great Pomegranate in a Siue. The king marueiling at the bignes therof, demaunded of him out of what garden he had gathered the same: he aunswered, out of his owne. Wherat the king greatlye reioysinge, recompenced him with princelye rewards, saying: “By the Sunne (for that was the common oth of the Persian kinges) this man is able with such trauaile and diligence in my iudgement to make of a litle citie, one that shal be large and great.” Which wordes seeme to declare, that all thinges by care, sufficiente paine and continual labour, may against nature, be made more excellent and better.
Artaxerxes showed the true spirit of a noble mind by graciously accepting a simple gift (which we might see as humble and insignificant) from his poor subject and generously rewarding that dutiful effort with valuable and worthy gifts. While traveling through Persia, Artaxerxes was presented by a man named Mises with a very large pomegranate in a sieve. The king, marveling at its size, asked him from which garden he had picked it. Mises replied that it was from his own garden. The king, pleased by this, rewarded him with royal gifts, saying, “By the Sun” (for that was the common oath of the Persian kings), “this man is capable, through such hard work and effort, of turning a small town into one that is large and great.” These words suggest that anything can be improved and enhanced through care, sufficient effort, and continuous labor, even against the odds.
THE TENTH NOUELL.
The loue of Chariton and Menalippus.
The love of Chariton and Menalippus.
Nowe will I rehearse a fact of the tyrant Phalaris farre discrepante from his conditions, because it sauoureth of great kindnes and humanitye, and seemeth not to be done by him. Chariton was an Agrigentine borne, which is a towne in Sicilia, and a great louer of beauty, who with ardent affection loued one Menalippus, which was also borne in that Citie, of honest conditions and of excellente forme and comelines. This tyraunt Phalaris hindred Menalippus in a certaine sute: for he contending in iudgement with one of Phalaris frendes, the tyraunt commaunded him to giue ouer his suite: whervnto, because he was not obedient, he threatned to put him to death, except he would yelde. Notwithstanding, Menalippus ouer came him in law, and the noble men which were the frends of Phalaris, would giue no sentence, but brought the matter to a Nonesuite; which the yong man takinge in ill part, said he had receiued wrong, and confessed to his frend Chariton the wrong he had sustained, requiring his ayde to be reuenged upon the tyrant. He made other yonge men priuie to his conspiracie, such as he knewe woulde be ready and apte for that enterprise. Chariton perceyuinge the rage and furie of his frende, knowinge that no man would take his parte for feare of the tyraunt, began to disswade him, sayinge, that he himselfe went aboute the like attempte, a litle before, to deliuer his country into libertie from present seruitude, but he was not able to sort the same to any effect, without great daunger: wherefore he praied hym to commit the consideration thereof vnto him, and to suffer him to espie a time apt and conuenient. Menalippus was content: Chariton reuoluing with himselfe that deuise, woulde not make his deare frend a partaker of the fact least it shoulde be perceiued, but he alone took vppon him to do the deede, that onely himselfe might sustaine the smart; wherefore taking a sword in his hande, as he was seeking way to giue the assault vpon the tyraunt, his enterprise was disclosed, and Chariton apprehended by the Guarde, which for the tyrauntes defence, diligently attended about him. 57 From thence he was sent to the Jaole, and examined vpon interrogatories to bewraye the rest of the conspiratours; for which hee suffered the racke, and the violence of other tormentes. Afterwardes, Menalippus remembring the constancie of his frende, and the crueltye by him stoutly suffered, went to Phalaris and confessed vnto him that not onely he was priuy to that treason, but also was the aucthour thereof. Phalaris demaundinge for what cause he did it, tolde him the consideration before rehearsed, which was the reuokinge of sentence, and other iniuries done vnto him. The tyraunt maruaylinge at the constant frendshippe of those twaine, acquited them both, but vppon condition that both shoulde depart oute of the citie and countrie of Sicilia. Neuerthelesse, he gaue them leaue to receiue the fruites and commodities of their reuenues. In record and remembrance of whose amitie, Apollo sang these Verses.
Now I will tell you a story about the tyrant Phalaris that’s very different from his usual nature, because it shows great kindness and humanity, which doesn’t seem typical of him. Chariton was from Agrigentum, a town in Sicily, and he was a huge lover of beauty. He had a deep affection for Menalippus, who was also from that city, known for his honorable character and outstanding looks. This tyrant Phalaris blocked Menalippus in a legal matter: since he was contesting a case against one of Phalaris’ friends, the tyrant ordered him to drop his suit. When he refused to comply, Phalaris threatened to kill him if he didn't give in. However, Menalippus ultimately prevailed in court, and the noble friends of Phalaris didn’t issue a judgment but instead let the case go unresolved. Upset by this outcome, Menalippus told his friend Chariton about the injustice he felt he had suffered and asked for his help to get revenge on the tyrant. He brought in other young men who he knew would be willing and capable of joining him in this conspiracy. Seeing the anger and fury in his friend, Chariton, aware that nobody would support him out of fear of Phalaris, began to talk him out of the plan, telling him about his own recent attempt to free their country from oppression, which had failed and almost cost him dearly. He urged Menalippus to let him think it over and find the right time to act. Menalippus agreed. Chariton, deciding on his own plan, didn’t want to involve his dear friend for fear it might be discovered; instead, he took it upon himself to carry out the act, knowing he would bear the consequences alone. So, armed with a sword and looking for an opportunity to attack the tyrant, Chariton's plot was discovered, and he was seized by the guards who were stationed around Phalaris for protection. 57 He was then sent to prison and interrogated to reveal the identities of the other conspirators; for this, he endured torture and various forms of torment. Later, remembering the bravery of his friend and the suffering he had bravely endured, Menalippus went to Phalaris and admitted that not only was he aware of the plot, but he was the instigator of it. When Phalaris asked why he did it, Menalippus explained the previously mentioned reasons: his grievances over the unresolved case and other wrongs done to him. The tyrant, amazed at the strong friendship between them, decided to pardon them both, but only if they left the city and the country of Sicily. Nonetheless, he allowed them to keep their earnings and properties. In honor of their friendship, Apollo sang these verses.
The raysers vp of heauenly loue,
amonges the humaine kinde:
The rays of heavenly love,
among humankind:
Were good Chariton and Menalippe,
whose like vnneths we finde.
There were good Chariton and Menalippe,
whose kind we hardly find.
This Phalaris was a most cruell tyraunte of the citie of Agrigentine in Scicilia, who besides other instrumentes of new deuised tormentes, had a Bull made of Brasse, by the art and inuention of one Perillus: into which Bull, all such as were condemned to death were put, and by reason of extreame heate of fire made vnder the same, those that were executed, yelled foorth terrible soundes and noyses, like to the lowing of a Bull. For which ingine and deuise, Perillus thinking to obtaine great reward, was for his labour, by commaundement of the tyraunt, throwen into the Bull, being the first that shewed the proofe of his deuise. Within a while after, also Phalaris himselfe, for his great crueltie, was by a general assault, made vpon him by the people, haled into the same Bull and burned: and althoughe this tyraunte farre excelled in beastlye crueltie, yet there appeared some sparke of humanitie in him, by his mercye extended vpon Chariton and Menalippus, the two true louers before remembred. The same Phalaris wrote many proper and short Epistles, full of vertuous instructions, and holsome admonitions.
This Phalaris was a very cruel tyrant of the city of Agrigento in Sicily, who, besides other newly invented methods of torture, had a brass bull created by the skill and idea of one Perillus. Into this bull, all those condemned to death were placed, and due to the extreme heat of the fire beneath it, those executed let out horrifying sounds and noises, similar to the lowing of a bull. For this device, Perillus, thinking he would earn a great reward, was thrown into the bull by the command of the tyrant, becoming the first to experience the result of his invention. Shortly after, Phalaris himself, due to his extreme cruelty, was dragged into the same bull and burned by a general uprising of the people against him. Although this tyrant excelled in brutal cruelty, there was a spark of humanity in him, shown by the mercy he extended to Chariton and Menalippus, the two true lovers mentioned earlier. The same Phalaris wrote many short and proper letters, full of virtuous teachings and helpful advice.
THE ELEUENTH NOUELL.
Kinge Cyrus perswaded by Araspas, to dispose himselfe to loue a ladie called Panthea, entreth into a pretie disputation and talke of loue and beautie. Afterwards Araspas himselfe falleth in loue with the saide ladie, but she indued with greate chastitie, auoydeth his earnest sute. And when shee heard tell that her husbande was slaine in the seruice of Cyrus, she killed herselfe.
KIng Cyrus, influenced by Araspas, decides to open himself up to loving a lady named Panthea and engages in a charming discussion about love and beauty. Later, Araspas finds himself in love with her as well, but she, being very virtuous, rejects his passionate advances. When she learns that her husband was killed while serving Cyrus, she takes her own life.
Before the beginning of this Historie, I thought good by way of Proeme, to introduce the wordes of an excellente writer called Lodouicus Cælius Rhodoginus, who saith that S. Hierome the most holy and eloquent father, affirmeth that vertues are not to be pondered by the sexe or kinde, by whom they be done, but by the chaste and honest minde; wherewith if euer any woman was affected, truly it was the fayre Ladie Panthea: for which I would no man should blame me of vngodlines, or indiscretion, in that I do remember a woman mentioned in profane authours, because at this present I am not minded to make vewe of Christe his secretes which are his deuine Scriptures, wherein be contayned the Ghostly liues of sacred dames, wherein also aboundantly doth shine and glitter, the celestiall mercie of our heauenly Father. But let the Reader remember that we be now conuersant in the auncient monuments of other profane aucthours, and out of them do select most pleasant places to recreat ech weary minde. This Panthea therfore as Xenophon writeth, and partly as S. Hierome reporteth, was the wyfe of Abradatas a noble personage, and in warlicke factes very skilfull, dearely beloued of Cyrus king of Persia, with whom this Lady Panthea was captiue, at the ouerthrow of the Assyrians. King Cyrus then after his enemyes were vanquished, hearinge tell of this gentlewoman, called vnto him one of his dearest frends named Araspas which was a Median borne, the very minion, playe felow, and companion of Cyrus from his youth: to whom for the great loue that he bare him, he gaue the Median robe of from his owne backe at his departure from Astiages into 59 Persia. To this gentleman, king Cyrus committed the custodie of the ladie, and of her tente. Abradatas her husbande (when she was taken prisoner) was before sente in ambassage to the king of Bactria by the Assirian king, to intreate of peace, because he was his familiar frend. When Araspas had receiued the keeping of the ladie: he asked Cyrus whether he had seen her, “No truly” said Cyrus. “Then haue I (saide Araspas): and haue chosen her specially for your owne person. And when we came into her pauilion, none of us could tell which was she, for she set vppon the grounde, with all her women about her, and her apparell was like vnto her maides. But we desirous to know which was the maistres, beheld them all, and by and by shee seemed to excell them all, although she satte with her face couered, loking downe vpon the grounde: and when we bad her to rise vp, all the rest rose up also. She did farre surmounte her maides, as well in making and lineamentes of body, as in good behauiour and comelinesse, although she was clad in simple apparell: the teares manifestly ranne downe her eyes vppon her garments, distilling downe euen to her feete; to whom he that was most auncient amonges vs said: ‘Be of good chere lady: we heare tell that you haue a very valiaunte man to your husbande, such one whose practize and experience is well knowen and tryed amongs greatest princes, notwithstanding we haue chosen for you a gentleman, that is not inferiour to him, either in beautie, force, wisedome or valiaunce. And we do verely beleeue, that if there be any man in this world, worthie of admiration, it is Cyrus our Prince and Lorde, whose paragon wee haue chosen you to bee.’ When the Lady hearde them saye so, she tare the attirement from her head and body, she cried out, and all her maides skriched with her. At which times the greatest part of her face appeared, and so did her necke and handes: And assure your selfe (Cyrus) to vs that viewed her well, it seemed impossible, that such a creature coulde be borne of mortall parentes in Asia. Therefore sir, looke vppon her in any wise.” To whom Cyrus said, “The more praise ye giue her, the lesse minde I haue to see her, if shee be such one as you haue saide.” “And whye so?” (quoth Araspas). “Because (sayde Cyrus) if I should go to see her, hearing you make this reporte of her beautie (leasure not seruinge me 60 thereunto) I am afraide, lest she would sone alure me to go many times to behold her. Whereby I might perchaunce, grow negligent in my matters of greatest importance.” The yong gentleman smiling, said, “Thincke you Cyrus, that the beauty of a woman, can force a man vnwilling, to attempt a thinge that should not be meete for him. If nature haue that force in her, she would compell all men alike. Do you not see, that fire burneth all men after one sort, because it is his nature? Beautifull thinges be not had in equall estimation, some be of great price, some not so, some do regarde this, some that. For loue is a voluntarie thing, and euery man loueth what he list. The brother is not in loue with the sister, but of another she is loued. The father is not in loue with the doughter, and yet she is beloued of another. For feare and law are able enough to restraine loue. But if there were a law made to commaund men, that they which did not eate, should not be hungrie, and they that did not drinke, should not be a thirst, and that no man should be cold in Winter, and hotte in Sommer, that lawe coulde not compell men to obeye: for men by nature be subiect to those infirmities. But to loue, is a thinge free and voluntarie. Euery man loueth thinges that be his owne, as his apparell and other his necessaries.” Wherunto Cyrus replied: “If loue be voluntary: how can it be that a man may abandon the same, when he liste? But I haue seene men weepe for sorowe of loue: I haue knowen them that haue beene slaues to loue, who before they haue loued, haue thoughte thraldome, the greatest euill: geuing awaye manye thinges, which had beene better for them to haue kept: and haue prayed to God to be exonerated of loue, aboue all other diseases, and yet coulde not be deliuered, being bound with stronger imprisonment then if they had beene tied with chaines, yelding themselues to their louers, seruing them with all obedience. And when they be hampered with such mischiefes, they seeke not to auoide them.” “They do so in deede as you saye (aunswered the yong man:) And therefore such louers be miserable, wishing still to die and yet still continue in their woe and calamitie: And where there be a thousande wayes to bereue them of life, yet they do not die. Some of them fall to stealing and robbing of other men. But when they haue robbed 61 and stolen anye thing thou with the first thinkinge theft vnnecessary, doest condemne them as theeues, whom thou dost not pardon, but punish. In like maner the beautifull doe not councell men to loue them, or couet that is not lawful: But miserable men shewing themselues inferiour to all lustes and desires, doe in the ende accuse Loue to be the authour of their miserie. Good and honest men, althoughe they desire golde, beautifull horses and faire women, yet they can well ynoughe abstaine from them all, as not subiect to them more then is meete: For I my selfe haue beholden this woman, which seemeth to be a surpassing faire wight: and yet I am now with you, I ryde and do other thinges accordinge to my dutie.” “Peraduenture (said Cyrus) you went soner awaye, then loue coulde haue time to fasten vppon you: For fire touchinge a man, doth not straite burne him: And woode is not by and by in flame, yet would I not willingly touch fire, nor behold beautiful persons: and I would giue you counsaile Araspas, to beware how you suffer your eyes to rolle, and wander vpon faire women: for the fire burneth them, that touch it: and beautifull folke, do kindle them, that behold them a farre of, in such wise as they burne for loue.” “I warrant you Cyrus (sayd Araspas:) for if I do continually loke vpon them, I wil not so be drowned in loue, as the same shall prouoke me to do any thing that doth not become mee.” “You saye well, sayd Cyrus, Therfore keepe this woman as I bid you, and loke wel vnto her: For peraduenture she is taken in good time.” And so they departed: The yong gentleman marking the singuler beautie of the Lady, and perceyuing her great honesty, he hauing custodie of her, thoughte he woulde do her pleasure, and by gesture sawe that she was not ingrate and vnthanckfull, but very diligent: She caused her seruauntes to prepare all thinges in readines at his comming in: and if he were by chaunce sicke, shee toke order that he shoulde lacke nothinge: vpon which occasions, he fell in loue with her: and no maruaile, for she was (as before is saide) a woman very fayre and amiable. Afterwards king Cyrus desirous to send a spie into the countrie of Lydia, to learne what the Assyrians did: Araspas which had the keepinge of the fayre Lady, seemed most mete for that purpose. But Araspas chaunced to fall in loue with the Ladie, in suche wise 62 as he was forced to breake his minde vnto her, for the satisfying of his pleasure: which request, like a faithfull and louing woman to her absent husband, she denyed. Howbeit she would not accuse Araspas to Cyrus, being a fraide to set variaunce betweene frendes. Araspas thinkinge it a great shame and reproche vnto him, not to obtaine his desire: threatened the Lady, that if she would not yeld to his request, he would haue it perforce. Then the woman fearing violence, kepte the thing no longer secrete, but sente one of her Eunuches to Cyrus, to discouer the whole matter: which when he heard, he laughed hartely at Araspas, that sayde and made his vaunte that he was superiour to loue, sending Artabasus with the Eunuch, to commaund him not to force the woman: but if he could by fayre meanes allure her, he would not be against him. When Artabasus came to Araspas, he rebuked him, both for his infidelity in the thinge committed vnto his charge, and also for his wickednesse, iniurie, and incontinencie. Wherwithall Araspas wepte for sorowe, beinge oppressed wyth shame, and confounded with feare, for the displeasure of Cyrus: whiche thing Cyrus vnderstanding, called him, and priuely sayd thus vnto him. “I see Araspas that you be afraied of me, and much ashamed: but be contente, for I knowe that the goddes haue bene vanquished with loue, and haue learned what thinges the wisest men haue suffered for loue: and I haue accused my selfe, bicause I could not conteine, being in companie with faire personages: and of this mishappe happened to you, I my selfe am the occasion, for I compelled you to that inuincible matter.” Araspas making aunswere sayd: “You be in this thing, O Cyrus, euen like vnto your selfe, as you be in all other: you be mercifull, and full of clemencie: but the brute that shall rise hereof is, that whiche maketh me moste pensife, for so sone as the rumour of my calamitie is dispersed, mine enemies will reioyce, and my frendes will counsaill me to flee, lest youre maiestie do hainously take reuenge of mine offence.” “Well Araspas, said Cyrus, by that opinion and brute, you shall do me greatest seruice, and profite very muche my confederates.” “How can that be (said Araspas)? where in for that respect shall I be able to doe you any seruice?” “If presently (quoth Cyrus) you do make as though 63 you fledde from me, and by going to myne enemies, you maye wynne of them great credite.” “Verely (sayd Araspas) I suppose that I and my frendes, might raise a rumour indeede, that I am fled from you for feare.” “So may you (sayd Cyrus) returne vnto vs againe, when you knowe our enemies secretes; for I thinke they will make you priuie to all their counsell and deuises: and you being in credit, shall be made priuie to all their appointementes whiche wee desire to knowe.” “I will euen nowe depart (sayd Araspas) for it is very likely, that this my departure, may seme to be an argument of trouth, bicause I seme to flie for feare of punishement.” “Can you in that maner forsake faire Panthea” (quoth Cyrus). “Truely (said he) it euidently nowe appeareth, that I am endewed with two mindes: with the one I haue plaied the philosopher, with loue that vntrue Sophistre: for ther is no one minde which is good and badde, and at one time is rapt with the loue of good and euil thinges, ne yet at one instant can wil and will not together. Wherefore it is manifest, that ther be two mindes; when the good minde ruleth, it doth things that be honest, when the euill is superiour, it worketh ill: and now the good minde, by making you his frende and confederate, doth puissantly gouerne.” “Well (sayde Cyrus) if you goe, you must beware, that your credite may increase amonges them: tell them hardly the somme of our indeuours, but in suche wise as our doinges may bee lettes to their practises. And this shall hinder their deuises muche, if you saie that we determine to inuade their countrie: for hearing this, they will not assemble their whole power, euery man fearing his priuate part: and see that you tary with them a good space, and looke which partes they meane sonest to approche, the same be moste conuenient for vs to knowe: and bid them to be ready, whensoeuer they thinke time: for when you shall depart from them, although they know you to be priuie to their order, yet they must needes kepe the same, and be afrayd to alter it, lest they confounde them selues through their sodaine chaunge.” Thus Araspas departing, telling his moste trustie seruauntes what hee would have done in this matter, went his waye: but Panthea hearing that Araspas was gone, sent to Cyrus this message conteining these woordes.
Before the beginning of this story, I thought it good to start with the words of an excellent writer named Lodouicus Cælius Rhodoginus, who says that St. Jerome, the most holy and eloquent father, affirms that virtues shouldn't be judged by the gender of the person who performs them, but by the pure and honest mind behind them. If any woman ever embodied this, it was the lovely Lady Panthea; for this reason, I hope no one will blame me for immorality or foolishness for mentioning a woman from secular texts, as I do not intend to explore the secrets of Christ, which are found in His divine Scriptures, containing the spiritual lives of sacred women and the abundant celestial mercy of our heavenly Father. But let the reader remember that we are currently involved with the ancient works of other secular authors, from which we select the most delightful passages to entertain each weary mind. Therefore, Panthea, as Xenophon writes and partly as St. Jerome recounts, was the wife of Abradatas, a noble person skilled in warfare and dearly beloved by Cyrus, King of Persia, with whom this Lady Panthea was captured after the fall of the Assyrians. After Cyrus defeated his enemies, he heard of this gentlewoman and called upon one of his closest friends, named Araspas, who was Medan by birth and Cyrus's favorite companion since his youth. For the deep affection he bore him, Cyrus gave Araspas the Median robe off his own back when he left Astyages for Persia. Cyrus committed the custody of the lady and her tent to this gentleman. Abradatas, her husband, had been sent before as an ambassador to the King of Bactria by the Assyrian king to negotiate peace because he was a close friend of his. When Araspas took charge of the lady, he asked Cyrus if he had seen her. “No, truly,” said Cyrus. “Then I have,” said Araspas, “and I have chosen her specifically for you. When we entered her pavilion, none of us could tell which one she was, for she was sitting on the ground with all her women around her, and her attire was similar to that of her maidens. But eager to identify the mistress, we observed them all, and she soon appeared to outshine them all, even though she sat with her face covered, looking down at the ground. When we asked her to rise, all the others stood up too. She surpassed her maids in both beauty and demeanor, despite being dressed simply; tears streamed down her cheeks onto her garments, dripping down to her feet. One of the oldest among us said, ‘Be of good cheer, lady. We hear you have a very brave man for a husband, one whose skills and experience are well-known among the greatest princes, yet we have chosen for you a gentleman who is no less than he in beauty, strength, wisdom, or bravery. We truly believe that if anyone in this world deserves admiration, it is Cyrus, our Prince and Lord, whom we have chosen for you.’ When the lady heard their words, she tore her garments from her head and body, cried out, and all her maids screamed along with her. At that moment, most of her face was revealed, as were her neck and hands, and believe me, Cyrus, to those of us who observed her closely, it seemed impossible that such a creature could be born of mortal parents in Asia. Therefore, sir, look upon her whenever you can.” Cyrus replied, “The more praise you give her, the less I feel inclined to see her if she is indeed as you say.” “And why so?” asked Araspas. “Because,” Cyrus said, “if I were to go see her, hearing your account of her beauty, I fear she would quickly entice me to visit her often, which could make me careless in my most significant matters.” The young gentleman smiled and said, “Do you think, Cyrus, that a woman's beauty can compel a man against his will to engage in something unfit for him? If that were the case, nature would force all men equally. You see, fire burns all men alike because it's in its nature. Beautiful things aren't valued equally; some are of great worth, others not so much, and opinions vary greatly. Love is a voluntary matter, and every man loves what he chooses. A brother doesn't love his sister, but someone else loves her. A father doesn't love his daughter, though she is beloved by another. Fear and law can certainly restrain love. But even if there were a law that stated those who don't eat shouldn't be hungry, and those who don't drink shouldn't be thirsty, and no man should be cold in winter or hot in summer, such laws wouldn't compel men to obey, for men are naturally subject to those vulnerabilities. However, to love is a free and voluntary choice. Everyone loves what belongs to them, like their clothes and other necessities.” To this, Cyrus replied, “If love is voluntary, how can it be that a man can abandon it whenever he wants? But I have seen men weep over love's sorrow; I have known those who have become slaves to love, believing that bondage is the greatest evil, giving up many things that would have been better kept and praying to God to be freed from love more than any other affliction, yet they couldn't be delivered, bound by a stronger imprisonment than if chained, yielding themselves to their lovers, serving them with total obedience. And when caught in such miseries, they do not seek to escape.” “They indeed do as you say,” the young man responded. “And hence, such lovers are miserable, always wishing for death yet continuing in their pain and calamity. Though there are a thousand ways to take their own lives, they do not die. Some resort to stealing and robbing others. But once they have robbed and stolen, you, with the first thought, consider theft unnecessary and condemn them as thieves, punishing them without pardon. Similarly, the beautiful do not advise men to love them or covet what is unlawful; but miserable men, showing themselves inferior to all desires and lusts, end up blaming love for their misery. Good and honest men, although they desire gold, beautiful horses, and lovely women, can easily refrain from them when it's not appropriate. For I myself have seen this woman, who appears to be extraordinarily beautiful, yet I am here with you; I ride and do other things according to my duty.” “Perhaps,” Cyrus said, “you left before love had a chance to catch hold of you. Because fire doesn't immediately burn a man; wood isn't instantly in flames. Yet I would not willingly touch fire or gaze upon beautiful women. I would advise you, Araspas, to be careful how you let your eyes wander upon fair women, for fire burns those who touch it, and beautiful people kindle desire in those who behold them from afar, so they burn with love.” “I assure you, Cyrus,” Araspas said, “for if I stare at them continuously, I won't be so overwhelmed by love as to act unconventionally.” “You speak well,” Cyrus replied. “Therefore, keep this woman as I instructed and watch over her well. For perhaps she has been captured at just the right moment.” And so they parted. The young gentleman, noticing the unique beauty of the lady and recognizing her great virtue, believed he would do her a favor, and by her actions, saw she was neither ungrateful nor unthankful, but very attentive. She arranged for her servants to prepare everything in readiness upon his arrival and ensured that if he happened to fall ill, he would lack for nothing. Because of this, he fell in love with her—no wonder, for she was, as previously stated, a very beautiful and charming woman. Later, King Cyrus, wanting to send a spy into Lydia to learn what the Assyrians were up to, thought Araspas, who was in charge of the beautiful lady, would be most suitable for that task. However, Araspas happened to fall in love with the lady to such an extent that he felt compelled to express his feelings to her, seeking to satisfy his desires—a request she denied, like a faithful and loving woman to her absent husband. Nevertheless, she did not accuse Araspas to Cyrus, fearing it might create discord among friends. Araspas deemed it a dire shame and disgrace not to attain his desire and threatened the lady that if she would not yield to his request, he would take it by force. Then, fearing violence, the lady could no longer keep the matter secret but sent one of her eunuchs to Cyrus to explain everything. When he heard this, he laughed heartily at Araspas, who claimed and boasted that he was above love, sending Artabasus with the eunuch to instruct him not to force the woman but to charm her by fair means if possible. When Artabasus approached Araspas, he scolded him for his betrayal of the trust placed in him and for his wickedness, injury, and lust. Consequently, Araspas wept from shame, overwhelmed by fear at Cyrus's displeasure. Understanding this, Cyrus called him and privately said, “I see, Araspas, that you are afraid of me and very ashamed; but take comfort, for I know that the gods have been conquered by love and that even the wisest men have suffered greatly due to it. I have found myself at fault because I couldn't restrain myself while in the presence of beautiful people, and this misfortune of yours was caused by me, as I pushed you into that irresistible matter.” Araspas responded, “You are in this matter, O Cyrus, just as you are in all others: merciful and full of kindness. However, the gossip that will arise from this concerns me immensely, for once the word of my troubles spreads, my enemies will rejoice, and my friends will advise me to flee, lest your majesty take dreadful revenge for my offense.” “Well, Araspas,” said Cyrus, “from that perspective, you will do me the greatest service and be of much benefit to my allies.” “How can that be?” asked Araspas. “In that case,” Cyrus replied, “if you act as if you have fled from me and by approaching my enemies, you may gain great credit with them.” “Indeed,” Araspas said, “I believe that my friends and I could stir up a rumor that I have fled from you in fear.” “This way,” Cyrus said, “you can return to us again when you know our enemies' secrets, as I believe they will share their plans with you, and being trusted, you will be privy to all their arrangements that we wish to learn.” “I will leave right now,” said Araspas, “for it is highly likely that my departure will seem genuine, as I appear to be fleeing punishment.” “Can you forsake the lovely Panthea in that manner?” Cyrus quipped. “Truly,” he responded, “it is evident that I am endowed with two minds: with one, I have acted like a philosopher, while with love, that untrustworthy deceiver; for there is no single mind that is both good and bad, nor can it be captivated by the love of both good and evil things; thus, it is clear there are two minds. When the good mind governs, it undertakes honorable actions; when the bad one prevails, it commits wrongs; and now, the good mind rules by making you my friend and ally.” “Well,” said Cyrus, “if you go, you must be careful to ensure your credibility increases among them: tell them harshly about the sum of our efforts but in such a way that our actions complicate their plans. This will hamper their strategies significantly if you say we intend to invade their territory; hearing this, they will not gather their full strength, each fearing for their share. Make sure you stay with them for a good while and observe which areas they plan to approach soonest, for that will be most important for us to know; and convince them to be prepared whenever they feel the time is right; for when you depart from them, even though they know you are aware of their plans, they will still be compelled to maintain the same, afraid to change abruptly lest they confuse themselves with sudden shifts.” Thus, Araspas, departing and telling his most trusted servants what he wished to accomplish in this matter, went on his way. However, Panthea, upon hearing that Araspas had left, sent this message to Cyrus, containing these words.
64 “Bee not sorie Cyrus, for the departure of Araspas to your enemies, for if you wyll suffer mee to sende for my husbande, I doe promyse you, that he shalbe a farre more assured frende then Araspas was. And I knowe he wyll come with so great power (for your ayde) as hee is able to make, for the father of the Assirian kyng, whiche nowe raigneth, was his frende. But this kyng vppon a tyme, went about to make a diuorcement, betweene my husbande and mee: therefore, knowyng that this kyng, doth disdayne my husbandes good fortune, by hauing mee to wife, I am sure hee woulde sone be perswaded to serue so noble a Prince as you be.” Cyrus hearing her saye so, commaunded her to sende for her husbande, which she did. Abradatas knowing his wiues tokens, and vnderstanding the effecte of her message, spedely came to Cyrus with two thousand horsemen. They that were the Persian spies, sent to Cyrus, declaring what he was. Cyrus commaunded that forthwith he should be brought vnto his wife. When the wife and husbande sawe eche other, they imbraced like twoo that mette after suche troublesome aduentures. Then Panthea tolde her husbande the goodnes, temperance, and clemencie of Cyrus towarde her. Who hearing of her interteignement, sayde: “What shall I doe Panthea, to render thankes to Cyrus, for you and mee?” “What other thing (saide Panthea) but to indeuour your selfe, to bee suche a trustie frende to him, as he hath bene to you.” Then Abradatas went to Cyrus, and when he sawe hym, he tooke him by the right hande and sayde: “For the pleasures that you haue done mee, O Cyrus, I haue no more to saye, but that I assure my selfe vnto you, as your frende, your seruaunt and confederate: and what soeuer I see you desyre, I shall imploye my selfe, to the vttermoste of my power, to ayde and helpe you in the same.” To whome Cyrus sayde, “I accepte you, and for this tyme dismisse you, to goe and suppe with your wife: then you shall agayne be placed in my Tente about me amonges your frendes and myne.” And when Abradatas sawe the preparation of Cyrus, that hee made against his enemies, he addressed to make prouision of armure, and thinges meete for the fielde for hym selfe. His wyfe Panthea, had made of her treasure, a curate and helmet of golde, and likewyse his vambraces, and had furnished the horses of the chariot with brasen barbes.
64 "Don't worry, Cyrus, about Araspas going over to your enemies. If you let me call for my husband, I promise you he will be a much more reliable ally than Araspas ever was. I know he will come with as much power as he can muster to support you, because the father of the current Assyrian king, who reigns now, was his friend. However, this king once tried to force a divorce between my husband and me, so knowing that this king resents my husband's luck in having me as his wife, I’m sure he would be quickly convinced to serve such a noble leader as you." Cyrus, hearing her words, ordered her to fetch her husband, which she did. Abradatas, recognizing his wife's tokens and understanding the message, quickly arrived at Cyrus with two thousand horsemen. The Persian spies, sent to Cyrus, reported who he was. Cyrus commanded that he be brought to his wife at once. When the husband and wife saw each other, they embraced like two who had met after such troubling adventures. Then Panthea told her husband about Cyrus's kindness, self-control, and compassion towards her. Hearing about her treatment, he said, "What should I do, Panthea, to thank Cyrus for both you and me?" "What else," Panthea replied, "but to strive to be as trustworthy a friend to him as he has been to you?" Abradatas then approached Cyrus, and when he saw him, he took his right hand and said, "For the kindness you have shown me, O Cyrus, I only have one thing to say: I pledge myself to you as your friend, servant, and ally. Whatever I see you desire, I will do everything in my power to assist and support you in that." Cyrus replied, "I accept you, and for now, I dismiss you to go and dine with your wife. Later, you will again be placed in my tent among your friends and mine." When Abradatas saw the preparations Cyrus was making against his enemies, he set about procuring armor and other necessary items for the field for himself. His wife Panthea had made for him, out of her treasure, a breastplate and helmet of gold, as well as his greaves, and had outfitted the horses of the chariot with bronze adornments.
65 When Cyrus had spoken diuerse oracions, for the incoraging of his armie, and had taken order, howe all thinges might prosperously succede, diuided his captaines into seuerall battailes, appointing euery of them their charge: Abradatas shewed him selfe verie braue, and marciall in his Chariot: who being about to put on a linnen breast plate, according to his countrie maner, his wife Panthea brought him an armure of golde, and a purple gowne down to his feete, after robe fashion, and a crimsen skarfe. These thinges had she priuely wrought for her husbande, knowing the measure of his harnesse, whiche when her husband sawe, he marueiled, and said to Panthea. “Wife, haue you not defaced your jewels, to make this armure?” “Truelye (said Panthea) I haue a more precious jewell then this; for if you proue a valiant gentleman to other, as you haue done a louing and trustie husband to me, you are my dearest jewell.” In saying thus, she armed him, and would that no man should haue sene her: for the teares trickled downe her chekes. Abradatas being in the fronte of the armie, armed after this maner, appered a gallant and braue captayne, whose nature and complexion agreed to his comelinesse. And taking the raines of the chariot in his hands, he prepared him selfe to mounte vp. Then Panthea, all other being commaunded to stande backe, saide: “Truely Abradatas, if there be women, that esteme their husbandes better then their owne liues, I thinke you knowe that I am one of them. Therefore what neede I to expresse euery particular thing: my factes, as I thinke, do perswade you more then woordes. And thus indeuouring my selfe towardes you, our mutuall loue is such, as I had rather be buried quicke with you, being a noble man, then to liue in shame. I regarde you with the beste, and my selfe not as the worste. Great thankes we owe to Cyrus, for his Princely interteignement of me, being a captiue and chosen for him selfe, not like a prysoner with shame, but free, without spot or blemishe to mine honor: and vsed me, as though I had bene his brothers wyfe. And after Araspas departed from him, whiche had the custodie of me, I promised him, that if hee would giue mee leue to sende for you, that you should become more loiall and assured to him, then euer Araspas was.” Abradatas delited with her chaste communication, and tenderly laying his 66 hand vpon her head: looking vp to heauen, made this praier. “O most mightie Iuppiter, graunte that I may shewe my selfe an housbande meete for Panthea, and a frende worthy of Cyrus, who hath so curteously dealt with vs.” Thus speaking at the entrie of the chariot seate, he went vp, and being set downe, the gouernour of the chariot made fast the seate. Panthea hauing nowe nothing to embrace, kissed the chariot seate, and so he went forth. But Panthea followed him priuelie, till he tourned and spied her, to whome he sayde: “Be of good conforte Panthea, Adieu and farewell.” Then her Eunuches and women, conueighed her to her own chariot, couering the same with curteines.
65 When Cyrus had given several speeches to encourage his army and had arranged everything for a successful outcome, he divided his captains into different battalions, assigning each one their tasks. Abradatas appeared very brave and martial in his chariot. As he was about to put on a linen breastplate, as was customary in his country, his wife Panthea brought him a suit of armor made of gold, a purple gown down to his feet in the style of a robe, and a crimson scarf. She had secretly crafted these items for her husband, knowing the size of his armor. When her husband saw them, he was amazed and said to Panthea, “Wife, didn’t you ruin your jewels to make this armor?” “Truly,” Panthea replied, “I have a more precious jewel than this; for if you prove to be a brave gentleman to others, as you have been a loving and trustworthy husband to me, you are my dearest jewel.” As she said this, she equipped him, and wished that no one else could see her, for tears were streaming down her cheeks. Abradatas, in the front of the army, looking like a gallant and brave captain, had a nature and demeanor that matched his appearance. Taking the reins of the chariot in his hands, he prepared to mount up. Then Panthea, with everyone else ordered to stand back, said: “Truly, Abradatas, if there are women who value their husbands more than their own lives, I believe you know I am one of them. So why should I need to state the obvious? My actions, I think, speak louder than words. Therefore, striving towards you, our mutual love is such that I would rather be buried alive with you, being a noble man, than live in shame. I regard you highly, and myself, not as the worst. We owe great thanks to Cyrus for his royal treatment of me, being a captive and chosen for him, not like a prisoner with shame, but free, without any stain on my honor: and he treated me as though I were his brother’s wife. After Araspas, who had custody of me, left him, I promised him that if he allowed me to send for you, you would be more loyal and devoted to him than Araspas ever was.” Abradatas, delighted by her sincere words, tenderly laid his hand on her head and, looking up to heaven, made this prayer: “O most mighty Jupiter, grant that I may prove myself a worthy husband for Panthea, and a friend deserving of Cyrus, who has treated us so kindly.” After saying this, he climbed into the chariot and took his seat, while the chariot driver secured the seat. With nothing left to embrace, Panthea kissed the chariot seat as he drove off. But Panthea secretly followed him until he turned and noticed her, to which he said: “Be of good comfort, Panthea. Adieu and farewell.” Then her eunuchs and women escorted her back to her own chariot, covering it with curtains.
Cyrus after the battaile and victorie, had against Cræsus, called diuerse of his men vnto him, and demaunded if they sawe Abradatas. “For I marueile (sayde hee) that he commeth not vnto me: for before the battell many times he appered in my presence.” Whereunto one of his men answered: “The cause is (sir) that he is not aliue, for hee was slayne in the battaile, as he inuaded the Ægiptians. The rest of his companie, except his owne souldiours, fled from him, when they sawe him incountre with the Ægiptian battaile. And then his wife Panthea tooke him vp, and laid him in her owne wagon; conueighing him to a certayne place, by the ryuer Pactolus. And (they say) that her Eunuches doe digge a graue to burie him. His wife sitteth vpon the ground, apparelled with those furnitures that he did weare, leaning her head vpon her knees.” With whiche wordes, Cyrus was driuen into greate sorowe, clapping him selfe vppon the thighe, and by and by mounted on his horse, and taking with him M. horsemen, he went to mourne for his frende Abradatas. Moreouer he commaunded Gadatas and Gobryas, to carrie the fairest apparell they coulde get, to his good and honest frende that was dead, and to assemble his oxen and horse, and all his beastes and cattell, whersoeuer they were, that they might be sacrificed to Abradatas. But when he sawe Panthea sitting vpon the ground and the dead corps lying by her, he wept for sorowe, and said: “Alake good woman, thou trustie and faithfull wife, doest thou thus depart and leaue vs alone.” And with those words he tooke her by the right hand, and therewithall was presented the dead hand of Abradatas, which the Ægiptians 67 in the battaile had cut of: whiche when Cyrus sawe, hee then lamented more then he did before: and Panthea cried out. Who comforted by Cyrus, kissed the dead hand, bestowing the same againe in place, so well as she coulde, and sayde: “Thus it is chaunced Cyrus, but why do you beholde the dead body? This death I knowe (quoth she) hee hath suffred for my sake, being none of the lest aduentures whiche he hath hazarded for me. And perchaunce Cyrus, he would haue done no lesse for you. For I exhorted him (like a foole as I was) to attempte this aduenture, to thintent he might haue shewed him selfe a frende of worthy remembraunce; whiche request he accepted, to pleasure you and me: he hath valiantly bestowed his life and is dead, and I vnhappy caitife that gaue him first counsayle, do sitte here aliue.” Cyrus for a certayn space holding his peace, powred forth aboundance of teares, and then said: “This gentleman (lady Panthea) hath a commendable ende, for he died in victorie; but take these furnitures, and adorne him there withall:” for Gobryas and Gadatas were come with riche and costly apparel. Then hee sayde: “Bee sure he shalbe honoured with greater thinges then these. A monument also, according to his worthinesse, shalbe erected vpon his graue. Sacrifice shalbe offered, meete for a man so valiant and puissaunt. Thou likewyse shalt not be left comfortles; for in consideration of thy great chastitie and vertue, I will honour thee and appointe a garrison to conuey thee into what place thou arte disposed to goe.” To whom Panthea sayd: “Be of good chere Cyrus, I wyll not hide from you the place, wherein I am determined to bestowe my selfe.” Cyrus hearing her say so, went away pitying the woman that was bereued of suche a husbande, and lamenting the man that had lefte suche a wife behinde him, and was like no more to see her againe. But Panthea commaunded her Eunuches to go out of the place, till she had satisfied her selfe with teares, and lamentations for her husbande: for she prepared to kil her selfe, requiring her nursse to tarie by her, and commaunded her, that when she was dead, she should shroude her and her husbande in one garment. The nursse perswaded the Ladie, with humble wordes and supplications, from her determined death, but she could not preuaile: and when she sawe that her 68 maistres tooke her woordes in ill parte, she satte downe and wepte. But Panthea with a sworde, whiche she had prepared long time for that purpose, killed her selfe, and laying her head vpon her husbandes breaste, she yelded from her chaste bodie, her innocent ghost. The Nursse seing that, cried out, and couered them both, as she was commaunded. Cyrus vnderstanding the woman’s facte, was amazed, and spedely went to see if she might be holpen. The Eunuches (being three in nomber) seing their maistres dead, they likewyse drewe out their swordes, and killed theimselues in the place, where they were commaunded to stande. In memorie of which facte, Cyrus erected a noble monument to the perpetuall prayse of chastitie and honest loue. Which (as Xenophon reporteth) remained to his daies, with their names ingrauen in Syrian letters.
Cyrus, after the battle and victory against Cræsus, called several of his men to him and asked if they had seen Abradatas. “I’m surprised,” he said, “that he hasn’t come to me; he used to appear in my presence often before the battle.” One of his men replied, “Sir, the reason is that he’s not alive; he was killed in the battle while he was attacking the Egyptians. The rest of his men, except for his own soldiers, fled when they saw him face the Egyptian army. Then his wife, Panthea, picked him up and laid him in her wagon, taking him to a certain place by the river Pactolus. They say her eunuchs are digging a grave to bury him. His wife sits on the ground, dressed in his clothes, leaning her head on her knees.” Upon hearing this, Cyrus was filled with great sorrow, striking his thigh, and soon mounted his horse. Taking with him a thousand horsemen, he went to mourn for his friend Abradatas. He also ordered Gadatas and Gobryas to bring the finest clothes they could find for his dear friend who had died, and to gather his oxen, horses, and all his livestock wherever they were, so they could be sacrificed for Abradatas. But when he saw Panthea sitting on the ground with the dead body beside her, he wept in grief and said, “Alas, good woman, you loyal and faithful wife, how can you leave us alone?” Saying this, he took her right hand, and with it came the dead hand of Abradatas that the Egyptians had cut off in the battle. When Cyrus saw this, he grieved even more than before, and Panthea cried out. Comforted by Cyrus, she kissed the dead hand and tried to place it back as best as she could, saying, “This has happened, Cyrus, but why do you look at the dead body? This death, I know, was suffered for my sake, being one of the many adventures he undertook for me. And perhaps, Cyrus, he would have done no less for you. I foolishly encouraged him to take on this adventure so that he could prove himself a friend worthy of remembrance; he accepted my request to please both you and me. He bravely gave his life and is dead, while I, the unfortunate wretch who offered the first advice, remain here alive.” Cyrus was silent for a moment, shedding a flood of tears, and then said, “This gentleman (Lady Panthea) has a commendable end, for he died in victory; but take those clothes and adorn him with them,” for Gobryas and Gadatas had arrived with rich and costly apparel. Then he said, “Rest assured he will be honored with greater things than these. A monument befitting his greatness shall be built over his grave. Sacrifices will be offered suitable for a man so brave and powerful. You too shall not be left without comfort; in recognition of your great loyalty and virtue, I will honor you and arrange a guard to accompany you wherever you wish to go.” To which Panthea replied, “Be of good cheer, Cyrus; I will not hide from you the place where I intend to go.” Hearing this, Cyrus left, feeling pity for the woman who had lost such a husband and mourning the man who had left such a wife behind, knowing he would never see her again. But Panthea commanded her eunuchs to leave the place until she had satisfied her grief with tears and laments for her husband; she prepared to end her life and asked her nurse to stay by her side, commanding that when she was dead, both she and her husband should be wrapped in the same garment. The nurse pleaded with her, using humble words and entreaties to deter her from her determined death, but could not persuade her. When she realized her mistress took her words poorly, she sat down and wept. Panthea, however, took a sword she had prepared long ago for this purpose and killed herself, laying her head on her husband’s chest as she breathed her innocent last breath. The nurse, seeing this, cried out and covered them both, as she had been instructed. Cyrus, upon understanding what the woman had done, was astonished and hurried to see if he could help. The three eunuchs, seeing their mistress dead, drew their swords and killed themselves at the spot where they had been commanded to stand. In memory of this act, Cyrus erected a grand monument in everlasting tribute to loyalty and true love. As Xenophon reports, it remained to his days, with their names engraved in Syrian letters.
THE TWELFTH NOUELL.
Abdolominus is from poore estate, aduaunced by Alexander the Great, through his honest life, to be kyng of Sydone.
Abdolominus comes from a poor background, but was elevated by Alexander the Great, thanks to his honest life, to become king of Sidon.
Alexander the mightie and noble Emperour, after he had subdued Darius the Persian kyng: at length came to Sydone, a famous citie, by reason of the auncient fame of the first founders. The same citie was vnder the gouernement of Strato, and mainteined by the puissaunce of Darius, who yelding more by force of the people, then by free wil, was thought vnworthy to raigne and rule there. Alexander at the request of his frende Ephestion, willed him to appointe one to be king, whom the citizens should thinke moste worthy of that state. After profers of Ephestion to diuers of the yonge gentlemen of that citie, and refusall made of their partes, they alledged that none ought to enioy the dignitie of their king, but such as were descended of the royall bloud. Thinking none to be more meete for that state then one Abdolominus, who being of the royall race, for pouertie was inforced to inhabite a litle cotage without the citie. His good life was the cause of his pouertie, as it is to many other: and labouring in his daily trauell, vnderstoode not the brute of the warre that troubled all Asia. Ephestion and the yonge gentlemen repaired vnto him with garmentes to garnishe him like a king, and founde him making cleane his garden, whome they saluted, and saide: “You must exchaunge your homelie clothes with these riche robes, wherewith wee here present you. Washe your bodie that nowe is foule and vncleane, take vppon you the courage of a kyng, and in this state (wherof you be worthy) expresse the same sobrietie and continencie you doe presently vse. And when you sitte in your regall seate, vsing the authoritie of life and death ouer your subiectes, do in no wise forget the fortune, wherin you were before you were made king, ne yet for what purpose you did receiue it.” The matter semed to Abdolominus like a dreame, and demaunded of theim, if their wittes were sounde, that did deride him in 70 that sorte. But when he sawe them bynde by othe their doynges to bee of trouthe, he washed him self, and taking the garment, which was purple and golde, went with them into the place. The fame was diuersly bruted of this facte: some fauoured the cause, and some did froune against it. But suche as were riche, did reproue his pouertie and base estate, to those that were neare aboute Alexander, which made the kynge to sende for him. And when he had long beholden his manner and order sayd: “Your personage doth not degenerate from the fame of your progenitors, but I would fayne knowe, howe pacient you were in the tyme of your pouertie.” “I would to God (quoth Abdolominus) I could beare my prosperitie in lyke case now I am kyng. These handes did get that I desired. And hauing nothing, I lacked nothing.” Whiche woordes made Alexander conceiue a good opinion of hym, to whome he restored the riches of the kyng before, and diuers other thinges, taken awaye by the Persians.
Alex, the mighty and noble Emperor, after he had defeated Darius the Persian king, finally came to Sidon, a famous city known for the ancient legacy of its founders. The city was under the leadership of Strato and supported by Darius’s power, who, yielding more to the force of the people than to their free will, was regarded as unworthy to rule there. At the request of his friend Ephestion, Alexander asked him to choose someone to be king, someone the citizens would consider deserving of that position. After Ephestion made offers to several young noblemen of the city and they all refused, they claimed that only someone of royal blood should hold the dignity of their king. They believed no one was more suitable for that role than one Abdolominus, who, being of noble lineage, had been forced by poverty to live in a small cottage outside the city. His virtuous life was the reason for his poverty, as it is for many others; while he worked hard every day, he remained unaware of the war that troubled all of Asia. Ephestion and the young nobles went to him with fine clothes to dress him like a king and found him cleaning his garden. They greeted him and said, “You must swap your humble clothes for these luxurious robes we present to you. Wash your body, which is now dirty and unclean, embrace the courage of a king, and in this position, which you deserve, maintain the same self-discipline and restraint you currently practice. And when you sit on your royal throne, exercising the power of life and death over your subjects, do not forget the circumstances in which you found yourself before you became king or the purpose for which you received this duty.” ” Abdolominus thought the situation seemed like a dream and questioned whether they were in their right minds to mock him in such a way. But when he saw them swearing that their intentions were genuine, he washed himself and, taking the purple and gold robe, went with them to the palace. The news of this event spread in various ways: some supported the decision, while others opposed it. However, those who were wealthy criticized his poverty and low status to those close to Alexander, which prompted the king to summon him. After observing Abdolominus's mannerisms and conduct for some time, he said, “Your appearance does not dishonor the legacy of your ancestors, but I would like to know how patient you were during your time of poverty.” Abdolominus replied, “I wish to God I could show the same patience in prosperity now that I am king. These hands earned what I desired. And with nothing, I lacked nothing.” These words gave Alexander a favorable impression of him, and he restored to him the wealth that had belonged to the previous king, along with various other items taken by the Persians.
THE THIRTEENTH NOUELL.
The oration of the Scythian Ambassadours to Alexander the great, reprouing his ambicion, and desire of Empire.
The speech of the Scythian Ambassadors to Alexander the Great, criticizing his ambition and desire for power.
Tvllie in the firste booke of his Offices, saieth, that very miserable, is ambicion and desire of honour: and that moste men, whiche be giuen to cupiditie of gouernement, honor and glorie, bee forgetfull of Iustice. The truthe of whiche graue wordes, vttred by a Prince of eloquence, the rude and barbarous Ambassadours of Scythia, in plaine and homelie talke, boldly did pronounce to king Alexander (surnamed Magnus) when hee was about to inuade their countrie. For when he had within three dayes finished twelue thousand boates, to transporte his armie ouer the famous ryuer of Tanais, (whiche deuideth Asia from Europa) against the poore Scythians, twenty Ambassadours of the Scythians came to Alexanders campe to speake with hym, to proue if they coulde by woordes withdrawe his entended purpose: Before whome when they were placed, the eldest of them spake these wordes.
Cicero in the first book of his Offices says that ambition and the desire for honor are very miserable: and that most men, who are obsessed with the pursuit of power, honor, and glory, forget about justice. The truth of these serious words, spoken by a master of eloquence, was boldly pronounced in simple and direct language by the rough and uncultured ambassadors of Scythia to King Alexander (known as the Great) when he was about to invade their country. After he had finished building twelve thousand boats in three days to transport his army across the famous river Tanais, which divides Asia from Europe, to confront the poor Scythians, twenty ambassadors from Scythia came to Alexander's camp to speak with him, hoping to persuade him to change his intended course. When they were assembled before him, the eldest among them spoke these words.
“If the Goddes had giuen thee a bodie according to the immoderate desyre of thy mynde, the whole worlde coulde not be able to holde thee. With one of thy handes thou wouldest touche the Oriente, and with thy other hande the Occidente. And when thou haste gotten that, thou wylt desyre to knowe, where the brightnesse of the Diuine Maiestie is placed. Thus thou couetest after the thing, thou art not able to receyue. Out of Europa thou marchest into Asia, and out of Asia thou passest into Europa. Afterwardes, if thou doest vanquishe all mankynde, thou must make warre with woodes and Snowes, with Ryuers and wylde beastes. What? doest thou not knowe, that great trees growe long, and yet be rooted out of the grounde in a moment? He is a foole that looketh after the fruite, and doeth not measure the height of the tree wheron it groweth. Take hede lest whyle thou doest contende to clymme to the toppe, thou fallest downe with the bowes whiche thou doest imbrace. The lion also sometyme is made the foode of the smalest byrdes: and rust consumeth iron. There is 72 nothing so firme, that is not in perill of the weake. What haue we to doe with thee? We neuer touched thy lande. What thou arte, and from whence thou commest, is it not lawefull for vs to bee ignoraunte, that liue in the waste wooddes? Wee can not be subiecte to any man, and wee desyre not to rule. Wee haue certaine giftes peculiar vnto vs, bicause thou shalt not be ignoraunte of the state of our nacion: the yoke of Oxen, the Plough, the Darte, and the Bowl: those things we vse, both with our frends and against our enemies. Vnto our frendes wee giue the fruictes, gotten with the labour of our Oxen. And with them in our Bowle, we sacrifice wine to the Goddes. Our enemies we strike with the Darte a farre of, and with the Speare nere at hande. After that sorte in tyme paste, wee ouercame the kyng of Scythia, and afterwardes the kyng of Media and Persia, and the waye was open vnto vs into Ægipt. But thou whiche doest boaste, that thou art come to persecute theues, art the common thefe of all nacions, whereunto thou makest thy repayre. The countrie of Lidia thou haste taken. Thou haste enioyed Syria. Thou doest possesse Persia, and the Bactrianes bee vnder thy power. Thou doest goe into India, and nowe thou extendest thy vnstable and gredie handes vppon our cattell. What neede haste thou of those ryches, whiche doe make thee so hungrie? Thou art the first of all men whiche with sacietie hast gotten famine, that the more thou hast, the more gredely thou couetest after thinges thou hast not. Doest thou not remember how long thou hast sticked about Bactria? And whiles thou goest about to bring them in subiection, the Sogdians begin to reuolte. Thus warre doth grow vnto thee of thy victorie. For be thou neuer so great, and puissant ouer other, yet there be none that can indure to be gouerned by straungers. Passe nowe Tanais, thou shalt perceiue what breadth it beareth, and yet thou shalt neuer ouertake the Scythians, whose pouertie is swifter then the armie, which carieth the spoyle of so many nacions. For when thou shalt thinke vs to be farre of, thou shalt see vs within thy campe, with like swiftnesse we folowe and flee awaye. I heare that our desertes and voide places, be mocked by the Greeke prouerbes, we couet rather those desertes and places vnhabited, then cities and plentifull soyles. Therefore holde fast thy fortune, for 73 she is tickle and can not be holden against her will. Folow thou the counsaile that is good, specially whyles the time doth serue. Bridle thy felicitie, and thou shalt rule it the better. Our countriemen say, that Fortune is without feete, and that she hath onely handes and wynges, but when she stretcheth forth her hand, shee will not suffer her winges to be touched. Finally, if thou be a God thou oughtest to geue benefites to mortall men, and not to take away the commodities they haue already: but if thou bee a man, consider that thou art alway the same that thou arte. It is a foolishe part to remember those things, and to forget thy selfe. Those people that fele not thy warres, thou maiest use as thy frendes. For frendship is most firme and stable emonges equall, and those seeme to be equall that haue not vsed force and violence emonges them selues. Beware thou take them not for thy frendes whome thou doest subdue, and bring in obedience. There is no frendship betwene the maister and the seruaunt, and in peace the lawe of Armes is obserued. Beleue not that the Scythians doe bynde frendship with any othe: for they make their othe by obseruation of faith. The maner of the Greekes is to iustifie their factes, by inuocation of their Goddes to witnesse: but wee know, that Religion consisteth in faith her self. They which do not reuerence to men, do begile the Goddes. Thou hast no nede of him to be thy frende of whose frendship thou standest in doubt. Thou hast vs as kepers of Asia and Europa: for we should touche the countrie of Bactria, were it not for Tanais, whiche deuideth vs. And beyonde Tanais all is ours so farre as Thracia, and the fame is that Thracia bordreth vppon Macedonia: wee being neighbours, to bothe thy dominions, chose nowe whether thou wylte haue vs frendes or foes.” These were the woordes of the Scythians. Howe be it these homelie and plaine aduertisementes, could not diuerte kyng Alexander from his intended enterpryse, and according to his desired successe, he ouercame them.
“If the goddess had given you a body according to the excessive desire of your mind, the whole world couldn’t contain you. With one hand, you would touch the East, and with the other, the West. And once you’ve achieved that, you’ll want to know where the brilliance of the Divine Majesty resides. Thus, you covet what you cannot receive. You march from Europe into Asia, and from Asia back into Europe. Then, if you defeat all mankind, you must wage war against woods and snow, rivers and wild beasts. What? Don’t you realize that great trees take a long time to grow but can be uprooted in an instant? It’s foolish to chase after fruit without considering the height of the tree it grows on. Be careful, lest in your climb to the top, you fall down with the branches you try to embrace. Even a lion can sometimes be the prey of small birds, and rust can consume iron. There is nothing so strong that it is not in danger from the weak. What have we to do with you? We have never touched your land. What you are and where you come from, is it not lawful for us, living in these wild woods, to be ignorant? We cannot be subject to any man, and we do not desire to rule. We have certain gifts unique to us, so you won't be ignorant of the state of our nation: the yoke of oxen, the plow, the dart, and the bowl; these are things we use, both with our friends and against our enemies. To our friends, we give the fruits earned through the labor of our oxen. And with them in our bowl, we sacrifice wine to the gods. We strike our enemies with the dart from afar, and with the spear when they are close. In this way, in times past, we overcame the king of Scythia, and later the king of Media and Persia, and the path was opened for us into Egypt. But you, who boast that you have come to punish thieves, are the common thief of all nations to which you make your way. You have taken the land of Lydia. You have enjoyed Syria. You possess Persia, and the Bactrians are under your control. You go into India, and now you extend your unstable and greedy hands upon our cattle. What need do you have for those riches that make you so hungry? You are the first of all men who, with satisfaction, have achieved famine— the more you have, the more greedily you long for what you do not have. Do you not remember how long you have been stuck around Bactria? While you try to bring them under submission, the Sogdians begin to revolt. Thus, war grows from your victory. For however great and powerful you are over others, there are none who can endure being governed by strangers. Cross now the Tanais, and you will notice its width, yet you will never catch the Scythians, whose poverty is swifter than the army carrying the spoils of so many nations. For when you think us far away, you will see us within your camp; with equal swiftness, we follow you and flee away. I hear that our deserts and empty places are ridiculed by Greek proverbs; we prefer those deserts and uninhabited places to cities and fertile soils. Therefore, hold tightly to your fortune, for she is fickle and cannot be held against her will. Follow the advice that is good, especially while the time serves you. Control your good fortune, and you will manage it better. Our countrymen say that Fortune has no feet, and only hands and wings, but when she stretches forth her hand, she does not allow her wings to be touched. Finally, if you are a god, you ought to give benefits to mortals, not take away the goods they already have; but if you are a man, remember that you are always the same as you are. It’s foolish to dwell on those things and forget yourself. Those people who do not feel your wars, you may consider as your friends. For friendship is most firm and stable among equals, and those seem to be equals who have not used force and violence among themselves. Be careful not to consider as your friends those you conquer and bring into submission. There is no friendship between master and servant, and in peace, the law of arms is observed. Don’t believe that the Scythians bind friendship with any oath; they swear their oaths by observing faith. The Greeks justify their actions by invoking their gods as witnesses, but we know that religion consists in faith itself. Those who do not show reverence to men deceive the gods. You have no need of anyone to be your friend whose friendship you doubt. You have us as guardians of Asia and Europe, for we would touch the land of Bactria, were it not for the Tanais, which divides us. And beyond the Tanais, all is ours as far as Thrace, and the rumor is that Thrace borders on Macedonia; we being neighbors to both your dominions, choose now whether you want us as friends or foes.” These were the words of the Scythians. However, these simple and plain warnings could not deter King Alexander from his intended enterprise, and according to his desired success, he overcame them.
THE FOURTEENTH NOUELL.
The woordes of Metellus of mariage, and wiuing with the prayse and dispraise of the same.
The words of Metellus about marriage, and living with the praise and criticism of it.
In the presence of many learned men of Rome, Metellus surnamed Numidicus, for his victories and triumphe ouer Iugurtha king of Numidia, a countrie in Africa, in the tyme of his office of Censor, made an Oration before the Romain people, of mariage of wyues, vppon Occasion that hee hymselfe, by diuers of his frendes, was perswaded to that state. Against whiche hee used manye vehemente inuectiues and termes, whiche Aulus Gellius omitteth, for that hee was loth to offend (when report therof should be bruted) the nice eares, and louing mindes of the matrones, and dames of that citie: knowing well that both they, and their successours, would not forget reprochefullie to combate with his spirite and shadowe, when they were not able (being preuented by earthly vermine) by anye meanes to impeche his corps, in tombe fast closed and buried. But when I do remember, howe the same was said, and also noysed emongs a bande of heathen soules, whose mindes for want of godly skill, could not disgest such hainous blastes, as sounded in a time prophane, wherin no sacred voyce of christian lore was breathed vnto redemed flocke: I call to mynde that now I may in time of grace, right frankely write, without offence to humble state of matrone kinde, in these our daies, inspired with spirit of humble hart, whose eares no taunting talke can griue: wherefore with blushles face, and vnstaied penne, I meane the woordes, of that well learned wighte, in open audience to pronounce, and by this booke, to suche elected sort for to declame: but loth for to offende, as one well bet in mariage schole, I must, a pœna & culpa, forgiuenes craue: lest some shreude heathen dame (for other doubt I not) doe from her graue Al’ Arme crie out: and then to fight with buried ghostes: 75 my manhode will not serue, but by and by with posting legges, and flying fast I will retire. But doubtes here be brought foorth, where doubting cause is none. Gellius therfore in persone of the vnmaried knight, in wordes right fewe, this sentence of the maried state, doth vtter and proclayme.
In front of many educated men of Rome, Metellus, known as Numidicus for his victories and triumph over Jugurtha, the king of Numidia in Africa, gave a speech to the Roman people about marriage. This was prompted by advice from several of his friends who encouraged him to consider marriage himself. In response, he used many strong criticisms and terms, which Aulus Gellius leaves out because he didn't want to offend the delicate ears and loving hearts of the women of the city. He understood that they and their descendants would not forget to reproachfully confront his spirit and memory, especially since they couldn't challenge his physical body, which was securely buried. However, when I recall how this was discussed among a group of pagan souls, whose minds lacked the spiritual wisdom to handle such harsh remarks without any sacred Christian guidance, I remember that now, in this time of grace, I can write openly and frankly without offending the gentle nature of women in our day, inspired by a humble spirit—whose ears are not troubled by mocking words. Therefore, with an unembarrassed face and steady hand, I intend to express the words of that well-educated man in public, and through this book, to declare them to chosen individuals. Nevertheless, not wanting to offend and with a proper understanding of marriage, I must, a pœna & culpa, ask for forgiveness: lest some cunning pagan woman (I fear nothing else) cries out from her grave: Al’ Arme, and then I would have to fight with buried ghosts. 75 I know my bravery will not hold, and I will quickly retreat with hasty steps. Yet doubts are raised where there is no reason for doubt. Gellius, therefore, through the voice of the unmarried knight, shares and declares this sentiment about the married state with very few words.
“O ye Romaines, if we could be without wiues, then all we should wante that griefe. But bicause nature hath so prouided, that neither with them we can liue and passe our time conueniently, nor yet by any meanes be without them satisfied, we ought rather to make preparation, for perpetuall health, then for short pleasure.” With which wordes, diuers of the Romaines were displeased, and founde fault with Metellus who (for that he went about, to exhorte the people to mariage) ought not by any meanes, to confesse any griefes and incommodities to be in the same. But in these wordes he seemed rather to disswade and terrefie, then to perswade and incourage; but contrarely he ought, rather to haue affirmed no sorowes and perplexities, to be in wedlocke, and if perchaunce any chaunced to be, they were but light, and easie to be borne and suffered, which for greater commodities and pleasures, might full well be forgotten, and those that were, happed not through natures vice, but by the default and ill behauiour of some maried folke. Howbeit, Titus Castritius supposed that Metellus spake well and worthely. “For (said he) a Censor ought to speake like a Censor, a Rhetorician like one that professed Rhetorike: it is giuen to Rhetoricians, to vse false sentences, bolde, subtile and captious: if so be, they be likely, and may by any action moue the hartes of men.” Moreouer he sayde, “that it was a shame for a Rhetorician, in an euil matter, to leaue out any thing vntouched.” “But truely Metellus (quoth he) is a holy man indued with grauitie and fidelitie, and that it was not decent for so honorable a personage, as he was, to speake any thing to the Romaine people, but that hee thought to be true, and likely to seme true to all men: specially sithe he intreated of such a matter, as by daily knowledge, common experience, and frequented vse of life, might well be comprehended and knowen. Therfore in geuing to vnderstande, a griefe notorious to al men, 76 he hath deserued by that oration, a fame of a diligent and faithfull man, bicause (to be short) he easely and redely perswaded, that a citie can not prosper and continue, without the vse of Matrimonie, which of all things is most assured and true.” This Titus Castritius was a teacher of Rhetorike in Rome, and in the same citie for declamation and teaching, was in greatest reputacion: a man of right great grauitie and authoritie: and of the Emperour Adrian, for his vertue and learning well estemed.
"O you Romans, if we could live without wives, then we would be free from that grief. But because nature has arranged it so that we can neither live comfortably with them nor be satisfied without them, we should focus on preparing for lasting happiness rather than fleeting pleasure." With these words, several Romans were unhappy and criticized Metellus, who, because he was urging people to marry, shouldn’t have acknowledged any griefs or inconveniences in marriage. But in those words, he seemed more to discourage and frighten rather than to encourage. He should have insisted that there are no sorrows or troubles in marriage, and if any do occur, they are minor and easy to endure, easily forgotten for the greater benefits and joys that come with marriage, which arise not from nature’s flaws but from the faults and poor behavior of some married people. However, Titus Castritius believed that Metellus spoke well and worthily. "For," he said, "a censor should speak like a censor, and a rhetorician like one dedicated to rhetoric: it is the privilege of rhetoricians to use bold, subtle, and clever falsehoods if they can move people’s hearts with their actions." Furthermore, he said, "it is shameful for a rhetorician not to address any issue in an unfavorable matter." "But truly Metellus," he remarked, "is a holy man endowed with dignity and fidelity, and it is not fitting for such an honorable person as he is to speak anything to the Roman people except what he believes to be true, and what seems likely to be true to everyone: especially since he addresses a matter that can be easily understood and known from daily knowledge, common experience, and frequent life practice. Therefore, in conveying a well-known grievance to all people, he has earned a reputation of diligence and faithfulness by that speech, because, to be brief, he easily and readily persuaded that a city cannot thrive and endure without the practice of marriage, which is the most certain and true thing of all." This Titus Castritius was a teacher of rhetoric in Rome, and in that city, he held the highest reputation for his declamation and teaching, a man of great dignity and authority, highly esteemed by Emperor Hadrian for his virtue and learning.
THE FIFTEENTH NOUELL.
Of Lais and Demosthenes.
Of Lais and Demosthenes.
Phocion a peripatetique Philosopher, in a booke which he made, intituled Cornucopia, writeth this historie of Demosthenes and Lais the harlot of Corinthe, saying: that Lais by reason of her excellent beautie, and pleasaunt fauour, demaunded for the vse of her body, a great somme of money: vnto whom was resorte of all the ryche men of Græcia: but she woulde not admitte them to that facte, except they would first giue vnto her, her demaunde. The quantitie of whiche somme was exceading greate, whereof rose the prouerbe. Non cuiuis homini contingit, adire Corinthum.
Phocion, a wandering philosopher, wrote in a book called Cornucopia about the story of Demosthenes and Lais, the prostitute from Corinth. He said that Lais, due to her incredible beauty and charming demeanor, asked for a large sum of money for her services. Many wealthy men from Greece sought her out, but she wouldn't let them have their way unless they first met her price. The amount she demanded was extremely high, which gave rise to the saying: Non cuiuis homini contingit, adire Corinthum.
Not euery man can well attaine
Not every man can easily achieve
To goe to Corinthe towne.
To go to Corinth.
He that traueiled to Corinthe to Lais, not able to giue and bestowe, that somme vpon her went in vaine. To this woman that noble Philosopher Demosthenes secretly repayred, praying her to giue him leaue: but shee demaunding of him tenne thousand Denarios (amounting very nere to three hundred pounde of our money) astonied at the wantonnesse of the woman, and discouraged with the greatnesse of the somme, retourned backe again, saying: I come not to buye repentaunce so dere.
He who traveled to Corinth for Lais, unable to give and spend, found that sum on her was wasted. This woman attracted the noble philosopher Demosthenes, who secretly approached her, asking for permission. However, she demanded ten thousand Denarii (which is nearly three hundred pounds in our currency). Astonished by her boldness and discouraged by the high amount, he turned back, saying: I did not come to buy regret so dearly.
THE SIXTEENTH NOUELL.
C. Fabritius and Æmillius Consuls of Rome, beyng promised that king Pyrrhus for a somme of money should be slaine (which was a notable enemie to the Romaine state) aduertised Pyrrhus thereof by letters, and of other notable thinges doen by the same Fabritius.
C. Fabritius and Æmilius, Consuls of Rome, after being promised that King Pyrrhus would be killed for a sum of money (who was a significant enemy to the Roman state), informed Pyrrhus about it through letters, along with other remarkable things done by Fabritius.
When Pyrrhus king of Epirus inferred warres vpon the Romaynes and was come into Italie, and there had prosperously fought, and atchieued the victory of two or three battailes, wherby the Romanes were brought to great distresse and most part of Italie had reuolted: one Timochares Ambraciensis, a frend of king Pyrrhus, secretely repaired to C. Fabritius then Consul, and told him, if he would giue him a reward, he would poyson the kinge, which hee said, he mighte easely bringe to passe because his sonnes, at table waited vpon king Pyrrhus cuppe. Hereof Fabritius wrote to the Senate requiring their aduise. The Senate depeached Ambassadours to the king commaunding them to saye nothing of Timochares, but to giue the kinge warning circumspectly to loke wel about him, to preuent such treason, as by those that were nerest him might be attempted. Thus much is written in the historie of Valerius Antiates. But Quadrigarius in the third booke, writeth that it was one Nicias and not Timochares, that went to Fabritius, and that those Ambassadours were not sente by the Senate, but by the Consuls, and that the kinge rendred praise and thanckes to the Romaines, restoring to them, all the prisoners, which he had taken. The Consuls that time were C. Fabritius and Æmilius. The tenour of which letters then sent to king Pyrrhus, the said Cl. Quadrigarius affirmeth to be this. “The Romaine Consuls send salutations to king Pyrrhus. We for thine iniuries, displeasures and wronges iustlie offended, for the valiaunte stomackes remayninge in vs, do studie and indeuour like enemies, to continue warres vpon thee: but it seemeth good vnto vs for the loue we beare to our faith, and for common example, to wishe thee well to do, whom by armes we be not able to vanquishe. There came vnto vs one Nicias, thy familiar frende, to 79 demaunde rewarde of vs, if secretely he did kill thee: whiche we vtterlye denied, and required him for that fact, to loke for no reward at our hands. Whereupon wee thought good to giue thee aduertisement hereof, lest if any such thing did chaunce, the cities should not thincke that we were priuie to the fact: for wee delite not to fight with giftes, rewards and treason.--Thou in the meane time, except thou take heede, art like to die: Farewel.” This was the aunciente order amonges the Romaines, that neuer were pleased by the cowardly ouerthrow of other, to winne fame and glorye. And because I rede an other excellente historie of the same Fabritius, I haue thought good to adde the same to this Nouell. When peace was concluded, betwene the Romaines and the Samnites, the Ambassadours of the Samnites repaired vppon a time to this Fabritius, who after they had remembred vnto him diuers and sundrie thinges, frendlye done in their behalfe, they offered vnto him for reward, a great summe of money, intreating him to receiue the same: which the Samnites did (as the report was) because they sawe, that he wanted many thinges, for the furniture of his house and maintenaunce, thinking the same also not to be sufficiently decente for his estate and calling: which Fabritius perceyuing, with his bare handes, hee touched his eares and eyes, and then strooked his face downeward, his noase, his mouth and throate, and the rest of his bodie, to the bottome of his bealie, answearing the Ambassadours in this wise. “That whiles hee was able to rule and gouerne all those members which he touched, he was sure to lacke nothing: wherefore (quoth he) these members, which be profitable and necessarye for my vse, will not suffer mee to receiue this moneye, whereof they knowe I haue no neede.” Hereby reprehending the foolish indeuour of these Samnites, in offring to him a bribe, which hee was neur accustomed to take for any cause, what soeuer he accomplished. Who stil shewed himselfe a man sincere and incorrupt.
When King Pyrrhus of Epirus declared war on the Romans and came to Italy, he successfully fought and won two or three battles, causing great distress among the Romans and a large part of Italy to rebel. One Timochares of Ambracia, a friend of King Pyrrhus, secretly went to C. Fabritius, then the consul, and told him that if he was rewarded, he would poison the king. He claimed he could easily do it because his sons served King Pyrrhus at the table. Fabritius wrote to the Senate asking for their advice. The Senate sent ambassadors to the king, instructing them not to mention Timochares but to cautiously warn him to be on guard against possible treachery from those closest to him. This is recorded in the history of Valerius Antiates. However, Quadrigarius in the third book states that it was one Nicias, not Timochares, who approached Fabritius, and that the ambassadors were sent by the consuls, not the Senate. The king expressed his gratitude to the Romans by returning all the prisoners he had taken. The consuls at that time were C. Fabritius and Æmilius. The contents of the letters sent to King Pyrrhus, as stated by Cl. Quadrigarius, were as follows: “The Roman consuls send greetings to King Pyrrhus. We, having been justifiably offended by your injuries and wrongs, have the spirit to continue waging war against you as enemies. However, it seems right to us, for the love we have for our honor and for a shared example, to wish you well since we cannot conquer you by arms. A man named Nicias, your close friend, came to request a reward from us if he secretly killed you, which we completely rejected, asking him not to expect any reward from us for such an act. Therefore, we thought it wise to inform you of this, lest if such a thing were to happen, the cities might think we were complicit in it, for we do not take delight in winning through gifts, rewards, or treachery. You, in the meantime, unless you take care, are in danger of dying. Farewell.” This was the ancient custom among the Romans, who were never pleased to gain fame and glory through the cowardly downfall of others. And because I read another excellent story about Fabritius, I thought it fitting to add it to this account. When peace was established between the Romans and the Samnites, the Samnite ambassadors once visited Fabritius. After reminding him of various friendly deeds done for them, they offered him a large sum of money as a reward, urging him to accept it. The Samnites did this (as reported) because they saw he lacked many things for his home and personal upkeep, thinking that his situation was not sufficiently fitting for his status. Fabritius, perceiving this, touched his ears and eyes with his bare hands, then stroked his face downward, his nose, mouth, throat, and the rest of his body to the bottom of his belly, responding to the ambassadors in this way: “As long as I am able to govern all these parts of my body that I have touched, I will lack nothing. Therefore,” he said, “these body parts, which are useful and necessary for my needs, will not allow me to accept this money, of which I have no need.” Thus, he criticized the foolish attempt of the Samnites to offer him a bribe, something he was never accustomed to accepting for any reason, no matter what he achieved. He always showed himself to be a sincere and incorruptible man.
THE SEUENTEENTH NOUELL.
A Scholemaister traiterously rendring the noble mens sonnes of Faleria to the hands of Camillus, was wel acquited and rewarded for his paines and labour.
A schoolmaster treacherously handing over the noble sons of Faleria to Camillus was well compensated and rewarded for his efforts and hard work.
Warres were addressed by the Romaines against the Falisques (a people of Italye, the ruines of the chiefe citie wherof do yet appeare sixe miles from Viterba) and an armye conscribed and sent thether, vnder the conduct of Furius Camillus. The Falisques vppon the approch of the Romaines, were constrayned to retire within their citie, thinking the same to be their most assured refuge. And they to continue their siege, incamped a mile from the citie, and determined throughly to besiege it, which in deede had like to haue beene of verye long continuance except fortune had giuen to the Romaine Captaine, for his tried and well approued valiaunce, victorie in time, which chaunced after this maner. It was a custome amonges the Falisques (obserued also in these oure dayes) to haue their children instructed by one Scholemaister, and him also to vse for their guide and companion in all games and pastimes. Amonges theym there was a Scholemaister, which taughte noble mennes sonnes, who in the time of peace, teachinge those children, and vsinge for theyr exercise to leade them abroade in the fieldes, kepte still that order, for all the warres before the gates, sometime wyth shorte walkes, sometime wyth longer for their disportes: and continuinge varietie of talke wyth his schollers longer then he was wont to do, at length he brought them to the Romaine campe, euen to the tent of Camillus, hoping thereby (by like) to haue beene well welcomed, and liberally rewarded: saying to Camillus, as detestable woords as the facte was traiterous and wicked: which was in effect--“That he was come with that present vnto him, to yelde those children into his hands whose parents were the principall of that Citie: and therby knew for certainty that the citie would surrender.” Camillus seeing that 81 fact, and hearing those words, said vnto him. “Thou arte not come (villane) to a people and Captaine, with this thy trayterous offer, semblable to thy selfe. We haue no aliaunce with the Falisques confirmed by compacte or humaine promise, but amitie wherunto nature doth bind vs, is and shall be for euermore betweene vs. Warre so well as peace, hath his law and right: which we haue learned to obserue with no lesse Justice, then constancie. We make no warre against boies, whom wee spare, whensoeuer we inuade or take any cities: but against armed men we fight, yea, and against such, as without offence, or prouocation of our partes, assailed the Romaines campe at the siege of the Veiens. Thou hast vanquished them so much as lyeth in thee, with a new kinde of victorie atchieued by treason: but I will subdue them by pollicie of the Romaines, by vertue, indeuour and armes, euen as I did the Veiens.” When he had spoken those wordes, he caused this trayterous scholemaister to be striped starke naked, and binding his handes behinde him, deliuered him to the children, with roddes in their handes, to whippe him home to the citie. When hee was in this order retourned, the people of the citie flocked together to see this sight. Then the magistrates assembled in counsaile, vpon this straunge occasion, and where before they were incensed with maruailous wrath and furie, rather desirous of vtter ouerthrow, then peace. Now their mindes were quite altered, and peace vniuersally demaunded. The fidelitie of the Romaines, and iustice of Camillus, both in Forum and Court was celebrated, and by general conformitie, Ambassadours were sente into the campe to Camillus, and from thence by Camillus sufferance, to the Senate of Rome, of purpose to yelde themselues to their gouernment, who being brought before the Senate spake these woordes. “Wee (fathers conscripte) vanquished by you and your Captaine, (where at neither God nor man oughte to be offended) haue yelded our selues to you, thinking that wee shall liue more happie, and better contented vnder your gouernmente, then by our owne lawes and liberties: a thing that maketh the victor more glorious and praise worthie, then anye other. By the successe of these warres, two holsome examples bee manifested to mankinde. Ye doe preferre fayth in warres before certaine victorie, and we, induced 82 by that faith, haue of our owne accord, presented victorie unto you. We be at your commaundement: sende hither commissioners, to receiue our weapons, our pledges and our citie, which standeth with the gates wide open. We hope well, that neither ye shall haue occasion to be miscontented with oure fidelitie, nor wee offended with your gouernment and Empyre.” For which facte greate thankes were attributed to Camillus, both by the Falisques and Romaynes.
Warriors were addressed by the Romans against the Falisci (a people of Italy, the ruins of their main city are still visible six miles from Viterbo) and an army was conscripted and sent there under the command of Furius Camillus. The Falisci, upon the approach of the Romans, were forced to retreat within their city, believing it to be their safest refuge. To continue their siege, they camped a mile from the city and planned to thoroughly besiege it, which might have gone on for a very long time if fortune hadn't granted victory to the Roman captain, due to his proven and well-regarded valor, at just the right moment, which happened in this way. It was a custom among the Falisci (also observed in our day) to have their children educated by one schoolmaster, who also served as their guide and companion in all games and pastimes. Among them was a schoolmaster who taught noblemen’s sons, who, during peacetime, while instructing these children and taking them out into the fields for exercise, maintained that order, despite the wars at the gates, sometimes with short walks and sometimes longer for their enjoyment: and continuing a variety of conversation with his students longer than he was used to, he eventually brought them to the Roman camp, right to Camillus’s tent, hoping to be well received and generously rewarded: saying to Camillus, as detestable words as his act was treacherous and wicked: which was essentially—“That he had come with this gift to hand over these children into his care, whose parents were the leaders of that city: and thus he knew for certain that the city would surrender.” Camillus, seeing that fact and hearing those words, said to him, “You are not coming (scoundrel) to a people and captain with this treacherous offer, just like yourself. We have no alliance with the Falisci confirmed by contract or human promise, but the friendship that nature binds us to is and will always be between us. War, just like peace, has its laws and rights: which we have learned to uphold with as much justice as steadfastness. We make no war against boys, whom we spare whenever we invade or take any cities: but we fight against armed men, yes, and against those who, without offense or provocation from our side, attacked the Roman camp during the siege of the Veii. You have conquered them as much as lies within you, with a new kind of victory achieved through treason: but I will subdue them by the strategy of the Romans, through virtue, effort, and arms, just as I did the Veii.” After he spoke these words, he ordered this treacherous schoolmaster to be stripped completely naked, and binding his hands behind him, delivered him to the children, with rods in their hands, to whip him home to the city. When he was sent back in this state, the citizens gathered to see this spectacle. Then the magistrates assembled in council, and where before they were filled with incredible anger and fury, more eager for total destruction than peace, now their minds were completely changed, and peace was universally requested. The loyalty of the Romans and the justice of Camillus, both in the Forum and the Court, were celebrated, and by unanimous agreement, ambassadors were sent to the camp to Camillus, and from there, by Camillus's permission, to the Senate of Rome, with the intention of yielding themselves to their governance, who, when brought before the Senate, spoke these words. “We (fathers of the Senate) conquered by you and your captain, (which neither God nor man ought to be offended by) have submitted ourselves to you, believing that we will live happier and more content under your governance than under our own laws and liberties: a thing that makes the victor more glorious and worthy of praise than anything else. Through the outcome of these wars, two wholesome examples are shown to mankind. You prefer faith in warfare over certain victory, and we, led by that faith, have willingly offered victory to you. We are at your command: send here representatives to receive our weapons, our pledges, and our city, which stands with its gates wide open. We sincerely hope that neither you will find cause to be discontented with our loyalty, nor we with your governance and empire.” For this act, great thanks were given to Camillus, both by the Falisci and Romans.
Here appeared the face and true Image of that greate vertue, Justice, wherewith this noble man was truly affected. His noble nature was not able to abide any trayterous fact, done by vnnaturall Citizens, toward their owne countrie. No vngratitude of his owne countrie men, could withdrawe his nature from the zeale and loue he bare to his countrie. His condempnation by vnkinde Apuleius Saturninus the Tribune, for which he fledde to Ardea, could not let or impeach his magnanimitie from giuinge the Galles an ouerthrowe when they had sacked Rome, and sharpely besieged the Capitole: who in his absence (created Dictator,) by gathering together such Romaines as were fledde, vnwares set vpon the couetous Galles, as they were in controuersie for paimente of a golden summe of money, and thereby restored his countrie to libertie. Wherefore worthely might he be intitled, with the honourable name of a second Romulus. For as Romulus was the first builder and peopler of that citie, so was Camillus the vindicator and deliuerer of the same.
Here appeared the face and true essence of that great virtue, Justice, which this noble man was truly committed to. His noble nature couldn’t tolerate any treacherous acts committed by ungrateful citizens against their own country. No ingratitude from his fellow countrymen could shake his dedication and love for his homeland. His condemnation by the ungrateful Apuleius Saturninus, the Tribune, for which he fled to Ardea, couldn't diminish his greatness when he defeated the Gauls after they had sacked Rome and laid siege to the Capitol. During his absence (appointed Dictator), he gathered together the Romans who had fled and unexpectedly attacked the greedy Gauls, who were arguing over payment of a sum of gold, and in doing so, restored his country to freedom. Therefore, he rightly deserves the honorable title of a second Romulus. Just as Romulus was the first builder and populater of that city, so was Camillus the avenger and liberator of it.
THE EIGHTEENTH NOUELL.
The Historie of Papyrius Pratextatus.
The History of Papyrius Pratextatus.
The same historie is written by Cato, in an oration which he made to his souldiours against Galba, contayninge in effecte as foloweth. The Senatours of Rome vsed before this time, to enter into the Senate house with their sonnes, Prætextatis, that is, in long robes garded about the skirtes with purple silke. When the Senate debated of graue and waightie matters, they euer deferred the same till the next day, forbiddinge that those causes should not be published, before they were throughly decreed. The mother of this yong gentleman Papyrius, which had been with his father in the Senate house, asked of him, what the fathers had done in the Senate house that day? Papyrius aunswered, that in any wise, he ought not to tell the secretes of the same. The mother more desirous to know then she was before, went about by faire meanes, foule wordes and correction, to vnderstand the secretes of the Senate, and the cause why the same were kept so silente. Wherefore she more earnestlye endeuoured to learne the same of her sonne. The yong man by compulsion of his mother, toke occasion to inuent a pleasaunt and mery lie, in this wise. “Mother (quoth he) the Senate doth deliberate and consult, whether it be more commodious and profitable for the common wealthe, that one man should haue two wiues, or whether one wife shoulde haue two husbandes.” When the old Ladie heard this she was abashed, and in fearefull wise goeth to the other Ladies and matrones of Rome, tellinge them, where about their husbands did consult. The next day the women flocked together in great traines, and in lamentable wise repaired to the Senate, beseching them that one woman might rather be maried to two husbands, then two wiues to one man. The Senatours entring into the Court, marueyled what toyes were in the womens heads, to make that demaunde. The yong gentleman Papyrius stepped foorth, declaring how importunate 84 his mother was, to know whereuppon they consulted the day before, and therefore he deuised that fained tale, to pacifie her desire. The Senatours hearing and perceyuing his good and honeste disposition, greatly commended and extolled his fidelity and witte. Howbeit, they made a lawe that from that time forth, none of their sonnes should come into the house with their father, but onely Papyrius. Who afterwardes receiued the surname of Prætextatus, to honour and beautifie his name, for his notable wysedome in keeping secretes, and holding his peace, in the time of that youthly age.
The same story is told by Cato in a speech he made to his soldiers against Galba, summarizing things as follows. The senators of Rome used to enter the Senate house with their sons, dressed in togas, which are long robes edged with purple silk. When the Senate discussed serious matters, they always postponed decisions until the following day, prohibiting the public disclosure of those issues until they were thoroughly resolved. The mother of young Papyrius, who had been with his father in the Senate house, asked him what the senators had discussed that day. Papyrius replied that he definitely shouldn't reveal the secrets of the Senate. His mother, more eager to know than before, tried different approaches—kind words, harsh words, and even correction—to uncover the secrets of the Senate and why they were kept so quiet. Thus, she persistently sought to learn this from her son. Pressured by his mother, the young man decided to invent a funny and playful lie: “Mother,” he said, “the Senate is debating whether it is better for one man to have two wives or for one wife to have two husbands.” When the old lady heard this, she was shocked and, in a worried manner, went to the other women and matrons of Rome to tell them about what their husbands were deliberating. The next day, the women gathered together in large numbers and, in a mournful manner, went to the Senate, urging that one woman should rather be married to two husbands than two wives to one man. The senators entered the court, surprised by what nonsense the women had in their heads to make such a request. Young Papyrius stepped forward, explaining how insistent his mother was to know what they had discussed the day before, which is why he came up with that made-up story to satisfy her curiosity. Hearing and recognizing his good and honest nature, the senators greatly praised and admired his fidelity and cleverness. Nevertheless, they made a law that from that time on, none of their sons should enter the house with their fathers, except for Papyrius. He later received the surname Prætextatus to honor and beautify his name, for his remarkable wisdom in keeping secrets and remaining silent during his youthful years.
THE NINETEENTH NOUELL.
How Plutarche did beate his man, and of pretie talke touching signes of anger.
How Plutarch beat his servant, and some interesting talk about signs of anger.
Avlus Gellius demaunding of the Philosopher Taurus, whether a wise man could be angrie? Taurus after he had disputed much of that affection, turned to Gellius and said: “This is mine opinion of the angrie man: but what the Philosopher Plutarche iudgeth thereof, I thincke it not a misse to tell thee. Plutarche had a bondman which was an vnthrift and wicked verlet, but geuen to learning and to disputation of Philosophie, whom vppon a time he did beate, making him to put of his coate, and to be whipped, for what offence I know not: he began to beate him: the fellow cryed out, that he had deserued no cause, why he ought to be so beaten. At length in continuance of his beating, he gaue ouer his crying complaintes, and began to vtter earneste and serious woordes, saying. ‘It was not Plutarche the Philosopher, that beate him: (he said) it was a shame for Plutarche to be angrie, and how he had heard him many times dispute of that vice of anger, and yet he had written a goodly booke thereof:’ with manye such words. ‘Why, (quoth Plutarche, with gentle and quiet debating of the matter:) thou lubbor, do I seeme to be angry with thee? Doest thou either by my countenaunce, by my talke, by my colour, or words, perceyue that I am angrie? Nether mine eyes be fierce, nor my mouth troubled: I cry not out a loude: I chaufe not in rage or fume: I speake no vnseemely woordes, whereof I take repentaunce: I tremble not. All which be signes and tokens of anger: which pretie notes of that vnseemely passion, ought to minister to all men, occasion to auoyde that vice.’”
Avlus Gellius asked the philosopher Taurus whether a wise person could be angry. After discussing this emotion at length, Taurus turned to Gellius and said: “This is what I think about the angry man, but I don't think it would be a bad idea to share what the philosopher Plutarch thinks about it. Plutarch had a servant who was a wasteful and wicked guy, but he was interested in learning and debating philosophy. One time, Plutarch punished him by making him take off his shirt and whipping him, though I’m not sure what the offense was. As he started to beat him, the servant cried out that he didn’t deserve to be punished like that. Eventually, after enduring the beating, he stopped complaining and started speaking earnestly and seriously, saying, ‘It wasn’t Plutarch the philosopher who beat me; it’s a shame for Plutarch to be angry. I’ve heard him talk about the vice of anger many times, and yet he has written a great book on it,’ along with many other things. ‘Well,’ Plutarch replied, calmly discussing the matter, ‘you fool, do I look angry to you? Can you tell from my face, my tone, my expression, or my words that I’m angry? My eyes aren’t fierce, nor is my mouth disturbed: I’m not shouting loudly, I’m not raging or fuming: I’m not saying anything inappropriate that I would regret: I’m not trembling. All of these are signs and indicators of anger, and these subtle signs of that inappropriate passion should remind everyone to avoid that vice.’”
THE TWENTIETH NOUELL.
A pretie tale drawne out of the Larke of Æsope.
A pretty tale drawn from the Fable of Aesop.
Æsope of Phrygia is not vnworthely demed a wise man. For so much as he admonisheth and perswadeth those thinges that be profitable, not seuerely or imperiously as Philosophers doe, but by pretye and pleasaunt fables he indueth the mindes of men with holsome and prouident instructions. As by this fable of the birdes neste, he pretily and aptly doth premonish that hope and confidence of thinges attempted by man, ought to be fixed and trusted in none other but in him selfe. A litle birde (saith he) called the Larke, builded her neste in a Wheate field, and when the Wheate was ready to be ripped, her yonge began to fledge. Therefore flyinge abroade to seeke meate for them, shee warned them that if there fortuned anye newes to be done or spoken in her absence, they should giue diligent heede thereunto, and to tell her when she retourned. Within a while after, the Owner of the corne called a yong man, his sonne, vnto him, (saying) “Doest thou see this Wheate now ripe and ready to be cut, lacking nothing but helpe to reape the same? Gette thee therefore to morowe in the morninge (so soone as the daye doth breake) vnto my frendes and neighbours, and praye them to come and helpe me in with this Corne:” and so departed. When the damme retourned, the yonge Larkes in trembling and fearefull wise, peping and chirping about their mother, prayed her to make hast to seeke some other place: for the owner of the Wheat had sent for his frends, to be there the next day by times to haue it in. Their damme bad them to be of good cheere: “If the owner (quoth she) do referre it to his frendes, I am sure the Wheate shal not be cutte downe to morowe, and therefore wee shall not neede to feare.” The next day the damme flew abrode again for foode, and the owner waited at the houre appointed for his frendes. The Sunne was vp, whose beames shone hot, and nothing was done: his frendes came not. Then he said againe to his sonne: “Me thincke 87 sonne (quoth he) our neighbours be slepers and tarrie long. Goe, call I pray thee, our kinsfolke and cosins, that they maye helpe vs to morowe betimes.” Which saying the yong Larkes ones againe afraid, tolde their damme when she returned: the damme still perswaded them to be of good cheere and not to feare: “For kinsfolke in these dayes, be so slacke to do good deedes (quoth she) and to helpe their owne stocke and kinred, that they bee loothe to take paines, specially at so short and sodaine warning: neuerthelesse, faire byrdes, (quoth shee) harken what shalbe said againe and tell mee.” The next morning the old Larke went forth againe for food and forage, and the kinsfolke and cosins came not, according to the owners request. At length the owner saide to his sonne: “Adieu my frendes and kinsemen: to morow in the morning, bring hither two Sickles, the one for mee, and the other for thy selfe, and wee with our owne hands, wil cut downe this Wheate.” The mother Larke, hearing her yong ones tel this tale at her retourne: “Ye marie my babes (quoth shee) now it is time to be gone: for the thing whereof the owner hath spoken so long, shal now be done in deede, sith he purposeth to do the same himselfe, and trusteth to none other.” Whereuppon the Larke toke vp her yong ones, and went to inhabite in some other place. And the corne accordinglye, was cutte downe by the owner. This fable Æsope reporteth, premonishing men to beware of lighte hope, and vaine truste, to be reposed in frends and kinsfolke. And the same Q. Ennius in his Satyres, very elegantlye in trim verses hath described the two laste, whereof worthie to be had in harte and memorie, I haue thought good to remember.
Aesop's Fables of Phrygia is rightly considered a wise man. He advises and encourages beneficial actions, not harshly or demanding like philosophers, but through charming and enjoyable fables that equip people's minds with valuable and thoughtful lessons. In this fable about the bird's nest, he cleverly reminds us that our hopes and confidence in our endeavors should rest solely on ourselves. A little bird called the Lark built her nest in a wheat field, and when the wheat was ready to be harvested, her young began to fledge. So, when she flew out to find food for them, she warned them that if anything new happened while she was away, they should pay close attention and tell her when she returned. Shortly after, the owner of the corn called his young son and said, "Do you see this wheat now ripe and ready to be cut, needing only help to harvest it? Tomorrow morning, as soon as the sun rises, go to my friends and neighbors and ask them to come help me gather this corn," and then he left. When the mother returned, the young Larks trembled and chirped around her, urging her to hurry to find another place because the owner had called for his friends to come the next day to harvest it. Their mother told them to be brave: "If the owner is relying on his friends, I'm sure the wheat won't be cut tomorrow, so we don't need to worry." The next day, the mother flew out again for food, while the owner waited for his friends at the agreed time. The sun was up, shining hot, and nothing was done: his friends hadn't shown up. He then said to his son, "It seems our neighbors are slow and are taking their time. Go, please, and call our relatives and cousins so they can help us tomorrow early." Hearing this, the young Larks were once again frightened and told their mother when she returned. The mother still encouraged them to be brave and not to fear: "Because relatives these days are so reluctant to do good deeds and help their own family, they are hesitant to put in the effort, especially with such short notice. Nevertheless, my dear birds, listen to what will be said again and tell me." The next morning, the mother Lark went out again for food, and the relatives and cousins did not come as the owner had requested. Finally, the owner said to his son, "Goodbye to my friends and relatives: tomorrow morning, bring two sickles here, one for me and one for you, and we will cut down this wheat with our own hands." Upon hearing her young ones tell this story when she returned, the mother Lark replied, "Oh my babies, now it’s time to leave: what the owner has discussed for so long will now suddenly happen since he intends to do it himself and trusts no one else." With that, the Lark gathered her young ones and moved to another place. Accordingly, the corn was cut down by the owner. This fable Aesop tells serves as a warning to people against placing light hopes and vain trust in friends and relatives. The same sentiment is expressed by Q. Ennius in his Satires, elegantly depicted in refined verses, which are worth remembering and holding in one’s heart.
Alwayes fixe fast in breast,
in prompt and ready wise:
Always firmly planted in the heart,
in a quick and prepared manner:
This prouerbe olde and true,
a sentence of the wise:
This old and true proverb,
a saying of the wise:
The thing do not expect,
by frends for to atchieue:
The thing you don’t expect,
by friends to achieve:
Which thou thyselfe canst doe,
thy selfe for to relieue.
Which you can do yourself,
to help yourself.
THE TWENTY-FIRST NOUELL.
A merie geste, vttered by Hanniball to king Antiochus.
A cheerful story told by Hannibal to King Antiochus.
Antiochus making great preparation and furniture, to inferre warres vpon the Romaines, decked his armie with Siluer and Golden Ensignes and Pendentes, wherein he had plentie of wagons, chariots and Elephantes with towers, his bande of horsemen glittered gloriouslie, with golden bridles, trappers, barbes, and such like. The king beholdinge, in glorious and reioysing wise, his gaye and beautifull armie: loked towards Hannibal, and said: “How saiest thou Hannibal? thinkest thou that these thinges be not ynough and sufficient to match with the Romaynes?” Hannibal mocking and deluding the cowardnes and weakenes of his souldiours, clad in those precious and costlie furnitures, saide. “All these thinges be ynough and ynough againe for the Romaines, although they were the most couetous men of the world.” The king vnderstoode Hannibal, that he had meant of the nomber of his souldiours, and of their brauerie. But hee meant of the pray and spoile, which the Romaines should winne and gette.
Antiochus made extensive preparations and equipment to wage war against the Romans, adorning his army with silver and gold banners and ornaments. He had plenty of wagons, chariots, and elephants with towers, and his cavalry sparkled beautifully with gold bridles, saddles, and other fine gear. The king, looking proudly and joyfully at his splendid and beautiful army, turned to Hannibal and asked, “What do you think, Hannibal? Do you believe this is not enough to compete with the Romans?” Hannibal, mocking and ridiculing the cowardice and weakness of his soldiers, who were dressed in such precious and costly gear, replied, “All this is more than enough for the Romans, even if they were the most greedy men in the world.” The king understood Hannibal to be referring to the number of soldiers and their finery, but he meant the loot and spoils that the Romans would win.
THE TWENTY-SECOND NOUELL.
The marueilous knowledge of a Lion, being acquainted with a man, called Androdus.
The amazing knowledge of a lion, being familiar with a man named Androdus.
There chaunced to be certaine playes and games at Rome, wher were many monstruous and cruel beastes: but amonges all those beastes, the hugenesse and cruell aspectes of the Lions were had in greatest wonder, especially of one: which Lion was of an huge and greate bignesse, hauinge a terrible voyce, his clawes stretched forth, his bristles and heare vprighte, beholdinge with his fierce and deadly eyes, all the multitude standing by. There was brought in to fight with the lion amonges al the rest, one Androdus a Dacian borne, the bondman of a great personage, of the Consular order, whom the Lion beholding a farre of, sodenly stoode still: and afterwards by litle and litle, in gentle sort he came vnto the man, as though he had knowen him: Wagging his taile like a Spaniel fawning vpon his maister, and licked the handes and legges of the poore felow, which for feare was almost dead. This Androdus perceyuing the flatteries of this fierce beast, recouered comforte, and earnestly viewed and marked the Lion. Then they began to enter into mutual acquaintaunce, one reioycing at an others meting. Upon which straung euent, the people raysed great shoutes and acclamations: wherupon Androdus was called before the Emperoure, and demaunded the cause, why that most cruell beast did in that sorte, fawne and fauour him aboue all other.
There happened to be certain plays and games in Rome, where many monstrous and cruel beasts were present. Among all these beasts, the massive size and fearsome appearance of the lions were the most remarkable, especially one in particular: this lion was huge, had a terrifying roar, extended claws, and upright bristles and fur, glaring with fierce and deadly eyes at the crowd gathered around. Among all the others, a man named Androdus, a Dacian slave of a prominent figure of the Consular rank, was brought in to fight the lion. When the lion noticed him from a distance, it suddenly stopped still; then, little by little, it approached the man gently, as if it recognized him. Wagging its tail like a fawning spaniel, it licked the hands and legs of the terrified fellow, who was nearly frozen with fear. Realizing that this fierce beast was showing him affection, Androdus regained his composure and carefully observed the lion. They began to recognize each other, both rejoicing in this unexpected meeting. The unusual event drew loud cheers and applause from the crowd, prompting Androdus to be called before the Emperor, who asked why this most cruel beast favored him above all others.
Androdus tould a maruaylous and straunge historye of the cause thereof, saying: “If it please your Maiestie, when my Lorde and maister did by the office of Proconsull gouerne Africa, I throughe his causelesse stripes and dailye whippinges, was forced to runne awaye. And when I had gotten pardon of the liefetenaunte of that countrie, to remaine there, I withdrew my selfe into the deserts and voide places: and lacking meate to ease the paine of hunger, I determined by some meanes, to seeke mine owne death. It chaunced about the midde of the day, when the Sunne 90 was feruent hot, I entred into a Caue, which was farre from habitation, verye wide and large. Whereunto, within a while after, this Lion resorted, hauing one of his feete bloudie and hurt: for paine whereof, he vttered much mone and sorrow, bewayling the griefe, and anguishe of the sore. When I saw the Lion my hart began to quake for feare, but beinge come in, as it were into his owne habitation (for so it shoulde appeare,) perceyuinge me to go aboute to hide myselfe a farre of, he like a milde and gentle beast came vnto me, holding vp his foote, reaching the same to me, as though he desired helpe and reliefe at my handes. Wherewithall I plucked out of his foote a stubbe, which stucke betweene the pawes thereof, and taking a litle salue, which I had in my bosome, I thrust it into the bottome of the wounde, and diligently without any further feare, I dryed vp the wound, and wiped away the bloud thereof: wherewith the lion being eased, resting his foote in my handes, he laye downe to refreshe him selfe. From that day duringe the space of three yeares, the Lion and I continued together, and liued with like fare: the fattest and best morsels of those beastes, which he prayed, he did euer bring me into the Caue: which meate because I had no fire, I rosted in the heate of the Sunne, and did eate the same with good stomacke. But when I began to waxe weary of that kinde of diet, vpon a time the Lion being abroad, I forsoke the Caue, and trauailing almost the space of three dayes, I was espied and taken of the souldiours, and brought home to my maister out of Africa to Rome: who immediatlie condempned mee to be deuoured of beastes. And now I perceiue that this lion sithens I lefte his companie is taken, and doth acquite that good tourne and cure, which I shewed him then.” The people hearing the discourse of this straunge fact, made suite that the felow might be pardoned, and set at libertie: and the Lion by generall voyce was giuen vnto him for reward. Afterwards Androdus caried the Lion abrode the citie in a litle corde, and had muche money giuen him: and the Lion was decked and beautified with flowers, and euery man that met them, did vse to say:--“This is the Lion the frend of this man, and this is the man, the Phisition of the Lion.”
Androdus told a marvelous and strange story about the reason for this, saying: “If it pleases Your Majesty, when my lord and master was governing Africa as Proconsul, I was forced to run away due to his unreasonable beatings and daily whippings. After I received pardon from the lieutenant of that country to stay there, I withdrew into the deserts and empty places. Lacking food to relieve my hunger, I decided to seek my own death. It happened around midday, when the sun was fiercely hot, that I entered a cave that was far from habitation and very wide and large. Not long after, this lion came in, having one of his feet bloody and hurt. Because of the pain, he was moaning and lamenting his suffering and anguish. When I saw the lion, my heart started to race with fear, but since I had entered what seemed to be his own dwelling, he approached me like a gentle beast, holding up his foot, extending it toward me, as if he wanted help and relief. I pulled a thorn from his foot that was stuck between his paws, and taking a little salve I had in my pocket, I applied it to the bottom of the wound. Without any further fear, I cleaned the wound and wiped away the blood. Once the lion felt relief, resting his foot in my hands, he lay down to refresh himself. From that day, for three years, the lion and I lived together, sharing the same food: he always brought me the best and fattest pieces of the animals he hunted. Since I had no fire, I roasted the meat in the heat of the sun and ate it with a good appetite. But when I started to grow tired of that kind of diet, one day while the lion was away, I left the cave, and after wandering for nearly three days, I was spotted and captured by soldiers and taken back to my master in Rome. He immediately sentenced me to be devoured by beasts. Now I realize that since I left the lion’s company, he has been captured and is repaying the kindness and care I showed him back then.” The people, hearing this strange story, pleaded for the man to be pardoned and set free: and by common agreement, the lion was given to him as a reward. Afterwards, Androdus took the lion around the city on a short leash, and he received a lot of money. The lion was adorned with flowers, and everyone who met them would say: “This is the lion, the friend of this man, and this is the man, the physician of the lion.”
THE TWENTY-THIRD NOUELL.
A pretie disputation of the philosopher Phauorinus, to perswade a woman not to put forth her child to nursse, but to nourishe it herselfe with her owne milke.
A pretty argument from the philosopher Phauorinus, to persuade a woman not to send her child out to be nursed, but to feed it herself with her own milk.
It was told to the Philosopher Phauorinus, that the wife of one of his Sectators and scholers was brought a bedde of a sonne. “Let vs go (quoth Phauorinus) to visite the childwife, and to gratulate the father for the ioy of his sonne.” When they were entred the house, after hee had saluted the good man, according to the custome, he asked the wife how she did, and prayed the Gods to sende her good footing, and then inquired of her trauel, and painfull panges. When he vnderstode that her trauel was greate, and her bodye weake with watchinge, howbeit somewhat comforted with sleepe which she had taken, he determined to enter into further talke. “I doubt not gossip (quoth he) but that you purpose to nourish your sonne your selfe.” The mother of the woman hearing him say so, began to pray pardon, and said, that her doughter might not both sustaine paine in the birth, and also trouble to nourish it herselfe. “I pray thee mother, said Phauorinus, to suffer thy doughter to be the whole and intire mother of her owne sonne. What kinde of halfe and vnperfecte mothers be they, which so sone as they be deliuered do, against nature, by and by thruste the child awaye from them? Can they nourishe with their owne bloud, the thing which they see not, and wil they not vouchsafe to bestow their milke vppon that, which is now a lyuing creature, crying out before their faces for the mothers helpe, and dutie? O thou vnkinde woman, doest thou thincke that nature hath giuen thee two breastes for nothinge els, but to beautifie and adorne thy bodie, and not to giue sucke to thy children? In like sort many prodigious and monstruous women, haue dried vp and extinguished that moste sacred fountaine of the body, the educatour of mankinde: not without peril of their persons: as though the same were a disgracing of their beautie and comlinesse. The like also some do attempt by 92 deuises and subtile secretes to extrude theyr conceptions, that the swelling of their body might not irrigate and wrinckle their faces, and that their paineful labours and great burdens, do not make them looke olde in their youthly dayes. And like as it is generally to be abhorred, that man in his first beginnings, (when he is fashioned and inspired with life, and in the handes of the cunning and wise woman, dame Nature,) should be killed and slaine: euen so with not much lesse detestation it is to be had and compted, when he is perfecte and borne and the childe of thine owne bloude, to be depriued from his due sustenance. But it is no matter (wil som say) with whose milke hee be nourced, so hee receiue milke and liue. The like may be said to that man which is so dull in perceyuing the prouidence of nature, that what matter had it been in whose bodye, and with whose bloud, he himselfe had been formed and brought into light. Hath not she which nowe respireth, and with beauty waxeth white and fayre, the same bloud now in her breastes, which was before remayninge in her wombe? Is not the wysedome of nature manifest in this, that after the cunning workman the bloud, hath framed in the inward parts euery body of man, straight way when the time of byrthe approcheth, the same bloude infudeth himselfe into the vpper partes, and is readie to nourishe the rudimentes of lyfe and lighte, offeringe acquaintaunce and familiar sustinance to the new borne? Wherefore in vaine is not that report and beliefe, that like as the force and nature of the generation seede is able to shape the similitudes of the mind and body, euen so the qualities and properties of the Milke, do auayle to like effect. Which thinge is not onelye marked in men, but also in brute beastes. For if Kiddes be sockled vp wyth Ewes Milke, and Lambes wyth Goates, the woll of thone will grow more rough and hard, and the heare of the other more tender and soft. In trees also and fruites, there is for the most part, a greater force and power in the nature of the soile and water where they grow, eyther for the pruning and planting, then there is if straunge impes and seedes be grifted and sowen there. And many times you see, that a fruitfull tree, caried and set in an other place, decayeth, throughe the nature of the ground more barren. What reason is this then, 93 to corrupt the noble nature of this borne childe, whose body and minde, is well begunne wyth naturall beginninges to infect the the same wyth the degenerate food of straung Milke. Specially if she to whom you shall put forth this childe to giue sucke, be eyther a bonde and seruile woman, and (as commonly it chauncheth) of a forren and barbarous nation, be she wicked, ill fauoured, whorish or drunken. For diuers times without difference, children be put foorth to suche Noursses, whose honestie and conditions, in the tyme of the putting foorth, be vtterly vnknowen. Shall we suffer therefore, this our infant to be corrupted with pestiferous milke? Shall we abyde a newe nature and spirite, to bee renued in his mynde and bodye, deriued from that whiche is moste vile and wicked? Muche like to the same, whiche many tymes wee see and wonder, howe diuers chyldren borne of chaste and honest women, haue bodies and qualities farre discrepant from their honest parentes. Wherefore very trimlie and cunningly Maro folowing Homeres verses, doth say, speaking of the cruel nature of Achilles:
It was reported to the philosopher Phauorinus that the wife of one of his followers and students had given birth to a son. “Let’s go (said Phauorinus) to visit the new mother and congratulate the father on the joy of his son.” Once they entered the home, after greeting the man as was customary, he asked the wife how she was doing and prayed to the gods to grant her a smooth recovery. Then he inquired about her labor and painful contractions. Upon learning that her labor was intense and that her body was weak from lack of sleep, though she had found some comfort in the rest she had managed, he decided to continue the conversation. “I have no doubt, my friend (he said), that you intend to nurse your son yourself.” The mother of the woman, hearing him say this, began to apologize and said that her daughter shouldn’t have to endure the pain of childbirth and also the trouble of nursing the baby herself. “I beg you, mother,” Phauorinus replied, “to allow your daughter to be the complete and true mother of her own son. What kind of half-hearted and incomplete mothers are they who, as soon as they give birth, immediately push the child away from them, going against nature? How can they nourish with their own blood something they don’t even see? Will they not grant their milk to a living creature that cries out for their help and care? Oh, unkind woman, do you think nature has given you two breasts for anything other than to beautify and adorn your body, and not to nurse your children? Similarly, many strange and monstrous women have dried up and extinguished that most sacred fountain of the body, the nurturer of mankind, not without risk to themselves, as though it were a disgrace to their beauty and appearance. Others attempt, through various tricks and cunning secrets, to expel their conceptions, so that the swelling of their bodies doesn’t mar their looks and that their painful labors and heavy burdens don’t make them appear old in their youth. Just as it is universally detestable that a person, in their earliest beginnings—when formed and given life by the capable and wise hand of Nature—should be killed, so too is it viewed with just as much horror when a child, fully born and of one’s own blood, is deprived of its rightful sustenance. But some may say it doesn’t matter whose milk he is fed, as long as he gets milk and lives. The same can be said of a person so oblivious to the providence of nature that it would not matter whose body and blood he was formed from. Does not the woman who now breathes and grows beautiful possess the same blood in her breasts that was previously within her womb? Isn’t the wisdom of nature evident in this—that once the skilled craftsman, blood, has shaped every part of the human body, as the time of birth approaches, that same blood moves to the upper parts, ready to nourish the rudiments of life and light, offering familiar sustenance to the newborn? Therefore, it is not in vain that there is a belief that just as the force and nature of the generative seed can shape the similarities of mind and body, so too can the qualities and properties of milk have a similar effect. This is noted not only in humans but also in animals. For if kids are raised on ewe's milk and lambs on goat's milk, the wool of one will grow rougher and harder, while the hair of the other will be softer and more delicate. In trees and fruits as well, there is typically a greater force and power in the nature of the soil and water where they grow, whether for pruning or planting, than if foreign shoots and seeds are grafted and sown there. Many times you see that a fruitful tree, when moved to another location, declines due to the barren nature of the new soil. What reason then, 93 would there be to corrupt the noble nature of this newborn child, whose body and mind are well started with natural beginnings, infecting them with the degenerate food of foreign milk? Especially if the woman to whom you hand this child to nurse is a slave, and (as is commonly the case) from a foreign and barbaric nation, or if she is wicked, unattractive, promiscuous, or drunk. For many times, without distinction, children are placed with such nurses whose virtue and character at the time of nursing are completely unknown. Shall we, then, allow this infant to be corrupted with toxic milk? Shall we permit a new nature and spirit to arise in his mind and body, derived from what is most vile and wicked? This situation is similar to the times we see and marvel at how various children born of chaste and honorable women possess traits and qualities that are very different from their respectable parents. Thus, very skillfully and cleverly, Maro, following Homer’s verses, says, speaking of the cruel nature of Achilles:
Sir Peleus that gentle knight,
was not thy father sure,
Sir Peleus, that kind knight,
was he not surely your father?
Nor yet thy dame faire Thetis was
whose grace the Goddes did lure:
Nor was your lady fair Thetis,
whose charm the Goddesses admired:
The raging Sea, and stonie rockes,
did bring thee forth to light:
The raging sea and rocky stones,
brought you into the light:
Thy nature is so bloudie bent,
so fierce in cruell fight.
Your nature is so bloodthirsty,
so fierce in cruel battle.
He did not herein reprehende the birth of Achilles, but the nature of the cruell and sauage beaste that broughte him vp; for he added this of his owne.
He did not criticize the birth of Achilles, but rather the nature of the cruel and savage beast that raised him; for he added this on his own.
And the Hircan Tigres did giue him sucke.
And the Hircan Tigers did give him milk.
And truely the condicion of the Noursse, and nature of the milke, disposeth almost the greater part of the childes condition, whiche (notwithstanding the fathers seede, and creation of the bodie and mynde, within the mothers wombe) doth nowe in the beginning of his nouriture, configurate and frame a newe disposition in him. Moreouer who can saye the contrarie, but that such women as put their children from them, deliuering them to bee nourced of other, 94 doe cut of, naye, rather doe wype awaye and extinguyshe, that bande and increase of mynde and affection, that doeth consociate and ioyne in nature, the parentes towarde their children. For when the childe is put forth to an other place and remoued from the mothers sighte, the vigor and tendernesse of her affection, is by litle and little forgotten, and out of memorie, and the derest care of her tender babe, groweth to vtter silence. The sending awaye of the chylde to an other Nourice is not muche inferiour to the forgetfulnesse that chaunceth when death dothe take it awaye. Agayne, the affection, the loue, and familiaritie of the chylde, is prone to her that giueth it sucke. And so as it is euidently seene in them that be put foorth, the chylde taketh no knoweledge, or desire of the owne mother, that brought it forth. Therefore, when the elementes and beginnings of natural pietie and loue be ones abandoned and defaced, howe soeuer suche children, in that sorte brought vp, shall seeme to loue the parentes, yet for the moste part, it is no pure and naturall affection, but rather a suposed and Ciuile loue.” Thus this noble Philosopher giueth counsayle to euery good mother, not to be ashamed or grieued, to bringe vp her childe with her own Milke, after her greatest payne past, whom before with her owne bloud, she disdained not to feede in her owne bodie.
And truly, the condition of the nurse and the nature of the milk largely shape the child's development, which, despite the father's seed and the creation of the body and mind within the mother's womb, now, at the start of nourishment, configures and frames a new disposition in the child. Furthermore, who can argue otherwise than that women who send their children away to be nursed by others cut off, or rather wipe away and extinguish, that bond and growth of mind and affection that unites parents with their children? Because when the child is sent to another place and removed from the mother's sight, the strength and tenderness of her affection are gradually forgotten and fade from memory, and her deep concern for her little one falls into complete silence. Sending a child away to another nurse is not much different from the forgetfulness that occurs with death. Again, the affection, love, and bond of the child are directed toward the one who breastfeeds them. As is clearly seen in those who are sent away, the child no longer recognizes or desires its own mother who gave birth to it. Therefore, when the elements and foundations of natural love and affection are abandoned and erased, however such children might seem to love their parents, most of the time it is not a pure and natural affection, but rather a simulated and civil love. Thus, this noble philosopher advises every good mother not to be ashamed or distressed about raising her child with her own milk, after all the pain she has gone through, whom she did not hesitate to nurture in her own body.
THE TWENTY-FOURTH NOUELL.
Of Sertorius a noble Romaine capitaine.
Of Sertorius, a noble Roman captain.
Like as in a good captaine, chosen out by any prince and monarche, to serue in his warres and exploytes, manhode and valiaunce is to be desired and wished: euen so in the same a politique minde, to forecaste and preuente, as well the saufetie and good gouernement of his owne charge, as the anoyaunce of the enemie is to be desired. Cicero in his oration Pro lege Manilia, affirmeth fower thinges, mete to be in a Generall or Lieutenaunte. That is to saye: Scientia rei militaris, virtus, authoritas, fœlicitas, Knowledge of warfare, Manhode, Authoritie, and good Fortune. Knowledge and experience, in choyce of his souldiours, in trayning the ignoraunt, in lodging the campe, in politique order howe to dispose the Scoutes and watche, in making the approche, and defence of the armie lodged, with other necessarie orders, incident to the same. In manhode, boldlie to aduenture, warely to retire, paciently to suffer misfortune, hardly to lie, sparely to fare, stoutlie to abide stormes and colde weather. In authoritie wiselie to gouerne, gently to speake, iustly to threaten, deseruedly to punishe, mercifully to forgiue, liberally to deuide, and louingly to be obeied. And in felicitie and good successe, to honour God: to be faithfull to the prince, to preuente the enemy, not to triumphe before the victorie. To be constant in froward fortune, and coragious in extremitie. Al which and many other, are very mete and requisite in him, that shalbe put in trust, by his soueraigne Lorde or Ladie, to aduenture the painful charge of a Deputie, General, Lieutenaunt, or Captaine. Whereof, or in the chiefest of the same this noble gentleman Sertorius, a captaine of the Romaine citie, in time of Marius and Sylla, when the citie of Rome were at ciuile discention, had greate skil and knowledge. For besides his experience in the warres (as Plutarche saith in his life) hee was very abstinente from pleasures, and continente in other disorders, a rare thing in men of his calling. But because I purpose not to staye in the full discourse 96 of his vertues and qualities, I meane but to touche in this Nouell, so muche as Aulus Gellius (in whom I am now conuersant) doth of him make remembraunce. Referring the studious reader, desirous to know the state of his life and doinges, to the plentifull recorders of such memorable and worthie personages: Plutarche de vitis illustrium, and Appianu’s de ciuili Romanorum bello. Which beinge Greeke authours, be very eloquently translated in the Latine, thone by Gulielmus Xilander 1561, and thother by Sigismundus Gelenius 1554. This Sertorius was of a pregnaunt witte, and therewithall a noble Captaine, very skilfull in the vse and gouernement of an armye. In distresse and harde aduentures hee practised for pollicie, to make lies to his souldiours, to proue if they coulde preuaile. He vsed counterfait letters, to imagine dreames, and to conferre false religions, to trye if those thinges could serue his tourne, in comforting and couraging his souldiours. Amonges al the factes of Sertorius, this insuing was very notable and famous. A white Stagge of exceeding beauty and liuely swetenesse, was giuen vnto him by a Lusitanian: He perswaded euery man, that the same was deliuered vnto him by the Goddes, and how the Goddesse Diana had inspired that beaste to admonishe and teache what was meete and profitable: and when he wente about to cause his souldiours to aduenture anye hard and difficile exploit: he affirmed, that the Stagge had giuen him warning thereof, which they vniversally beleued, and willingly obeyed, as though the same had been sent downe from the Gods in deede. The same Stagge vpon a time, when newes came that the enemye had made incursion into his campe, amased with the haste and turmoile, ranne awaye and hid him selfe in a marishe harde adioyning. Afterwardes being sought for, hee was supposed to be dead. Within fewe dayes after, tidinges was brought to Sertorius that the Stagge was founde. The messenger was commaunded by him to holde his peace, and threatened to be punished, if he did disclose it. The next day, the same messenger was appointed sodainly, to bring the Stagge into the place, where he and his frendes, did consulte together. When they were assembled he tolde them howe the daye after that he had lost his Stagge, he dreamed that he was come againe, and according to his custome, 97 tolde him that was needefull to be done. Then Sertorius making a signe, to haue the order fulfilled, whiche he had geuen the daye before, by and by the Stagge brake into the chamber. Wherewithall a great shoute was made, and an admiration raysed of that chaunce. Whiche credulitie of the barbarous countries, serued Sertorius tourne in his weightie affaires. A worthy matter also, is to be remembred of him, that no Souldiour that euer serued him, of those vnciuile countries (that tooke his part) did neuer reuolte or forsake him, although those kinde of people be moste inconstant.
Just like a good captain chosen by any prince or monarch is desired and wished for to serve in wars and exploits, a strategic mind that can forecast and prevent both the safety and good governance of his own charge, as well as the annoyance of the enemy, is also sought after. Cicero, in his speech Pro lege Manilia, asserts four qualities that are essential in a General or Lieutenant: Scientia rei militaris, virtus, authoritas, fœlicitas, which means Knowledge of warfare, Manhood, Authority, and good Fortune. Knowledge and experience in selecting soldiers, training the inexperienced, setting up the camp, organizing scouts and watches, planning approaches, and defending the stationed army, along with other necessary orders related to these tasks, are crucial. In terms of manhood, one must take risks boldly, retreat cautiously, endure misfortune patiently, live modestly, and bravely withstand storms and cold weather. In authority, one should govern wisely, speak gently, threaten justly, punish fairly, forgive mercifully, distribute generously, and be lovingly obeyed. Regarding fortune and success, one should honor God, stay loyal to the prince, anticipate the enemy’s moves, and not celebrate before victory. One must remain steadfast in adversity and courageous in extreme situations. All these qualities, among many others, are essential for anyone entrusted by their sovereign lord or lady to undertake the challenging role of a Deputy, General, Lieutenant, or Captain. In particular, this noble gentleman Sertorius, a captain of the Roman city during the times of Marius and Sulla, had great skill and knowledge during Rome’s civil strife. As Plutarch mentions in his life, he was very restrained in pleasures and disciplined in other excesses, which is rare among men in his line of work. However, rather than delving deeply into a full account of his virtues and qualities, I intend to mention only what Aulus Gellius recalls about him. For those eager to learn more about his life and actions, I recommend the extensive records of notable figures: Plutarch's de vitis illustrium and Appian’s de ciuili Romanorum bello. These Greek authors have been eloquently translated into Latin, one by Gulielmus Xilander in 1561 and the other by Sigismundus Gelenius in 1554. Sertorius was known for his sharp wit and was also a noble captain, highly skilled in the use and management of an army. In times of distress and challenging endeavors, he resorted to clever tactics, like telling lies to his soldiers to test their resolve. He used fake letters, created dreams, and promoted false prophecies to see if these could help motivate and inspire his troops. Among all his acts, one stood out as particularly famous. A beautiful white stag with exceptional grace and sweetness was given to him by a Lusitanian. He convinced everyone that this creature had been sent to him by the gods and that the goddess Diana had inspired it to teach them what was necessary and beneficial. When he needed to encourage his soldiers to undertake difficult missions, he claimed that the stag had warned him about it, which they all believed and willingly followed as if it had indeed come down from the gods. One time, when news arrived that the enemy was invading his camp, the stag, startled by the commotion, ran away and hid in a nearby marsh. Later, when it was sought after, it was assumed to be dead. A few days later, Sertorius received word that the stag had been found. He ordered the messenger to keep quiet and threatened punishment if the news was revealed. The next day, he quickly instructed the messenger to bring the stag to where he and his friends were meeting. Once gathered, the messenger shared that the day after he lost the stag, he dreamt that it had returned and, as was customary, conveyed important messages. Then, Sertorius signaled for the order he had given the day before to be executed, and immediately the stag entered the chamber. This caused a huge uproar and sparked amazement at that occurrence. The credulity of the barbarian countries worked to Sertorius's advantage in significant matters. Another noteworthy aspect is that no soldier from those uncivilized regions who served him ever revolted or abandoned him, even though such people are generally quite fickle.
THE TWENTY-FIFTH NOUELL.
Of the bookes of Sybilla.
Of the books of Sybilla.
In auncient Chronicles, these things appere in memorie, touchinge the bookes of Sybilla. A straunge and vnknowen old woman, repaired to the Romaine kyng Tarquinius Superbus, bearing in her armes nine bookes, which she sayde were deuine Oracles, and offered them to be solde. Tarquinius demaunded the price. The woman asked a wonderfull somme. The king making semblaunce as though the olde woman doted, began to laughe. Then shee gotte fyre in a chafing dishe, and burned three bookes of the nyne. She asked the kyng again, if he would haue the sixe for that prise, wherat the king laughed in more ample sorte, saying: “that the olde woman no doubt did dote in deede.” By and by she burned other three, humbly demaunding the king the like question, if he would buye the reste for that price. Wherevpon the kyng more earnestlye gaue hede to her requeste, thinking the constante demaundes of the woman not to be in vain, bought the three bookes that remained for no lesse price, then was required for the whole. Therewithall the woman departed from Tarquinius, and was neuer seene after. These bookes were kept in the Capitole at Rome, whereunto the Romaines resorted, when they purposed to aske counsayle of the Goddes. A good example for wyse men to beware, howe they despyse or neglecte auncient bookes and monumentes. Many the like in this Realme haue bene defaced, founde in Religious houses, whiche no doubte woulde haue conduced great vtilitie and profite both to the common wealth and countrie, if they had bene reserued and kepte, whiche bookes by the ignoraunt, haue ben torne and raised, to the great griefe of those that be learned, and of them that aspire to learning and vertue.
In ancient chronicles, these events are remembered regarding the books of Sybilla. A strange and unknown old woman came to the Roman king Tarquinius Superbus, carrying nine books that she claimed were divine oracles, and offered them for sale. Tarquinius asked for the price. The woman requested an extravagant amount. The king pretended that the old woman was crazy and began to laugh. Then she lit a fire in a brazier and burned three of the nine books. She asked the king again if he would buy the remaining six for that price, which made the king laugh even harder, saying that the old woman must be truly mad. Soon after, she burned another three and humbly asked the king the same question about buying the rest for that price. At this, the king paid more attention to her request, thinking that the woman's consistent demands might be serious, and he bought the three remaining books for the same price she originally asked for all nine. With that, the woman left Tarquinius and was never seen again. These books were kept in the Capitol in Rome, where the Romans went to seek counsel from the gods. This serves as a good example for wise people to be cautious about despising or neglecting ancient books and monuments. Many similar texts in this realm have been destroyed, found in religious houses, which surely would have been very useful and beneficial to the community and country if they had been preserved and kept. These books have been torn apart by the ignorant, to the great sorrow of those who are learned and those who strive for knowledge and virtue.
THE TWENTY-SIXTH NOUELL.
A difference and controuersie betwene a maister and a scholler, so subtile that the iudges coulde not geue sentence.
A disagreement and controversy between a teacher and a student, so subtle that the judges could not make a decision.
Diuers thinges be written, whiche although they seme of litle importaunce, yet they be wittie and comfortable to recreate honest mindes and deserue to be had in remembraunce. Emongs whiche Aulus Gellius (who reporteth tenne of the former Histories, selected out of his booke De noctibus atticis) remembreth this pretie controuersie. In Athenes there was a yong man, called Euathlus, who being desirous to be an Orator, and a pleading Aduocate, to the intent he might postulate, according to the accustomed maner of Athenes in those daies, accorded vpon a price, with a renowned Oratour named Protagoras, that he should instruct him that arte, for a price agreed vpon betwene them, vpon condicion that the Scholler should pay the one half of the money before hande vnto his maister, and the reste at such time as he should proue to be an Aduocate, so well instructed, as the first matter, which he did pleade, he should obtaine sentence on his side, and gayne for his labour and industrie. But if sentence were pronounced against hym, he should not be bound to paye the same. Vppon this conclusion, the Maister taughte hym with greate diligence, the vttermoste of his knowledge in that arte. The Scholler againe learned and receyued his teaching, with greate prompitude and readinesse of witte. When Protagoras hadde taught him the vttermost of his knowledge: the Scholler Euathlus, to defraude hym of the reste of his money, determined neuer to be Aduocate, whose craft Protagoras perceiuing, cited him by writte, to appeare before the iudge, to aunswere the reste of the bargaine. When they were both come in the Iudges presence, Protagoras spake to his scholer in this wyse: “Euathlus, the bargaine betweene vs, thou canst not chose but confesse and acknowledge, whiche in effect is this. It was agreed that I should teache thee, the arte of pleading, and in the first matter whiche 100 thou diddest pronounce and sentence giuen on thy parte, thou shouldest paye me the other halfe of the money (for the first moitie I receiued before hande) and nowe to auoyde the satisfaction thereof (although thou knowest, that I haue full well deserued it) thou to defraude me of my duetie, refusest to be an Aduocate. But I wil tell thee, this thy determination is but vayne and frustrate: for I haue intangled thee in suche nettes, as thou canst not escape: but by one meane or other thou shalt be forced to pay mee. For if the Iudge doe condempne thee, then maugre thy head thou shalt be constrayned: and if contrariwyse sentence be giuen on thy side, thou shalt be likewyse bounde to paye me, by thy verie couenaunt, sithens thou art bounde, when thou pleadest first, and sentence should be giuen in thy behalfe. Doe nowe then what thou liste, for in fine thou fhalt be forced to paye me, in despite of thy teethe.” All the assistantes held with Protagoras, affirming his suite to be very reasonable. Notwithstanding Euathlus with a bolde spirite, aunswered for him selfe in this maner: “Sir Protagoras, it semeth vnto you that I am conuicted, but staye a whyle and giue me leaue to speake: and then you shall perceiue in what wyse I will confounde your argument. Here you haue brought your action against me, wherof I truste vpon my reasonable answere before the Iudges, to be discharged. For if by this your pleading, by circumstaunces and arte of an Oratour, whiche you haue vsed in all your discourse, the matter shall fall so out as sentence be giuen on your side, then the bargayne made betwene vs is voyde and of none effecte, bicause I losing the profite of my firste pleading: wherein by our agrement sentence should be geuen on my behalfe, the same bargaine is not accomplished. For you should be payde the moitie of the money behinde, with that commoditie, which I did gayne by my first pleading: for whiche cause, there is no reason but I must bee discharged of your demaunde.” After this debating of the matter, the Iudges wayed with argumentes of both parts whiche semed so doubtfull vnto them, that knowing not howe to giue sentence, they suspended the processe.
Various things have been written that, although they seem of little importance, are witty and comforting, helping to refresh honest minds and deserve to be remembered. Among these, Aulus Gellius (who recounts ten of the earlier stories, selected from his book Attic Nights) mentions this interesting controversy. In Athens, there was a young man named Euathlus, who wanted to become an orator and a legal advocate. He agreed on a price with a famous orator named Protagoras to teach him this skill, with the understanding that he would pay half the money upfront to his teacher and the rest when he proved himself as an advocate by winning a case. However, if the judgment was against him, he wouldn't owe the remaining amount. Based on this agreement, the teacher diligently taught him all he knew about the craft. The student learned quickly and eagerly absorbed his lessons. When Protagoras had imparted all his knowledge, Euathlus, intending to avoid paying the remaining money, decided he would never become an advocate. Sensing this, Protagoras summoned him with a writ to appear before the judge to settle the rest of their deal. When they both stood before the judge, Protagoras addressed his student: “Euathlus, you cannot deny the agreement we made, which effectively states that I would teach you the art of advocacy, and if you succeeded in your first case and received a favorable ruling, you would pay me the other half of the fee (since I already received the first half). Now, to evade your obligation (even though you know I have earned it), you refuse to take on the role of advocate. But let me tell you, this decision is futile: I have ensnared you in such a way that you cannot escape; one way or another, you will have to pay me. If the judge condemns you, then you will be forced to pay against your will; and if the ruling goes in your favor, you will also be obligated to pay, as per our agreement, since you are bound to pay when you plead the case first and receive a favorable ruling. So do what you like, but in the end, you will be compelled to pay me, regardless of your objections.” All the bystanders sided with Protagoras, agreeing that his case was reasonable. Nevertheless, Euathlus responded boldly on his own behalf: “Sir Protagoras, you think I am defeated, but wait a moment and let me speak: then you will see how I will undermine your argument. You have brought this action against me, and I trust that my reasonable response before the judges will lead to my acquittal. If, through your rhetoric and the oratory techniques you have employed, the judgment is in your favor, then the agreement between us is void and of no effect because I would lose the advantage from my initial pleading, in which, per our agreement, the judgment was supposed to be in my favor. For you should receive the other half of the money only with the benefit I gained from my first pleading; therefore, it is only reasonable that I must be released from your demand.” After this discussion, the judges weighed the arguments from both sides, which seemed so uncertain to them that, not knowing how to rule, they suspended the proceedings.
The same Aulus Gellius, reciteth an other lyke question, whiche hee referreth to Plinie, as the firste authour thereof. There was a lawe (sayeth hee) in a certayne citie, that what so euer hee were, 101 that committed any valiaunte facte of armes, the thyng that he demaunded, whatsoeuer it were, should be graunted vnto him. It chaunced that a certayne persone did this worthy acte, and required that a man’s wife (whom he derely loued) should be giuen vnto him: whiche wyfe by force and vertue of the lawe, was accordingly deliuered. But afterwardes the man, from whome his wyfe was taken, did the lyke facte, and demaunding his wyfe to be redeliuered vnto him agayn, sayde vnto him that had her: “If thou wilt obserue the lawe, thou must of force deliuer vnto me, my wyfe, but if thou do not like the lawe, thou oughtest yet to render her vnto me, as mine owne.” The other aunswered him in like sorte: “If thou obserue the lawe, this woman is myne, for I haue first wonne her by the lawe: but if thou do not approue the lawe, thou hast no right to demaunde her, shee nowe being myne.”
The same Aulus Gellius tells a similar story, which he attributes to Pliny as the original source. He says there was a law in a certain city that whoever committed a brave act of arms could demand anything they wanted, and it would be granted to them. It happened that a certain person performed this heroic deed and requested that a man's wife (whom he loved dearly) be given to him. According to the law, the wife was delivered to him. Later, the man from whom his wife was taken performed a similar act and demanded that his wife be returned to him. He said to the one who had her: “If you want to follow the law, you have to give me back my wife, but even if you don’t like the law, you should still return her to me, as she is mine.” The other replied similarly: “If you follow the law, this woman is mine, because I won her first according to the law; but if you don’t approve of the law, you have no right to demand her, since she is now mine.”
THE TWENTY-SEUENTH NOUELL.
Seleucus king of Asia, gaue his wife to his owne sonne in mariage, being his mother in lawe: who so feruently did loue her, that he was like to die, whiche by a discrete and wyse inuention, was discouered to Seleucus by a Phisition.
Seleucus, king of Asia, gave his wife to his own son in marriage, making her his mother-in-law. This son loved her so passionately that he was about to die, and his feelings were revealed to Seleucus by a clever and wise physician.
Although the wyse Philosopher Plutarche, elegantly and brieflye describeth this historie, in the life of Demetrius: yet bicause Bandello aptlye and more at large doth discourse the same, I thought good to apply my pen to his stile. Who saith that Seleucus king of Babylon, a man verie victorious in battaile, was amongs the successors of Alexander the great, the moste happie and fortunate: He had a sonne called by his father’s name Antiochus. After the deceasse of his wife, his sonne increased and gaue great hope of valiaunce in future time, to become a valiant gentleman worthy of suche a father. And being ariued to XXIIII. yeres of age, it chaunced that his father fell in loue with a very faire yonge gentle woman, discended of great parentage (called Stratonica) whom he tooke to wife, and made her Queene, and by her had one sonne. Antiochus seing his mother in lawe, to be (besides her great beautie) a curteous and gentle Lady, began to be very amerous of her, whose hart war so set on fire (without apparent shew) that incredible it is to expresse the loue that he bare her. And yet he thought that loue to be vnnaturall because she was his father’s wife, and therefore durst not discouer it to any man. And the more secrete he kept it the more the heate began to boile and consume him. But bicause he sawe that loue had fixed so deepe footing, that he was not well able to retire, hee determined after long sorow and great turmoile, to seke some quiet hauen to reste his weather beaten barke, that had ben tossed with the waues of pensife and sorowfull cogitacions. His father had many kingdomes and Prouinces innumerable vnder his Empire. At whose handes Antiochus craued licence to visite some of them for his disport and recreation, of purpose to proue if he could auoide that vnseasonable loue, wherewith his hart was suppressed. But he was no 103 soner out of his father’s house, but his harte was vexed with greater tormentes then before, being depriued from the sight of faire Stratonica, whose presence did better content him, then all the pleasures and sportes of the worlde. Neuerthelesse, desirous to vanquishe his indurate affections, he continued abroade for a certaine time, during whiche space, vnable to quenche the fire, he led a more desolate and troublesome life, then he did before. In the end victorious loue toke him prisoner and caried him home againe to his father’s house. Who seing the great loue that his father bare to his wife, and the ioyfull tyme that hee spent with faire Stratonica, transported into many carefull panges, many times complained to him selfe in this wise. “Am I Antiochus the sonne of Seleucus? Am I he that my father loueth so well, honoreth so much, and estemeth better then al his realmes and dominions? Alas if I be Antiochus in deede, the sonne of so louing a father, where is the duetifull loue, and bounden reuerence that I ought to beare vnto him? Is this the duetie of a sonne towardes his father? Ah wretche and caitife that I am. Whether hath grosse affection, vayne hope, and blynde loue caried me? Can loue be so blynde? Shall I be so voyde of sence, that I know not my mother in law from an other woman who loueth me no lesse, and entertaigneth me so wel, as if she were mine own mother, that laboured with painful panges, to bring me into light? Which being true, as it is most true, why then do I loue her? nay rather more then loue her. Why doe I seke after her? What meane I to hope for her? Why doe I precipitate so fondlye into the snares of blynde and deceiptfull loue, and into the trappe of deceiptfull hope? Can I not perceyue that these desyres, these vnstayed appetites, and vnbrydeled affections, doe proceade from that whiche is dishonest? I see well enough that the waye I take leadeth mee into great inconuenience. And what reproche should I sustayne, if this vnreasonable loue were made common to the world? Ought not I rather to suffer infamous death, then to see my father depryued of suche a wyfe, whome hee so derely loueth? I wyll giue ouer this vnsemely loue, and reuerting my mynde to some other wyght, I wyll accomplishe the duetie of a good and louinge sonne towardes his father.” Reasoning thus with hym selfe, hee determyned wholly to giue ouer his enterpryse. 104 And hee had no soner purposed so to doe, but sodaynly the beautie of the Lady appeared, as it were in a vision, before the face of his mynde, and felte the flames to growe so hotte, as hee, vppon his knees, craued a thousande pardons of the louing God, for the abandoning of his gentle enterpryse. And therewithal contrarie imaginations began to ryse, whiche so contended with mutuall resistaunce, as they forced hym thus to saye. “Shall not I loue this Ladie, because shee is my fathers wife? Shall not I prosecute my suite, for all that shee is my mother in lawe? Ah cowarde, fayntharted, and worthy to bee crowned a Prince of follye, if therefore I should giue ouer my former mynde. Loue prescribeth no suche lawe to her suters as pollicie doth to man. Loue commaundeth the brother to loue the sister, loue maketh the doughter to loue the father, the brother his brothers wife, and many times the mother, her sonne in lawe: whiche being lawfull to other, is it not lawful to me? If my father being an old man, whose nature waxeth cold, hath not forgotten the lawes of loue, in louing her whom I loue: shal I being a yong man, subiect to loue, and inflamed with his passions, be blamed for louing her? And as I were not blame worthy, if I loued one that were not my fathers wife, so must I accuse Fortune, for that she gaue her not to wyfe to an other man, rather then to my father, bicause I loue her, and would haue loued her, whose wyfe so euer she had bene. Whose beautie (to say the trouth is such) whose grace and comelinesse so excellent, that shee is worthy to be receiued, honoured, and worshipped of all the worlde, I thinke it then conuenient for me to pursue my purpose, and to serue her aboue al other.” Thus this miserable louer, trauersing in seuerall mindes, and deluding his own fansie, chaunged his mynde a thousand times in an hower. In thende, after infinite disputations to him selfe, he gaue place to reason, considering the great disconuenience that would insue his disordinate loue. And yet not able to geue it ouer: And determining rather to die, then to yelde to such wicked loue or to discouer the same to any man. By litle and litle he consumed, as sleting snow against the warme Sone: wherwith he came to suche feble state, that he could neither slepe, nor eate, and was compelled to kepe his bedde, in suche wyse, that with superfluous paine he was brought 105 to marueylous debilitie. Whiche his father perceiuing, that loued him very tenderly, conceiued great griefe and sorowe: and sent for Erasistratus, (which was a very excellent Phisition and of great estimation) whom very instantly he praied diligently to loke vnto his sonne, and to prouide for him such remedie as was conuenient for the greatnesse of his disease. Erasistratus viewyng and beholding all the partes of the yonge gentlemans body, and perceiuing no signe of sickenes, eyther in his vrine or other accident, whereby hee coulde iudge his body to be diseased; after many discourses, gaue iudgement, that the same infirmitie proceaded from some passion of the mynde, whiche shortelye woulde coste hym his life.
Even though the wise philosopher Plutarch briefly and elegantly describes this story in the life of Demetrius, since Bandello discusses it more aptly and in greater detail, I thought it best to adopt his style. He says that Seleucus, king of Babylon, a man very victorious in battle, was among the successors of Alexander the Great, the most fortunate: He had a son named after his father, Antiochus. After the death of his wife, his son grew up and showed great promise of becoming a valiant gentleman worthy of such a father. When he reached the age of 24., it happened that his father fell in love with a very beautiful young woman, of great lineage (called Stratonica), whom he married and made queen, and by whom he had one son. Antiochus, seeing his mother-in-law to be (besides her great beauty) a courteous and gentle lady, began to become very enamored of her, his heart so ignited (hidden from all) that it’s incredible to express the love he bore her. Yet he deemed that love unnatural because she was his father's wife, and therefore dared not reveal it to anyone. The more he kept it secret, the more the heat began to boil and consume him. But because he saw that love had taken such deep root that he was hardly able to retreat, he decided after long sorrow and great turmoil to seek some quiet harbor to rest his weather-beaten vessel, which had been tossed by the waves of thoughtful and sorrowful contemplations. His father ruled over many kingdoms and countless provinces. From him, Antiochus requested permission to visit some of them for his amusement and recreation, intending to see if he could escape that untimely love that weighed heavily on his heart. But as soon as he was out of his father's house, his heart was tormented more than before, being deprived of the sight of fair Stratonica, whose presence pleased him more than all the pleasures and sports of the world. Nevertheless, eager to conquer his hardened affections, he remained abroad for a while, during which time, unable to quench the fire, he led a more miserable and troubled life than ever. In the end, victorious love took him prisoner and brought him back home to his father's house. Seeing the great love his father bore his wife and the joyful times he spent with fair Stratonica, he was filled with many painful pangs, and often complained to himself in this manner: “Am I Antiochus, the son of Seleucus? Am I he whom my father loves so dearly, honors so much, and values more than all his realms and dominions? Alas, if I am indeed Antiochus, the son of such a loving father, where is the dutiful love and bounden reverence I ought to bear toward him? Is this the duty of a son towards his father? Ah wretched and miserable me! Where has gross affection, vain hope, and blind love carried me? Can love be so blind? Am I so devoid of sense that I cannot distinguish my mother-in-law from another woman who loves me just as much and treats me so well as if she were my own mother, who endured painful labor to bring me into this world? If this is true, as it certainly is, then why do I love her? Nay, rather, why do I love her so much? Why do I seek her out? What do I hope for? Why do I foolishly plunge into the snares of blind and deceitful love and into the trap of deceptive hope? Can I not perceive that these desires, these unrestrained appetites, and unbridled affections arise from something dishonest? I see well enough that the path I take leads me into great inconvenience. And what disgrace should I endure if this unreasonable love were made public? Should I not rather suffer an infamous death than to see my father deprived of such a wife, whom he loves so dearly? I will give up this unseemly love, and turning my mind to some other person, I will fulfill the duty of a good and loving son toward my father.” Reasoning in this way with himself, he resolved entirely to abandon his pursuit. 104 And no sooner had he made this resolution than suddenly the beauty of the lady appeared, as if in a vision, before his mind's eye, and he felt the flames grow so hot that, kneeling, he begged a thousand pardons from the loving God for abandoning his gentle pursuit. And with that, contrary thoughts began to arise, which contended against each other in such a way that they forced him to say this: “Shall I not love this lady just because she is my father's wife? Shall I not pursue my suit simply because she is my mother-in-law? Ah, coward, faint-hearted, and deserving to be crowned a Prince of folly if I should abandon my previous intention for that reason. Love imposes no such laws on her suitors as strategy does on man. Love commands the brother to love the sister, love makes the daughter love the father, the brother his brother's wife, and often the mother her son-in-law: which being lawful for others, is it not lawful for me? If my father, being an old man whose nature grows cold, has not forgotten the laws of love, by loving her whom I love: shall I, being a young man, subject to love and inflamed by its passions, be blamed for loving her? And just as I would not be at fault if I loved someone who was not my father's wife, I must blame Fortune for giving her not to another man but to my father, since I love her and would have loved her no matter whose wife she had been. Whose beauty (truth be told) is such, whose grace and loveliness are so excellent, that she is worthy to be received, honored, and worshipped by everyone. I think it proper then for me to pursue my purpose, and to serve her above all others.” Thus this miserable lover, torn in many directions and deceiving his own fancy, changed his mind a thousand times in an hour. In the end, after endless arguments with himself, he yielded to reason, considering the great inconvenience that would arise from his disordered love. Yet, unable to let it go, he decided he preferred to die rather than succumb to such wicked love or to disclose it to anyone. Little by little, he faded away like melting snow in the warmth of the sun; until he reached such a weak state that he could neither sleep nor eat, and he was confined to bed, suffering so much pain that he was brought to astonishing debility. When his father, who loved him very dearly, noticed this, he felt great grief and sorrow: and sent for Erasistratus, (who was a very excellent physician and of great renown) whom he urgently asked to take care of his son and provide him with such remedies as were suitable for the seriousness of his condition. Erasistratus examined and inspected all the parts of the young gentleman’s body and found no sign of illness, either in his urine or any other aspect, that would indicate his body was diseased; after long discussions, he concluded that the ailment stemmed from some passion of the mind, which would soon cost him his life.
Whereof he aduertised Seleucus. Who louing his sonne after a fatherly maner, and speciallye, because he was indued with vertue and good condicions, was afflicted with vnspeakeable griefe. The yong gentleman was a marueilous towarde youth, so actiue and valiaunte as anye that liued in his tyme, and therewithall verie beautifull and comely. Whiche made hym to be beloued of all men. His father was continuall in his chamber, and the Queene her selfe oftentimes visited him, and with her own handes serued him with meates and drinkes: whiche bicause I am no Phisition, I knowe not whether the same did the yong man any pleasure, or whether it did him hurt or good. But I suppose, that her sight was ioyfull vnto hym, as of her in whom he had placed his comfort, all his hope, quietnesse, and delight. But beholding before his eyes so many times the beautie of her whome so greatly he desired to enioye, hearing her speake that was the cause of his death, and receiuing seruice of meates and drinkes at her handes whome he loued better then the balles of his eyes: vnto whom he durst not make any request or praier, whether his grief surmounted all other, and therefore continually pined and consumed, I thinke it of reason to be beleued. And who doubteth but that he feling him self to be touched with those her delicate handes, and seing her to sitte by him, and so many times for his sake to fetche so many syghes, and with suche swete woordes to bidde hym be of good chere, and that if he wanted any thing to tell her, and praied him with pleasaunt woordes, to call for that he 106 lacked, and that for his sake she would gladly accomplish what he desired: who douteth I say, but he was marueilously tormented with a thousande cogitations? Nowe conceiuing hope, and now dispaire, and still concluding with him selfe, rather to dye then to manifeste his loue. And if it bee a griefe to all yonge men, (be they of neuer so meane and base condicion) in theyr youthlye tyme, to lose their lyfe, what shall we thynke of Antiochus, beyng a younge man of freshe and flourishyng age, the sonne of a ryche and mightie kyng, that looked if hee escaped after the death of his father to bee heyre of all, did willingly craue death, of that small disease: I am assured that his sorowe was infinite. Antiochus then beaten with pitie, with loue, with hope, with desyre, with fatherly reuerence, and with a thousande other thynges (lyke a shyppe tossed in depest Seas) by litle and litle beganne to growe extremely sicke. Erasistratus that sawe his bodye whole and sounde, but his minde greuously weakened, and the same vanquished with sundrie passions. After hee had with him selfe considered this straunge case, hee for conclusion founde out that the yonge man was sicke of loue, and of none other cause. Moreouer he thought that many times, wise and graue men, through ire, hatred, disdaine, melancholie, and other affections, could easily faine and dissemble their passions, but loue if it be kept secrete, doth by the close keping therof, greater hurt then if it be made manifest. And albeit that of Antiochus he coulde not learne the cause of his loue, yet after that imagination was entred into his head, he purposed to finde it out by continual aboade with him, and by great diligence to obserue and marke all his actions: and aboue all to take hede to the mutacion of his poulces, and whereupon their beating did alter. This deliberation purposed, he sat downe by the bed side, and tooke Antiochus by the arme, and helde him faste where the poulses ordinarily do beate. It chaunced at that very instant, that the Queene Stratonica entred into the chamber, whom so sone as the yonge man sawe comming toward him, sodainly the poulse which were weake and feble, began to reuiue through mutation of the bloud. Erasistratus feling the renforcing of the poulce, to proue howe long it would continewe, he remoued not at the comming of the Queene, but still helde his 107 fingers vpon the beating of the poulces. So longe as the Queene continued in the chamber, the beating was quicke and liuely, but when she departed, it ceased, and the wonted weakenes of the poulces retourned. Not long after the Queene came againe into the chamber, who was no soner espied by Antiochus, but his poulces receiued vigor, and began to leape, and so still continued. When she departed the force and vigor of the poulce departed also. The noble phisition seing this mutation, and that still it chaunced vpon the presence of the Queene: hee thought that he had founde out the cause of Antiochus sickenesse: but he determined better to marke the same the next daye, to be the better assured. The morowe after, Erasistratus satte downe againe by the yonge gentleman and took him again by the arme, but his poulce made no motion at all. The king came to see his sonne, and yet for all that his poulces were still: and beholde the Queene came no soner in, but sodainly they reuiued, and yelded suche liuely mouing, as if you woulde haue sayde:--“Yonder is shee that setteth my harte on fyre. Beholde where she is that is my life and death.”--Then Erasistratus was wel assured and certaine that Antiochus was feruently inflamed with his mother in lawe, but that shame constrained him to conceale the hotte firebrandes that tormented him, and to keepe theim close and secrete. Certified of this opinion, before he would open the matter, he considered what way were best to geue knowledge therof to king Seleucus. And when hee had well debated of this matter, he deuised this waye: hee knew that Seleucus loued his wife beyonde measure, and also that Antiochus was so deare vnto him as his own life. Whereupon he thus sayde vnto the kyng. “Noble Seleucus, thy sonne is affected with a greuous maladie, and that (which is worse) I deme his sickenesse to be incurable.” At whiche woordes, the sorowefull father began to vtter pitifull lamentation, and bitterly to complayne of Fortune. To whome the Phisition sayde.--“If it please you (my Lorde) to vnderstande the occasion of his disease, this it is: The maladie that affecteth and languisheth your sonne, is Loue: and the loue of such a woman, which except he enioy, there is no remedie but death.” “Alas (quoth the kinge, weeping with bitter teares) and what woman is 108 shee, but that I maye procure her for him, which am kinge of all Asia, and am able with intreatie, money, giftes, or other pollicie whatsoeuer, to make her obediente and willinge to my sonnes requeste. Tell me onely the name of the woman, that I maye prouide for my sonnes health, yea, thoughe it coste me all my goodes and realme to, if otherwise shee cannot be gotten: for if he die what shall I doe with my kingdome.”
Wherefore he informed Seleucus. Who, loving his son in a fatherly way, and especially because he was endowed with virtue and good qualities, was filled with unspeakable grief. The young man was an extraordinary youth, as active and valiant as any who lived in his time, and he was very beautiful and handsome. This made him beloved by all. His father constantly stayed in his chamber, and the Queen herself often visited him, serving him food and drinks with her own hands. Since I am no physician, I can't say whether that brought the young man any pleasure or whether it harmed or helped him. But I believe that her presence was a joy to him, as she was the source of his comfort, hope, peace, and delight. Yet, seeing so many times before him the beauty of the one he so greatly desired to possess, hearing her speak—she being the cause of his death—and receiving food and drink from the hands of the one he loved more than his own eyesight, to whom he dared not make any request or prayer, suggests that his grief overwhelmed everything else, and thus he continually pined away. Who doubts that he, feeling himself touched by her delicate hands and seeing her seated beside him, so often sighed for his sake, uttered sweet words urging him to be cheerful, and told him to let her know if he needed anything, promising to fulfill his desires: who doubts, I say, that he was marvelously tormented by a thousand thoughts? Sometimes he conceived hope, and at other times despair, always concluding with himself that he would rather die than reveal his love. And if it is a grief to all young men, regardless of their humble or lowly status, during their youth, to lose their life, what can we say of Antiochus, being a young man of fresh and flourishing age, the son of a rich and mighty king, who expected, if he survived after his father's death, to inherit everything, but willingly sought death from this minor ailment? I am sure his sorrow was infinite. Antiochus, then battered by pity, love, hope, desire, fatherly reverence, and a thousand other things (like a ship tossed in deep seas), gradually began to grow extremely ill. Erasistratus, who saw his body whole and sound but his mind severely weakened and vanquished by various passions, after considering this strange case, concluded that the young man was suffering from love and nothing else. Moreover, he thought that many times wise and serious men, due to anger, hatred, disdain, melancholy, and other emotions, could easily feign and disguise their feelings, but love, if kept secret, does greater harm through its concealment than when revealed. And although he could not learn the cause of Antiochus's love, once that idea had settled in his mind, he resolved to find it out by staying with him constantly and closely observing all his actions, especially noting the change in his pulse and why their beating altered. With this resolution in mind, he sat down by the bedside, took Antiochus by the arm, and held him tight where the pulses typically beat. It happened that at that very moment, Queen Stratonica entered the chamber, and as soon as the young man saw her coming toward him, his weak and feeble pulse suddenly began to strengthen due to the change in his blood. Erasistratus, noticing the pulse quicken, held his fingers on the pulse to test how long it would last; he did not withdraw at the Queen's arrival but continued to monitor the beating. As long as the Queen stayed in the room, the pulse was strong and lively, but when she left, it ceased, and the usual weakness returned. Not long after, the Queen came back into the room, and as soon as Antiochus spotted her, his pulse regained vigor, began to leap, and continued to do so. When she left, the strength and vitality of his pulse diminished as well. The noble physician, witnessing this change and that it consistently correlated with the Queen's presence, thought he had discovered the cause of Antiochus's illness. Nevertheless, he decided to observe this further the next day to be more certain. The following morning, Erasistratus sat down again by the young gentleman and took him by the arm once more, but his pulse showed no reaction at all. The king came to see his son, yet even then, his pulses remained still. However, as soon as the Queen entered, they suddenly revived and resumed such lively movement that one might say: "There she is who sets my heart ablaze. Here is she who is my life and death." Then Erasistratus was firmly convinced that Antiochus was passionately in love with his mother-in-law, but that shame compelled him to hide the hot flames tormenting him and to keep them secret. Confirmed in this belief, before opening the matter, he considered how best to inform King Seleucus. After careful deliberation, he devised a plan: he knew that Seleucus loved his wife beyond measure and that Antiochus was as dear to him as his own life. Thus, he said to the king, "Noble Seleucus, your son is suffering from a serious illness, and what’s worse, I believe his condition is incurable." At these words, the sorrowful father began to express pitiful lamentations and bitterly complained about fortune. To this, the physician replied, "If you wish, my Lord, to understand the cause of his ailment, here it is: The illness that afflicts and weakens your son is love—and the love of such a woman that, unless he possesses her, he has no remedy but death." "Alas," said the king, weeping bitter tears, "who is this woman, so that I may procure her for him, being king of all Asia, capable of persuading her with entreaties, money, gifts, or whatever means to make her obedient and willing to fulfill my son’s request? Just tell me her name so I can provide for my son’s health, even if it costs me all my possessions and my kingdom, if she cannot otherwise be obtained: for if he dies, what shall I do with my kingdom?"
Whereunto Erasistratus aunswered. “If it like your grace, your sonne is in loue with my wife, but because the loue of another man’s wife seemeth vnto him vnreasonable, he dareth not to manifest it for shame, but rather wisheth to die, then to open his minde. Howbeit, I by certaine euidente signes, do well perceiue it.” When Seleucus hearde these words, he said. “O Erasistratus! thou being so worthie a man, to whom fewe in goodnesse and humilitie be comparable, so deare and wel beloued of mee, and beareth the bruite to be the very hauen and harborough of wisedome, wilt thou not saue my sonne, which is a yonge man, nowe vppon the floure of his youth, and most worthy of life: for whom the empyre of all Asia is worthely reserued? O Erasistratus! the sonne of thy frend Seleucus, is thy king, who through loue and silence, is at the pointe of death, thou seest that for modestie, and honestie sake, at this his last and doubtfull passage, he had rather chose to die, then by speaking to offend thee, and wilte thou not helpe him? This his silence, this discretion, that his reuerence which hee sheweth, oughte to moue thee to compassion. Thincke my wel beloued Erasistratus, that if he loue ardently, that he was forced to loue: for vndoubtedly, if he could not loue, he would doe the best he could not to loue: yea, and with all his endeauour to resist it: but who is able to prescribe lawes to loue? Loue I knowe, not onelye forceth men, but also commaundeth the immortal Gods: and when they be not able to resist, what can man’s pollicie preuaile? Wherefore, who knoweth not what pitie mine owne deare Antiochus doth deserue? who being constrained, can none otherwise do: but to be silent in loue, is a most euident signe of a noble and rare vertue. Dispose thy minde therefore, to helpe my sonne: for I assure thee that if thou do not loue the life of Antiochus, Seleucus life must needes be hated of thee: 109 he cannot be hurt, but I likewise muste be touched with griefe.” The wise Phisition, seing that his aduise came to passe as he thought before, and that Seleucus was so instant vpon him for the health of his sonne: the better to proue his minde and his intention, spake vnto him in this wise. “It is a common saying, my most dradde soueraigne Lord, that a man when he is whole, can giue to him that is sicke and weake, very good counsel. You perswade me to giue my welbeloued wife to another man, and to forgoe her whom I moste feruently doe loue, and in lackinge her, my life also must faile. If you do take from me my wyfe, you take with her my life. Doubtfull it is my Lord, if Antiochus your sonne were in loue with the queene Stratonica, your graces’ wyfe, whether you would be so liberall vnto him of her, as you woulde that I should be of mine.” “I would it were the pleasure of the Gods (sodenly aunswered Seleucus) that he were in loue with my best beloued Stratonica, I sweare vnto thee, by the reuerence that I haue always borne to the honourable memorie of my father Antiochus, and my graundfather Seleucus: and I sweare by all the sacred Gods, that freelye and forthwith, I would render her into his hands (althoughe shee be the dearest beloued vnto mee,) in suche wise as all the worlde should know what the dutie of a good and louing father ought to be to such a sonne, as is my intirely beloued Antiochus: whoe (if I bee not deceiued) is moste worthie of all helpe and succour. Alas! this is a great vertue, in concealing that notable passion as an earnest affection of loue: and is it not worthie to be consecrated to eternall memorie? Is he not worthie of all helpe and comfort? Doth hee not deserue to be pitied and lamented of all the worlde? Trulye he is worse then a cruel enemie, naye he is rather more fierce and vnnatural then a sauage beast, that at such moderate behauiour as my sonne vseth, wil not take compassion.” Many other wordes the good father spake, manifestly declaring, that he for the health of his sonne, would not onely sticke to bestowe his wife, but also willingly his lyfe for his preseruation. Wherefore the Phisition thought it not good any longer to keepe secrete the cause, but toke the king aside, and said vnto him in this wyse. “The health of your sonne (my deare Lorde and Soueraigne) is not in my handes, but the 110 same resteth in you, and in your wife Stratonica: whom (as I, by certaine signes doe manifestly know,) he ardentlie doth loue. Your grace now doth knowe from henceforth what to do, if his life be dere vnto you.” And telling the king the maner of his loue, he ioyfully toke his leaue. The king now doubted but of one thing, which was how to perswade his sonne to take Stratonica to wife: and howe to exhorte his wyfe, to take his sonne to husbande. But it chaunced for diuers causes, that easelye ynough he perswaded them both. And perchaunce, Stratonica made a good exchaunge, in taking a yong man, to forsake him that was olde. After Seleucus had made the accord betwene his wife and his sonne, he caused al his army to assemble, which was very great: to whom he said in this maner. “My dere and louinge souldiours, which sith the death of Alexander the great, haue (with mee) atchieued a thousande glorious enterprises: I thincke it meete and conueniente that yee be partakers of that which I purpose to bringe to passe. Ye doe knowe that vnder mine Empyre, I have LXXII. kingdomes, and that I beinge an olde man, am not able to attende so greate a charge: wherefore (louinge companions) I purpose to deliuer and ridde you from griefe of idlenesse, and my selfe from trouble and toyle, reseruing to mee onely so much as lyeth betweene the Sea and the riuer Euphrates. All the rest of my dominions I giue to my sonne Antiochus, vppon whom in marriage, I haue bestowed my wife Stratonica, which thinge ought to contente you, because my will and pleasure is such.” And when he had tolde them the loue and sicknes of his sonne, and the discrete deuise of the gentle Phisition, in the presence of all his armie, the mariage was celebrated betwene Stratonica and Antiochus. Afterwards he crowned them both kinge and Queene of Asia, and with royall pompe and triumphe, the desired mariage was consummate. The armye hearing and seing these thinges, very highly commended the pietie of the father towards his sonne. Antiochus then continued with his welbeloued wife in ioy and quietnes, liuing together in great felicitie. This was not hee that for matters of Ægipt did make warres with the Romaines: but he that onely inferred warres vpon the Gallatians, which out of Europa passed into Asia, out of which 111 countrie hee chased them, and ouercame them. Of this Antiochus came Seleucus, which was father of Antiochus surnamed the great, that attempted very notable warres against the Romaines, and not his great graundfather, that maried his mother in law. Finally this Seleucus (of whom I recompt this historie) by giuing his wife to his sonne, did accomplish a miraculous act, and worthy (in deede) of sempiternall remembraunce, and greatlye to bee commended therefore, who although he had achieued infinite victories ouer his enemies, yet there was none of them all so great as the victorie of himselfe, and his passions. For certainly Seleucus did vanquish his owne appetites, by depriuing himselfe of his wife, whom hee loued and esteemed, aboue all worldly thinges.
Erasistratus replied, “If it pleases you, Your Grace, your son is in love with my wife, but since loving another man's wife seems unreasonable to him, he is too ashamed to express it and would rather die than reveal his feelings. However, I can tell from certain clear signs that he is indeed in love.” When Seleucus heard this, he said, “Oh, Erasistratus! You, being such a worthy man, comparable to few in goodness and humility, dear and beloved to me, who is renowned as the very haven of wisdom, will you not save my son, who is a young man, now in the prime of his youth, and most deserving of life — for whom the empire of all Asia is rightfully reserved? Oh, Erasistratus! Your friend Seleucus' son is your king, who, through love and silence, is on the brink of death. You see that for the sake of modesty and honesty, at this final and uncertain moment, he would rather choose to die than offend you by speaking. Will you not help him? His silence, his discretion, this respect he shows should move you to compassion. Think, my beloved Erasistratus, if he loves deeply, he was forced to love; for undoubtedly, if he couldn't love, he would surely do everything possible not to love and resist it with all his might. But who can dictate the laws of love? Love, as I know, not only compels men but also commands the immortal gods; when they cannot resist, what can human strategy achieve? Therefore, who does not understand the pity my dear Antiochus deserves? Bound by love, he can do no other than remain silent, yet being silent in love is a clear sign of a noble and rare virtue. So, prepare your mind to help my son: for I assure you that if you do not love Antiochus’s life, you must hate Seleucus’s life, for if he cannot be harmed, I too must be touched with grief.” The wise physician, seeing that his predictions were coming true and that Seleucus was so insistent on his son’s health, spoke to him in this manner. “It is a common saying, my most revered sovereign Lord, that a healthy man can give good advice to the sick and weak. You urge me to give my beloved wife to another man and to forsake her whom I love most ardently, and without her, my life will surely fail. If you take my wife from me, you take my life as well. It is doubtful, my Lord, if Antiochus, your son, were in love with Queen Stratonica, your wife, whether you would willingly give him her hand as you are asking me to give mine.” “I wish it were the will of the gods,” Seleucus suddenly replied, “that he were in love with my cherished Stratonica! I swear to you, by the respect I have always held for the honorable memory of my father Antiochus and my grandfather Seleucus, and by all the sacred gods, that I would immediately and freely give her into his hands, even though she is the dearest to me, in such a way that the whole world would see what a good and loving father should do for such a son as my deeply beloved Antiochus, who (if I am not mistaken) is most worthy of all help. Alas! This is a great virtue, hiding that notable passion as a genuine feeling of love. Is it not worthy of eternal remembrance? Is he not deserving of all help and comfort? Does he not merit compassion and lament from everyone? Truly, he is worse than a cruel enemy; nay, he is fiercer and more unnatural than a savage beast, who would not feel compassion for such moderate behavior as my son displays.” The good father spoke many other words, clearly declaring that for the sake of his son’s health, he would not only give up his wife but willingly his life for his well-being. Thus, the physician thought it unwise to keep the cause a secret any longer, so he took the king aside and said to him, “The health of your son (my dear Lord) is not in my hands, but lies with you and your wife Stratonica: whom (as I have clearly understood) he ardently loves. Your Grace now knows what to do, if his life is dear to you.” After explaining the manner of his love, he joyfully took his leave. The king was now concerned only about one thing: how to persuade his son to take Stratonica as his wife, and how to encourage his wife to accept his son as a husband. But, for various reasons, he easily persuaded them both. Perhaps Stratonica made a good choice in taking a young man over an old one. After Seleucus arranged the agreement between his wife and son, he gathered his large army, to whom he said, “My dear and loving soldiers, who since the death of Alexander the Great have achieved a thousand glorious enterprises with me, I believe it is fitting that you share in what I am about to bring to pass. You know that under my empire, I have seventy-two kingdoms, and as an old man, I am unable to manage such great responsibility. Therefore (loving companions), I intend to relieve you from the burden of idleness and myself from trouble and toil, reserving only as much as lies between the sea and the river Euphrates to myself. I give all the rest of my dominion to my son Antiochus, upon whom I have bestowed my wife Stratonica, which should please you, as my will and pleasure is such.” And after telling them about his son’s love and illness, and the wise plan of the gentle physician, in front of all his army, the marriage between Stratonica and Antiochus was celebrated. Later, he crowned them both King and Queen of Asia, and with royal pomp and triumph, the longed-for marriage was consummated. The army, witnessing these events, praised the father’s piety toward his son highly. Antiochus then enjoyed his beloved wife in joy and peace, living together in great happiness. This was not the Antiochus who waged wars with the Romans over matters in Egypt but the one who fought only against the Galatians, who crossed from Europe into Asia, from which country he drove them out and overcame them. From this Antiochus, Seleucus came, who was the father of Antiochus nicknamed the Great, that waged notable wars against the Romans, and not his great-grandfather, who married his mother-in-law. Finally, this Seleucus (about whom I recount this story) achieved a miraculous act by giving his wife to his son — an act worthy of eternal remembrance and greatly commendable, for even though he had achieved countless victories over his enemies, none of those victories were greater than the victory over himself and his desires. For certainly, Seleucus conquered his own appetites by giving up his wife, whom he loved and valued above all worldly things.
THE TWENTY-EIGHTH NOUELL.
Of the straunge and beastlie nature of Timon of Athens, enemie to mankinde, with his death, buriall, and Epitaphe.
Of the strange and beastly nature of Timon of Athens, enemy to mankind, with his death, burial, and epitaph.
Al the beastes of the worlde do applye theimselues to other beastes of theyr kind, Timon of Athens onely excepted: of whose straunge nature Plutarche is astonied, in the life of Marcus Antonius. Plato and Aristophanes do report his marueylous nature, because hee was a man but by shape onely, in qualities hee was the capitall enemie of mankinde, which he confessed franckely vtterly to abhorre and hate. He dwelt alone in a litle cabane in the fieldes not farre from Athenes, separated from all neighbours and company: he neuer wente to the citie, or to any other habitable place, except he were constrayned: he could not abide any mans company and conuersation: he was neuer seen to goe, to any mannes house, ne yet would suffer them to come to him. At the same time there was in Athenes another of like qualitie, called Apemantus, of the very same nature, differente from the naturall kinde of man, and lodged likewise in the middes of the fields. On a day they two being alone together at dinner, Apemantus said vnto him: “O Timon what a pleasant feast is this, and what a merie companie are wee, being no more but thou and I.” “Naie (quoth Timon) it would be a merie banquet in deede, if there were none here but my selfe.”
Al the animals in the world tend to stick with others of their kind, except for Timon of Athens. Plutarch is astonished by his strange nature in the life of Marcus Antonius. Plato and Aristophanes talk about his remarkable character, noting that he was only a man in appearance; in qualities, he was the ultimate enemy of humankind, which he openly confessed to despise and hate. He lived alone in a small cabin in the fields not far from Athens, isolated from all neighbors and company. He never went to the city or any other populated area unless he had to; he couldn’t stand anyone's company or conversation. He was never seen going to anyone's house and wouldn't allow anyone to come to him. At the same time, there was another person in Athens with a similar disposition, named Apemantus, who shared the same nature and lived in the fields as well. One day, the two of them were alone together at dinner, and Apemantus said to him: “Oh Timon, what a delightful feast this is, and what a joyful company we have, just you and me.” “No,” Timon replied, “it would actually be a merry banquet if I were the only one here.”
Wherein he shewed how like a beast (in deede) he was: for he could not abide any other man, beinge not able to suffer the company of him, which was of like nature. And if by chaunce hee happened to goe to Athenes, it was onelye to speake with Alcibiades, who then was an excellente Captaine there, wherat many did marueile: and therefore Apemantus demaunded of him, why he spake to no man, but to Alcibiades. “I speake to him sometimes, said Timon, because I know that by his occasion, the Atheniens shall receiue great hurt and trouble.” Which wordes many times he told to Alcibiades himselfe. He had a 113 garden adioyning to his house in the fields, wherin was a Figge tree, wheruppon many desperate men ordinarily did hange themselues: in place whereof, he purposed to set vp a house, and therefore was forced to cutte it downe, for which cause hee went to Athenes, and in the markette place, hee called the people about him, saying that hee had newes to tell them: when the people vnderstoode that he was about to make a discourse vnto them, which was wont to speake to no man, they marueiled, and the citizens on euery parte of the citie, ranne to heare him: to whom he saide, that he purposed to cutte downe his Figge tree, to builde a house vpon the place where it stoode. “Wherefore (quoth he) if there be any man amonges you all in this company, that is disposed to hange himselfe, let him come betimes, before it be cutte downe.” Hauing thus bestowed his charitie amonges the people, hee retourned to his lodging, wher he liued a certaine time after, without alteration of nature; and because that nature chaunged not in his life time, he would not suffer that death should alter, or varie the same. For like as he liued a beastly and chorlish life, euen so he required to haue his funerall done after that maner. By his last will, he ordeined himselfe to be interred vpon the sea shore, that the waues and surges might beate and vexe his dead carcas. Yea, and that if it were possible, his desire was to be buried in the depth of the Sea: causing an Epitaphe to be made, wherin was described the qualities of his brutishe life. Plutarche also reporteth an other to be made by Calimachus, much like to that which Timon made himselfe, whose owne soundeth to this effect in Englishe Verse.
Where he showed how much like a beast he was, because he couldn't stand the company of anyone else, being unable to tolerate someone of the same nature. And if by chance he happened to go to Athens, it was only to talk to Alcibiades, who was a great captain there, which left many people puzzled. So, Apemantus asked him why he only spoke to Alcibiades. “I speak to him sometimes,” said Timon, “because I know that because of him, the Athenians will suffer great harm and trouble.” He often told those words directly to Alcibiades himself. He had a garden next to his house in the fields, where there was a fig tree, on which many desperate men usually hanged themselves. He intended to build a house in that spot, and so he had to cut it down. For this reason, he went to Athens, and in the marketplace, he gathered the people around him, saying that he had news to share. When the people understood that he, who usually never spoke to anyone, was going to address them, they were amazed, and citizens from all parts of the city rushed to hear him. He told them that he planned to cut down his fig tree to build a house where it stood. “Therefore,” he said, “if there’s anyone among you who wants to hang himself, come quickly before it gets cut down.” Having shared this bit of charity with the people, he returned to his lodging, where he lived for some time afterward, without changing his nature. And because he didn’t change during his lifetime, he wouldn’t allow death to alter or vary it. Just as he lived a beastly and rude life, he wanted his funeral to be carried out in that manner. In his last will, he ordered himself to be buried on the seashore, so the waves could beat against and torment his dead body. He even desired, if possible, to be buried in the depths of the sea, having an epitaph made that described the qualities of his brutish life. Plutarch also reports that another epitaph was created by Calimachus, very similar to the one Timon made himself, whose own sounds like this in English verse.
My wretched catife dayes,
expired now and past:
My miserable days are over and gone:
My carren corps intered here,
is fast in grounde:
My career's body is buried here,
is firmly in the ground:
In waltring waues of swel-
ling Sea, by surges cast,
In rolling waves of a swelling sea, cast by surges,
My name if thou desire,
The Gods thee doe confounde.
My name if you want,
The Gods will confuse you.
THE TWENTY-NINTH NOUELL.
The mariage of a man and woman, hee being the husband of xx. wiues: and shee the wife of xxii. husbandes.
The marriage of a man and woman, with him being the husband of 20 wives and her being the wife of 22 husbands.
Men commonly do reproue the honour of widowes, because they being twise or thrise wedded, doe marrie againe: and albeit by outward apparaunce, they which soe blame them seeme to haue reason, yet no man ought to iudge the secrecie of the hart. Mariage is holy and ought be permitted, and therfore by any meanes not to be reproued. Although it cannot be denied, but that the chast life is most perfecte, notwithstanding, that perfection in nothing doth diminishe the other. The widowe marying againe doth not offende God by mariage, and to the world she committeth the lest faulte. And because, manye olde and aunciente widowes, in these dayes, may not after three or fower mariages be dismaied and terrified from that state, I will recite an Historie, auouched by S. Hierome, in an Epistle Ad Gerontiam viduam de monogamia, whom for his holines and vertue, wee ought to beleue. It is also pretely set forth by Pietro Messia de Seuiglia, an excellent authour, a gentleman of Spaine, in the 34 Chapter of the first parte of his worke, called La Selua di varie Lezzioni. S. Hierome sayth, that in the time of Pope Damasus, he sawe and knew in Rome, one woman lawfully maried to XXII. men, and was the widowe of XXII. husbands: there was also a man which had had XX. wiues, and was then the widower of the XX. Both which being free, and of equall state and condition, they made suite one to other: and that either of them might proue whether should be the victor, in buryinge ech other, they maried together, which mariage was in great admiration amonges the Romaines: who musinge which of them should die first, promised that at the funerall, they would beautie the corpes, both with their presence, and also with tokens of victorie. It chaunced (sore against her will I dare say) that the woman died first. At the celebration of whose buriall, all the Romaine husbandes laied their heades together, howe they mighte 115 exornate and garnish the funeralles. They concluded, to goe before the corpes with Laurel garlands vppon their heades, singing verses of praise for the obtaining of such a victorious conquest. Now where the women went, I cannot tell: for I finde written, that populus totius vrbis præcedebat feretrum; wher populus, as I take it, signifieth the whole route of men and women. And yet I thincke womens’ hartes coulde skarce aforde to go before: therefore I thincke they came behinde like mourners, bearinge braunches without leaues, their beades in their handes, praying for all christen soules. But giuing women leaue to mourne for such an ouerthrow, I woulde wishe all my frendes that be widowes, to folow the noble Romaine matrone and widowe called Annia, who (when her frendes and familiers, exhorted her to marie againe, because She was yong and beautifull) aunsweared that she would not. “For, quoth she, if it be my fortune to haue a good husband, as I had before, I shall still be afraied, lest death should take him away: but if it be my chaunce to matche with one that is euill, howe can I be able quietly to beare that, hauing had so good a husbande before.” Declaringe thereby, that being ones well matched, great heede ought to be taken, how to chose the nexte, leaste in making hastie choise, leasure for repentaunce should folow.
Guys often criticize the honor of widows because they have been married two or three times and marry again. While those who criticize them seem to have a point on the surface, no one should judge the secrets of the heart. Marriage is sacred and should be accepted; therefore, it should not be criticized in any way. Although it's true that a chaste life is the most perfect, that perfection does not diminish the value of other choices. A widow who marries again does not offend God through marriage, and she makes the least mistake in the eyes of the world. Many older and seasoned widows today should not be discouraged or frightened from this state after three or four marriages. I will share a story confirmed by St. Jerome in a letter Ad Gerontiam viduam de monogamia, which is credible due to his holiness and virtue. This account is also well presented by Pietro Messia de Sevilla, an excellent author and gentleman from Spain, in Chapter 34 of the first part of his work called La Selva di varie Lezzioni. St. Jerome mentions that during the time of Pope Damasus, he saw and knew in Rome one woman who was lawfully married to XXII. men and was the widow of XXII. husbands. There was also a man who had XX. wives and was then the widower of the XX. Both of them, being free and of equal status, pursued each other. To see who would be the victor in burying each other, they married, and this marriage was greatly admired among the Romans, who wondered which of them would die first, promising that at the funeral, they would honor the body with their presence and tokens of victory. It happened (though I dare say against her will) that the woman died first. At her funeral, all the Roman husbands huddled together to figure out how they could decorate and beautify the burial. They decided to walk in front of the corpse with laurel garlands on their heads, singing praise for having achieved such a victorious conquest. Now, I don’t know where the women went, as it is written that populus totius urbis præcedebat feretrum; where populus seems to signify the entire crowd of men and women. Yet, I think the women’s hearts could hardly bear to go ahead, so I believe they followed behind like mourners, carrying branches without leaves and their beads in their hands, praying for all Christian souls. But while allowing women to mourn for such a loss, I would wish all my friends who are widows to follow the example of the noble Roman matron and widow named Annia, who, when her friends urged her to marry again because she was young and beautiful, responded that she would not. “For,” she said, “if I happen to have a good husband like I had before, I will always be afraid death will take him away too; but if I chance to marry someone who is bad, how can I bear that, having had such a good husband before?” This shows that after being well matched once, great care should be taken in choosing the next partner, lest a hasty decision lead to regret later.
THE THIRTYETH NOUELL.
How Melchisedech a iewe, by telling a pretie tale of three kinges, saued his life.
How Melchizedek escaped, by telling a clever story about three kings, saved his life.
Saladine, whose valiaunce was so great, that not onely the same from base estate aduaunced him to be Souldan of Babilon, but also thereby hee wanne diuers victories ouer the Saracene kinges and christians: who throughe his manifolde warres and magnificent triumphes, hauing expended al his treasure, and for th’execution of one exploite, lackinge a great summe of money, knewe not where to haue the same so redily as he had occasion to imploy it. At length he called to remembraunce a rich iewe named Melchisedech, that lent out money for interest in Alexandria, whose greedie and couetous nature was such, that with his good will he would not do it, and to force him the Souldan was very loth. Howbeit, compelled by necessity, he cast his wits about him to finde a meanes how the iew might serue his tourne, and thereuppon founde out a sleight and waye by a colourable force. Who causing the iew to be called before him, intertayned him familiarly, making him to sit downe besides him, and said to him these words. “Sir, I do learne by report of diuers, that you are verye wise and well learned in thinges touching God, for which cause I would gladly know of you which of the three lawes you iudge to be most sincere and true: the Iewishe law, the Saracene law, or the Christian lawe?” The Iewe which in deede was very wise, perceiued wel that Saladine went about to intrappe him in wordes, thereby to raise some quarell against him, and thought that it was not good for him to praise one of those lawes more then another, leste Saladine mighte take aduauntage of him. Wherefore, to make a wise and discrete aunswere that he might not be ouer shotte, he sharpened his wittes, and sodainly came into His remembraunce this aunswere. “My Lorde, the question which you haue proponed is excellent, and to declare vnto you that which I knowe, I muste tell you a tale, the better to open my meaninge, which if 117 it shall please you to heare, is this. I doe remember (if I be not deceiued) that many times I haue heard tell, how vppon a time there was a Noble man which was very rich, and had amonges his other treasures, a verye beautifull ringe of great price and estimation: which for the valour and beautie, hee was very desirous perpetually, to leaue vnto his successors: willing and ordeining that the same sonne which should haue that ring by the gift of his father, after his decease, should be taken and reputed for his heire, and should be honoured and magnified of the reste as the chiefest. He to whom the same ring was left, obserued semblable order in his posteritie, and did the like that his predecessor had done before him. In short time, this Ryng succeded from hand to hand to many successors. And last of al it came to the hand of one that had three goodly sonnes, vertuous and very obedient to their father, who loued them all indifferently and in equall maner, which knowing the order for the disposition of that Ring, curious to be best esteemed and beloued, euery of them prayed his father so well as seuerally they could, (which then was aged) that when hee died he would giue him the Ring. The good man which loued one no better then another, knew not which of them to chose, to whom he might dispose it, and thought best to promise the same to euery of them to satisfie all three. Secretely he procured an excellente Goldsmith to make two other Rings, which accordinglye were made so like vnto the first, as the owner himselfe vnnethes knew one from the other. And when he was vpon his death bedde, he secretly gaue to euery of his sonnes a Ring. Who after the death of their father desirous to enter the inheritaunce and honour, one goinge about to displace another, euery of them to declare what title he had to enioy the same, brought forth his Ringe: and the ringes were founde so like, that the true Ring could not be knowen. Therefore the processe for the title remained in doubt and yet continueth till this daye. And so I say vnto you my Lord of the thre lawes giuen by God the father to those three people, whereof you haue made the question: euery of those Nations thinketh to enioy the inheritaunce of God, and to obserue the true lawe and his commaundementes: but which of them hath the truest law, that remaineth in doubt like 118 the question of the Rings.” Saladine perceyuing that Melchisedech knew right well how to auoide the snare which hee had laied for him: determined therefore to open and disclose vnto him his necessitie, to proue if he would do him that pleasure: which hee did, telling him his intent and meaninge, if he had not framed him that wyse aunsweare. The Iewe liberally lent him the summe of moneye that he demaunded, which Saladine wholie repaied vnto him againe, besides other very great rewardes that he gaue him, vsing him still for his frende, and afterwards maintayned him next his person, in great and honourable state.
Saladin, whose bravery was so exceptional that he rose from a low status to become the Sultan of Babylon, also won various victories over the Saracen kings and Christians. Due to his numerous wars and magnificent triumphs, having spent all his wealth, he found himself needing a large sum of money for a particular endeavor and didn’t know where to obtain it quickly. Eventually, he remembered a wealthy Jew named Melchisedech, who lent out money for interest in Alexandria. Melchisedech was greedy and wouldn't lend willingly, and the Sultan was reluctant to force him. However, pressed by necessity, Saladine thought of a way to make the Jew help him, and devised a clever scheme. He summoned the Jew to him, welcomed him warmly, and made him sit beside him, then said, “Sir, I’ve heard from various people that you are very wise and knowledgeable about matters concerning God. For this reason, I would like to know which of the three laws you believe is the most genuine and true: the Jewish law, the Saracen law, or the Christian law?” The Jew, who was indeed very wise, realized that Saladine was trying to trap him with words to create a conflict, so he thought it wise not to praise any one of those laws above the others, lest Saladine take advantage of him. Thus, to craft a clever and discreet response that would keep him safe, he quickly remembered this answer. “My Lord, the question you pose is excellent, and to convey my understanding, I must tell you a story to clarify my meaning, if it pleases you to listen. I recall (if I’m not mistaken) that I’ve heard how, once upon a time, there was a nobleman who was very rich and among his treasures had a beautiful ring of great value and esteem. He valued this ring’s beauty so much that he wanted to pass it down to his heirs, establishing that the son who received it as a gift from him after his death would be recognized as his heir and honored by others as the greatest. Whoever received the ring followed the same practice with his descendants, doing as his predecessor had before him. Before long, this ring was passed down through many heirs. Eventually, it came to a man who had three fine sons, virtuous and very obedient to their father, who loved them all equally. Knowing about the way the ring should be passed down, each of them asked their aging father, as best as they could, to give it to him when he died. The good man, who loved none better than the others, didn’t know which son to choose for the gift and decided it would be best to promise it to each of them to satisfy all three. Secretly, he had an excellent goldsmith make two other rings that were crafted so similarly to the original that even the owner could hardly tell them apart. When he was on his deathbed, he secretly gave each of his sons a ring. After their father’s death, eager to claim the inheritance and honor, they began to dispute among themselves, each presenting their ring to assert their claim. The rings were found to be so alike that the true ring could not be identified. Thus, the matter of ownership remains uncertain even to this day. So I say to you, my Lord, regarding the three laws given by God the Father to those three peoples, each of these nations believes they are entitled to God's inheritance and to uphold the true law and its commandments; but which one possesses the truest law remains uncertain, much like the question of the rings.” Saladine, realizing that Melchisedech was quite adept at avoiding the trap he had set, decided to confide in him about his need, to see if he would assist him. This he did, sharing his intent and purpose after Melchisedech had crafted such a wise response. The Jew generously lent him the money he requested, which Saladine fully repaid, along with significant additional rewards, continuing to treat him as a friend and later keeping him close by in a position of great honor.
THE THIRTY-FIRST NOUELL.
One called Guglielmo Borsiere with certaine wordes well placed, taunted the couetous life of Ermino Grimaldi.
One named Guglielmo Borsiere cleverly mocked the greedy life of Ermino Grimaldi.
Longe sithens there was a gentleman at Genoua called M. Ermino Grimaldi, whoe as all men thoughte, was the richest of possessions and ready money within that citie, and therin farre excelled all other citizens which then were knowen in Italie. And as he did surpasse al other Italians in substance and wealth, so in auarice and wretchednes he surmounted beyond measure the most couetous and miserable of the worlde. For he kept his purse so close that he did not onely neglecte to do good to other, but also to himselfe, by sparinge many things necessary for his owne person: he indured much hardnes in meate and drinke because he would spend nothinge: contrary to the common custome of the Geneuois, who be wonte very nobly and honourably to maintaine themselues in apparell and fare. For which cause his surname Grimaldi deseruedly was taken away, and was called of euery man nothing els but M. Ermino the couetous. It chaunced in those dayes, that as he by spending nothing multiplied his goods. There ariued at Genoua an honest gentleman and well spoken, a Courtier of good interteignement, named Guglielmo Borsiere, (nothing like the Courtiers in these dayes that to their great shame, for their corrupt and rude maners would be called and reputed gentlemen, which in deede maye bee counted Asses, broughte vppe and noseled rather in the filthye conditions of the vilest menne, then in Courtes.) In those dayes Courtiers occupied themselues, in treatinge of peace and endinge of quarelles that bredde strife and dissention amonges gentlemen, or in makinge of mariages, amities, and attonementes, and with mery woordes and pleasaunt, did recreate troubled mindes, and exhilarated with pastimes other Courtiers, not with sharpe reprehensions, but like fathers rebuking the liues of the wicked, and that for no gaine or reward. Where some of the Courtiers of oure age do imploye their time, in ill reportes 120 one of another, and do disseminate debate and strife, vtteringe a thousande vnhappie and vile wordes, yea and that (which is worst of all) in common audience. Their maner is to reproue and checke one an other with iniuries, reproches and nipping girdes, with false and deceiuable flatteries, villanously and dissemblingly, to begile poore and needie gentlemen. He is also the proprest man and best beloued of some great men of like conditions, and of them is best rewarded that can vse the vilest and most abhominable talke, or can do semblable deeds, which redoundeth to the great shame and dishonour, of the chiefe and principall that beare the swaie in Courte: proofe wherof is euident enough for that the vertues past, haue forsaken the presente sort, who liue in the ordure and filth of all vices. But to procede in that which I haue begon, (although vpon iust occasion I haue a litle more digressed then I thought,) I say that the foresaid Guglielmo Borsiere, was honoured and visited of the gentlemen of Genoua, who making his abode for a certaine time in the Citie, and hearing tel of the miserie and couetousnes of M. Ermino, had great desire to see him. M. Ermino hearing tell that this Guglielmo Borsiere was an excellente man, and therefore (although a couetous man) yet hauing in him some sparke of gentilitie, he receiued him with friendlye woords and good countenaunce, entringe into communication with him of diuers and sundrie matters, and in talking brought him with certaine other Citizens to one of his houses which was very faire and newe, where (after hee had shewed him his house) he said vnto him: “M. Guglielmo, you that haue seene and heard many things, can you shew vnto me any new deuise neuer seene before, that I may cause the same to be painted in the hall of this my house.” To whom M. Guglielmo (hearing his fonde demaunde) aunsweared: “Sir I can shewe you nothing but that which hath beene knowen before, excepte Nesinges or such like. But if it please you sir I wil gladly teach you one, which I thincke you neuer saw.” M. Ermino glad to heare of that, said: “I pray you sir tell mee what it is,” (not thinking he would haue made that aunswere). To whom M. Guglielmo redely said: “Cause the figure of Liberality to be painted.” At which aunsweare M. Ermino was so sodenlye ashamed, as he was forced 121 to chaunge his minde in maner cleane contrarye to his accustomed vse, and trade of life, saying: “M. Guglielmo, I will cause the same to be painted in such wise, as neither you nor any man els, shall haue occasion iustly to obiect the same against me.” And from that time forth (such was the force of that taunt) hee was the most liberall and bountefull gentleman that dwelte in Genoua, and one that honoured straungers and citizens more then euer did any in his time.
Long ago, there was a gentleman in Genoa named M. Ermino Grimaldi, who many believed was the wealthiest man in terms of possessions and cash in that city, far surpassing all other known citizens in Italy at that time. And while he outshone all other Italians in riches, he also exceeded everyone in greed and misery beyond measure. He kept his purse so tightly that he not only neglected to help others but also himself, depriving himself of many necessities for his own well-being: he endured much hardship with food and drink because he refused to spend any money, which was contrary to the usual custom of the Genoese, who were known to maintain themselves in fine clothing and good living. For this reason, his surname Grimaldi was justly stripped from him, and everyone referred to him simply as M. Ermino the greedy. In those days, as he increased his wealth by not spending, an honorable gentleman arrived in Genoa, well-spoken and a charming courtier named Guglielmo Borsiere—nothing like the courtiers of today who, to their shame, are considered gentlemen while actually behaving like fools, raised more amongst the vile than in courts. In those times, courtiers engaged in discussing peace and resolving disputes that caused strife among gentlemen, or in forming marriages, friendships, and reconciliations, using kind words and pleasant manners to uplift troubled minds and amuse their fellow courtiers, not through harsh criticisms, but like fathers correcting the lives of the wicked without seeking any gain or reward. Meanwhile, some courtiers in our age spend their time spreading gossip about one another, inciting debate and conflict, uttering a thousand unfortunate and vile words, and most shamefully, in a public setting. Their behavior involves rebuking and criticizing each other with insults, reproaches, and sharp jests, alongside deceitful flattery, villainously tricking poor and needy gentlemen. Those courtiers are often favored and best rewarded by powerful individuals of similar conduct, especially those who can engage in the most despicable and disgusting conversations or carry out similar acts, which greatly shame the leaders of the court. This evidence shows that the past virtues have abandoned the current ones, who live in the filth of all vices. But to return to what I was saying (although I have strayed a bit more than I intended), I must say that the aforementioned Guglielmo Borsiere was honored and visited by the gentlemen of Genoa. He spent some time in the city, and after hearing about M. Ermino's greed and misery, he felt a strong desire to meet him. When M. Ermino heard that this Guglielmo Borsiere was an excellent man, he welcomed him with friendly words and a good demeanor, engaging him in conversation about various matters, and in their discussions, brought him along with some other citizens to one of his very fine and newly built houses, where (after showing him around) he said: “M. Guglielmo, you who have experienced and heard many things, can you show me any new idea never seen before, that I might have it painted in the hall of my house?” To which M. Guglielmo, after hearing his foolish request, replied: “Sir, I can show you nothing but what has been known before, except perhaps a handful of oddities. But if it pleases you, sir, I would gladly teach you one thing that I think you have never seen.” M. Ermino, pleased to hear that, said: “Please, sir, tell me what it is,” not expecting that kind of answer. To which M. Guglielmo readily said: “Have the image of Liberality painted.” At this answer, M. Ermino was suddenly so embarrassed that he was compelled to change his mind completely against his usual ways and lifestyle, saying: “M. Guglielmo, I will have it painted in such a way that neither you nor anyone else will have any reason to complain about it.” From that moment on (such was the power of that remark), he became the most generous and benevolent gentleman in Genoa, honoring strangers and citizens more than anyone had in his time.
THE THIRTY-SECOND NOUELL.
Maister Alberto of Bologna, by a pleasaunt aunsweare made a gentlewoman to blushe, which had thoughte to haue put him out of countenaunce, in telling him that he was in loue with her.
Maister Alberto of Bologna, with a clever reply, made a lady blush, who had thought to embarrass him by saying that he was in love with her.
Not manye yeares paste there was at Bologna a notable Phisition, renowmed throughe out the whole worlde, called Maister Alberto, whoe beinge old, almost LX. yeares of age, had such an excellent wit, that although naturall heate was expired in his bodie, yet hee disdayned not to conceiue some amorous flames of loue. Seing at a banket a verye fayre gentlewoman a widowe called (as some saye) Madonna Margherita de Ghisilieri, she pleased his fansie so well, that he fixed her so fast in the siege of his remembraunce, as if he had been a yonge man of rype and youthlye yeares. In such wise as that nighte he coulde take no reste, if the day before hee had not seene the faire and beautifull face of this faire gentlewoman. For which cause sometimes a foote, and sometimes on horsebacke as he thought best, he continually vsed to passe before her lodginge, which was the cause that shee and diuers other gentlewomen did marke th’occasion of his ofte passing to and fro that waye. And many times they iested and dalied amongest them selues to see a man of such yeares and experience to be in loue, thinking that the displeasaunt passion of loue, could fasten no hold but in the fonde mindes of yonge people and no where els. Wherefore Maister Alberto daily passing to and fro the house of that gentlewoman, it chaunced vppon an holye daye, that shee sittinge with other dames before her doore, and sawe Maister Alberto a farre off, comming towards them, she with the rest determined curteously to receiue him, and reuerently to salute him, and afterwardes merely to talke and sporte of his loue, which accordingly they did. The gentlewoman rising vp conueyed him into a court, of ayre fresh and pleasaunt, where they caused to be brought forth excellent wynes and comfites, and in the ende with manye cherefull and pleasaunt woordes, one of them asked him how it 123 was possible, he could be in loue with that fayre gentlewoman, speciallye sithens manye fayre and trimme yonge menne, did loue her. Maister Alberto perceyuinge himselfe touched and gested at, very honestlye aunsweared with smyling countenaunce: “Maistres, no wyse man whatsoeuer hee be oughte to marueile whye I am in loue, especiallye with you (lookinge vppon her whom hee loued) because your beautye and woorthines dothe well deserue the same. And althoughe naturally the forces which be incident to exercises of Loue, do faile and decaie in olde men, good wil therfore is not in them depriued, nor the iudgement in knowledge, the which ought to be beloued. But because they haue greater experience then yonge men haue, therefore by nature they better know the qualitie of loue. The hope that moueth mee an olde man to loue you, that is soe well beloued of yong men, is this: I haue many times been conuersaunte in places where I haue seene gentlewomen for their collation and pleasure after dinner, oftentimes to eate Lupines and Leekes, and albeit that in the Leeke, there is nothing good or holsome, yet the heade thereof is less hurtful, and most pleasaunt to the mouth, whereof generally (through a folish lust) ye women holde the heade in your hands and chawe the leaues, which not onely be euil and nought, but also of an ill fauoured smel and sauour. And what doe I knowe (maistres) if in the choise of your frendes ye do the like? which if ye do, no doubt it is I, whom you haue chosen to be your frende, and haue forsaken all other.” This gentlewoman somwhat ashamed blushing with the rest, said: “Maister Alberto, you haue ful wel and curteouslye paied vs home, and aunsweared oure presumptuous obiection. Notwithstandinge I doe esteeme and accept your amitie and loue, as I oughte to regard the loue of a wise and honest personage. And so (mine honestie and honour saued) al that I haue to do you pleasure, is to be assured at your commaundement.” Therewithall M. Alberto rose vp, thanking the gentlewoman, and with much sport and pleasaunt talke taking his leaue of the company departed. In this maner the gentlewoman giuing ouer her scoffes and tauntes, whereby she thoughte to putte Mayster Alberto out of conceyt, was put to silence her selfe. Whereof I (in the name of Pansilo Filostrato and Dioneo) by 124 waye of intreatie do beseech yee Ladies, Pampinea, Fiammetta, Philomena, and other gentlewomen, to beware howe ye doe contriue your holy day talke, by waste wordes issuing forth your delicate mouthes, in carping, gauding, and iesting at young gentlemen, and speciallye olde men, and Maister Alberto of Bologna, that for loue like the grene stalkes or graye heades of Lekes, doe desire to sauer your mouthes, and by honest recreation and pleasure to gratifie your comlie personages, lest before the banket be done, and all the comfites spente, ye departe with blushing cheekes, hanging downe your heades, not shaming to looke your mother in the face from whence you came: I meane the earth. Where dame nature hath formed you by your comely grace, and your fayre face, to beholde eche man, and to vtter pleasaunt talke intermixed with honestie and vertue.
Not many years ago, there was a well-known physician in Bologna, renowned throughout the world, named Master Alberto. He was nearly LX. years old and had such an excellent intellect that, even though his natural vitality had diminished, he didn’t shy away from experiencing some romantic feelings. At a banquet, he spotted a very beautiful widow, reportedly called Madonna Margherita de Ghisilieri, and she captivated him so much that he lodged her firmly in his memory, like a young man full of vigor. That night, he couldn’t find rest, especially since the day before he had seen the lovely face of this gentlewoman. For this reason, he often strolled past her house on foot or horseback, whenever it suited him, which caught the attention of her and several other ladies who noticed his frequent passing. They often made jokes amongst themselves about seeing a man of such age and experience in love, believing that the unpleasant feelings of love could only grip the foolish minds of young people and nowhere else. Thus, Master Alberto, who regularly passed by that lady's home, happened upon a holy day when she, sitting with other ladies at her door, spotted him approaching from a distance. She and the others decided to greet him courteously and respectfully, and then, playfully, they began talking about his infatuation, which they did as planned. The lady rose and led him into a pleasant, fresh courtyard, where they brought out excellent wines and treats, and eventually, with many cheerful and pleasant words, one of them asked him how it was possible for him, a man of his years, to be in love with such a beautiful lady, especially since many handsome young men loved her. Master Alberto, realizing he was the subject of their teasing, responded very politely with a smile: “Ladies, no wise man should be surprised that I am in love, particularly with you,” he said, looking at the woman he loved, “because your beauty and worthiness truly deserve it. Though the natural vigor associated with love may fade in older men, their good will is not diminished, nor is their understanding of what should be loved. In fact, older men, having greater experience than younger men, have a better understanding of the nature of love. What prompts me, as an old man, to love you, who is so admired by young men, is this: I have often been in situations where I’ve seen ladies enjoying their meals after dinner, often eating lupines and leeks. And while there’s nothing particularly good or healthy about leeks, the head of the leek is less harmful and quite pleasant to the taste. Typically, out of a foolish desire, you ladies hold the head in your hands and nibble on the leaves, which are not only undesirable but also have an unpleasant smell. And how do I know, ladies, if you do the same when choosing your friends? If you do, then it’s undoubtedly me you have chosen to be your friend, forsaking all others.” Embarrassed, this gentlewoman blushed, along with the others, and said: “Master Alberto, you have responded very well and courteously to our bold question. Nevertheless, I appreciate and accept your friendship and affection, as I should honor the love of a wise and honest person. Therefore, in maintaining my honesty and honor, all that I can do to please you is to assure you I am at your service.” With that, Master Alberto got up, thanking the gentlewoman, and after enjoyable conversation, he took his leave. In this way, the lady, giving up her teasing remarks that she thought would make Master Alberto feel foolish, found herself silenced instead. Therefore, I (on behalf of Pansilo Filostrato and Dioneo) kindly ask you, Ladies Pampinea, Fiammetta, Philomena, and other gentlewomen, to be cautious about how you conduct your lighthearted conversations on holy days, avoiding wasteful words from your delicate mouths that mock and jest at young gentlemen, and especially older men like Master Alberto, who, for love, like the green stalks or gray heads of leeks, desire to enrich your mouths and provide honest enjoyment for your charming personas. Lest, before the banquet concludes and all the treats are consumed, you depart with flushed cheeks and lowered heads, too ashamed to look your mother in the face—the earth from which you came. For it is there that dame nature has shaped you, with your lovely grace and fair face, to be seen by every man and to speak sweetly, mingled with honesty and virtue.
THE THIRTY-THIRD NOUELL.
Rinaldo of Esti being robbed, arriued at Castel Guglielmo, and was succoured of a wydowe: and restored to his losses, retourning saulfe and sounde home to his owne house.
Rinaldo of Esti, having been robbed, arrived at Castel Guglielmo and was helped by a widow. He was compensated for his losses and returned safe and sound to his own home.
In the tyme of Azzo Marques of Ferrara, there was a marchaunt named Rinaldo of Esti, come to Bologna to do certaine affaires. Whiche when hee had dispatched, in retourning homewardes, it chaunced as he departed out of Ferrara, and riding towardes Verona, hee mette certayne men on horsebacke, whiche semed to be Marchauntes, but in verie deede were arrant theues: with whome he kepte companie, and without suspicion what they were, rode together familiarly talking. These good felowes seing this Marchaunt and thinking that he had money about hym, determined to robbe him, when they sawe their aduauntage, and to the intent he should not suspecte them, they rode lyke graue men of honest conuersation, debating with him of honest causes, and faithfull, shewing them selues counterfactely, to be lowly and gentle. Uppon whiche occasion, he thought him selfe moste happy that he had mette with such companie, because he and his seruaunt rode together alone. And as they were talking of diuers matters (as chaunceth in communication) they fel in talke of prayers, that men do make vnto God. And one of the theues (for they were three in nomber) sayd vnto Rinaldo: “And you gentleman, what praier bee you accustomed to saye, when you ryde by the waye?” To whom Rinaldo answered: “To tel you the truth, I am a man very playne, and rude in those matters, and I haue a fewe prayers at my fingers endes: suche as myne auncestours vsed before me. And I let go currant II. S. for XXIIII D. But neuerthelesse, I haue alwayes accustomed, when I ryde by the way, to say in the morning at my going forth of my lodging, a Pater noster and an Aue Maria, for the soule of the father and mother of sainct Iulian: and after that, I pray to God and sainct Iulian, to sende me good lodging the night folowing. And full oft in my time I haue founde, in trauailing of Countries many great daungers, all whiche 126 hauing escaped, it hath bene my fortune always (when night approched) to chaunce vppon good lodging: whiche maketh me stedfastly beleue that sainct Iulian (vnto whose honour I saye the same) hath obteined this benefite of God for me, and I thought that daye wherein I neglected, to saye in the morning that prayer, I could neither saulfely trauell, ne yet at night obtain good harborough.” He that demaunded the question, asked him: “And haste thou said them this morning?” “Yea verely,” answered Rinaldo. Then he whiche already knewe howe the matter would go, said to him selfe, thou shalt haue enough to doe anone, for if thou haue not sayde them this morninge, it may so happe that thou shalt lodge full ill this night. And afterwardes hee saide, “I haue likewyse trauayled in my dayes a great waye, and neuer said those praiers, but I haue heard many men greatly prayse them (although) I could neuer perceiue but that I haue bene well lodged. And peraduenture this night you shal proue, which of vs two shal haue best lodging, you that haue sayd them, or I which haue not said them. It is most true that I haue accustomed, in stede of that praier, to saye that verse Dirupisti, or the antheme Intemerata, or the De profundis, which are (as my graundmother did teach and instructe me) of verie great effecte and vertue.” And speaking thus of diuers thinges, alwayes riding, expecting the place and time, to accomplish their wicked intent: it chaunced that approching nere to Castel Guglielmo, when they had passed ouer a ryuer, these three theues, late in the euening in a darke place, did sette vppon him and robbed him, dismounting him from his horse, and left him there in his shyrte. And as they were going awaye, they sayde vnto hym: “Goe and seeke if thy sainct Iulian, will helpe thee to good lodging this nighte, for our saincte wyll helpe vs to good.” And repassing through the Riuer, they went their waye. The seruaunt of Rinaldo, seyng the theues sette vppon his maister (like a cowarde) helped him nothing, but tourned his brydle and neuer left galloping vntill he came to Castell Guglielmo: where because it was nighte, he lodged in an Inne, without any further care for his Maister. Rinaldo being stil there in his shyrte, bare footed and bare legged, in the great Frost and Snowe, not knowing what to doe, and seing night already approche, quaking, and his 127 teethe clacketing in his head, began to looke about hym, if he coulde see anye place there for hym to resorte for succour, that he might not dye for colde: but (seyng none at all, because a litle before, the warres had with fyre consumed all thynges) being sore afflicted for colde, he began to make spede towardes the Castell Guglielmo, not knowyng that his seruaunt was fledde thither: thynking that if he might come in, God would sende hym some succour, but darke night ouertooke him a good waye of, before hee coulde come to the Castell, almoste the space of a mile, by whiche meanes he arriued there verye late, the gates being shutte vp and the bridges drawen, that he could not goe in. By reason whereof hee was verie sorowefull and discomforted, lamentable casting his eyes about, to espie if it wer possible that at the lest he might shroude him selfe free from the snowe: and by chaunce he sawe a house vpon the walles of the Castell, vnder whiche he determined to reste tyll it was daye, and repairing thether, he found vnder the house a doore, (whiche was locked) vnder which doore gathering a litle strawe that he founde thereabout, he sat down very heauie and pensife: making his complaint many tymes vnto saincte Iulian, that the faith which he reposed in him had nowe deceiued him. But saincte Iulian taking pitie vpon him, without any further delaye, prepared him (as it chaunced) a good lodging: for there dwelled in that Castell a woman whiche was a wydowe so faire a persone as might be seene, whom the Marques Azzo lou d as his life, and kepte her there for his owne pleasure. And the same woman dwelte in the house, vnder the porche wherof Rinaldo was gone to reste him selfe, vnto whome the daye before, the Marques resorted to disport him selfe that night, and in her house had secretly caused a bathe to be made, and a great supper to be prepared. All which being readie, and the good wyfe expecting nothing els but the comming of the Marques, it chaunced that one of his men called at the gates of the Castell, with newes to the Marques, that sodainly he must ryde awaye; wherefore he sent woorde to the wydowe, that shee should not attende his comming: who, not a litle displeased with the message, not knowing what to doe, determined to enter the Bathe whiche was prepared for the marques, and when she had supped to goe to 128 bedde. This Bathe was harde by the doore whereunto poore Rinaldo was approched. The widowe being in the Bathe, hearing the plaintes and trembling voyce of Rinaldo, thought it had been the noyse of a Storke. Whereupon she called her mayde and saide vnto her: “Goe vp, and looke ouer the walles, to know who is at the doore and what he would haue.” The mayde, according to her maistres commaundement, went to the doore, and the night being somewhat cleare, sawe Rinaldo sitting in his shyrte, bare legged, shaking for colde, as is before said, and asked him what he was. Rinaldo with his teethe shyuering in his head, coulde scarse well speake, or vtter a woorde, but yet so brieflie as he coulde, he tolde her what he was, howe and for what purpose he was come thither. Afterwardes he piteously began to praye her (if she could) not to suffer him that night to sterue for colde. The maide pitying his estate, returned to her maistres, and tolde her what she sawe: who likewyse hauiug compassion vppon him, remembring that she had the keye of the dore (whiche sometimes serued the turne, when the marques was disposed secretly to come in) she sayde to her mayde: “Go open the doore softly, for we haue prepared a supper, and here is no man to eate it: and also here is lodging sufficient to harbour him.” The mayde greatly praysing her maistres for her curtesie, wente forth and opened the doore. And when he was let in, they sawe him to be almoste frosen for colde: sayinge vnto him, dispatche good felowe, goe into the Bathe, being yet hotte. Whiche thinge he right willingly did, not looking that he should be bidden againe, and being recomforted with the warmth therof, he felt him selfe reuiued from death to life. The good wyfe caused certayne apparel of her late dead husband, to be searched out for him, and when he had put them on, they were so mete, as though they had bene made of purpose, and waiting what it should please the good wife to commaunde him, he began humbly to thanke God and saincte Iulian, that hee was deliuered from that euill nighte (contrarie to his expectation) to so good a lodging. After this the fayre wydowe, somewhat reposing her selfe, caused a great fyre to be made in one of her great chambers, into the whiche shee came, and demaunded her mayde what maner of man he was. The maid aunswered: “Maistres, nowe he is in good apparell, he is a verie handsome felowe, and seemeth 129 to be of good reputation and honestie.” “Goe thy wayes (quod her maistres) and call hym hether. Bidde him come to the fyre, and tell hym that he shall suppe with me, for perchaunce he hath eaten no meate this nighte.” Rinaldo came into the chamber, and seing the wydowe, he made to her great reuerence: thanking her for her kindnesse shewed vnto him. When the wydowe had seene him, and heard him speake, perceiuing him to be suche a one as her mayde reported, shee intertaigned him in curteous wyse, causing him familiarly to sitte downe before the fire, and demaunded what mishap brought him to that place. To whome Rinaldo rehersed the whole discourse. For she had heard at the comming of Rinaldo his seruaunt to the Castell, a brute of his roberie, whiche made her to beleue him the better: She tolde him also, that his man was come to the towne, and howe hee might easely finde him the next morning. And after meate was serued to the table, Rinaldo and she washed together, and then sat down to supper. He was a goodly personage, faire and pleasaunt to beholde, yonge and of good behauiour, vpon whom the woman many times did cast her eyes, and liked him well. To be shorte, this lecherous Lady, burning inwardlye with amourous desyre, abused her selfe with hym, in steede of the Marques. But when the morning began to shewe foorth her light, the wydowe, to the intent no suspicion might bee hadde, gaue him certayne base and course apparell, and filled his purse with money, praying him to kepe her counsell, and first tolde him whiche way he should take to seeke his man, letting him out at the doore whereat he came in. Who seming as though he had traueiled a great waye that morning, when the gates were opened, went into the Castell, and founde his seruaunte. And then putting vppon hym suche apparell as was in his male, and being about to mounte vpon his man’s horse, it came to passe, like as it had bene a diuine miracle, that the three theues, whiche had robbed him the night before, were taken for doing an other robberie a little whyle after, and were brought to the Castell, and vppon their confession, his horse, apparell, and money, were restored to him againe, losing nothing but a payre of garters. Wherefore Rinaldo thanking God and saint Iulian, mounted vppon his horse and retourned whole and saulfe to his owne house. And the nexte daye, the three theues were conueied foorth, to blesse the worlde with their heeles.
In the time of Azzo, Marquis of Ferrara, there was a merchant named Rinaldo of Esti, who came to Bologna for some business. After he finished his tasks, as he was heading home and had just left Ferrara, he encountered a group of men on horseback. They appeared to be merchants, but were actually thieves. Rinaldo, unaware of their true nature, rode with them, chatting comfortably. These thieves, seeing Rinaldo and thinking he had money, decided to rob him when the moment was right. To avoid arousing his suspicion, they acted like respectable men discussing honest matters, pretending to be humble and friendly. Rinaldo felt lucky to have met such company since he and his servant were riding alone. During their conversation, they talked about prayers people say to God. One of the thieves (there were three of them) asked Rinaldo, “What prayer do you usually say when you’re traveling?” Rinaldo responded, “To be honest, I’m quite simple and not well-versed in these matters. I have a few prayers I know by heart, like my ancestors used to say. I pray to God and Saint Julian for good lodging. I’ve often faced great dangers while traveling, and every time, when night falls, I end up finding good lodging. This makes me firmly believe that Saint Julian, to whom I say these prayers, has obtained this favor from God for me. I think on the days I neglect to pray, I can neither travel safely nor find good shelter at night.” The thief who asked the question inquired, “Did you say those prayers this morning?” “Yes, indeed,” Rinaldo replied. Then the thief, who already knew how things would turn out, thought to himself, you will have enough to deal with soon. If you didn’t pray this morning, it may happen that you will find poor shelter tonight. He then said, “I’ve also traveled far in my days and never said those prayers, but I’ve heard many people praise them, although I’ve never had trouble finding good lodging. Perhaps tonight we will see who has the better accommodation—you who prayed, or I who did not. It’s true that instead of those prayers, I usually recite the verse Dirupisti, or the anthem Intemerata, or the De profundis, which my grandmother taught me and are very effective.” As they continued their conversation, riding along and waiting for the right moment to carry out their plan, they approached Castel Guglielmo. After crossing a river, the three thieves, late in the evening in a dark area, attacked him and robbed him, pulling him off his horse and leaving him in his shirt. As they departed, they said to him, “Go and see if your Saint Julian will help you find good lodging tonight, for our saint will help us.” After crossing back over the river, they went on their way. Rinaldo's servant, witnessing the thieves attack his master, cowardly did nothing to help but turned his bridle and galloped away to Castel Guglielmo, where he lodged in an inn that night, not caring about his master at all. Rinaldo, left there in his shirt, barefoot and with his legs exposed, shivering in the cold and snow, didn’t know what to do. As night approached, he trembled and chattered his teeth, looking for a place to seek shelter from the cold to avoid freezing to death. But seeing no options because everything had recently been burned in the wars, he was severely afflicted by the cold and started hurrying towards Castel Guglielmo, unaware that his servant had fled there, thinking that if he could reach it, God would send him some help. However, darkness overtook him before he could reach the castle, almost a mile away, so he arrived very late, with the gates shut and the drawbridges up, leaving him unable to enter. As a result, he was very sad and discouraged, desperately looking around to see if there was any way he could at least find a way to shield himself from the snow. By chance, he spotted a house on the castle walls, where he decided to stay until daybreak. Approaching the house, he found a locked door, and gathering some straw nearby, he sat down heavily, feeling despondent, often lamenting to Saint Julian that the faith he placed in him had now let him down. But Saint Julian, taking pity on him, prepared for him, as it happened, a good lodging. For there lived in that castle a widow, a very beautiful woman whom Marquis Azzo loved dearly and kept there for his own pleasure. The same woman resided in the house beneath the porch where Rinaldo had taken refuge, to whom, the day before, the Marquis had come to entertain himself that night, secretly arranging for a bath and a great supper to be prepared in her home. With everything ready, and the good woman expecting nothing but the Marquis's arrival, one of his men happened to knock at the castle gates, bringing news that he must urgently ride away; therefore, he sent word to the widow not to wait for him. This message displeased her, and not knowing what to do, she decided to use the bath prepared for the Marquis and, after dining, to go to bed. This bath was close to the door where poor Rinaldo had approached. While the widow was in the bath, hearing the moans and trembles of Rinaldo, she thought it was the noise of a stork. She then called her maid and said, “Go up and look over the walls to see who is at the door and what he wants.” The maid obeyed her mistress's command, went to the door, and, the night being somewhat clear, saw Rinaldo sitting in his shirt, bare-legged and shaking from the cold, as mentioned before, and asked him who he was. Rinaldo, his teeth chattering, could hardly speak or utter a word, but very briefly told her who he was and why he had come there. He then pitifully began to plead with her not to let him freeze to death that night if she could help. The maid, feeling sorry for him, went back to her mistress and reported what she had seen. The widow, having compassion for him too, remembered she had the key to the door (which sometimes served the purpose when the Marquis wanted to sneak in) and told her maid, “Go open the door quietly, for we have prepared a supper, and there's no one here to eat it; we also have enough lodging for him.” The maid praised her mistress for her kindness and went out to open the door. When he was let in, they saw him almost frozen from the cold and said to him, “Hurry, good fellow, go into the bath, which is still warm.” He willingly did this, not expecting to be asked a second time, and feeling comforted by the warmth, he felt revived from death to life. The kind woman had her late husband’s clothes searched out for him, and when he put them on, they fit him perfectly, as if made for him. Waiting to see what the kind woman would command him next, he began to humbly thank God and Saint Julian for delivering him from that dreadful night (contrary to his expectations) to such good lodging. Afterward, the beautiful widow, resting a bit, ordered a great fire to be lit in one of her large chambers. When she came in, she asked her maid what kind of man he was. The maid replied, “Mistress, now he is in fine clothes; he is a very handsome fellow and seems to be of good reputation and honesty.” “Go on,” said her mistress, “and call him here. Tell him to come to the fire, and let him know he will have supper with me, for perhaps he hasn’t eaten anything tonight.” Rinaldo entered the chamber and, seeing the widow, bowed deeply, thanking her for her kindness towards him. When the widow saw him and heard him speak, realizing he was as her maid had described, she treated him courteously, inviting him to sit by the fire, and asked what misfortune had brought him to that place. Rinaldo recounted the entire story. Since she had heard about his servant arriving at the castle and the news of his robbery, this made her trust him more. She also informed him that his servant had come to town and how he could easily find him the next morning. After dinner was served, Rinaldo and she washed their hands together and then sat down to supper. He was a striking figure, handsome and pleasant to look at, young and well-mannered, causing the woman to glance at him many times, finding him attractive. To sum it up, this lustful lady, burning with desire, indulged herself with him instead of the Marquis. But when morning began to break, the widow, to avoid any suspicion, gave him some simple clothes and filled his purse with money, asking him to keep the whole thing a secret. She first told him which way to go to find his servant, letting him out through the door where he entered. Pretending as if he had traveled a long way that morning, when the gates opened, he went into the castle and found his servant. After putting on the clothes in his bag and getting ready to mount his servant’s horse, it happened, as if by divine miracle, that the three thieves who had robbed him the previous night were caught for committing another robbery shortly thereafter and were brought to the castle. Upon confessing, his horse, clothes, and money were returned to him, with the only loss being a pair of garters. Therefore, Rinaldo, thanking God and Saint Julian, mounted his horse and returned safely to his own house. The next day, the three thieves were taken away to bless the world with their heels.
THE THIRTY-FOURTH NOUELL.
Three yonge men hauing fondlye consumed all that they had, became verie poore, whose nephewe (as he retourned out of Englande into Italie,) by the waye fell into acquaintaunce with an abbote, whome (vpon further familiaritie) he knewe to be the king of Englandes doughter, whiche toke him to husbande. Afterwardes she restored his vncles to all their losses, and sent them home in good state and reputation.
Three young men, having foolishly spent everything they had, ended up very poor. One of their nephews, on his way back from England to Italy, got to know an abbot, who he later discovered was the king of England's daughter. She took him as her husband. Later on, she restored her uncles' fortunes and sent them home in good condition and with their reputation intact.
There was sometyme in the citie of Florence, a knight called Sir Tebaldo, who as some saie, was of the house of Lamberti: and as other affirme, of Agolanti. But leauing the variaunce of whether house he was, true it is, that hee was in that time a notable riche and wealthy knight, and had three sonnes. The firste called Lamberto, the seconde Tebaldo, and the thirde Agolante, all faire and goodly yonge men: and the eldest of whiche was not XVIII. yeares of age. When the sayde Sir Tebaldo died, to them (as his lawefull heires) he lefte all his landes and goodes. Who being verie ryche in readie money and possessions, continued their life without gouernement at their owne pleasures, and without brydle or stay they began to consume their goodes. They kepte a greate and franke house, and many Horses of great value, with Dogges and Haukes of sundrie kyndes, giuing liberall giftes, and obseruing diuerse gestes at Tilte and Torney: doing also that whiche not onely did appertayne and belonge to Gentlemen, but also that whiche was incident to the trade and course of youthe. They continued not long in this order, but their substaunce lefte them by their father, was very muche consumed. And their reuenues (not able to mainteine their expences) began to decrease, whereupon they were fayne to morgage and sell their inheritaunce, in suche wyse as in the ende they grewe to extreme pouertie. And then penurie did open their eyes, in like sorte as before riches had closed them vp. For whiche cause, Lamberto vpon a daye did cal his other twoo brethren vnto him, and tolde them of what honour their father was, to what value his rychesse did amounte, and nowe to 131 what pouertie they were come through their disordinate expences: giuing them counsaile (so well as he could) that before miserie did growe any further vpon them, by selling that whiche was lefte, they shoulde goe their waye: whiche they did. And without leaue taken of any man, or other solempnitie, they departed from Florence, and taried in no place before they were arriued in Englande. Where taking a litle house in the citie of London, they liued with litle expences, and began to lende out their money to vsurie: and Fortune was so fauourable vnto them by that trade, that in few yeares they had gayned a verie notable somme of money, whiche made them one after an other, to retire agayne to Florence with their substaunce: where they redemed a great part of their inheritaunce, and bought other lande, and so gaue them selues to mariage: continuing neuerthelesse in Englande, their money at interest. They sent thither to be their factour, a yonge man their nephewe, called Alexandro. And they three dwelling still at Florence, began agayne to forget to what miserie their inordinate expences hadde brought them before. And albeit they were charged with housholde, yet they spent out of order, and without respect, and were of great credite with euery Marchaunt: whose expences, the money that Alexandro many times did send home, did helpe to supporte for certaine yeares, which was lent out to diuers gentlemen and Barons of the countrey, vpon their Castelles, Manours, and other reuenues, wherof was receiued an incredible profite. In the meane time the three brethren spent so largely, as they borowed money of other, fixing all their hope from Englande. It chaunced that warres happened betwene the king of England, and one of his sonnes, whiche bredde muche diuision in that lande, some holding of one parte, and some of an other. By meanes whereof, all the Manours and morgaged landes, were taken awaye from Alexandro, hauing nothing wher vpon any profite did ryse. Howebeit he dailye trusted that peace shoulde bee concluded betweene the father and the sonne, and that all thinges should be surrendred, as well the principall as the interest: determining vppon that hope not to departe the Countrie. The three brethren whiche were at Florence, not limitting any order to their disordinate expences, grewe daylye worse and worse. But 132 in processe of tyme, when all hope was paste of their recouerye, they loste not onely their credite, but the creditours desirous to be payde, were fayne to sende them to pryson. And because their inheritaunce was not sufficient to paye the whole debte, they remayned in pryson for the reste, and their wiues and children wer dispersed, some into the countrie, and some hether and thether, out of order, not knowing how to do, but to abide a poore and miserable life for euer. Alexandro which of long time taried for a peace in Englande, and seing that it came not to passe, considering also with him selfe (ouer and besides his vaine abode, for recouerie of his debtes) that he was in daunger of his life, he purposed to retourne into Italie. And as he trauailed by the waye alone, and departed from Bruges, by fortune he perceiued an abbot clothed in white, in like maner about to take his iourney, accompanied with many Monkes, and a great traine: hauing much cariage and diuers baggages before. After whome rode twoo olde knightes, the kinsmen of the king, with whom Alexandro entred acquaintance by reason of former knowledge, and was receiued into their companie. Alexandro then riding with them frendlye, demaunded what Monkes they were that rode before with so great a trayne, and whether they went. To whome one of the knightes aunswered, that he which rode before, was a yonge gentleman their kinsman, which was newly chosen Abbot of one of the best Abbaies in England. And because he was verie yonge, and not capable by the decrees, of suche a dignitie, they went with him to Rome, to obteine of the holy father a dispensation for his age, and for a confirmation of that office. But they willed him to disclose the same to no man. And so this newe Abbot, riding sometimes before and sometimes after, as wee see ordinarelie that Lordes doe when they trauell in the countrie, it chaunced that the Abbot espying Alexandro riding besides him, which was a faire yonge man, honest, curteous, and familier, who at the first meting did so marueilously delight him, as any thing that euer he sawe in his life, and calling him vnto him, he began familiarly to talke, and asked what he was, from whence he came, and whether he went. To whom Alexandro declared liberally all his state, and satisfied his demaunde, offering vnto him (although his power was 133 litle) al the seruice he was able to do. The Abbot hearing his courteous offer and comely talke, placed in good order, considering more particulerly the state of his affaires, and waying with him selfe, that albeit his traine was small yet neuerthelesse he semed to be a gentleman, and then pitying his mishappes, he recomforted him familiarly, and saide vnto him: That hee ought dailye to liue in good hope, for if he were an honest man, God would aduaunce him againe not only to that place from whence fortune had throwen him downe, but also to greater estimation: praying him that sithens he was going into Thuscane, whether he likewyse went, that it would please him to remaine in his companie. Alexandro thanked him humblie of his comfort, and said vnto him that he was redie to imploy him selfe where it should please him to commaunde. The Abbot thus riding, (into whose minde newe thoughts entred vpon the sight of Alexandro) it chaunced, after manie daies iournies, they arriued at a village that was but meanly furnished with lodging. The Abbot desirous to lodge there, Alexandro intreated him to light at the Inne of an hoste which was familiarly knowen vnto him, and caused a chamber to be made redie for him selfe in the worste place of the house. And the Marshall of the Abbot’s lodgings, being alreadie come to the towne, (which was a man very skilfull in those affaires) he lodged al the traine in that village, one here, an other there, so well as he could. And by that time the Abbot had supped, night was farre spente, and euerie man repaired to his lodging. Alexandro demaunded the hoste wher he should lie? To whom the hoste made aunswere “Of a trouthe Maister Alexandro I knowe not, for you see that all my house is so full, as I and my housholde are faine to lie vpon the benches: howe be it, I haue certaine garrettes, harde adioyning to the lorde Abbottes chamber, where I may place you very well, and I wyll cause my folkes to beare thither a pallet, where if you please, you may lodge this night.” To whome Alexandro said. “But how shall I passe through the Abbot’s chamber, the rowme being so streight as not one of his Monkes is able to lie there. But if I had knowen it before, the Curteins had bene drawen, I would haue caused his Monkes to haue lien in the Garret, and I my self would haue lodged where they do.” Wherunto the 134 hoste saide, “It is doen nowe, but (me thinke) you may if you liste lie there so well, as in any place of the house. The Abbot being asleepe, and the Courteins drawen, I wyll softly and without noyse conueye a pallette thyther.” Alexandro perceiuing that the same might be done, without any anoiaunce to the Abbot, agreed and conueyed him selfe, so secretlye as hee coulde, through the chamber. The abbot whiche was not a sleepe (but gaue him selfe to thinke and imagine vpon his newe desires) heard the wordes that were spoken, betweene the hoste and Alexandro, and likewise vnderstanding where Alexandro lay, was verie well contente in him selfe, and began to saye: “The Lorde hath sent me a tyme fauourable to satisfie my desyres, whiche if I doe not nowe receiue, peraduenture the like will neuer be offred againe.” Wherfore perswading with him selfe to take that present occasion, and supposing likewyse, that euery man was a sleepe, he called Alexandro so softlie as he could, and willed him to come and lie beside him: who after many excuses, when his clothes were of came vnto him. The Abbot laying his arme ouer him, began to attempte suche amorous toyes, as be accustomed betweene twoo louers: whereof Alexandro meruayled muche, and doubted that the Abbot being surprysed with dishonest loue, had called him to his bedde of purpose to proue him. Whiche doubt the Abbot (either by presumption, or some other acte done by Alexandro) vnderstanding: incontinently began to smyle, and to putte of his shyrte whiche he ware, and toke Alexandro’s hande, and laide it ouer his stomacke, saying vnto him: “Alexandro, cast out of thy mynde thy vnhonest thought, and fele here the thing which I haue secrete.” Alexandro laying his hande ouer the Abbottes stomacke, perceiued that he had twoo breastes, rounde and harde, the skinne whereof was verie fine and tender, whereby he perceiued that hee was a woman, whom incontinently hee embraced, and without looking for any other inuitation, he would haue kissed her, but she saide vnto him: “Before thou approche any nearer, marke what I shall saye vnto thee. I am a woman and not a man, as thou maiest perceiue, but being departed a maid from my house, I am going to the Pope, to praye him to place me in mariage. But when I first viewed thee, the other daye, whether it was through thy good 135 fortune, or my mishap, loue attached me in suche wyse as neuer woman loued man, as I do thee, and therefore I do purpose to take thee to husbande before all other: but if thou wilt not take me to wife get the hence and retourne to thyne owne bedde.” Alexandro although hee knewe her not, yet hauing regarde vnto the companie and traine that folowed her, iudged her to be some noble and riche Ladie: on the other parte, he sawe that she was a personage right beautifull and faire, therefore without any further consideration, he answered. “That for so muche as her pleasure was such, he was verie well contented.” Shee then sitting vp in her bedde, hauing a litle table (wherin the picture of Christe was painted) indowed him with a ringe, doing the order of espousalles, and afterwards embracing one an other, to their great contentation and pleasure, they ioyfully continued together that night. And after they had deuised and concluded the order and meanes to order their affaires from that time foorth, Alexandro, so sone as it was daye, rose vp and went out of the chamber that waye he came in, without knowledge to any man where he lay that night. Then right ioyfull and glad, he proceaded in his iourney with the abbot and his companye, and within fewe daies arriued at Rome. And when they had remained there a certain time, the Abbot taking with him but the twoo knightes and Alexandro, went to the Pope: where doing to him their due reuerence, the Abbot began to speake in this wyse. “Holie father (as your holinesse doth better knowe then any other) euery man that purposeth to liue an honest life, ought to auoyde (so muche as lieth in him) all occasions that may drawe him to the contrary. Which to th’intent I that am desirous to leade an honest life, may fully performe, am secretly fled and arriued here, in the habite wherin you see, with a good porcion of the king of Englandes treasure, who is my father: that your holines may bestow me in mariage, for so muche as my father woulde giue me to wife (which am a yonge gentlewoman as you see) to the Scottishe king, a very riche and welthy Prince, but yet very olde and decrepite. And his olde age was not so much the occasion of my departure, as the feare which I conceiued (through the frailtie of my youth to be maried vnto him,) to commit a thing that should be contrarie to the lawe of God, 136 and the honour of the bloud roiall of my father. And in coming hitherwardes, being in this deepe deliberation with myself, almighty God, who only knoweth assuredly, what is nedeful and necessary for vs al, did place before mine eies (through his gracious mercy as I trust,) him that he thinketh mete to be my husband, which is this yonge gentleman (pointing to Alexandro) whom you see standing besides me. The honestie and worthinesse of whome is well able to matche with any great lady, how honorable so euer she be, although per aduenture, the nobilitie of his bloud is not so excellent as that which procedeth from the roiall and Princely stock. Him then haue I chosen to be my husband, him I will haue and none other, whatsoeuer my father shall say, or any other to the contrarie. Wherefore the principall occasion that moued me to come hither, is now dispatched. But I will accomplishe and performe the rest of my voyage, as well to visite the holy and reuerent places (wherof this citie is ful) and your holinesse: as also that the contract of mariage (hitherto only made in the presence of God, betwene Alexandro and me,) may be consumate openly in the presence of you, and consequently in the sight of all men: Wherfore I humbly beseche your fatherhode, to be agreable vnto that whiche it hath pleased God and mee to bring to passe, and that you would giue vs your benediction, to the intent we may liue together in the honour of God, to the perfection and ende of our life.” Alexandro greatly marueiled, when he vnderstoode that his wife was the doughter of the king of Englande, and was rapte with an vnspeakeable ioye. But much more marueiled the two knightes, which were so troubled and appalled, that if they had bene in any place els, sauing in the presence of the Pope, they woulde haue killed Alexandro, and peraduenture the lady her self. On the other part the Pope was verie much astonned, both at the habite and apparell of the Lady, and also of her choise. But knowing that the same could not be vndone, he was content to satisfie her request. And first of all he comforted the two knightes, whom he knewe to be moued at the matter, and reduced them in amitie, with the lady and Alexandro: then he gaue order what was beste to be done. And when the mariage daie, by him appointed, was come, hee caused the Ladie to issue forth, clothed in 137 roiall vestures, before al the Cardinalles, and many other great personages that were repayred to the great feaste, of purpose by hym prepared. Whiche Ladie appeared to be so fayre and comelie that not without deserte shee was praysed and commended of all the assemblie. In like maner Alexandro, gorgeouslie apparelled, both in outwarde apparaunce and condicions, was not like one that had lent monie to Vsurie, but of a more Princelie grace and was greatelye honoured of those twoo knightes, where the Pope solempnely celebrated (againe) the espousalles. And after that ryche and royall mariage was ended, he gaue them leaue to departe. It seemed good to Alexandro, and likewise to the Lady, to goe from Rome to Florence, in whiche citie, the brute of that accidente was alreadie noysed, where being receiued of the citizens with great honour, the Ladie deliuered the three brethren out of prison, and hauing firste payde euerie man their debte, they with their wiues, were repossessed in their former inheritaunce. Then Alexandro and his wife, with the good will and ioyfull gratulations of all men departed from Florence, and taking with them Agolante, one of their vncles, arriued at Paris, where they were honourably interteigned of the Frenche king. From thence the twoo knightes went into England, and so perswaded the king, that they recouered his good will towardes his doughter: and sending for his sonne in lawe, hee receiued them both with great ioy and triumphe. And within a whyle after, he inuested his saide sonne with the order of knight hode, and made him Earle of Cornewale, whose wisedome proued so great, as hee pacified the father, and the sonne whereof insued, surpassing profite and commoditie for the whole Realme, whereby also he gained and got the loue and good will of all the people; and Agolante his vncle, fully recouered all debtes, due vnto him in Englande. And the Earle when he had made his vncle knightes suffered him to retourne in riche estate to Florence. The Earle afterwardes liued with his wife in great prosperitie (and as some do affirme) both by his own pollicie and valiaunce, and with the aide of his father in lawe, he recouered and ouercame the Realme of Scotlande, and was there crowned Kyng.
There was once in the city of Florence, a knight named Sir Tebaldo, who some say was from the house of Lamberti, while others claim he was from Agolanti. Regardless of which house he belonged to, it is true that he was a notably rich and wealthy knight at that time and had three sons. The first was named Lamberto, the second Tebaldo, and the third Agolante, all handsome and well-bred young men, with the eldest not yet XVIII. years old. When Sir Tebaldo died, he left all his lands and goods to his three sons as his lawful heirs. Being very wealthy in cash and possessions, they lived life on their own terms, and without restraint, they began to squander their wealth. They kept a grand and lavish household, owned many valuable horses, and had dogs and hawks of various kinds, giving generous gifts and participating in various tournaments and jousts, doing not only what was fitting for gentlemen but also what was typical of youthful indulgence. They did not maintain this lifestyle for long, as their inheritance from their father was quickly depleted. Their income, unable to sustain their expenditures, began to dwindle, forcing them to mortgage and sell their inheritance, leading them into extreme poverty. Then, destitution opened their eyes just as riches had once blinded them. For this reason, one day, Lamberto called together his two brothers and reminded them of their father's honor, the value of his wealth, and the poverty they had fallen into due to their reckless spending. He advised them, as best he could, that before their misery worsened, they should sell what was left and leave. They did just that. Without taking leave of anyone or any formalities, they left Florence and traveled without stopping until they arrived in England. There, they rented a small house in the city of London, lived frugally, and began to lend out their money at interest. Fortune smiled upon them through this trade, and in a few years, they amassed a considerable sum of money, allowing each of them to return to Florence with their wealth. They redeemed a significant part of their inheritance and bought more land, thus committing themselves to marriage, while still maintaining their money at interest in England. They sent a young man named Alexandro, their nephew, to act as their agent there. The three brothers, still living in Florence, gradually forgot the misery their reckless spending had brought upon them before. And although they were burdened with household expenses, they continued to spend extravagantly, with great credit from every merchant. The money that Alexandro frequently sent home helped support their lavish expenses for several years, lent to various gentlemen and barons of the region against their castles, manors, and other revenues, yielding incredible profits. Meanwhile, the three brothers in Florence continued to spend excessively, relying entirely on the money from England. It happened that a war broke out between the king of England and one of his sons, which caused significant division in the land, with some siding with one party and some with the other. As a result, all the manors and mortgaged lands were taken away from Alexandro, leaving him with nothing to generate profit. However, he remained hopeful that peace would be achieved between the father and the son, and that everything, including both the principal and interest, would be restored, deciding to stay in the country based on that hope. The three brothers in Florence, not setting any limits on their extravagant spending, grew increasingly worse. But in time, when all hope of recovery had passed, they lost not only their credit but also their creditors, eager to be repaid, were forced to send them to prison. And since their inheritance was not enough to cover the full debt, they remained in jail for the remainder, while their wives and children were scattered, some going to the countryside and some here and there, in disarray, not knowing what to do but to endure a poor and miserable existence forever. Alexandro, who had long awaited peace in England, realizing it was not forthcoming and considering his life also at risk, decided to return to Italy. As he traveled alone and left Bruges, he fortuitously came across an abbot dressed in white, likewise preparing for a journey, accompanied by many monks and a large retinue, carrying various loads and baggage. Following them were two old knights, kinsmen of the king, with whom Alexandro struck up a conversation due to their previous acquaintance, and he was welcomed into their company. Riding alongside them amicably, Alexandro asked what monks rode before with such a large group and where they were headed. One of the knights replied that the one riding ahead was a young gentleman, their kinsman, who had just been chosen as the abbot of one of the best abbeys in England. Because he was quite young and not suitably qualified for such a position according to church laws, they were going with him to Rome to obtain a dispensation from the Holy Father for his age and a confirmation of his office, but they instructed him not to disclose the matter to anyone. So this new abbot, sometimes riding ahead and sometimes behind, as is customary for lords while traveling through the countryside, happened to notice Alexandro riding next to him, who was a handsome young man, honest, courteous, and friendly, and who upon their first meeting delighted him more than anything he had ever seen in his life. Calling him over, the abbot began to talk casually and asked who he was, where he came from, and where he was going. Alexandro candidly shared his circumstances and satisfied the abbot's inquiries, offering him all the service he could manage, even though he had little to give. The abbot, pleased with his courteous offer and pleasant conversation, weighed the situation more closely, considering that although his entourage was small, Alexandro appeared to be a gentleman. Taking pity on his misfortunes, he comforted him warmly and told him that he should always live in hope, for if he was an honest man, God would elevate him again, not only back to his former status but to greater esteem. He asked him, since he was heading toward Tuscany, whether he would remain in his company. Alexandro humbly thanked him for his kindness and said he was ready to serve wherever he was commanded. The abbot, with new intentions entering his mind upon seeing Alexandro, continued to travel together, and after many days of journeying, they arrived at a village that was poorly equipped for lodging. The abbot, eager to stay there, was implored by Alexandro to stop at an inn of a host he knew well and prepared a room for himself in the worst part of the house. By the time the abbot had finished his supper, night was well advanced, and everyone went to their lodgings. Alexandro asked the host where he would sleep. The host replied, “Honestly, Master Alexandro, I don’t know, as all my house is so full that my family and I are forced to sleep on the benches. However, I have some garrets right next to the abbot's room where I can place you very comfortably, and I'll have my people bring a mattress there, if you please, you can sleep there tonight.” To which Alexandro said, “But how will I pass through the abbot's chamber, when the room is so narrow that not even one of his monks can sleep there? If I had known beforehand, the curtains would have been drawn, and I would have arranged for his monks to sleep in the garret, and I would have slept where they do.” The host replied, “It has been arranged now, but I think you could lie there just as well as anywhere else in the house. The abbot, already asleep, and the curtains drawn, I’ll quietly and without fuss arrange a mattress for you there.” Alexandro, seeing that it might be done without disturbing the abbot, agreed and slipped through the room as quietly as he could. The abbot, who was not asleep (but rather pondering his new desires), heard the conversation between the host and Alexandro, and understanding where Alexandro was lying, was very pleased with himself and began to say, “The Lord has sent me an opportune moment to satisfy my desires, which if I do not take advantage of now, perhaps I shall never have such an opportunity again.” Therefore, persuading himself to seize this chance and believing that everyone was asleep, he softly called Alexandro over and asked him to come and lie beside him, who after many excuses, when his clothes were off, came to him. The abbot then laying his arm over him began to engage in amorous play typical between two lovers, which astonished Alexandro, and he suspected that the abbot, caught up in inappropriate desire, had called him to his bed to test him. This doubt, the abbot (whether from presumption or something else done by Alexandro) sensed it and immediately began to smile, removing his shirt and taking Alexandro's hand, placing it over his stomach, saying to him, “Alexandro, cast out of your mind your impure thoughts, and feel here what I have hidden.” As Alexandro laid his hand on the abbot's stomach, he noticed that he had two round, firm breasts, the skin of which was very fine and tender, causing him to realize that he was a woman, who he immediately embraced, and without awaiting any further invitation, went to kiss her, but she said to him, “Before you come any closer, listen to what I will say to you. I am a woman and not a man, as you may perceive, but having departed as a maid from my home, I am on my way to the Pope to ask him to arrange my marriage. But when I first saw you the other day, whether it was through your good fortune or my misfortune, I fell in love with you as no woman ever loved a man before, and therefore I intend to take you as my husband before anyone else. But if you will not take me to wife, get out of here and return to your own bed.” Although Alexandro did not know her, considering the entourage that followed her, he judged her to be some noble and rich lady; on the other hand, he saw that she was indeed a beautiful and fair person, so without any further consideration, he replied, “That as it pleased her thus, he was very willing.” She then sitting up in her bed, having a small table with a picture of Christ painted on it, endowed him with a ring, performing the rite of marriage, and afterwards, embracing each other, they joyfully spent that night together. After they had discussed and agreed on how to manage their affairs from that time onward, Alexandro, as soon as it was day, got up and left the chamber the way he had come in, without anyone knowing where he had spent the night. Filled with joy, he continued on his journey with the abbot and his company, and within a few days arrived in Rome. When they had stayed there for some time, the abbot, taking only the two knights and Alexandro with him, went to see the Pope. After showing him their due respect, the abbot began to speak as follows: “Holy Father (as your Holiness knows better than anyone), every man who intends to live an honest life should avoid (as much as he can) all occasions that may lead him otherwise. In order that I may fully achieve my desire to lead an honest life, I have secretly fled here wearing this habit, along with a good portion of the King of England's treasure, who is my father: that your Holiness may arrange my marriage, for my father intends to give me (a young woman as you see) in marriage to the King of Scotland, a very rich and wealthy Prince, but quite old and decrepit. And while his old age was not so much the reason for my departure, the fear I felt (due to my youth's frailty of being married to him) to do something contrary to God's law and the honor of my father's royal blood was. On my way here, while contemplating deeply this situation, Almighty God, who alone knows what is truly necessary for all of us, placed before my eyes (through His gracious mercy, as I trust) him whom He considers suitable to be my husband, which is this young gentleman (pointing to Alexandro) standing here beside me. The honesty and worthiness of whom can match any great lady, no matter how honorable she may be, although perhaps the nobility of his blood is not as superior as that arising from the royal and princely lineage. He then have I chosen to be my husband, him I will have and no one else, regardless of what my father or anyone else says to the contrary. Therefore, the primary reason that led me to come here is now accomplished. But I will fulfill the rest of my journey, both to visit the holy and revered places (of which this city is full) and your Holiness, as well as to ensure that the marriage contract (which has thus far only been made in the presence of God between Alexandro and me) may be openly consummated in the presence of you, and consequently in the sight of all men. Therefore, I humbly beseech your fatherhood to grant your approval for what it has pleased God and me to bring about, and that you would give us your blessing, so that we may live together in God's honor to the perfection and end of our lives.” Alexandro was greatly astonished when he learned that his wife was the daughter of the King of England, and he was overwhelmed with indescribable joy. But the two knights were even more astonished, so troubled and alarmed that if they had been anywhere else, except in the presence of the Pope, they would have killed Alexandro, and possibly the lady herself. On the other hand, the Pope was quite astonished at both the appearance and attire of the lady, as well as her choice. But knowing that it could not be undone, he was content to fulfill her request. First, he comforted the two knights, whom he knew were disturbed by the situation, and reconciled them with the lady and Alexandro: then he decided what was best to be done. When the day of the marriage, appointed by him, arrived, he had the lady emerge, dressed in royal garments, before all the Cardinals and many other great figures who had gathered for the grand feast prepared by him. This lady appeared so beautiful and lovely that she was justly praised and commended by all present. Likewise, Alexandro, splendidly dressed, both in outward appearance and demeanor, looked nothing like someone who had once lent money at interest, but showed a more noble grace and was greatly honored by the two knights, where the Pope solemnly celebrated their union once again. After the rich and royal wedding was concluded, he granted them leave to depart. Alexandro and the lady decided to go from Rome to Florence, where the news of this event had already spread, and being received with great honor by the citizens, the lady freed the three brothers from prison, first paying off everyone's debts, so they, with their wives, regained their former inheritance. Then Alexandro and his wife left Florence with the goodwill and joyful congratulations of all, taking with them Agolante, one of their uncles, and arrived in Paris, where they were honorably welcomed by the French king. From there, the two knights returned to England and persuaded the king to regain his good will towards his daughter, and sending for his son-in-law, he received them both with great joy and celebration. Shortly after, he invested his son with the order of knighthood and made him Earl of Cornwall, whose wisdom proved so great that he reconciled the father and son, leading to unprecedented profits and benefits for the entire realm, and thus he also gained the love and goodwill of all the people; his uncle Agolante entirely recovered all debts owed to him in England. The Earl, having made his uncle a knight, allowed him to return in wealth to Florence. The Earl later lived with his wife in great prosperity, and as some say, both through his own ingenuity and valor and aided by his father-in-law, he conquered the Kingdom of Scotland and was crowned King there.
THE THIRTY-FIFTH NOUELL.
Landolpho Ruffolo being impooerished, became a pirate and taken by the Geneuois, was in daunger of drowning, who sauing himselfe vpon a litle coafer full of rich iewels, was receiued at Corfu, and beinge cherished by a woman, retourned home very riche.
Landolpho Ruffolo, being poor, became a pirate and was captured by the Genoese. He was in danger of drowning but saved himself on a small chest full of valuable jewels. He was rescued in Corfu, and with the help of a woman who cared for him, he returned home very wealthy.
It is supposed, that the sea coast of Reggium (in Calabria) in the most delectable part in all Italy, wherin (hard by Salerno) there is a countrye by the Sea Side, which the inhabitauntes doe terme the coast of Malfy, so full of litle cities, gardeines, fountaines, riche men and marchauntes, as any other people and countrie. Among which said cities, there was one called Rauello, where in time past (althoughe in these dayes there be very rich men), there dwelte a notable man of substaunce, called Landolpho Ruffolo: who being not contented with his riches, but desirous to multiplye them double, was in hazarde to lose himselfe, and all that he had. This man, (as all other marchauntes be accustomed) after he had considered with himselfe what to doe, boughte a very greate shippe, and sraughted the same with sondrye kindes of marchaundize of his owne aduenture, and made a voyage to the Isle of Cypri, where he found (besides the commodities which he brought) many other shippes arriued there, laden with such like wares: by which occasion it happened, that hee was forced not onelye to sell the same good cheape, but also was constrained (if hee woulde dispatch his goodes) to giue them almost for nought, whereby he thoughte that he was vtterly vndone. And being greatly troubled for that losse, not knowing what to doe, and seing how in so litle a time, of a rich man he was come to begger state, he thoughte either to die, or els by piracie to recouer his losses, to the intent he might not returne to the place poore, from whence he was departed riche. And hauing founde a copeseman for his great barque, with the money thereof, and with other which hee receiued for his marchandise, he boughte a small pinnas, meete for the vse of a pirate, which he armed and furnished with al thinges necessary for that purpose: and determined 139 to make himselfe riche with the goodes of other men, and chiefelye hee ment to set vppon the Turkes: whereunto fortune was more fauourable then to his former trade: and by chaunce, by the space of one yeare, he robbed and toke so many Foistes and galleis of the Turkes, as he had recouered not onely that which he loste by marchaundise, but also more then twise so muche as whereunto those losses did amounte.
It is believed that the coastline of Reggium (in Calabria) is the most beautiful part of Italy, where (not far from Salerno) there’s an area by the sea that the locals call the coast of Malfy, filled with small towns, gardens, fountains, rich people, and merchants. Among these towns was one called Rauello, where in the past (although there are very wealthy people today) lived a prominent man of substance named Landolpho Ruffolo. Unsatisfied with his wealth and eager to double it, he risked losing everything he had. This man, like any other merchant, after careful consideration, bought a large ship and loaded it with various goods for his own venture, setting off for the island of Cyprus. There, he found many other ships that had also arrived with similar goods, which forced him not only to sell his products at a low price but also to give them away almost for nothing, leading him to believe he was completely ruined. Distressed by this loss and uncertain about what to do next—seeing how quickly he had gone from rich to poor—he contemplated either dying or recovering his losses through piracy so that he wouldn’t return home poor from where he had left as a wealthy man. After finding a crew for his big ship and using money from the goods he sold, he bought a small vessel suitable for piracy, equipped it with everything necessary, and decided to get rich off the belongings of others, particularly targeting the Turks. Fortune smiled upon him more than in his previous trade, and by chance, over the course of a year, he robbed and captured so many Turkish ships and galleys that he not only recovered what he lost in trade but also made more than twice that amount.
Wherfore, well punished with the first sorow of his losses, knowing his gaines to multiplie, as he needed not returne the seconde time, he thoughte with himselfe that the same which he had gotten was sufficiente: and therefore determined presently to returne to his owne house with his gotten goods. And fearing the hinderance which he susteined in traffique of Marchaundise, hee purposed to imploie his moneye no longer that wayes, but in that barque wherewith hee had gained the same, with his ores hee tooke his course homeward: and being vppon the maine Sea, in the night the wind rose at the Southeast, which was not onely contrary to his course, but also raised such a tempest, as his smal barque was not able to indure the Seas. Wheruppon he toke harborough in a Creke of the Sea, whiche compassed a litle Ilande, there expecting for better wind. Into which creke within a while after, with much a do for auoyding of that tempest, arriued two great Argoseis of Genoa, that were come from Constantinople: the mariners of which greate shippes, when they sawe the litle barque, they closed vp the waye, that the pinnas could not goe out. And then vnderstanding of whence he was, and knowinge by report, that he was very riche, determined (being men naturally giuen to spoile and loue of money,) to take her. And setting a shore part of their men, well armed and furnished with crossebowes, they conueied themselues to keepe and defende that none within the Pinnas (except they woulde be shot through) was able to escape: then retiring into their skiftes, with helpe of the Tide they approched Landolpho his barque, which without any great difficultie, in a small space they toke with all the company, not loosing so much as one man. And carying Landolpho aborde one of their cockes, and all within borde his little Pinnas, they soncke the same and al the Mariners, and kept Landolpho, 140 suffering him not to haue about him any kind of armure, not so much as an haberion. The next day the winde chaunged, and the shippes hoisted vp sailes toward Leuant, and all that day prosperouslie sailed on their voyage. But vpon the closing of the night, a storme rose againe, and separated the two ships, one from another, and by force of the wind, it chaunced the ship wherein poore Landolpho was, strake with great violence vpon a sande, in the Iland of Cephalonia: and as one would throw a glasse against a wall, euen so the shippe opened, and fell in peeces, whereby the sorowfull Mariners that stoode aboue, (the seas being couered with goodes, coaffers and plancks of the ship that swam aboue water, which chaunceth many times in such like accidents, the night being darke and the billowes going high and streinable,) such as were able to swim, began to take holde of those thinges which Fortune gaue vnto them. Amonges whom wretched Landolpho, seinge death before his face (which he so greatly desired, and so many times craued the day before, rather then to retourne home in that poore estate) was afraied, and caught hold of a borde amonges the rest, trusting it might chaunce that God woulde pardon him of drowninge, and sende him some refuge for his escape. And as hee was a horseback, and fletinge vpon a plancke, so wel as he could, (driuen here and there with the Sea and winde) he helde faste the same till it was day lighte: which when he perceiued, he looked about him and saw nothing but the cloudes, the Seas, and a coaffer, swimminge aboue water, which was driuen so nere him, that it made him manye times to feare that it would be his ouerthrow. And the nerer it came, the more hee laboured to put it backe (so well as he could) with his hande, although his force and power was gone: but how soeuer it chaunced, a gale of winde blew out of the skies, and strake the coaffer against the borde whereuppon Landolpho was, who by that meanes driuen backe, was forced to giue ouer the plancke, and with a billow was beaten vnder the water, and afterwardes, remounting aloft againe, hee swam more through feare then force. And seing the borde caried a farre of from him, fearinge lest he should not be able to fasten the same againe, he drewe toward the coafer which was nere ynough vnto him, and laying his 141 breaste vpon the couer thereof, he made it go (so right as he could) with his armes. And in this maner driuen by the Sea, now here now there, without eating (as hauing not wherwithall) and drinking more then he would, he continued al that day and night following not knowing wher he was, for he sawe nothing but sea. The next morning, eyther by the will of God, or throughe the windes force, Landolpho (which was then transfformed into a sponge) holding faste with both his handes the brimme of the coafer, (like as we see them that feare to be drowned, do take hold of the next thinge that commeth to hande,) arriued at the shore of the Isle of Corfu, wher by fortune, a poore woman was scowring her vessell with Sand and salt water, who seing him draw nere, and perceyuing in him no forme or fashion of a man, was afraid, and crying out ranne backe. He not able to speake, and see but very litle, could say nothinge, but as the Sea droue him nere the shore, the woman discryed the likenes of a coafer, and beholding the same more aduisedlye, saw at length his armes vpon the same and therewithal his face, marueiling with her selfe who it should be: wherfore moued with compassion, she wente into the Sea a litle waye, which then was calme, and catching him by the heare, she pluckte him and the coafer to lande: and with much a doe vnfolded his armes that were about the coafer, causing her maide that was with her to carrie the coafer vpon her head: and she bare him to lande, (like a litle childe,) which done, she put him into a hotte house, and with warme water, by frotting and robbing him, his naturall heate, and other his sences lost, began to come againe into their former course. And when he saw time she toke him out, cherishing and comfortinge him with wynes and brothes, and so well as shee could, made him at length to recouer his force in such wise as he knew wher he was. Then the woman deliuered him his coafer, which he had saued, and badde him to seeke his aduenture. And thus this good wife delt with Landolpho, who litle esteemed the coafer, but yet he considered that it coulde not be of so small value, but that it was able to beare his charges for certaine dayes. Howbeit, feelinge it to be lighte, he was cleare voyde of hope to haue anye succour and reliefe thereof. Neuerthelesse (when the good wyfe was out of the doores) he 142 brake open the same to see what was within, where he found many precious Jewels, some bound together and some loose, wherein he had pretie skill: and knowing them to be of great value, giuing thanckes to God, which had not yet forsaken him, was wholy recomforted. Howbeit, for so much as in a litle space he had bin twise cruellye distressed and tormented by Fortune, fearing the third time, he thought that it was needeful for him to take heede how to dispose his things in safetie till he came home to his owne house. Wherefore hauing bestowed those precious Jewels in certaine ragges and cloutes so well as he could, he said to the good wife that he had no neede of the coafer, but if shee woulde giue him a bagge, he would bestow the same vppon her: which the good wife willingly did. And Landolpho geuing her so great thanckes as he coulde, for the kindnes which he had found at her hands, toke his leaue, and imbarking himselfe, he passed to Branditio, and from thence from place to place till hee came to Trani, where findinge diuers of the Citie wherein he dwelt, that were Drapers, he was apparelled of them (in a maner for Gods sake) to whom he told the discourse of all his fortune, except the coafer, who lent him a horse, and sente diuers in his company to bring him home to Rauello. And when he was in safety arriued, he thanked God that had brought him thither, where he searched his bouget with more leasure then he did at the first, and founde that he had manye stones of so greate value, that sellinge them at price reasonable, for lesse then they were worth, his substaunce did amount to so much more then it was when he departed from his house. And when he had founde the meanes to dispatch and sell his Jewels, he sent to Corfu a good peece of money, to the woman that toke him oute of the Sea, to recompence the kindnes, that he had found at her handes: and the like to them of Trani, that had giuen him apparell, the rest he toke to himselfe and would be no more a Marchaunte, but liued at home in honest estate to the ende of his life.
Therefore, after suffering the initial sorrow from his losses, knowing his gains had multiplied and feeling he didn't need to return for a second trip, he thought to himself that what he had acquired was enough. He decided to head home with his belongings. Concerned about the delays he faced in trade, he planned to invest his money in the same ship that had brought him his riches and set sail for home. While on the open sea one night, a southeast wind picked up, which was not only against his course but also stirred up a storm that his small boat could not withstand. He sought shelter in a creek that surrounded a small island, waiting for better winds. Shortly after, two large ships from Genoa, arriving from Constantinople, took refuge there as well. The sailors on those big ships, seeing the little boat, blocked the passage so that no one on it could escape. Learning about his origins and hearing that he was quite wealthy, they decided to take him. They stationed some armed men onshore with crossbows to ensure no one from Landolpho's boat could get away without being shot. Then, returning to their small boats, they used the tide to approach Landolpho's vessel and easily captured it along with everyone on board, without losing a single person. They took Landolpho aboard one of their ships and left the crew of his small boat to sink with it, not allowing him to have any armor, not even a simple shirt. The next day, the wind changed, and the ships raised their sails toward the Levant, sailing smoothly throughout the day. However, as night fell, a storm arose again, separating the two ships. Due to the force of the wind, the ship carrying poor Landolpho ran aground violently on a sandbank on the island of Cephalonia. It broke apart as if someone had thrown glass against a wall, and the mourning sailors above watched as goods, chests, and pieces of the ship floated in the sea — a common sight in such disasters, especially on a dark and turbulent night. Those who could swim grabbed whatever fortune offered them. Among them, wretched Landolpho, staring death in the face (which he so eagerly desired the day before, wishing to avoid returning home in that poor state), was terrified and clung to a plank, hoping God would spare him from drowning and provide him with a way to escape. As he rode on the plank, tossed about by the sea and wind, he held on tightly until dawn. When he saw daylight, he looked around and found nothing but clouds and water, except for a chest floating nearby that terrified him, fearing it would bring his destruction. As it came nearer, he struggled to push it away with his hand, despite his fading strength. Then a gust of wind pushed the chest against the plank he was holding. Forced to abandon it, he was thrown underwater by a wave but managed to resurface, swimming more out of fear than strength. Seeing the plank drift away, fearful he wouldn't reach it again, he swam towards the chest nearby. Laying his chest against it, he paddled as best as he could. Driven by the sea, he was tossed around without food or any means of drinking, surviving the whole day and the following night unsure of where he was — only surrounded by water. The next morning, whether by God's will or the wind's force, Landolpho, who had turned into a living sponge, clung with both hands to the edge of the chest (like those who fear drowning do with whatever comes their way) and arrived at the shore of the Isle of Corfu. By chance, a poor woman was washing her vessel with sand and saltwater. Seeing him approach and noticing he looked like nothing more than a ragged figure, she was frightened and screamed, running away. Unable to speak and seeing very little, he couldn't say anything. But as the sea pushed him towards the shore, the woman recognized a chest and, upon closer inspection, noticed his arms and face, wondering who he was. Moved by compassion, she waded into the calm sea and grabbed his hair, pulling him and the chest to shore. After much effort, she managed to free his arms from around the chest, asking her maid to carry it on her head while she helped Landolpho to safety, cradling him like a small child. Once on land, she placed him in a warm room, and by rubbing him with warm water, he began to regain his natural warmth and senses, which he had lost. When the time was right, she took him out, comforting him with wine and broth, helping him recover enough to recognize where he was. The woman returned his chest, which he had saved, and encouraged him to continue his journey. Grateful for her kindness, Landolpho took his leave, boarded a ship, and traveled to Branditio, continuing to various places until he reached Trani. There, he encountered several merchants from his city who kindly assisted him and loaned him a horse, sending others to escort him home to Ravello. Once safely arrived, he thanked God for bringing him back. He examined his belongings in more detail than when he first returned and discovered he had many valuable gems, which, even though he would have to sell them for less than they were worth, brought him more wealth than he had before his departure. Once he figured out how to sell his jewels, he sent a good sum of money back to the woman who had rescued him from the sea, as a reward for her kindness, as well as to those in Trani who had provided him with clothing. He kept the remainder for himself and decided to stop being a merchant, choosing instead to live modestly at home for the rest of his life.
THE THIRTY-SIXTH NOUELL.
Andreuccio of Perugia being come to Naples to buy horses, was in one night surprised, with three marueilous accidentes. All which hauinge escaped with one Rubie he retourned home to his house.
Andreuccio of Perugia, having arrived in Naples to buy horses, experienced three remarkable events in one night. After managing to escape from all of them with just a ruby, he returned home to his house.
There was at Perugia a yong man, called Andreuccio di Pietro, a horse corser, who vnderstanding of a horse faire at Naples, did put fiue hundred Crownes in his pursse, and neuer traueling before from his owne house, went thither with certaine other marchants, who arriued at Naples vpon a Sonday at night. The next morninge, accordinge to the instructions giuen him by his host, he went to the fayre, where he viewed and saw many horses, whereof diuers did very well like him, and demaunded their prises: but with none he could agree of price. And to shew himselfe a right well able man to paye for that he boughte, many times (like a dolte and foole as he was) hee drew out his pursse stuffed with crownes, in the presence of them that passed to and fro. It chaunced that a yonge woman of Scicilia (which was very fayre, but at euery man’s commaundement, and that for little hire) passed by as he was shewinge his purse, not marked or perceiued by Andreuccio, who sodenlye saide to her selfe: “What is she in all this towne, that should be like vnto me, if all those crownes were mine?” And so passed forth. There was with this yong peate, an old woman, a Scicilian also, who so sone as she espied Andreuccio, forsoke her companion and ran affectuouslye to imbrace him. Which the yong woman perceyuinge (not speaking a word) she gaue good heede to that they said: Andreuccio tourninge himselfe to the olde woman, immediatlye knew her, and reioysed muche that he had so happely met her: whom after greate gratulacions and manye welcomes, she promised to visite at his lodginge, which done, she departed from Andreuccio, and hee retourned to buy his horsse, howbeit that morning he bought none at all. The yonge dame, which had first seene this pursse, and marked the acquaintaunce between the old woman and him, to assaie by 144 what meanes she might get that moneye, or at leaste some part thereof, subtelly asked the old woman what man that was, of whence, what he did there, and how he knew her. To whom the olde woman particularlye recompted her whole acquaintaunce, how she dwelt of long time in Scicilia with his father, and afterwards at Perugia. And likewise she told her when he retourned, and for what cause hee was come to Naples. This iollie wenche, wholy informed of Andreuccio his parentes, and of their names, made a plat and foundation, by subtill and craftie meanes, how to obtaine her purpose: and when she was come home to her house, she sent the old woman about businesse for that day, because she might not retourne to Andreuccio. She had dwelling with her a pretie girle, well noseled and brought vp in doing of arrantes, whom about euening, she sent to the lodging of Andreuccio to make inquirie for him: where by fortune she chaunced to finde him standing alone at his hostes doore, whom the girle did aske if he knew not an honest man of Perugia called Andreuccio di Pietro, that hosted there: “Yes my girle (quoth he) I am the same man.” Then she toke him a side, and saide vnto him. “Sir, there is a gentlewoman of this towne, that would gladly speake with you, if it were your pleasure.” Which when Andreuccio heard, by and by hee called to minde, and seemed to himselfe that hee was a goodly yonge man of person, and that withoute doubte the same woman was in loue with him, because in all Naples he thought ther was none so proper a stripling as himselfe: whom incontinently he aunsweared, that he would waite vpon her, demaunding when he should come and to what place. To whom she made answere. “Euen when it pleaseth you sir, for my maistresse attendeth at home for you.” Andreuccio vpon that, withoute any word spoken to his hoste, whither he was gone, said to the wench. “Go thou before, and I will follow.” And the girle did conduct him to her maistres house, which dwelt in a streate called Marpertugio, a name shewing the honestie of the streate, wher she dwelt. But he knowing and suspecting nothing, thought the place to be right honest that he went vnto, and the wife likewise honest and good, and boldlie entred the house, the wenche going before: and mountinge vp 145 the staiers, this yonge gristle called her maistres, sayinge vnto her that maister Andreuccio was come. Who redie at the vpper steppe, seemed as though she attended for him. This Ladie was fine and had a good face, well apparelled and trimmed after the beste maner. And seinge maister Andreuccio at hand, descended two steppes of the staiers with her armes open to imbrace him, foldinge the same aboute his necke, and paused a certaine space without speaking any word, as thoughe great loue and earneste affection enforced her so to doe. Then weeping, she kissed his face, and with a voice halfe vttered betwene howling and speaking, she said vnto him: “O Andreuccio mine owne deare hart, most hartely welcome.” Andreuccio marueyling at those tender words, all amazed aunsweared: “Gentlewoman, and you also well found out.” Afterwards she toke him by the hand and conueied him vp into a parlour, and from thence (without further talke) into a chamber, which was all perfumed with Roses, with flowers of Orenges, and other sweete smelles: where he sawe a bedde well furnished, and diuers sortes of apparell placed vppon presses (accordinge to the maner of that countrie) and many other faire and riche ornaments. By reason whereof Andreuccio, which was but a freshe water Souldiour, thought that shee had been a great ladie. And they two sittinge together vppon a cheste, at her bed’s feete, she began thus to saye vnto him. “Andreuccio, I am assured you do greatly wonder at these faire words, this curteous interteignement, and at the teares which I let fall. And no marueile, although you do not know mee, and peraduenture neuer heard tel of me before: but I wil declare vnto you a thing more straunge and marueilous then that is: and to tell you plaine, I am your owne sister, and I say vnto you, that sith it hath pleased my Lord God, to shew me so much grace and fauour, that I doe now see one of my brethren before I die (althoughe I desire to see them all) I care not when hee do call mee from this wretched world: I am so in minde comforted and releued. And where it may chaunce, that you neuer vnderstoode so much before this time, I will tell you the whole discourse. So it is, that Pietro my father and yours, dwelt of long time (whereof it is possible, that you haue heard report) 146 at Palermo, where through the goodnesse and frendlye behauioure of him, there be yet some remayninge that did beare him singular good wil and frendship. But amonges other which loued him moste, my mother (which was a gentlewoman, and then a widow) without doubt did loue him best: in such wise, that shee forgetting the loue of her father, and of her brethren, and the loue of her owne honour and reputation, they dealed so together as they begat mee, and am here as you see. Afterwardes when your father and mine had occasion to depart from Palermo, he retourned to Perugia, leauing my mother behinde, and me his yong doughter, neuer after that (so farre as I knowe) caringe neither for my mother or me: whereof if he were not my father, I coulde blame him very much, consideringe his ingratitude towards my mother. Albeit, he ought to vse towards mee so muche affection and fatherlye loue as to his owne doughter, being come of no kitchin maide, ne yet of anye base woman: for my mother otherwise not knowinge what he was, did commit into his handes (moued of mere loue) both herselfe and all that she had. But what? thinges ill done, and so longe time past, are more easie to be reprehended then amended. Thus the matter went, he left mee a litle infante at Palermo, where when I was growen to yeares, my mother which was riche, gaue mee to wife, to one of the house of Gergenti, a gentleman of great honesty and reputation, who for the loue of my mother and me, retourned to dwell at Palermo, where greatly fauouringe the faction of the Guelphi, hee began to practise a certaine enterprise with oure king Charles, which being knowen to king Frederick, before the same enterprise could take effect, we were forced to flie out of Scicilia: at what time I had thought to haue been the chiefest ladie, that euer dwelte in that Island. Wherfore taking with vs such fewe things as wee were able to carie (fewe I maye well call them, in respect of them we possessed) and leauinge our houses and Palaces, we came vnto this citie: where we found kinge Charles so beningne towards vs, that he hath recompenced part of our losses, which we sustened in his seruice. For he hath giuen vs possessions and houses, with good prouision of housholde to my husband and your brother in law, as you now see and perceiue: 147 and in this maner I do remaine here, where (sweete brother) I thancke God (and not you) that at this present I see you:” and therwithall she toke him about the necke, weeping tenderly, and then kissed his face againe. Andreuccio hearing this tale spoken in order, and digested from poinct to poinct with good vtterance, wherof no word stucke betwene her teeth, or was impeached by default of tongue, and remembring how it was true that his father dwelt at Palermo, knowing also by himselfe the maner of yong men, which in their youth be prompte and willinge to loue, and seinge her tender teares, her imbracinges and honeste kisses, thoughte all that shee had spoken to be moste certaine and true. And after shee had done her tale, he answered in this wise: “Madame you may not thincke vnkindnesse, if I doe marueile at this, for that in verye deede, I haue no acquaintaunce of you, no more then if you had neuer beene borne: but whether my father hath spoken of you or of your mother at any time, truly I do not now remember: but so much the more I do reioyce that I haue founde a sister here (as I truste) because I am here alone: and certainely I knowe none so honourable, but you may seeme agreeable vnto him so well as to mee, which am but a poore marchaunt: howbeit, I do beseeche you to tell me how you did know that I was in the City.” To whom she aunsweared: “This morning a poore woman which oftentimes repaireth to my house, gaue mee knowledge thereof, because of long time (as she told me) she did dwell with your father at Palermo and at Perugia: and because I thought it more conuenient and meete, to bidde you home to mine owne house then to seke you in another man’s, I thought good to send for you.” After these words, she began in order to inquire of the state of his parents, calling them by their proper names: whereunto Andreuccio made aunswere, that now he perceiued he had better cause to giue credite vnto her words then before. Their discourse and talke of thinges being long and the weather hot, shee called for Greke wine and comfits, and made Andreuccio to drinke. Who after the banquet, desirous to depart to his lodging (for it was about supper time) shee by no meanes woulde suffer him, but making as though she were angrie, said vnto him: “Oh God! I see now most euidently, that you do 148 make little accompte of mee, being your owne sister whom you neuer sawe before, and in her house: whereunto you ought to resorte when so euer you come to towne: and will you nowe forsake the same to suppe in an Inne? But of trouth you shall not chose but take part of my supper: and althoughe my husbande be not at home (whereof I am righte sorie,) yet you shall knowe that his wife is able to make you some good chere.” To whom Andreuccio, not knowing wel what to say els, made this aunsweare: “I do loue you as I oughte to loue a sister: but if I goe not to mine Inne, I know they will tarie for mee all this night before they go to supper, to my great reproch and shame.” “Praised be God (quoth she then) I haue seruauntes to aduertise your host that you be here with me, to the intente hee shall not tarrie for you. But pleaseth you sir, to do me this great curtesie, that I may sende for your companions hither to beare you company, that afterwardes, if you will needes depart, ye may goe all together.” Andreuccio aunsweared, that he would send for none of his company that night: but for so much as she was so importunate, he himselfe was righte well content to satisfie her request. Then she made as thoughe shee had sent to his Inne to giue word that they should not tarie for him: and after much communication supper was placed vppon the table, serued in with manye deuises and sondrie delicates abundantly, and she with like sleights continued the supper till it was darke night. And when they rose from the table, Andreuccio made hast to departe, but shee would not suffer him, tellinge him that Naples was a towne so straight of orders that none might walke abrode in the night, and specially straungers; and that like as she had sent word how they should not tary for him at supper, euen so she had done for his bedde. All which Andreuccio beleeuing, and taking pleasure that he was with his sister, (deceiued though he were of his false beliefe) was wel contented to tarie. Their talke and communication after supper was of purpose dilated and protracted, and one part of the night being spent, she left Andreuccio in his chamber going to bedde, and a litle boye to waite vpon him to see that he lacked nothinge, and shee with her women went into another chamber. The time of the yeare was very hotte, wherefore Andreuccio being alone, 149 striped himselfe and laid his hose and doublette vnder his beddes head, and desirous to go to the priuie, he asked the boie where it was, who pointing to the doore in a corner of the chamber, said vnto him: “Goe in there.” Andreuccio safely wente in, and chaunced by Fortune to set his foote vpon a borde, which at both endes was loose from the ioyst whereuppon it lay, by reason whereof the bord and he tombled downe into the Iakes: and God so loued him, that in the fall he receiued no hurt although it were of a good height, sauing he was imbroined and arraied with the dunge of the place, wherof the Iakes was full. Which place (to the intent you may the better vnderstand what is said, and what shall follow) euen as it was I wil describe vnto you. There was in a litle straighte entrie (as manye times we see betweene two houses) certaine bordes laied vppon two Ioistes, betwene the one house and the other: vpon which was placed the seate of the priuie, one of which bordes was the same that fill downe with Andreuccio, who now being in the bottome of the Iakes, sorowfull for that sodaine chaunce, cried oute to the boie for helpe. But the boie so soone as hee hearde, that hee was fallen, wente in to tell his maistres, whoe by and by ranne into his chamber to seeke for his clothes: and when she had founde them, and in the same his money, which Andreuccio like a foole, without mistruste, still caried about him: she now possessed the thing for which she had before laied the snare, in fayning her selfe to be of Palermo and the doughter of one of Perugia. And caring no longer for him, she straight way shut fast the priuy doore whereat he went forth when he fell. Andreuccio seing that the boie would not aunswere, began to cry out a loude, but all was in vaine: wherfore suspecting the cause, and beginning somewhat to late to vnderstande the deceipt, he lept ouer a litle wall which closed the place from the sight of the streat. And when he was in the open streate he went to the dore of the house, which he knew well ynough, makinge a noise, rapping hard and long at the doore, but it was in vaine: for which cause he began to complaine and lamente, like vnto one that manifestly saw his misfortune, saying: “Alas, in howe litle time haue I lost fiue hundred crownes and a sister.” And after many other words, he began 150 againe to bounse at the doore, and to crie out. He rapped so long and cryed so loude, as he waked manye of the neighbours there aboutes, who not able to suffer that noyse, rose out of their beds, and amonges others one of the maides of the house (fayning her selfe to be slepie) looked out at the window and said in great rage: “What noise is beneath?” “Oh” saide Andreuccio, “do yee not know me? I am Andreuccio, the brother of madame Floredelice?” “Thou hast droncke to much me thinketh, (quoth the maide) go sleepe and come againe to morow: I know none called Andreuccio, nor yet do vnderstand what thou meanest by those foolish words, get thee hence good man and let vs sleepe I pray thee.” “Why (quoth Andreuccio) doest thou not heare me what I say? thou knowest me well ynough if thou wilt, but if the Scicilian kinred be so sone forgotten, giue me my clothes which I haue left behinde me, and I will go hence with al my hart.” Whereat the maide laughed and saide: “I thincke the man is in a dreame:” and with that she tourned her selfe and shut fast the window. Andreuccio now sure and certaine of his losses, attached with incredible sorow, conuerted his anger into rage, thoughte to recouer by anoiaunce that which he could not get with fayre wordes. Wherefore takinge vp a bigge stone, he began againe with greater blowes to beate at the doore. Which when manye of the neighbours (that before were waked oute of their sleepe and risen) did heare, thinking that it was some troublesome felow that counterfeited those words to anoye the good wife of the house, and all they likewise troubled with the noyse: loking out of the windowes, began to rate him with one voice (like a sorte of Curres of one streate, which doe baule and barke at a straunge Dogge that passeth by) sayinge: “This is to much shame and villanie, to come to the houses of honest women at that time of the night, and to speake such fonde wordes. Wherefore (good man) gette thee hence for God’s sake, and let vs sleepe: if thou haue any thing to do with the good wife, come againe to morrow and disquiet vs no more to night.” With which woordes, as poore Andreuccio was somewhat appeased, one that was within the house, a ruffian (that kept the good wife) whom Andreuccio neuer saw, nor heard before: looked out of the windowe, and 151 with a bigge and horrible voice, demaunded who was beneath? Whereat Andreuccio lifting vp his head, saw one, that so far as he could perceiue, seemed to be a long lubber and a large, with a blacke beard, and a sterne visage, looking as though he were newly rysen from bedde, ful of sleepe, gaping and rubbing his eyes. Whom Andreuccio aunsweared in fearefull wise, saying: “I am the good wiue’s brother of the house.” But the Ruffian interrupting his answeare, speaking more fiercely then at the first, said: “I know not who thou arte, but if I come downe, I will so codgel and bombaste thee, as thou shalte not be able to sturre thy selfe, like an asse and dronken beast as thou art, which all this night wilt not suffer vs to slepe.” And with these wordes turning himselfe aboute, he shutte the windowe. Diuers of the neighbours (which knewe better the conditions of that terrible Ruffian) speakinge faire to Andreuccio, saide vnto him: “For God’s sake good man, depart hence in time, and suffer not thy selfe to be slaine:” “Gette thee hence (quoth an other) and saye not but thou haddest warning.” Whereat Andreuccio being appalled, and with the Ruffians woordes and sight amazed, moued likewise by the counsaile of the neighbours that spake to him as he thoughte, in charitable wyse, toke his waye to retourne to his Inne, the sorowfulles man that euer liued, and in greatest despaire, for losse of his money. Turninge that way, wherein he was guided by a litle girle the day afore, and anoyed with the stenche that he felt about him: desirous to goe to the sea side to washe him, hee declined to muche on the left hande, taking the waye vp to the streat called La Ruga Catellana, and as hee was marching vp the highest parte of the citie, by chaunce he sawe twoo men before him, with a lanthorne light in one of their handes, coming towardes him, for auoyding of whom (because he feared that it was the watche, or some other ill disposed persones) he hidde him selfe in an olde house harde by. But they (as of purpose) went to the very same place: where one of them discharging hym selfe of certain instrumentes of yron, whiche he bare vpon his backe, both of them did vewe and surueie those yrons, debating of diuers thinges touching the same, and as they were talking togethers, one of them sayde: “What meaneth this? I smel the 152 foulest stenche, that euer I felte in all my life.” And when he had sayd so, he lifted vp the Lanthorne and espied miserable Andreuccio couching behinde the wall, and being afrayde, asked who it was, Andreuccio helde his peace. But they approching neare him with their lighte, demaunded what hee made there, so filthely araied. To whom Andreuccio rehersed the whole aduenture as it chaunceth. Who considering the cause of that misfortune, sayd one to an other: this no doubt was done in the house of Scarabone Butta Fuoco: and tourning towardes Andreuccio, one of them sayde vnto him. “Good man, although thou hast lost thy money, yet thou hast great cause to prayse God that it was thy chaunce to falle, and not to enter againe into the house: for if thou haddest not fallen, assure thy selfe that when thou haddest bene a slepe, thy throte had bene cutte, and so with thy money shouldest haue loste thy life. But what auaileth it nowe to wepe and lament: for thou shalt so sone plucke the starres out of the Skye, as euer recouer one peny of thy losse: and without doubt he will kill thee, if hee vnderstande that thou make any wordes thereof.” When they had sayde so, and had giuen him that admonition, they comforted him in this wyse. “Good felowe, we doe lament thy state: And therefore, if thou wilt ioyne thy self with vs, about an enterprise, which we haue in hande: we warraunt thee, thou shalt get a great deale more than thou hast loste.” Andreuccio like one in extreame dispaire, was content. The daie before was buried one Messer Philippo Minutulo, an Archebishop of Naples, in riche pontificalles and ornamentes, with a Rubie vpon his finger, that was worth fiue hundred Ducates of golde, whome they purposed to robbe and dispoile, telling Andreuccio the whole order of their intent: who more couetous, then well aduised, went with them. And going towardes the great church: Andreuccio his perfume began to sente very strong, whereupon one of them sayde. “Is it not possible to deuise a waye, that this shitten beaste may washe him selfe in some place, that he stinke no more thus filthelie?” “Yes, (quod the other) there is a pitte here harde by, ouer whiche there hangeth a pulley, and a great bucket, where we may presently washe him.” When they were come to the pitte, they founde the rope hanging still vpon the 153 pulley, but the bucket was taken away: wherefore they thought beste to tie him to the rope, and to let him downe the pitte to washe him selfe: and that when he was washed, he should wagge the rope, and they woulde hoiste him vp againe. Whiche they did. But it chaunced that whiles he was thus clensing him selfe in the pitte: the watche of the citie (because they swette and the night was very hot), being drie and thirstie came to the pitte to drinke. The other twoo perceiuing the watche at hande, left Andreuccio in the pitte and ranne awaye. The watche whiche was come thether to drinke, perceiued not those two that were fledde; and Andreuccio being still in the bottome, when he had clensed him selfe, began to wagge the rope. The watche sitting downe by the pittes syde caste of their clokes and layde downe their halbardes and other weapons, and began to drawe vp the rope, thinking that the bucket full of water was tied to the same. When Andreuccio was haled vp, to the brincke of the pitte, hee forsoke the rope, and cast him selfe with one of his handes vpon the syde of the same. When the watche sawe that, they for feare ranne away so faste as they could without speaking any worde. Wherof Andreuccio did marueile very much: and if he had not taken good holde, he had fallen agayne downe to the bottome, to his great hurt, and peraduenture not without peril of his life. Notwithstanding being out of the pitte, and finding halberdes and other weapons there, which he knew wel his fellowes brought not with them: he then began muche more to wonder. But betwene feare and ignoraunce of that which happened, complaining him self of his harde fortune, without touching of any thing, he determined to go from thence, and wandred he could not tell whether. But as he was departing from that place, he met his fellowes, retiring backe to drawe him vp. And when they perceiued him alredie haled out of the pitte, they wer wonderfully abashed, and asked who drewe him out? Andreuccio made aunswere, that he coulde not tell, rehearsing to them in order, what had chaunced, and of the things he founde without. They vnderstanding the matter, laughed and tolde him againe the cause, wherefore they ran awaye, and what they were that drewe him vp. And without further talke (being then about midnight, 154 they repaired to the great churche: into the whiche they easely entred: and wente to the Tombe, whiche was of Marble, verie huge and weightie: the couer whereof being verye great, with their crowes of yron, and other tooles, they lifted vp so farre, as one man was able to enter, which doen, one asked an other, who should goe in? “Not I” quod one: “And not I” (quod the other) “No, nor I” quod Andreuccio. The other twoo hearing Andreuccio saye so, stepped vnto hym, saying: “Wilte thou not goe in? by the faythe wee owe to God: if thou goe not in, we will so beate thee, with one of these yron barres, as thou shalt neuer sturre againe out of this place.” Andreuccio being made their common riding foole, greately fearing when he heard them saye so, went in: and when he was in the graue, he sayde vnto him selfe. “These good felowes do make me goe in, because they would deceiue me: for when I haue geuen them all that is here, and I readie to come out, they meane to runne awaie to saue them selues, and to leaue me behinde without any parte thereof.” Wherfore he purposed first, to take his owne porcion to him selfe: and remembring the Ring of great valour, whereof they tolde him: so sone as he was in the graue, he pulled it of from the Archebishop’s finger, and put it vpon his own: and afterwardes taking the Crosse, the Miter and the Gloues, dispoyling him euen to his shyrt, he gaue them all saying. “That there was nothing els.” But they pressing vpon him that there was a ring behinde, willed him throughly to make searche for it: howebeit he still aunswered that he could not finde it. And because he would make them to tarie a litle longer, he fained as though he had made a further searche. The other so subtile and malicious as he, bad him to seke stil: and when they saw time, they toke away the proppes that staied vp the Tombe, and ran awaye, leauing poore Andreuccio fast shutte in the graue. Whiche when Andreuccio perceiued, what chaunced to him then, eche man may consider: then he assaied some times with his shoulders, sometimes with his head, to remoue the couer, but all was in vaine. Wherefore euen for verie sorowe, he fell in a sownde vpon the dead bodie of the Bishop. And if a man had seene them both at that instant, it coulde not well haue bene discerned, whether was the dead 155 corps, the Archebishhope dead, or poore Andreuccio dying: but after he was come to him self, he began piteously to complaine, seing hee was arriued to one of these twoo endes, either in the Tombe to die for hunger, and with the stenche of the dead bodie, putrifying with wormes, if no man came to open it: or els to be hanged as a thiefe, if hee were founde within: and as he was in these considerations tormented with sorowe: he heard a noyse in the church of diuers men, who as he thought came to the like facte, that he and his felowes had done before, wherewith his feare began much more to augmente. But after they had opened the graue and stayed it vp, it came in question amongs them who should go in. And when they had contended a good space about the same, a priest that was in the companie sayde. “Why are ye afrayde? doe ye thinke that hee will eate you? the dead neuer eate men: I will go in my selfe.” And when he had sayde so, he laied him downe vpon his breste at the side of the graue, and thrusting his feete in before, he went downe. Andreuccio seeing that, erected him selfe vpright and caught the Priest by one of the legges, making as though he would haue drawen him in: which when the priest perceiued, he cried out a loude, speeding him self out so fast as he could. Wherewithal the reste dismaied almoste out of their wittes, leauing the graue open, toke their legges and ran, as though a hundred thousand deuels had bene at their tailes: whiche seing, Andreuccio (more ioyful then he looked for) lepte out of the graue, and ran as faste as he could out of the Churche, at the place where he came in. At what time dayelight began to appeare, and he with the ringe on his finger, wandred he wiste not whether, tyll he came to the Seaside, and at length recouered his Inne, where he founde his companie and his hoste al that night, taking greate care for him. To whome recompting that whiche chaunced, his hoste gaue him aduise incontinently, to get him out of Naples, whiche presently he did: and retourned to Perugia, hauing bestowed his v. C. crownes vpon a rynge, whiche he thought to haue imploied vpon horses: for whiche cause he made that iourney.
There was a young man in Perugia named Andreuccio di Pietro, a horse dealer. Hearing about a horse fair in Naples, he put five hundred crowns in his pocket and, having never traveled away from home before, went there with some other merchants, arriving in Naples on a Sunday night. The next morning, following the advice given to him by his host, he went to the fair, where he looked at and considered many horses, several of which he liked very much and asked for their prices, but he couldn’t agree on the price with any of them. To show everyone that he was a serious buyer, he often pulled out his purse stuffed with crowns in front of those passing by, acting foolishly. It happened that a young woman from Sicily, who was very beautiful but could be easily influenced by men for little pay, walked by as he was displaying his purse, unnoticed by Andreuccio. She suddenly thought to herself: “What could she have in this town that would be like me if all those crowns were mine?” And she moved on. Along with this young woman was an old Sicilian woman who, as soon as she spotted Andreuccio, abandoned her companion and rushed to greet him warmly. The young woman noticed this without saying a word and paid close attention to their conversation. Andreuccio, turning to the old woman, immediately recognized her and was very glad to have met her. After many warm greetings, she promised to visit him at his lodging, and having done that, she left Andreuccio, who returned to buy his horse, though that morning he ended up buying none. The young woman, having first spotted the purse and noted the acquaintance between Andreuccio and the old woman, cunningly asked the old woman who that man was, where he was from, what he was doing there, and how she knew him. The old woman recounted her entire history, explaining how she had lived for a long time in Sicily with his father and later in Perugia. She also mentioned when he had returned and why he had come to Naples. This clever woman, fully informed about Andreuccio's family and their names, devised a scheme to get that money, or at least some part of it. When she got back to her house, she sent the old woman on an errand for the day so she wouldn’t return to Andreuccio. She had with her a pretty girl, well-trained in running errands, whom she sent in the evening to inquire about him. By chance, the girl found him standing alone at his host's door, and she asked if he knew a respectable man from Perugia named Andreuccio di Pietro, who was staying there. “Yes, my girl,” he replied, “I am that man.” Then she pulled him aside and said, “Sir, there is a lady from this town who would like to speak with you, if you’re willing.” As soon as Andreuccio heard this, he remembered the lady and thought to himself that he was a handsome young man, and undoubtedly that same woman was in love with him because in all of Naples he believed there was no one more attractive than himself. He immediately responded that he would go meet her, asking when and where he should go. She replied, “Whenever it pleases you, sir, for my mistress is waiting at home for you.” ” Andreuccio, without saying a word to his host about where he was going, told the girl, “You go ahead, and I will follow.” The girl led him to her mistress's house, which was located on a street called Marpertugio, a name that suggested the place's respectability. Not suspecting anything, he thought the place must be quite respectable and the woman decent, so he boldly entered, with the girl going ahead. As they climbed the stairs, the young lady called out to her mistress, announcing that Master Andreuccio had arrived. Bestirred at the top of the stairs, she appeared to be waiting for him. This lady was lovely, well-dressed, and looked great. Seeing Master Andreuccio approaching, she descended two steps with her arms open to embrace him, wrapping them around his neck and pausing for a moment without speaking, as if great love and earnest affection compelled her to do so. Then, with tears in her eyes, she kissed his face and said, with a voice half-choked by weeping, “O Andreuccio, my dearest heart, most warmly welcome.” Andreuccio, amazed by these tender words and somewhat confused, replied, “Lady, and you too, well met.” She then took him by the hand and led him into a parlor, and from there, without further discussion, into a room that was filled with the scent of roses, orange blossoms, and other sweet fragrances, where he saw a well-furnished bed and various types of clothing on shelves (according to the customs of that country) and many other beautiful and rich decorations. Because of this, Andreuccio, who was just a naive young dealer, thought she must be a highborn lady. The two of them sat together on a chest at the foot of her bed, and she began to say to him, “Andreuccio, I am sure you marvel at these sweet words, this polite reception, and these tears that I shed. No wonder you are bewildered, knowing me not and perhaps never having heard of me before; but I will reveal to you something more strange and marvelous than that: to be frank, I am your sister. I tell you this because it has pleased my Lord God to grant me the grace and favor of seeing one of my brothers before I die (though I wish to see them all). I care not when He calls me away from this wretched world; I feel comforted and relieved in my heart. If you have never grasped this before, I will recount the whole story. For a long time, our father Pietro and yours lived in Palermo, where, thanks to his kindness and friendly behavior, there are still some who bear him great goodwill and friendship. But among those who loved him most was my mother, a gentlewoman and a widow at that time, who undoubtedly loved him best: so much so that she forgot the love of her own father and brothers and her own honor and reputation, they came together and conceived me, and thus here I am. Later, when your father and mine had reason to leave Palermo, he returned to Perugia, leaving my mother behind and me, his young daughter, never caring afterward (as far as I know) for either my mother or me. If he were not my father, I might blame him greatly for his ingratitude toward my mother. Nevertheless, he ought to have shown me as much affection and paternal love as to his own daughter, being born of no maidservant, nor of any base woman: for my mother, not knowing what he was, committed both herself and all she had to him solely out of love. But what? Things poorly done and so long ago are more easily reproved than amended. Thus it went: he left me a little infant in Palermo. As I grew up, my wealthy mother married me to a man from the house of Gergenti, a gentleman of great honesty and reputation, who for the love of my mother and me returned to live in Palermo, where he supported the Guelph faction and began to conspire with our King Charles. This was known to King Frederick, so before that enterprise could take effect, we were forced to flee Sicily; at that moment, I had hoped to be the chief lady who ever lived on that island. So, taking with us what few belongings we could carry (few, I say, in comparison to what we had) and leaving our homes and palaces, we came to this city. Here we found King Charles so kind to us that he has compensated us for some of the losses we suffered in his service, providing us with possessions and houses, along with good household provisions for my husband and your brother-in-law, as you now see and perceive: 147 In this way, I remain here, where (my sweet brother) I thank God (and not you) that at this moment I see you.” With that, she took him around the neck, weeping tenderly, and then kissed his face again. Upon hearing this tale told in order and articulated without any hesitations or stumbles, Andreuccio, remembering that it was indeed true his father had lived in Palermo, and also knowing from experience how young men can be keen to love, and seeing her tender tears, embraces, and affectionate kisses, began to believe that all she said was most true and certain. After she finished her story, he responded, “Madam, you may not think me unkind for marveling at this, for truly I have no acquaintance with you, any more than if you had never been born. Whether my father spoke of you or your mother at any time, I truly do not remember; but I rejoice the more that I have found a sister here (as I hope), because I am here alone. I certainly know no one so honorable that you should not seem agreeable to him as well as to me, who am just a poor merchant. However, I ask you to tell me how you knew that I was in the city.” To which she answered, “This morning, a poor woman who often comes to my house informed me because, as she told me, she had long lived with your father in Palermo and Perugia; and since I thought it more suitable to invite you to my own house than to seek you out at another's, I decided to send for you.” After these words, she began to inquire about the state of his parents, calling them by name, to which Andreuccio replied that now he saw he had better reason to believe her words than before. Their conversation extended long, and feeling hot weather, she called for Greek wine and treats, and made Andreuccio drink. After the meal, he was eager to depart for his lodging (as it was around supper time), but she insisted that he stay, pretending to be angry and said to him, “Oh God! I now see clearly that you think little of me, your own sister whom you have never seen before, and in her house, which you should come to whenever you are in town. Will you now abandon it to eat in an inn? But truly, you shall not choose but share my supper. And although my husband is not at home (of which I am truly sorry), you will find that his wife is capable of hosting you well.” To whom Andreuccio, not sure what else to say, replied: “I love you as I ought to love a sister, but if I don’t go to my inn, I know they will wait for me there all night before they eat, which would be to my great shame.” “Praise be to God,” she said, “I have servants to inform your host that you are with me, so he won’t wait for you. But sir, would you kindly allow me to send for your companions here to keep you company, so that afterward, if you must leave, you can all go together?” Andreuccio replied that he wouldn’t send for any of his companions that night, but since she was so insistent, he willingly agreed to satisfy her request. Then she pretended to send word to his inn not to wait for him at supper, and after much conversation, supper was served on the table, filled with many dishes and various delights. She, employing similar tricks, extended the supper until the night was dark. Once they finished eating, Andreuccio hurried to leave, but she wouldn’t let him, saying that Naples had such strict laws that no one could walk abroad at night, especially strangers. She assured him that just as she had informed them not to wait for him at supper, she had done the same for his bed. All of which Andreuccio believed, and taking pleasure in being with his sister (though deceived by his false belief), was quite content to stay. Their talk after supper continued in detail and length, and as part of the night passed, she left Andreuccio in his chamber going to bed, along with a little boy to attend to him and ensure he lacked nothing, while she and her women went into another room. Given the hot season, Andreuccio was alone, stripped down, placing his hose and doublet under his bed, and wishing to go to the privy, he asked the boy where it was. The boy pointed to a door in the corner of the room, saying, “Go in there.” Andreuccio went in safely and, by accident, stepped on a board that was loose at both ends from the joists on which it lay, causing both the board and him to tumble down into the jakes. Fortunately, God favored him as he fell without injury, despite the height, except for being covered in filth from the place full of waste. To help you better understand what was said and what is to follow, I will describe the place. There was in a little narrow entry (as we often see between two houses) some boards laid upon two joists, between one house and the other, on which sat the seat of the privy. One of those boards was the same board that fell with Andreuccio, who now, being at the bottom of the jakes, sorrowful for that sudden fate, cried out to the boy for help. But when the boy, as soon as he heard that he had fallen, went in to tell his mistress, who hurried into his room to look for his clothes. Once she found them, she also discovered his money, which Andreuccio, like a fool, had carried with him without suspicion. She now possessed the very thing for which she had previously laid the trap, pretending to be from Palermo and the daughter of someone from Perugia. No longer caring for him, she quickly shut the privy door through which he had fallen. Andreuccio, realizing the boy was no longer responding, began to shout out loud, but it was in vain. Beginning to suspect the situation and somewhat late to understand the deception, he jumped over a small wall that separated the place from the sight of the street. When he was in the open street, he went to the door of the house, which he recognized well, making a noise, knocking loudly and for a long time at the door, but it was in vain. Now complaining and lamenting as one who clearly saw his misfortune, he said, “Alas, how quickly I have lost five hundred crowns and a sister.” After many other words, he began to knock again on the door and shout. He knocked so long and cried so loudly that he woke many of the neighbors nearby, who, unable to endure the noise, got out of bed. Among them, one of the maids of the house (pretending to be sleepy) looked out of the window and angrily said, “What noise is beneath?” “Oh,” said Andreuccio, “don’t you know me? I am Andreuccio, the brother of Madame Floredelice?” “You must be drunk, I think,” said the maid. “Go sleep and come back in the morning: I don’t know anyone called Andreuccio, nor do I understand what you mean by those foolish words. Get away, good man, and let us sleep, I beg you.” “Why,” said Andreuccio, “do you not hear me? You know me quite well if you wish, but if the Sicilian kin are forgotten so soon, give me my clothes that I left behind, and I will leave with all my heart.” At this, the maid laughed and said, “I think the man is dreaming,” and with that, she turned away and slammed the window shut. Now, certain of his losses, Andreuccio, filled with incredible sorrow, turned his anger into rage and thought to recover his losses through annoyance, rather than sweet words. Thus, picking up a large stone, he began again to bang harder at the door. When the neighbors (who had already been awoken and gotten out of bed) heard this, they thought it was some troublesome fellow pretending to annoy the good wife of the house, and all of them, disturbed by the noise, started looking out their windows, scolding him in unison (like a pack of dogs barking at a strange dog passing by): “This is too much shame and villany, coming to the houses of honest women at that time of night and speaking such silly words. So, good man, get out of here for God’s sake, and let us sleep: if you have business with the good wife, come back tomorrow and don’t disturb us anymore tonight.” With these words, while poor Andreuccio was somewhat calmed, one within the house, a ruffian (who kept the good wife), whom Andreuccio had never seen or heard before, looked out the window and, in a loud and terrifying voice, demanded to know who was beneath. Upon hearing this, Andreuccio looked up and saw a very tall, burly man with a black beard and stern countenance, appearing to have just woken up, yawning and rubbing his eyes. Andreuccio fearfully replied, “I am the good wife’s brother of the house.” But the ruffian, interrupting his answer and speaking even more fiercely than before, said, “I don’t know who you are, but if I come down, I will so beat and bruise you that you won't be able to move, like the drunk man and beast you are, who all night long haven’t allowed us to sleep.” With these words, he turned around and shut the window. Many of the neighbors, who knew better how this terrible ruffian behaved, kindly spoke to Andreuccio, saying, “For God’s sake, good man, leave this place in a timely fashion and do not let yourself be killed.” “Leave,” said another, “and do not say you haven't been warned.” Hearing this, Andreuccio, frightened and dismayed by the ruffian's words and appearance, moved by the advice from the neighbors who spoke to him kindly, took his way back to his inn, the most sorrowful man who ever lived, and in the greatest despair over his lost money. Turning the way he was led by the little girl the previous day, and annoyed by the stench surrounding him, he desired to go to the seaside to wash himself, veering too far to the left, taking the road up to the street called La Ruga Catellana. As he climbed to the high part of the city, he happened to see two men in front of him with a lantern in one of their hands, coming toward him. Fearing they were the watch or some other ill-disposed people, he hid himself behind an old house nearby. But they went straight to that very same place, where one of them unloaded certain iron tools he carried on his back, and both examined and discussed those irons, debating several things concerning them. As they were talking among themselves, one said, “What is this? I smell the most foul stench I have ever felt in my life.” When he said this, he raised the lantern and spotted miserable Andreuccio crouching behind the wall. Afraid, he asked who it was, but Andreuccio stayed silent. However, when they approached him with their light, they asked why he was so filthy. To this, Andreuccio recounted the entire adventure as it occurred. They, considering the cause of his misfortune, said to one another, “This was undoubtedly done in the house of Scarabone Butta Fuoco.” Turning to Andreuccio, one of them told him, “Good man, though you have lost your money, you have every reason to thank God that it was your chance to fall and not to re-enter the house; for if you had not fallen, rest assured that while you slept, your throat would have been cut, and thus you would have lost your life along with your money. But what good does it do now to weep and lament? For you will snatch the stars from the sky as quickly as you will recover even a penny of your loss, and without a doubt he will kill you if he finds out you utter any words about this.” Having said that, they comforted him in this way, “Good fellow, we lament for your state: and therefore, if you will join us in an enterprise we have planned, we assure you, you will gain much more than you have lost.” Andreuccio, in extreme despair, agreed. The previous day, one Messer Philippo Minutulo, an archbishop of Naples, had been buried in rich pontifical clothing and ornaments, wearing a ruby worth five hundred ducats, which they planned to rob and loot, explaining the detailed order of their intent to Andreuccio. More greedy than prudent, he decided to go with them. As they proceeded towards the grand church, Andreuccio's uncleanliness became increasingly apparent, prompting one of them to ask, “Is it not possible to figure out a way to wash this filthy creature somewhere, so he stinks less?” “Yes,” replied the other, “there is a pit nearby from which a pulley and a large bucket hang, where we can wash him right now.” When they reached the pit, they found the rope still hanging from the pulley, but the bucket was missing. So, they decided it was best to tie him to the rope and lower him into the pit to wash himself; and that when he had washed, he should wag the rope so they could hoist him up again. So they did. But it so happened that while he was cleansing himself in the pit, the watchmen of the city (because they sweat and the night was very hot), being dry and thirsty, came to the pit to drink. The other two, noticing the watchmen approaching, left Andreuccio in the pit and ran away. The watchmen, who had come to drink, did not catch sight of those two who had fled, and Andreuccio, still at the bottom, having cleaned himself, began to wag the rope. The watchmen, sitting by the pit, took off their cloaks and laid down their halberds and other weapons, and began to pull the rope, thinking there was a bucket full of water tied to it. When Andreuccio was hoisted up to the edge of the pit, he let go of the rope and flung himself onto the side of it. When the watchmen saw that, they, in fear, ran away as fast as they could without saying a word. Andreuccio was greatly puzzled by this: if he hadn’t grabbed hold tightly, he would have fallen back down to the bottom, resulting in possible injury or even loss of life. Nevertheless, once he was out of the pit and spotted halberds and other weapons there, which he clearly identified weren’t brought by his companions, he was even more astonished. However, caught between fear and ignorance of what had just happened, lamenting his hard fate, without touching anything, he decided to leave and wandered without knowing where to go. But as he was departing from that place, he met his companions, who were returning to haul him up. When they saw he was already pulled out of the pit, they were greatly astonished and asked who had pulled him out. Andreuccio replied that he had no idea, relating to them in sequence what had happened and what he had found out there. Upon hearing this, they laughed and shared with him why they ran away and who it was that pulled him up. Without further discussion (it being around midnight), they made their way to the grand church, into which they easily entered, heading for the tomb, which was made of heavy and massive marble. With their iron crowbars and other tools, they lifted it just high enough for one man to enter. Then one asked another who should go in. “Not I,” said one. “Nor I,” said the other. “No, nor I,” said Andreuccio. The other two hearing this stepped toward him and said, “Will you not go in? By the faith we owe to God, if you do not go in, we will beat you so badly with one of these iron bars that you will never move again from this place.” Feeling greatly frightened upon hearing them say so, Andreuccio went in. And once inside the grave, he said to himself, “These good fellows are forcing me to go in so they can deceive me: for when I have given them everything inside, and am ready to come out, they plan to run away to save themselves and leave me behind without any share.” Therefore, he resolved first to take his share for himself. Remembering the precious ring they mentioned, once he was inside the grave, he pulled it off the archbishop's finger and slipped it onto his own. After that, taking the cross, the miter, and the gloves, stripping him even to his shirt, he gave them all, saying, “There is nothing else.” But they urged him that there was a ring behind and encouraged him diligently to search for it. However, he persistently replied that he couldn’t find it. And in an effort to prolong their stay a little while, he pretended as though he searched further. The others, just as cunning and malicious, told him to keep looking: and when they saw the opportunity, they removed the props that held the tomb up and ran away, leaving poor Andreuccio tightly shut in the grave. When Andreuccio realized what had happened, everyone can understand what occurred then; he tried several times with his shoulders, and sometimes with his head, to move the cover, but all in vain. Thus, out of pure sorrow, he fell unconscious against the dead body of the bishop. If a person had seen them both at that moment, it would have been hard to tell which was the dead corpse—the archbishop or poor Andreuccio nearing death. After he came to himself, he began to lament piteously, seeing he had arrived at one of these two ends: either to die of hunger in the tomb, with the stench of the decaying body filling his nostrils, as the flesh rotted with worms, if no one came to open it; or else to be hanged as a thief if discovered inside. While he was tormented by these thoughts, he heard a noise in the church of several men, who, as he thought, were coming for the same purpose as he and his companions had done before, which increased his fear significantly. Yet after they had opened the grave and pushed aside the cover, a discussion arose among them regarding who should go in. As they debated this matter for a while, a priest in the group said, “Why are you afraid? Do you think he will eat you? Dead men do not eat humans: I will go in myself.” When he had said that, he lay down on his stomach beside the grave and, pushing his feet in front, he descended inside. Seeing this, Andreuccio stood up straight and grabbed the priest by one of his legs, pretending he wanted to pull him in. Upon realizing this, the priest shouted loudly, scrambling out as quickly as he could. This caused the others to be so frightened they nearly lost their minds, leaving the grave wide open as they took to their heels and fled, as though a hundred thousand devils were chasing after them. Observing this, Andreuccio, more overjoyed than expected, leaped out of the grave and ran as fast as he could out of the church at the very spot where he had entered. At that moment day began to break, and he, with the ring on his finger, wandered without knowing where he was headed until he reached the seaside, ultimately making his way back to his inn, where he found his companions and his host, who had all been greatly worried about him that night. As he recounted what had happened, his host immediately advised him to leave Naples, which he did right away, returning to Perugia, having spent his five hundred crowns on a ring, which he had intended to invest in horses, thus making that journey.
THE THIRTY-SEUENTH NOUELL.
The erle of Angiers being falsely accused, was banished out of Fraunce, and left his two sonnes in sondry places in Englande, and retourning (vnknowen) by Scotlande, founde theim in great authoritie, afterwardes he repayred in the habite of a seruaunte, to the Frenche kinges armie, and being knowen to be innocent, was againe aduaunced to his first estate.
The Earl of Angiers, having been wrongly accused, was exiled from France and left his two sons in different locations in England. He returned incognito by way of Scotland and found them in a position of great authority. Later, he disguised himself as a servant and joined the French king's army. Once it was discovered that he was innocent, he was restored to his former status.
The Romaine Empire being transferred from the Frenche, vnto the Almanes, there rose a great discencion betwene both the nacions, and in the ende a cruell and continuall warre. For whiche cause, as well for the defence of his kingdome, as to offende his ennemies, the Frenche king and one of his sonnes, with all the power of their owne Realme and of their frendes and allies, assembled a great hoste of menne to encountre with their enemies: and before they proceaded, because they would not leaue their realme without a gouernour, knowing Gualtieri, Erie of Anglers, to be a gentle and sage knight, and their moste trustie frend, and that he was a man moste expert in the art of warfare, seming vnto them (notwithstanding) more apt to pleasure, then paine, lefte him Lieutenaunt generall in their place, for the gouernement of the whole kingdome of Fraunce: and preceded in their enterprise. The Erle then began with great knowledge, and by good order, to execute his office committed vnto hym, doynge nothinge withoute the consente of the Queene and her fayre daughter in lawe, althoughe they were lefte to be vnder his custodie and gouernement, yet neuertheles, he honoured them as his Maistresses and superiours. The Erle Gaultieri was a beautiful personage, about the age of fourtie yeares, so familiar and well condicioned, as any gentleman could be, and be sides that, hee was the moste excellent and trimmest knight that was knowen in those dayes, and one moste comelie in his apparell. It chaunced that the king and his sonne, being at the warres aforesaide, the wife of the Erle died in the meane whyle, leauing him onely twoo litle yong children, a sonne and a doughter, whiche he had by her. He then frequenting the court 157 of the aforesaid ladies, talking many times with theim about the affaires of the Realme: the wife of the kinges sonne, fixed her eyes vpon him, and with great affection (for his persone and vertues) feruently embraced hym with secrete loue. And knowing her selfe to bee yonge and freshe, and him to be without a wyfe, thought (sodainly) to bring to passe, that whiche shee desired, and thinking that nothing could lette it but onelye shame to discouer it, shee purposed vtterlye to abandone the same. And vppon a daye beyng alone, shee sente one to seeke the Erle, as though shee would haue communicated with him of other matters. The Erle whose mynde was farre different from the Ladies, incontinentlye came vnto her: who beyng sette downe together vppon a bedde (whiche she desired) alone in a chamber, he asked her twyse vpon what occasion she sent for hym: and she hauing nothing to saye vnto hym, pressed in the ende, and rapte with loue waxed verie shamefaste and almoste wepinge, and quaking for feare, with faynte woordes, began to saye as foloweth. “My derely beloued and louing frende, and Lorde, you may easely knowe (beyng a wyse man as you bee) the frailtie of men and women: and by diuers considerations, the weakenesse to be more in the one, then in the other. Wherefore (before a iust iudge) one fault of diuerse qualities, ought not of reason to receiue one like punishement. Moreouer who is he that will saye, that a poore man or woman, which getteth their liuing with the labour of their bodie, ought not more to be reprehended if they become amourous, and subiect to their lustes, then the riche Ladye whiche taketh no care for her liuing, or wanteth any thing that shee desireth. Truely I beleue there is none that will saye so: for which reason I suppose that the things beforesayd, ought to serue the greatest part of the excuse to the aduauntage of her that doth possesse them: if it happen that shee geue her selfe fully to the conductions of loue: and the superflusage of her saide excuse ought to consiste, in that shee hath chosen her a sage and vertuous frende, if shee that loueth hath done so in dede. Whiche twoo thinges as they ought to be (in my iudgement) so they are in me, and many other also: whiche ought to induce me to loue, accordingly as my youth requireth, and the great distaunce that is betweene my husbande and mee. 158 It behoueth nowe then, that they should aduaunce them selues in your presence, for the defence of my burning loue: and if the same do raine in you, whiche haue power in the wise, then I beseche you to geue me counsayle and aide in the thing which I shal demaunde. True it is, that for the long absence of my husbande (not able to resist the prickes of the fleshe, and the force of loue) whiche be of suche great effect, that they haue many times past and yet daily do vanquishe and ouercome, not only feble and weake women, but also the strongest men. I liuing in ease and idlenes as you se, and forced to folowe the pleasures of loue and to become amourous: and as I do knowe well, that suche thinges (if they were knowen) should not be reputed honest. Neuerthelesse, the same being kepte secrete, I truste shall not be reprocheful. Notwithstanding dame Loue is so fauourable vnto mee, that not onely shee hath geuen me true iudgement in choise of a frende, but hath reueiled vnto me that it is you whiche is worthy to be beloued, of such a Ladie as I am. For if I be not greatlye deceiued, I doe make accompte that you be the fayrest personage, the semeliest, the moste curteous, and wysest gentleman, in all the Realme of Fraunce. And as I maye saye, by reason of his absence, that I am without a husband so may you affirme that you be without a wife: wherefore I beseche you, for the loue that I beare vnto you, that you will not denye me your loue and frendship, and that you will haue pitie vpon my young yeares, whiche doubtles do consume for you, as I see against the fierie flames.” At which worde the teares ran downe in such aboundance, as where she thought to make further supplication and praiers, she had no more power to speake. But holding downe her head, like one that was ouercome, she threw her self downe into the Erles lappe, who like a faithfull knight, began to blame (with sharpe rebukes) her fonde and foolishe loue: pushing her from hym, as shee was about to clepe him aboute the necke, and swoore great othes, that rather hee woulde be drawen in peces then consent to suche a thing, to bee done by him, or any other, against the honour of his Lorde and maister. Whiche woordes the Ladie hearing, sodainly forgat her loue, and in great rage, sayde vnto him: “Shall I then be frustrate, thou arrent villayne, in this wyse of my desired 159 ioye? but sithens thou goest about, to seke my destruction, I will cause thee to be put to death, or els to be banyshed the worlde.” When she had sayde so, by and by she caught her selfe by the heare of the head, and almoste tare it of cleane, and then layde handes vppon her garmentes, renting the same in peeces, and afterwardes cried out aloude: “Helpe, helpe, the Erle of Angiers wil rauyshe me by force.” The Earle seeing that (and farre more doubting of the enuie, and malice of the Courte, then his owne conscience, for any committed facte, fearing also, that more credite would be geuen to the wickednesse of the Ladie, then to his innocencie) conueighed him selfe from that place, and so soone as hee coulde, hee wente out of the palace, and fledde home to his owne house, where without any further aduise, he placed his children on horsebacke, and so well as he coulde caried them to Callice. At the brute and noyse of the ladie, many people assembled: who seing and hearing the occasion of her crie, not onely beleued her wordes, but also affirmed, that the pompouse state of the Erle, was vsed by him to bring to passe, th’effect of his desire. Then they ranne to the houses of the Erle, in great furie, to arreste his persone: but not finding hym there, they firste sacked his houses, and afterwardes ouerthrewe them to the grounde. The newes hereof (so wicked as might be deuised) arriued at the king and dolphins Campe, whereof they were so troubled and offended, as they condempned the Earle, and all his progenie to perpetuall exile: promising great giftes and rewardes, to them that would present them quicke or dead. The Erle being offended in his conscience, for that he was fled, innocent of the facte, made himself culpable therof, and arriued at Callice with his children, dissembling what he was, and sodainlye passed ouer into England, and in poore apparell, trauailed vp to London. And before he entred the citie, he gaue his children diuers admonicions, but specially of two things: First, that they should beare paciently the pouertie, wherunto fortune (without their offence) had brought theim. Afterwardes, that wisely they should take hede, at no time to manifeste and declare from whence they came, and whose children they were, as they loued the price of their owne lyues. The sonne was named Lewes, almoste of the age of nyne yeares, and the doughter called 160 Violenta, was about the age of VII. bothe whiche chyldren, as their age could suffer them, did well obserue their fathers hest, as afterwardes it did right wel appeare. And because that this might the better be brought to passe, it semed good vnto him, to alter their names, naming the son Perotto, and the doughter Gianetta. And when they were arriued at London, in maner of beggers, they craued their almosse, and being by fortune for that purpose, one morning at a church doore, it came to passe that a great Lady, which was one of the Marshalles of Englandes wiues, in going out of the church, sawe the Erle and his two litle children begging their almose, of whom she demaunded, what countrie man he was, and whether those children were his owne, or not. To whom the Erle answered, that he was a Picarde, and by reason of a wicked facte, done by his eldest sonne (that was an vnhappie boye) he was forced to departe his countrie, with those his twoo children. The Ladie whiche was pitifull, fixed her eyes vpon the girle, who pleased her verie much, because she was beautifull, gentil, and amiable, saying: “Good man, if thou be content to leaue vnto mee, this thy litle doughter, which hath a good face, I will willingly take her, and if she become a duetiful maiden, when shee is mariagable, I wil marie her in honest wise.” This demaunde greatly pleased the Erle, who redely aunswered, that hee was contented, and with teares trickeling downe his eyes he deliuered and commended his pretie doughter vnto her. And when he had thus well bestowed her, he determined to tarrie no longer there, but in begging his almose, traueiled through the countrie, with his sonne Perotto, and went into Wales, not without great labour and paine, as one neuer accustomed to trauayle on foote. Where dwelte one other of the kyng of Englandes Marshalles, that was of great authoritie, and kepte a noble house: to whose courte the Erle and his sonne oftentymes repayred, to practise and begge their liuing: where one of the Marshalles sonnes, and other Gentlemens chyldren, doyng certayne chyldyshe sportes and pastymes, as to runne and leape, Perotto began to entermedle hym selfe amonges them (who in those games dyd so excellentlye well, as none was his better) whiche thyng diuers tymes the Marshall perceiuing, well pleased with the order of the chylde, asked of 161 whence hee was. It was tolde him that hee was a poore man’s sonne, which many tymes came thyther, to begge his almose. The Marshall desiring to haue the childe, the Erle, whiche prayed vnto God for nothing els, liberallye gaue hym vnto hym, although it greeued hym to departe from him. The Erle then hauing bestowed his sonne and his doughter, determined no longer to tarrie in England, but so well as he coulde, he passed ouer into Irelande, and when he was arriued at Stanforde, he placed him selfe in the seruice of a man of armes, belonging to an Erle of that countrie, doing all thinges that did belong vnto a seruing man, or page: and not knowen to any man, hee continued there a long time, with great paine and toile. Violenta named Gianetta, that dwelt with the Ladie at London, grewe so in yeares, in beautie, in personage, and in such grace and fauour of her lord and lady, and of all the reste of the house, and so well beloued of al them that knew her, that it was maruailous to see. All men that sawe her maners and countenaunce, iudged her to be worthy of great honour and possessions, by reason wherof, the lady that receiued her of her father, not knowing what shee was, but by his reporte, purposed to marrie her honourablie, according to her worthinesse. But God the rewarder of all mens desertes, knowing her to be a noble woman, and to beare (without cause) the penaunce of an other man’s offence, disposed her otherwise, and to the intent, that this noble gentlewoman might not come into the handes of a man of ill condicions, it must be supposed that that whiche came to passe was by God’s own will and pleasure, suffred to be done. The gentlewoman, with whome Gianetta dwelte, had but one onely sonne by her husband, whiche both shee and the father, loued verie dearelye: as well because hee was a sonne, as also that in vertue and good merites hee greatlye excelled. For hee surpassed all other in good condicions, valiaunce, goodnes, and beautie of personage, being about sixe yeares elder then Gianetta: who seyng the mayden, to be both fayre and comelye, became so farre in loue with her, as he estemed her aboue all thinges of the worlde. And because he thought her to be of base parentage, he durst not demaunde her of his father and mother to wyfe. But fearing that he should lose their fauour, he kept his loue secret, wherby he was 162 worse tormented, then if it had bene openly knowen. And thereby it chaunced, through Loue’s malice, he fel sore sicke: for whose preseruation, were many Phisitions sent for, who marking in him all signes and tokens of sickenes, and not knowing the disease, were altogether doubtfull of his health: wherof the father and mother tooke so great sorowe and griefe, as was possible, and many times with pitifull praiers, they demaunded of him the occasion of his disease. To whome he gaue for aunswere, nothing els but heauie sighes, and that he was like to consume, and die for weakenesse. It chaunced vpon a daye there was brought vnto him a Phisicion, that was very yonge, but in his science profoundlie learned, and as he was holding him by the poulces, Gianetta (who for his mother’s sake, attended him very carefully, entered vpon occasion into the chamber, where he lay sicke, and so sone as the yonge gentleman perceiued her, and that she spake neuer a woorde, or made any signe, or demonstration towardes him, he felte in his hart to arise his most amorous desire, wherefore his poulces began to beate aboue their common custome: whiche thing the Phisicion immediatly perceiued and marueiled, standing still to see howe long that fitte would continue. Gianetta was no soner gone out of the Chamber, but the beating of the poulces ceased: wherefore the Phisicion thought, that he had founde out some part of the gentleman’s disease, and a litle while after seming to take occasion to speake to Gianetta holding him still by the armes, he caused her to bee called in, and she incontinently came, but she was no soner entred the chambre but the poulces began to beate againe: and when she departed, the beating ceased. Wherupon the Phisicion was throughly perswaded that he vnderstode the effecte of his sickenes, and therwithall rose vp and taking the father and mother aside, sayde vnto them: “The health of your sonne doth not consiste in the helpe of Phisicions, but remaineth in the handes of Gianetta your maide, as I haue perceiued by moste manifest signes, which maide the yong man feruently doth loue. And yet (so farre as I perceiue) the maide doth not knowe it: you therfore vnderstand now what to doe, if you loue his life.” The gentleman and his wife hearing this, was somewhat satisfied: for so muche as remedy might be founde to saue his life, although it 163 greued theim greatly, that the thing whereof they doubted, should come to passe, whiche was the mariage betwene Gianetta and their sonne. The Phisicion departed, and they repaired to their sicke sonne, the mother saying vnto him in this wyse: “My sonne, I would neuer haue thought, that thou wouldest haue kept secret from mee, any parte of thy desire: specially, seing that without the same thou doest remaine in daunger of death. For thou art, or ought to be assured, that there is nothing that may be gotten, for thy contentment, whatsoeuer it had bene, but it should haue bene prouided for thee, in as ample maner as for my selfe. But sithe thou hast thus done, it chaunceth that our Lord God, hath shewed more mercy vpon thee, then thou hast done vpon thy selfe. And to the ende thou shalt not die of this disease, he hath declared vnto me the cause of the same: whiche is none other, but the great loue that thou bearest to a yonge maiden, wheresoeuer she bee. And in deede thou oughtest not to be ashamed, to manifest thy loue, because it is meete and requisite for thyne age. For if I wist thou couldest not loue, I would the lesse esteme thee. Now then my good sonne, be not afraid, franckly to discouer thine affection. Driue away the furie and thought which thou hast taken, and wherof this sickenes commeth, and comfort thy selfe. Being assured, that thou shalt desire nothing at my handes, that may be done, but it shall be accomplished of mee, that loueth thee better then mine owne life: and therefore expell from thee this shame and feare. And spare not to tell me, if I be able to doe any thing, in that whiche thou louest. And if thou perceiue, that I be not carefull to bring it to passe, repute me for the cruellest mother that euer bare childe.” The yonge gentleman hearing these woordes of his mother, was first ashamed, but after thinking with him selfe, that none was so well able to pleasure him as shee (driuing awaye all shame) sayed to her in this wise: “Madame, there is none other thing that hath made me to kepe my loue so secrete, but that, which I see by commune proofe in many, who after they be growen to yeares of discretion, doe neuer remembre that they haue bene yonge. But for so much as herein I doe see your Ladiship discrete and wyse, I will not onely affirme that to be true, whiche you haue perceiued in me, but also I will confesse 164 what it is, vpon condicion that the effect shall folowe your promise, so farre as lieth in you, and whereby you shalbe able to recouer my life.” Whereunto the mother trusting to much in that, which she ought not to haue accomplished, for certaine consideracions, which afterwardes came into her minde, answered him liberally: “That he might boldly discouer all his desire, and that forthwith she would bring the same to passe.” “Madame (sayde the yonge man then) the great beautie and commendable qualities of your maiden Gianetta, whom as yet not only I haue no power to intreate, to take pitie vpon me, but also I haue made no wight in the world priuie of this my loue. The not disclosing and secrecie of whose loue, hath brought me in case you see: and if so be the thing, whiche you haue promised, doe not by one meane or other come to passe, assure your selfe that my life is but shorte.” The Ladie knowing, that it was more tyme to comforte, then to reprehende, sayd vnto him smiling: “Alas, my sonne, were you sicke for this? Bee of good chere and when you are whole let me alone.” The yonge gentleman being put in good hope, shewed in litle time tokens and signes of great amendement. Wherof the mother was marueilous glad, disposing her selfe to proue, howe she might obserue that which she had promised. And on a day calling Gianetta vnto her, demaunded in gentle wise, by waye of mery talke, “If she had not gotten her a louer.” Gianetta with face al blushing, aunswered: “Madame, I haue no nede therof, and much more vnsemely for so poore a damosell as I am, to meditate or thincke vpon louers, which am banished from my frendes and kinsfolke, remaining in seruice as I doe.” To whom the Lady saide: “If you haue none, wee will bestowe one vpon you, whiche shall content your minde, and make your life more delectable and pleasaunt: for it is not meete that so faire a maide as you be, should continue without a louer.” Whereunto Gianetta answered: “Madame, waying with my selfe, that you haue taken me from my poore father, and brought me vp as your doughter, it becommeth me to do that whiche pleaseth you. Notwithstanding, I intende neuer to make any complaint to you for lacke of such, but if it please you, to geue me a husbande, I purpose dutifully to loue and honour him. For my progenitours haue 165 left me none other inheritaunce but honestie, whiche I meane to kepe, so long as my life indureth.” These woordes to the Ladye, semed contrary to that whiche shee desired to knowe, to atchieue her promyse made to her sonne, although (lyke a wyse Ladie) to her selfe, shee greatly praysed the Damosell, and sayde vnto her. “But Gianetta, what if my Lorde the Kyng (whiche is a younge Prince, and you a fayre mayden) would take pleasure in your loue, woulde you refuse him?” Whereunto the mayde sodaynlye aunswered. “The Kyng maye well force mee, but by consent he shall neuer obtayne the thing of mee that is dishoneste.” The Ladye conceyuyng the courage, and stoutnesse of the mayden in good parte, sayde no more vnto her, but thinking to put the matter in proofe, she tolde her sonne, that when he was whole, she woulde put them both in a chamber that he mighte haue his pleasure vppon her. For she thought it dishonest to intreate her maide for her sonne, because it was the office of a Ruffian. The yong man was nothing contented therewith, whereby hee sodainlye waxed sicke againe: which the ladye perceiuinge, opened her whole intent to Gianetta: but finding her more constant than euer she was before, she told her husband all that she had done, whoe agreed (althoughe against their willes) to giue her to be his wife, thinkinge it better (their sonne lyuing) to haue a wife vnagreeable to his estate, then to suffer him to die for her sake. Which after great consultation, they concluded, whereof Gianetta was maruelouslye well pleased, and with deuout harte gaue thankes to God for that he had not forgotten her. And yet for all that, shee woulde neuer name her selfe otherwise, then the doughter of a Picarde. The yong sonne waxed whole incontinently, and was maried, the best contented man aliue, and began to dispose himselfe, louingly to lead his life with her. Perotto which did remaine in Wales with the other Marshall of the king of England, semblably increased, and was welbeloued of his maister, and was a very comely and valiaunt personage, that the like of him was not to be found in all the Island, in such wise as at Torneis, Iustes, and other factes of armes, there was none in al the Countrie, comparable vnto him: wherefore by the name of Perotto the Picarde, hee was knowen and renowmed. And like as God had not forgotten his sister, euen 166 so he shewed his mercifull remembraunce of him. For a certaine plague and mortalitie, happened in that countrie, which consumed the one halfe of the people there: besides that the most part of them that liued, were fledde for feare into other countries, wherby the whole prouince, seemed to be abandoned and desolate. Of which plague, the Marshall his maister, his wife, and his sonne and many other brothers, neuewes, and kinsfolk died, of whom remained no more, but his onely daughter, which was mariageable, and some of his seruauntes, together with Perotto, whom (after the plagues was somewhat ceased) the yong gentlewoman toke for her husband, through the counsaile and consente of certaine of the countrie people that were aliue, because he was a valiaunt and honest personage, and of all that inheritaunce which her father lefte, shee made him lord. A litle while after, the king of Englande vnderstanding that the Marshall was dead, and knowing the valour and stoutnesse of Perotto the Picarde, he made him to supplye the rowme of the deade Marshall. In this sort in short time, it chaunced to the two innocent children of the Erle of Angiers, which were left by him as lost and quite forlorne. It was then the XVIII. yeare sithens the Erle fledde from Paris, hauing in miserable sorte suffred manye aduentures. Who seinge himselfe to begin to waxe olde, was desirous (being yet in Irelande) to knowe (if hee could) what was become of his children. Wherefore, perceyuinge that he was wholy altred from his wonted forme, and feeling himselfe more lustie (throughe the longe exercise and labour which he had susteined in seruice) then he was in the idle time of his youth, he departed from his maister (verye poore and in ill apparel) with whom hee had continued in seruice a long time, and came into England to that place where he had left Perotto, and founde him to be Marshall of the countrie, and saw that he was in health, lustie, and a comelye personage, which reioysed him maruelously, but he would not make himselfe to be knowen to him, till hee had seene what was become of his doughter Gianetta: wherfore taking his iourney, he rested in no place, till he came to London. And there secretely inquyring of the Lady, with whom he had left his daughter, and of her state, he learned that his doughter was her sonnes wife, whereof hee toke exceding great pleasure. And from that 167 time forth, he compted his aduersities past as nothing, sith he had found his children liuing and in such great honour. And desirous to see her (began like a poore man) to harbour himselfe neare vnto her house, whereuppon a certaine daye, beinge seene of Giacchetto Lamyens: (for that was the name of the husbande of Gianetta,) who hauinge pitie vppon him because he was poore and old, commaunded one of his seruaunts, to haue him into the house and to giue him meate for God’s sake, which the seruaunt willingly did accomplish. Gianetta had many children by Giacchetto, of which the eldest was but eight yeares olde: the fayrest and beste fauoured children of the worlde. Who when they sawe the Erle eate meate, they all came about him and began to make much of him, as though by nature’s instruction they had knowen him to be their Graundfather. And hee knowinge his nephewes, began to shew them tokens of loue and kindnesse. By reason whereof the children would not go from him, although their gouernour did call them away: wherfore the mother beinge tolde the same, came oute of a chamber vnto the place where the Erle was, and threatned to beate them if they would not do as their maister bad them. The children began to crie, and said that they would tary by that good man, that loued them better then their maister did, wherat the Lady and the Erle began to laugh. The Erle not as a father but like a poore man, rose vp to doe honour to his daughter because shee was a noble woman: conceyuing marueilous ioy in his minde to see her: but she knewe him not at all, neither at that instant, nor after, because he was so wonderfully transformed and chaunged from that forme he was wonte to be: Like one that was old and gray headed, hauinge a bearde leane and weather beaten, resembling rather a common personne then an Erle. And the Ladye seinge that the children woulde not departe from him, but still cryed when they were fetched awaye, shee willed the maister to let them alone. The children remayning in this sort with the honest poore man, the father of Giacchetto came in the meane time, and vnderstode this of their maister: He that cared not for Gianetta, said, “Let them alone with a mischiefe, to keepe companye with beggers, of whom they come: for of the mothers side, they be but verlettes children, and therfore it is no marueile, though 168 they loue their company.” The Erle hearing those words, was very sorowfull, notwithstanding (holding downe his head) he suffred that iniurie, as well as he had done manye other. Giacchetto which knew the mirth and ioy that the children made to the poore man (althoughe he was offended with those words) neuerthelesse, made as much of the poore Erle as he did before. And when hee sawe him to weepe he commaunded that if the honest poore man would dwel there to do some seruice, he should be reteyned. Who aunsweared, that he wouid tarrie there with a good will, but he said that he coulde do nothinge els but keepe horse, whereunto he was accustomed all the dayes of his life. To whom a horse was appointed to keepe, and dailye when he had dressed his horse, he gaue himselfe to play with the children. Whiles that Fortune thus dealt (according to the maner abouesaid with the Erle of Angiers and his children, it chaunced that the French king (after many truces made with the Almaynes) died, and in his place was crowned his sonne, whose wife shee was that caused the Erle to be banished. When the last truce with the Almaynes was expired, the warres began to grow more sharpe, for whose aide the king of England sent vnto him (as to his new kinseman) a greate nomber of people vnder the gouernement of Perotto his Marshall, and of Giacchetto Lamyens, sonne of his other Marshall, with whom the poore Erle went: and not knowen of any manne, remained a greate while in the Campe as a seruaunt, where notwithstanding, like a valiaunt man, with his aduise and deedes he accomplished notable thinges (more then hee was required.) It chaunced that in the time of the warres, the Frenche Queene was very sore sicke, and perceyuing herselfe at the point of death, repenting her of all her sinnes, and was confessed deuoutly to the Archbishop of Roane, who of all men was reputed an holye and vertuous man: and amonges all her other sinnes she tolde him of the great wronge that she had done to the Erle of Angiers, and was not onely contented to reueale the same to him alone, but also rehearsed the whole matter before many other personages of great honour, desiring them that they would worke so with the king, that if the Erle were yet liuinge or anye of his children, they might be restored to their state againe. Not long after the Queene departed, and 169 was honourablie buried. Which confession reported to the Kinge, (after certaine sorowfull sighes, for the iniuries done to the valiaunt man) hee made Proclamation throughout all the Campe and in many other places, that whosoeuer could bring forth the Erle of Angiers, or any of his children, shoulde for euery of them receiue a great rewarde, because he was innocente of that matter for which he was exiled, by the onely confession of the Queene: and that he entended to exalte him to his former estate, and more higher then euer hee was. Which thing the Erle hearing (being in the habite of a seruaunt) knowing it to be true, by and by he wente to Giacchetto, and prayed him to repaire to Perotto that they might come together, because he woulde manifest vnto them the thinge which the kinge sent to seeke for. And when they were all three assembled together in a chamber the Erle saide to Perotto, that now he thought to let him vnderstand what he was, saying these woordes: “Perotto, Giacchetto whoe thou seest here hath espoused thy sister and neuer had yet any dowrie. And because she maye not be destitute of her Dowrie, I purpose that he and none other shall haue the reward, which the king hath promised to be so great. Thou shalt manifest thy selfe Perotto, to be the sonne of the Erle of Angiers, and Violenta the wife of Giacchetto to be thy sister, and me to be the Erle of Angiers thy father.” Perotto hearing this and stedfastly beholding him, began to know him, and weeping, threw himselfe downe at his feete, and afterwards imbracing him, said: “My deare father, you are right hartely welcome.” Giacchetto hearing first what the Erle had saide, and after seinge what Perotto did, he was incontinently surprised with so great marueile and ioye that he knew not what to do: notwithstandinge, geuinge credite to his words, as being ashamed of the opprobrious talke, which he had vsed towards the Erle, as to a seruaunt, weeping, fell downe at his feete and humblie asked pardon for all his rashe behauiours towards him: which was curteously graunted vnto him by the Erle, who toke him vp. And after euerye of them had a while debated of their Fortune, and had well bewailed the same, and reioysed one with another, Perotto and Giacchetto would haue newly apparrelled the Erle, but he in no wise would suffer them. And beinge desirous that 170 Giacchetto mighte haue assurance of the rewarde promised, he woulde that he shoulde first present him to the king after that sort in the habite of a seruaunte as he was, that hee mighte make him the more ashamed. Then Giacchetto with the Erle (and Perotto after) came before the king, and offred to present the Erle and his children if it should please him to reward him according to the Proclamation. The king incontinently caused to be brought forth a reward of marueilous value, (as Giacchetto thoughte) and commaunded him forthwith to present the Erle and his children according to his promise. Giacchetto then tourned about, and placed before him the Erle his seruaunt, and Perotto, saying: “Sir, beholde the father and the sonne, the doughter which is my wyfe, is not here. But by God’s helpe you shal see her shortly.” The king hearing this, behelde the Erle: and albeit he was so greatlye chaunged from his former fauour, after hee had well viewed him, he knew him, and with teares standinge in his eyes, hee caused the Erle to rise vp, that kneeled before him, kissing and imbrasing him, and very graciouslye receiued Perotto: and commaunded forthwith that the Erle should be restored to apparell, seruaunt, horses and furniture, according to his state and degree, which incontinentlye was done: And moreouer the kinge greatly honoured Giacchetto, and forthwith desired to know all their Fortunes passed. And when Giacchetto had taken the great reward for bringing forth the Erle and his children, the Erle said vnto him: “Take these royall rewards of the king, my soueraigne Lord, and remember to tel thy father, that thy children, his nephewes and mine, be no beggers borne of their mother’s syde.” Giacchetto toke the reward, and caused his wife and his mother in Lawe to come to Paris: likewise thither came the wife of Perotto, where, with great ioy and triumphe, they taried a certaine space wyth the Erle, to whom the kinge had rendred all his goodes, and had placed him in greater aucthoritie, then euer hee was before. Then euery of them toke their leaue and retourned home to their owne houses: and from that time forth the said Erle, to thende of his life, liued in Paris, in greater honour and aucthority, then euer he did before.
The Roman Empire was transferred from the French to the Germans, which led to a major conflict between the two nations, resulting in a brutal and ongoing war. For this reason, both to defend his kingdom and to attack his enemies, the French king and one of his sons gathered the full strength of their realm, along with friends and allies, to assemble a large army to confront their foes. Before they set out, not wanting to leave their kingdom without a ruler, they appointed Gualtieri, the Earl of Anglers, known to be a kind and wise knight and their most trusted friend, as Lieutenant General to govern the entire kingdom of France. They proceeded with their campaign. The Earl, showing great insight and following good order, began to fulfill his entrusted duties, doing nothing without the consent of the queen and her beautiful daughter-in-law. Although they were left under his care, he honored them as his mistresses and superiors. Earl Gualtieri was an attractive man, around forty years old, as affable and well-mannered as any gentleman could be. Moreover, he was the most accomplished and stylish knight known in those days, known for his fine attire. While the king and his son were at war, the Earl's wife passed away, leaving him with only two little children, a son and a daughter. Frequently visiting the court of the aforementioned ladies and often talking with them about the kingdom's affairs, the wife of the king's son took a keen interest in him and embraced him with secret love, captivated by his presence and virtues. Aware of her own youth and beauty, and that he was without a wife, she suddenly resolved to pursue her desires, thinking that the only thing that could stop her was the shame of revealing it, so she decided to abandon her hesitation. One day, being alone, she sent someone to find the Earl, feigning an interest in discussing other matters. The Earl, whose thoughts were far from those of the lady, immediately went to her. Once they were seated together on a bed in a chamber, she twice asked him why he had come at her call. Having nothing to say, she became overwhelmed by love, grew very timid, and was nearly in tears. Trembling with fear and speaking softly, she began to say: “My dearly beloved and cherished friend, you can easily understand (being the wise man you are) the frailty of both men and women: and through various considerations, that weakness is often greater in one than the other. Therefore, before a just judge, one fault of differing qualities should not receive the same punishment. Moreover, who would argue that a poor man or woman, who earns their living through hard work, should be more reproached if they succumb to love than a rich lady who cares nothing for her livelihood and wants for nothing? Truly, I believe no one would say so. For this reason, I think what I’ve said should serve as a significant part of the excuse for one who possesses such qualities, should she choose to fully submit to the forces of love. This excess of her excuse should rest in choosing a wise and virtuous friend if indeed she has done so. These two things, as they ought to be (in my judgment), apply to me and many others too, which ought to prompt me to love according to my youth and the vast distance between my husband and me. It is now necessary for them to elevate themselves in your sight, as a defense of my burning love: and if you have the power to listen wisely, then I ask you to give me counsel and assistance regarding what I shall request. It is true that the long absence of my husband (who cannot resist worldly desires and the pull of love) has lead many times and still does to overcome, not only weak women but even the strongest of men. Being forced to follow the pleasures of love while living in ease and idleness, I realize that such things (if known) would not be considered honorable. Still, if these matters remain secret, I trust they won't bring shame. Yet, Lady Love is so favorable to me that not only has she given me good judgment in choosing a friend, but has revealed to me that you are worthy of being loved by someone like me. For if I am not greatly mistaken, I consider you the fairest, kindest, and wisest gentleman in all of France. And just as it can be said that due to his absence, I am without a husband, you too may say you are without a wife; therefore, I beseech you, for the love I bear you, not to deny me your love and friendship, and to have pity on my youth, which surely wanes because of you, as I can see against the fiery flames.” At these words, tears flowed abundantly, and when she intended to make further supplications and prayers, she found herself unable to speak. Bowing her head, like one overcome, she threw herself into the Earl's lap, who as a faithful knight began to criticize her foolish love intently and sharply, pushing her away as she attempted to embrace him around the neck, swearing great oaths that he would rather be torn apart than consent to such a thing, or allow it to be done by him or anyone else against the honor of his lord and master. Hearing those words, the lady suddenly forgot her love, and in great anger said to him: “Shall I then be denied, you wretched scoundrel, the joy I so desire? But since you seek my ruin, I will see to it that you are put to death or banished from this world.” When she said this, she immediately grasped her own hair and nearly tore it out clean. Then she took hold of her garments, ripping them to pieces, and afterward cried out loud: “Help, help, the Earl of Angers wants to rape me by force!” The Earl, seeing this (and fearing the envy and malice of the court more than his own conscience for any wrongdoing) fled from the scene as quickly as he could, escaping to his own home, where without further delay, he placed his children on horseback and carried them as best he could to Calais. At the noise and commotion caused by the lady, many people gathered. Those seeing and hearing the reason for her cry believed her words and asserted that the Earl's extravagant lifestyle was merely a ploy he had devised to fulfill his desires. They rushed to the Earl's residence in a rage, intending to arrest him, but not finding him there, they first looted his houses and then tore them down. News of this despicable act reached the king and the Dauphin's camp, causing them great distress and anger, leading them to condemn the Earl and all his progeny to perpetual exile, promising great rewards to anyone who brought them back, either alive or dead. The Earl, feeling guilty in his conscience for fleeing, even though he was innocent of the act, made himself culpable in his heart and arrived at Calais with his children, disguising who he was, and soon passed over into England. Poorly dressed, they traveled up to London. Before entering the city, he gave his children various pieces of advice, especially concerning two things: firstly, that they should patiently bear the poverty fortune had brought them through no fault of their own, and secondly, that they should be careful never to reveal their origins or their parentage, as they valued their own lives. His son was named Lewis, nearly nine years old, and the daughter was called Violenta, around seven years old. Both children, as their age allowed, heeded their father's instructions, as later became evident. To better facilitate this, he deemed it best to change their names, calling the son Perotto and the daughter Gianetta. When they arrived in London, as beggars, they asked for alms. By chance, one morning while begging at a church door, a noble lady, one of the wives of England's marshals, saw the Earl and his two small children. She asked him what country he was from and if those children were his. The Earl replied that he was a Picard, forced to leave his country due to a wicked act committed by his eldest son (who was an unfortunate boy) and had to depart with these two children. The lady, feeling pity, looked intently at the girl, who charmed her greatly because she was beautiful, gentle, and amiable. She said: “Good man, if you would agree to leave this little daughter, who has a lovely face, with me, I would gladly take her, and if she grows into a dutiful maiden, I will marry her honorably when the time comes.” This request greatly pleased the Earl, who readily agreed, and with tears streaming down his face, he entrusted his dear daughter to her. Once he had arranged this, he resolved not to remain there any longer, but to continue begging for alms, journeying through the land with his son Perotto, heading toward Wales, not without considerable effort and discomfort, as he was unaccustomed to traveling on foot. There lived another of the king of England’s marshals, a man of great authority who kept a noble household, to which the Earl and his son often went to seek their livelihood. One of the marshal’s sons and other gentlemen's children were playing games, running and jumping. Perotto joined in among them and excelled in these games better than anyone else. The marshal, noticing this, pleased with the child’s behavior, inquired where he was from. It was reported to him that he was the son of a poor man who came there frequently to beg for alms. The marshal, wanting the child for himself, the Earl, who prayed to God for nothing else, generously gave him away, though it pained him to part with him. Having entrusted his son and daughter, the Earl decided he would no longer stay in England but as best he could, he passed over into Ireland. When he arrived at Stamford, he entered into service under a man-at-arms belonging to an earl in that land, performing all tasks appropriate for a servant or page. Unbeknownst to anyone, he endured there for a long time with great hardship and toil. Violenta, now called Gianetta, who stayed with the lady in London, grew in age, beauty, and grace in her lord's house, beloved by everyone who knew her, becoming remarkable to all. Everyone who saw her demeanor and countenance considered her worthy of great honor and wealth. Consequently, the lady who took her in, knowing little about her except through the Earl’s report, intended to marry her honorably according to her worth. Yet God, who rewards everyone according to their merits, knowing she was a noblewoman suffering (without cause) the penalties of another man's wrongdoing, had other plans for her. To ensure this noble lady was not given into the hands of a man of bad character, it should be assumed that what transpired was according to God’s own will and pleasure. The gentlewoman, with whom Gianetta lived, had only one son with her husband, who both she and the father loved dearly, both for his being a son and because he greatly excelled in virtue and good character. He outshone others in good traits, valor, kindness, and beauty, being around six years older than Gianetta. When he saw the maiden, both fair and beautiful, he fell deeply in love with her, estimating her above all else in the world. Believing her to be of humble origins, however, he dared not ask his father and mother for her hand. Fearing he would lose their favor, he kept his love a secret, which tormented him more than if it had been known. Thus it happened, through the spite of love, he fell gravely ill. Many physicians were called to help, who noticing all the signs of sickness, were uncertain of the disease. The father and mother were deeply distraught, often asking him what caused his illness. He could only respond with heavy sighs, saying he was consumed and dying from weakness. One day, a very young physician, learned in his field, was brought to him, and while checking his pulse, Gianetta (who, for her mother's sake, meticulously attended him) entered the chamber on an occasion. As soon as the young gentleman saw her, and she offered no words or gestures towards him, he felt his strongest desires arise, causing his pulse to beat faster than usual. The physician, noticing this, marveled and remained still to see how long this state would continue. Once Gianetta left the chamber, the pulse subsided. Thus, the physician became convinced he had uncovered a part of the gentleman's ailment. Shortly afterward, using the opportunity to speak to Gianetta while still holding him by the arms, he summoned her, and she promptly entered. No sooner had she arrived than the pulse began to race again, only to cease once she departed. The physician was thus convinced he understood the cause of the young man's illness and rose, taking the father and mother aside, said to them: “Your son’s health does not depend on the aid of physicians but lies in the hands of Gianetta your maid, as I have perceived from manifest signs, the same maid your young man fervently loves. Yet, as far as I can tell, she does not know it. Therefore, you must now understand what to do if you care for his life.” The gentleman and his wife, upon hearing this, felt some satisfaction, for it seemed a remedy was found to save his life, although they were greatly troubled that the thing they feared would come to pass—namely, marriage between Gianetta and their son. The physician departed, and they went to their sick son, doing so with this address: “My son, I would never have thought that you would keep any part of your desires from me, especially since without it, you may die. For you should be assured that there is nothing, whatever it is, that could be arranged for your happiness that would not be done for you as thoroughly as for myself. But since you have done so, it happens that God has shown more mercy to you than you have shown to yourself. And in order that you should not die of this ailment, He has revealed the cause: it is the great love you bear for a young maiden, wherever she might be. Indeed, you should not be ashamed to reveal your love, for it is suitable for your age. If I thought you were incapable of love, I would think much less of you. Now then, my good son, don’t be afraid to express your feelings freely. Cast off the fury and thoughts that have caused your illness, and take comfort. Rest assured, you will desire nothing at my hands that cannot be accomplished because I love you more than my own life; thus, cast away the shame and fear. And don’t hesitate to inform me if there’s anything I can do concerning the one you love. If I show you I am not willing to help, consider me the cruelest mother who ever bore a child.” The young gentleman hearing these words from his mother was initially embarrassed. But upon thinking that none knew him better than she did, he set aside all shame and told her: “Madam, the only reason I kept my love secret was the common proof that once people grow wise, they often forget their youth. But since I see you to be discreet and wise, I will not only affirm your insight into my feelings but will also confess what it is, provided the outcome aligns with your promises and with what you are capable of achieving to save my life.” To this, his mother, too confident in what she shouldn’t have committed to, given certain considerations that crossed her mind afterward, replied liberally, “You may boldly reveal all you cherish, and I shall immediately set about making it happen.” “Madam,” replied the young man, “the great beauty and admirable qualities of your maid Gianetta, whom as of yet I've had no power to plead with for her pity, nor has anyone else in the world been privy to this my love. The concealment of this love has placed me in this hopeless state, and unless what you promise comes to fruition through some means, you can be sure my lifespan is limited.” The lady, realizing the time had come to comfort rather than reproach, smiled, saying: “Alas, my son, were you sick for this? Be cheerful, and when you are well, leave it to me.” The young gentleman, filled with hope, soon showed signs of significant improvement. His mother was so delighted, arranging to honor her promise. One day, calling Gianetta to her, she asked her in a gentle tone, by way of jest, “Have you not found yourself a lover?” Gianetta, blushing, replied: “Madam, I have no need for one, and it would be much more unseemly for a poor maid such as I to contemplate or think about lovers, being separated from my friends and family as I am.” To which the lady said: “If you have none, we will provide one for you to satisfy your heart and make your life more delightful and pleasant: it is not proper for someone as lovely as you to continue without a lover.” To which Gianetta responded: “Madam, considering that you have taken me from my poor father and raised me like your own daughter, it is fit for me to do what pleases you. However, I will never complain to you for lacking one, but if you would grant me a husband, I intend to love and honor him dutifully. My ancestors have left me no inheritance but my honor, which I intend to keep as long as I live.” These words seemed opposed to the lady’s desires and complicated her resolve to fulfill her son’s wishes. Yet, like a wise lady, she praised the young woman secretly and said: “But Gianetta, what if my lord the king (who is a young prince, and you a fair maiden) should take delight in your love, would you refuse him?” The maiden promptly responded: “The king may well compel me, but by consent, he shall never obtain anything from me that is dishonorable.” The lady, appreciating the maiden’s courage and resoluteness, said no more but, wishing to test the matter, told her son that once he was well, she would place them both in a chamber so he might take his pleasure with her. For she considered it dishonorable to press her maid so directly for her son, as it would be akin to the act of a brute. The young man was nothing but discontented by this, leading him to fall ill again. Seeing this, the lady revealed her intention to Gianetta. Yet finding her even more steadfast than before, she informed her husband of everything she had done, who, albeit unwillingly, agreed to give her to him as his wife, believing it preferable (with their son alive) to have a wife unsuitable to his estate than to let him perish for her sake. After much deliberation, they decided this course of action, which greatly pleased Gianetta, who humbly gave thanks to God for not forgetting her. Still, she would never refer to herself otherwise than as the daughter of a Picard. The young son quickly recovered and was married, the happiest man alive, beginning to prepare himself to love and live with her. Perotto, who remained in Wales with the other marshal of the King of England, likewise advanced and was well-loved by his master. He became a striking and valiant figure, unmatched in all the island, so that at tournaments, jousts, and other feats of arms, none in the country could match him, thus becoming renowned as Perotto the Picard. And just as God had not forgotten his sister, He also showed mercy upon him. For a certain plague and mortality struck that land, sweeping away half the population. Most of those who survived fled in fear to other countries, causing the whole province to seem desolate and abandoned. The marshal, his wife, their children, and many other relatives perished from the plague, leaving just his only daughter, of marriageable age, and a few servants, alongside Perotto, who (after the plague had somewhat subsided) the young lady took for her husband, with the advice and consent of certain survivors, as he was a valiant and honorable man. She made him lord of all the inheritance left by her father. Shortly after, the king of England, upon learning that the marshal was dead and recognizing Perotto the Picard’s valor and strength, appointed him to replace the deceased marshal. Thus, in a short time, two innocent children of the Earl of Angiers, left seemingly lost and forlorn, found themselves restored. It had been eighteen years since the Earl fled from Paris, having suffered many hardships in misery. Desiring, while still in Ireland, to learn what had become of his children, he noted he was entirely changed from his former appearance and felt more vigorous (due to the lengthy exercise and labor he had endured in service) than he had been in his idle youth. He left his master, poor and poorly dressed, with whom he had served for a long time, and came to England to the place where he had left Perotto, finding him to be the marshal of the land, in good health, strong, and handsome. This brought him great joy; however, he did not reveal himself until he had discovered what had happened to his daughter Gianetta. Thus, he traveled no further than to London and there, discreetly inquiring of the lady with whom he had left his daughter and her circumstances, learned that his daughter was married to her son, which brought him immense pleasure. From that time forward, he considered his past adversities insignificant since he found his children alive and in such high esteem. Desiring to see her, he began to stay nearby her house like a poor man. One day Gianchetto Lamyens (the name of Gianetta’s husband) saw him and, feeling pity for his poverty and age, ordered one of his servants to take him into the house and offer him food for God’s sake, which the servant willingly did. Gianetta had many children with Giacchetto, the eldest being only eight years old, the fairest and best-favored children in the world. When they saw the Earl eating, they crowded around him, showing affection, as if, by nature, they knew him to be their grandfather. Recognizing his nephews, he began to show them tokens of love and kindness, to which the children wouldn’t leave him, even when their governor called them away. When their mother heard this, she left her chamber and approached where the Earl was, threatening to beat them if they did not do as their master commanded. The children cried, insisting they would stay with that good man who loved them more than their master did, causing the lady and the Earl to laugh. The Earl rose, honoring his daughter because she was a noblewoman, feeling immense joy in his heart just to see her; yet she did not recognize him, neither then nor after, because he was so drastically transformed from the figure he once was: an aged, gray-haired man with a thin, weather-beaten beard, resembling a common man rather than an Earl. Seeing the children reluctant to leave him, still crying when called away, the lady instructed the governor to let them be. With the children thus remaining with the honest poor man, Gianchetto’s father arrived, learning from their master about this turn of events. Dismissing it, he remarked, “Let them be with one another out of mischief, to keep company with beggars, from whence they come. They are no nobility on their mother’s side, so there’s no surprise that they’d love such company.” The Earl, upon hearing those words, felt sorrowful, though he lowered his head and bore the insult just as he had endured many others. Gianchetto, knowing how joyful the children were with the poor man (even though he was offended by the words), nonetheless treated the Earl with kindness, and when he saw him weep, he ordered that if the honest poor man wished to stay, he should be retained for service. To which the Earl replied that he would be glad to remain there, but said he could do nothing but tend horses, to which he had been accustomed all his life. So a horse was assigned to him, and each day, after grooming his horse, he played with the children. While fortune dealt with the Earl of Angiers and his children in this manner, it happened that the French king died after many truces with the Germans, and his son took the crown—he being the same man who had caused the Earl to be exiled. When the last truce with the Germans expired, wars flared up. The king of England sent a great number of people, under the command of Perotto his marshal and Giacchetto Lamyens, another of his marshals, to assist him, with whom the poor Earl ventured, unknown to anyone, remaining a long time in the camp as a servant. There, nonetheless, as a valiant man, through his sage counsel and courageous deeds, he achieved notable accomplishments beyond what was required. During the wars, the French queen fell gravely ill. Sensing her impending death, she repented of all her sins, confessing devoutly to the Archbishop of Rouen, widely regarded as a holy and virtuous man. Among all her recounting of sins, she confessed the great wrong done to the Earl of Angiers, willing not only to disclose this to him alone but to recount the whole matter in the presence of many honorable figures, asking them to plead with the king that if the Earl or any of his children were still alive, they might be restored to their former state. Not long thereafter, the queen passed and was honorably buried. Her confession, reported to the king, led him to sorrowfully ponder the grievances inflicted upon the valiant man, whereupon he announced throughout all the camp and in many other places that whoever could bring forth the Earl of Angiers or any of his children would receive a great reward for each, declaring that he was innocent of the matter leading to his exile, verified solely through the queen’s confession, and that he intended to reinstate him to his previous position, and even elevate him higher than before. When the Earl heard this (still disguised as a servant), knowing the claim to be true, he immediately went to Giacchetto, requesting that they seek out Perotto together, for he wished to disclose to them what the king sought. As the three convened in a chamber, the Earl said to Perotto that he felt compelled to reveal his identity to him, stating: “Perotto, Giacchetto, whom you see here, has married your sister, yet he has never received any dowry. To ensure she does not lack her dowry, I intend for him, and none other, to receive the grand reward the king has promised for such services.” “You shall reveal yourself, Perotto, as the son of the Earl of Angiers, and Violenta, the wife of Giacchetto, to be your sister, and I, the Earl of Angiers, your father.” Upon hearing this, Perotto looked intently at him, beginning to recognize him, and in tears, he fell to his feet, embracing him afterward, saying: “My dear father, you are heartily welcome.” Giacchetto, having first absorbed what the Earl had said and then seen Perotto’s actions, was instantly filled with so much wonder and joy that he was at a loss for what to do; however, believing in the truth of what was revealed and ashamed of the scornful words he had previously directed at the Earl as though he were a servant, he wept and fell to the Earl's feet, humbly seeking forgiveness for all his rash conduct, which the Earl graciously granted, lifting him back up. After each had spent some time debating their fortunes, lamenting them and rejoicing together, Perotto and Giacchetto attempted to clothe the Earl anew, but he refused firmly. Wanting to ensure Giacchetto was guaranteed the promised reward, he insisted that he present him to the king in the humble clothing he wore, which would humiliate him further. Then Giacchetto, alongside the Earl (and Perotto following), came before the king, offering to present the Earl and his children, hoping the king would reward him as per the proclamation. The king immediately commanded that a rich reward be brought forward (as Giacchetto deemed it) and instructed him to introduce the Earl and his children in fulfillment of his promise. Giacchetto then turned and positioned the Earl, his servant, and Perotto before the king, stating: “Sir, behold the father and son before you; the daughter, my wife, is not here. But with God’s help, you will soon see her.” The king, upon hearing this, regarded the Earl. Though greatly altered from his former appearance, after a careful observation, he recognized him, and with tears in his eyes, he instructed the Earl, who knelt before him, to rise, embracing him, and graciously received Perotto. He immediately commanded that the Earl be restored to his apparel, servants, horses, and all other accouterments due to his rank and status, and this was accomplished swiftly. Additionally, the king greatly honored Giacchetto, eager to hear of all their past fortunes. After Giacchetto collected the significant reward for bringing forth the Earl and his children, the Earl said to him: “Take these royal rewards from the king, my sovereign lord, and remind your father that your children—his nephews and mine—are not beggars born of their mother’s side.” Giacchetto accepted the bounty and brought his wife and mother-in-law to Paris. Likewise, the wife of Perotto came there, and with much joy and celebration, they stayed for a time with the Earl, who had been returned all his possessions and raised to greater authority than he had been previously. Each then took their leave and returned to their homes, and from that time onward, the Earl lived in Paris, in greater honor and authority than ever before.
THE THIRTY-EIGHTH NOUELL.
Giletta a Phisition’s daughter of Narbon, healed the French King of a Fistula, for reward whereof she demaunded Beltramo Counte of Rossiglione to husband. The Counte being maried against his will, for despite fled to Florence and loued another. Giletta his wife, by pollicie founde meanes to lye with her husbande, in place of his louer, and was begotten with childe of two sonnes: which knowen to her husband, he receiued her againe, and afterwards he liued in great honour and felicitie.
Giletta, the daughter of a physician from Narbonne, healed the French King of a fistula. In return, she requested to marry Beltramo, the Count of Rossiglione. The Count, married against his will, ran off to Florence and fell in love with someone else. Giletta, his wife, cleverly found a way to be with her husband in place of his lover, and she became pregnant with twin sons. When her husband found out, he took her back, and afterward they lived in great honor and happiness.
In Fraunce there was a gentleman called Isnardo, the Counte of Rossiglione, who because he was sickely and diseased, kepte alwayes in his house a Phisition, named maister Gerardo of Narbona. This Counte had one onely sonne called Beltramo, a very yonge childe, amiable and fayre. With whom there was nourished and brought vppe, many other children of his age: amonges whom one of the doughters of the said Phisition, named Giletta, who feruently fill in loue with Beltramo, more then was meete for a maiden of her age. This Beltramo, when his father was deade, and left vnder the royall custody of the king, was sente to Paris, for whose departure the maiden was very pensife. A litle while after, her father being likewise deade, shee was desirous to go to Paris, onelye to see the yonge Counte, if for that purpose she could get any good occasion. But being diligently loked vnto by her kinsfolke (because she was riche and fatherlesse) she could see no conuenient waye for her intended iourney: and being now mariageable, the loue she bare to the Counte was neuer out of her remembraunce, and refused manye husbandes with whom her kinsfolke woulde haue matched her, without making them priuie to the cause of her refusall. Now it chaunced that she burned more in loue with Beltramo than euer shee did before, because she hearde tell that hee was growen to the state of a goodly yong gentleman. She heard by report, that the French king had a swelling vpon his breast, which by reason of ill cure was growen to be a Fistula, which did put him to marueilous paine and griefe, and that there was no 172 Phisition to be found (although many were proued) that could heale it, but rather did impaire the griefe and made it worse and worse. Wherfore the king, like one in dispaire, would take no more counsell or helpe. Wherof the yong mayden was wonderfull glad, thinckinge to haue by this meanes, not onely a lawfull occasion to go to Paris, but if the disease were such (as she supposed,) easelye to bringe to passe that shee mighte haue the Counte Beltramo to her husbande. Whereuppon with such knowledge as she had learned at her father’s hands before time, shee made a pouder of certaine herbes, which she thought meete for that disease and rode to Paris. And the first thing she went about when she came thither was to see the Counte Beltramo. And then she repayred to the king, praying his grace to vouchsafe to shew her his griefe. The king perceyuing her to be a fayre yonge maiden and a comelie, would not hide it, but opened the same vnto her. So soone as shee saw it shee put him in comforte, that shee was able to heale him, saying: “Sir, if it maye please your grace, I truste in God without anye greate paine vnto your highnesse, within eighte dayes to make you whole of this disease.” The king hearing her say so, began to mocke her, saying: “How is it possible for thee, beinge a yong woman, to do that which the beste renowmed Phisitions in the world can not?” Hee thancked her for her good will and made her a direct aunsweare, that hee was determined no more to followe the counsaile of any Phisition. Whereunto the maiden aunsweared: “Sir, you dispise my knowledge because I am yonge and a woman, but I assure you that I do not minister Phisicke by profession, but by the aide and helpe of God: and with the cunninge of maister Gerardo of Narbona, who was my father, and a Phisition of great fame so longe as he liued.” The king hearing those words, sayd to himselfe: “This woman peraduenture, is sente vnto me of God, and therefore why should I disdaine to proue her cunninge? for so muche as she promiseth to heale me within a litle spac, without any offence or griefe vnto me.” And being determined to proue her, he said: “Damosel, if thou doest not heale me, but make me to breake my determination, what wilt thou shal folow therof.” “Sir,” said the maiden: “Let me be kept in what guard and keeping you list: and if I do not heale you within 173 these eight dayes, let me be burnt: but if I do heale your grace what recompence shall I haue then?” To whom the kinge aunswered: “Because thou art a maiden and vnmaried, if thou heale me according to thy promise, I wil bestow thee vppon some gentleman, that shalbe of right good worship and estimation.” To whom she aunsweared: “Sir, I am very well content that you bestow me in mariage: but I beseech your grace let me haue such a husband as myselfe shall demaund, without presumption to any of your children or other of your bloud.” Which request the king incontinently graunted. The yong maiden began to minister her Phisicke, and in short space before her appointed time, she had throughly cured the king. And when the king perceiued himselfe whole, said vnto her: “Thou hast well deserued a husbande (Giletta) euen such a one as thy selfe shalt chose.” “I haue then my Lord (quoth she) deserued the Countie Beltramo of Rossiglione, whom I haue loued from my youth.” The king was very loth to graunt him vnto her: but for that he had made a promise which he was loth to breake, he caused him to be called forth, and said vnto him: “Sir Countie, knowing full well that you are a gentleman of great honour, oure pleasure is, that you returne home to your owne house to order your estate according to your degree: and that you take with you a Damosell which I haue appointed to be your wife.” To whom the Countie gaue his humble thanks, and demaunded what she was? “It is she (quoth the king) that with her medecines hath healed me.” The Counte knew her wel and had already seen her, although she was faire, yet knowing her not to be of a stocke conuenable to his nobility, skornefully said vnto the king, “Will you then (sir) giue me a Phisition to wife? It is not the pleasure of God that euer I should in that wise bestow my selfe.” To whom the king said: “Wilt thou then, that wee should breake our faith, which wee to recouer health haue giuen to the damosell, who for a reward asked thee to husband?” “Sir (quoth Beltramo) you may take from me all that I haue, and giue my person to whom you please because I am your subiect: but I assure you I shal neuer be contented with that mariage.” “Wel, you shall haue her, (said the king) for the maiden is faire and wise, and loueth you most intirely: thinking verely you shal 174 leade a more ioyful life with her, then with a Lady of a greater house.” The Countie therewithal held his peace, and the kinge made great preparation for the mariage. And when the appointed day was come, the counte in the presence of the king (although it were against his wil) maried the maiden, who loued him better then her owne selfe. Which done, the Counte determining before what he would do, praied licence to retourne to his countrye to consummat the mariage. And when he was on horsebacke hee went not thither but toke his iourney into Tuscane, where vnderstanding that the Florentines and Senois were at warres, he determined to take the Florentines parte, and was willingly receiued and honourablie intertaigned, and was made captaine of a certaine nomber of men, continuing in their seruice a long time. The new maried gentlewoman, scarce contented with his vnkindnes, hopinge by her well doinge to cause him to retourne into his countrye, went to Rossiglione, where she was receiued of all his subiects for their Lady. And perceyuing that through the Countes absence all thinges were spoiled and out of order, shee like a sage Ladye, with greate diligence and care, disposed his thinges in order againe: whereof the subiects reioysed very much, bearing to her their harty loue and affection, greatly blaming the Counte because he coulde not content himselfe with her. This notable gentlewoman hauing restored all the countrie againe to their auncient liberties, sent word to the Counte her husband, by two knights, to signifie vnto him, that if it were for her sake that hee had abandoned his countrie, vppon retourne of aunsweare, she to do him pleasure, would departe from thence. To whom he chorlishly replyed: “Let her do what she liste: for I do purpose to dwell with her, when she shall haue this ring (meaning a ring which he wore) vpon her finger, and a sonne in her armes begotten by mee.” He greatly loued that ring, and kepte it very carefully, and neuer toke it from his finger, for a certaine vertue that he knew it had. The knights hearinge the harde condition of two thinges impossible: and seinge that by them he could not be remoued from his determination, retourned againe to the Lady, tellinge her his aunsweare: who, very sorowfull, after shee had a good while bethoughte her, purposed to finde meanes to attaine the two thinges, that thereby 175 she might recouer her husbande. And hauinge aduised her selfe what to doe, shee assembled the noblest and chiefeste of her Countrie, declaring vnto them in lamentable wyse what shee had alreadye done, to winne the loue of the Counte, shewinge them also what folowed thereof. And in the ende saide vnto theim, that shee was lothe the Counte for her sake should dwell in perpetuall exile: therefore shee determined to spende the reste of her time in Pilgrimages and deuotion, for preseruation of her Soule, prayinge theim to take the charge and gouernemente of the Countrie, and that they would let the Counte vnderstande, that shee had forsaken his house, and was remoued farre from thence: with purpose neuer to returne to Rossiglione againe. Many teares were shed by the people, as she was speaking those wordes, and diuers supplications were made vnto him to alter his opinion, but all in vaine. Wherefore commending them all vnto God, she toke her way with her maide, and one of her kinsemen, in the habite of a pilgrime, well furnished with siluer and precious Jewels: telling no man whither shee wente, and neuer rested till shee came to Florence: where arriuinge by Fortune at a poore widowes house, shee contented her selfe with the state of a poore pilgrime, desirous to heare newes of her Lord, whom by fortune she sawe the next day passing by the house (where she lay) on horsebacke with his company. And althoughe shee knewe him well enoughe, yet shee demaunded of the good wife of the house what hee was: who aunsweared that hee was a straunge gentleman, called the Counte Beltramo of Rossiglione, a curteous knight, and wel beloued in the City, and that he was maruelously in loue with a neighbour of her’s, that was a gentlewoman, verye poore and of small substance, neuerthelesse of right honest life and good report, and by reason of her pouerty was yet vnmaried, and dwelte with her mother, that was a wise and honest Ladye. The Countesse well noting these wordes, and by litle and litle debating euery particular point thereof, comprehending the effecte of those newes, concluded what to do, and when she had well vnderstanded which was the house, and the name of the Ladye, and of her doughter that was beloued of the Counte: vppon a day repaired to the house secretely in the habite of a pilgrime, where 176 finding the mother and doughter in poore estate amonges their familie, after she had saluted them, told the mother that shee had to saye vnto her. The gentlewoman rysing vp, curteously intertayned her, and being entred alone in a chamber, they sate downe and the Countesse began to speake vnto her in this wise. “Madame, me thincke that ye be one vpon whom Fortune doth frowne, so wel as vpon me: but if you please, you may both comfort me and your selfe.” The lady answered, “That there was nothing in the world wherof she was more desirous then of honest comfort.” The Countesse proceeding in her talke, said vnto her. “I haue neede now of your fidelitie and truste, whereuppon if I do staye, and you deceiue mee, you shall both vndoe me and your selfe.” “Tell me then what it is hardlie (said the gentlewoman:) for you shall neuer bee deceiued of mee.” Then the Countesse beganne to recite her whole estate of loue: tellinge her what she was, and what had chaunced to that present daye, in such perfite order as the gentlewoman beleeuinge her, because shee had partly heard report before; began to haue compassion vppon her, and after that the Countesse had rehearsed the whole circumstaunce, she continued her purpose, saying: “Now you haue heard amonges other my troubles, what two things they bee, which behoueth mee to haue, if I doe recouer my husband, which I know none can helpe me to obtaine, but onelye you, if it be true that I heare, which is, that the Counte my husband, is farre in loue with your doughter.” To whom the gentlewoman sayd: “Madame, if the Counte loue my doughter, I knowe not, albeit the likelyhoode is greate: but what am I able to doe, in that which you desire?” “Madame, aunsweared the Countesse, I will tell you: but first I will declare what I meane to doe for you, if my purpose be brought to effecte: I see your faire doughter of good age, readie to marie, but as I vnderstande the cause, why shee is vnmaried, is the lacke of substance to bestowe her. Wherefore I purpose, for recompence of the pleasure, which you shall doe for mee, to giue so much readie money to marie her honourablie, as you shall thincke sufficient.” The Countesse’ offer was very well liked of the Ladie, because she was poore: yet hauing a noble hart, she said vnto her. “Madame, tell me wherein I may do you seruice: and if 177 it be a thinge honest, I will gladlye performe it, and the same being brought to passe, do as it shall please you.” Then said the Countesse: “I thincke it requisite, that by some one whom you truste, you giue knowledge to the Counte my husband, that your doughter is, and shalbe at his commaundement: and to the intent she may be well assured that hee loueth her in deede aboue anye other, she must pray him to sende her a ring that hee weareth vppon his finger, which ring as she knoweth, he loueth very dearely: and when he sendeth the ringe, you shal giue it vnto me, and afterwards sende him woorde, that your doughter is readie to accomplishe his pleasure, and then you shall cause him secretelye to come hither, and place me by him (in steede of your doughter) peraduenture God will giue me the grace, that I may be with child, and so hauing this ring on my finger, and the childe in mine armes begotten by him, I maye recouer him, and by your meanes continue with him, as a wife ought to do with her husbande.” This thinge seemed difficulte vnto the Gentlewoman: fearing that there woulde folowe reproche vnto her doughter. Notwithstandinge, considering what an honest part it were, to be a meane that the good Ladie might recouer her husbande, and that shee mighte doe it for a good purpose, hauinge affiaunce in her honest affection, not onely promised the Countesse to bring this to passe, but in fewe dayes with greate subtiltie, folowing the order wherein she was instructed, she had gotten the ringe, although it was with the Countes ill will, and toke order that the Countesse in steede of her doughter did lye with him. And at the first meeting, so effectuously desired by the Counte: God so disposed the matter that the Countesse was begotten with child, of two goodly sonnes, and her deliuery chaunced at the due time. Whereuppon the gentlewoman, not onelye contented the Countesse at that time with the companye of her husbande, but at manye other times so secretly as it was neuer knowen: the Counte not thinkinge that he had lien with his wife, but with her whom he loued. To whom at his vprising in the morning, he vsed many curteous and amiable woords, and gaue diuers faire and precious Jewels, which the Countesse kept most carefully: and when she perceiued herselfe with child, she determined no more to trouble 178 the gentlewoman, but said vnto her. “Madame, thanckes be to God and you, I haue the thing that I desire, and euen so it is time to recompence your desert, that afterwards I may depart.” The gentlewoman said vnto her, that if she had done anye pleasure agreeable to her minde, she was right glad thereof which she did, not for hope of reward, but because it appertayned to her by well doing so to doe. Whereunto the Countesse said: “Your sayinge pleaseth me well, and for my part, I doe not purpose to giue vnto you the thing you shal demaunde in reward, but for consideration of your well doing, which dutie forceth me to do.” The gentlewoman then constrained with necessity, demaunded of her with great bashfulnesse, an hundred poundes to marie her daughter. The countesse perceiuinge the shamefastnesse of the gentlewoman, and her curteous demaunde, gaue her fiue hundred poundes, and so many faire and costly Jewels, as almost amounted to like valour. For which the gentlewoman more then contented, gaue most harty thankes to the Countesse, who departed from the gentlewoman and retourned to her lodging. The gentlewoman to take occasion from the Counte of anye farther repaire, or sendinge to her house, toke her doughter with her, and went into the country to her frends. The Counte Beltramo, within fewe dayes after, being reuoked home to his owne house by his subiectes, (hearinge that the Countesse was departed from thence) retourned. The Countesse knowinge that her husbande was goone from Florence and retourned home, was verye gladde, continuing in Florence till the time of her childbedde, being brought a bedde of twoo sonnes, whiche were very like vnto their father, and caused them carefully to be noursed and brought vp, and when she sawe time, she toke her iourney (vnknowen to anie) and arriued at Montpellier, and resting her selfe there for certayne dayes, hearing newes of the Counte, and where he was, and that vpon the daye of Al Sainctes, he purposed to make a great feaste, and assembly of Ladies and Knightes, in her pilgrimes weede she repaired thither. And knowing that they were all assembled, at the palace of the Counte, readie to sitte downe at the table, shee passed through the people without chaunge of apparell, with her twoo sonnes in her armes: and when shee was come vp into the 179 hall, euen to the place where the Counte sat, falling downe prostrate at his feete, weeping, saying vnto hym: “My Lorde, I am thy poore infortunate wyfe, who to th’intent thou mightest retourne and dwel in thine owne house, haue bene a great whyle begging aboute the worlde. Therefore I nowe beseche thee, for the honoure of God, that thou wilt obserue the conditions, which the twoo (knightes that I sent vnto thee) did commaunde me to doe: for beholde, here in myne armes, not onely one sonne begotten by thee, but twayne, and likwyse thy Ryng. It is nowe time then (if thou kepe promise) that I should be receiued as thy wyfe.” The Counte hearing this, was greatly astonned, and knewe the Ryng, and the children also, they were so like hym. “But tell me (quod he) howe is this come to passe?” The Countesse to the great admiration of the Counte, and of all those that were in presence, rehersed vnto them in order all that, whiche had bene done, and the whole discourse thereof. For which cause the Counte knowing the thinges she had spoken to be true (and perceiuing her constant minde and good witte, and the twoo faire young boyes to kepe his promise made, and to please his subiectes, and the Ladies that made sute vnto him, to accept her from that tyme foorth as his lawefull wyfe, and to honour her) abiected his obstinate rigour: causing her to rise vp, and imbraced and kissed her, acknowledging her againe for his lawefull wyfe. And after he had apparelled her according to her estate, to the great pleasure and contentation of those that were there, and of al his other frendes not onely that daye, but many others, he kept great chere, and from that time forth, hee loued and honoured her, as his dere spouse and wyfe.
In France, there was a gentleman named Isnardo, the Count of Rossiglione. Because he was sickly and ill, he always kept a physician in his home named Master Gerardo of Narbona. This Count had one only son, Beltramo, a very young and charming child. Along with him, many other children of his age were raised, including one of the physician's daughters named Giletta, who fell passionately in love with Beltramo, more than was appropriate for a girl of her age. When Beltramo’s father passed away and he was left under the royal care of the king, he was sent to Paris, which made Giletta very upset. A little while later, after her father also died, she wanted to go to Paris, just to see the young Count if she could find the opportunity. However, she was closely watched by her relatives (since she was rich and fatherless) and couldn’t find a suitable way to make her journey. Now marriageable, her love for the Count was always on her mind, causing her to refuse many suitors her relatives proposed without revealing the reason for her refusals. It so happened that her love for Beltramo burned even stronger than before, since she heard he had grown into a handsome young gentleman. She heard reports that the French king had developed a swelling on his chest which, due to poor treatment, had turned into a fistula, causing him tremendous pain, and that no physician could heal it (though many had tried), worsening his condition instead. Therefore, the king, in despair, decided not to seek any more counsel or help. This news brought Giletta great joy, as she thought this could provide her not only a legitimate reason to visit Paris but, if the illness was as serious as she believed, an easy way to ensure she could have Count Beltramo as her husband. With the knowledge she had learned from her father long ago, she prepared a powder of certain herbs that she thought would be suitable for the disease and rode to Paris. The first thing she intended to do upon her arrival was to see Count Beltramo. Then she approached the king, requesting his grace to show her his ailment. The king, seeing she was a beautiful young maiden, did not hide it but revealed it to her. As soon as she saw it, she comforted him, saying she was capable of healing him, “Sir, if it pleases your grace, I trust in God to heal Your Highness of this affliction within eight days without causing great pain.” Upon hearing her say this, the king began to mock her, saying, “How can you, being a young woman, achieve what the most renowned physicians in the world cannot?” He thanked her for her goodwill and bluntly told her he had no intention of following the advice of any physician. To which the maiden replied, “Sir, you dismiss my knowledge because I am young and a woman, but I assure you I am not practicing medicine for a profession, but with the help of God, and through the expertise of Master Gerardo of Narbona, who was my father and a highly respected physician during his life.” The king, hearing her words, thought to himself, “This woman may perhaps be sent to me by God, so why should I disdain to test her skills? She promises to heal me in a short time without causing me any harm.” Determined to try her, he said, “Damosel, if you do not heal me and instead cause me to abandon my resolve, what do you think will follow?” “Sir,” said the maiden: “Let me be kept under whatever guard you choose; if I do not heal you within these eight days, let me be burned. But if I do heal your grace, what reward shall I receive?” The king answered, “Since you are a maiden and unmarried, if you heal me as promised, I will arrange for you to marry a gentleman of good reputation and standing.” To which she replied, “Sir, I am very willing for you to arrange my marriage, but I beseech your grace to let me have a husband of my choosing, without presumption towards any of your children or others of your blood.” The king immediately granted her request. The young maiden began her treatment, and in a short time, well before her deadline, she had completely cured the king. When the king realized he was healed, he said to her, “You have well deserved a husband, Giletta, even one whom you shall choose.” “Then, my Lord,” she replied, “I have earned Count Beltramo of Rossiglione, whom I have loved since my youth.” The king was very reluctant to grant him to her; however, since he had made a promise he was loath to break, he called for him and said, “Sir Count, knowing full well that you are a gentleman of great honor, we wish for you to return home and manage your affairs according to your station; and that you take with you a Damosel whom I have chosen to be your wife.” The Count humbly thanked him and asked who she was. “It is she,” said the king, “who with her medicines has healed me.” The Count recognized her and had already seen her; though she was beautiful, knowing she wasn’t of a lineage suitable for his nobility, he scornfully replied to the king, “Will you then, sir, give me a physician for a wife? It is not God’s will that I should ever wed in such a fashion.” The king said, “Will you then have us break our promise given to the damsel, who asked for you as a reward for restoring my health?” “Sir,” replied Beltramo, “you may take everything I have and give my person to whomever you please because I am your subject, but I assure you I will never be satisfied with that marriage.” “Well, you shall have her,” said the king, “for the maiden is beautiful and wise, and she loves you very deeply; truly, you will live a happier life with her than with a lady of greater status.” The Count held his peace, and the king made great preparations for the wedding. When the appointed day arrived, the Count, in the presence of the king (though it was against his will), married the maiden, who loved him more than her own life. After this, the Count asked permission to return to his land to consummate the marriage. However, once he was on horseback, instead of heading home, he set off to Tuscany, where, upon learning that the Florentines and Senese were at war, he decided to align with the Florentines. He was willingly accepted and honored, eventually made captain of a notable number of men, and continued in their service for a long time. The newlywed lady, hardly pleased with his unkindness, hoping that by her good deeds she might prompt him to return home, journeyed to Rossiglione, where she was received by all his subjects as their lady. Noticing that everything had fallen into disarray due to the Count’s absence, she, being a wise lady, diligently and carefully organized things once more, which delighted the subjects greatly, as they held deep affection for her and heavily criticized the Count for not being content with her. This remarkable lady, having restored everything in the region to their former liberties, sent word to her husband, the Count, by two knights, to let him know that if he had abandoned his land for her sake, upon receiving his answer, she would leave Rossiglione to please him. To whom he rudely replied, “Let her do as she wishes; for I intend to dwell with her only when she has this ring” (meaning a ring which he wore) “on her finger, and a son in her arms begotten by me.” He loved that ring dearly and kept it very carefully, never taking it off his finger because of a certain virtue he believed it possessed. The knights, hearing his harsh condition of two impossible things, and realizing they could not persuade him otherwise, returned to the lady, telling her his answer. Heartbroken, after having thought it over for a while, she decided to find a way to achieve the two things, that she might recover her husband. After reflecting on what to do, she gathered the noblest and most prominent people of her land, lamenting what she had already done to win the Count's love, showing them what had followed. In the end, she told them that she was unhappy that the Count, for her sake, should continue in everlasting exile; therefore, she decided to devote the remainder of her time to pilgrimages and devotion for the preservation of her soul, asking them to take charge and governance of the land and to let the Count know she had forsaken his house and was far removed from there, intending never to return to Rossiglione again. Many tears were shed by the people as she spoke, and various pleas were made to him to change his mind, but all in vain. Commending them all to God, she took her way with her maid and one of her relatives, in the attire of a pilgrim, well supplied with silver and precious jewels, telling no one where she went, and never resting until she arrived in Florence. There, by chance, she came upon a poor widow's house and contented herself with the state of a poor pilgrim, eager to hear news of her lord, whom by chance she saw the next day passing by that house on horseback with his company. Although she recognized him well enough, she nonetheless asked the good wife of the house who he was; she replied that he was a stranger gentleman known as Count Beltramo of Rossiglione, a courteous knight, well-loved in the city, and that he was marvelously in love with a neighbor of hers, a gentlewoman, very poor and of small means; nonetheless, she lived a life of great honesty and good reputation, and due to her poverty, she was still unmarried and lived with her mother, a wise and honest lady. The Countess, noting these words and gradually considering every particular detail, comprehending the essence of this news, concluded what to do. When she had well understood which was the house, and the name of the lady, and of her daughter whom the Count loved, she secretly went one day to the house in the attire of a pilgrim. There, finding the mother and daughter in humble circumstances among their family, after greeting them, she addressed the mother to speak with her. The gentlewoman, rising, graciously entertained her, and once they were alone in a chamber, they sat down, and the Countess began to speak to her in this manner. “Madame, it seems you are someone upon whom fortune frowns just as much as on me; but if you please, you might both comfort me and yourself.” The lady replied, “There is nothing in the world I desire more than honest comfort.” The Countess, continuing her talk, said to her, “I now need your fidelity and trust; if I should stay, and you deceive me, you will both ruin me and yourself.” “Tell me then what it is,” said the gentlewoman, “for you shall never be deceived by me.” The Countess began to recount her entire love story: telling her who she was and what had happened up to that present day in such precise order that the gentlewoman, believing her (having partly heard reports before), began to feel compassion for her. After the Countess had recounted the whole situation, she continued with her purpose, saying, “Now you have heard, among other troubles of mine, what two things I must have if I am to recover my husband, and I know none can help me achieve them but you alone, if it is true what I have heard, which is that Count, my husband, is deeply in love with your daughter.” The gentlewoman responded, “Madame, if the Count loves my daughter, I do not know, though the likelihood is great; but what can I do in that which you desire?” “Madame,” responded the Countess, “I will tell you; but first, I must declare what I intend to do for you if my plan is successful: I see your fair daughter of appropriate age, ready to marry; but as I understand, the reason she remains unmarried is a lack of means to afford her a proper marriage. Therefore, I plan to provide enough ready money for her honorable marriage as you may think sufficient, in compensation for the favor you shall do for me.” The Countess's offer was greatly welcomed by the lady because she was poor; yet, having a noble heart, she said to her, “Madame, tell me how I may serve you, and if it is something honorable, I will gladly do it, and once it is fulfilled, act as it pleases you.” Then the Countess said: “I think it necessary that through someone you trust, you inform the Count, my husband, that your daughter is and will be at his command; and to ensure she is well assured that he truly loves her above all others, she must ask him to send her a ring he wears on his finger, a ring which she knows he cherishes dearly. When he sends the ring, you shall give it to me, and afterward let him know that your daughter is ready to fulfill his wishes; and then you shall secretly cause him to come here and place me beside him (in place of your daughter). Perhaps God will give me grace, that I may become pregnant, and so having this ring on my finger and the child in my arms begotten by him, I may recover him and, through your means, continue with him as a wife ought to do with her husband.” This plan seemed difficult to the gentlewoman, fearing it would bring shame upon her daughter. However, thinking of what an honorable act it would be to help the good lady recover her husband, and believing in her good intentions, she not only promised the Countess to make this happen but in a few days, with great craftiness, following the instructions she was given, she managed to get the ring (although it was against the Count’s will) and arranged for the Countess to lie with him in place of her daughter. At their first meeting, earnestly desired by the Count, God arranged matters in such a way that the Countess became pregnant with two fine sons, and her delivery occurred at the appropriate time. The gentlewoman not only satisfied the Countess at that time with her husband’s company but also many other times secretly so that it was never known; the Count thinking he lay with the woman he loved, rather than with his wife. Upon rising in the morning, he used many courteous and affectionate words towards her and gave various fine and precious jewels, which the Countess kept most carefully. When she felt she was pregnant, she resolved no longer to trouble the gentlewoman but said to her, “Madame, thanks be to God and you, I have what I desire, and it is now time to reward your service so that I may depart afterward.” The gentlewoman said to her that if she had done anything pleasing in her mind, she was very glad of it, which she did not do out of hope for reward but because it was her duty to do so. To this, the Countess said, “Your words please me well, and for my part, I do not intend to give you the thing you will ask for as a reward, but as consideration for your good deeds, which duty requires me to fulfill.” The gentlewoman then, driven by necessity, bashfully asked her for one hundred pounds to marry her daughter. The Countess, noticing the gentlewoman’s shy demeanor and polite request, gave her five hundred pounds and so many fine and costly jewels that they almost equaled the same value. For which the gentlewoman, more than satisfied, expressed her heartfelt thanks to the Countess, who departed from the gentlewoman and returned to her lodging. The gentlewoman, wishing to take advantage of the Count’s absence or any further communication with her household, took her daughter with her and went into the countryside to her friends. Count Beltramo, shortly afterward, being called back home by his subjects (having heard that the Countess had left), returned. The Countess, knowing her husband had left Florence and was returning home, was very glad, remaining in Florence until her childbirth, bringing forth two sons who closely resembled their father. She took great care to nurse and raise them, and when the time was right, she set off (unknown to anyone) and arrived in Montpellier, resting there for several days. Hearing news of the Count and where he was, and that on All Saints’ Day he planned to hold a great feast and assembly of ladies and knights, she dressed as a pilgrim and proceeded there. Knowing that they were all gathered at the Count’s palace, ready to sit down at the table, she passed through the crowd without changing her attire, with her two sons in her arms. When she reached the hall, right to where the Count sat, she fell prostrate at his feet, weeping, and said to him: “My Lord, I am your poor unfortunate wife, who, in order to get you to return and dwell in your own house, have wandered around the world for a long time begging. Therefore I now beseech you, for the honor of God, that you will honor the conditions that the two knights I sent to you commanded me to fulfill: for behold, here in my arms, not only one son begotten by you but two, and likewise, your ring. It is now time then (if you keep your promise) that I should be received as your wife.” The Count, upon hearing this, was greatly astonished, recognizing the ring and the children, for they resembled him closely. “But tell me,” he asked, “how has this come to pass?” The Countess, to the astonishment of the Count and all who were present, recounted in order all that had been done, along with the entire story. In light of this, the Count, realizing the truth of all she spoke (and seeing her steadfastness and good sense, as well as the two fair young boys who kept his promise), and to please his subjects and the ladies who sought him, accepted her from that time forth as his lawful wife and honored her accordingly. He abandoned his obstinate resolve, causing her to rise, embraced, and kissed her, acknowledging her once more as his lawful wife. After he had dressed her in accordance with her status, to the great delight and satisfaction of those present, as well as all his other friends, he held great festivities, and from that time on, he loved and honored her as his dear spouse and wife.
THE THIRTY-NINTH NOUELL.
Tancredi Prince of Salerne, caused his daughter’s louer to be slayne, and sente his harte vnto her in a cup of golde: whiche afterwardes she put into poysoned water, and drinking thereof died.
Tancredi, Prince of Salerno, had his daughter's lover killed and sent his heart to her in a gold cup. She later poured it into poisoned water, and after drinking it, she died.
Tancredi Prince of Salerne, (an vniuersitie in the region of Italie) was a curteous Lorde, and of gentle nature: had he not in his age imbrued his handes with the bloud of his owne doughter. It chaunced that this Prince in al his life time, had but that doughter: but more happie had he ben if she had neuer ben borne. That doughter he loued so well, as a father might loue his childe: and for the tender loue he bare her, he was not able to suffer her to be out of his sight. And could not finde in his harte to marie her, although she had many yeres passed the time that she was mariageable: notwithstanding, in thende he gaue her to wife to one of the sonnes of the Duke of Capua, with whom she continued no long time, but was a widowe, and then retourned vnto her fathers house againe. This Ladie was very faire and comely of bodie and face, as any creature could be, yonge, lustie, and more wise peraduenture then a woman ought to be. And thus dwelling with her louing father, she liued like a noble Ladie, in great pleasure: and seing that her father for the loue he bare vnto her, had no mynde or care to marie her agayne, and also she thinking it skarce honest to require him thereunto, deuised secretly (if it were possible) to retaine some valiaunt man to be her louer. And seyng manye gentlemen and others, frequenting her fathers court (as we commonly see in the courtes of princes) and marking the behauiour and order of many (amonges all) there was a young man, one of her fathers seruauntes that liked her well, whose name was Guiscardo, of very base birth (but in vertue and honest condicions more noble then the reste) and many times when she sawe him, she wonderfully delited in him, alwayes praysing his doinges aboue all others. The younge man, not hauing good consideration of him selfe, perceiuing her feruent affection, so fixed his minde that he disposed the same vpon 181 nothing els but to loue her. One louing an other secretly in this sorte, and the Ladie verie studious to finde occasion that she might talke with him, vnwilling to committe the secrecie of her loue to any man, she imagined a newe deuise to geue him knowledge thereof. And wrote a letter signifying vnto him, what he should doe the next day, and howe he might vse himselfe to come to talke with her: and then putting the letter into the cane of a rede, she gaue it vnto Guiscardo in sporting wise, and said. “Thou shalt this night make a paire of Bellowes for thy seruaunt wherwith she may kindle the fire.” Guiscardo toke it, and thought that shee did not geue it vnto him, without some special purpose went to his chamber, and loking vpon the Cane perceiued it to be hollowe, and openyng it founde the letter within whiche shee had written. And when he had well perused it, vnderstandyng the tenour thereof, hee thought hym selfe the happiest man in the worlde, and began to put hym selfe in readinesse, to mete with his Ladie, by suche wayes and meanes, as shee had to him appointed. There was in the corner of the Princes palace a Caue, long time before made vnder the syde of a hille, whiche Caue receiued light by certayne ventes made of force within the sayd mountaine, and because the same was not frequented and vsed, it was ouergrowen with busshes and thornes. Into which Caue was a discent by a secrete payre of stayers, into one of the lowest chambers of the Palaice, wherin the Ladie lay, which was out of all men’s minde, because it was not occupied many a day before, and shut vp with a very strong doore. But Loue (in the eyes wherof nothing is so secrete, but will come to knoweledge) had brought the same againe into the remembraunce of the amorous Lady. The opening of which doore (that no man might knowe it) many dayes did trouble her wittes: afterwarde when she had founde the waye, she went downe alone into the Caue, and viewing the vente, whereunto she had geuen order for Guiscardo to come, she tolde him of what height it was from the ground: for the execution whereof, Guiscardo prepared a rope with knots and degrees to goe vp and downe, and putting vpon him a leather coate, to kepe him from the thornes and bushes, went downe the next night at the saide vente, vnknowen of any man: and fastening 182 one of the endes of the rope, to the stocke of a tree, that grewe at the mouth of the vente, hee slipte downe into the Caue, and taried there for the Ladie, who the next daye faining her selfe to slepe after dinner, sent her maydes out of her chamber, and locked her selfe within alone: and then opened the doore, and went downe into the Caue, where finding Guiscardo, they marueilously reioysed one with an other. And from thence went vp together into her chamber: where they remained togethers, the moste parte of that day, to their great delight. And hauing geuen good order for the affaires of their loue, and the secrete vse therof, Guiscardo retourned into the Caue, and the Ladie locked the doore, and came out amonges her maides. The next night after, Guiscardo issued out of the vente vpon the rope, wherewith he descended and conueied him selfe into his chamber. And hauing learned the waye, he resorted thither many times after. But Fortune enuious of that pleasure, so long and great, with dolorous successe, tourned the ioye of those twoo louers into heauie and sorowefull ende. The Prince accustomed sometimes to resorte alone into his doughter’s chamber, and there for a whyle to tarie and talke with her, and so to departe. Vpon a daye after dinner, when the Ladie (whose name was Gismonda) was in the garden with all her maidens, he repaired vnknowen or seene of any man into her chamber. But being loth to trouble his doughter of her pleasure, and finding the wyndowes of her chamber shut and the curtens of her bedde drawen, he satte down vpon a stoole at the beddes feete, and leaning his head to the bedde the Curteine drawen ouer him (as he had bene hidden of purpose) he fel a slepe. And the king being thus a slepe, Gismonda that (in euill time) the same day had appointed Guiscardo to come, left her maydens in the Gardeine, and entred very secretly into her chamber, locking fast the doore after her, and not knowing any man to be there, shee opened the doore of the Caue to Guiscardo, who was redie to wayte for her comming. Then they caste them selues vpon the bedde, as they were wonte to doe, solacing the time together, vntill it chaunced that the Prince awaked, heard and sawe what Guiscardo and his doughter did. Whereof being verie sorowfull, he would vpon the first sight haue cried out: but that he thought 183 it better for that time to holde his peace, still to kepe him selfe secrete, to the intent that he might more priuelie, and with lesse shame, accomplishe that which he purposed to do. The twoo louers continued togethers a great time, as they were wont to do, without any knowledge of the Prince his being there, and when they saw time, they went downe from the bedde: and Guiscardo retourning to the Caue, shee went foorthe of her chamber, from whence Tancredi (as olde as he was) conueyed him selfe into the Gardeine out at a wyndowe of the same, vnseen and not perceiued of any. Who like a pensife man, and carefull euen vnto death, repaired to his owne chamber, and the next night, about one of the clocke, he caused Guiscardo to be apprehended, by an order that he had prescribed, at his comming forth of the Caue, euen clothed as he was, with his leather coate: and by twoo men was secretly conueyed to the Prince. Who so sone as he sawe him, sayd vnto him with teares standing in his eies: “Guiscardo, the beneuolence and goodnes towardes thee, haue not merited this outrage and shame, that thou hast committed this daye in mine owne house, which I sawe with mine owne eyes.” To whom Guiscardo gaue no other aunswere, but that Loue was of greater force, then either any Prince or hym selfe. Then the Prince commaunded him to be kept, in a chamber adioyning. The next day the king (Gismonda being ignoraunt hereof) reuolued in his minde, diuers and sundrye matters, and after diner as he was accustomed, he wente into his doughter’s chamber, and caused her to be called vnto him, and shutting the chamber doore, in lamentable speche sayd vnto her. “Gismonda, I had so much affiaunce and truste in thy vertue and honestie, that it coulde neuer haue entred into my mynde (althoughe it had bene tolde me, if I had not sene it with mine owne propre eyes) but that thou haddest not onely in deede, but also in thought, abandoned the companie of all men, except it had bene thy husbande: whereof I shalbe right pensife and sorowefull so longe as this litle remnaunt of life (that mine olde age doth preserue) indureth in mee. And sithe thou couldest not conteyne from suche dishonest loue, I woulde it had pleased God, that thou haddest taken a manne, equall to thyne estate. But amonges so many that do frequente 184 my court, thou hast chosen this young man Guiscardo, whose birthe is very vile and base, and brought vp (as it were for God’s sake) from a childe to this present daye, in our Court. For which consideration I am verie sore disquieted, not knowing how to take this at thy handes: for with him (whom I haue caused to be taken this nighte in going out of the Caue, and nowe kepte as prisoner) I have already concluded what to do. But with thee what I shal do, God knoweth: of the one side, the loue that I still beare thee, more then any father euer bare to his doughter, doth drawe me: on the other side, a iust displeasure and indignation, taken for thy great follie, doth moue me. The one mocion would that I should pardon thee, the other forceth me against my nature, to be cruell vnto thee. Notwithstanding, before I doe make any certaine resolucion, I desire to heare what thou canst saye for thy selfe.” When hee had spoken those woordes, he kissed her face, weping verie bitterly like a childe that had ben beaten. Gismonda hearing her father, and knowing that not only her secret loue was discouered, but also her louer Guiscardo to be in pryson, conceiued an inestimable sorowe, vttering the same many times, with outcries and schreches, according to the maner of women, howe beit, her great courage surpassed her weakenesse, and did sette a bolde face on the matter, with marueilous stoutnesse determining, before she made any sute for her selfe, no longer to liue, seing that her frende Guiscardo was alreadie dead. Wherefore not like a sorowefull woman, or one taken in any faulte, but as a desperate persone, with a drie and stoute countenaunce, not troubled or vexed, she said thus to her father: “I doe not purpose, deare father, to stande in deniall, nor yet by humble sute to make requeste: for the one wyll nothyng auayle mee, and the other is to none effecte. Moreouer I doe not intende by any meanes, to beseche your clemencie and loue towardes mee, to be beneuolente and bontifull, but confessinge the trouthe, I will first with true reasons and argumentes, defende myne honour, and afterwardes prosecute in vertuous wyse, by effectes, the stoutnesse of my courage. True it is, that I haue loued and do loue Guiscardo, and will loue him so long as I liue, which shalbe but a litle time. And if so be that a woman may loue a man after death, I will not cease 185 to loue him. But womanly frailtie and feminine weakenesse hath not so much induced me hereunto, as the litle care you haue had to bestow me in mariage, and the great vertues that daily I haue seene in Guiscardo. You ought deare father to knowe, that your selfe is of fleshe, and of fleshe you haue engendred me your doughter, and not of Stone or Iron. In likewyse you ought, and must remember (although now you be arriued to olde yeares) what yonge folkes bee, and of what great power the lawe of youth is: and although you were (during the force of your youthlie dayes) trayned and exercised in factes of armes, yet nowe you oughte to knowe what great puissaunce resteth in the idle and delicate life, as well in the aged, as amonges yonge people. I am then as you be, begotten of fleshe, and my yeres so few, as yet but yonge, and thereby full of lust and delight. Wherunto the knowledge which I haue had alredy in mariage, forceth me to accomplishe that desire: and to the same be added marueilous forces, against whiche it is impossible for me to resiste, but rather to folowe, whereunto they drawe me. I am become amorous like a yonge woman, and like a woman as I am, and certainly I would haue imploied my whole force that waye, so farre as I could not to committe any shame to you, or to my selfe in that, whereunto my naturall offence hath forced me. To which thing, pitiful loue, and gentle fortune haue founde out, and shewed a waye secret enough, whereby without knowledge of any man, I am come to the effecte of my desires: which thing I will not denie (who so euer tolde you of it, or by what meanes so euer you are come to the knowledge of it) I haue not taken Guiscardo to be my louer by chaunce, as many women haue done, but I haue chosen him by long aduise and deliberation, aboue all others, and haue brought him into me in this wise, inioying with our wise continuance of longe time, the accomplishment of my desire, wherof me thincke (althoughe I haue not offended but by loue) that you doe purpose to prosecute rather the vulgar opinion, then the truth, purposinge in this wise moste bitterly to comptroll me, saying: ‘That you had not had such an occasion of anger, if I had chosen one that had been a gentleman.’ Wherein you do not consider, that the faulte is not mine, but rather to be ascribed to fortune, who ought to be 186 blamed because many times shee exalteth the vnworthie, and treadeth vnder foote those that be most worthie: but nowe let vs leaue of further talke of this matter, and consider the beginninge hereof. First of all you see, that of one masse of fleshe we haue all receiued flesh, and that one Creatour hath created euery lyuing creature, with force and puissaunce equally, and wyth equall vertue: which vertue was the first occasion that made the difference and distinction of vs all that were borne, and be borne equall, and they that obtayned the greatest part of vertue, and did the workes of her, were called noble, the rest continuing vnnoble. And albeit contrary vse afterwards obscured this Law, yet therefore, shee is not remoued ne abandoned from nature, or good maners. In likewise hee that by vertue performeth all his doinges, doth manifestlie shewe himselfe to be noble: and he that doth otherwise terme him, doth commit the faulte, and not he that is so called. Behold all your gentlemen, and examine well their vertue, their conditions and maner of doinges. On the other part, behold the qualities and condicions of Guiscardo: then if you please to giue iudgement wythout affection, you shall say that he is righte noble: and that all your gentlemen be villaines in respecte of him. The vertuous and excellencie of whom, I beleeue cannot be placed in any other wight, as in hym, as well by your owne report as by the choyse of mine owne eyes. Who euer praysed man so, and with such ample commendacions praise worthie, wherein an honest man ought to be praised, as you haue done? and truly not without cause: for, if mine eyes be not deceiued, you neuer gaue hym anye praise but that I haue knowen more in him then your wordes were able to expresse. Notwithstanding, if I haue bin deceiued herein, it was you by whom I haue bin deceiued: wil you then say that I couple myselfe with a man of base condicion? Truly you cannot well say so. But if you will saye, perchaunce with a poore man, I confesse it: and verely it is to your shame, that you haue not vouchsafed to place in highe estate a man so honest, being your owne seruaunt. Neuerthelesse, pouertie doth not depriue anye parte of nobilitie, but riches hath. Manye kinges and greate Princes, haue bin poore in olde time, and manye ploughmen and sheepeheardes in times past, haue bin aduaunced 187 to riche estate. And the last doubt which troubleth you, is, that you be doubtfull what to doe with me: caste boldly out of your minde that doubte, and if you do intend in thextremity of your age to vse that which in your youth you neuer did, I purpose to become cruel also. Use your cruelty against me, for the auoyding whereof I haue not determined to make any supplication to you as giltie of this faulte, if faultes may be rehearsed. Assuring you, that if you do not vnto me, that which you haue done or will doe to Guiscardo, mine owne handes shall doe it. Wherefore goe to, and let fall your teares with women, and if you purpose to be cruell, kill him and let me also drincke of the same Cuppe, if you thincke we haue deserued it.” The king hearing the stout words of his doughter, thoughte not that shee woulde haue done in deede, as her wordes pretended, and as she said she would doe. Wherefore departing from her, and not willing to vse any maner of crueltie towards her, hee thoughte by the destruction and slaughter of Guiscardo, to coole her burning loue. And therefore commaunded two of his seruauntes (that had Guiscardo in keeping) without any noise, to strangle him the next nighte, and afterwardes plucking his harte out of his bodie, to bringe it vnto him: who did as they were commaunded. And the next day the king caused a faire Cuppe of gold to be broughte vnto him, wherein he laid the harte of Guiscardo, which he sent (by one of his trustiest seruauntes) vnto his doughter: and commaunded him, when hee presented the same vnto her to say these wordes: “Thy father hath sent thee this presente, to comforte thy selfe with the thing, which thou doest chiefle loue, as thou haste comforted him of that which he loued most.” Gismonda not amoued from her cruel determination, caused to be brought vnto her (after her father was gone) venemous herbes and rootes, which she distilled together, and made water thereof to drincke sodenly if that came to passe which she doubted. And when the kinges seruaunte was come vnto her, and deliuered his presente, he said as he was commaunded. Gismonda toke the Cuppe with stoute countenaunce, and couering it, so soone as she sawe the harte, and vnderstoode the woordes, shee thoughte verelye that it was the hart of Guiscardo, wherefore beholding the seruaunt, she saide vnto him: “Truly it behoueth that such a hart as this is, shoulde be 188 intombed in no worse graue then in golde, which my father hath most wisely done.” Afterwards lifting the Cuppe to her mouth, she kissed it, saying: “I haue in all thinges, euen vnto this time (being the last ende of my life) alwayes found the tender loue of my father towards mee: but nowe I knowe it to be greater, then euer I did before. And therefore in my behalfe, you shall render vnto him, the last thanckes that euer I shall giue him, for so great a presente.” After those wordes, tourning herselfe towardes the Cuppe, which shee helde faste, beholdinge the hart, shee said thus: “Oh sweete harboroughe of my pleasures, cursed be the crueltye of him that hath caused mee at this time to loke vppon thee with the eyes of my face: it was pleasure ynoughe, to see thee euery hower, amonges people of knowledge and vnderstanding. Thou hast finished thy course, and by that ende, which fortune vouchsafed to giue thee, thou art dispatched, and arriued to the ende wherunto all men haue recourse: thou hast forsaken the miseries and traueyles of this world, and haste had by the enemy himselfe such a sepulture as thy worthinesse deserueth. There needeth nothing els to accomplishe thy funerall, but onely the teares of her whom thou diddest hartelye loue all the dayes of thy lyfe. For hauing wherof, our Lord did put into the head of my vmercifull father to send thee vnto me, and truly I will bestow some teares vppon thee, although I was determined to die, without sheading any teares at all, stoutlie, not fearefull of any thinge. And when I haue powred them out for thee, I will cause my soule, which thou hast heretofore so carefully kepte, to be ioyned wyth thine. For, in what company can I trauell, more contented, or in better safegard in places vnknowen, then with thy soule? Truly I am well assured, that it is yet here within, that hath respecte to the place, aswell of his owne pleasures, as of mine, being assured (as she who is certaine, that yet he looueth me) that he attendeth for myne, of whom he is greatly beloued.” When she had thus sayd, she beganne to let fall (as thoughe there had been a fountaine in her head) so many teares, as it was a myracle to beholde her, oftentimes kissing the deade harte. Her maydens that stoode aboute her, knewe not what hart that was, nor whereunto those woords did tende: but being moued with compassion they all wepte: pitifullie demaundinge (althoughe in 189 vayne) the occasion of her sorowfull plaintes: and comforted her so well as they could. Who after she had powred forth sufficient teares, lifted vppe her heade and when she had wiped her eyes, she sayd: “Oh louing hart, all my dutie is fulfilled towardes thee, hauinge nowe nothinge to doe but onely to yelde foorth my ghoste, to accompany thyne.” And this sayd, she caused the glasse of water, which she had made the daye before, to be brought vnto her: and poured it out into the cuppe where the hart laye, all bained with a multitude of teares: whiche shee putting to her mouthe, without feare, dronke vp all. And that done went into her bedde, with the cuppe in her hand, tossing her bodie as decently as she could vppon the same, holding the harte of her dead frende, so nere as shee coulde, vnto her owne. Her maidens seing this (although they knewe not what water it was, that she dranke) sent worde to the king, who fearing that whiche happened, incontinentlye wente downe into his doughters chamber: where he arriued euen at that instante that she had cast her selfe vpon the bedde, and being come to late to succour her, with sweete woordes he began (seing her in those pangues) to wepe bitterly. To whome his doughter sayde: “Father, kepe in those vndesired teares and bestowe them not vpon me, for I desire them not: who euer sawe man beside you, to bewayle the wilfulnesse of his owne facte. Howe be it, if there do yet reste in you any sparke of that loue, which you haue alwayes borne towardes me: graunt me this last requeste, that although you were not contented that I should liue secretly and couertly with Guiscardo, yet at lest, cause our bodies to bee openly buried togethers, where it pleaseth you to bestowe them.” The anguishe and sorowe would not suffer the Prince to aunsweare one worde for weping. And the Ladie perceiuing her ende approche, cleped and strained the dead hart harde to her stomacke, saying: “Farewell sweete harte in God, for I am going to him.” And therewithall she closed her eyes, and lost her senses, departing out of this dolorous life. In this maner sorowefully ended the loue of Gismonda and Guiscardo, as you haue hearde, whome the prince after he had wepte his fill, and taken to late repentaunce for his crueltie: caused honorablie to be buried, and intombed both in one graue, not without great sorowe of all the people of Salerne.
Tancredi Prince of Salerne, (a university in the region of Italy) was a courteous lord with a kind nature; he would have been happier if he had never stained his hands with the blood of his own daughter. This prince had only one daughter during his lifetime, and it would have been better if she had never been born. He loved this daughter as any father would love his child, and his deep affection for her made him unable to bear being apart from her. He couldn't bring himself to marry her off, even though she was well past the age of marriage. Eventually, he gave her in marriage to one of the sons of the Duke of Capua, but she was widowed shortly after and returned to her father's home. The lady was very beautiful, charming in both body and face, youthful, lively, and perhaps even wiser than a woman ought to be. So, living with her loving father, she enjoyed a noble life filled with pleasure. Seeing that her father had no intention or care to marry her off again out of love for her, and thinking it inappropriate to ask him about it, she secretly devised a plan to find a brave man to be her lover. Noticing many gentlemen and others frequenting her father's court (as is common in the courts of princes) and observing the behavior of many, among them was a young man named Guiscardo, one of her father's servants who liked her a lot. He came from very humble beginnings, but he was nobler in virtue and good character than the rest. Every time she saw him, she found such delight in him that she praised his deeds above all others. The young man, not thinking much of himself, noticing her intense affection, focused all his thoughts on nothing but loving her. They loved each other in secret, and the lady, very eager to find a chance to talk with him, not wanting to reveal her secret love to anyone, secretly wrote him a letter telling him what he should do the next day and how he could approach her. She put the letter inside the hollow cane of a reed, gave it to Guiscardo playfully, and said, “You shall make a pair of bellows for your servant tonight so she can start the fire.” Guiscardo took it, thinking that she didn't give it to him without a special reason. He went to his chamber, looked at the cane, realized it was hollow, and upon opening it found the letter inside that she had written. After reading it carefully and understanding its message, he thought he was the happiest man in the world and began to get ready to meet his lady by the ways she had indicated. There was a cave in the corner of the prince's palace, long made beneath the side of a hill, which received light through certain vents created by force within the mountain. Since it was unused and unvisited, it had become overgrown with bushes and thorns. There was a secret staircase leading down to one of the lower chambers of the palace where the lady slept, which was out of everyone's mind because it hadn't been used for many days and was shut off with a very strong door. But Love (in whose eyes nothing is so secret that it won't come to light) had reminded the amorous lady of it. The idea of opening that door (so that no one could know) troubled her thoughts for several days. Later, when she found a way, she went down alone into the cave, examined the vent where she had instructed Guiscardo to come, and told him how high it was from the ground. For this, Guiscardo prepared a rope with knots to go up and down. He donned a leather coat to protect himself from the thorns and bushes and went down the next night at that vent, unknown to anyone. Fastening one end of the rope to the trunk of a tree right at the mouth of the vent, he slipped down into the cave and waited for the lady, who the next day, pretending to sleep after lunch, sent her maids out of her chamber and locked herself inside alone. Then she opened the door and went down to the cave, where she found Guiscardo, and they rejoiced marvelously together. From there they went up into her chamber, where they stayed together for most of that day, thoroughly enjoying each other's company. After arranging their love affairs and their secret usage of it, Guiscardo returned to the cave, and the lady locked the door before coming out among her maids. The next night, Guiscardo climbed out of the vent using the rope and made his way back to his chamber. Having learned the way, he visited several times afterward. But Fortune, envious of such long and great pleasure, turned the joy of these two lovers into a heavy and sorrowful ending. The prince was accustomed to occasionally visiting his daughter's chamber alone, staying there for a while to talk with her before leaving. One day after lunch, when the lady (whose name was Gismonda) was in the garden with all her maidens, he entered her chamber unnoticed. Not wanting to disturb his daughter while she was enjoying herself, and finding the windows closed and the curtains drawn around her bed, he sat down on a stool at the foot of the bed. Leaning back with his head resting against the bed and the curtain drawn over him (as if he were hidden on purpose), he fell asleep. While he was sleeping, Gismonda, who had arranged for Guiscardo to come that day (a day ill-timed), left her maidens in the garden and secretly entered her chamber, locking the door after her. Not knowing anyone else was there, she opened the door of the cave for Guiscardo, who was ready and waiting for her. They jumped onto the bed, just as they used to do, enjoying their time together until it so happened that the prince awoke, heard, and saw what Guiscardo and his daughter were doing. Being very sorrowful about this, he would have cried out upon first seeing them but thought it better to remain silent for that moment to keep himself hidden, intending to observe secretly and with less shame what he intended to do. The two lovers stayed on together for a long time, as they were accustomed to do, without knowing the prince was there. When they saw an opportunity, they got off the bed, and Guiscardo returned to the cave while she left her chamber, from which Tancredi (as old as he was) managed to sneak into the garden through a window, unseen and unnoticed. He, like a pensive man, deeply troubled even to the point of death, returned to his own chamber. That night, around one o'clock, he ordered Guiscardo to be captured according to a plan he had devised, as he was coming out of the cave, dressed just as he was in his leather coat. Two men secretly brought him to the prince. As soon as the prince saw him, he said to him, with tears in his eyes: “Guiscardo, the kindness and goodness I’ve shown you do not deserve the outrage and shame you have committed in my own house, which I saw with my own eyes.” To which Guiscardo responded only that love was more powerful than any prince or himself. Then the prince ordered him to be kept in a nearby chamber. The next day, after Gismonda was unaware of this, the king mulled over various matters. After lunch, as was his habit, he went into his daughter's chamber, called for her, and shut the chamber door. In a lamentable tone, he said to her, “Gismonda, I had so much faith and trust in your virtue and honesty that it would never have crossed my mind (even if I had been told) if I hadn’t seen it with my own eyes, that you had not only in deed but also in thought abandoned the company of all men, except for your husband. For this, I will be very worried and sorrowful for as long as this little remnant of life (that my old age preserves) lasts in me. And since you could not restrain yourself from such dishonest love, I wish it had pleased God that you had chosen a man equal to your status. But among so many who frequent my court, you have chosen this young man Guiscardo, whose birth is very lowly and base, and has been raised (as if for God's sake) since childhood to this present day in our court. For which reason I am deeply troubled, not knowing how to take this from you, for with him (whom I ordered to be taken tonight while leaving the cave, and now kept as a prisoner) I have already decided what to do. But as for you, God knows what I shall do: on one side, the love I still have for you, more than any father has ever borne toward his daughter, draws me; on the other side, a just displeasure and indignation, taken for your great folly, stirs me. The one urges me to pardon you, the other compels me against my nature to be cruel to you. Nevertheless, before I make any final decision, I want to hear what you have to say for yourself.” After he spoke those words, he kissed her face, weeping bitterly like a child who had been beaten. Gismonda, hearing her father and realizing not only that her secret love had been discovered but also that her lover Guiscardo was in prison, felt an inestimable sorrow, expressing it many times with cries and screams, as is customary among women. However, her great courage surpassed her weakness, and she boldly decided that before making any plea for herself, she would no longer live, seeing that her friend Guiscardo was already dead. So not like a sorrowful woman or one caught in wrongdoing, but rather as a desperate person with a dry and fierce expression, unfazed or troubled, she said to her father: “I do not intend, dear father, to deny anything, nor to humbly plead for anything: for one will avail me nothing, and the other is of no effect. Moreover, I do not intend to beseech your kindness and love toward me for your goodwill, but confessing the truth, I will first defend my honor with true reasons and arguments, and after that pursue my courage virtuously through actions. It’s true that I have loved and do love Guiscardo, and I will love him as long as I live, which won’t be for much longer. And if it so happens that a woman can love a man after death, I will not cease to love him. But it’s not merely womanly frailty and feminine weakness that has compelled me here, but the little care you have shown about marrying me off, and the great virtues I have seen in Guiscardo. You ought, dear father, to know that you are made of flesh, and of flesh you have begetted me, your daughter, not of stone or iron. Likewise, you ought to remember (though you have reached old age) what young people are like, and how powerful the law of youth is: and although you were trained in the days of your youth in acts of arms, you ought now to know what great power lies in an idle and delicate life, as well among the old as among the young. I am, like you, made of flesh, and my years are so few that I am still young, full of desires and pleasures. The knowledge I have already gained in marriage urges me to fulfill that desire, and along with that come marvelous forces, against which it is impossible for me to resist, but instead I must follow where they lead. I have become amorous like a young woman, and as a woman, I certainly would have exerted all my energy in that direction, as far as I could, not to cause you any shame or myself in what my natural inclination has compelled me to. To this end, pitiful love and gentle fortune have found and shown a secret way, whereby, without anyone's knowledge, I have reached the fulfillment of my desires. I will not deny this (whoever has told you of it, or however you have come to learn it): I did not take Guiscardo to be my lover by chance, as many women do, but I chose him after careful consideration above all others, and I brought him to me in this manner, enjoying for a long time the fulfillment of my desires, where I think (even though I have not offended except by love) that you intend to pursue the common opinion rather than the truth, intending in this way to most bitterly reproach me, saying: ‘You would not have had such an occasion for anger if I had chosen one who had been a gentleman.’ In this, you do not take into account that the fault is not mine but should rather be attributed to fortune, who ought to be blamed because she often exalts the unworthy and tramples underfoot those who are most worthy. But now let us cease further discussion on this matter and consider the beginning of it. First of all, you see that from one mass of flesh we have all received flesh, and that one Creator has created every living creature with equal strength and power, and with equal virtue: which virtue was the primary reason that established the differences among us all, who were born and are born equal, and those who have obtained the most virtue and have performed her works have been called noble while the rest remain non-noble. And although contrary usage later obscured this law, it is not thus removed or abandoned from nature or good manners. Likewise, he who, by virtue, accomplishes all his actions, clearly shows himself to be noble; and he who does otherwise and calls himself noble commits the fault, not he who is so described. Look at all your gentlemen and examine well their virtues, their character, and their deeds. On the other hand, consider Guiscardo’s qualities and character; then if you like to judge without bias, you will say he is truly noble while all your gentlemen are villains in comparison to him. His virtue and excellence I believe cannot be found in any other person as they are in him, as well by your own description as by the choice of my own eyes. Who has ever praised a man as you have done, and with such ample recommendations worthy of praise, wherein an honest man ought to be praised? And truly, not without reason: for if my eyes are not deceived, you never praised him but I have known more in him than your words could express. Nevertheless, if I have been deceived here, it was you who deceived me. Will you then say that I am joining myself with a man of low condition? Truly, you cannot say that. But if you mean perhaps a poor man, I confess it; and indeed it is to your shame that you have not deigned to elevate a man so honest, being your own servant. Nevertheless, poverty does not strip away any part of nobility, but riches do. Many kings and great princes in ancient times have been poor, and many plowmen and shepherds in past times have been raised to rich estates. And the last doubt troubling you is whether you should do with me: cast away that doubt boldly from your mind, and if you intend at the extremes of your age to use what you never did in your youth, I intend to become cruel too. Use your cruelty against me, for the avoiding of which I have not resolved to make any kind of plea toward you, feeling guilty of this fault, if faults may be spoken of. Assuring you that if you do not do to me what you have done or will do to Guiscardo, my own hands will accomplish it. Therefore, go ahead, and let your tears flow like a woman’s, and if you plan to be cruel, kill him and let me also drink from the same cup if you think we deserve it.” The king, hearing his daughter's fierce words, did not think she would actually do what she pretended, nor did she mean to carry out what she said. Therefore, leaving her and not wishing to do any kind of cruelty to her, he thought by the destruction and death of Guiscardo to cool her burning love. So he ordered two of his servants (who had Guiscardo in custody) to strangle him without any noise the next night and afterward to bring him his heart. They did as commanded. The next day the king caused a fine golden cup to be brought to him, in which he placed Guiscardo’s heart, which he sent (by one of his most trusted servants) to his daughter and commanded him that when he presented it to her, he say these words: “Your father sent you this gift, to comfort yourself with that which you most dearly love, as you have comforted him from that which he loved most.” Gismonda, unmoved from her cruel determination, had poisonous herbs and roots brought to her (after her father had gone), which she distilled together, making a drink to consume if that should happen which she feared. And when the king’s servant came to her and delivered his gift, he said as commanded. Gismonda took the cup with a bold demeanor, and as soon as she saw the heart and understood the words, she truly believed it was Guiscardo’s heart; therefore, looking at the servant, she said to him: “Truly it is fitting that such a heart as this should be buried in no worse grave than gold, which my father has most wisely done.” Afterward, raising the cup to her mouth, she kissed it, saying: “I have in all things, even until this time (being at the end of my life), always found my father’s tender love toward me to be evident, but now I know it is greater than ever before. And therefore in my stead, you shall give him the last thanks I will ever give him for such a great gift.” After these words, turning toward the cup, which she held tightly, gazing at the heart, she said: “Oh sweet harbor of my pleasures, cursed be the cruelty of him who has caused me to look upon you with my physical eyes at this time: it was pleasure enough to see you every hour among people of understanding. You have finished your course and by that end, which fortune has allowed you, you are sent off and have arrived at the end to which all people come: you have forsaken the miseries and troubles of this world and have received from the enemy himself such a burial as your worthiness deserves. There is nothing else needed to complete your funeral, but the tears of the one who truly loved you all the days of your life. For having those, our Lord prompted my merciless father to send you to me, and truly I will shed some tears upon you, even though I had resolved to die without shedding any, boldly and without fear of anything. And when I have wept for you, I will cause my soul, which you have kept so carefully, to join with yours. For, in what company can I travel more contentedly, or in better safety in unknown places, than with your soul? Truly I am assured, it is still here within, having regard both for its own pleasures as well as mine, being confident (as she who is certain that he still loves me) that he waits for mine, of whom he is greatly beloved.” After saying this, she began to let fall (as if there were a fountain in her head) so many tears that it was a miracle to behold her, often kissing the dead heart. Her maidens standing around her did not know whose heart this was, nor what that speech meant; but being moved with compassion, they all wept, pitifully asking (although in vain) the reason for her sorrowful complaints, and comforting her as best they could. After she had shed sufficient tears, she lifted her head, and when she wiped her eyes, she said: “Oh loving heart, all my duty towards you is fulfilled, having nothing left to do but yield my ghost to accompany yours.” And having said this, she had the vial of the water prepared the day before brought to her and poured it into the cup where the heart lay, all mingled with a multitude of tears. Then, putting it to her mouth without fear, she drank it all. And then she went into her bed, with the cup in her hand, lying down as decently as she could upon it, holding the heart of her dead friend as close to her as she could to her own. Her maidens, seeing this (though they did not know what water it was that she drank) sent word to the king, who fearing what would come of it, immediately went down into his daughter’s chamber, where he arrived just at the moment that she had thrown herself onto the bed. Seeing her in such suffering, the king began to weep bitterly with sweet words. To whom his daughter said: “Father, hold those undesired tears in and do not spend them on me, for I do not desire them: who has ever seen a man besides you, weep for the stubbornness of his own act? However, if there still remains in you any spark of that love you have always borne toward me, grant me this last request, that although you were not pleased for me to live secretly with Guiscardo, yet at the very least, command that our bodies be buried together openly, wherever you may wish them to rest.” The anguish and sorrow did not allow the prince to respond a word for weeping. And the lady, seeing her end approach, pressed the dead heart tightly to her stomach, saying: “Farewell, sweet heart, in God, for I am going to him.” And with that, she closed her eyes and lost her senses, departing from this sorrowful life. In this way, sorrowfully ended the love of Gismonda and Guiscardo, as you have heard, whom the prince, after he had wept his fill and repented too late for his cruelty, ordered to be honorably buried, both in one grave, not without great sorrow from all the people of Salerne.
THE FORTYETH NOUELL.
Mahomet one of the Turkishe Emperours, executeth curssed crueltie vpon a Greeke maiden, whome hee tooke prisoner, at the wynning of Constantinople.
Mahomet, one of the Turkish emperors, committed a terrible cruelty against a Greek maiden whom he captured during the conquest of Constantinople.
If you doe euer make any proofe of trial, to knowe of what trampe the Arrowes of Loue be, and what fruite they brynge to them, that doe vse and practise them: I am assured you shall be touched with some pitie when ye vnderstande the beastlie crueltie of an Infidell louer towards his Ladie. He of whome I wyll declare the historie, is Mahomet, not the false Prophete, but the great graundfather of Soliman Otiman, Emperoure of the Turkes, whiche raigned at that tyme. He it is, that to the shame and eternall infamie of all Christian Princes of his tyme, did wynne Constantinople, and tooke awaye the Easte Empire from Constantine, a Christian Emperour, the yeare of our Lord 1453. Mahomet then hauing obteined so great victorie at Constantinople, amonges the spoyle of that riche Citie, there was founde a Greeke mayden, of suche rare and excellent beautie, as she allured the eyes of euery wight, to wonder and beholde her, as a thing miraculous, whose name was Hyerenee, of the age of sixtene or seuentene yeares: whom a Capitaine to gratifie his Lorde, did presente, a Iewell, (as hee thought) moste acceptable to him, aboue all thinges of the worlde. The Emperour Mahomet, young and wanton beyonde measure, after he had caste his eye upon the mayden, and had grauen her beautie in his harte, gaue a straighte charge that shee shoulde bee kepte for hym, hopinge after the tumulte of the warre was ended, to bestowe conuenient tyme vpon her. The retracte sounded, and the affaires of the Empire reduced to sure estate, remembring him selfe of the beautie of Hyerenee, whiche had made a breache and entrie into his harte, commaunded that shee should be brought foorth vnto him, and hauing viewed her at his pleasure, hee felte him selfe so surprised with that newe flame, that hee conceived none other delight but to playe and 191 dallie with her, in suche sorte as his spirites being in loues full possession, loue dealt with hym so cruellie, as he coulde take no reste daye nor night. Who yelded him selfe suche a praie to his darling Hyerenee, that he felte none other contentation in his mynde but that whiche he receiued of her. And this amorous passion indured the space of three continuall yeares, taking suche vigor and increase by litle and litle, that he began to forget that whiche appertained to the ornament and honour of his Empire, leauing the whole administration of publique causes to his Baschats, he him selfe being so negligent, as he reposed in them all matters concerning the state of the Empire. During this disorder, the vulgar people began secretly to grudge, as well for the confusion and disorder of the Empire, as for the il gouernment of the same, (and specially, because the Baschats corrupted with auarice imployed them selues to their particuler profite, and to inriche them selues with the spoile of the people.) The Ianissaries on the other side, a warlike people, and brought vp in continuall exercise of Armes, began with open voyce, to detracte and slaunder their lorde, commonlie complaining howe hee consumed his life like an effeminate persone, without inferring or doyng anye profite to the Empire. To bee shorte, the matter came to suche desolation, as it might rather haue bene called a sedition then a murmure: and yet there was none so hardie as durst attempte to declare the same to the Emperour, knowing him to be of nature terrible, cruell, and rigorous, that with a woorde woulde put him to death that went about to withdrawe him from his desire. Therewithall he was so dronke with the beautie of the Greeke, that the leste matter, wherewith they might geue occasion to withdrawe him from his negligent life, was enough to driue him into rage and furie. This poore Emperour was so bewitched, as not onely hee consumed dayes and nightes with her, but he burned with continual ielousie, whose beautie was so liuelie painted in the inward partes of his hart and minde, that he remained thus ouerwhelmed in beastly pleasure, euery man in particuler and all in generall conspired against him, with one determinate minde, to yelde no more obedience vnto him in time to come, and purposed to chose some Emperour, that were more marciall and warlike, 192 through whose succour and counsaile they might not onely conserue the thinges gotten, but also amplifie the boundes and limites of their Empire. Mustapha which was brought vp with the Emperour, a gentle personage, franke of talke, and so nere to his maiestie that he might go into his chamber, although the Greeke was present: when he perceiued conuenient time, suche as he desired to haue, repaired to the Emperour vpon a daye, who liking well his deuises, walked with him alone in his Gardeine, to whom after he had made great reuerence, according to their custome, he sayde: “My souereigne lorde and maister, if I might speake freely, without seruile feare, which staieth mee, or if the terrour of your displeasure might not abash me, I would willingly declare vnto your maiestie that which concerneth not onely your securitie and saulfegarde, but (which is more) the saulfetie of your whole Empire.” Whom Mahomet aunswered with merie countenance in these wordes. “Cast away such colde feare as staieth thee, and speake hardly thy minde: Shewe me what it is that toucheth me.” “I doubt, and it shall please your maiestie, leste I shall seeme ouer presumptuous and rashe, if I discouer the secretes of my hart: but our auncient education, the dutie of my conscience, with the experience that you haue alwayes had of my fidelitie, haue so much forced mee, as being no longer able to rule my selfe, (I am constrained, by what vertuous prouocation I know not) to manifest thinges vnto you, that both time and necessitye will make you to thincke them good and necessarie: althoughe (it may so be) that now your eyes be so bounde vppe, in the vaile of your disordinate affection, that you cannot digeste, or take the same in good part. The life (my lorde) which you haue ledde, sithens the taking of Constantinople, and the excessiue pleasures wherin you haue bin plunged these three yeares, is occassion that not onely your Souldiours and the rest of your popular people, but the most faithful Lords of your Empire, do murmure, conspire, and coniure against you. And pardon me (my lord) if I speake so vnreuerently, in thinges touching your preseruation. For there is no man but doth very much marueile of this great and newe alteration that appeareth in you, which doth so abase you, and maketh you to degenerate from your auncient generositie and valiaunce. Your owne selfe hath giuen 193 ouer your selfe to be a spoile and praye to a simple woman: that you wholie depend vpon her flatteries and allurementes: reason or counsaile can take no place in your passionate and afflicted hart. But I humblie beseech your maiestie to enter a little into your selfe, and make a suruey of your life, that you haue ledde these three yeares paste. The glory of your auncestours and predecessours, acquired and wonne by sheading of so much bloud, kepte by so great prudence, conserued by so happy counsell, haue they no representation, or shew before your face? The remembraunce of theyr memorable victories, doth it not touche the depthe of your conscience? The magnanimitie and valiaunce whereby they be immortalized, and their fame regestred throughe the whole world, is it extinguished in you? Their Trophees and Monumentes grauen and aduaunced to all the corners of the earth, be they throwen downe and defaced from the siege of your remembraunce? But where is now the ardent desire which boiled in you from your infancie, to make Italie tributarie vnto you, and to cause your selfe to be crowned at Rome, Emperour aswel of Thorient, as of the Occidente? This is not the way to amplifie and inlarge your Empire, but rather to restraine and diminish the same. This is not the meane to preserue it, but to dispoile it and make it lesse. If Ottoman the first tronke or stocke of your gentle familye and kinred, had thus giuen himselfe to be corrupted in idlenes, you had not now inherited the noble kingdom of Greece, nor gouerned the countries of Galatia and Bithinia, and many other prouinces, which enuironne the greate sea. Semblablie his sonne Orcan (a liuely Image of his father and a folower of his valiaunt factes) had not triumphed ouer Licaonia, Phrigia, Caria, nor dilated the boundes of his Empyre to Hellesponte. What shall I speake of Amurates, the successour of Orcan, who was the first that inuaded Europa, conquered Thracia, Syria, Rafia and Bulgaria? And Baiazet likewyse, did not he cut of the head of the greate Tamburlain, which called himselfe the scourge of God, and brought into the field foure hundred thousande Scithians a horsebacke, and sixe hundred thousande footmen? Shall I passe ouer with silence the vertuous exploites of your grandfather Mahomet, who conquered Macedonia and made the Countries to feele the edge of his sword, 194 euen to the sea Ionicum, lettinge passe many wonderfull expeditions and iourneis by him made against the Lidians and Scicilians? But nowe I cannot reuiue the memorie of your father Amurate, but to my great sorow and griefe, who by the space of XL. yeres made the Sea and earth to tremble and quake, and with the furie of his stronge hand vsed such cruell reuengment ouer the Grekes, that the memorie of the woundes do remaine at this present, euen to the mountaines of Thomao and Pindus: he subiugated the Phocians, made tributarie Athenes, Beotia, Aetolia, Caramania, and all the barbarous nations, from Morea to the straits of Corinthe. What neede I here to bring in the cruel battell that he fought with the Emperour Sigismunde and Philip Duke of Burgundia wherin he ouerthrew the whole force of the Christians, toke the Emperour prisoner, and the Duke of Burgundie also, whom he sent to Andrionopolis? or to remember other fierce armies which he sent into Hungarie, wherof your maiesty is a faithfull witnes, your selfe being stil there in your owne person. Iudge, then, my Lord, what diligence and intollerable trauell he vsed in his manifolde glorious enterprises and famous victories. Do you thincke that if hee had bin idle in his palace, amonges the Ladyes, you had inherited your Empyre, or had nowe bin Lord of so many excellent Prouinces: which he is not sufficient to rule, that cannot prouide to confirme and establish the same. There be many of your subiectes and vassals at this day, which do obey and honour your maiestie (more for feare then good loue they beare you) that woulde rebell against you, if Fortune would turne her backe. The Christians of longtime (as you know) haue sworne your ruine and destruction. Moreouer they say that their high bishop the pope of Rome hath conuocated all his prelates to vnitie, and reconciled the Princes and Monarches of Christendome together, to ouer run you, and to take the Scepter out of your hands, and to dispoile you of your Empire. But what know we whither they wil ioyne their force with the power of the Persian Sophi, your capital enemie, or with the Souldan or Aegipt, your auncient aduersary: which if they come to passe (as God forbid) your Empire wilbe consumed. Gather your wits then together from henceforth my Lord, and call againe reason, which so many yeres you haue banished 195 from you. Awake out of the deepe sleepe which hath sealed vp your eyes: imitate and folow the trade of your auncestors, which euer loued better one day of honour then a hundred liuing yeares of shame and reproch. Attend to the gouernment of your Empire: leaue of this effeminate life; receiue againe the smell of your generosity and vertue: and if you cannot at one time cutte of and remoue all that amorous heate which vndermineth so your hart, moderate the same by litle and litle, and giue some hope to your people, which thincke you to be vtterlye loste and desperate of recouerie. Or if so be the Greeke do delighte you so much, who shall let you to carye her with you in all your iourneis and expeditions? Why cannot you together both enioy her beauty and vse the practise of armes? Mee thincke that your pleasure shalbe greater after you haue wonne some victory, and subdued some countrye to inioye her in your armes, then to remaine in a house with eternal infamie and continuall grudging of your subiectes. But proue I pray you, to separate your selfe certaine dayes from her and you shall certainly iudge, how farre more passing the pleasures be so differred, then those that be daily vsed. Yet one thinge more, and it please your Maiestie, there resteth to be saide, which is, that all the victories of your progenitours, or the conquestes which your selfe hath made be to small purpose, if you doe not keepe them and increase them, the keeping of a thing gotten being of no lesse glory and praise then the conquest. Be now then a conquerour of your selfe, humblie beseching your Maiestie, that if I haue spoken any thing disagreable to your minde, according to your wonted clemencie to pardon the same, and to impute the faulte to my bounden duty and the care that I haue of your honour and safetye.” Mahomet after he had heard the longe discourse of his slaue, stoode as still as a blocke, and fixing his eyes vppon the grounde, with sodaine chaunge of colour, declared by outward signes, the agitations and vnquietnes of his minde in such wise, as the poore slaue Mustapha, seing in him those alterations, was in doubt of his life: whose woords so pricked the Emperour’s harte, that he knew not what to do, or whereupon to be resolued, and feeling his conscience troubled with a furious battel: knowing euidentlye 196 that Mustapha had spoken the truth, and that he vttered the same like a trustie seruaunt to his maister. But on the other side the beautie of the Greeke, was still before his eyes, and the minde he had to abandon her, gaue him suche alarme, that he seemed at that instante as though his hart had been torne out of his belly. And thus moued with diuers tempestes, and disquieted with sundry thoughtes, hauing his eyes inflamed with great rage and furie, he said vnto him. “Althoughe thou hast spoken vnreuerently inough, yet our education together, and the fidelitie that I haue proued in thee in time paste, shalbe thy pardon for this time. To the purpose. Before the Sunne doth compasse the Zodiacke, I will let it be knowen to thee and other, what puissaunce and power I haue ouer my selfe: whether I am able to bridle mine affection or not. Take order in the meane time that all my noble men, the Baschats and the principall of my men of warre, be assembled together to morowe, in the middes of the greate halle of my palace.” This determination finished, the Emperour went into the Greeke, with whom he reioysed all that day and night, and made more of her than euer he did before. And the more to flatter her, he dined with her, and commaunded that after dinner, she should adorne herselfe with her most precious Iewels, and decke her with the costliest apparell shee had. Whereunto the poore wenche obeied, not knowinge that it was her funeral garmentes. On the other side, Mustapha vncertaine of the Emperour’s minde, at the houre appointed caused all the nobilitie to be assembled in the hall, euerye of theym marueilinge what moued the Emperour so to do, sithens he had so long time shut vp himselfe, without shewing his person abrode. Being thus assembled, and euerye man talking diuerslye of this matter, accordinge as their affection serued: beholde, the Emperour entred the hall, leading the Greeke by the hand, who being adorned otherwise then she was wont to be, was accompanied and garnished with beautie, so rare and excellent as she resembled rather an heauenly Goddesse then a humaine creature. The Turke being come into the hall, after that the Lords had made their reuerence, according to their wonted maner, he holding still the faire Greeke by the left hande, and stoode still in the middest of the same, loking furiously round 197 about him, he said vnto them. “So farre as I vnderstand, all ye do mutine and grudge, because I (being vanquished with Loue) cannot be deuided nor yet content my selfe day nor night, from the presence of this Greeke. But I do know none of you all so continente and chaste in Loue, that if hee had in possession a thing so rare and precious, so amiable, indowed with beautie so excellent, but before he could forget her, and giue her ouer, hee would three times be well aduised. What say you to the matter? Euery of you shall haue free liberty franckly to tel me your minde.” But they rapt with an incredible admiration, to see so faire a thing, sayde that he had with greate reason passed his time wyth her. Wherunto the barbarous cruel Prince aunsweared. “Well, now then I will make you to vnderstand, that there is no earthlie thing that can bind vp, or captiuate my sences so much, but that from henceforth I will folow the glorie of mine auncestours, and immitate the valiaunce of the Ottomans, which is so fixed in my breaste as nothinge but death is able to blotte it out of my remembraunce.” Those wordes finished, incontinently with one of his handes, hee catched the Greeke by the heare of the head, and with his other hand he drew out his falchion from his side, and folding his handes about her golden lockes, at one blow hee strake of her head, to the great terrour of them all. When he had so done, he said vnto them: “Now ye know, whether your Emperour is able to represse and bridle his affections or not?” Within a while after, meaninge to discharge the rest of his cholere, he addressed a Campe of foure score, or an hundred thousand men: with whom percing Bousline, he besieged Belgrade, where Fortune was so contrary vnto him, that he was put to flight, and loste there a notable battaile against the Cristians, vnder the conduct of Iohn Huniades, surnamed le Blanck, who was father of the worthie and glorious king Mathie Coruin.
If you ever want to test and see what the arrows of love are made of and what kind of effects they have on those who use them, I’m sure you’ll feel some sympathy when you learn about the bestial cruelty of a heartless lover towards his lady. The person I will tell you about is Mahomet, not the false prophet, but the great grandfather of Soliman Otiman, the Emperor of the Turks, who ruled at that time. He is the one who, to the shame and everlasting infamy of all Christian kings of his era, conquered Constantinople and took the Eastern Empire from Constantine, a Christian emperor, in the year 1453. After Mahomet achieved such a significant victory at Constantinople, among the spoils of that rich city was found a Greek maiden of such rare and exceptional beauty that she captivated the gaze of everyone who saw her, as if she were something miraculous. Her name was Hyerenee, and she was around sixteen or seventeen years old. A captain, hoping to please his lord, presented her as a jewel he thought most acceptable to him above all else in the world. The young and excessively indulgent Emperor Mahomet, after casting his eyes upon the maiden and engraving her beauty into his heart, ordered that she be kept for him, hoping that once the turmoil of war was over, he could spend some suitable time with her. When the chaos settled and the affairs of the Empire were in order, remembering the beauty of Hyerenee that had made a breach into his heart, he commanded that she be brought to him. After observing her as he pleased, he felt himself so overwhelmed by a new passion that he could think of nothing else but to play and flirt with her. His spirits were fully captured by love to the point that he couldn't find any rest, day or night. He surrendered himself completely to his beloved Hyerenee, finding contentment only in what he received from her. This passionate obsession lasted three continuous years, growing stronger little by little, causing him to forget what pertained to the ornament and honor of his Empire. He left the entire administration of public affairs to his Baschats, becoming so negligent that he entrusted all matters concerning the state of the Empire to them. During this disorder, the common people began to secretly grumble, not just about the confusion and disarray of the Empire but also about its poor governance—especially because the corrupt Baschats focused on their personal gain, enriching themselves at the expense of the people. On the other side, the Janissaries, a warrior class trained in constant military exercise, began openly to criticize and slander their lord, commonly complaining that he spent his life like an effeminate person, failing to generate any profit for the Empire. To cut a long story short, the situation reached such desperation that it could be called a revolt rather than just a murmur. Yet there was none so brave as to dare to tell the Emperor, knowing him to be naturally terrible, cruel, and harsh, someone who would easily have anyone executed for trying to redirect him from his desires. He was so intoxicated by the beauty of the Greek maiden that even the slightest thing suggesting a change from his indulgent life was enough to send him into rage and fury. This poor Emperor was so bewitched that he not only spent day and night with her but was also consumed by perpetual jealousy, her beauty painted vividly in his heart and mind. As a result, he remained overwhelmed in bestial pleasure, with everyone conspiring against him, resolved to no longer obey him in the future and planning to choose a more martial and warlike Emperor, someone whose guidance and counsel could not only preserve what they had gained but also expand the boundaries of their Empire. Mustapha, who had been raised with the Emperor, a gentle character, frank in conversation, and so close to his majesty that he could enter his chamber even with the Greek present, saw the right moment he desired and approached the Emperor one day. After showing great respect, according to their custom, he said, “My sovereign lord and master, if I may speak freely, without servile fear that holds me back, or if the terror of your displeasure won’t intimidate me, I would willingly share with your majesty what concerns not only your safety and security but, more importantly, the safety of your entire Empire.” To this, Mahomet replied with a cheerful tone, “Cast aside such cold fear that holds you back and speak your mind honestly: Tell me what touches me.” “I hesitate, and I hope your majesty will forgive me lest I seem overly presumptuous and rash to disclose the secrets of my heart. But our long-standing education, my sense of duty, and the trust you have always had in my loyalty have compelled me, as I can no longer contain myself, to reveal things to you that both time and necessity will make you think are good and necessary, although it may be that your eyes are so blinded at this moment by the veil of your disordered affection that you cannot receive it well. The life, my lord, that you have led since the capture of Constantinople, along with the excessive pleasures into which you have been plunged these past three years, is the cause of murmuring and conspiracy, not just among your Soldiers and the general populace, but even among your most faithful lords in your Empire. And forgive me, my lord, for speaking so irreverently about matters concerning your preservation. For there is no one who does not marvel greatly at this significant and new change in you, which degrades you and makes you stray from your ancient generosity and bravery. You have surrendered yourself to be a prey to a simple woman: you wholly rely on her flattery and charm, and reason or counsel has no power in your passionate and disturbed heart. I humbly beseech your majesty to take a moment to reflect on your life over the past three years. Does not the glory of your ancestors, acquired by shedding so much blood, upheld by great prudence, and maintained through wise counsel, have any representation before your eyes? Does the memory of their remarkable victories not touch the depths of your conscience? Is the bravery that immortalizes them and their fame registered throughout the whole world extinguished within you? Are their trophies and monuments engraved and erected in all corners of the earth, thrown down and defaced from the sight of your memory? But where is now the burning desire that stirred in you from your infancy to make Italy tribute to you and to have yourself crowned in Rome, Emperor of both the East and the West? This is not the way to amplify and enlarge your Empire but rather to restrain and diminish it. This is not the means to preserve it but to plunder it and make it smaller. If Ottoman, the first trunk or stock of your noble family, had thus given himself over to corruption in idleness, you would not now have inherited the noble kingdom of Greece, nor governed the regions of Galatia and Bithynia, and many other provinces surrounding the great sea. Similarly, his son Orcan, a living image of his father and a follower of his brave deeds, would not have triumphed over Lycaonia, Phrygia, or Caria, nor expanded the bounds of his Empire to Hellespont. What shall I say of Amurates, the successor of Orcan, who was the first to invade Europe and conquered Thrace, Syria, Rafia, and Bulgaria? And Bayezid likewise, did not he cut off the head of the great Tamerlane, who called himself the scourge of God and brought to the field four hundred thousand mounted Scythians and six hundred thousand infantry? Shall I skip over the virtuous exploits of your grandfather Mahomet, who conquered Macedonia and made the regions feel the edge of his sword, even to the Ionian sea, letting many wonderful expeditions and journeys he made against the Lydians and Sicilians pass by unnoticed? But now, I cannot revive the memory of your father Amurate except with great sorrow, who for the space of forty years made sea and land tremble and quake. He avenged himself so cruelly against the Greeks that the memory of the wounds remains to this day, even on the mountains of Thomao and Pindus: he subdued the Phocians, made Athens, Boeotia, Aetolia, Caramania, and all the barbarous nations from Morea to the straits of Corinth tributaries. What needs to be said about the brutal battle he fought with Emperor Sigismund and Philip Duke of Burgundy, in which he overthrew the entire Christian force, captured the Emperor and the Duke of Burgundy as well, whom he sent to Adrianople? Or shall I bring to mind other fierce armies he sent into Hungary, of which your majesty is a faithful witness, having been there in your own person? Judge then, my Lord, how diligent and tirelessly he labored in his many glorious endeavors and famous victories. Do you think that if he had been idle in his palace among the ladies, you would have inherited your Empire or would now be lord over so many excellent provinces that he could not sufficiently rule, who cannot provide to confirm and establish them? There are many of your subjects and vassals today who obey and honor your majesty (more out of fear than genuine love) who would rebel against you if Fortune were to turn against you. The Christians have long sworn your ruin and destruction. Furthermore, they claim that their high bishop, the pope of Rome, has called all his prelates to unity and reconciled the kings and monarchs of Christendom to invade you and take the Scepter from your hands, plundering you of your Empire. But who knows whether they will ally themselves with the Persian Sophi, your chief enemy, or with the Sultan of Egypt, your ancient adversary? If that comes to pass, God forbid, your Empire will be consumed. So, gather your wits from now on, my Lord, and call back reason, which you have banished for so many years. Awaken from the deep sleep that has sealed your eyes: imitate and follow the paths of your ancestors, who always preferred one day of honor to a hundred years of shame and reproach. Attend to the governance of your Empire: put aside this effeminate lifestyle; rekindle the sense of your generosity and virtue: and if you cannot cut off and remove all that passionate heat undermining your heart at once, moderate it little by little, and give some hope to your people, who think you utterly lost and hopeless of recovery. Or if the Greek delights you so much, who would stop you from taking her with you on all your journeys and expeditions? Why can't you both enjoy her beauty and practice your military arts? It seems to me that your pleasure would be greater after winning some victories and subduing some territory to enjoy her in your arms, than remaining in a house with eternal disgrace and the ongoing grievances of your subjects. But please try to stay away from her for a few days, and you'll see just how much greater the pleasures become when they're delayed, compared to those that are had daily. Yet one more thing remains to be said if it pleases your majesty: all the victories of your ancestors, or the conquests you have made, are of little use if you do not maintain and increase them; preserving what has been gained is of no less glory and praise than the conquest itself. So be a conqueror of yourself, humbly beseeching your majesty that if I have spoken anything unsatisfactory, according to your customary clemency, to forgive me and to attribute the fault to my duty and the care I have for your honor and safety.” After Mahomet heard the long speech of his slave, he stood still as a statue, fixing his eyes on the ground, with a sudden change of color that clearly displayed the agitation and restlessness of his mind, to the point that poor Mustapha, seeing these changes in him, doubted for his life. The words he spoke pierced the Emperor’s heart so deeply that he didn’t know what to do or how to resolve himself, experiencing a furious battle within his conscience: he clearly knew that Mustapha had spoken the truth and that he spoke them like a loyal servant to his master. But on the other hand, the beauty of the Greek maiden danced before his eyes, and the thought of abandoning her caused him such agitation that he felt at that moment as if his heart had been ripped out of his belly. Moved by diverse tempests and troubled by various thoughts, with eyes inflamed by great rage, he said to him, “Although you have spoken indiscreetly enough, yet our shared upbringing and the loyalty I have known in you in the past will be your pardon for now. To the point: Before the sun completes the zodiac, I will let it be known to you and others what power and strength I have over myself: whether I am able to restrain my affections or not. In the meantime, see to it that all my nobles, the Baschats and the principal men of war, are assembled tomorrow in the middle of the great hall of my palace.” With that determination made, the Emperor went to the Greek, spending all that day and night with her, treating her with even more affection than before. To flatter her further, he dined with her and commanded that after dinner, she should adorn herself with her most precious jewels and dress in the finest clothes she had. The poor girl complied, unaware that it was her funeral garments. Meanwhile, Mustapha, uncertain of the Emperor’s intentions, gathered all the nobility in the hall at the appointed time, each wondering what could prompt the Emperor to summon them after so long of being shut away without showing himself. Once gathered, with everyone discussing the matter based on their feelings, behold, the Emperor entered the hall, leading the Greek by the hand, who was adorned in a way she was not accustomed to and looked so marbled by beauty that she resembled more a heavenly goddess than a human being. When the Turk entered the hall, after the Lords paid their respects in their usual manner, he still held the beautiful Greek by the left hand and stood in the middle of the hall, looking around him furiously. He spoke to them, “As far as I understand, you all grumble and complain because I, overrun by love, cannot separate myself nor find contentment, day or night, apart from the presence of this Greek. But I know none of you here to be so constant and chaste in love that if you possessed something as rare and precious, as charming and endowed with beauty so exceptional, you wouldn’t think thrice before you could forget her and let her go. What is your take on this matter? Each of you shall have the freedom to frankly express your thoughts.” But they, captivated by an incredible admiration to see such a beautiful sight, said that he had with great reason spent his time with her. To which the barbarous and cruel Prince replied, “Well, now you will understand that there is no earthly thing that can bind or captivate my senses so much that from this point forward I will follow the glory of my ancestors and imitate the bravery of the Ottomans, which is so fixed in my heart that nothing but death can erase it from my memory.” His words finished, he quickly seized the Greek by her hair with one hand, drew his sword with the other, and, wrapping his hands around her golden locks, in one swift blow he struck off her head, causing great terror among all. Having done this, he said to them, “Now you know whether your Emperor is capable of repressing and managing his affections or not?” Soon after, intending to discharge the rest of his wrath, he mustered an army of eighty to a hundred thousand men, with whom, piercing Bousline, he besieged Belgrade, where Fortune turned against him, leading him to defeat and losing a significant battle against the Christians, under the command of John Hunyadi, nicknamed “the White,” who was the father of the worthy and glorious King Matthias Corvinus.
THE FORTY-FIRST NOUELL.
A Ladie falslie accused of adultrie, was condempned to be deuoured of Lions: the maner of her deliuerie, and how (her innocencie being knowen) her accuser felt the paines for her prepared.
A lady falsely accused of adultery was condemned to be devoured by lions. The way she was delivered, and how her accuser faced the consequences once her innocence was revealed.
In the countrie of Aquitane, there was sometime a Lord, whose lands and lordships laye betweene Lismosine and Poictou, and for the antiquitye of his house was renowmed both for bloude and wealth, amonges the chiefe of all the Countrie. Being allied in kindred wyth the best, hee had full accesse and fauour as well in the houses of the aunciente Dukes of Guienne, and Countes of Poictou, as in the Royall Courtes of the French kinges. This Lorde (whom Bandello the aucthour of this history affirmeth to be Signor de la Rocca Soarda, but the translatour and augmentor of the same in French called Francois de Belle Forest, leaueth out his name, for good respect as he alleageth) kept a great Court and liberal household, and singularlie delighted (after the maner of the French nobilitie) in huntinge and hawking. His house also was had in greater admiracion (the rudenes and ignoraunce of that tyme was such) because he had gotten beastes of straunge countries, cheflie Lions, wherein he had great pleasure aswell for the rarenesse of that beast in Fraunce, as for a certain generositie that he knew to be in the same, which resembled the magnanimitie and courage of noble men, whose minds and spirites doe not esteeme thinges that be vaine and cannot be affraide in doing of deedes, whereunto honour is offred for reward. This Lord maried a Ladie, the doughter of one of his neighbours, a woman worthie for such a husbande: whose beautie was so rare as there was none comparable vnto her: which the more increased for that shee was indued with perfite vertue, and furnished with so good behauiour as right good mindes and wittes should be occupied, naie rather put to their shiftes to decide, whether gifte were greatest, either the exquisite workemanshippe of her excelling beautie, or whether nature had imploied al her cunning, to frame 199 a body to appeare before men miraculous, or els her honest porte, her good grace, curtesie and graue mildnes, accompanied with vertue, not vulgare or common to many men, which made this Ladie to shine like the glisteringe Planet of Mars, amonges other the wanderinge starres. In such wife as the very sauage and brute were forced with splendent fame, to praise her to be such a woman whose equall they neuer knew to be in all their Countrie, who made the house of her husband glorious and him a contented man, to beholde such a starre to lie by his side, which sufficed to illustrate and beautifie a whole countrie by her onely presence, and to nobilitate a race, althoughe the bloud of auncestours did faile, for the accomplishmente of their perfection. Such is the great force of vertue which not onely did aduaunce her aboue other creatures, but also did constraine the enuious to haue her in admiration. But these admiratours and praisers of vertue, doe not vse like indeuour for the merites of vertue, rather they imploie their onely industrie to gather some profite of vertue and then (followinge the nature of the dogge) they retourne to their vomite, and vomite forth their venime hidden in their serpent’s breast. As it came to passe and was euident in a certaine man, that was Stewarde of this nobleman’s house (truly a very happye house, as well for the honest loue betwene the Lord and the Lady, as for the vertue and clemency wherewith both the one and the other were accompanied) who in the beginninge, as honestie and dutie did require, was a louer of good maners and commendable demeanour of his Lady and maistresse, afterwardes (forgetting the fidelitie which he did owe vnto his Lorde, the nobilitie of his predecessours, and the perill of his owne life) began to loue her and serue her in harte, and to wishe for the fairest thing which outwardlye did appeare to be in her, where he oughte not so much as with the loke of his eye, to giue any atteint of liking, for the reuerence of him which was the right owner and iuste possessor of the same. This maister foole then, not measuring his forces, and lesse followinge the instincte of reason, became so amourous of his Madame, as continually he imagined by what meanes he mighte giue her to understand the paines and languores wherein he liued for the loue of her. But (alas) these 200 deuises vanished, like a litle dispersed cloude at the rysinge of the Sunne: for thinking vppon the vertue of his maistresse, his desires were soner remoued from his hart, then he was able to impresse them in the seat of his iudgement, therby to take anye certaine assuraunce. Notwithstandinge his heade ceased not to builde Castels in the ayre, and made a promise to himselfe to enjoye her whom he worshipped in his hart. For he toke such paynes by his humble seruice, that in the ende he acquired some part of his Laydes good grace and fauour. And for that he durste not be so bolde to manifest vnto her the vehemence of his griefe, he was contented a long time to shew a counterfaict ioy, which raised vnto him a liuely spring of sorowes and displeasures, which ordinarily did frette and boyle his minde so muche: as the force of his weping for vaine hope, was able to suffocate the remnant of life, that rested in his tormented hart, which caused certaine litle brokes of teares to streame downe, assailing the minde of this foolishe Louer. This faire and chaste Ladie was so resolued in the loue of her husbande, that she toke no regarde of the countenaunces and foolishe fashiones of this maister Louer. Who seing his mishappe to growe to dispaire, and from thence foorthe no remedie, that whether by reioyse, well hoping of better lucke, or for sodaine and miserable death, he determined to proue Fortune: and to see if the water of his hope coulde finde any passage, stedfastlye determined that if he were throwen downe hedlong into the bottome of Refusal, and contempned for his seruice, not to retire againe, but rather further to plondge for the accelerating of the ruine of him self, and his desires: for he thought it impossible that his harte could indure more intollerable heate of that invisible fier, then it had felt alreadie, if he founde no meanes for the smoke to haue some vent and issue. For whiche consideration, cleane besides him selfe, bewitched with foolish Loue, like a beast throughly transformed into a thing, that had no sense of a a reasonable man (such as they be accustomably, that be inrolled in the muster bookes of Venus’ sonne) was purposed to open to the Ladie (when occasion serued) both the euill, and also the griefe that he susteined in bearing towarde her, so great and extreme affection. Behold here one of the effects of humane follie: this 201 was the firste acte of the Tragedie, wherein loue maketh this brainlesse man to playe the first and principall parte vpon the Stage. This poore gentleman (otherwyse a good seruaunt, and carefull for the profite and honoure of his maister) is nowe so voyde of him selfe and blinde in vnderstanding as hee maketh no conscience to assaile her (to defraude her of her greatest vertue) the simple name of whom ought to haue made him tremble for feare, and to blushe for shame, rather then for her beautie sake and naturall curtesie, to dispoyle her of her honestie, and to attempte a thing vncertaine to winne and also more daungerous to practise. Nowe whiles he liued in the attemte of his hoped occasion, it chaunced that the Lady (thinking no malice at all) began to beholde the Stewarde with a better eie and looke more familier, then any of the gentlemen and domesticall seruauntes of the house, as well for the painted honestie of this Galant, as to se him so prompte and readie to obey her: and therefore vpon a daye as she walked in the Gallerie she called him vnto her, and verie familierly communicated certaine affaires touching the profite of the house. He that marched not but vpon one foote, and burned with Loue, and whose harte leapte for ioye, and daunced for gladnesse, thought that he had nowe obteined the toppe of his felicitie, and the whole effect of his desire: sodainly he cast away the dispaire of his former conceiptes, obiecting him selfe to the daunger wherin he was to bee ouerwhelmed, if the Ladie accepted not his request with good digestion. In the end, recouering force, he discoursed in minde this wicked opinion, wherwith foolish and wilfull fleshly louers doe blason and displaye the honour and chastitie of Ladies, when they make their vaunte that there is no woman, be she neuer so chaste, continente, or honest, but in the ende yeldeth, if she be throughly pursued. O, the wordes and opinion of a beast, rather then of a man knowing vertue. Is the nomber of chaste women so diminished that their renowme at this daye is like a Boate in the middes of some tempestious sea, whereunto the mariners do repaire to saue them selues? It is the only vertue of Ladies which doeth constraine them to vomite foorthe their poyson, when they see them selues deceiued, of their fonde and vncomely demaundes. A man shall neuer heare those 202 woordes precede, but from the mouthes of the moste lasciuious, which delight in nothing els, but to corrupte the good names of Ladies, afterward to make them ridiculous to the worlde. Retourne we then to our purpose, this valiaunt souldier of loue, willing to geue the first onset vpon his swete enemie, began to waxe pale and to tremble like the Reede blowen with the wynde, and knoweth not in what part, or by what meanes, to bestowe the firste strokes of his assault. At length with foltring tongue and trembling voyce, he speaketh to his Ladie in this wyse. “Alas, madame, how happie were the course of our transitorie life, if the common passions received no increase of troubles, by newe and diuers accidents, which seme to take roote in vs, for the very great diminution of that libertie, which euery man doth studie so much to conserue. But truly that studie is vain, and the paine thereof vnprofitablie bestowed: for he inforceth him selfe to liue free from passion, which in the middes of his inforcement, feeleth him selfe to be violently constrained, and seeth the taking away of his libertie, to be a certaine impeachemente, whiche thereunto hee would geue. Alacke, I haue proued that mischiefe, and am yet in the greatest excesse and pangues of my disease. I fele (alas) a diuersitie of anguishes, and a sea of troubles, which tormente my minde, and yet I dare not discouer the cause, seing that the thing, which is the fountaine of my grief, to be of suche desert as my seruice paste, and all that is to come, is not able to geue the proofe, if one speciall grace and fauour, do not inlarge, the litle power that is in mee, to counteruaile the greatnesse, and perfection of that which thus doth variat and alter bothe my thoughtes and passions. Pardon mee (madame) if I doe speake obscurelye, for the confusion of my minde maketh my woordes correspondent to the qualitie of the same. Notwithstanding I wyll not kepe silente from you that whiche I doe suffer, and muche lesse dissemble what passion I indure, beyng assured for your vertue and gentlenes, that you (moued with compassion) will succour me so muche as shall lie in you, for preseruacion of the life of him that is the best and most obedient seruaunt amonges them all that do you humble seruice.” The Lady which neuer thought of the wickednesse which this insensate man began to imagine, aunswered him verye curteously: 203 “I am sorie trulye for your mishap, and do marueile what should be the effect of that passion which as you say, you feele with such dimunicion of that which is perfect and accomplished in you: for I do see no cause that ought to moue you to so straunge infirmitie, whereof you told mee, and wherewith I had alreadie found fault although you had said nothing. I would to God I knew which way to helpe you, aswel for my lord my husbandes sake, whoe I am sure doth beare you good will, as for the honestie which hetherto I haue knowen to be in you, wherein I thincke all other resembling you, for vertue and good conditions doe deserue that accompt and consideration.” He that thought her already to be taken in his nettes, seing so faire a waye open and cleare, to disclose that which he had kept couerte so long, in the depth of his hart, aunsweared. “Ah, madame, are ye ignoraunte of the forces of Loue, and how much his assaultes can debilitate the liuelihoode of the bodies and spirites of men? Knowe ye not that he is blinde and naked, not caring whither hee goeth; manifesting himselfe there, wher occasion is offred? Alas, madame, if you haue not pitie vppon mee, and doe not regard that, which I do suffer for the loue of you, I know not how I am able to auoyde death, which will approche so sone to cutte of, and abridge my yeares, as I shall vnderstande a refusall of that which the extreme Loue I beare you (madame) forceth mee to require: which is to receiue a new seruice of your auncient and faithfull seruiture: who inflamed by the brighte beames of your diuine face, knoweth not how to chaunge his affection, and much lesse to receiue helpe, but of the place where hee receiued the pricke. Excuse (madame I beseech you) my rashnesse, and pardon my follie: accuse rather, either your celestiall beautie, or els that tyrant Loue who hath wounded me so luckelie, as I esteme mine euill fortunate, and my wounde happie: sithe by his meane my thoughtes and cogitations doe onelye tende to do you seruice, and to loue you in mine hart, which is the Phenix of the fairest and moste curteous Ladies within all our Prouince. Alas, that excellencie, which thus maketh me your seruaunt shall one daye be my ruine, if by your good grace (speaking it with weaping teares) you doe not fauour him, which liueth not, but to obey you, and which 204 lesing your good grace, will attempte to depriue him selfe of life, which being depriued through your crueltie, will go to complaine of his bolde attempt, and also of your rigor amonges the ghostes and shadowes of them that bee alreadie dead for like occassion.” The chaste Ladie was so wrapt of wittes for the straungenes of the case, and for the griefe whiche she concerned, to see the vnshamefast hardinesse of the varlette, as she could not tell how to make him aunswere: but in the ende breaking silence, and fetching a great sighe from the bottome of her harte, her face stayned with a freshe Vermilion rudde, which beautified her colour, by reason of disdaine conceiued against this impudent Orator, she aunswered him verie seuerely. “O God, who would haue thought, that from a hart nobly brought vp, and deriued from an honourable race, a vilanie so greate could haue taken roote and spring vp with such detestable fruite? What maister Stewarde? have ye forgotten the dutie of a seruaunt towarde his Lorde and maister? Haue ye forgotten I saye, the dutie of a vertuous gentleman, wel nourished and trayned vp towarde suche and so great a ladie as I am? Ah, Thefe and Traitour! Is this the venime which thou kepest so couert and secrete, vnder the swetenesse of thy counterfaicte vertue? A vaunte varlet, a vaunt: goe vtter thy stuffe to them that be like thy self, whose honour and honestie is so farre spent, as thy loialtie is light and vayn. For if I heare thee speake any more of these follies be assured that I wil mortifie that raging flame, which burneth thy light beleuing harte, and wil make thee feele by effecte what manner of death that is, wherein thou reposest the reste of thy trauell.” As this deceiued Oratour was framing his excuse, and about to moderate the iust wrath of his Ladie, displeased vpon good occasion, she not able to abyde any more talke, sayde further. “And what signes of dishonestie haste thou seen in mee, that moue thee to perswade a thing so wicked, and vncomely for mine estate: yea and so preiudiciall to me, to my frendes, and the house of thy maister, my Lorde and spouse? I can not tell what it is that letteth me, from causing thee to be caste foorthe amonges the Lions (cruell and capitall enemies of adulterie, amonges themselues) sithe thy pretence is, by violating my chastitie to dishonour the house, whereunto thou owest no 205 lesse, then al the aduancements thou hast: from the taste whereof thou hast abandoned Vertue, the best thing wherwith thou were affected. Auoyde nowe, therefore, let me heare no more of this, vppon paine of thy life, otherwyse thou shalt feele the rewarde of thy temerite, and vnderstande the bitternesse of the litle pleasure, whiche I haue conceiued of thy follies.” So the good Ladie held her peace, reseruing in her harte, that whiche should bee her helpe in time and place: howbeit she sayde nothing hereof vnto her husbande, aswell for raising offence or slaunder, as for prouoking him against him whiche susteined the punishement him selfe, sithe that this refuse, did more straungely pinche him, nerer at the harte then euer the Egle of Caucasus (whereof the Poetes haue talked so muche) did tier the mawe of the subtile thefe Prometheus. And yet the vnhappie stewarde not contented, with the mischiefe committed against the honour of his maister, seing that it was but lost time to continue his pursute, and that his gaine would bee no lesse then death, if she according to her promised threates did therof aduertise her husband, being a cholericke man, and lighte of beliefe, and because the said Steward for such an enterprise had receiued a simple recompence, althoughe correspondent to his desert, premeditated worse mischiefes, more noisome then the first. He was in doubte, whether it were better for him to tarie or to departe, sith two thinges in a maner, were intollerable for him to suffer. For he coulde not forsake the house where from his cradle he had been so finely brought vp, the lord wherof made so much of him, as of his owne person. On the other side, he knewe that so long as the Lady was aliue, he could haue no maner of ioy or contentation. For that cause, conuerting extreeme loue (which once he bare to the lady) into cruel hatred, vnseemly for a brutal beaste, and into an insaciable desire of reueng, he determined to addresse so strong an ambushe, trained with so great subteltie, that she was not able to escape without daunger of her life and honour, whereof she declared herselfe to be so carefull. Alas, what blindnes is that, which captiuateth the wittes and spirite of him, that feedeth himselfe of nothing els, but vpon the rage of fantastical despite and vpon the furie of dispaire. Do wee not see, that after Reason giueth 206 place to desired reuenge of wrong thought to be receiued, man dispoyleth himselfe of that, which appertayneth to the kinde of man, to put on the fierce nature of the moste brute and cruell beastes, to runne headlonge without reason toward the place wher the disordinate appetite of affections, doth conduct him? whereof I will not aduouche any other example, but of this traitour, who passionated not with Loue, but rather with rage and fury, ceaseth not to espie all the actions and behauiour of his Ladie, to the intente he mighte bringe to ende his deuised treason against her, that thoughte (perchaunce) no more of his follies, but honestlie to passe the time with her deare and wel beloued husbande. Truly, if this Lady had been of the disposition of some women (that care not to moleste theyr husbands, for the first Flie that buzzeth before their eyes, conceyuing a friuolous and sodaine opinion of their chastitie, not so much assailed, or to sharpely defended, chaunting glorious Hympnes and high prayses of their victorie) certainly she had not tombled herselfe into the daunger, wherunto afterwards she fell. Not for that I will blame them that do reueale to theyr husbandes the assaults which they receiue of importunate suters, that doe assaie to deflower their Chastitie. Yet I will saye that Modestie in the same (as in euery other humaine action) is greatly to be required, sith that such a one, by thincking to extolle her honour and honestie, and to make proofe of her Chastitye, rendreth the same suspicious, and giueth occasion to talke to the people that is more apt and redie to slaunder and defame, then by good report to prayse them, which by vertue do deserue commendation, bringing the lyfe and fame of her husband, to such extremitie, as it had been better vertuously to haue resisted the force of Loue, and the flattering sute of such louers, then to manifest that which might haue been kept secrete without preiudice of eyther. And truly that woman deserueth greater glorie, which of herselfe defendeth her honestie, and quencheth the flames liuelye kindled in the hartes of other, with the coldnes of continencie, by that meanes vanquishing two, then she doth, which manifesting the vice of an other, discloseth as it were, a certaine apparaunce of her frailtie, and the litle reason wherewith she is indewed, to vanquish him that confesseth to be her seruaunt, and whose wil dependeth at 207 her commaundement. And when the whole matter shalbe rightlye iudged, shee that reuealeth imperfection of a Suter, sheweth her opinion and minde to be more pliant to yelde, then indewed with reason to abandone pleasure and to reiect the insolencie of the same, sith Reason’s force doth easely vanquish light affections of sensuall partes, whose fancies imprinted wyth ficklenes, do make them so inconstant, as they perswade themselues to be so puissaunte and mightie, as all thinges be, and rest at their commaundement. Retourning nowe then to our former discourse, the Steward so laboured with might and maine, till he had found meanes to be reuenged of the receiued refusall, with such subtilty and Diuelish inuention as was possible for man to deuise, which was this. Among the seruauntes of this greate Lorde there was one no lesse yonge of witte and vnderstanding, then of age. And albeit that he was fare and comely, yet so simple and foolishe as hee had much a do to tell the nomber of sixe. This foole by reason of his follye and simplicitye, was the onelye sporte and pastime of the Lord and Lady. The Lady many times toke pleasure, to talke with this maister foole, to bring him into a choler and chaufe, thereby to prouoke laughter. And therefore all the houshold vsed to call him in mockerie, my Ladyes darlinge. In whom the Lorde toke singular pleasure and delighte, esteeming him so well as any of his other seruaunts. The malicious Steward, seing the familiaritie of the lady with the foole (like one that had already catched his pray within his snares) began also to make much of that yonge Cockescome, in such wyse as he had brought him into such fooles paradise, as he mighte make him do and saye what he liste. Who seing him diligent to his desire, one day toke him aside, and after he had whitled him well, he sayd vnto him. “Dicke, I can tell thee a knacke, that thou shalt make my Lady laugh wel, but thou must say nothing, till she do perceiue it.” The poore idiot glad to please his maistres, was desirous to knowe what it was, and promised to doe whatsouer he would bidde him. “Thou must (sayd the steward) in the eueninge before she go into her chamber, hyde thy selfe vnder her bedde, and tarry there till it be an hower or two before day, and then I wil tell thee what thou must doe besides.” This plat deuised the foole the same euening 208 executed the deuise of hys diuelish counsaylour, who seing his desire to take effecte, went to an olde gentleman, that was of great honestie and vertue, for which he was of all men so wel knowen, as they esteemed his word so true as the Gospell. To that gentleman this craftie villaine, full of poison and malice, wholy bent to mischiefe, told and reported the facte, not as it was in deede, but to the great preiudice and dishonour of the Lady, geuing him to vnderstand how much she had forgotten herselfe, how without the feare of God, reuerence of her husband, and respect of her owne honesty, she had filthely giuen herselfe ouer to him which was called her Dareling. The good gentleman hearing this straung case, was astonned like one that had been stroken with a flashe of lightening, then drawing nere to the accuser, he aunswered. “Is it possible that suche wickednes can lye hidden in the breast of our Madame? I sweare vnto thee by God, that if any other had told it me besides you, I would not haue beleued it, and truly yet I am in doubt thereof.” “No, no,” said this wicked blasphemer, “I will make you see that, which you cannot beleue:” and hauing lessoned his foole, in his conceiued follie, the next day he procured the gentleman thyther, who seing the Ladies minion, going out of her chamber (which many times lay seuerally from her husband) could not refraine weeping, lamenting the ill fortune of his Lord, who thinkinge that he had had an honest wyfe, was abused with an impudent and vnshamefast whore. Then he began to frame a long Oracion, against the incontinencie of women, moued rather through the good will hee bare to his mayster, then to the truth of the matter, which vndiscretely he spake against the order of women kynd. So ignorant was he of the treason and indeuour of the Steward, who demaunded of him what was to be done in that matter? “What,” sayd the old gentleman, “such wickednesse ought not to be vnpunished. My Lorde must be aduertised hereof, that the house maye be purged of suche a plague and infection, that he maye euidentlye vnderstande the hypocrisye of her that so longe time hath kept close her incontinencie, vnder the vaile of fayned chastitie. But the righteous God made openly to appeare before mens eyes the secrete sinnes of the wicked, to thintent greater slaunders should not increase.” 209 The steward very ioyful that he had gotten so honeste a man to be a witnesse of his accusation, approued his aduise, for that it agreed wel with his intent. So they two together went to the Lord, with countenaunce sad and heauie, correspondent to their minde, and specially the Traitour, whose sense was so confounded with gladnesse, that thinking to begin his tale his wordes so stucke in his mouth as he was not able to vtter a word. Whereat the Lorde was wonderfully abashed, marueyling what that timidite did meane, till he had heard the vnfaithfull Stewarde tell his tale, who sayde to him in this maner. “My Lord, I am sory that it is my lotte to declare vnto you a matter hitherto vnknowen and not marked or taken heede of by any, which wyl so much offend you, as any pleasure that euer till this day, did please and content you. And God knoweth what griefe it is to me (in your presence) to be an accuser of a person in the world, which I haue esteemed nexte vnto you aboue anye other creature that lyueth: but being in that place I am, I might (by good deserte) be accused of treason and felonie if concealing such a detestable crime, I should leaue the dutie of fidelitie to an other, lesse desirous to do you seruice then I am. Who beleueth there is no second person, that desireth better to acquite the goodnes and preferment which I haue receyued of your Lordship, then I do. This it is my Lord: my lady misprising her duty to your Lordship, and the honour of the house whereof shee came, hath not disdayned to receiue into her chamber at inconuenient time, the foole that is called her Darelinge, and in the place into which none but your honour, ought to haue peaceable entrie: whereof this gentleman present (whom you know to be without comparison) shalbe witnesse: touching myselfe the fayth and trust, which alwayes I haue vsed in all vour affayres, and the litle affection which I haue to things contrary to vertue, shal giue true testimonie of that which I haue saide.” The Lorde hearing these pitiful newes, which pearced his harte more deepe then anye two edged sword, at the first was so astonied, that he could not tell what to say or do, sauing the ardente furie of Cholere made him distill a certaine Melancholique humour into his eyes, which receyued the superfluous vapours of his braine. At length breakinge that forth, which troubled him within, 210 and grindinge his teethe for furie, with stutteringe and vncertaine voice, fetching sighes betweene, saide: “O God, what newes be these that I heare? Is it possible, that the fairest and chastest Lady that liueth, hath in this wise defaced her honour: and so wickedly blemished my reputation? Alas, if it so be, that she hath in this wise disparaged herselfe, no trust is to be reposed in any other, what soeuer she bee. Ah, God! vnder what Planet was I borne, that after so longe pleasure receiued with my beloued fere and companion, I should by her feele a displeasure, an hundred times worse then death? Is there no remedie but that my house muste receiue and see an enterprise so vilanous, but her onely meane, which ought rather to haue been the ornamente and beautie of the same?” Then he chaused vp and downe the chamber, without speaking any more wordes, with his eyes rolling in his heade, making straunge countenaunces, which did well expresse the griefe that vexed and tormented his minde. In the ende halfe pacifyed, he tourned his face toward the accuser, saying: “My frende, if this be true, which thou hast told mee, I sweare by God, that I will make her feele the smarte, of such greeuous punishmente, as shalbe spoken of for euer. But if my wyfe be slaundred, and accused wrongfully, assure thy selfe that I will be reuenged vppon thee. I know the vertue of this gentleman very well (hauing had good proofe thereof) and of thy fidelitie I am nothing at all in doubt. But, alas! the loue that I beare vnto my wife, and her former vertue, which maketh me to loue and esteeme her so much, doth throughlye pearce my hart, and much adoe I haue to liue hearing this reporte: which doth deface and blotte all the honestie and vertue that euer remaiued in mee.” “And that was it my Lord, (answeared the traitour) which did deceiue you. For the shewe of that painted vertue did so delude you, that you be almoste bewitched from vnderstanding the wronge, so manifestlye perpetrated against you, and all your house. Now to thend, that you thincke not the accusacion to be false, I trust (if it please you to assist me) to let you see the thing, whereof wee haue giuen you intelligence.” “I will do (sayd the Lord) what you will haue me, although it be to my great griefe and sorow.” “To morow morning then (answeared the Traitour) one hower before day, I 211 will let you see the varlet goinge out of her chamber with so great ioy, as I do conceiue heauines and griefe for the simple remembraunce of so greate wickednes.” When they were agreed hereupon, this knaue most detestable, weauing the toile wherin he himselfe was caughte, wente to suborne the personage of his foole, holy made and instructed in his trumperie: leauinge the poore Lord with a hamer working in his head, that he was lyke to runne out of his wittes. So great is the furious force of the poison of Ialosie, whych ones hauing dispersed the vemine ouer the harte and intrayles of men, the wysest sorte haue lost the due discretion of their wittes. In the morning about the hower that the amourous foole (ignoraunt wherfore he went in) should issue out of his maistresse chamber, the Stewarde rauished with inexplicable ioye and gladnesse, like to the pleasure of hym that had attaynde the summe of his desires, called hys Lorde to see that heauye and dolourous sighte. The good gentleman, perceyuing the report to be true, and thincking that she had vsed the foole to be her bedfelowe, was like to haue dyed for sorow, or els to haue torne in peeces that vnhappy sotte, innocent of the euill suspected by the Lorde, who durst not so much as thincke to do such a wicked fact. In the ende geuing place to reason, he caused the poore foole to be apprehended, and put in the bottome of a dongeon, and beyonde measure was offended wyth his wyfe, for that he thought the simplicitie of the imprisoned wretche, had not the face to demaund the question, and therefore did verely beleeue that it was she that had induced him to do the deede to satisfie her vnbrideled and filthy lust, and therefore caused her to be shut vp, within a darke and stincking prison, not meaninge to see her, or to heare her speake for her iustification, ne yet woulde suffer that any man should take vppon hym to stand in her defence, to bring witnesse of her innocency. “For” (sayd he, replete wyth wrath and anger): “I do better beleue that which I haue seene, and knowen by myne owne presence, then your wordes, vayne reasons, and complaintes of no good ground and effecte as founden vppon her, that hath to muche forgotten herselfe, and her dutye towardes mee.” Moreouer vanquished with the Cholere (not without cause truly) of a husband that thought himselfe by her onely meanes deceyued and betrayed, sent 212 word to the poore captiue, that she should then prouide for her soules health, sith he was determined the very same day to make her play a Tragedy, more cruell then that was pleasant, which she had already done wyth her beloued, in extruding her to be deuoured of hys Lions, which were the ministers for the execution of the Iustice ordayned against her, as thoughe she had bin the most lasciuious and detestable woman that euer the earth brought forth. The fayre and innocent lady, knowing the humour and Cholere of her husband, and likewyse seing (contrary to right order of all Iudgement) that she could not be heard or suffred to make aunsweare, passed through the rigorous law of hym, that thoughte her to be an Adultresse: and coulde not tell what to doe but to lamente her ill fortune, gushing forth teares in such abundance, as the most part of her attyre were wet and bedewed with the same, then fortefying herselfe in the hope of the mercifull hande of Almightye God the father of all consolacion, who neuer forgetteth them, which with intire faith do call vppon him, and appeale to the succour of the holy and precious name of his sonne Iesus Christe our sauiour, she with compunction of hart, and sincere deuocion, with ioyned handes and knees vppon the grounde, addressing her eyes to the heauens, prayed in this wyse: “Alas, my God, I do knowe and confesse, that the multitude of my sinnes do surpasse the sea sands, and am not ignoraunt, that this vnhappie time is chaunced vnto me, for the punishment of my forepassed offences. Notwithstandinge (Lord) accordinge to thy greate goodnes, haue no respecte vnto my demerites and wickednes (whereof my life is ful) but rather extende thy fauour and mercy vppon thy poore creature, whose innocencie thou (which art the searcher of mennes hartes) doest well vnderstande and knowe, I do not desire prolongation of miserable lyfe, onely maye it please thee (O God) for thy goodnes and iustice sake, to saue mine honour, and to graunt that my husbande maye see with what integritie I haue alwayes honoured the holy band of mariage, by thee ordayned, to thintent he may liue from henceforth quiet of his suspicion conceyued of mee, and that my parentes may not sustaine the blot of ignominie, which will make theym blushe, when they shall heare reporte of my forepassed life.” She beinge 213 in these contemplacions and holye prayers, preparinge herselfe to receyue death, her husband caused her to be conueyed into the Parke of Lions, which being straunge and terrible at the first sight, did marueylouslie affray her, but remembring how innocent she was, putting her hope in God, she went thither with such constancie and courage, as if she had bin ledde to some ioyous banquet, and the people which neuer heard tell before of suche a kinde of death, was assembled in great multitude, tarying to see the ende of that execution, and talking diuersly of that sodaine iudgement, prayed all with one voyce, for the preseruation of the Ladie, of whose chastitie they were alredy right well assured. Now as they attended for the time of execution, the Lady was placed in the mid of the Parke, not without teares and sighes of the Assistantes who murmured at the remembraunce of the horror of a sight so furious. The innocent Ladye kneeled downe vpon her knees, and both by gesture and mery countenaunce, shewed how ioyful she went to suffer that which she had neuer deserued: then recommending her soule to God, for whose saluation she stedfastly hoped, she pronounced this praier a loude: “O my Lorde God, whiche diddest ones deliuer Daniell from a daunger like to this, wherunto the false accusation of the wicked, haue wrongfully cast me hedlond: and diddest discharge Susanna from the slaunder of the peruerse and adulterous Iudges, pleaseth the pitifully to behold thy poore creature. Pardon, O Lorde! forgiue I humblie beseche thee, the simplicitie of my deare husband, who dealeth thus with mee, rather through the circumuention of deceiptfull cauilling slaunderers, then by his owne malice and crueltie. Receiue, O my God, and mercifull father, receiue my soule betwene thy blessed handes, which thou hast redemed by the bloudshedding of thy sonne Iesus, vpon the Tree of the Crosse!” As she had ended these wordes, she sawe the Lions come forth ramping, and bristling vp their heare, stretching forth their pawes with roaring voice, cruelly looking round about them, of whom the Lady thought to be the present pray. But the goodnesse of God, who is a iust Iudge, and suffreth his owne elect to be proued to the extremitie, of purpose to make their glorie the greater, and the ruine of the wicked more apparaunt, manifested there an euident miracle. For 214 the Lions (being cruell of nature, and that time hungrie and gredie of pray) in lieu of tearing the Ladie in pieces, to gorge their rauening paunche, they fill to licking and fawning vppon her, making so much of her as if they had familiarly ben nourished with her own breastes. A thing no lesse pleasaunt to the Ladye then merueilous to all the people standing round about, who seing a chaunce so miraculous cried out, incontinently for the deliuerie of the Ladie, and for vengeaunce to be taken of him, which so wickedly had protruded her into that daunger: which for her vertue, ought to be extolled and praised of the whole world. When the noble man was certified of this straunge aduenture, hee caused his Steward to be apprehended and imprisoned, whose conscience forced great remorse, yet not knowing the ende of the Tragedie, condempned himselfe by his countenaunce. During his imprisonement the deposition of the beloued foole was taken, who saide: “That by the suggestion of the malicious Steward, many times (ignoraunt to the Lady) he conueied himself in her chamber, not knowing wherunto the intent of him that caused him so to do did tende.” The other gentleman made excuse (although he was blame worthy) that he was deceiued by the same false practise, that the Lorde himselfe was. The Steward openly confessed the treason, which he had deuised against the Ladie, and the whole occasion thereof, and thinking to be reuenged of the refusall of loue by her denied, he framed this slaunder to make her lose her life. Which the Lord hearing could not abide that his death should any longer be respected, but without other forme of Lawe, he was thrust out to the Lions, and was presently seased vpon, and torne in peeces by those beastes, which by God’s iuste iudgement, did absteine from the good ladie, for the punishement of the detestable sinne of this varlet. In the meane time the chaste and innocent Ladie, being brought before her husbande, after he had kissed and imbrased her, with humble reuerence she sayde vnto him: “My Lorde, I render my humble thankes to God, for that through his holy grace, and inscrutable Iustice, he hath let you to vnderstande, twoo diuers affections, in two seuerall persones of this worlde, which you loue so well. In one, the treason so pernicious, which prouoked you to soile and imbrue your handes (not without 215 cause till this daye proued contrarie) in the bloud of your faithfull and dere beloued wife. In thother, a will and minde so good to obey you, and to persist in continuation of that effecte, which maketh her generally to be praysed, and worthy of your earnest loue, for so much as she is your very affectionate spouse. Notwithstanding, iustly may I make my complaint of you, for that without excuse for my discharge, or hearing any thing that might serue for my purgation, you condempned her, for whose honour and defence you ought to haue imployed both goodes and life. But God shalbe iudge betwene your litle discretion, and my righteousnesse, betwene mine obedience and your crueltie, wherewith you haue abused the nobilitie, of the race whereof I came.” The husbande hearing this wise and iust complaint, on the one side transported with ioye, leapt and rejoysed, to see his deare companion in libertie, and declared to be innocent, on the other part he blushed for shame, that hee had so lightly, and without better proofe and triall condempned her, whom God by his grace had preserued from the lions throates, and durste not lift vp his head, by reason his harte freated at the remembraunce of his light credite and furie immoderate. Finallie imbracing his wife, and kissing her louingly, said vnto her: “Madame, and deare beloued wife, I can not denye but foolishely I haue attempted to blemishe the honor of her, that whilome made me to shine and glister amongst the best and chief of al this countrey, but he that doth wel marke and beholde the galle and disdaine of a husband louing his wyfe, and then vnderstandyng her litle care and greate forgetfulnesse whiche shee hath, bothe of his honour and glorie of his comforte, will easely excuse and pardon my fault, whiche I will not by any meanes colour and cloke, but rather craue pardon at your handes, assuring you that I will amende and requite the same, so well and in suche wise as you and yours shall haue no cause but to be content and satisfied.” “It suffiseth me, sir, (quod she) that my giltlesse offence is knowen vnto you, and that I haue recouered place in your fauourable acceptation: for I doe accompte mine aduersitie well imployed, sith thereby you and your friendes may glorie, of the seuere iustice ministred against malefacters, and I reioyce in resistaunce of 216 the assaultes of loue, and of death to guarde and kepe my chastitie pure and inuiolable: and may serue for example to euery honourable Ladie, being assailed with suche strong and mightie aduersaries, to kepe them selues honest. For the croune is not due but to her that shall lawfully combate to the ende.” After this the lorde by perswasion of his wife, commaunded that the foole should be auoided the house, that his presence might not grieue or torment her, ne yet renewe the memorie of a thing that neuer was thought or doen. And not without cause: for the Lorde, whiche reclined his eare to euery trifling report, and credited the woordes of euery whistling pikethanke, had much a do to escape from doing thinges unworthy his estate and calling. Of so great force truely is the venime of such Serpentes, that seasing by little and little, the harte of him disposed to receiue it in furie, maketh it to be in effect like the nature of poyson and drogues corrupt: whereof men ought to be no lesse, but rather more diligent and carefull then of meates, amonges persones whom they suspect and feare, sithens that maladies and infections of minde, be farre more daungerous then outward passions which torment the body. Whereunto if the said nobleman was not hedefull, he felt the dammage for penaunce of his inconsideration. Howbeit as thinges, both good and ill amonges men, bee not still durable and perpetuall. Certaine daies after, he began to solace hymselfe with his wife, and rode an huntinge abroade, visited his neighbours, and at home made great feastes and banquettes, whereunto his kindred and frends were inuited, to congratulate this newe alliaunce, indeuouring thereby to satifye the fault committed, and the better to gratifie and pleasure his wyfe, to make her know how much more hee esteemed and regarded her then before: hee caused the successe of his present historie to be ingrauen with great industrie, and marueilous cunning in Marble, which he placed ouer the gate of the first entrie into his Castell, aswell to immortalizate the great chastitie of this fayre and vertuous wife, as to set forth a Mirrour and example to euerye housholde seruaunt, and to all other whatsoeuer they bee, to beware how they attempt any thing against the honour of Ladies. For many times it chaunceth, that he which diggeth a ditch, and setteth vp a Gallowes, is the first that doth 217 fall, or is stretched thereuppon. As you may see by this present discourse, which setteth before your eyes what ende the fonde loue of them ordinarily haue, which without reason, not measureing their owne ability, doe suffer themselues to be guided and led into their sensuall lustes and appetites: for ill successe faileth not in a beginning, the grounde whereof abhorring reason, is planted and layed vppon the sandie foundacion of pleasure, which is shaken and ouerthrowen, by the least winde and tempest that Fortune can bluster against such building.
In the countryside of Aquitaine, there was once a Lord whose lands lay between Lismosine and Poitou. Renowned for his noble lineage and wealth, he was among the most esteemed in the region. Related to the best families, he had easy access and favor not only in the houses of the ancient Dukes of Guienne and Counts of Poitou but also in the royal courts of the French kings. This Lord (whom Bandello, the author of this history, claims to be Signor de la Rocca Soarda, though François de Belleforest, the French translator and expander of the same, omits his name for good reason) maintained a grand court and a lavish household, delighting particularly (like the French nobility) in hunting and hawking. His house was also admired greatly (as people were rather rude and ignorant in those times) because he had acquired animals from distant lands, especially lions, which he took great pleasure in for their rarity in France, and for their nobility and courage, which resembled the greatness and spirit of nobility—minds and spirits that do not value trivial things and are not afraid to perform deeds worthy of honor. This Lord married a lady, the daughter of one of his neighbors, a woman worthy of such a husband: her beauty was so rare that there was no one comparable to her, further enhanced by her perfect virtue and admirable behavior, which good minds and wits should engage, or rather struggle to decide which was greater—the exquisite craftsmanship of her outstanding beauty or the way nature had used all her skill to shape a form that appeared miraculous to men, along with her dignified poise, good grace, courtesy, and calmness, accompanied by a virtue not common to many, making this lady shine like the glowing planet Mars among the other wandering stars. Even the wild beasts were compelled by her shining reputation to praise her as a woman whose equal they had never known in all their country, elevating her husband's household to glory and making him a content man to see such a star by his side, sufficient to illuminate and beautify an entire region with her mere presence, and to nobility a lineage, even if the blood of ancestors were lacking for the perfection of their nobility. Such is the great power of virtue that not only elevated her above other creatures, but also compelled the envious to admire her. But these admirers and praisers of virtue do not strive like-mindedly for the merits of virtue; instead, they only work to gain some benefit from virtue and then (following the nature of a dog) return to their own vomit, spewing forth their hidden venom from their serpent's breast. This became evident in a certain man who was the steward of this nobleman's house (indeed a very happy house, both for the honest love between the Lord and Lady, and for the virtue and kindness shared by both) who at first, as honesty and duty required, admired the good manners and commendable demeanor of his Lady and mistress, but later (forgetting the fidelity he owed to his Lord, the nobility of his predecessors, and the peril of his own life) began to love her and serve her in heart, wishing for the fairest things which outwardly appeared in her, where he ought not to have given even a glance of liking, from respect for him who was the rightful owner and just possessor of it. This foolish master, then—not measuring his strength, and less following the instinct of reason—became so enamored of his Madame that he continually imagined ways to let her know the pains and troubles he suffered for love of her. But alas, these schemes vanished like a little cloud dispersed by the rising sun: for when thinking upon the virtue of his mistress, his desires left his heart quicker than he could impress them upon his judgment seat, preventing him from gaining any certain assurance. Nonetheless, his mind did not cease to build castles in the air and made a promise to himself to enjoy her whom he worshipped in his heart. He took such pains through his humble service that in the end he gained some favor and goodwill from his Lady. And because he did not dare to be bold enough to reveal to her the intensity of his grief, he was content for a long time to show a façade of joy, which raised for him a lively spring of sorrows and displeasures that regularly sizzled and boiled in his mind so much: that the force of his weeping for vain hope was enough to suffocate the remnant of life still in his tormented heart, causing little streams of tears to flow down, plaguing the mind of this foolish Lover. This fair and chaste Lady was so devoted to her husband that she took no notice of the looks and foolish behaviors of this master Lover. Seeing his misfortune lead him to despair, and no remedy appearing to him afterward—no matter if by joy, better hopes, or sudden miserable death—he resolved to try Fortune and see if the waters of his hope could find some passage, steadfastly determined that if he were thrown headlong into the depths of Rejection, and scorned for his service, he would not retreat, but rather plunge deeper into the ruin of himself and his desires: for he thought it impossible that his heart could endure more unbearable heat of that invisible fire than it already felt, if he found no means for the smoke to have any vent and exit. For this consideration, completely beside himself, enchanted by foolish Love, like a beast fully transformed into something devoid of reason (like those typically enrolled in the muster books of Venus' son) he was resolved to open up to the Lady (when the opportunity presented itself) both the wrongs and also the grief he endured for such a great and extreme affection. Behold here one of the effects of human folly: this was the first act of the Tragedy, where love made this brainless man play the leading role upon the Stage. This poor gentleman (otherwise a good servant, and cautious for the benefit and honor of his master) is now so void of himself and blind in understanding that he makes no effort to assault her (to defraud her of her greatest virtue)—the mere mention of whom ought to have made him tremble with fear and blush with shame—rather than, for her sake and natural courtesy, to deprive her of her honor and attempt something uncertain to win, and even more dangerous to practice. Now while he lived in the attempt of his hoped for occasion, it happened that the Lady (thinking no malicious thoughts at all) began to regard the Steward with a better eye and a more familiar look than any of the gentlemen and domestic servants of the house, both for the painted honesty of this Gallant and because she saw him so prompt and ready to obey her: and so one day, as she walked in the Gallery, she called him over, and very familiarly discussed certain matters touching the profit of the house. He, who walked on one foot, burning with Love, and whose heart leaped for joy and danced for gladness, thought he had now attained the pinnacle of his happiness, and the whole effect of his desire: suddenly he cast away the despair of his former concepts, objecting himself to the danger he was about to face, if the Lady did not receive his request with good digestion. In the end, recovering his strength, he thought over this wicked notion with which foolish and willful fleshly lovers boast of and display the honor and chastity of Ladies, when they make their claims that there’s no woman, no matter how chaste, continent, or honorable, who will not ultimately yield if thoroughly pursued. Oh, the words and opinions of a beast, rather than of a man recognizing virtue. Is the number of chaste women so diminished that their reputation today is like a boat in the midst of some tempestuous sea, to which sailors repair to save themselves? It is the sole virtue of Ladies which compels them to throw up their poison when they see themselves deceived by the foolish and ignoble demands. One shall never hear those words proceed but from the mouths of the most lascivious, who delight in nothing but to corrupt the good names of Ladies, later to make them ridiculous to the world. Let us return to our purpose; this valiant soldier of love, eager to give the first attack on his sweet enemy, began to grow pale and tremble like the reed blown by the wind, not knowing where or how to deliver the first strokes of his assault. At length, with a faltering tongue and trembling voice, he spoke to his Lady in this manner. “Alas, Madame, how happy would the course of our transient life be if common passions did not receive added troubles from new and varied accidents, which seem to take root within us, for the very great reduction of that liberty which every man strives so much to maintain. But truly that effort is vain, and the pain of it wasted: for he who forces himself to live free from passion, in the midst of this enforcement, feels himself violently constrained and sees the removal of his liberty as a certain impediment, which he would then give. Alas, I have experienced that mischief and am still in the greatest excess and pangs of my sickness. I feel (oh sadly) a diversity of anguish and a sea of troubles tormenting my mind, yet I dare not reveal the cause, seeing that the thing, which is the fountain of my grief, deserves such mention as my past service and all that is to come, which cannot provide a proof, if one special grace and favor does not enlarge the little power that is in me to counterbalance the greatness and perfection of that which so alters both my thoughts and passions. Pardon me, Madame, if I speak obscurely, for the confusion of my mind makes my words correspond to the quality of the same. Nevertheless, I will not keep silent from you about what I suffer, much less pretend what passion I endure, being assured through your virtue and kindness that you (moved with compassion) will help me as much as you can, for the preservation of the life of him who is the best and most obedient servant among all who humbly serve you.” The Lady, who never considered the wickedness which this senseless man began to imagine, answered him very courteously: “I am truly sorry for your misfortune, and I wonder what should be the result of that passion, which you say you feel with such diminishment of that which is perfect and accomplished in you: for I see no cause that ought to move you to so strange an affliction, of which you told me, and wherewith I had already found fault even if you had said nothing. I wish to God I knew how to help you, for my Lord my husband’s sake, who I am sure bears you good will, as well as for the honesty which I have known to exist in you, wherein I think all others resembling you in virtue and good conditions rightly deserve respect and consideration.” He, thinking her already caught in his nets, seeing such a fair avenue open and clear to disclose what he had kept hidden so long in the depth of his heart, answered, “Ah, Madame, are you unaware of the power of Love, and how much its assaults can weaken the very vitality of bodies and spirits? Do you not know that it is blind and naked, caring not where it goes; revealing itself where there is an opportunity? Alas, Madame, if you have no pity upon me and do not regard that which I suffer for love of you, I do not know how I can escape death, which will soon approach to cut off and shorten my years, as soon as I learn of a refusal of that which my extreme Love for you (Madame) compels me to require: which is to receive a new service of your ancient and faithful service: who, inflamed by the bright beams of your divine face, knows not how to change his affection, and much less to seek help but from the place where he has received the sting. Excuse (Madame, I beg you) my rashness and pardon my folly: blame rather either your celestial beauty or that tyrant Love who has wounded me so fortunate, as I regard my ill fortune, and my wound as fortunate: since through his means my thoughts and contemplations only aim to serve you, and to love you in my heart, which is the Phoenix of the fairest and most courteous Ladies in all our Province. Alas, that excellence, which so makes me your servant shall one day be my ruin, if by your good grace (speaking with weeping tears) you do not favor him, who lives only to obey you, and who losing your favor, will endeavor to deprive himself of life, which being deprived through your cruelty will complain of his bold attempt, and also of your harshness among the ghosts and shadows of them who are already dead for the same occasion.” The chaste Lady was so taken aback by the strangeness of the case and the grief she felt upon seeing the shameless boldness of the steward that she could not figure out how to respond: but in the end, breaking her silence, and taking a deep sigh from the bottom of her heart, her face stained with a fresh rosy hue, which beautified her complexion due to the disdain she felt against this impudent orator, she responded very sternly, “Oh God, who would have thought that from a heart raised nobly, and descended from an honorable lineage, such a vile thing could take root and spring up with such detestable fruit? What master Steward? Have you forgotten the duty of a servant toward his Lord and master? Have you forgotten, I say, the duty of a virtuous gentleman, well-nurtured and trained for such a high and great lady as I am? Ah, Thief and Traitor! Is this the poison that you keep so secret and hidden, under the sweetness of your feigned virtue? Begone, knave, begone: go sell your stuff to those like yourself, whose honor and honesty are so far spent, as your loyalty is light and vain. For if I hear you speak any more of these foolishnesses, be assured that I will mortify that raging flame, which burns your light-believing heart, and will make you feel by experience what kind of death that is, wherein you will rest from your labors.” As this deceived orator was framing his excuse, and about to moderate the just wrath of his Lady, displeased upon good occasion, she, unable to withstand further conversation, said more, “And what signs of dishonesty have you seen in me, that move you to suggest such a wicked and unseemly thing against my status: yes, and so prejudicial to me, to my friends, and the house of your master, my Lord and spouse? I cannot tell what it is that stops me from having you cast out among the lions (the cruel and capital enemies of adultery, among themselves) since your intent is, by violating my chastity, to dishonor the house, to which you owe no less than all the advancements you have: from which you have abandoned Virtue, the best thing with which you were once affected. Depart now, therefore, let me hear no more of this, upon pain of your life; otherwise you shall feel the reward of your boldness, and understand the bitterness of the little pleasure I have conceived from your foolishness.” So the good Lady remained silent, reserving in her heart what would help her in time and place: however, she said nothing of this to her husband, both to avoid raising offense or slander, and to provoke him against him who himself carried the punishment, since this refusal pinched him more strangely, nearer to the heart than ever the Eagle of Caucasus (of which the Poets have spoken so much) did tear the maw of the cunning thief Prometheus. And yet the unhappy steward, not content with the mischief committed against his master’s honor, seeing that it was but a waste of time to continue his pursuit, and that his reward would be no less than death, if she according to her promised threats informed her husband—who was a choleric man and light of belief—and because the said Steward had received a simple recompense for such an endeavor, although it corresponded to his deserts. He premeditated worse mischiefs, more noxious than the first. He was in doubt whether it were better for him to stay or leave, since two things, in a manner, were intolerable for him to suffer. For he could not forsake the house where from his cradle he had been so finely raised, the lord of which made so much of him as of his own person. On the other side, he knew that so long as the Lady was alive, he could have no joy or satisfaction. For that reason, converting his extreme love (which he once bore to the Lady) into cruel hatred, unbecoming for a beast, and into an insatiable desire for revenge, he resolved to set up such a strong ambush, trained with such great subtlety, that she would not be able to escape without danger to her life and honor, of which she declared herself to be so careful. Alas, what blindness is this, which captivates the wits and spirit of a man who feeds on nothing else but upon the rage of fantastical spite and the fury of despair. Do we not see that after Reason gives way to the desired revenge of a wrong deemed to be received, a man strips himself of that which pertains to humankind, to put on the fierce nature of the most brutal and cruel beasts, to run headlong without reason toward the place where the disordered appetite of affections leads him? Of which I will not claim any other example than that of this traitor, who was not driven by Love, but rather by rage and fury, continuing to spy all the actions and behavior of his Lady, intending to end his devised treason against her, who thought (perhaps) no more of his folly than to spend time honestly with her dear and beloved husband. Truly, if this Lady had been of the disposition of some women (who do not care to annoy their husbands, at the first fly that buzzes before their eyes, conceiving a frivolous and sudden opinion of their chastity, not so much assailed or sharply defended, singing glorious hymns and high praises of their victory), surely she would not have tumbled herself into the danger, into which later she fell. Not that I will blame those who reveal to their husbands the assaults they receive from importunate suitors, who try to deflower their Chastity. Yet I will say that Modesty in this (as in every other human action) is greatly to be required, since such a one, by thinking to extol her honor and honesty, and to prove her Chastity, renders the same suspicious, and gives occasion to talk among people more apt and ready to slander and defame, than to praise those who deserve commendation by virtue, bringing her husband’s life and reputation to such an extremity, as it would have been better virtuously to have resisted the power of Love, and the flattering suit of such lovers, than to manifest what could have been kept secret without prejudice to either. And truly that woman deserves greater glory, who of herself defends her honor, and quenches the flames vividly kindled in the hearts of others, with the coldness of continence, thereby vanquishing two, than she does who, by revealing the vice of another, exposes, as it were, a certain appearance of her frailty, and the little reason with which she is endowed, to conquer him who confesses to be her servant, and whose will depends on her command. And when the whole matter is rightly judged, she who reveals the imperfection of a Suitor shows her opinion and mind to be more inclined to yield than endowed with reason to abandon pleasure and reject its insolence, since Reason’s force easily vanquishes light affections of sensual parts, whose fancies, imprinted with fickleness, make them so inconstant, as they persuade themselves to be so powerful and mighty, as all things are, and rest at their command. Returning then to our former discourse, the Steward so labored mightily until he had found means to take revenge for the rejection he had received, with such subtlety and devilish invention as was possible for a man to devise, which was this. Among the servants of this great Lord there was one no less young of wit and understanding than of age. Although he was fair and handsome, he was so simple and foolish that he had much trouble counting to six. This fool, due to his folly and simplicity, was the only source of amusement for the Lord and Lady. The Lady many times took pleasure in talking with this master fool, bringing him into a fury, and thus provoking laughter. As a result, all the household used to mockingly call him my Lady's darling. The Lord took exciting pleasure in him, valuing him as highly as any of his other servants. The malicious Steward, seeing the familiarity of the Lady with the fool (like one who had already caught his prey in his traps) began to flatter that young simpleton, in such a way that he brought him into such a fool's paradise, that he could make him do and say whatever he wished. Seeing him diligent according to his desires, one day he took him aside, and after having flattered him well, said to him, “Dicke, I can tell you a trick that will make my Lady laugh well, but you must say nothing until she notices it.” The poor idiot, glad to please his mistress, was eager to learn what it was and promised to do whatever he asked him. “You must (said the steward) in the evening before she goes into her chamber, hide yourself under her bed, and wait there until it is an hour or two before dawn, and then I will tell you what else you must do.” This plan devised, the fool executed the scheme of his diabolical counselor that very evening, who, seeing his desire take effect, went to an old gentleman, a man of great honesty and virtue, known by all as someone whose words were regarded as true as the Gospel. To that gentleman, this crafty villain, full of poison and malice, bent on mischief, told and reported the incident, not as it was indeed, but to the great prejudice and dishonor of the Lady, making it understood how much she had disgraced herself, how without fear of God, reverence for her husband, and respect for her own honor, she had shamefully given herself over to him who was called her Darling. The good gentleman, hearing this strange case, was stunned as if struck by a flash of lightning, then moving closer to the accuser, he answered, “Is it possible that such wickedness lies hidden in our Madame’s breast? I swear to you by God, that if anyone else had told me this besides you, I would not have believed it, and truly I am still in doubt about it.” “No, no,” said this wicked blasphemer, “I will make you see what you cannot believe:” and having schooled his fool in his conceived folly, the next day he brought the gentleman forth, who, seeing the Lady's minion, coming out of her chamber (which often lay separately from her husband) could not refrain from weeping, lamenting the ill fortune of his Lord, who thought that he had an honest wife, was indeed deceived by an impudent and shameless whore. Then he began to frame a long speech against the incontinence of women, moved more by the good will he bore to his master than by the truth of the matter, which indiscreetly he spoke against the order of women. So ignorant was he of the treason and endeavor of the Steward, who asked him what was to be done in that matter? “What,” said the old gentleman, “such wickedness ought not to go unpunished. My Lord must be informed of this, so that the household may be purged of such a plague and infection, that he may clearly understand the hypocrisy of her who has kept her incontinence hidden behind the veil of feigned chastity. But let the righteous God make openly appear before men's eyes the secret sins of the wicked, in order that greater slanders should not increase.” ” The steward, very joyful that he had gained such an honest man to witness his accusation, approved of his advice, as it suited his intent. So they both went to the Lord, with somber and heavy countenance, corresponding to their minds, and especially the Traitor, whose senses were so confounded with joy that thinking to begin his tale, his words stuck so in his throat that he was not able to utter a word. The Lord was therefore greatly astonished, marveling what this timidity should mean, until he heard the unfaithful Steward tell his tale, who said to him this way. “My Lord, I am sorry that it is my lot to disclose to you a matter hitherto unknown and unregarded by anyone, which will offend you more than any pleasure that has ever till now pleased and contented you. And God knows what grief it is for me (in your presence) to be an accuser of a person in the world whom I have esteemed second only to you to any other living creature: but being in the place I am, I could (by good desert) be accused of treason and felony if by concealing such a detestable crime, I neglected my duty of fidelity to another, less desirous to serve you than I am. Who believes there is no second person who desires to repay the good and promotion which I have received from your Lordship, more than I do. This it is, my Lord: my lady, neglecting her duty to your Lordship, and the honor of the house where she came from, has not disdained to admit into her chamber, at an inconvenient time, the fool called her Darling, and into a place into which no one but your honor ought to have peaceful entry: this gentleman, present here (whom you know to be without comparison) shall be the witness: concerning myself, the faith and trust, which I always have placed in all your affairs, and the slight affection which I have for things contrary to virtue, shall give true testimony to that which I have said.” The Lord hearing this pitiful news, which pierced his heart deeper than any two-edged sword, was at first so astonished that he could not tell what to say or do, save that the burning fury of anger made him shed a certain melancholic humor into his eyes, which received the superfluous vapors of his brain. Finally breaking forth what troubled him within, and grinding his teeth in fury, with a stuttering and uncertain voice, and drawing in breaths between, he said: “Oh, God, what news is this that I hear? Is it possible that the fairest and chastest Lady who lives has thus defaced her honor: and so wickedly tarnished my reputation? Alas, if it is so that she has in this manner disgraced herself, no trust is to be placed in anyone else, whatever she may be. Ah, God! Under what planet was I born that after so long enjoyment received with my beloved partner, I should feel such displeasure, a hundred times worse than death? Is there no remedy but that my house must receive and bear witness to an enterprise so vile, by its sole means, which ought rather to have been the ornament and beauty of the same?” Then he paced up and down the chamber without speaking another word, his eyes rolling in his head, making strange expressions that well expressed the grief that vexed and tormented his mind. Finally, half pacified, he turned his face toward the accuser, saying: “My friend, if this is true, which you have told me, I swear by God that I will make her feel the pain of such grievous punishment, as shall be spoken of forever. But if my wife be slandered and unjustly accused, assure yourself that I will take my revenge upon you. I know this gentleman’s virtue well (having had good proof of it), and of your fidelity, I have no doubt at all. But alas! the love I bear for my wife, and her former virtue, which makes me love and esteem her so much, pierces my heart, and I can hardly bear to live hearing this report: which defaces and blots all the honesty and virtue that ever remained in me.” “And that, my Lord,” (answered the traitor) “is what has deceived you. For the appearance of that painted virtue deluded you so much that you are almost bewitched from understanding the wrong so manifestly perpetrated against you and all your house. Now in order that you do not think the accusation false, I trust (if it please you to assist me) to let you see the matter of which we have informed you.” “I will do,” said the Lord, “what you compel me to do, even though it brings me great grief and sorrow.” “Tomorrow morning then,” (answered the Traitor) “an hour before day, I will let you see the knave coming out of her chamber with such great joy, that I foresee anguish and grief for the simple remembrance of such great wickedness.” When they had agreed hereupon, this most detestable knave, weaving the trap in which he himself was caught, went to hire the persona of his fool, fully made and instructed in his trickery, leaving the poor Lord with a hammer working in his head, who was likely to run out of his wits. So great is the furious force of the poison of Jealousy, which, once having spread its venom over the heart and entrails of men, the wisest sorts have lost the due discretion of their wits. In the morning, about the hour that the amorous fool (ignorant of the reason why he went in) was to come out of his mistress’s chamber, the Steward, ravished with inexplicable joy and gladness, like one who had attained the height of his desires, called his Lord to witness that heavy and sorrowful sight. The good gentleman, perceiving the report to be true, and thinking that she had used the fool to be her bedfellow, was about to die for sorrow, or else to tear the unfortunate idiot to pieces, innocent of the evil suspected by the Lord, who would not dare so much as think to do such a wicked act. Finally, giving place to reason, he caused the poor fool to be apprehended, and thrown into a dungeon, and was beyond measure angry with his wife, for he thought the simplicity of the imprisoned wretch lacked the face to make any demand, and therefore he truly believed that it was she who had induced him to perform the deed to satisfy her unbridled and filthy lust, and therefore ordered her to be locked up in a dark and stinking prison, meaning not to see her nor hear her defend herself, and would not allow anyone to take it upon them to stand up for her, to bear witness to her innocence. “For” (said he, filled with wrath and anger): “I believe better that which I have seen and known by my own presence than your words, empty reasons, and complaints of little good ground and effect found upon her, who has too much forgotten herself and her duty toward me.” Moreover, vanquished with the anger (not without cause truly) of a husband who thought himself deceived and betrayed by her, sent word to the poor captive that she should then provide for the health of her soul, since he was determined to make her perform a Tragedy more cruel than the one she had already staged with her beloved, in forcing her to be devoured by his Lions, which were the ministers for the execution of the Justice ordained against her, as though she had been the most lascivious and detestable woman that ever the earth brought forth. The fair and innocent lady, knowing her husband’s humor and rage, and also seeing (contrary to the right order of all Judgment) that she could not be heard or allowed to answer, passed through the severe law of him who thought her to be an Adultress: and could do nothing but lament her ill fate, shedding tears in such abundance that most of her attire was wet and drenched with them. Then, strengthening herself in the hope of the merciful hand of Almighty God, the father of all consolation, who never forgets those who call upon Him with pure faith, and appeal to the help of the holy and precious name of His son Jesus Christ our savior, she, with contrition of heart, and sincere devotion, with joined hands and knees on the ground, turning her eyes to the heavens, prayed in this manner: “Alas, my God, I know and confess that the multitude of my sins surpass the sands of the sea, and I am not ignorant that this unhappy time has befallen me, for the punishment of my past offenses. Notwithstanding, (Lord) according to your great goodness, have no regard for my demerits and wickedness (whereof my life is full), but rather extend your favor and mercy upon your poor creature, whose innocence you (who are the searcher of hearts) well understand and know, I desire not prolongation of a miserable life, only may it please you (O God) for your goodness and justice’ sake, to save my honor, and grant that my husband may see with what integrity I have always honored the holy bond of marriage ordained by you, so he may live from henceforth free of suspicion conceived of me, and that my parents may not suffer the stain of ignominy, which will make them blush, when they hear the report of my past life.” She being in these contemplations and holy prayers, preparing herself to receive death, her husband caused her to be brought into the Lion Park, which, being strange and terrible at first sight, caused her marvelous fright, but remembering how innocent she was, placing her hope in God, she went there with such constancy and courage, as if she were being led to a joyful banquet, and the people who had never before heard of such a kind of death were gathered in great numbers, waiting to see the outcome of that execution, and talking diversely of that sudden judgment, prayed all with one voice for the preservation of the Lady, of whose chastity they were already right well assured. Now as they waited for the time of execution, the Lady was placed in the middle of the Park, not without tears and sighs from the Assistants who murmured at the remembrance of the horror of such a sight. The innocent Lady knelt down upon her knees, and both by gesture and joyful countenance showed how joyful she went to suffer that which she had never deserved: then, recommending her soul to God, for whose salvation she steadfastly hoped, she pronounced this prayer aloud: “O my Lord God, who once delivered Daniel from a danger like this, to which the false accusations of the wicked have wrongfully thrown me headlong: and did release Susanna from the slander of the perverse and adulterous Judges, please in pity look upon your poor creature. Pardon, O Lord! forgive, I humbly beseech you, the simplicity of my dear husband, who deals thus with me, rather through the circumvention of deceitful slanderers than through his own malice and cruelty. Receive, O my God, and merciful Father, receive my soul between your blessed hands, which you have redeemed by the shedding of your son Jesus’ blood upon the Tree of the Cross!” As she finished these words, she saw the Lions come forth, ramping and bristling up their hair, stretching out their paws with a roaring voice, looking around them cruelly, of whom the Lady thought to be her present prey. But the goodness of God, who is a just Judge, and allows his own elect to be proven to the extremity, deliberately to make their glory greater, and the ruin of the wicked more apparent, displayed a clear miracle there. For the Lions (being cruel by nature, and at that time hungry and greedy for prey) instead of tearing the Lady to pieces to stuff their ravenous bellies, began to lick and fawn upon her, making much of her as if they had been familiarly nurtured at her own breasts. A thing no less pleasing to the Lady than marvelous to all the people standing around, who, seeing a chance so miraculous, cried out immediately for the deliverance of the Lady, and for vengeance to be taken against him who so wickedly had thrust her into that danger: which for her virtue ought to be extolled and praised by the whole world. When the nobleman was informed of this strange event, he caused his Steward to be apprehended and imprisoned, whose conscience was filled with great remorse, yet not knowing the ending of the Tragedy, condemned himself by his countenance. During his imprisonment, the deposition of the beloved fool was taken, who said: “That by the suggestion of the malicious Steward, many times (unaware of the Lady) he had concealed himself in her chamber, not knowing what his intent was to achieve.” The other gentleman made excuse (although he was blameworthy) that he was deceived by the same false practice that had fooled the Lord himself. The Steward openly confessed the treason he had devised against the Lady, and the whole reason behind it, thinking to take revenge upon the rejection of love by her denial, he framed this slander to make her lose her life. Hearing this, the Lord could not abide that his death should be respected any longer, but without any other form of law, he was thrust out to the Lions, and was immediately seized upon and torn to pieces by those beasts, which, by God’s just judgment, abstained from the good lady, for the punishment of this vile man’s detestable sin. In the meantime, the chaste and innocent Lady, being brought before her husband, after he had kissed and embraced her, said to him with humble reverence: “My Lord, I give thanks to God, for through His holy grace and inscrutable Justice, He has let you understand two different affections in two separate people in this world, whom you love so well. In one, the treason so pernicious, which provoked you to soil and stain your hands (not without cause until this day proved contrary) in the blood of your faithful and dear beloved wife. In the other, a will and mind so good to obey you, and to persist in continuation of that effect, which renders her generally praiseworthy and worthy of your earnest love, for she is your very affectionate spouse. Nevertheless, justly may I make my complaint against you, for without excuse for my discharge, or hearing anything that might serve for my purgation, you condemned her, for whose honor and defense you ought to have employed both goods and life. But God shall be the judge between your little discretion and my righteousness, between my obedience and your cruelty, with which you have abused the nobility of the lineage from which I came.” The husband, upon hearing this wise and just complaint, on one side overwhelmed with joy, leaped and rejoiced to see his dear companion liberated, and declared innocent; on the other hand, he blushed for shame, that he had condemned her so lightly and without better proof and trial, who God by His grace had preserved from the lions' throats, and he dared not lift up his head, because his heart roiled at the remembrance of his light credulity and excessive fury. Finally embracing his wife and kissing her lovingly, he said to her: “Madame, and dear beloved wife, I cannot deny that foolishly I have attempted to blemish the honor of her who made me shine and glisten among the best and chief of all this country, but he who does well mark and behold the gall and disdain of a husband loving his wife, and then understanding her little care and great forgetfulness of both his honor and the glory of his comfort, will easily excuse and pardon my fault, which I will not by any means color and cloak, but rather seek pardon from you, assuring you that I will amend and repay it, so well and in such a manner that you and yours shall have no cause to be anything but content and satisfied.” “That is enough for me, sir,” (she said) “that my guiltless offense is known to you, and that I have regained place in your favor; for I account my adversity well-employed, since thereby you and your friends may glory in the severe justice administered against malefactors, and I rejoice in resistance of the assaults of love and death to preserve and keep my chastity pure and inviolable: and may serve as an example to every honorable Lady, being assailed by such strong and mighty adversaries, to keep themselves honorable. For the crown is not due but to her who shall lawfully fight to the end.” After this, the lord, by his wife's persuasion, ordered that the fool should be removed from the house, so that his presence would not grieve or torment her, nor renew the memory of something that had never been thought or done. And not without cause: for the Lord, who inclined his ear to every trifling report and credited the words of every whistling gossip, had much trouble escaping from doing things unworthy of his estate and calling. Truly, of such serpents is the venom of such forces so strong that, seizing little by little the heart of him disposed to receive it in fury, makes it to be in effect like the nature of poisoned and corrupt drugs: of which men ought to be no less careful, but rather more diligent and cautious than to worry about food among people whom they suspect and fear, since maladies and infections of the mind are far more dangerous than outward passions which torment the body. If the nobleman was heedless of this, he felt the damage as penance for his inconsideration. However, as things, both good and bad among men, are not always durable and perpetual, a few days later he began to solace himself with his wife, rode out to hunt, visited his neighbors, and made great feasts and banquets at home, to which his kin and friends were invited, to congratulate this new alliance, endeavoring to satisfy the fault committed, and better gratify and please his wife, to make her know how much more he esteemed and regarded her than before: he caused the success of his present story to be engraved with great industry and marvelous cunning in marble, which he placed over the gate of the entrance into his Castle, both to immortalize the great chastity of this fair and virtuous wife, and to provide a Mirror and example to every household servant and all others, to beware how they attempt anything against the honor of Ladies. For it often happens that he who digs a ditch and sets up a gallows is the first to fall, or be stretched upon it. As you may see from this present discourse, which sets before your eyes the ill end of the foolish love of those who, without reason, not measuring their own ability, allow themselves to be guided and led into their sensual lusts and appetites: for ill success never fails in a beginning, the foundation of which, abhorring reason, is planted and laid upon the sandy foundation of pleasure, which is shaken and overthrown by the slightest wind and tempest that Fortune can blow against such a building.
THE FORTY-SECOND NOUELL.
Didaco a Spaniarde, is in loue with a poore maiden of Valencia, and secretly marieth her, afterwardes lothinge his first mariage, because she was of base parentage, he marieth an other of noble birth. His first wyfe, by secrete messenger prayeth his company, whose request he accomplisheth. Beinge a bedde, shee and her maide killeth him. She throweth him into the streate: shee in desperate wise confesseth the facte before the Maiestrates, and is put to death.
Didaco, a Spaniard, is in love with a poor girl from Valencia, and secretly marries her. Later, regretting his first marriage because she comes from a lowly background, he marries someone else from a noble family. His first wife, through a secret messenger, asks for his company, which he agrees to. While in bed, she and her maid kill him. She throws him into the street, then in a desperate move confesses the crime before the authorities and is sentenced to death.
There is no man but doth knowe, that Valencia is at this day, the chiefe and onelye Rampar of Spaine, the true seate of Faith, Iustice and humanity. And amonges all the rare and excellent ornamentes, that Citie is wel furnished with so trimme Ladies and curteous gentlewomen, as they know how to baite and feede yong men with foolish daliaunce, and idle passetime. So that if there be any beetlehead or grosse person, the better to allure and prouoke him to those follies, they tell him by a common Prouerbe: That he must go to Valencia. In this citie there was in old time as it is at this day, a verye aunciente stocke and familie called Ventimiglia, oute of which be descended a great nomber of riche and honourable knightes. Amonges whom, not long time paste, there was one named Didaco, verye famous and renowmed to be the most liberall and familiar gentleman of the City, who (for want of better businesse) walked vppe and downe the citie, and so consumed his youth in triumphes, maskes, and other expences, common and apte for such pilgrimes, addressing his loue indifferently to al women, without greater affection to one, then to an other, and continued that order, till vppon an holy daye, he espyed a yonge maide of fimal yeares, but of very exquisite beauty: which maiden sodainlye castinge her eye vppon him, so pearced the knighte Didaco with her looke, that from that time forth shee entred more neare his hart than any other. And after he had well marked her dwelling place, he many times passed and repassed before the doore, to espie if he might get some loke or other fauour of her, that began already to gouerne the bridle of his 219 thoughtes, and if it chaunced that the gentleman beheld her, she shewed herselfe curteous and amiable, indued with grace so good as he neuer departed ill contented out of the streate. The gentleman continuing certaine time in those vanities, was desirous to know a far of what she was, of what lineage and of what vocation. And after he had curiously searched out all her original, he vnderstoode by diuers reporte, that she was a Goldsmithes doughter, whose father was dead certaine yeares before, hauinge no more but her mother aliue, and two brethren, both of their father’s science. Notwithstanding, of life she was chaste and honest, defamed with none, although she was pursued of many. Her outward beautie did not so much set her forth, as her grace and order of talke, who although brought vp in a Citizen’s house, yet no Lady or gentlewoman in the Citie, was comparable to her in vertue and behauiour. For from her tender yeares, she was not onely giuen to her nedle (a meete exercise for mayds of her degre,) but also was trayned vp to write and reade, wherein she toke so greate pleasure, as ordinarilie shee caried a booke in her hande, which she neuer gaue ouer, till she had gathered som fruit thereof. This knight hauing receyued that first impression, of the valor and vertue of Violenta (for that was her name) was further in loue then before: and that which added more oile to the matche, was the continuall lookes, wherewith she knew how to delighte him: and wyth them shee was so liberall, that so oft as he passed through the streate she shot them forth so cruelly, as his poore hart (feeling it selfe so tormented) could not indure that new onset. By reason whereof, thincking to quench the fire, that by litle and litle consumed him, he attempted her chastity, with giftes, letters, and messengers, which he continued the space of halfe a yeare or more. Whereunto Violenta geuing no place, in the ende hee was constrayned to assayle her with his owne presence: and one daye finding her alone at the doore, after he had made a verye humble reuerence vnto her, he sayde: “Maistresse Violenta, considering your order and the colde regard that you haue to my letters and messages, I do remember the subtiltye that is attributed to the Serpente, who with his taile stoppeth his eares, because he will not heare the words, which hath power to constraine him to do against his wil, which 220 hath made me to leaue to write vnto you, and to desire specially to speake vnto you, that mine affectuous accentes, my sorowful words and feruent sighes mighte certifie you better then paper, the rest of my passion, beleuing verely, that if the heauy sound of my greuous complaints, may come to your delicate eares, they will make you to vnderstand a part of that good and euill, which I feele continually in my harte, although the loue which I beare you, be such as I cannot giue such liuely experience outwardly, being but litle in comparison of them, which may be seene within.” And pronouncing those words, there followed so many teares, sobbes and sighes, as they gaue sufficient testimony, that his tongue was the true and faithfull messenger of his hart. Whereof Violenta some what ashamed, with a constante grace said vnto him: “Senior Didaco, if you do yet remember your life past, and mine honesty (which peraduenture you haue thought either rude or cruell) I doubt not, that you haue any cause to maruaile of my presumption and to attribute that to vice, which is familiar with vertue. For although that you haue sollicited mee to loue you, by an infinite nomber of letters and messages, yet it is so, that following the nature of maydes of my degree, I haue neither allowed them, nor yet condempned them, as wherunto accordingly I haue made no aunswere: not for despite or contempt, but to let you know more certainly, that by fauouring your enterprises, I should increase your griefe, which can receiue none ende by the waye you pretende. For although that I haue made the firste proofe vpon my selfe, and therefore of reason I ought to lamente them, whiche be in semblable paine, yet I will not let slippe the bridle in suche wise to my passion, that mine honestie shall remain in an other man’s power, and (so it may be) at the mercie and curtesie of them, who not knowing howe dere it is to me, shall thinke they haue made a pretie conquest. And that I maye haue no cause to repent to late, I haue stopped mine eares for feare, that I be not arested and stayed with the violence of your charmes, a thing as you say proper to Serpentes. But I haue fortefied my harte, and so armed my inwarde minde, as if God continue that grace in me, which hitherto he hath done, I hope not to be surprised. Although that I must needes confesse (to my shame) that I haue receiued marueilous 221 assaultes of loue, not onely for the common renowme of your vertues, and through the curtesie and gentlenesse dayly imparted to me by your letters, but specially by your presence, whiche hath yelded vnto me experience and assuraunce of that, whiche all the letters of the world could not do, nor all other messages were not able to conceiue. And to the ende that I may not be vtterly ingrate, and that you doe not departe from me, altogether miscontent, I doe promise you nowe that from henceforth, you shall inioye the first place of my harte, whereunto another shall neuer enter: if so be you can be content with honest amitie, wherein you shall finde me in time to come so liberall, in all that whiche honestie shall permitte, that I am contente to forgoe the name of a presumptuous or cruell Damosell for your sake. But if you meane to abuse me, or hope for anye thing of me, contrarie to mine honour, you be meruailously deceiued. Wherefore if you thinke your worthinesse to great to cary away a recompence so small, you shall doe very wel both for me and yourselfe, in forgetting that is past, to cut of all hope in time to come.” And she thinking to prolonge a further discourse, the mother of Violenta which stil stode at the wyndowe al the time that Senior Didaco was with her doughter, came downe to the doore, interrupting their talke, saide to Didaco: “Sir, I suppose you take great pleasure in the follie of my doughter, because you tarie and abide here, rather to contriue your tyme, then for any other contentacion you can receiue. For she is so euill taught, and of suche rude behauiour, that her demeanour will rather trouble you, than geue you cause of delight.” “Maistresse,” said Didaco, “although in the beginning I purposed not to tary so long, yet when I entered in more familiar acquaintaunce and had well experienced her good graces, I confesse that I haue staied here longer then I thought. And were hee neuer so great a Lorde, that liueth at this daie, I dare auouche that he might thinke his tyme well spente, in hearing suche sober and honest talke, wherewith I thinke my selfe so well satisfied and instructed, as all the daies of my life I wyll witnesse, that vertue, curtesie, and sober behauiour is to bee founde, as well in meane degrees and houses, as in them that be right noble, amonges which meane families, although she be one (it maye so be) that 222 one more illustre and noble, can not bee more excellente, and accomplished with better manners, then she: whiche is nowe well manifested to me in this little discourse.” And after certaine other common talke, Didaco took his leaue, and went home to his house, where hee lyued fourtene or fiftene monethes without any reste, assaying by all meanes to mortifie his desires, but it auayled not: For although he was ryche, a trymme Courtiar, and an eloquent gentleman, and had opportunitie to speake vnto her many times, and she gentle enough to heare him, and to vnderstande his errantes, and was assured by frendes that she for her part was also in loue, yet he was not able by humane arte and pollicie, to conuerte her to his mynde. Wherewithall hee was long tyme molested, and at lengthe pressed with griefe and annoyance, hee was aduised to sende sixe hundred ducates to the mother, for a reliefe to the mariage of her doughter, promising besides, that he would assigne her an honest dowrie, when she found a man worthy to be her husbande: vppon condicion that she would yelde to him some comforte, to ease his affection. But shee whiche could not be wonne with loue, was not able to be recouered with money: and was offended that Senior Didaco had forgotten himselfe so farre as to thinke to gaine that for money, which with so great paine, teares and sighes, had bene denied him. And to make him vnderstande howe she was offended, shee sent woorde by him that brought her the money, that he should goe and proue hereafter to deceiue them that measured their honour with the price of profite, and not to sette trappes to deceiue other that would buye nothing hurtfull to vertue. And after Didaco was aduertised of her minde, and perceiued that he lost time in all his enterprises, and was able no longer to susteine his extreme paine and sorowe, whiche daily augmented, and when hee had debated in his minde all the successe of his loue, he resolued in the end vpon that which he thought moste profitable for his quiet, whiche was to marye her. And although she was of no suche house, and yet lesse indowed with substaunce, as he deserued, yet her beautie and vertue, and other giftes of grace, wherewith she was inriched, made her worthie of a great lorde. And resolued vpon this, hee repaired to Violenta, to whom he said: “Maistresse Violenta, if the true touchstone 223 to knowe them that be perfecte louers (amonges other) is mariage, certainly you haue gotten a husbande of me, if it please you to accepte me for suche one, whom in time you shall make to vnderstande the difference betweene goodes and vertue, and betweene honestie and richesse.” Violenta then rauished with ioye, and incredible contentation, somewhat abashed, sayd vnto him: “Senior Didaco, I knowe not whether you pretende by woordes to proue my constancie, or els to bring me into fooles paradise: but of one thing I can assure you, that although I acknowledge my selfe inferiour to you in merites, goodes and vertue, yet if that come to passe which you promise, I will not geue place to you in loue, trusting if God sende us life together, you shall well vnderstande one daye that you would not exchaunge my persone for a greater Ladie, what so euer she be.” For confirmation whereof, Didaco plucked from his finger an Emeralde of great value, which (when he had kissed her) he gaue vnto her in the waye of mariage, praying her that she would not disclose it for a certaine time, vntill he him selfe had made all his frendes priuie vnto it. Notwithstanding, he willed her to imparte the same to her twoo brethren, and to her mother, and he would get some Priest of the countrie to solempnize the mariage within their house: which was doen in a chamber, about fower of the clocke in the morning, being onely present the mother, the brethren, the Prieste, and a seruaunt of the house, brought vp there from her youthe, and his own man, without making any other preparation of coste, requisite for suche a matter. In this sorte they spent the day in great ioye and mirthe (which they can conceiue, that be of base birth, and exalted to some highe degree of honour) till night was come, and then euery man withdrewe them selues, leauing the bride and her husbande to the mercie of loue, and order of the night. Who being alone receiued equal ioye, and like contentation, which they fele that being pressed with ardent and greuous thirste, doe in the ende afterwardes with liuely ioye, and all kinde of libertie, quenche that cruell discommoditie. And continued in those pleasures till morning, that daye began to appeare, to whome Violenta saide: “My honourable Lorde and dere husbande, sithe that you be nowe in possession of that which you haue so greatly desired, I humbly beseeche you, to consider 224 for the time to come, howe and what wyse your pleasure is that I shall vse my selfe. For if God graunt me the grace to be so discrete in pleasing you, as I shalbe readie and desirous to obey you, in all that you shall commaunde mee, there was neuer gentleman’s seruaunt, that did more willingly please his maister, then I hope to doe you.” Whereunto Didaco aunswered: “My sweete and welbeloued wife, let vs leaue this humblenesse and seruice for this time, to them whiche delight in them: for I promise you of my faith, that I haue you in no lesse reuerence and estimation, then if you had come of the greatest house in Cathalongne: as I will make you vnderstande some other time, at more leasure. But till I haue giuen order to certaine of mine affaires, I praye you to kepe our mariage secrete, and bee not offended if many times I do resorte home to mine own house, although ther shall no day passe (by my wil) but at night I wil kepe you companie. In the mean time to buye you necessaries, I will sende you a thousande, or twelue hundred Ducates, to imploye not vpon apparell, or other things requisite to your degree (for I will prouide the same my selfe at an other time) but vpon small trifles, such as be apt and conuenient for householde.” And so departed Senior Didaco from his wiue’s house: who did so louingly interteigne him as by the space of a yeare, there was no daye wherein he was content without the view and sight of his wife. And vpon his ofte resorte to their house, the neighbours began to suspect that he kept the mayden, and rebuked her mother and brethren, but specially Violenta, for suffering Didaco to vse their house in suche secrete wise: and aboue al they lamented the ill happe of Violenta, who being so wel brought vp till she was twentie yeares of age, and maiden of such beautie, that there was none in all the citie of Valencia but greatly did esteme her to be of singuler honestie and reputation. Notwithstanding, degenerating from her accustomed vertue, they iudged her to be light of behauiour, giuen to lasciuious loue: and albeit that verie many times, such checkes and tauntes were obiected, yet she made smal accompte of them, knowing that her conscience by anye meanes was not charged with such reproch: hoping therwithall that one daye she would make them to give ouer that false opinion when her 225 mariage should be published and knowen. But certaine times feeling her selfe touched, and her honestie appaired, could not conteine but when she sawe time with her husband, she prayed him verie earnestlie to haue her home to his own house, to auoyde slaunder and defamacion of neighbours. But sir Didaco knewe so well howe to vse his wife by delaies and promises, as she agreed vnto him in all thinges, and had rather displease the whole world together then offende him alone. Being now so attached with the loue of the knight as she cared for nothing els, but to please and content him in al things wherunto she sawe him disposed, and like as in the beginning she was harde and very slacke in loue, nowe she became so feruent and earnest in her affections as she receiued no pleasure but in the sight of Didaco, or in that which might content and please him best. Which the knight did easely perceiue, and seing him selfe in full possession of her harte, began by litle and litle to waxe cold, and to be grieued at that which before he compted deare and precious, perswading himself that he should do wrong to his reputation, if that mariage vnworthy of his estate, were discouered and knowen in the citie: and to prouide for the same, he more seldome tymes repaired to visite his wife Violenta: yea and when soeuer he resorted to her, it was more to satisfie his carnall pleasure, then for any loue he bare her. And thus forgetting both God and his own conscience, he frequented other companies in diuerse places, to winne the good will of some other gentlewoman. In the ende by sundrie sutes, dissimulations, and hipocrisies, he so behaued him self, as he recouered the good wil of the doughter of Senior Ramyrio Vigliaracuta, one of the chiefest knightes, and of moste auncient house of Valentia. And (as we haue declared before) because he was ritche and wealthie, and issued of a noble race, her parentes did easely agree to the mariage: and the father hauing assigned an honourable dowrie to his doughter, the Nupcials were celebrated publikely with greate pompe and solemnitie, to the singuler contentation of all men. The mariage done and ended, Sir Didaco and his newe wife continued at the house of his father in lawe, where he liued a certaine time in suche pleasure and delectation as they do that be newly maried. Wherof the mother and 226 brethren of Violenta being aduertised, conceiued like sorowe, as accustomably they doe, that see the honor of them that be issued of their owne bloud vniustly and without cause to be dispoiled. And these poore miserable creatures, not knowing to whom to make their complainte, liued in straunge perplexitie, bicause they knew not the priest which did solempnise their mariage. On the other side they had no sufficient proofe of the same. And albeit they were able to verifie in some poinctes the first mariage of Didaco, yet they durst not prosecute the lawe against two of the greatest Lordes of their citie: and knowing the stoute hart of Violenta, they thought to conceale the same from her for a time, but it was in vaine: for not long after shee was certified thereof, not onely by the next neighbours, but by the common brute of the Citie, which reported that in tenne yeres space, there was not seen in Valencia, a Mariage more honourable or royall, nor frequented with a nobler companie of Gentlemen and Ladies, then the same was of the yong knight Didaco, with the doughter of Senior Ramyrio. Wherewithall Violenta vexed beyonde measure pressed with yre and furie, withdrewe herselfe into her chamber alone, and there began to scratche and teare her face and heare, like one that was madde and out of her wittes, saying: “Alas, alas, what payne and trouble, what vnmeasurable tormentes suffreth nowe my poore afflicted mynde, without comfort or consolation of any creature liuing? what dure and cruell penaunce doe I susteine, for none offence at all? Ah! fortune, fortune, the enemy of my felicitie and blisse, thou haste so depriued me of all remedie, as I dare not so muche as to make any man know or vnderstand my mishap that the same might be reuenged, which being doen would render such content to my minde, that I should departe out of this worlde the beste satisfied mayden that euer died. Alas, that the Goddes did not graunte me the benefite, that I might haue come of noble kinde, to the intente I might haue caused that trayterous ruffien, to feele the grieuous paine and bitter tormentes, which my poore harte susteineth. Ah wretched caitife that I am, abandoned and forlorne of all good fortune: nowe I doe see that with the eies of my minde, which with those of my body daseled and deceiued I could not see or perceiue. Ah cruell enemy of all 227 pitie, doest thou not knowe and feele in thy minde, the heauie and sorowfull sounde of my bitter plaintes? Vnderstandest not thou my voyce that crieth vengeaunce vpon thee for thy misdede? Can not thy crueltie in nothing be diminished seing me dismembred with the terrour of a thousand furious martirdomes? Ah ingrate wretche, is this nowe the rewarde of my loue, of my faithfull seruice, and mine obedience?” And as she thus bitterly tormented her selfe, her mother and brethren, and her maide, whiche was brought vp with her from her tender yeres, went vp to the chamber to Violenta, where they found her then so deformed with rage and furie, that almoste she was out of their knowledge. And when they went about to reduce her by al meanes possible from those furious panges, and saw that it nothing auailed, they lefte her in the keeping of the olde maiden, whom she loued aboue any other. And after the maiden had vttered vnto her particularly many reasons, for the appeasing of her griefe, she told her that if she would be quiet a litle while, she would go and speake to the knight Didaco, and make him to vnderstand his fault. And would with discrete order so deale with him, that he should come home to her house, and therefore shee prayed her to arme herselfe against this wickednes, and to dissemble the matter for a time, that hereafter she might vse vpon him iust reuenge. “No, no Ianique” answered Violenta, “that offence is very small and lighte, where counsaile is receiued: and albeit that I cannot chose, but confesse thine aduise to be very meete, yet there wanteth in me a minde to followe it: that if I did feele any part in me disposed to obeye the same, I would euen before thy face, separate that minde from my wretched bodie: for I am so resolued in the mallice and hatred of Didaco, as he cannot satisfie me without life alone. And I beliue the gods did cause me to be borne with mine owne hands to execute vengeaunce of their wrath and the losse of mine honour. Wherefore, Ianique, if from my youth thou diddest euer loue me, shew now the same to me by effect, in a matter whereunto thy helpe is moste necessary: for I am so outraged in my mischiefe, as I do enuie the miserablest creatures of the world, remayning no more in me to continue life in wailing and continuall sighes, but the title of a vile and 228 abhominable whore. Thou art a straunger and liuest here a beastly life, ioyned with continuall labour: I haue twelve hundred crownes with certaine Iewelles, which that false traitour gaue me, which he predestinated by the heauens for none other purpose but to paie them their hire, which shall do the vengeaunce vpon his disloyall persone. I doe put the same money nowe into thy hands, if thou wilte helpe mee to make sacrifice with the bodye of poore Didaco: but if thou doest denie me thy helpe I will execute the same alone: and in case he do not die, as I do intende, he shalbe murdred as I may, for the first time that I shal see him with mine eyes, come of it what will, his life shalbe dispatched with these two trembling hands which thou seest.” Ianique seing her maistresse in these termes, and knowinge her stoute nature, indued with a manly and inuincible stomacke, after shee had debated manye thinges in her minde, she determined wholie to imploye herselfe for her maistres in that shee was able to doe. Moued partly with pitie to see her maistres dishonored with a defamed mariage, and partly prouoked with couetousnes to gaine so great a summe of money, which her maistres did offer if she would condiscende to her enterprise (thinking after the facte committed, to flee into some other countrie.) And when shee was throughlye resolued vppon the same, shee imbraced Violenta, and said vnto her: “Maistres, if you will be ruled by mee, and giue ouer the vehemencie of your wrathe and displeasure, I haue found a way for you to be reuenged vppon Didaco, who hath so wickedly deceyued you: and albeit the same cannot be doen secretly, but in the end it must be knowen, yet I doubte not but the cause declared before the iudges, and they vnderstandinge the wronge hee hath doen you, they wil haue compassion vpon your miserie: who know right well that alwayes you haue been knowen and esteemed for a very honest and vertuous maiden: and to the ende that you be informed how this matter may be broughte to passe, first you must learne to dissemble your griefe openlye, and to faine your selfe in anye wise not to bee offended with the new mariage of the knight. Then you shall write vnto him a letter with your owne hande, letting him therby to vnderstande the paine that you suffer for the great loue you beare him, and ye shal 229 humblie beseech him, some times to come and visite you. And sithe that frowarde fortune will not suffre you to be his wife, yet that it would please him to vse you as his louer, that you maye possesse the second place of his loue, sith by reason of his new wife you cannot inioy the first. Thus the deceiuour shalbe begiled by thinkinge to haue you at his commaundment as he was wont to doe: and being come hither to lie with you, we will handle him in such wise, as I haue inuented, that in one nighte he shal lose his life, his wife, and her whom hee thinketh to haue for his louer: for when he is a bedde with you, and fallen into his first sleepe, we will sende him into another place where in a more sonder sleepe hee shall euerlastinglie continue.” Violenta all this time which fed her bloudie and cruell harte with none other repaste but with rage and disdaine, began to bee appeased, and founde the counsaile of Ianique so good, as she wholy purposed to follow the same. And to begin her enterprise, shee prayde Ianique for a time to withdrawe her selfe, vntill shee had written her letter, by the tenor whereof shee should vnderstande with what audacitie shee would prosecute the reste: and being alone in her chamber, takinge penne and paper, she wrote to Didaco, with fayned hart as followeth. “Senior Didaco I am perswaded, that if you wil vouchsafe to read and peruse the contentes of these my sorowful letters, you shalbe moued with some compassion and pitie, by beholdinge the true Image of my miserable life, pourtrayed and painted in the same, which through your disloyaltie and breach of promise is consumed and spent with so many teares, sighes, tormentes and griefes, that diuers times I maruaile howe Nature can so long support and defende the violente assaultes of so cruell a martyrdome, and that she hath not many times torne my feeble spirite out of this cruell and mortall prison: which maketh me to thinke and beleeue by continuinge life, that death himselfe hath conspired my miserie, and is the companion of my affliction: considering that by no torment she is able to make diuision betweene my soule and body. Alas, how many tenne hundred thousande times in a day haue I called for death, and yet I cannot make her to recline her eares vnto my cries. Alas, how many times am I vanquished with the sharpe tormentes of sorowe, readie to take my 230 leaue and last farewell of you, being arriued to the extreme panges of death. Behold Didaco mine ordinary delites, behold my pleasures, behold all my pastime. But yet this is but litle in respect of that which chaunceth in the night: for if it happen that my poore eyes doe fall a sleepe, weary with incessaunt drawing forth of well springes of teares, slombring dreames cease not then to vexe and afflict my minde, wyth the cruellest tormentes that are possible to be deuised, representing vnto me by their vglie and horrible visions, the ioye and contentacion of her, which inioyeth my place: wherby the greatest ioy which I conceiue is not inferior to cruell death. Thus my life maintayned with continuacion of sorowes and griefes, is persecuted in most miserable wise: now (as you know) I dailye passe my sorow, vnder painefull silence, thinkinge that your olde promisses, confirmed with so many othes, and the assured proof which you still haue had of my faith and constancie, would haue brought you to some order, but now seing with mine eyes, the hard metall of your harte, and the crueltie of my fate, which wholie hath subdued mee to your obedience, for respect of mine honour: I am forced to complaine of him that beateth mee and thereby despoileth mee both of mine honour and life, not vouchsafing onely so much as ones to come vnto mee. And vncertaine to whom I may make recourse, or where to finde redresse, I appeale vnto you, to thende that seing in what leane and vglie state I am, your cruelty maye altogether be satisfied, which beholdinge a sighte so pitifull, wherein the figure of my tormente is liuely expressed, it may be moued to some compassion. Come hither then thou cruell manne, come hither I saye, to visite her whom with some signe of humanitie, thou maiest staye or at least wise mollifie and appease the vengeaunce which shee prepareth for thee: and if euer sparke of pitie did warme thy frosen hart, arme thy selfe with greater crueltie then euer thou was wont to doe, and come hither to make her sobbe her laste and extreme sighes, whom thou haste wretchedly deceiued: for in doing otherwise thou maiest peraduenture to late, bewaile my death and thy beastlye crueltie.” And thinking to make a conclusion of her letter, the teares made her woords to die in her mouth, and woulde not suffer her to write any more: 231 wherefore she closed and sealed the same, and then calling Ianique vnto her she said: “Holde, gentle Ianique, carye these letters vnto him, and if thou canste so well play thy part as I haue doen mine, I hope wee shall haue shortly at our commaundemente him that is the occasion of this my painfull life, more greuous vnto me then a thousand deathes together.” Ianique hauing the letter, departed with diligence, and went to the house of the father in lawe of Didaco, where quietly shee waited till shee mighte speake with some of the house, which was within a while after: for one of the seruauntes of Didaco whom she knew right well, wente about certaine his maisters busines, and meeting Ianique was abashed. Of whom she demaunded if the Lord Didaco were within, and saide that she would faine speake with him: but if it were possible she would talke with him secretly. Whereof Didaco aduertised, came forth to her into the streate, to whom smilingly (hauing made to him a fayned reuerence) she said: “Senior Didaco, I can neither write nor reade, but I dare laie my life, ther is sute made vnto you by these letters, which Madame Violenta hath sent vnto you. And in deede to say the truth, there is great iniurie doen vnto her of your parte, not in respecte of your new mariage: (for I neuer thought that Violenta was a wife meete for you, considering the difference of your estates) but because you wil not vouchsafe to come vnto her, seeming that you make no more accompte of her and speciallye for that you prouide no mariage for her in som other place. And assure your selfe she is so farre in loue with you, that she is redie to die as she goeth, in such wise that making her complaint vnto me this day weeping, she said vnto me: ‘Well, for so much then as I cannot haue him to be my husbande, I would to God he would mainteigne me for his frende, and certaine times in the weeke to come to see mee specially in the night, lest he should be espied of the neighbours.’ And certainly if you would followe her minde herein, you shall do very well: for the case standeth thus, you may make your auaunte that you be prouided of so faire a wife, and with so beautifull a frende as any gentleman in Valentia.” And then Ianique deliuered him the letter, which he receiued and redde, and hauing well considered the tenor of the same he was incontinently surprised 232 with a sodaine passion: for hatred and pitie, loue and disdaine (as within a Cloude be conteined hotte and colde, with many contrary winds) began to combate together, and to vexe his hart with contrary minds, then pawsinge vpon answere, he said vnto her: “Ianique, my dere frende recommende mee to the good grace and fauour of thy maistres, and say vnto her, that for this time I will make her no answere, but to morow at fower of the clocke in the morning I will be at her house, and keepe her companie all the daye and nighte, and then I will tell her what I haue doen sithens I departed last from her, trusting shee shall haue no cause to be offended with me.” And then Ianique taking her leaue, retourned towarde Violenta, telling her what shee had doen. To whom Violenta answeared: “Ianique, if thou hast made a good beginninge to our plotted enterprise, I likewise for my part haue not slept. For I haue deuised that wee must prouide for a stronge roape, which wee will fasten to the beddes side, and when hee shalbe a sleepe, I will caste the other ende of the rope to thee, ouerthwart the bedde, that thou maiest plucke the same with all thy mighte, and before thou beginnest to pull I will with a knife cutte his throate, wherefore thou muste prepare two great kniues, what soeuer they cost, but I pray thee let me alone with doing of the facte, that I may dispatche him of his life, which alone did make the first assault to the breach of mine honour.” Ianique knew so well how to prouide for all that was requisite for the execution of their enterprise, as there rested nothing but opportunitie, to sort their cruel purpose to effect. The knight sir Didaco, at the houre appointed, tolde his new wife that he must go into the countrie, to take order for the state of his land, and that he could not retourne, til the next day in the morning. Which she by and by beleued: and the better to couer his fact, he caused two horse to be made redie, and rode forth when the clocke strake iiii. And when he had riden through a certain streat, he said to his man, which was wonte to serue his tourne in loue matters: “Carie my horse to such a manour in the countrie, and tarrie there all this day, and to morowe morning come seeke mee in suche a place, when I am gone from the house of Violenta. In the meane time set my horse in some Inne: for in any wise I will haue no 233 man know that I doe lie there.” Which doen the maister and the seruaunte wente two seuerall wayes. The knight being come to the house of Violenta, he found Ianique tarying for him, with good deuocion to vse him according to his desert, and conueyed him to the chamber of Violenta, and then she retourned about her busines. The knighte kissed Violenta and bad her good morowe, asking her how she did? Whom Violenta aunsweared: “Sir Didaco, you bid me good morrow in words, but in deede you go about to prepare for me a heuie and sorowfull life. I beleeue that your minde beareth witnes, of the state of my welfare: for you haue broughte me to such extremitie, that you see right wel how nothing els but my voice declareth me to be a woman, and therewithall so feeble a creature, as I still craue and call for death or for pitie, although both of thone and of the other, I am not heard at all: and yet thincke not Didaco, that I am so farre out of my wittes to beleeue that the cause of my writing the letter was for hope, that (you remembring my bitter paines, and your owne hainous crime) I coulde euer moue you to pitie: for I am perswaded that you wil neuer cease to exhauste and sucke the bloud, honor, and life of them that credite your trumperies and deceiptes, as nowe by experience I know by my selfe, with such deadly sorow that I still attende and loke for the sorowful ende of my life.” Didaco seing her thus afflicted, fearing that her cholere woulde further inflame, began to cull her, and to take her now into his armes, telling her that his mariage with the doughter of Vigliaracuta, was concluded more by force then his owne will and minde, because they pretended to haue a gift of all the lande and goods he had in succession after his father was dead, which if they did obtain by law he should be a begger all the dayes of his life, and that the same was doen to prouide for the quiet state of them both, and notwithstanding hee had maried an other wife, yet hee purposed to loue none but her, and meant in time to poison his wife, and to spend the rest of his life with her. And thus seeming to remedie his former fault, by surmised reports, chauntinge vppon the cordes of his pleasaunt tongue, hee thought with Courtlike allurements, to appease her, which had her wittes to well sharpened to be twise taken in one trap, howbeit for feare 234 of driuing him awaye, and to loose the meane to accomplish that which she intended, she said vnto him with forced smiling: “Sir Didaco, although you haue so ill vsed mee in time paste, as I haue no greate cause to beleeue your presente woordes, yet the loue that I beare you, is so rooted in my harte, as the faulte muste be verye greate, which shoulde remoue the same: in consideration whereof, I will constraine myselfe to beleeue that your woords be true, vpon condicion that you will sweare and promise to lie with me here ones or twyse a weeke. For me thinke that if I might at times inioye your presence, I should remaine in some part of your grace and fauour, and liue the best contented woman a liue.” Whereunto hee willingly agreed, with a great nomber of other like protestations, prompte and redy in them which meane deceipt. But in the poore miserable woman had perced the same in the depth of her harte, and had credited all that he spake, no doubte he woulde haue chaunged his minde. Thus either partes spente the daye in cold and dissembled flatteries till darke nighte, with his accustomed silence, did deliuer them the meane to exercise their cruell facte. So sone as supper was doen, Didaco and Violenta walked vp and downe together, talking of certaine common matters, till the knight (pressed with slepe) commaunded his bed to be made redie: it neded not then to inquire with what diligence Violenta and Ianique obeyed his requeste: in whome onely as they thought consisted the happe, or mishappe of their intent: to whom because Violenta might shewe her selfe more affectionate, went first to bedde, and so sone as they were layde, Ianique drewe the curteines and tooke away Didaco his swoorde, and making as though she had a thing to do vnder the bedde, she fastened the rope and raked vp the fire which was in the chimney, carying a stoole to the beddes side, and layd vpon the same twoo great kechin knifes, which doen she put out the candle, and, fayning to goe out of the chamber, she shut the dore and went in againe. And then the poore infortunate knight, thinking that he was alone in the chamber with Violenta, began to clepe and kisse her, whereunto she made no refusal, but desirous to renew his old priuate toies, she prayed him of al loue that he bare vnto her to kepe truce for twoo or three howers, for that the 235 night was long inough to satisfie his desires, affirming that it was impossible for her to wake, because fiue or sixe dayes before by reason of her griefes, she had not slept at all, notwithstanding, she said, that after her first sleepe she would willingly obey him: wherunto the gentleman was easely perswaded, aswell bicause he hadde els where sufficiently staunched his thurst, as also for that he was loth to displease her: and faining her selfe to sleepe, she turned her face to the other side, and in that wyse continued, till the poore gentleman was fallen into his sound slepe. Then Ianique softly conueyed the rope ouer his bodye, and gaue it to Violenta, and after she had placed it according to her minde, as they together had deuised before, she deliuered thende to Ianique, who being at the beddes side satte down vpon the grounde, and folding the rope about her armes, hoisted her twoo feete against the bedde to pull with greater force when nede required. Not long after, Violenta toke one of the great knifes, and lifting her selfe vp softlye, she proued with her hand, to seke a place most meete for her to stabbe a hole into her enemies fleshe. And inchaunted with wrath, rage and furie, like another Medea, thrust the poincte of the knife with suche force into his throte as shee perced it through, and the poore vnhappie man thinking to resiste the same, by geuing some repulse against that aduerse and heauie fortune, was appalled, who feeling a new charge geuen vpon him againe, specially being intricated with the roape, was not able to sturre hande nor foote, and through the excessiue violence of the paine, his speache and power to crie, was taken away: in such sorte that after he had receiued tenne or twelue mortall woundes one after an other, his poore martired soule departed from his sorowfull body. Violenta hauing ended her determined enterprise, commaunded Ianique to light the candle, and approching nere the knightes face, shee sawe by and by that he was without life. Then not able to satisfie her bloudye harte, ne yet to quenche her furious rage which boiled in her stomacke, she with the poinct of the knife tare out the eyes from his head, crying out vpon them with hideous voice, as if they had ben aliue: “Ah traiterous eyes, the messengers of a minde most villanous that euer seiorned within the bodie of man: come out of your shamelesse siege for euer, for the spring of your fained 236 teares is now exhausted and dried vp.” Then shee played the Bocher vppon those insensible members, continuing still her rage, and cruelly seazed vpon the tongue, which with her bloudy handes she haled out of his mouth, and beholding the same with a murderous eie as she was cutting it of, sayd: “Oh abhominable and periured tongue, how many lies diddest thou frame in the same, before thou couldest with the canon shot of this poysoned member, make breache into my virginitie: whereof now being depriued by thy meanes, I franckly accelerate my self to death, wherunto thou presently hast opened the way.” And when shee had separated this litle member from the reste of the body (insaciable of crueltie) with the knife ripped a violent hole into his stomacke, and launching her cruel handes vpon his harte she tare it from the place, and gashing the same with many blowes, she said: “Ah, vile hart, harder then the Diamont whose andeuile forged the infortunate trappes of these my cruel destenies! oh that I could haue discoured thy cogitations in time past, as I doe now thy materiall substaunce, that I might haue bene preserued from thine abhominable treason, and detestable infidelitie.” Then fleashing her selfe vpon the dead body, as a hungry lion vpon his praye, she lefte no parte of him vnwounded: and when shee had mangled his bodye all ouer, with an infinite number of gashes, she cried out: “O infected carrion, whilom an organ and instrumente of the moste vnfaithfull and trayterous minde that euer was vnder the coape of heauen. Nowe thou art payed with deserte, worthy of thy merites!” Then shee sayed to Ianique (whiche with great terrour, had all this whyle viewed her play this pageant) “Ianique I feele my selfe now so eased of payne that come death when he will, he shal find me strong and lustie to indure his furious assault, which of long time I haue assaied. Helpe me then to traine this corps out of my father’s house, wherein I was first defloured, then will I tell thee what thou shalt doe: for like as mine honestie is stayned and published abrode, euen so will I the reuenge to be manifeste, crauing that his bodie may be exponed to the viewe of all men.” Whose request Ianique obeied: and then she and Violenta toke the body, and threwe it out at one of the chamber wyndowes down vpon the pauement of 237 the streate, with all the partes which she had cut of. That done she sayd to Ianique: “Take this casket with all the money within the same, and shippe thy selfe at the next port thou shalt come to, and get thee ouer into Africa to saue thy life so spedely as thou canst, and neuer come into these partes again, nor to any other wher thou art knowen.” Which Ianique purposed to doe, although Violenta had not consailed her thereunto: and ready to departe, shee gaue a sorowefull farewell to her maistres, and betoke her selfe to her good fortune: and from that time forth, no man could tell whether she went, for all the persute made after her. So sone as daye appeared, the firste that passed by the streate espied the dead bodie, whiche by reason of the noyse and brute made throughout the towne, caused many people to come and see it: but no man knew what he was, being disfiguered as well by reason of the eyes torne out of his head, as for other partes mutilated and deformed. And about eight of the clocke in the morning, there was suche a multitude of people assembled, as it was in maner impossible to come nere it. The moste parte thought that some theues in the nighte had committed that murder: whiche opinion seemed to be true, because he was in his shurte: other some were of contrary opinion: and Violenta, whiche was at the wyndowe, hearing their sundrie opinions came downe and with a bolde courage and stoute voyce, that euery man might heare, said; “Sirs, you do contend vpon a thing whereof (if I were demaunded the question of the magistrates of this citie) I am able to render assured testimonie: and without great difficultie this murder can not be discouered by any other but by me.” Whiche woordes the people did sone beleue, thinking that diuers gentlemen ielous of Violenta had made a fraye: for she had now loste her auncient reputacion by meanes of Didaco, who (as the fame and common reporte was bruted) did keepe her. When she had spoken those wordes, the Iudges were incontinently aduertised as well of the murder as of that whiche Violenta had said, and went thither with Sergeauntes and Officers, where they founde Violenta, more stoute then any of the standers by: and inquired of her immediatlye howe that murder came to passe, but shee without feare or appallement, made this aunswere: “Hee that you see here dead, is the 238 Lorde Didaco: and because it apperteineth to many to vnderstand the trouth of his death (as his father in lawe, his wife and other kinsmen) I would in their presence, if it please you to cause them to be called hither declare what I knowe.” The Magistrates amased to see so great a Lorde so cruelly slayne, committed her to warde til after dinner, and commaunded that all the before named should bee summoned to appeare: who assembled in the palace, with such a number of the people, as the iudges could skant haue place: Violenta in the presence of them all, without any rage or passion, first of all recompted vnto them the chast loue betwene Didaco and her, whiche hee continued the space of fourtene or fiftene monethes, without receiuing any fruicte or commoditie thereof. Within a whyle after (he being vanquished with loue) maried her secretly at her house, and solempnized the nuptialles by a Prieste vnknowen: declaring moreouer, how they had liued a yere together in householde, without any occasion of offence, on her part geuen vnto him. Then she rehersed before them his seconde mariage with the doughter of such a man, being there present, adding for conclusion, that sith he had made her to lose her honestie, shee had sought meanes to make him to loose his life: which she executed with the helpe of Ianique her mayde: who by her aduise being loth to liue any longer, had drowned her selfe. And after she had declared the true state of the matter, passed betwene them, shee sayd for conclusion, that all that she had rehersed was not to incite or moue them to pitie or compassion, thereby to prolong her life, whereof shee iudged her self vnworthy: “For if you (quoth she) do suffer me to escape your handes, thinking to saue my body, you shalbe the cause and whole ruine of my soule, for with these mine owne handes, which you see before you, I will desperatly cut of the thred of this my life.” And with those wordes she held her peace: wherat the people amased, and moued with pitie, let fall the luke warme teares from their dolourouse eyes and lamented the misfortune of that poore creature: imputing the fault vppon the dead knight, which vnder colour of mariage had deceiued her. The Magistrates determining further to deliberate vpon the matter, caused the dead bodie to be buried, and committed Violenta againe to warde, 239 taking away from her kniues and other weapons, wherewith they thought shee might hurt her selfe. And vsed such diligent search and inquirie, that the Priest which maried them was found out, and the seruaunt of Didaco that was present at the mariage of Violenta, being examined, deposed how by his maister’s commaundement he caried his horse into the countrie, and how he commaunded him to come to him againe the nexte morning to the house of Violenta. And all thinges were so well brought to light, as nothing wanted for further inuestigation of the truthe, but onely the confession of him that was dead. And Violenta by the common opinion of the Judges was condempned to be beheaded: not only for that she had presumed to punishe the knightes tromperie and offence, but for her excessiue crueltie doen vpon the dead body. Thus infortunate Violenta ended her life, her mother and brethren being acquited: and was executed in the presence of the duke of Calabria, the sonne of king Frederic of Aragon: which was that time the Viceroy there, and afterwardes died at Torry in Fraunce: who incontinently after caused this historie to be registred, with other thinges worthy of remembraunce, chaunced in his time at Valencia. Bandell doth wryte, that the mayde Ianique was put to death with her maistres: but Paludanus a Spaniard, a liue at that time, writeth an excellent historie in Latine, wherin he certainly declareth that she was neuer apprehended, which opinion (as most probable) I haue folowed.
There isn't a person who doesn't know that Valencia is today the chief and only stronghold of Spain, the true seat of Faith, Justice, and Humanity. And among all the rare and excellent adornments, that city is well-furnished with such lovely Ladies and courteous gentlewomen, who know how to entice and occupy young men with foolish flattery and idle pastimes. So if there’s any dullard or clumsy person, to better attract him to those follies, they tell him with a common proverb that he must go to Valencia. In this city, there was, in ancient times as it is today, a very old line and family called Ventimiglia, out of which descended a great number of rich and honorable knights. Among them, not long ago, there was one named Didaco, who was very famous and known as the most generous and friendly gentleman of the city, who, for lack of better business, walked up and down the city and wasted his youth in triumphs, masquerades, and other expenses, common and appropriate for such wanderers, addressing his love rather indifferently to all women, without greater affection for one than another, and continued this way, until on a holy day, he spotted a young maiden of fimal years but of exquisite beauty: this maiden suddenly casting her eye upon him pierced knight Didaco so strongly with her look that from that time on she entered closer to his heart than any other. After he had observed her dwelling place well, he often passed by her door, seeking if he might get some glance or favor from her, who already began to control the reins of his thoughts, and if by chance the gentleman beheld her, she showed herself courteous and amiable, endowed with grace, such that he never left the street feeling ill-content. Continuing this way for a time in those vanities, he was eager to learn more about what she was, her lineage and vocation. After he had searched out all her background, he understood from various reports that she was the daughter of a goldsmith, whose father had died several years before, having no one alive but her mother and two brothers, both of their father’s trade. However, in life, she was chaste and honest, defamed by none, although pursued by many. Her outward beauty did not accentuate her as much as her grace and way of speaking, for though she was raised in a citizen's house, no lady or gentlewoman in the city was comparable to her in virtue and behavior. From her early years, she was not only devoted to her needle (a fitting exercise for maidens of her standing), but she was also trained to write and read, in which she took such pleasure that she usually carried a book in her hand, which she never set down until she had gathered some fruit from it. This knight, having received that first impression of the valor and virtue of Violenta (for that was her name), was deeper in love than before. What added more fuel to the fire was the continuous looks with which she knew how to delight him; with them, she was so liberal that whenever he passed through the street, she shot them forth so piercingly that his poor heart, feeling itself tormented, could not bear that new onslaught. Because of this, thinking to quench the fire that little by little consumed him, he attempted her chastity with gifts, letters, and messengers, which he continued for about half a year or more. To which Violenta giving no place, in the end, he was forced to assault her with his own presence: and one day finding her alone at the door, after he had made a very humble reverence to her, he said: “Mistress Violenta, considering your demeanor and the cold regard that you have to my letters and messages, I am reminded of the subtlety attributed to the Serpent, who with its tail stops its ears, because it will not hear the words, which have the power to compel it to act against its will, which has led me to stop writing to you and to especially desire to speak with you so that my heartfelt expressions, my sorrowful words, and fervent sighs might convey to you better than paper the rest of my passion, believing truly that if the heavy sound of my grievous complaints reaches your delicate ears, they will make you understand a part of the good and evil, which I feel continually in my heart, although the love I bear you is such that I cannot give such lively experience outwardly, being but little compared to what may be seen within.” And upon saying these words, there followed so many tears, sobs, and sighs that they gave sufficient testimony that his tongue was the true and faithful messenger of his heart. Whereof Violenta somewhat ashamed, with a steady grace said to him: “Sir Didaco, if you still remember your past life and my honor (which perhaps you have thought either rude or cruel) I doubt not that you have every reason to marvel at my presumption and to attribute to vice what is familiar with virtue. For although you have solicited me to love you by an infinite number of letters and messages, it is so that, following the nature of maidens of my standing, I have neither approved of them nor condemned them, and to which I have made no answer: not out of spite or contempt, but to let you know more certainly that by favoring your pursuits, I would increase your grief, which can receive no end by the way you intend. For although I have made the first proof upon myself, and therefore of reason I ought to lament for those who are in similar pain, yet I will not let slip the reins in such a way to my passion that my honesty shall remain in another man’s power, and (so it may be) at the mercy and courtesy of those who not knowing how dear it is to me, will think they have made a pretty conquest. And so I have stopped my ears for fear that I be not arrested and detained by the violence of your charms, something you say is proper to serpents. But I have fortified my heart, and so armed my inward mind that if God continues that grace in me, which hitherto he has done, I hope not to be surprised. Although I must needs confess (to my shame) that I have suffered marvelous assaults of love, not only for the common renown of your virtues and through the courtesy and gentleness daily imparted to me by your letters, but especially by your presence, which has given me experience and assurance of that which all the letters of the world could not do, nor all other messages could conceive. And to the end that I may not be utterly ungrateful, and that you do not leave me, altogether discontented, I promise you now that from henceforth, you shall enjoy the first place in my heart, wherein another shall never enter: if so be you can be content with honest friendship, in which you shall find me in the future so generous, in all that which honesty will permit, that I am willing to forgo the title of a presumptuous or cruel Lady for your sake. But if you mean to abuse me or hope for anything from me, contrary to my honor, you are greatly mistaken. Therefore if you think your worthiness too great to carry away a reward so small, you will do very well for both me and yourself, in forgetting what is past to cut off all hope for the future.” And she, thinking to prolong the conversation, the mother of Violenta, who had stood at the window all the time that Sir Didaco was with her daughter, came down to the door, interrupting their talk, and said to Didaco: “Sir, I suppose you take great pleasure in my daughter’s folly, because you linger here, rather to waste your time than for any other contentment you may receive. For she is so poorly taught and of such rude behavior, that her demeanor will rather trouble you than give you cause for delight.” “Mistress,” said Didaco, “although in the beginning I did not purpose to stay so long, yet when I entered into more familiar acquaintance and had well experienced her good graces, I confess that I have stayed here longer than I thought. And were he ever so great a Lord alive today, I dare assure that he might think his time well spent, in hearing such sober and honest talk, of which I consider myself so well satisfied and instructed, that all the days of my life I will witness that virtue, courtesy, and sober behavior is to be found, as well in mean degrees and houses, as in those that are truly noble, among which mean families, although she is one (it may be so) that one more illustrious and noble cannot be more excellent and accomplished with better manners, than she: which is now well manifested to me in this little discourse.” And after some other common talk, Didaco took his leave and went home to his house, where he lived fourteen or fifteen months without any rest, trying by all means to mortify his desires, but it availed not: For though he was rich, a trim courtier, and an eloquent gentleman, with the opportunity to speak to her many times, and she gentle enough to hear him and to understand his intentions, and was assured by friends that she on her part was also in love, yet he was unable by human art and policy to convert her to his mind. Wherewith he was long troubled, and at length pressed with grief and annoyance, he decided to send six hundred ducats to the mother, as a relief for the marriage of her daughter, promising besides that he would assign her an honest dowry when she found a man worthy to be her husband: upon condition that she would yield him some comfort to ease his affection. But she, who could not be won by love, was unable to be recovered by money: and was offended that Sir Didaco had forgotten himself so far as to think to gain that for money, which with so much pain, tears, and sighs had been denied him. And to make him understand how she was offended, she sent word by him who brought her the money that he should go and try in the future to deceive those who measure their honor by the price of profit, and not to set traps to deceive others who would buy nothing hurtful to virtue. And after Didaco was notified of her mind, and perceived that he was losing time in all his endeavors, and could no longer endure his extreme pain and sorrow, which daily increased, when he had debated in his mind all the outcome of his love, he resolved in the end upon that which he thought most profitable for his peace of mind, which was to marry her. And although she was of no such house, and even less endowed with substance than he deserved, yet her beauty and virtue, and other gifts of grace, wherewith she was enriched, made her worthy of a great lord. And resolved upon this, he repaired to Violenta, to whom he said: “Mistress Violenta, if the true touchstone to know those who are perfect lovers (among others) is marriage, certainly you have gained a husband of me, if it pleases you to accept me as such, whom in time you shall make understand the difference between wealth and virtue, and between honesty and riches.” Violenta, then ravished with joy and incredible contentment, somewhat abashed, said to him: “Sir Didaco, I do not know whether you intend by words to test my constancy, or else to bring me into a fool’s paradise: but one thing I can assure you, that although I acknowledge myself inferior to you in merits, wealth, and virtue, yet if that comes to pass which you promise, I will not yield my place to you in love, trusting if God sends us life together you will one day understand well that you would not exchange my person for a greater lady, whoever she may be.” To confirm this, Didaco took from his finger an emerald of great value, which (when he had kissed her) he gave to her as a way of marriage, asking her not to disclose it for a certain time, until he himself had made all his friends privy to it. Nevertheless, he asked her to share it with her two brothers and her mother, and he would get some priest from the countryside to solemnize the marriage in their house: which was done in a chamber, about four o'clock in the morning, being only present the mother, the brothers, the priest, and a servant of the house, brought up there from her youth, and his own man, without making any other preparation of cost, necessary for such a matter. In this way, they spent the day in great joy and mirth (which they can conceive, who are of low birth and exalted to some high degree of honor) till night came, and then everyone withdrew, leaving the bride and her husband to the mercy of love and order of the night. Being alone, they received equal joy and like contentment as those who pressed with ardent and grievous thirst, in the end, with lively joy, and all kinds of liberty, quench that cruel discomfort. And they continued in those pleasures until morning, when day began to appear, to whom Violenta said: “My honorable lord and dear husband, since you are now in possession of that which you have so greatly desired, I humbly beseech you to consider for the time to come how and in what manner your pleasure is that I shall behave. For if God grants me the grace to be so discreet in pleasing you, as I shall be ready and eager to obey you in all that you shall command me, there was never gentleman’s servant who did more willingly please his master than I hope to do you.” To which Didaco answered: “My sweet and beloved wife, let us leave this humility and service for this time, to those who delight in them: for I promise you by my faith that I hold you in no less reverence and estimation than if you had come of the greatest house in Catalonia, as I will make you understand some other time, at more leisure. But until I have ordered certain of my affairs, I pray you to keep our marriage secret, and do not be offended if at times I return to my own house, although no day will pass (by my will) but at night I will keep you company. In the meantime, to buy you necessities, I will send you a thousand or twelve hundred ducats, to spend not on clothing, or other things necessary for your degree (for I will provide those myself at another time) but on small trifles, such as are suitable and convenient for household.” And so Sir Didaco departed from his wife's house: who so lovingly entertained him that for a year there was no day in which he was content without the view and sight of his wife. And upon his frequent returns to their house, the neighbors began to suspect that he was keeping the maiden, and rebuked her mother and brothers, but especially Violenta, for allowing Didaco to use their house so secretly: and above all, they lamented the ill fate of Violenta, who being so well brought up till she was twenty years of age, and a maiden of such beauty, that there was no one in all the city of Valencia who did not greatly esteem her to be of singular honesty and reputation. Nevertheless, degenerating from her accustomed virtue, they judged her to be light of behavior, given to lascivious love: and although many times such reprimands and taunts were directed at her, yet she paid little attention to them, knowing that her conscience by any means was not charged with such reproach: hoping withal that one day she would make them abandon that false opinion when her marriage should be published and known. But at certain times feeling herself touched, and her honesty impaired, she could not contain but when she saw time with her husband, she earnestly prayed him to take her home to his own house, to avoid slander and defamation from neighbors. But Sir Didaco knew so well how to use his wife with delays and promises that she agreed to everything, and would rather displease the whole world than offend him alone. Being now so attached to the love of the knight as she cared for nothing else but to please and satisfy him in all things to which she saw him inclined, just as in the beginning she was hard and very slack in love, now she became so fervent and earnest in her affections that she received no pleasure but in the sight of Didaco, or in what might satisfy and please him best. Which the knight easily perceived, and seeing himself in full possession of her heart, began little by little to grow cold and to be grieved at that which before he valued as dear and precious, persuading himself that he would do wrong to his reputation if that marriage unworthy of his estate were discovered in the city: and to provide for the same, he visited his wife Violenta less and less; and whenever he resorted to her, it was more to satisfy his carnal pleasure than for any love he bore her. And thus forgetting both God and his own conscience, he frequented other companies in various places, to win the goodwill of some other gentlewoman. In the end, by various suits, dissimulations, and hypocrisies, he so behaved himself as to regain the goodwill of the daughter of Senior Ramyrio Vigliaracuta, one of the highest knights, and of most ancient house of Valencia. And (as we have declared before) because he was rich and wealthy, and descended from noble lineage, her parents easily agreed to the marriage: and the father having assigned an honorable dowry to his daughter, the nuptials were celebrated publicly with great pomp and solemnity, to the singular contentment of all men. The marriage done and ended, Sir Didaco and his new wife continued at the house of his father-in-law, where he lived for a time in such pleasure and delight as do those who are newly married. Of this, the mother and brothers of Violenta being informed, conceived like sorrow, as they usually do, that see the honor of those descended of their own blood unjustly and without cause to be dispossessed. And these poor miserable creatures, not knowing to whom to make their complaint, lived in strange perplexity, because they knew not the priest who solemnized their marriage. On the other hand, they had no sufficient proof of the same. And although they could verify in some respects the first marriage of Didaco, yet they dared not prosecute the law against two of the greatest lords of their city: and knowing the stout heart of Violenta, they thought to conceal the same from her for a time, but it was in vain: for not long after she was informed thereof, not only by the nearest neighbors, but by the common rumor of the city, which reported that in ten years' space, there was not seen in Valencia a marriage more honorable or royal, nor attended by a nobler company of gentlemen and ladies, than the one between the young knight Didaco and the daughter of Senior Ramyrio. With this, Violenta vexed beyond measure pressed with anger and fury, withdrew into her chamber alone, and there began to scratch and tear her face and hair, like one who was mad and out of her wits, saying: “Alas, alas, what pain and trouble, what immeasurable torments does my poor afflicted mind suffer now, without comfort or consolation of any living creature? What cruel and severe penance do I endure, for no offense at all? Ah! fortune, fortune, the enemy of my happiness and bliss, you have so deprived me of all remedy, that I dare not so much as let any man know or understand my mishap so that it might be avenged, which being done would render such content to my mind that I should depart from this world, the best satisfied maiden that ever died. Alas, that the gods did not grant me the benefit that I might have come from noble birth, to the end I might have caused that treacherous ruffian to feel the grievous pain and bitter torments that my poor heart endures. Ah wretched wretch that I am, abandoned and forlorn by all good fortune: Now I see with the eyes of my mind, which with those of my body dazzled and deceived I could not see or perceive. Ah cruel enemy of all pity, do you not know and feel in your mind the heavy and sorrowful sound of my bitter complaints? Do you not understand my voice that cries vengeance upon you for your misdeed? Can your cruelty be diminished seeing me torn apart by a thousand furious martyrdoms? Ah ingrate wretch, is this now the reward of my love, of my faithful service, and my obedience?” And as she thus bitterly tormented herself, her mother and brothers, and her maid who had been raised with her from her tender years, went up to the chamber to Violenta, where they found her so deformed with rage and fury that she was almost unrecognizable. And when they tried to calm her by all possible means, and saw that it availed nothing, they left her in the care of the old maid, whom she loved above all others. And after the maid had uttered many reasons for settling her grief, she told her that if she would be quiet for a little while, she would go and speak to knight Didaco, and make him understand his fault. And would discreetly deal with him so that he would come home to her house, and therefore she prayed her to arm herself against this wickedness, and to dissemble the matter for a time, that later she might justly take revenge on him. “No, no Ianique,” answered Violenta, “that offense is very small and light, where counsel is received: and although I cannot help but acknowledge your advice to be very fitting, yet I lack the will to follow it; that if I felt any part in me inclined to obey it, I would even before your eyes separate that mind from my wretched body: for I am so resolved in the malice and hatred of Didaco, that he cannot satisfy me without life alone. And I believe the gods caused me to be born with my own hands to execute vengeance for their wrath and the loss of my honor. Wherefore, Ianique, if from my youth you have ever loved me, show now the same to me by action, in a matter where your help is most necessary: for I am so outraged in my mischief that I envy the most miserable creatures of the world, remaining nothing more in me to continue life in wailing and continual sighs, but the title of a vile and abhorrent whore. You are a stranger and live here a beastly life, joined with continual labor: I have twelve hundred crowns with certain jewels, which that false traitor gave me, which he predestinated by the heavens for no other purpose but to pay them their reward that shall execute vengeance upon his disloyal person. I put the same money now into your hands, if you will help me to make sacrifice with the body of poor Didaco: but if you deny me your help, I will execute the same alone: and if he does not die, as I intend, he shall be murdered as I may, the first time that I shall see him with mine eyes, come what may, his life shall be dispatched with these two trembling hands which you see.” Ianique, seeing her mistress in these terms, and knowing her stubborn nature, endowed with a manly and invincible spirit, after she had debated many things in her mind, determined wholly to employ herself for her mistress in what she was able to do. Moved partly with pity for seeing her mistress dishonored by a defamed marriage, and partly provoked by greed to gain so great a sum of money, which her mistress did offer if she would consent to her enterprise (thinking after the deed was done, to flee into some other country). And when she was thoroughly resolved upon the same, she embraced Violenta, and said to her: “Mistress, if you will be ruled by me, and give over the vehemence of your wrath and displeasure, I have found a way for you to be revenged upon Didaco, who has so wickedly deceived you: and although this cannot be done secretly, yet in the end it must be known, I doubt not but the cause declared before the judges, and they understanding the wrong he has done you, they will have compassion upon your misery: who well know that you have always been known and esteemed as a very honest and virtuous maiden: and to the end that you be informed how this matter may be brought to pass, first you must learn to dissemble your grief openly, and to feign yourself in any wise not to be offended with the knight's new marriage. Then you shall write him a letter in your own hand, letting him thereby understand the pain that you suffer for the great love you bear him, and you shall humbly beseech him, sometimes to come and visit you. And since that froward fortune will not allow you to be his wife, yet that it would please him to treat you as his lover, that you may possess the second place in his love, since because of his new wife you cannot enjoy the first. Thus the deceiver shall be fooled by thinking to have you at his command as he was wont to do: and being come here to lie with you, we will handle him in such a way as I have devised, that in one night he shall lose his life, his wife, and her whom he thinks to have for his lover: for when he is in bed with you, and fallen into his first sleep, we will send him to another place where in a deeper sleep he shall continue everlastingly.” Violenta, all this time, which fed her bloody and cruel heart with no other repast but rage and disdain, began to be appeased, and found the counsel of Ianique so good that she wholly resolved to follow it. And to begin her enterprise, she prayed Ianique for a time to withdraw herself, until she had written her letter, by the tenor whereof she should understand with what audacity she would prosecute the rest: and being alone in her chamber, taking pen and paper, she wrote to Didaco, with a feigned heart as follows. “Sir Didaco, I am persuaded that if you will condescend to read and peruse the contents of these my sorrowful letters, you shall be moved with some compassion and pity, by viewing the true image of my miserable life, portrayed and painted in the same, which through your disloyalty and breach of promise is consumed and spent with so many tears, sighs, torments, and griefs, that several times I marvel how Nature can so long support and defend the violent assaults of such a cruel martyrdom, and that she has not many times torn my feeble spirit out of this cruel and mortal prison: which makes me think and believe by continuing life that death himself has conspired my misery, and is the companion of my affliction: considering that by no torment she is able to make separation between my soul and body. Alas, how many hundreds of thousands of times in a day have I called for death, and yet I cannot make it to bend its ears to my cries. Alas, how many times am I vanquished by the sharp torments of sorrow, ready to take my leave and last farewell of you, being arrived at the extreme pangs of death. Behold Didaco my ordinary delights, behold my pleasures, behold all my pastimes. But yet this is little in comparison to that which happens in the night: for if it happens that my poor eyes fall asleep, weary with ceaseless drawing forth of springs of tears, slumbering dreams cease not then to vex and afflict my mind, with the cruelest torments that are possible to be devised, representing to me by their ugly and horrible visions, the joy and contentment of her who enjoys my place: whereby the greatest joy I conceive is no less inferior to cruel death. Thus my life maintained with the continuation of sorrows and griefs is pursued in the most miserable way: now (as you know) I daily endure my sorrow under painful silence, thinking that your old promises, confirmed with so many oaths, and the assured proof which you still have had of my faith and constancy, would have brought you to some order, but now seeing with mine eyes the hard metal of your heart, and the cruelty of my fate, which has wholly subdued me to your obedience, respecting my honor: I am forced to complain of him that beats me and thereby despoils me both of my honor and life, not deigning so much as once to come to me. And uncertain of whom I may make recourse to, or where to find redress, I appeal to you, to see in what lean and ugly state I am, your cruelty may altogether be satisfied, which, seeing a sight so pitiful, wherein the figure of my torment is vividly expressed, may be moved to some compassion. Come hither then, you cruel man, come hither I say, to visit her, whom with some sign of humanity, you might stay or at least wise mollify and appease the vengeance which she prepares for you: and if ever a spark of pity warmed your frozen heart, arm yourself with greater cruelty than ever you were wont to do, and come hither to make her sob her last and extreme sighs, whom you have wretchedly deceived: for in doing otherwise you may perhaps all too late lament my death and your beastly cruelty.” And thinking to conclude her letter, the tears made her words die in her mouth and would not allow her to write any more: wherefore she closed and sealed it, and then calling Ianique to her she said: “Here, gentle Ianique, carry these letters to him, and if you can play your part as well as I have done mine, I hope we shall soon have at our command him who is the cause of this painful life, more grievous to me than a thousand deaths together.” Ianique, having the letter, departed with diligence, and went to the house of the father-in-law of Didaco, where she quietly awaited until she might speak with someone of the house, which was shortly after: for one of Didaco's servants whom she knew very well, went about certain of his master's business, and meeting Ianique was astonished. She asked him if Lord Didaco were within, and said that she would gladly speak with him: but if it were possible she would talk to him secretly. Upon hearing this, Didaco was informed and came forth to her into the street, to whom smilingly (after having made to him a feigned reverence) she said: “Sir Didaco, I can neither write nor read, but I dare wager my life, there is a request made to you by these letters, which Madame Violenta has sent to you. And indeed, to tell the truth, there is great injury done to her on your part, not with respect to your new marriage: (for I never thought that Violenta was a wife suitable for you, considering the difference of your estates) but because you will not deign to come to her, seeming as though you make no more account of her and especially for that you provide no marriage for her elsewhere. And assure yourself, she is so far in love with you that she is ready to die as she goes, so much so that making her complaint to me this day weeping, she said to me: ‘Well, for as much then as I cannot have him to be my husband, I would God he would maintain me as his friend, and sometimes in the week come to see me especially at night, lest he be espied by the neighbors.’ And certainly if you would follow her mind in this, you would do very well: for the case stands thus, you may boast that you are provided of such a fair wife, and with such a beautiful friend as any gentleman in Valencia.” And then Ianique delivered him the letter, which he received and read, and having well considered the tenor of it, he was immediately overwhelmed with sudden passion: for hatred and pity, love and disdain (as hot and cold are contained within a cloud with many contrary winds) began to combat together, and to vex his heart with contrary minds, then pausing upon an answer, he said to her: “Ianique, my dear friend, recommend me to the good grace and favor of your mistress, and tell her that for this time I will make her no answer, but tomorrow at four in the morning I will be at her house, and keep her company all day and night, and then I will tell her what I have done since I last departed from her, trusting she shall have no cause to be offended with me.” And then Ianique taking her leave, returned to Violenta, telling her what she had done. To whom Violenta answered: “Ianique, if you have made a good beginning to our plotted enterprise, I likewise for my part have not been idle. For I have devised that we must procure a strong rope, which we will fasten to the side of the bed, and when he shall be asleep, I will cast the other end of the rope to you, over the bed, that you may pull on it with all your might when the need requires. Not long after, Violenta took one of the large knives and lifting herself up softly, she sought a place most fit for her to stab a hole in her enemy’s flesh. Enchanted with wrath, rage, and fury, like another Medea, she thrust the point of the knife with such force into his throat that she pierced it through, and the poor unhappy man thinking to resist it, by giving some push against that adverse and heavy fortune, was apprehended, who feeling a new charge given upon him again, especially being entangled with the rope, was not able to stir hand or foot, and through the excessive violence of the pain, his speech and power to cry were taken away: in such a way that after he had received ten or twelve mortal wounds one after the other, his poor tortured soul departed from his sorrowful body. Violenta having completed her determined enterprise, commanded Ianique to light the candle, and approaching near to the knight’s face, she soon saw that he was lifeless. Then not being able to satisfy her bloody heart, nor to quench her furious rage which boiled in her stomach, she with the point of the knife tore out his eyes from his head, crying out upon them with a hideous voice, as if they had been alive: “Ah treacherous eyes, the messengers of a most villainous mind that ever dwelt within the body of man: come out of your shameless seat forever, for the spring of your feigned tears is now exhausted and dried up.” Then she played the butcher upon those insensible members, continuing still her rage, and cruelly seized upon the tongue, which with her bloody hands she pulled out of his mouth, and looking upon it with a murderous eye as she was cutting it off, said: “Oh abominable and perjured tongue, how many lies did you concoct in the same, before you could with the cannon shot of this poisoned member make a breach into my virginity: whereof now being deprived by your means, I speedily hasten myself to death, to which you have presently opened the way.” And when she had separated this little member from the rest of the body (insatiable in cruelty) with the knife ripped a violent hole into his stomach, and launching her cruel hands upon his heart she tore it from the place, and gashing it with many blows, she said: “Ah, vile heart, harder than the diamond whose wickedness forged the unfortunate traps of these my cruel destinies! Oh that I could have discovered your thoughts in times past, as I do now your material substance, so that I might have been preserved from your abominable treason and detestable infidelity.” Then flashing herself upon the dead body, like a hungry lion upon its prey, she left no part of him unwounded: and when she had mangled his body all over, with an infinite number of gashes, she cried out: “O infected carrion, once an organ and instrument of the most unfaithful and treacherous mind that ever was under the cloak of heaven. Now you are paid with what you deserve, worthy of your merits!” Then she said to Ianique (who had viewed her perform this spectacle with great terror): “Ianique, I feel myself now so relieved of pain that come death when he will, he shall find me strong and lusty to endure his furious assault, which I have long tried. Help me then to drag this corpse out of my father’s house, wherein I was first deflowered, then I will tell you what you should do: for just as my honor is stained and published abroad, so will I have the revenge be manifest, seeking that his body may be exposed to the view of all men.” Whose request Ianique obeyed: and then she and Violenta took the body and threw it out of one of the chamber windows down upon the pavement of the street, with all the parts which she had cut off. That done she said to Ianique: “Take this casket with all the money within it, and ship yourself at the next port you come to, and get yourself over into Africa to save your life as quickly as you can, and never come into these parts again, nor to any other where you are known.” Which Ianique intended to do, although Violenta had not advised her to do so: and ready to depart, she gave a sorrowful farewell to her mistress, and betook herself to her good fortune: and from that time forth, no man could tell where she went, for all the pursuit made after her. As soon as day appeared, the first to pass by the street espied the dead body, which, due to the noise and rumor made throughout the town, caused many people to come and see it: but no one knew who he was, being disfigured by reason of the eyes torn out of his head, as well as for other parts mutilated and deformed. And around eight o'clock in the morning, there was such a multitude of people assembled that it was almost impossible to approach it. Most thought that some thieves in the night had committed that murder: which opinion seemed true, because he was in his shirt: others were of the contrary opinion: and Violenta, who was at the window, hearing their diverse opinions came down and with bold courage and stout voice, that everyone could hear, said; “Sirs, you are contending over something whereby (if I were asked the question by the magistrates of this city) I am able to provide assured testimony: and without great difficulty, this murder cannot be discovered by any other but by me.” Which words soon convinced the people, thinking that various gentlemen jealous of Violenta had made a fray: for she had now lost her ancient reputation by means of Didaco, who (as the rumor went) did keep her. When she had spoken those words, the judges were immediately informed of the murder as well as of what Violenta had said, and went there with sergeants and officers, where they found Violenta, more stout than any of the bystanders: and inquired of her immediately how that murder came to pass, but she without fear or trembling, made this answer: “He that you see here dead, is Lord Didaco: and because it pertains to many to understand the truth of his death (as his father-in-law, his wife, and other relatives) I would in their presence, if it pleases you to cause them to be called here, declare what I know.” The magistrates, amazed to see such a great lord so cruelly slain, committed her to ward until after dinner, and commanded that all the aforementioned should be summoned to appear: who assembled in the palace, with such a number of people that the judges could scarcely find space: Violenta in the presence of them all, without any rage or passion, first of all recounted to them the chaste love between Didaco and her, which he continued for the space of fourteen or fifteen months, without receiving any fruit or benefit from it. Soon after (he being conquered by love) he secretly married her at her house, and solemnized the nuptials by a priest unknown: declaring moreover how they had lived a year together in household, without giving him any occasion for offense. Then she recounted before them his second marriage with the daughter of such a man, being there present, adding for conclusion, that since he had caused her to lose her honor, she had sought means to make him lose his life: which she executed with the help of Ianique her maid: who by her advice, being loath to live any longer, had drowned herself. And after she had declared the true state of the matter passed between them, she said in conclusion that all she had recounted was not to incite or stir them to pity or compassion, thereby to prolong her life, whereof she judged herself unworthy: “For if you (quoth she) allow me to escape your hands, thinking to save my body, you shall be the cause and whole ruin of my soul, for with these my own hands, which you see before you, I will desperately cut off the thread of this my life.” And with those words she held her peace: whereat the people, amazed and moved with pity, let fall the lukewarm tears from their dolorous eyes and lamented the misfortune of that poor creature: attributing the fault upon the dead knight, who under the pretext of marriage had deceived her. The magistrates determining further to deliberate upon the matter, caused the dead body to be buried, and committed Violenta again to ward, taking away from her knives and other weapons, whereby they thought she might hurt herself. And they used such diligent search and inquiry that the priest who married them was discovered, and the servant of Didaco who was present at the marriage of Violenta, being examined, deposed how by his master’s command he carried his horse into the countryside, and how he commanded him to come to him again the next morning to the house of Violenta. And everything was brought to light so well that nothing was wanting for further investigation of the truth, but only the confession of him that was dead. And Violenta, by common opinion of the judges, was condemned to be beheaded: not only for having presumed to punish the knight's treachery and offense but for her excessive cruelty done upon the dead body. Thus unfortunate Violenta ended her life, her mother and brothers being acquitted: and was executed in the presence of the Duke of Calabria, the son of King Frederick of Aragon: who at that time was the Viceroy there, and afterward died at Torry in France: who immediately caused this history to be registered with other noteworthy events that occurred in his lifetime at Valencia. Bandell writes that the maid Ianique was put to death with her mistress: but Paludanus, a Spaniard alive at that time, writes an excellent history in Latin, in which he certainly declares that she was never apprehended, which opinion (as most probable) I have followed.
THE FORTY-THIRD NOUELL.
Wantones and pleasaunt life being guides of insolencie, doth bring a miserable end to a faire ladie of Thurin, whom a noble man aduaunced to high estate: as appereth by this historie, wherein he executeth great crueltie vpon his sayde ladie, taken in adulterie.
Wantonness and a pleasurable life, being guides of arrogance, bring a miserable end to a fair lady of Thurin, whom a noble man elevated to high status: as shown by this story, in which he inflicts great cruelty on his said lady, caught in adultery.
The auncient and generall custome of the gentlemen, and gentlewomen of Piedmonte, was daily to abandon famous cities and murmures of common wealthes to retire to their Castels in the countrie, and other places of pleasure, of purpose to beguile the troublesome turmoyles of life, with greatest rest and contentation. The troubles and griefes wherof they do feele, that intermedle with businesse of common wealth, which was with great care obserued before the warres had preposterated the order of auncient gouernement, til which time a harde matter it had ben to finde an idle gentleman in a hole citie. Who rather did resort to their countrie houses with their families, which were so well gouerned and furnished, that you should haue departed so well satisfied and instructed, from a simple gentleman’s house as you should haue doen from a great citie, were it neuer so wel ruled by some wife and prouident Senatour. But sithens the world began to waxe olde, it is come again to very infancie, in suche sorte that the greatest nomber of cities are not peopled in these dayes but with a many of Carpet Squiers, that make their refiance and abode there, not to profite, but to continew their delicate life, and they do not onely corrupt themselues, but (which is worse) they infecte them that keepe them companie, whiche I will discourse somewhat more at large, for so much as the gentlewoman, of whome I describe this historie, was brought vp al the time of her youth, in one of the finest and most delicate cities of Piedmonte. And feeling as yet some sparke of her former bringing vp, she could not be reformed (being in the countrie with her husbande) but that in the ende she fill into great reproche and shame, as you shall vnderstande by the content of that whiche foloweth. In the time that Madame Margaret of Austriche, doughter of Maximilian the 241 Emperour, went in progresse into Sauoie, towardes her husbande: there was a great Lorde, a valiaunt and courteous gentleman, in a certaine countrie of Piedmonte, whose name I will not disclose, aswell for the reuerence of his nerest kynne, which doe yet liue, as for the immoderate cruell punishemente, that he deuised towards his wife, when he toke her in the fault. This great Lorde, although he had goodly reuenues and Castelles in Piedmonte, yet for the most parte of his time, he followed the Courte, by commaundement of the Duke, that interteyned him next his owne persone, vsing commonly his aduise in all his greatest affaires. This Lorde at that tyme maried a mayden in Thurin, of meane beautie, for his pleasure, not esteming the place from whence shee came. And because he was well nere fiftie yeares of age when he maried her, she attired her selfe with such modestie, as she was more like a wydow then a maried woman: and knewe so well how to vse her husbande, the space of a yere or two, as he thought him selfe the happiest man aliue, that he had founde out so louing a wyfe. This woman being serued, and reuerenced with great honour, waxed werie of to muche reste and quiet, and began to be inamoured of a Gentleman her neighbour, whom in a litle tyme she knewe so well to vse by lookes, and other wanton toies, as he did easely perceiue it, notwithstanding for the honour of her husband, he would not seme to knowe it, but a farre of. Nowe this warme loue by litle and litle, afterwardes began to grow hot, for the yong woman wearie of such long delay, not able to content her self with lookes, vpon a day finding this yong gentleman in conuenient place, as he was walking harde by her house, began to reason with him of termes, and matters of loue: telling hym that he liued to solitarie, in respect of his yong yeares, and howe shee had alwayes bene brought vp in Townes, and places of great companie and resorte, in such wyse as now being in the Countrie, shee could not easely digeste the incommoditie of being a lone, specially for the continuall absence of her husbande, who scarce three monethes in a yeare remayned at home in his owne house. And so falling from one matter to another, loue pricked them so sore, as in fine they opened a waye to that whiche troubled them so mutch, and specially the woman: who forgetting her 242 honour, which ordinarily dothe accompanie great Ladies, priuely she told hym the loue that she had borne hym of long tyme, whiche notwithstanding shee had dissembled, wayting when hee should haue geuen the fyrst onsette, for that Gentlemen ought rather to demaunde, then to be requyred of Ladies. This Gentleman vnderstanding (by halfe a woorde) the cause of her disease, told her: “That although his loue was extreme, neuerthelesse, deming himself vnworthy of so high degree, he stil concealed his grief, which because he thought it coulde not come to passe, feare forced him to kepe it silent. But sithe it pleased her so much to abase her selfe, and was disposed to doe him so much honour to accepte him for her seruaunte, he would imploye his indeuour, to recompence that with humilitie and humble seruice, whiche fortune had denied hym in other thinges.” And hauing framed this foundacion to their loue, for this tyme they vsed no other contentment one of an other but onely deuise. But they so prouyded for their affaires to come, that they neded not to vse longer oration. For beyng neyghbours, and the husbande manye tymes absent, the hyghe waye was open to bryng their enterpryses to desired affecte. Which they full well acquieted, and yet vnable wysely to maister and gouerne their passions, or to moderate theim selues by good discretion, the seruauntes of the house (by reason of the frequented communication of the Gentleman with the Gentlewoman) began to suspecte theim, and to conceiue sinister opinion of their maistresse, although none of theim durste speake of it, or make other semblaunce of knowledge. Loue holding in full possession the hartes of these twoo louers, blynded theim so muche, as leauing the brydle to large for their honour, they vsed theimselues priuely and apertlye at all tymes one with an other, without anye respect. And when vpon a tyme, the Lorde retourned home to his owne house (from a certayne voyage, wherein he had bene in the Duke’s seruice) he found his wyfe to be more fine and gorgeous then she was wont to be, whiche in the beginning dyd wonderfully astonne him. And perceiuing her sometimes to vtter wanton woordes, and to applie her mynde on other thynges, when he spake vnto her, he began diligently to obserue her countenaunce and order, and being a man broughte vp 243 in courtlye trade, and of good experience, hee easely was perswaded that there was some ele vnder that stone, and to come to the trouthe of the matter, hee made a better countenaunce, then he was wonte to doe, which she knewe full well howe to requite and recompence: and liuing in this simulation, either of them attempted to beguile the other, that the simplest and leste craftie of them both could not be discouered. The yong gentleman, neighbour of the Lord, grieued beyond measure, for that he was come home, passed and repaired many tymes before his Castell gate, thinking to get some looke of his Ladie’s eye: but by any meanes she could not for feare of her husbande, who was not so foolishe, that after he sawe him goe before his gate so many times, without some occasion, but that he easely iudged there was a secret amitie betwene them. Certaine dayes after, the gentleman to insinuate himselfe into the Lord’s fauour, and to haue accesse to his house, sent him a very excellent Tercelet of a Faucon, and at other times he presented him with Veneson, and vmbles of Dere, which he had killed in hunting. But the Lorde (which well knew that flatterie many times serued the torne of diuerse, to beguile foolish husbands of their faire wiues) that he might not seme vngrateful, sent him also certain straung things. And these curtesies continued so long, that the Lorde desirous to lay a baite, sent to praye him to come to dyner: to which requeste the other accorded liberally, for the deuocion he had to the sainct of the Castell. And when the table was taken vp, they went together to walk abroade in the fieldes. And that more frendly to welcome him, he prayed his wife to goe with them, whereunto she made no great deniall. And when they had debated of many thinges, the Lord said vnto him: “Neighbour and frende, I am an old man and Melancholie, as you know, wherfore I had neede from henceforth to reioyce my self. I pray you hartely therefore to come hither many times, to visit vs and therewithal to participate such fare as God doth send. Vsing the thinges of my house, as they were your owne.” Whiche the other gratefully accepted, humblie praying that his Lordshyp would commaunde him and that he had, when he pleased, and to commaunde him as his very humble and obedient seruaunt. This Pantere layed, the yong gentleman ordinarely came ones a daye 244 to visite the Lorde and his wife. So long this pilgrimage continued, vntill the Lorde (vpon a time, faining himselfe to be sicke) commaunded that no man should come into his chamber, because all the night before he was ill at ease, and could take no reste. Whereof the gentleman was incontinently aduertised by an old woman hired of purpose for a common messenger, of whom a none we purpose to make remembraunce. Being come to the Castell, he demaunded how the Lord did, and whether he might go see him, to whom aunswer was made, that he could not, for that he was fallen into a slomber. Madame now was in the garden alone, roming vp and down for her pleasure, and was aduertised that the Gentleman was come. Who being brought into the gardeine, and certified of the Lordes indisposition, began to renew his old daliaunce with the Ladie, and to kisse her many times, eftsones putting his hand into her bosome, and vsing other pretie preparatifes of loue, which ought not to be permitted but only to the husband. In the meane time, while they twoo had ben there a good space, the husband slept not, but was departed out of his chamber, the space of two houres and more, and was gone vp to the highest place of all his Castell, wher at a very litle window, he might discrie al that was done, within the compasse of his house. And there seing al their curteous offers and proffers, hee waited but when the gentleman should haue indeuoured himself to precede further, that he might haue then discharged his mortal malice vpon them both. But they fearing that their long abode in the gardein might ingender some displeasure, retourned into the Castell, with purpose in time to content their desires, so sone as opportunitie serued. The Lorde noting all the demeanour betwene them, retourned to his chamber, and so went againe to his bed, faining to be sicke, as he did all the daye before. Supper time come, the lady went to know his pleasure, whether he would sup in his chamber or in the hall: he answered (with a disguised cherefull face) that he began to feele himselfe well, and that he had slept quietly sithens diner, and was determined to suppe beneth, sending that night for the gentleman, to beare him companie at supper: and could so well disemble his iust anger, as neither his wife, nor the Gentleman perceiued it by any meanes. And so the Lorde with his Lady still 245 continued, the space of fiftene dayes, or three wekes, making so much of her (as though it had ben the firste moneth that he maried her) in suche sorte, as when the poore miserable woman thought to haue gotten victorie ouer her husband and frend, it was the houre that fortune did weaue the toyle and nette to intrappe her. The Lorde which no longer could abide this mischief, driuen into an extreame choler, seing that he was able to finde no meanes to take them (himselfe being at home) deliberated either sone to die or to prouide for the matter: and the better to execute his determination, he counterfaited a letter from the Duke of Sauoie, and bare it secretly to the post him selfe alone, and commaunded him next daye to bring it to his Castell, whereby he fained that the Duke had sent the same vnto him. Whiche matter the post did handle so well, as he brought the letter, when he was at supper, with botes on his legges all durtie and raied, as though he were newly lighted from his horse. And the better to maintain his wife in her error, after he had reade the letter, he gaue it to her to reade: which conteined no other thing but that the Duke commaunded him presently with all diligence, himselfe and his traine to come vnto him, to be dispatched vpon ambassage into Fraunce. That doen he said vnto her: “Wife, you see how I am constrayned to depart with spede (to my great grief) bid my men therfore to be ready in the morning, that they may go before and wayte for me at Thurin, where my Lord the Duke is at this present. I my self will departe from hence to morow at night after supper, and will ride in post in the freshe of the night.” And the better to deceiue this poore vnhappie woman, he went into his Closet, and took his caskette, wherin was the moste parte of his treasure, and deliuering the same vnto her, sayde: “That fearing leste hee shoulde tarie long in Fraunce, he would leaue the same with her to help her when she wanted.” And after all this traine was gone, hee caused one of the yeomen of his chamber to tary behynde, whose fidelitie he had at other times proued: and all that daye he ceased not to cherishe and make much of his wyfe. But the poore soule did not forsee, that they were the flatteries of the Crocodile, which reioyseth when he seeth one deceiued. When he had supped, he made a particuler remembraunce to his wife how the affaires of his house should be disposed in his absence: and 246 then toke his leaue, giuing her a Iudas kisse. The lorde vnethes had ridden twoo or thre miles, but that his wife had sent the olde woman to carye worde to her louer, of the departure of her husband, and that he might saufly come and lie with her in the castell, for that all the seruauntes were ridden forth with their maister, sauing one yeoman and her twoo maydes, whiche doe neuer vse to lie in her chamber. Vpon this glad newes the Gentleman thought no scorne to appeare vppon that warning, and the old woman knew the way so well, as she brought him straight into the ladies chamber, whom loue inuegled in such wise, as they lay together in the bedde where the lord was wont to lye. And the olde woman laye in an other bed in that chamber, and shut the dore within. But while these twoo poore passionate louers thought they had attayned the toppe of all felicitie, and had inioyed with full saile the fauours of the litle God Cupide, Fortune desirous to departe them, for the last messe of the feast prepared so bitter Comfettes, as it cost them both their liues, with such cruell death, as if they which make profession of semblable things doe take example, wyues will get them better names, and husbandes shalbe lesse deceiued. The Lorde that night made no longer tracte of time, but lighted from his horse, at the keper of one of his Castles houses, whom he knewe to be faythfull. To whome in the presence of the yeoman of his chamber, he discoursed the loue betwene the gentleman and his wyfe, and commaunded them with all spede to arme themselues, and with a case of pistolets to follow him, whom they obeyed. And beyng come to the Castell gate he saide to the keper of his castell: “Knocke at the gate, and fayne thy selfe to be alone, and saye that I passing by thy house did leaue a remembraunce with thee, to cary to my ladie. And because it is a matter of importaunce, and requireth hast, thou were compelled to bring it this night.” Knocking at the gate somewhat softely (for feare lest they whiche were in the chambers should heare) a yeoman rose whiche laye in the courte, knowing the voyce of the keper (because he was one, whome his lorde and maister dyd greatly fauour) opened the gate, and the firste thyng they did, they lyghted a torche, and wente vp all three to the Lordes chamber, not sufferyng anye man to cary newes to the Ladie, of theyr approche. Being come to the chamber doore, 247 the keeper knocked, whiche immediatly the olde woman hearde, and without opening the doore, asked who was there. “It is I (quod the keeper,) that haue brought a letter to my ladie, from my Lorde my maister, who ryding this nyght in post to Thurin, passed by my house, and very earnestly charged me by no meanes to fayle but to deliuer it this night.” The Ladie aduertised hereof, who could not mistruste that her owne man (whome she tooke to bee simple, and voyde of guyle) would haue framed a platte for suche a treason, sayde to the olde woman: “Receiue the letter at the doore, but in any wyse let him not come in, and I will accomplishe the contentes.” The olde woman, which thought onely but to receiue the letter betwene the doore, was astoned when the keper who (giuing her a blow with his foote vpon the stomacke) threwe her backward, where she laie more then a quarter of an houre, without speaking or mouing. And then they three entring the chamber in great rage, with their pistolets in their handes, found the two miserable louers starke naked, who seing them selues surprysed in that state, were so sore ashamed as Eue and Adam were, when their sinne was manifested before God. And not knowing what to doe, reposed their refuge in lamenting and teares, but at the verie same instaunt, they bounde the armes and legges together, of the poore gentleman with the chollers of their horse, which they brought with them of purpose. And then the Lorde commaunded that the twoo maydes, which were in the Castell, and the reste of the seruantes, should be called to assiste them, to take example of that faire fight. And all the meane people being gathered in this sort together, the lorde tourning him self vnto his wife, saied vnto her: “Come hither thou vnshamefast, vile, and detestable whore, like as thou hast had a harte so traiterous and vnfaithfull, to bring this infamous ruffian in the night into my castell, not only to robbe and dispoile me of mine honour, which I preferre and esteme more then life: but also (whiche is more to be abhorred) to infring and breake for euer, the holie and precious bande of mariage, wherewithall wee be vnited and knit together. So will I forthwith, that with these thyne owne handes, with whiche thou gauest me the firste testimonie of thy faith, that he presently shalbe hanged and strangled in the presence of all menne, 248 not knowing howe to deuise anye other greater punishimente, to satisfie thyne offence, then to force thee to murder hym, whome thou haste preferred before thy reputation, aboue myne honour, and estemed more then thine owne life.” And hauing pronounced this fatall iudgement, he sent one to seeke for a greate naile of a Carte, which he caused to be fastened to the beame of the chamber, and a ladder to be fetched, and then made her to tie a Coller of the order belonginge to theeues and malefactours, about the necke of her sorowfull louer. And because she alone was not able to do that greuous and waightie charge, hee ordayned that like as the olde woman had bin a faithfull minister of his wiue’s loue, so shee should put her hand in performing the vttermost of that worke. And so these two wretched women, were by that meanes forced to suche extremitie, as with their owne handes, they strangled the infortunate Gentleman: with whose death the Lord not yet satisfyed, caused the bedde, the clothes, and other furnitures (wherupon they had taken their pleasures past) to be burned. He commaunded the other vtensiles of the chamber to be taken away, not suffring so much straw, as would serue the couche of two dogges, to be left vnconsumed. Then he said to his wife: “Thou wicked woman, amonges al other most detestable: for so much as thou hast had no respecte to that houourable state, whereunto fortune hath aduaunced thee, being made by my meanes of a simple damosell, a greate Ladie, and because thou hast preferred the lasciuious acquaintaunce of one of my subiects, before the chast loue, that thou oughtest to haue borne me: my determination is, that from henceforth thou shalt kepe continuall company with him, to the vttermost day of thy life: because his putrified carcase hath giuen occasion to ende thy wretched body.” And then hee caused all the windowes and doores to be mured, and closed vp in such wyse, as it was impossible for her to go oute, leauing onely a litle hole open, to giue her bread and water: appointing his Steward to the charge thereof. And so this poore miserable woman, remained in the mercie of that obscure and darke prison, without any other company, then the deade body of her louer. And wheu shee had continued a certaine space in that stinking Dongeon, without aire or comfort, ouercome with sorrow and extreme paine, she yelded her soule to God.
The ancient and general custom of the gentlemen and ladies of Piedmont was to leave their famous cities and the chatter of everyday life to retreat to their country estates and other places of leisure, aiming to escape the troubles of life with the greatest peace and satisfaction. They felt the troubles and grief that came with engagement in public affairs, which had been carefully managed before the wars disrupted the order of ancient government; until then, it had been difficult to find an idle gentleman in a bustling city. Instead, they preferred to go to their country homes with their families, which were so well-managed and equipped that one could leave satisfied and enlightened from a simple gentleman's house as if from a large city, however well-governed by a wise and prudent senator. But since the world has begun to age, things have returned to a very infantile state, so that the majority of cities these days are inhabited mostly by a host of idle gentry who live there, not for profit, but to maintain their luxurious lifestyles. They not only corrupt themselves but, worse, they infect those who keep their company, a topic I will discuss in more detail because the lady, about whom I describe this story, was raised throughout her youth in one of the finest and most refined cities of Piedmont. And feeling some remnants of her upbringing, she could not be reformed (even being in the countryside with her husband) but ultimately fell into great disgrace and shame, as you will understand from the content that follows. At the time Madame Margaret of Austria, daughter of Maximilian the Emperor, was traveling through Savoy to meet her husband; there was a great lord, a valiant and courteous gentleman, in a certain area of Piedmont, whose name I will not reveal, both out of respect for his living relatives and because of the excessively cruel punishment he devised for his wife when he caught her in the act. This great lord, although he had good revenues and castles in Piedmont, mostly spent his time at court by order of the Duke, who kept him close, generally seeking his advice in all major matters. At that time, this lord married a maiden in Turin, of average beauty, for his pleasure, disregarding her background. Because he was nearly fifty years old at the time of their marriage, she dressed modestly, looking more like a widow than a wife, and she knew how to manage her husband so well for a year or two that he felt the happiest man alive for having found such a loving wife. This woman, once honored and served with great respect, grew weary of too much rest and quiet, and began to fall in love with a neighboring gentleman. In a short time, she showed so much affection through looks and other flirtations that he easily noticed, although in honor of her husband, he pretended not to see it from afar. Now this warm love gradually started to heat up, the young woman, tired of the long delay and unable to satisfy herself with mere looks, one day found the young gentleman in an opportune place as he was walking near her house and started discussing love matters with him. She told him that he lived too lonely for a man of his young years, and how she had always been raised in towns and places of great company, so being in the countryside now was hard for her to bear, especially due to the continuous absence of her husband, who spent hardly three months a year at home. As they transitioned from one topic to another, love pricked them so sharply that eventually they found a way to express what had troubled them so much, especially the woman, who, forgetting her honor that typically accompanies great ladies, privately confessed her long time love for him, which she had been concealing, waiting for him to take the initiative, since gentlemen should usually ask rather than be required by ladies. This gentleman, understanding her hint of desire, told her: “Although my love is immense, I deem myself unworthy of such high regard, and thus I've kept my feelings hidden, fearing that they could never come to fruition. But since you are so willing to lower yourself and wish to honor me by accepting me as your servant, I will strive to repay that with humility and devoted service, which fortune has denied me in other matters.” Having laid this foundation for their love, at that time they engaged in no other pleasures of each other but mere planning. However, they arranged their future meetings so well that they needed no lengthy discussions. Being neighbors and with the husband frequently absent, the path was clear to bring their desires to fruition. They handled their affairs so well, yet unable to wisely control their passions or moderate themselves with good judgment, the house servants, due to the frequent interactions between the gentleman and the lady, began to suspect them and form a bad opinion of their mistress, though none dared to speak of it or show any signs of knowledge. Love, having completely taken possession of these two lovers' hearts, blinded them so much that leaving too much slack on their honor, they engaged privately and openly at all times without any restraint. And one day, when the lord returned home from a journey in the Duke's service, he found that his wife was more elegant and adorned than she usually was, which astonished him greatly. Noticing her occasionally uttering flirtatious words and directing her mind elsewhere when he spoke to her, he began to scrutinize her demeanor and behavior. Being a man skilled in courtly affairs and experienced, he quickly became convinced that there was something else going on and to uncover the truth, he maintained a more pleasant demeanor than usual, which she skillfully reciprocated: living in this false front, both attempted to deceive the other, making it so that the most simple-minded or least crafty among them could not be discovered. The young gentleman, the neighbor of the lord, who was greatly distressed by his return home, walked many times past the lord's castle gate, hoping to catch a glimpse of his lady's eyes. However, she could not reveal herself for fear of her husband, who was not so foolish as to think there was no reason for the gentleman to appear before his gate so frequently. Days later, to ingratiate himself with the lord and gain access to his home, he sent him an exquisite falcon and at other times presented him with venison and deer haunches that he had hunted. But the lord, knowing well that flattery often deceives foolish husbands of their beautiful wives, did not want to appear ungrateful and thus also sent him gifts in return. These exchanges continued so long that the lord, eager to set a trap, invited him to dinner, to which the gentleman happily accepted, motivated by devotion to the sanctuary of the castle. After the table was cleared, they walked together in the fields. To warmly welcome him, the lord asked his wife to join them, to which she readily agreed. After discussing many topics, the lord said to him: “Neighbor and friend, I am an old man plagued by melancholy, as you know, therefore I need to find joy once more. I sincerely ask you to visit us frequently and partake in whatever hospitality God provides. Use my house as if it were your own.” The other graciously accepted, humbly requesting that the lord command him freely, like a most obedient servant. With this arrangement set, the young gentleman began to visit the lord and his wife daily. This arrangement lasted until the lord, one day, faking illness, commanded that no one should enter his chamber, claiming he had been unwell the night before and could not rest. The gentleman was immediately informed by an old woman hired as a messenger. When he arrived at the castle, he inquired about the lord's health and whether he could visit him, but was told he could not, as he had fallen into a slumber. Meanwhile, the lady was in the garden alone, wandering for her pleasure and was informed of the gentleman’s arrival. When brought into the garden and informed of the lord's condition, he began renewing his old flirtations with the lady, kissing her many times, repeatedly placing his hand on her chest, and engaging in other playful displays of love, which should only be permitted to her husband. While they were there for quite some time, her husband was not idle but had left the chamber for over two hours, climbing to the highest point in his castle, where from a small window, he could observe all that took place within his house. Seeing all their flirtations, he waited for the moment when the gentleman would make his move to take his vengeance on them both. But fearing that their prolonged stay in the garden might lead to suspicion, they returned to the castle, planning to satisfy their desires as soon as an opportunity arose. The lord, having noted their behavior, returned to his chamber and lay down, pretending to be sick, as he had all day before. When supper time arrived, the lady went to ask him whether he would dine in his chamber or the hall. He replied (with a feigned cheerful face) that he was beginning to feel better and had slept well since lunch, and had decided to dine below, sending for the gentleman to join him at dinner: he could conceal his true anger so well that neither his wife nor the gentleman suspected. Thus, the lord and his lady continued for fifteen days or three weeks, treating her as if it were the first month of their marriage. Just when the poor, miserable woman believed she had gained the upper hand over her husband and friend, it was the very hour that fortune wove the snare to trap her. The lord, unable to bear this betrayal any longer, driven to extreme rage by the fact that he could not find a means to seize them (while being home), decided either to die or to take action: and to better execute his plan, he forged a letter from the Duke of Savoy and secretly took it to the post himself, commanding him to deliver it to his castle the next day, pretending that the Duke had sent it to him. The postman handled the matter well, bringing the letter during supper, covered in dirt and mud as if he had just dismounted from his horse. To further maintain his wife's deception, after reading the letter, he handed it to her to read. It contained nothing but a command from the Duke for him to prepare swiftly (to his great grief) and to gather his men in the morning, so that they might wait for him at Turin, where his lord, the Duke, was at that moment. Once done, he said to her: “Wife, you see how urgently I must depart (to my great sorrow), so please tell my men to be prepared in the morning, so they can head out to await me at Turin. I will leave after supper tomorrow night and ride hard through the night.” And to further dupe this poor unhappy woman, he went into his closet, took his treasury box, which contained most of his wealth, and handed it to her, saying: “Fearing I might linger too long in France, I wanted to leave this with you for when you might need it.” After laying all this groundwork, he kept one of the yeomen of his chamber behind, whose fidelity he had tested before. That day he never stopped cherishing and doting on his wife. Yet the poor soul did not foresee this to be the crocodile’s deceit, which revels in seeing someone tricked. After supper, he made a particular reminder to his wife about how to manage the affairs of the house during his absence and then took his leave, giving her a Judas kiss. The lord had hardly ridden two or three miles when his wife sent the old woman to inform her lover of her husband's departure, signaling he could safely come and sleep with her in the castle, as all the servants had gone out with their master, except for one yeoman and her two maids, who never slept in her chamber. With such glad news, the gentleman did not hesitate to show up, and the old woman knew the path so well that she led him straight to the lady's chamber, where love enticed them so much that they lay together in the bed where the lord usually slept. The old woman lay in another bed in that chamber and locked the door behind them. But while these two passionate lovers thought they had reached the pinnacle of happiness and were enjoying Cupid's favors, fortune, longing to separate them, prepared such bitter delights for their final meal that it cost both their lives, in a cruel fashion, serving as a lesson that if those professing similar affairs take heed, wives might gain better reputations, and husbands will be less deceived. That night, the lord wasted no time; he dismounted at the housekeeper of one of his castle's lodges, whom he knew to be trustworthy. In front of the yeoman of his chamber, he recounted the love affair between the gentleman and his wife and commanded them to arm themselves quickly and to follow him with a case of pistols, which they obeyed. Upon arriving at the castle gate, he said to the keeper: “Knock at the gate and pretend to be alone, claiming that I, passing by your house, left an important message to deliver to my lady, and because it is urgent, you were compelled to bring it tonight.” Quietly knocking at the gate (for fear that those in the chambers might overhear), a yeoman rose who lay in the courtyard, knowing the keeper's voice (as he was one whom the lord greatly favored), opened the gate. The first thing they did was light a torch and went up together to the lord's chamber, not allowing anyone to notify the lady of their approach. Upon reaching the chamber door, the keeper knocked, which was immediately heard by the old woman, who, without opening the door, asked who was there. “It is me,” replied the keeper, “who has brought a letter to my lady from my lord who, riding in haste to Turin tonight, passed by my house and charged me earnestly to deliver it tonight.” The lady, hearing this, trusting that her own servant (whom she thought simple and guileless) would not plan such treachery, said to the old woman: “Receive the letter at the door, but under no circumstances let him come in, and I will fulfill the contents.” The old woman, only planning to take the letter at the door, was astounded when the keeper, kicking her in the stomach, threw her backward, leaving her lying for over a quarter of an hour without speaking or moving. Then, the three entered the chamber in a state of rage, armed with their pistols, and found the two unhappy lovers stark naked, who, upon seeing themselves caught in that state, were as ashamed as Adam and Eve when their sin was revealed to God. Not knowing what to do, they resorted to lamentation and tears. But at that moment, they bound the poor gentleman’s arms and legs with the straps of their horses, which they had brought for that purpose. The lord then commanded that the two maids, who were in the castle, and the other servants be called to witness this fair spectacle. All the common people being gathered thus, the lord turned to his wife and said to her: “Come here, you shameless, vile, and detestable whore, just as you have shown yourself to have a heart so treacherous and unfaithful, to bring this infamous scoundrel into my castle at night, not only to rob and strip me of my honor, which I cherish and value above life, but also (which is even more abhorrent) to forever violate the holy and precious bond of marriage that unites us. Therefore, I will immediately, with these your own hands, which once testified to your loyalty, force you to murder him, whom you have preferred over your reputation, over my honor, and valued above your own life.” After pronouncing this fatal judgment, he ordered someone to find a large nail from a cart, which he had fastened to the beam of the chamber, and a ladder to be fetched, then forced her to tie a noose around the neck of her sorrowful lover. And because she alone could not manage this grievous task, he decreed that just as the old woman had been a faithful minister of his wife's love, she should also play her part in seeing this deed done. And thus, these two wretched women were compelled to such a degree that by their own hands, they strangled the unfortunate gentleman. With his death not being enough to satisfy the lord, he commanded that the bed, the clothes, and other furnishings (on which they had taken their pleasures) be burned. He ordered all other items in the chamber to be removed, leaving not a single straw, enough to serve as a couche for two dogs, unconsumed. Then he said to his wife: “You wicked woman, among all other most detestable: since you have had no respect for that honorable state which fortune has elevated you to, having been made by my means from a simple maiden into a great lady, and since you have preferred the lustful acquaintance of one of my subjects over the chaste love you ought to have shown me: my decision is that from this day forth, you shall keep eternal company with him until your last day on earth, for his decayed body has given you the occasion to end your wretched life.” He then had all the windows and doors sealed, so that she could not escape, leaving only a small hole open to provide her bread and water, appointing his steward to oversee this. Thus, this poor miserable woman remained at the mercy of that dark and dreary prison, with no other company than the dead body of her lover. After she had lingered for a certain period in that stinking dungeon without air or comfort, overwhelmed by sorrow and extreme pain, she yielded her soul to God.
THE FORTY-FOURTH NOUELL.
The loue of Alerane of Saxone, and of Adelasia the daughter of the Emperour Otho the thirde of that name. Their flight and departure into Italie, and how they were known againe, and what noble houses of Italie descended of their race.
The love story of Alerane of Saxony and Adelasia, the daughter of Emperor Otho III. Their escape to Italy, how they were recognized again, and which noble houses in Italy are descended from their lineage.
The auncient histories of Princes (as wel vnder the name of kinge, as of the title of Duke, which in time paste did gouerne the Countrie of Saxone) do reporte that Otho the seconde of that name, which was the first Emperour that lawfullye raigned (after the Empire ceassed in the stock of Charles the great) had of his wife Matilde doughter of the king of Saxone, one sonne which succeded him in the Imperial crowne, called Otho the third, who for his vertuous education and gentle disposition, acquired of all men the surname of The loue of the world. The same Emperour was curteous and mercifull, and neuer (to any man’s knowledge) gaue occasion of griefe to any person, he did good to euery man, and hurt none: likewise he thought that kingdome to be well gotten, and gotten to be better kept, where the king, Prince or Ruler therof, did studie and seeke meanes to be beloued, rather then feared, sith loue ingendreth in it selfe a desire of obedience in the people. And contrary wise, that Prince which by tyrannic maketh himself to be feared, liueth not one houre at rest, hauing his conscience tormented indifferently, both with suspition and feare, thinking stil that a thousand swords be hanging ouer his head, to kill and destroye him. Otho then vnder his name of Emperour, couered his clemencie with a certaine sweete grauite and Princely behauiour. Who notwithstanding declared an outward shew of curtesie, to make sweete the egreness of displeasure, which they feele and taste that be subiect to the obeysaunce of any new Monarchie. Man being of his owne nature so louing of himselfe, that an immoderate libertie seemeth vnto him sweeter, more iust and indurable, than aucthorities rightly ordained, the establishment whereof seemeth to represente the onely gouernment of that first kinge, which from his high throne, giueth being aud mouing to al thinges. That good 250 Emperour then knowinge verye well the mallice of men, who although he was a good man of warre, hardye of his hands, and desirous of glorie, yet moderated so well the happie successe of his enterprises, as his grace and gentlenes principally appeared, when he had the vpper hand, for that he cherished and well vsed those whom he had subdued vnder his obedience: his force and felicitie was declared when he corrected and chastised rebells, and obstinate persons, which wilfully would proue the greate force of a Princes arme iustly displeased, and to others what fauour a king could vse towards them, whom he knew to be loyal and faithfull: giuing cause of repentaunce to them which at other times had done him displeasure. And to say the truth, he mighte be placed in the ranke of the most happie princes that euer were, if the priuate affaires of his owne house had so happily succeeded, as the renowme which hee wanne in the science of warfare, and in the administration of the common wealth. But nothing being stable in the life of man, this emperour had in him, that which diminished the glorie of his wisedome, and (resembling an Octauius Augustus) the vnhappie successe of his owne house did somewhat obscure the fame of his noble factes, and those insolent doinges serued vnto him as a counterpoyse to prosperous fortune, which may be easely perceiued, by the progresse and continuation of this historie. This good Prince had one daughter, in whom nature had distributed her giftes in such wise, as she alone might haue vaunted her self to attaine the perfection of all them, which euer had any thing, worthy of admiration, were it in the singularitie of beauty, fauour and courtesie, or in her disposition and good bringing vp. The name of this fayre Princesse was Adelasia. And when this Ladie was very yong, one of the children of the Duke of Saxone, came to the Emperour’s seruice, whose kinsman he was. This yonge Prince, besides that he was one of the fayrest and comliest gentlemen of Almaigne, had therwithall, together with knowledge of armes, a passing skill in good sciences, which mitigated in him the ferocitie both of his warlike knowledge, and of the nature of his countrey. His name was Alerane, who seing himsefe the yongest of his house, and his inheritaunce very small, indeuoured to conciliate every man’s fauour and good will, to remoue his owne fortune, and 251 to bring himselfe in esteemation with the Emperour, wherein all thinges hee imployed so well his indeuour, as through his worthines he wanne commendation and report, to be the most valiaunte and stoutest gentleman in all the Emperour’s Court, which praise did greatly commend the tendernes of his yong yeares, and was therewithall so sober, and of so gentle spirite, that although he excelled his companions in all things, yet he auoyded cause of offence (shewinge himselfe familiar amonge all the Courtiers.) Euery man (which is a greate matter) praised him and loued him, and he thought himself most happie, that by any meanes could fashion himself to imitate the vertue that made Alerane’s name so renowmed. And that which made him fuller of admiracion, and brought him into fauour with his Lord and maister was, that vpon a day the Emperour being in hunting alone in the middes of a launde, and in a desert place, it chaunced that a Beare issuinge out of her caue, was assayled of Hunters: the fierce beaste, auoyding the toyles and flyinge the pursute of the dogges, came with greate vehemencie and speede from a mountaine, and was vpon the Emperour or he was ware, separated from his companie and without his sword. But Alerane by good fortune was at hand, who more careful for the safetie of his Prince than for his owne life, encountred the beare, and killed him in the presence of the Emperour and many other. All which beholding (to their great astonishmente) the dexteritie and hardines of Alerane at those small yeares, (for then hee was not aboue the age of XVII.) the Emperour imbracing him, did highly commende him, tellinge them that were by, that his life was saued chiefely by God’s assistaunce, and nexte by the prowesse of Alerane. The newes hereof was so bruted abroade, as there was no talke but of the valiaunce and stoutenes of this yong man of warre, which caused fair Adelasia (moued by naturall instigation, and with the opinion and reporte of the vertue toward in that yonge Prince) to feele a certaine thing (I cannot tell what) in her minde, which inflamed her senses and hart. And she had no sooner cast her eyes vpon Alerane, but loue, which had prepared the ambushe, so pearsed her delicate breast, as he toke ful possession of her: in such wyse as the Princesse was so straungelye in loue wyth the yonge Prince, that she neuer founde pleasure 252 and contentment but in that which was done or said by her louer, whom she accompted the chiefe of all the men of his time. In this burning heate, she felt the passions of Loue so vehement, and his pricks so sharpe, that she could not euaporate the cloudes which darkened her spirites and continually tormented her minde. And albeit that the little occasion, which she saw, for their comminge together in time to come, did disswade her from pursuing the thing which she most desired: yet the tyrant Loue shewed himselfe very extreame in that diuersitie of thoughts, and variety of troubles which vexed the spirite of the Princesse: for shee could not so well dissemble that, which honour and age commaunded her to keepe secrete, but that Alerane which was (as we haue alreadie said) well expert and subtile, perceiued the inwarde disease of Adelasia. Moreouer there was betweene them a naturall conformitie and likelyhode of conditions, which made them to agree in equall desires, to feede of like meates, their passionate mindes were martired with equall sorowe and paine, departed as wel in the one as in the other. For Alerane by taking careful heede to the lookes which the Princesse continually did stealingly cast vpon him, saw the often and sodaine chaunces of colour, wherein sometimes appeared ioye, which by and by did ende with infinite nomber of sighes, and with a countenance agreeable to that, which the hart kept secrete and couert, whereby he assured himselfe vnfainedly to be beloued, which caused him to do no lesse (for satisfaction of such like merite and desert done by Adelasia) but to beare vnto her like affection, forcinge her by all diligence and seruice to continue still that good will toward him, yelding himselfe a pray to the selfe same Loue. Who ruling thaffections of the Princesse, (as braue and pleasaunt as she was) made her sorowfull and pensife, and altered her in such wise as she thought the companie wherein she was did impeach her ioy, which companie she imagined to conceiue the like pleasure that she did, when at libertie and alone shee reuolued her troubles, and fansied her contentation in her minde. Alerane on the other side slept not, but as though he had receiued the first wound by the handes of the blinde little archer Cupide, ceassed not to thincke of her, whose image ordinarelye appeared before his eyes, as engrauen more liuely in his minde than anye 253 forme may be insculped vppon mettall or marble. And yet neither the one nor the other, durste discouer the least passion of a greate nomber which oppressed their besieged hartes, and which suffered not to liue in anye reste this faire couple of loyall louers. The eyes alone did thoffice of the handes and tongue, as trustie secretaries, and faithful messengers of the effects of the minde. That which kindled the fier moste, was their frequente talke together, which was but of common matters, withoute vtteraunce of that which the hart knewe well enoughe, and whereof the eyes gaue true testimonie. A passion truly most intollerable for a yonge Princesse, as well because she neuer had experience of semblable sorow, as for her tender age, and yet more for a naturall abashmente and shame, which with the vaile of honor doth serue, or ought to serue for a bridle, to euery Ladie couetous of fame, or like to be the ornament or beauty of her race. Adelasia then floting in the tempestuous seas of her appetites, guided by a maister which delighteth in the shipwracke of them he carieth, vanquished with an immoderate rage of loue, tormented with grief vnspeakeable, offended with her owne desires, beinge alone in her chamber, began to complaine her sorowes, and saide: “Ah, what passion is it that is vnknowen vnto me, that ingendreth an obliuion of that which was wont to delighte and contente me? From whence commeth this new alteration, and desire vnaccustomed, for solitarie being alone, is the reste and argumente of my troubles? What diuersities and chaunges be these that in this sorte do poise and weigh my thought? Ah, Adelasia, what happie miserie dost thou finde in this free prison, where pleasure hath no place till the enemies haue disquieted the life, with a Million of painefull aud daungerous trauailes? What is this to say, but that againste the nature of maidens of my yeres I will not, or cannot be quiet day nor night, but take my repast and feeding vpon cares and thoughtes? Alacke, I thought then to finishe my sorowes and griefes, when (being alone) I began to frame the plot of my tormentes and paines, with so many formes and deuises in my fansie, as I do make wishes and requestes vpon the thing I loue and esteeme aboue all, vppon which all mine affections do depende and take their beginning. What is this to saye, but that my maydes do offende mee, when with 254 discrete wordes they go about to diuert me from my follies and pleasaunt noysome thoughtes? Wherefore should not I take in good part the care which they haue of my health, and the paine which they take to remember me of my torment? Alas, they know not wherein consisteth the force of mine euil, and much lesse is it in their power to remedie the same. Euen so I would haue none other plaister but him that hath giuen me the wound, nor none other meate but the hunger that drieth me vp, I craue none other comfort but the fire which burneth mee continuallye, the force wherof pearceth the sucke and marie within my bones. Ah Alerane, Alerane, the floure and mirror of all prowesse and beautie: it is thou alone that liueste in mee, of whom my minde conceyueth his hope, and the hart his nourishment. Alas: that thy worthines should be the ouerthrow of mine honour, and thy perfection the imperfection of my life. Ah Loue, Loue, how diuersly thou dealest with mee. For seing mine Alerane, I am attached with heate in the middes of ise that is full oolde. In thinking of him, I do both rest and trauaile continually. Nowe I flee from him, and sodainly againe I desire him. In hearing him speake, the suger and hony, that distilleth from his mouth, is the contentmente of my minde, till such time as his words appeare to be different from my desire. For then, ah Lord: my rest is conuerted into extreme trauaile, thy honye into gall, and wormewoode more bitter than bitternes it selfe, the hope of my minde is become dispayre so horrible, as the same onely wil breede vnto me, (if God haue not pittie vpon me) a short recourse of death.” After these wordes, shee rested a longe time without speaking, her armes a crosse, and her eyes eleuate on highe, which ranne downe like a Ryuer of teares, and seemed to be so rauished, as a man would haue iudged her rather a thing withoute life, than a creature sensible, and labouring for life, till, recouering her spirites againe, as comming from an extasie and sounde, she beganne her plaintes againe in this sort: “What? must such a Princesse as I am, abase my selfe to loue her owne subiect, yea and her kinseman, and specially not knowing yet how his minde is disposed? Shall I be so vnshamefast, and voyde of reason, to surrender my selfe to anye other but to him, whom God and fortune hath promised to be my espouse? Rather death shall 255 cut of the threde of my yeres, than I wil contaminate my chastitie, or that any other enioy the floure of my virginitie, than he to whom I shal be tied in mariage. Ah: I say and promise muche, but there is a tormenter in my minde which dealeth so rigorouslie with my reason, as I cannot tel wherupon wel to determine. I dare not thincke (which also I ought not to do) that Alerane is so foolish to despise the loue of one, that is the chiefeste of the doughters of the greatest Monarches of the world, and much lesse that hee should forget himselfe, in such wise to forsake mee, hauing once enioyed the best and dearest thing that is in mee, and whereof I meane to make him the onelye and peaceable possessor. Truly the vertue, gentlenes, and good nurriture of Alerane, doe not promise suche treason in him, and that great beautie of his, cannot tell how to hyde such rigor as hee will refuse one that is no deformed and ill fauoured creature, and which loueth him with such sinceritie, as wher she shall lose the meanes to inioy him, there shee shal feele, euen forthwith, the miserable ende of her sorowfull dayes.” And then againe she helde her peace, tossed and turmoiled with diuers thoughtes fleetinge betweene hope and feare: by and by she purposed to deface from her hart the memorie of Loue, which alreadie had taken to faste footinge, and would not be separated from the thing, which heauen himselfe seemed to haue prepared, for the perfection and glorie of his triumphe. Loue then constrayned her, to resolue vppon her laste determination. Then continuinge her talke, sighing without ceasing, she said: “Chaunce what may to the vttermost, I can but wander like a Vagabonde and fugitiue with mine owne Alerane (if hee will shew me so much pleasure to accept mee for his own): for sure I am, the Emperour wil neuer abide the mariage, which I haue promised: and sooner will I die, than another shall possesse that which Alerane alone deserueth: hauinge a long time vowed and dedicated the same vnto him. And afterwards let the vulgar sort blabbe what they liste of the bolde and foolishe enterprises of Adelasia, when my harte is contented and desire satisfied, and Alerane enioyeth her that loueth him more than her selfe. Loue verily is not liable to the fansie of the parentes, nor yet to the will euen of them that subiungate themselues to his lawes. And besides that I shall not 256 be alone amongest Princesses, that haue forsaken parentes and countries, to folow their loue into straunge regions. Faire Helena the Greeke, did not she abandon Menelaus her husbande and the rich citie of Sparta, to follow the faire Troian, Alexander sailing to Troie? Phedria and Ariadne, despised the delicates of Creta, lefte her father a very old man, to go with the Cecropian Theseus. None forced Medea the wise furious lady (but loue) to departe the isle of Colchos, her owne natiue countrey, wyth the Argonaute Iason. O good God, who can resist the force of loue, to whom so many kinges, so many Monarches, so many wise men of al ages haue done their homage? Surely the same is the onely cause that compelleth me (in makinge my selfe bolde) to forget my dutie towardes my parentes, and specially mine honour, which I shall leaue to be reasoned vpon by the ignoraunt which considereth nothing but that which is exteriourly offred to the viewe of the sighte. Ah: how much I deceiue my selfe, and make a reckeninge of much without mine hoste: and what know I if Alerane (although hee do loue me) will loose the good grace of the Emperour; and forsake his goods, and (so it maye bee) to hazard his life, to take so poore and miserable a woman as I am? Notwithstanding I wil proue fortune, death is the worst that can chaunce, which I wil accelerate rather than my desire shall loose his effecte.” Thus the fayre and wise Princesse concluded her vnhappie state: and all this time her best frende Alerane, remained in greate affliction, and felt such feare as cannot be expressed with woordes, onely true louers know the force, altogether like to that wherof the yong Prince had experience, and durst not discouer his euill to her, that was able to giue him her allegeaunce, much lesse to disclose it to any deare frende of his, into whose secrecie he was wont to commit the most parte of his cares, which was the cause that made him feele his hart to burne like a litle fier in the middes of a cleare riuer, and saw him selfe ouerwhelmed within the waters, hotter than those that be intermixed with Sulphure, and do euaporate and sende forth ardente smokes in an Æthna hill or Vesuue mountaine. The Princesse impaciente to endure so long, could no longer keepe secrete the flames hidden within her, without telling and vtteringe them to some, whom her minde liked best, and there to 257 render them wher she thought they toke their essense and beinge, casting away all shame and feare, which accustomablie doth associate Ladies of her estate and age. One day, she toke secretly aside, one that was her gouernesse named Radegonde, a gentlewoman, so vertuous, wise and sober, as anye other that was in the Emperour’s Courte, who for her approued manners and chaste life, had the charge of the bringing vppe and nourishing of Adelasia, from her infancie. To this gentlewoman then the amorous princesse deliberated to communicate her secretes, and to let her vnderstande her passion, that shee might find some remedie. And for that purpose they two retired alone within a closet, the poore louer tremblinge like a leafe (at the blaste of the westerne winde, when the Sunne beginneth to spread his beames) sighinge so strangely, as if her bodye and soule would haue departed, said thus: “The trust which euer I haue found in that naturall goodnes that appeareth to be in you, my mother and welbeloued Ladie, ioyned with discretion and fidelitie, wherwith all your actes and affayres be recommended, do presently assure me, and make me bolde in this my trouble, to participate vnto you my secretes, which be of greater importance without comparison, than anye that euer I tolde you, perswading my selfe that the thing which I shall tell you, whatsoeuer it be (be it good or ill) you will accept it in suche wyse, as your wysedome requireth, and to keepe it so close as the secrete of such a Ladie as I am doth deserue. And that I maye not holde you longe in doubte what it is, know ye, that of late the valor, prowesse, beautye, and curtesie, of Senior Alerane of Saxon, hath founde such place in my hart, as (in despite of my self) I am so in loue with him, that my life is not deare vnto me but for his sake, my hart taketh no pleasure but in his glorie and vertue, hauing chosen him so vertuous a Prince for my frend, and one day (by God’s sufferaunce) for my lawfull spouse and husband. I haue assaied a thousand meanes, and so many wayes, to cast him of and to blot him out of my remembraunce: but, alas! vnhappie caytife, fortune is so froward and so vnmercifull to my endeuour, as the more I labour and go aboute to extinguishe in me, the memorie of his name and commendable vertues, so much the more I do enlarge and augmente them, the flames of which loue do take 258 such increase, as I do litle or nothinge esteeme my life without the enioyinge the effecte of my desire, and the taste of suche licour, which nourishing my hope in pleasure, may quenche the fier that doth consume me: otherwise I see no meanes possible but that I am constrayned, either to lose my good wittes (whereof already I feele some alienation) or to ende my dayes with extreme anguishe, and insupportable hartes sorowe. Alas, I know well that I shall loose my time, if I attempt to pray the Emperour my father to giue me Alerane to husbande, sith he doth already practise a mariage betwene the king of Hungarie and me: and also that Alerane (although he be a Prince of so noble bloud and honourable house, as the Saxon is) yet he is to base to be sonne in lawe to an Emperour. In these my distresses, it is of you alone, of whom I looke for ayde and counsaile, beinge certaine of your prudence and good iudgement: and therefore I pray you to haue pitie vpon mee, and haue remorse vpon this immoderate passion that doth tormente mee beyonde measure.” Radegonde hearing Adelasia disclose this talke, wherof she would neuer haue thought, was so confounded and astoned, that of long time she could not speake a word, holding her head downe, reuoluing a thousand diuers matters in her minde, knewe not well what to aunswere the Princesse. Finally gatheringe her spirites vnto her, shee aunswered her with teares in her eyes, saying: “Alas, madame, what is that you saye? Is it possible that the wisest, vertuous, and most curteous Princesse of Europa could suffer herselfe in this sort (through her onely aduise) to be transported to her owne affections and sensuall appetites? Is it well doen that you seing in me, a discretion and modestie, doe not imitate the puritie thereof? Be these the godly admonicions which heretofore I haue giuen you, that you will so lightly defile your father’s house with the blot of infamie, and your self with eternal reproch? Would you, Madame, that vpon the ende of my yeares I should begin to betraye my Lord the Emperour, who hath committed to my hands the most precious iewell of his house? Shal I be so vnconstant in mine old dayes to become an vnshamefast minister of your fonde and foolishe loue, a thing which I neuer did in the ardent time of youth? Alas, madame, forget I beseech you this foolish order, cast vnder your feete this determination 259 wickedly begonne, such as to the blemishinge of the honourable brightnes of your fame, maye cause the ruine of vs all. Follow the counsell of your deare nourice Radegonde, whoe loueth you better than her owne soule. Quenche these noisome and parchinge flames which haue kindled, and throwen forth their sparkes into your chaste and tender harte. Take heede, I beseech you, that a vaine hope doe not deceiue you, and a foolishe desire abuse you. Alas, thincke that it is the parte of a sage and prudente minde, to restraine the first motions of euerye passion, and to resiste the rage that riseth in our willes, and the same very oft by succession of time, bringeth to it selfe to late and noysome repentance. This your thought procedeth not of loue: for hee that thincketh to sustain himselfe with venim sugred with that drogue, in the ende he seeth himselfe so desperately impoysoned, as onely death is the remedie for suche disease: a louer truly may be called the slaue of a tyrant most violent, cruell, and bloudie that may be found, whose yoke once put on, can not be put of, but with painful sorrowe and vnspeakeable displeasure. Do you not know Madame, that loue and follie be two passions so like one an other, that they engender like effectes in the minds of those that do possesse them: in such wise as the affection of the paciente cannot be concealed? Alas, what shall become of you and him that you loue so well, if the Emperour do know and perceiue your light and fond determinations. Shew Madame, for God’s sake, what you be. Let the ripe fruits of your prudence so long time tilled, appeare abrode to the worlde: expell from you this vnruled loue, which if you suffer frankly to enter into your hart, assure your selfe he wil take such holdfaste of the place, that when you thincke to extrude the enemie out, it is he that will driue away that small portion of force and reason that resteth in you: and then the comfort of your miseries, wil be the lamentation of your losses, and a folowing repentaunce for that which cannot be by any meanes recouered.” Adelasia burning in loue and fretting with anger, not able to abide contrarie replie to her minde, began to loke furiouslie vppon the Ladie that gave her suche holsome admonicion, to whom she said with more than womanly stoutnes, these words: “And what are you, good gentlewoman, that dare so hardly prescribe 260 lawes to Loue that is not subiect or tied vnto the fantasie of men? Who hath giuen you commission to take the matter so hote against that I haue determined to doe, say you what you can? No, no, I loue Alerane and wil loue him whatsoeuer come of it: and sithe I can haue none other helpe at your handes, or meete counselle for mine ease and comfort: be assured that I will endeauour to finde it in my selfe: and likewise to prouide so well as I can for mine affaires, that eschewing the alliaunce which the Emperour prepareth, I will liue at hartes ease with him, whom (in vaine) you go about to put out of my remembraunce: and if so be I chaunce to fayle of my purpose, I haue a medicine for my calamities which is death, the laste refuge of all miseries: which will be right pleasaunt vnto me, ending my life, in the contemplation and memorie of the sincere and perfecte loue that I beare to mine Alerane.” Radegonde no lesse abashed, than surprised with feare, hearinge the resolution of the Princesse, could not at the first make any aunswere, but to make her recourse to teares, the most familiar weapons that women haue. Then seing by the countenaunces of Adelasia, that the passion had set in foote to deepe for any to attempt to plucke oute the rootes, from that time forth shee wiped her eyes, not without euident demonstration (for all that) of her great griefe conceyued, with infinite sighes, turning her face to the Ladie, shee said to her with pleasaunter countenaunce than before: “Madame, sith your mishap is such as withoute Alerane you cannot bee quiet or pacifyed in minde, appease your plaintes, wipe awaye your teares, shew your countenaunce ioyful, and setting aside all care, put on good corage, and repose in mee all your anguishe and trouble. For I doe promise you and sweare by the fayth that I do owe you Madame, come whatsoeuer shall vnto me, I will deuise in practising your rest to beginne mine owne sorow. And then you shall see how much I am your frend, and that the words which I haue spoken do not proceede els where, but from the desire that I haue to doe you seruice, seeking al wayes possible your aduauncement.” Adelasia at these last words felt such a motion in her minde, as much a doe she had for the exceeding great ioy and pleasure she conceiued, to staie her soule from leapinge forth of that corporall 261 prison (like the spirite of that Romaine Ladie which once lefte the bodye to descende into the Elisien fields, to vse the perfection of her ioy with the blessed soules there, when she saw her sonne retorne safe and sounde from the battaile of Thrasimene besides the lake of Peruse, where the Consull Flaminius was ouercome by Hanniball): but in the ende, the hope to haue that which Radegonde had promised, made her to receiue hart againe, and to clepe her counseler, sayinge: “God forbid, deare mother, that the thing you do for me should rebound to your mishap or discontentmente, sithe the affection which you haue consisteth in the onely pitie and conseruation of a poore afflicted maiden. And your desire tendeth to the deliuerance of the most passionate Princesse that euer was borne of mother: and beleeue that fortune will bee so fauourable, that what mischiefe soeuer chaunce, you remayninge without paine, I shall be shee that alone shal beare the penaunce: wherefore once againe I beseech you, (sayd shee embracinge Radegonde) to bringe that to passe whereof you giue assured hope.” “Care not you Madame,” sayde Radegonde “I truste within a while to make you proue the effecte of my promise: and will cause you to speake vnto him whom you desire so muche: onely be meerye and forgette these straunge fashions, in tormentinge your selfe so muche before your maides, to the intente that, which hitherto hath bin kepte secrete, maye not be reueyled to your great shame and hinderaunce, and to the vtter ruine and ouerthrow of me.” During all this time, Alerane liued in despaire, and hardy cowardise, for although he saw the amorous gestes of Adelasia, yet he durst fixe no certain iudgement of his owne satisfaction, although his harte tolde him, that he was her onely fauoured friend, and promised him that, which almost he feared to thinke, whiche was to haue her one day for friend, if the name of spouse were refused. Thus tormented with ioye and displeasure, wandering betwene doubt and assuraunce of that he hoped, the selfe same daye that Adelasia pratised with Radegonde, for the obtaining of her ioye, and secrete ministerie of her loue, he entred alone into a garden, into whiche the Princesse chamber had prospect, and after he had walked there a good space in an Alley, viewing diligently the order of the fruitful trees of so 262 diuers sortes, as there be varietie of colours, within a faire meade, during the verdure of the spring time, and of so good and sauorours taste as the harte of man could wyshe: he repaired vnder a Laurel tree so well spred and adorned with leaues, about whiche tree you might haue seene an infinite number of Myrtle trees of smell odoriferous and sweete, of Oringe trees laden with vnripe fruite, of pliable Mastickes and tender Tameriskes: and there he fetched his walkes a long the thycke and greene herbes, beholding the varietie of floures, whiche decked and beautified the place, with their liuely and naturall colours. He then rauished in this contemplation, remembring her which was the pleasure and torment of his minde, in sighing wise began to saye: “O that the heauens be not propitious and fauourable to my indeuours: sithe that in the middes of my iolities, I fele a new pleasaunt displeasure, which doth adnihilate all other solace, but that which I receiue through the Image painted in my harte, of that diuine beautie, whiche is more varieted in perfection of pleasures, than this paradise and delicious place, in varietie of enamel and painting, although that nature and art of man, haue workemanlye trauailed to declare and set forth their knowledge and diligence. Ah, Adelasia, the fairest Lady of al faire and most excellent Princesse of the earth: is it not possible for me to feede so well of the viewe and contemplation of thy heauenly and angelicall face, as I doe of the sight of these faire and sundry coloured floures? may it not be brought to passe that I may smell that sweet breath which respireth through thy delicate mouth, being none other thing than Baulme, Muske, and aumbre, yea and that which is more precious, and for the raritie and valour hath no name, euen as I do smell the Roses, Pincks, and Violets, hanging ouer my head, frankely offering themselues into my handes? Ah, infortunate Alerane, there is no floure that ought to be so handled, nor sauor, the sweetnesse whereof ought not to bee sented without desert merited before. Ah! Loue, Loue, that thou hast fixed my minde vpon so high thinges: alas I feare an offence so daungerous, which in the ende will breede my death: and yet I can not withdrawe my harte from that sincke of Loue, although I would force my selfe to expell it from me: alas, I haue red of him so many times, and 263 haue heard talke of his force, as I am afraide to boorde him, and yet feare I shall not escape his gulfe. Alas, I knowe well it is he, of whom is engendred a litle mirth and laughing, after whiche doth followe a thousand teares and weapinges, which for a pleasure that passeth away so sone as the whirlewinde, doth giue vs ouer to great repentaunce, the sorowe whereof endureth a long time, and sometimes his bitternesse accompanieth vs euen to the graue. The pacientes that be tainted with that amorous feuer, although continually they dye, yet they can not wholy see and perceiue the default and lacke of their life, albeit they do wyshe and desire it still. But, alas, what mishap is this that I doe see the poyson whiche causeth my mischiefe, and doe knowe the waye to remedye the same, and yet neuerthelesse I can not or will not recouer the helpe: did euer man heare a thing so straunge as a sicke man seking helpe and fynding recouerie, should yet reiecte it?” Saying so, he wepte and syghed so piteously as a litle chylde threated by his mother the nourice. Then roming vp and downe vppon the grasse, he seemed rather to be a man straught and bounde with chaines, than like one that had his wittes and vnderstanding. Afterwardes being come againe to himselfe, hee retourned to his first talke, saying: “But what? am I more wyse, more constant and perfecte, than so many Emperours, kynges, Princes, and greate lordes, who notwithstanding their force, wisedome, or riches, haue bene tributarie to loue? The tamer and subduer of monsters and tyrants, Hercules (vanquished by the snares of loue), did not he handle the distaffe in stead of his mightie mace? The strong and inuincible Achilles, was not he sacrificed to the shadowe of Hector vnder the colour of loue, to celebrate holy mariage with Polixena, doughter to king Priamus? The great dictator Iulius Cæsar, the Conquerour of so many people, Armies, Captaines, and Kinges, was ouercome with the beautie and good grace of Cleopatra, Queene of Egipt. Augustus his successour, attired lyke a woman, by a yoeman of his chamber, did he not take away Liuia from him that was first maried vnto her? and that common enemy of man and of all curtesie, Claudius Nero, appeased yet some of his furie for the loue of his Ladie? What straunge things did the learned, wise, and vertuous Monarche Marcus Aurelius indure of his 264 well beloued Faustine? and that greate Captaine Marcus Antonius the very terror of the Romaine people and the feare of straung and barbarous nations did homage to the child Cupido for the beautie of Queene Cleopatra, which afterwardes was the cause of his vtter ouerthrow. But what meane I to alledge and remember the number of louers, being so infinite as they be? Wherefore haue the poetes in time past fained in their learned and deuine bookes the loues of Iupiter, Apollo, and Mars, but that euery man may knowe the force of loue to be so puissaunt as the Gods themselues have felt his force to be inuincible and ineuitable? Ah: if sometimes a gentleman be excused for abassing himself to loue a woman of base birth and bloud, why should I bee accused or apprehended for louing the daughter of the chiefest Prince of Europe? Is it for the greatnesse of her house and antiquitie of her race? Why, that is all one betwene vs twoo, and toke his original of the place, whereof at this daye, my father is the chiefe and principall. And admitte that Adelasia be the doughter of an emperour: ah, loue hath no regarde to persons, houses, or riches, rather is he of greater commendation whose enterpryses are most famous and haute gestes extende their flight farre of. Now resteth then to devise meanes how to make her vnderstand my payne: for I am assured that she loueth me, sauing that her honour and yong yeres doe let her to make it appeare more manifest: but it is my propre dutie to make requeste for the same, considering her merites and my small desertes in respect of her perfections. Ah: Alerane, thou must vnlose the tongue which so long time hath ben tied vp, through to much fonde and fearful shame. Set aside the feare of perill, whatsoeuer it be, for thou canst not employe thy selfe more gloriously than vpon the pursuit of suche a treasure that semeth to be reserued for the fame of thy mind so highly placed, which can not attaine greater perfections, except the heauens do frame in their impressions a second Adelasia (of whom I think dame nature her selfe hath broken the moulde) who can not shake of Alerane from the chiefest place, in whom he hath laid the foundation of his ioye that he hopeth to finde in Loue.” During these complaintes, Radegonde, that sawe him rauished in that extasie, coniecturing the cause of his being alone, caused him to be called 265 by a page: who hearing that, was surprised with a new feare intermixt with a secrete pleasure, knowing very well, that she being the gouernesse of his lady, vnderstode the greatest priuities of her harte, hoping also that she brought him gladsome newes, and setting a good chere vpon his face all mated and confused for troubles past, hee repayred to the lady messanger, who was no lesse ashamed, for the tale that she must tell, than he was afeard and dombe, by sight of her whom he thought did bring the areste and determination, either of ioye or of displeasure. After curtesie and welcoms done betwene them, the lady preambled a certayne short discourse touching the matter, to do the Saxone Prince to vnderstande the good will and harty loue of Adelasia towarde him, praying him that the same might not be discouered, sith the honor of his lady did consiste in the secrecie thereof, assuring him, that he was so in fauour with the Princesse as any true and faithfull louer could desire to be for his content. I leaue to your consideration, in what sodayne ioye Alerane was, hearing suche gladsome newes whiche he loked not for, and thought he was not able to render sufficient thankes to the messanger, and much lesse to extolle the beautie and curtesie of his Lady, who without any of his merites done before, (as he thought) had him in so good remembraunce. Beseching moreouer Radegonde, that she would in his name do humble commendations to his Lady, and therewith to confirme her in the assuraunce of his perfect good will, and immutable desire, euerlastingly at her commaundement, onely praying her that he might saye vnto Adelasia three wordes in secrete, to thintent shee might perceiue his harte, and see the affection wherewith he desired to obey her al the dais of his life. The messanger assured him of al that he required, and instructed him what he had to doe for the accomplishement of that he loked for, which was, that the next day at night she would cause him to come into her warderobe, which was adioyning to the Chamber of his Lady, to the ende that when her maydes were a bed, he might repaire to the place where he might easely visite his maistresse, and say vnto her what he thought good. The compact thus made, the Lady returned to the Princesse, that wayted with good deuotion for the newes of her beloued. And hearing the reporte of Radegonde, 266 shee was not contente that she should make repeticion of the same, twise or thrise but a Million of times and euen till nighte, that she slept vpon that thought with the greatest rest, that she had receiued in long time before. The morrowe at the houre that Alerane should come, Adelasia fayning her self to be ill at ease, caused her maydes to goe to bed, making her alone to tarie with her that was the messanger of her loue, who a litle while after went to seeke Alerane, whiche was a building of Castels in the ayre, fantasying a thousand deuises in his minde: what might befall of that enterprise he went about: notwithstanding he was so blinded in folly, as without measuring the fault which he committed, he thought vpon nothing but vppon the present pleasure, which semed to him so great as the chambre wherein hee was, seemed not sufficient to comprehend the glory of his good houre. But the Princesse on the other part, felte a maruellous trouble in her minde, and almoste repented that she had so hardely made Alerane to come into a place vndecent for her honour, and at a time so inconuenient. Howbeit seing that the stone was throwen, shee purposed not to pretermitte the occasion, which being balde can not easely be gotten againe if she be once let slip. And whiles she traueiled in these meditations and discoursed vppon that shee had to doe, Radegonde came in, leading Alerane by the hande, whom she presented to the Princesse, saying to her with a verie good grace: “Madame, I deliuer you this prysoner, whom euen nowe I founde here, betwene your chambre and that wherin your maydes lye: now consider what you haue to doe.” Alerane in the meane tyme, was fallen downe vpon his knees before his sainct, wholly bent to contemplate her excellent beautie and good grace, which made him as dumbe as an Image. Shee lykewyse beholding hym that made her thus to erre in her honestie, forced through shame and loue, could not forbeare to beholde him, the power of her mynde wholy transferred into her eyes, that then yelded contentation of her harte whiche shee so long desired. In the ende Alerane holding the handes of Adelasia many tymes did kisse them, then receiuing courage, he brake of that long silence and began to saye thus: “I neuer thought (madame) that the sight of a thing so long desired, had bene of such effect, as it 267 would haue rauished both the mynde and bodye of their propre duties and naturall actions, if nowe I had not proued it in beholding the diuinitie of your beautie moste excellent. And truely madame Radegonde dyd rightly terme this place here, my pryson, considering that of long tyme I haue partly loste this my libertie, of the whiche I feele nowe an intire alienation: of one thing sure I am, that being your prysoner as I am in deede, I may make my vaunt and boast, that I am lodged in the fairest and pleasauntest pryson that a man can wyshe and desire. For which cause Madame, be wel aduised how you do vse and entreate your captive and slaue, that humbly maketh petition vnto you, to haue pitie vpon his weakenesse, which he will accept as a grace vnspeakeable, if of your accustomed goodnesse it may please you to receiue him for your owne, for that henceforth hee voweth and consecrateth his life, goodes, and honour, to your commaundemente and seruice.” And saying so, his stomake panted with continuall sighes and from his eyes distilled a ryuer of teares, the better to expresse and declare the secret force, that made hym to vtter these woordes. Which was the cause that Adelasia embrasing hym very louingly made aunswere thus: “I knowe not (Lorde Alerane) what pryson that is, where the prisoner is in better case, than the pryson of whom he termeth himselfe to be the slaue, considering that I fele in me such a losse of my selfe, as I can not tell whether to go, or where to retire, but euen to him that craueth the same fredome, whereof I my selfe doe make requeste. Alas, my welbeloued Alerane, into what extremity am I brought: the very great loue that I beare you, forceth me to forget my dutie, and the ligneage wherof I come, yea and mine honor, which is more to bee estemed than all the reste. But I repose in you such affiance, as you will not deceiue so simple a Ladie as I am, vtterly voyde of guyle and deceit. Who, if you be tormented, liueth not without griefe and sorrowe altogether like vnto yours. If you doe sighe, I am wholly spent and consumed in teares. Do you desire reste? Alas: I wishe and craue the same vnto vs both, that be now sundred and deuided, whiche can not be aquired except they be vnited which before were wholly separated.” Radegonde interrupting their talke, smilingly said: “And how 268 can this separation be combined, where the parties them selues do liue in such disiunctions?” “You say true, madame,” saide Alerane, “for the perfection of vnitie consisteth in the knitting of that which is separated. Wherfore madame (sayd he to Adelasia) I humbly besech you, aswel for your comfort as my rest, not to suffer this diuision to be to long, sith the outward bound shall combine the same so inwardly, as very death shall not bee able hereafter to deface or diminishe the same.” “If I may assure my selfe,” sayde she, “of your fidelitie, it so may come to passe, as I wold giue you a very great libertie, but hearing tell so many times of the inconstancie and fickle trust of men, I will be contented with my first fault, without adding any further aggrauation, to fasten and binde that, which I do specially esteme.” “Alas, madame,” sayd Alerane, “doe you thinke that the prouf of my fidelitie may receiue greater perfection, by enioying the pleasure, that I hope for than it doth alredy? No, no, madame, and therefore be sure of my harte and stedfastnesse: for soner shall my body fayle, than defaulte in me to serue and honor you, if not according to the worthinesse of your estate, yet by al meanes, so farre as my power shal stretch. And can you finde in your hart to conceiue, that your Alerane would play the traitour with her, for whose seruice he feareth not to aduenture a thousand liues if God had geuen him so many?” Adelasia be sprent all with teares, was in an extasy or traunce. Which Alerane perceiuing and saw that Radegonde was gone into the warderobe, to suffer them to talke their fill, he began to take possession of her mouthe, redoubling kisse vpon kisse, sometimes washed with teares, sometime dried vp, with frequent vse thereof, leauing neither eye nor cheke vnkissed: and seing the pacience of his Ladye, he seased vpon her white, harde, and round breastes, whose pappes with sighes moued and remoued, yelding a certaine desire of Alerane to passe further. Which Adelasia perceiuing, dissembling a swete anger and such a chase as did rather accende the flames of the amorous Prince, than with moiste licour extinguishe the same, and making him to geue ouer the enterprise, she fiercely sayd unto him: “How now, (Sir Alerane) how dare you thus malapertly abuse this my secret frendship, in suffering you to come so frankely into my chamber. Thinke not that although I 269 haue vsed you thus familiarly, that I can be able to suffer you to attempt any further: for (if God be fauourable to conserue me in my right wittes) neuer man shal haue that aduauntage to gather the floure of my virginitie, but he with whom I shall be ioyned in mariage. Otherwyse I shall bee unworthy, bothe of my honourable state, and also of that man what soeuer he be, worthy of estimation and preferrement.” “So I thynke to Madame,” aunswered Alerane: “for if it woulde please you to doe me that honour, to receiue me for your faythfull and loyall espouse, I sweare vnto you by him that seeth and heareth all thynges, that neuer any other shall bee maistresse of Alerane’s harte, but the fayre Princesse Adelasia.” She that asked no better, after mutche talke betwene them, in the ende condescended that Alerane should geue his faith to marrie her, and to conuey her out of the Courte, till the Emperour were appeased for their committed fault. Thus had the Saxon Prince, the full possession of his desires, and carried away the pray so long time sought for. Radegonde was she, that receiued the othes of their espousalles, and capitulated the articles of their secrete mariage. And after the determination made of their flying awaye, and a daye thereunto appointed, the two louers entred the campe, to make proufe by combate of their hardinesse and assaye of their trauayle in time to come, wherein they thought for euer to perseuere and continue. Beyng a bedde then together, they did consumate the bande that strayghtly doth bynde the harte of louers together, intiring the vnion diuided, whiche before they thought imperfect and could not be accomplished but by inward affections of the minde. And God knoweth howe this new maried couple vsed their mutuall contentation: but sure it is, that they continued together vntil the morning had vncouered from the night her darkenes, euen to the point of day, that Alerane was somoned by Radegonde to depart, who to conclude his former ioye, very louingly kissed his newe wife, and sayd vnto her: “Madame, the felicitie that I fele nowe, by enioying that which vniteth me so nerely being indissoluble and neuer hereafter to be broken, semeth so great that no perill whatsoeuer doth happen, can make me forget the least part of my ioye. So it is that seing the state of our present affaires, and fearing the daunger that may chaunce, I will for this time take my leaue of you, 270 and goe about to put the same in order, that no negligence may slacke your ioye and desired pleasure.” “Ah, sir,” (saith she) “that my harte forethinketh both the best and worste of our intended enterprise. But to the intent we may proue our fortune, by whose conduction we must passe, I doe submitte my selfe to the wisedome of your mynde, and to the good successe that hetherto hath accompaignied all your indeuours.” And then they kissed and embraced again, drinking vp one anothers teares, which distilled from them in such aboundaunce. Thus Alerane departed from his Ladies chamber, and went home to his owne house, where he solde all his goodes at small price, making men to vnderstand, that he would employ the money otherwise in things whereof he hoped to recouer greater gaine. With that money he bought precious stones, and pretie Iewels, that he might not be burdened with cariage of to much gold, or other money, and then he put his males and bougets in readinesse to go with his wife, either of them in the habite and apparell of pilgrimes, faire and softly a foote, that they might not be discouered: which was done in the night. The Princesse faining her selfe to be sicke, made her maydes to withdrawe themselues into their chamber, and then she went into the garden where Alerane firste made his plaintes, as you haue heard before: in whiche place her husbande taried for her. God knoweth whether they renewed their pastime begon the daye of their mariage, but fearing to be taken, they began to playe the comedie, the actes whereof were very long, and the scrolle of their miseries to prolixe to carie, before they came to the catastrope and ende of their comicall action. For leauing their sumptuous and riche apparell, they clothed themselves with pilgrims attire, taking the skallop shell and staffe, like to them that make their pilgrimage to S. Iames in Gallisia. The Princesse toke the personage of a yong wench, ruffling her heare whiche she had in time past so carefully kempt, curled, and trimmed with gold and Iewels of inestimable value, wherein consisteth the chiefest grace of the beautie and ornament of the woman. Who is able to deny, but that this naturall humour and passion, borne so sone as we, whiche they call Loue, is not a certayne essence and being, the force and vigor whereof, not able to abide comparison? Is it no small matter, that by the only instinction of loue’s force, the doughter of so great a Prince, as 271 the Emperour of the Romaines was, shoulde wander like a vagabonde in dissembled tire, and poorely cladde, to experiment and proue the long trauaile of iourneyes, the intemperature of the ayre, the hazarde to meete with so many theeues and murderers, which wayte in all places for poore passengers, and moreouer, to feele the bitternesse of trauayle, neuer tasted before, the rage of hunger, the intollerable alteration of thirst, the heate of hotte Sommer, the coldenesse of wynter’s yce, subiect to raines, and stormy blastes: doth it not plainely demonstrate that loue hath either a greater perfection, than other passions, or els that they which feele that alteration, be out of the number of reasonable men, endued with the brightnesse of that noble qualitie. This fayre Lady recouering the fields with her husband, with determination to take their flight into Italie, was more ioyfull, freshe, and lusty, than when she liued at ease amonges the delicates and pleasures, which she tasted in her father’s court. See howe fortune and loue are content to be blinde, closing vp the eyes of them, that followe their trace, and subdue themselues to their edictes, and vnstable dispositions. And truely this rage of loue was the only meane to dulcorate and make swete the bitter gal of griefe whiche those twoo louers felte, defatigated almoste with tedious trauaile, iudging their wearinesse a pastime and pleasure, being guided by that vnconstante captaine, whiche maketh dolts and fooles wyse men, emboldeneth the weake hearted and cowardes, fortifieth the feeble, and to be shorte, vntieth the pursses and bagges of couetous Carles and miserable Misers. Nowe whyles our faire pilgrimes, without any vowed deuocion, were abrode at their pleasures (beyng wery with the waye they had traueyled all nighte) the morrowe after their departure, all the Emperour’s house was in a great hurly burly and stirre for the absence of Adelasia. The wayting maydes cried out, and raged without measure, with such shrichinges, that the Emperour moued with pitie, although his griefe and anger was great, yet he caused euery place there aboutes to be searched and sought, but all that labour was in vaine. In the ende, perceiuing the absence of Alerane, suspected that it was he that had stolen away his fayre doughter, whiche brought him into such passion and frensie, as he was like to runne out of his wyttes and 272 transgresse the bondes of reason. “Ah, traytour,” sayd the good Prince, “is this the guerdon of good turnes, bestowed vpon thee, and of the honour thou hast receiued in my company? Do not thinke to escape scot free thus without the rigorous iustice of a father, deserued by disobedience, and of a Prince, against whom his subiect hath committed villany. If God geue me lyfe, I wyll take such order, as the posteritie shall take example by that iuste vengeaunce whiche I hope to take of thee (arrant theefe, and despoyler of my honor and consolation.) And thou vnkynde doughter shalte smartely feele the wrong done to thy kynde, and welbeloued father, who thought to prouide for thee, more honourably than thy disloyaltie and incontinencie, so farre as I see, doe merite and deserue, sythe that without my leaue, and respect of thy vocation, thou hast gotten thee a husband worthy of thy folly, with whom I hope to make thee vnderstand thy fault, and my displeasure whiche I receiue through thy shamefull acte, so reprochfull, specially in her which is the doughter of such a father as I am, descended of the moste royall race within the circuit of Europe.” Many other things the Emperour sayd, in great rage and furie: and in thend commaunded, that one should go into Saxone, to knowe if Alerane had conueied his stolen doughter thither: but he could bring no newes at all from thence. He assaied then if he could learne any tidinges of them by other meanes, causing by sound of Trumpet to be cried in all the townes confining that if any persone could bring him worde, or do him to vnderstande certaine and sure newes of those twoo fugitiues, he would geue them that, wherewith they should be contented all the daies of their life. But he wan so much by this thirde serche, as he did by the firste twoo. Whiche thing the Maiestie of God, semed to permit and suffer as wel for the happie successe that chaunced afterwardes, as for the punishing of the rashe enterprise of two louers, whiche liued not very long in prosperitie and ioy, but that they felte the hande of God, who sometime suffereth the faithfull to fall, to make him acknowledge his imbecillitie, to the ende he may confesse, that all health, sustenaunce, reste, and comfort, is to be attended and looked for at the handes of God. When Alerane and his Lady were gone out of a citie with in the Emperour’s lande called Hispourge 273 being come into a certaine wilde and desert place, they fell into the lapse of certaine theues, whiche stripped Alerane into his shirte, and had done as mutch to the poore princesse, if certaine Marchauntes had not come betwene, which forced the theues to flie. Alerane was succoured with some clothes to couer his bodie, and releued with a litle summe of money, which being spent, those twoo kinges children were constrained to begge, and aske for God’s sake reliefe to sustaine their infortunate life. Whiche distresse was so difficulte for Alerane to disgest, as he was like (standing vppon his feete) to die for sorrowe and want, not so mutch for the aduersitie whereunto he was brought through his owne fault, as the pitie that he toke vpon his deare beloued Lady, whome he sawe in so lamentable state, and knew that she might attaine her auncient dignitie and honour againe, if she listed to preferre rewarde or prise before his life, for which she spared not the very last drop of her bloud. She knowing the dolor and anguishe that her husband endured, comforted him very wisely with ioyfull countenaunce, saying: “Howe now, deare husband, thinke you that fortune is or ought to be still fauourable to Princes and greate Lordes? Do you not knowe that great bulkes and shippes do soner perishe and drowne in maine seas and riuers amiddes the raging waues and surges, than in narrow floudes and brookes, where the water is still and calme? Doe you not see great trees, whose toppes doe rise aloft, aboue high hilles and stepe mountaines, soner shaken and tossed with blustering windie blastes, than those that be planted, in fertile dales and low valleis? Haue you forgotten so many histories, by you perused and read with so great delight, when you were in the Emperour’s Court? Doe not they describe the chaunge of Monarches, the ruine of houses, the destruction of one realme acquired, by the establishing and raigne of an other? What Prince, Monarch or Captaine was euer so happy, as hath not felt some griefe and misfortune? Alas, sweete heart, thinke that God doth chastise vs with his roddes of tribulation, to make vs to know him: but in the meane time, he kepeth for vs a better fortune that wee looke not for. Moreouer he neuer forsaketh them which with a good heart do go vnto him, hauing their affiaunce in his great goodnesse and infinite mercie.” Alerane hearing the 274 wise talke of his wife, could not forbear weeping, and sighing aunswered her in this maner: “Ah, Lady, in beautie and wisedom incomparable, it is not the present fortune that causeth my minde to wander and straye from the siege of constancie, knowing well the qualities and number of fortune’s snares, and how ielous she is of humaine ioye and felicitie. I am not ignorant that she layeth her ambushes, and doeth beset the endeuours, soner of personages that bee noble and of highe parentage, than of those whose heartes be base and vnnoble, and their victories not able to attain any iote of honour and fame. But, good God, (saide he, embracing his deare beloued spouse) it is for you, madame, that I endure tormente, hauing made you to abandon the pompe of your estate, and bereued from you a king to be your husband, causing you thus to feele an horrible and new kinde of punishmente, hunger and famine (I meane) in the middes of the deserts and wilde places, and therewithall haue ioyned you in companie with an infortunate felowshippe, who in stead of comfort and solace, ministreth teares and sighes. O God, most high and puissant, howe profounde and darke are thy iudgementes, and howe righteous is thy iustice. I acknowledge mine offence to be the cause of thyne anger, and the originall of our trespasse, and that this paine chauncheth to vs for our sinnes, which haue so wickedly betraied the best Prince of the world, and forsaken the companie of him, at whose bountifull handes I haue receiued better entertainement and greater honour, than I deserued. Ah, Emperour Otho, that thou art so well reuenged nowe, with cowardly fraude and deceipt committed against thee by Alerane of Saxone, taking away her from thee, which was the staffe and future staye of thy reuerend age.” And as he was perseuering in this talke, Adelasia (seeing him in that contemplation) plucked him by the arme, saying: “Sir, it is time to consider our own affaires: we haue trauailed I can not tell howe farre without rest, me think (our fortune being no better) that we ought to remaine in some place attending for the grace and mercy of God, who (I hope) wil not forsake vs.” They were then in Liguria in the desarts, betweene Ast and Sauonne, a countrie in that time well peopled, and furnished with huge and darke forestes, garnished with many trees, great and highe. By the 275 aduise then of Adelasia, the Saxone Prince forced by necessitie (the maistresse of all artes) retired into those forestes where he practised the occupation of a Collier, and some said that nature taught him the order howe to cutte his woode, to make readie his pittes, and to knowe the season and tyme when his coales were burned enough. Great paines he susteined about his businesse, and went himself to sell his coales, which he bare vpon his shoulders, to the next market townes, tyll he had gayned so mutche as bought him an asse, wherewith he dayly trauailed to vtter his coales, and other deuises which neede had forced him to learne. In this time Adelasia was deliuered of a goodly child, whom they named William. And afterwards, by succession of time, she bare sixe sonnes more. For they dwelt almost XVIII. or XX. yeares in that poore and miserable life, and had dressed vp a litle lodging within a caue, that was faire and brode, wherein verye trimly and well they had bestowed themselues. When the eldest of their sonnes was growen to the stature of a pretie stripling, the father sent him sometime to Sauonne, and sometime to Ast, to sell their litle merchandise, for reliefe of their houshold. But the boy, whose bloud could not conceale and hide the nobilitie of his birth, hauing one day sold certaine burdens and loades of woode and coale: bought with that money a faire yong hauke, which he caried vnto his father. The good man gently rebuked his sonne, and said, that suche game belonged not to men of their degree, and that they had muche a do to liue, without employing their money vppon such trifles. Long time after, William being arriued to the age of XVI yeares, went to Sauonne, to sell certaine ware by his father’s commaundement, and with the money he bought a very fayre sword, which when his father saw, with teares in his eyes, he went aside and said to himselfe: “Ah vnfortunate ladde, that thy hard lucke should do thee this great wrong: truely neither the pouertie of thy parentes, nor the place of thy bringinge vp, can deface in thee the secrete shining brightnes of thine auncestors vertue, nor the prediction of thy courage and manhode in time to come, if God giue the grace to aduaunce thee, to the seruice of some noble Prince.” Notwithstanding for that time he ceassed not sharply to rebuke and threaten his sonne, in such wyse as the yong man hauing a 276 harte greater than his force, determined secretly to depart from his parentes. Now fortune chaunced so wel and apt for his purpose as then and at the verye same time, the Hongarians were entred Italye to spoile and robbe the countrie, against whom the Emperour marched in greate expedicion, with an huge and goodly armie, of purpose to force them to leaue his lande in peace. William hauinge knowledge hereof, proceeded towarde the Emperour’s campe, where hee shewed in deede great hope (being of so smal yeares) of his future valiaunce and prowesse, by the deedes of armes that hee did, during that warre. Which ended and the enemie put to flighte, the Emperour wente into Prouance, to put in order his affaires in his realme of Arles, which then was subiecte to the Empire. Afterwards he retired into Italy with deliberation to seiorne at Sauonne for a certaine time, which displeased William nothing at all, because he should remaine harde by his parentes, who were very carefull for his well doing, vtterly ignoraunt where he was become. And notwithstanding a hope (what I knowe not) made them expect of their sonne som good fortune in time to come, who was now grown great and of goodly perfection, one of the most valiaunt souldiours that were in the wages and seruice of his Maiestie. Which very brauely he declared in a combate, that he fought man to man with an Almaine souldiour, that was hardy, big made, and feared of all men, whom neuerthelesse he ouercame in the presence of the Emperor his graundfather. Who, I know not by what natural inclination, daily fixed his eye vpon that yong champion, and began to bear him more good will than anye other in his courte, which was an occasion, that an auncient gentleman, serving in the Princes Courte, stedfastly beholding the face, behauiour and countenaunce of William, seemed to see a picture of the Emperour when he was of his age, which was more exactlye viewed by diuers other, that were broughte vp in their youth with Otho. Wherof being aduertised, he caused the yong man to be called forth, of whom he demaunded the names of his parentes, and the place where hee was borne. William that was no lesse curteous, humble and welmanered, than wise, valiant and hardie, kneeled before the Emperour with a stoute countenaunce, resemblinge the nobilitie of his auncestours, answered: “Most sacred and renowmed 277 Emperour, I haue nothinge whereof to render thanckes to fortune, but for the honour that your Maiestie hath done vnto me, to receiue mee into your noble seruice. For the fortune and condition of my parentes, be so base, that I blushe for shame to declare them vnto you. Howbeit being your humble seruaunte, and hauing receiued fauour of your maiestie, not commonly emploied, your commaundement to tell you what I am, I will accomplish as well for my bounden dutie, wherewith I am tied to your maiestie, and to satisfie that which it pleaseth you to commaund me. Be it knowen therefore vnto your maiestie, that I am the sonne of two poore Almaines, who flying their owne countrie, withdrew themselues into the desarts of Sauonne, where (to beguile their hard fortune) they make coals, and sel them, to sustaine and relieue their miserable life: In which exercise I spent all my childhod, although it were to my great sorowe. For my hart thought (Sir) that a state so vile, was vnworthy of my coragious minde, which dailye aspired to greater thinges, and leauing my father and mother, I am come to your seruice, to learne chiualry and vse of armes, and (mine obedience saued to your maiestie) to find a way to illustrate the base and obscure education, wherein my parents haue brought me vp.” The Emperour seinge the courteous behauiour of the yonge man, by this wise aunswere, remembring the similitude of his face, which almoste resembled them both, suspected that he was the sonne of Alerane and his doughter Adelasia, whoe for feare to be knowen, made themselues citizens of those desertes, albeit that William had told him other names, and not the proper appellations of his father and mother. For which cause his hart began to throbbe, and felte a desire to see his doughter, and to cherishe her with like affection, as thoughe he had neuer conceiued offence and displeasure. He caused then to be called vnto him a gentleman, the nere kinsmanne of Alerane, to whom he said with merie countenaunce and ioyful cheere: “You do know as I thincke, the wrong and displeasure that your cosin Alerane hath done me, by the rape and robberie committed vppon the person of my doughter: you are not ignoraunt also of the reproch wherwith he hath defiled all your house, committed a felonie so abhominable in my courte, and againste mine owne person, which am his so 278 soueraigne Lorde. Notwithstanding, sith it is the force of Loue, that made me forget him till this time, rather than desire of displeasure, I am very desirous to see him, and to accepte him for my sonne in lawe, and good kinsman, verye willing to aduaunce him to that estate in my house, which his degree and bloud do deserue. I tell you not this without speciall purpose. For this yong souldiour, which this daye so valiantly and with such dexteritie vanquished hys aduersary, by the consente of all men, which haue knowen me from my youth, doth represente so well my figure and lineamentes of face, which I had when I was of his age, as I am persuaded, and do stedfastly beleeue, that he is my neuew, the sonne of your cosin Alerane and my doughter Adelasia. And therefore I will haue you to goe with this yonge man, into the place where hee shall bring you, and to see them that be his parents, because I purpose to do them good, if they be other than those whom I take them. But if they be those two that I so greatly desire to see, doe mee so much pleasure as I may satisfie my hart with that contentation, swearing vnto you by the crowne of my Empire, that I will do no worse to them, nor otherwise vse them, than mine own proper person.” The gentleman hearing the louing and gentle tearmes of the Emperour, saide vnto him: “Ah, Sir, I render humble thankes vnto your maiestie, for the pitie that you haue, vpon our dishonored race and ligneage of Saxone, dedecorated and blemished throughe Alerane’s trespasse against you. I pray to God to recompence it (we being vnable) and to giue you the ioye that you desire, and to mee the grace that I may do some agreeable seruice both in this and in all other things. I am readie (Sir) not onely to go seeke my cosin (if it be he that you thincke it is) to carie vnto him those beneficiall newes which your maiestie hath promised by word, but rather to render him into your hands, that you may take reuengement vppon him for the iniurie that he hath done to the whole Empire.” “No, no,” said the Emperour, “the desired time of reuenge is paste, and my mallice against Alerane hath vomited his gall. If in time paste I haue thristed to pursue the ruine and ouerthrowe of those two offenders, nowe I goe about to forsee and seeke their aduauncement and quiet, considering the longe penaunce they haue taken for their fault, and 279 the fruite that I see before mine eyes, which is such that it maye by the smell and fragrant odour thereof, supporte the weaknesse and debilitie of my olde yeares, and constraineth mee (by the vertue thereof) to haue pittie vpon his parents, which (through their owne ouerthrowe) haue almost vtterly consumed me.” Those words ended the good Prince gaue euident testimonie of desire to see his onely doughter, by the liuely colour that rose in his face, and by certaine teares running downe along his hoare and frostie beard. Then he caused William to come before him, and commaunded him to conduct the gentleman to that part of the forest where his father dwelled. Whereunto the yonge man readily and with all his harte obeyed. Thus the Lorde Gunforde (for so was Alerane’s cosin called) accompanied with his litle cosin, and manye other gentlemen, went toward the place, wher the collier princes remained. And when they were neere the craggie caue, the lodging of Alerane, the whole companie lighted of their horse, and espied him busie about the lading of his coales to sende to Ast. For the arriuall of the Emperour to Sauonne, staied Alerane from going thither himselfe, by reason his conscience still grudged for his fault committed against him. Alerane seing this goodly companie, was abashed, as though hornes had sodenly started out of his head, and yet the sighte of his sonne richly furnished, and in the company of Gunfort his cosin, did more astonne him. For he suspected incontinentlye that hee was discouered, and that the Emperour had sente for him to be reuenged of the faulte so long time paste committed. And as he had imagined diuers thinges vppon his harde fortune within his fancie, his sonne came to embrace him vppon his knees, and to kisse his hands, with an honest and humble reuerence, saying to Gunfort: “Sir, this is he of whom I told the Emperour, and of him I toke my being: This is my father.” All this while the good father embraced his sonne very hard, and weeping for extreme ioy, said vnto him: “Alas, my sonne, if thy comming be so happie vnto mee as it is ioyfull, if thy newes be good and prosperous, which thou bringest: thou doest reuiue thy father half deade, and from lamentable despaire thou doest replenishe and fill him with suche hope, as one day shall be the staie of his age, and the recouery of his greatest losses.” 280 The sonne not able to abide the discourse of his parents affaires, could not comprehend any thing at that pitiful meting: but stode stil so astonned, as though he had bin fallen from the clouds. Now during this time, that the father and the sonne thus welcomed one an other: Gunfort toke heede to al the countenaunce and gestures of Alerane. There was no part of the collier’s bodie that he forgat to view: and yet remembring the voyce of his cosin, and seing a wound that he had in his face, was sure that it was hee. And then with his armes stretched forth he came to clepe Alerane about the necke, whom he made to loke redde with his warme teares, saying: “Ah: Alerane, the present torment now, but in time past, the pleasaunce rest, of oure race. What eclipse hath so longe obscured the shining sunne of thy valiaunt prowesse? why haste thou concealed so longe time, thy place of retire from him, which desired so much thine aduauncement? Hast thou the harte to see the teares of thy cosin Gunfort running downe from his eies vppon thy necke, and his armes embracinge thee with such loue and amitie, as he cannot receiue the like, except he be something moued by thee, in seing thy louing entertainment? Wilt thou denie that, which I knowe, by a certaine instinct and naturall agreement, which is, that thou art Alerane the sonne of the Duke of Saxone, and so renowmed throughout all Germany? Doest thou pretende (throughe thine owne misfortune so rooted in thy harte by liuinge in these wildernesse) to depriue thy sonne of the honor, which the heauens and his good fortune haue prepared for him? Ah cruel and pitilesse father, to suffer thy progenie to be buried in the tombe of obliuion, with eternall reproche. O vnkinde kinsman toward thy kindred, of whom thou makest so small accompte, that wilt not vouchsafe to speake to thy cosin Gunfort, that is com hither for thy comfort, and the aduauncement of thy familie.” Alerane sore ashamed, as well for the remembrance of his auncient fault, as to see himselfe in so poore estate before the emperour’s gallants, answered Gunfort, saying: “My Lord and cosin, I beseech you to beleeue, that want of desire to make my complaint vnto you, and lacke of curtesie to entertaine you, haue not made me to forget my dutie towardes you, being as well my neare kinseman, as such one to whom I haue done wrong and very great iniurie 281 by offending the Emperour. But you do knowe of what puissance the prickes of conscience bee, and with what worme she gnaweth the harte of them, which feele themselves culpable of crime. I am (as you saide) the present missehap of our house, for the opinion that the Emperour hath conceiued of my folly, and shal be the rest (if you wil do me so much pleasure to rid me out of this miserable life) both of you and of the minde of a father iustly displeased against his doughter, and the quiet of a Prince offended with his subiecte: for I sweare vnto you by my fayth, that I neuer soe much desired life, as I nowe do couet death, for that I am assured, that I being deade, my poore companion and welbeloued wife, shall liue at her ease, enioyinge the presence and good grace of her father.” “What meane you so to saye,” answered Gunfort, “the Emperour is so well pleased and appeased, as he hath sworne vnto mee to receiue you as his sonne in law, and my Lady your wife as his deare beloued doughter, whom I pray you to cause to come before vs, or to signifie vnto vs where shee is, that I may doe reuerence unto her as to my Princesse and soueraigne Ladie.” William was all amased, and almost besides himselfe, hearing this discourse, and thought hee was either in a dreame or els inchaunted, till that Alerane called his wife by her proper name, who was so appalled to hear the word of Adelasia, that her hart was sodainly attached with terror and feare, when she saw so great a company about her husband: and then her sonne came to doe his dutie, not as to his mother onely, but as to the doughter of an Emperour, and the wife of a Prince of Saxon. She againe embraced and kissed him, although shee was surprised with feare and shame, and so moued with that sodaine sighte, as she had much a doe to keepe herselfe from fainting and falling downe betweene the armes of her sonne, and thought that she had passed the place where Gunfort was, who going towarde her, after his reuerence and deutie done, made her vnderstand the charge hee had, and the good will of the Emperour, which determined to receiue her againe with so good order and entertainement as might be deuised. Which earnest words made them to resolue vppon the proufe of fortune, and to credite the promises that Gunfort made them in the Emperour’s behalfe. 282 Thus they forsoke the Caue, their Coales and fornaces, to reenter their former delightes and pleasures. That nighte they lodged at a village not farre from the foreste, where they tarried certaine dayes, to make apparell for these straunge Princes, and so wel as they could to adorne and furnish Adelasia, (who being of the age almost of XXXIV. or XXXV. yeares, yet manifested some part of the perfection of that deuine beautie, and modest grauitie, which once made her marueilous and singuler aboue all them that liued in her dayes.) In the time that this royle company had furnished and prepared themselues in readinesse, Gunfort sente a gentleman of that troupe toward the Emperour, to aduertise him of the successe of their iourney. Wherof he was exceeding ioyful, and attended for the comming of his children, with purpose to entertaine them in louing and honourable wise. When all thinges were in readinesse and the traine of Adelasia in good order, according to the worthines of the house whereof she came, they rode toward Sauonne, which iourney seemed to them but a sport, for the pleasure mixte with compassion that eche man conceiued, in the discourse that Alerane made vpon his misfortunes and chaunces, as well in his iourneis, as of his abode and continuaunce in the desarts. Which William calling to remembraunce, praised God, and yelded him thanckes for that it had pleased him to inspire into his minde, the forsaking of his parentes, considering that the same onely fault, was the cause of their restitution, and of his aduauncement and glorie, being the sonne of such a father, and the neuew of so great a Monarche. The fame of whose name made all men quake and tremble, and who then had commaunded all the troupe of the Gentlemen of his Court, to go and seeke the forlorne louers, so long time lost and vnknowen. To be short, their entrie into Sauonne, was so royal and triumphant, as if the Emperor himself would haue receiued the honour of such estate, and pompe. Which he commaunded to be done as well for the ioy that he had recouered the thing, which he accompted lost, as to declare and acknowledge to euery wight, that vertue cannot make herselfe better knowen: than at that time, when the actions and deedes of great personages be semblable in raritie and excellencie to their nobilitie. For a Prince is of greater dignitie and admiration than he commonly 283 sheweth himselfe, which can neuer enter into the heade of the popular sort, who waie the affections of other with the balance of their owne rude and beastly fansies. As the Greeke poet Euripides in his tragedie of Medea, doth say:
The ancient histories of princes (under the title of both king and duke, who once governed the land of Saxony) report that Otto II, the first emperor to rule legitimately (after the imperial line of Charlemagne ended), had a son named Otto III with his wife Matilda, the daughter of the king of Saxony. Otto III, known for his virtuous upbringing and gentle nature, earned the nickname The Love of the World. This emperor was courteous and merciful, never (to anyone's knowledge) giving cause for grief to anyone; he benefited everyone and harmed none. He believed that a kingdom was best acquired and maintained when its king or ruler sought to be loved rather than feared, as love inspires a natural desire for obedience among the people. Conversely, a prince who rules through tyranny lives in constant unrest, tormented by suspicion and fear, with the impression that countless swords are always hanging over him, ready to kill him. Otto, therefore, as emperor, balanced his kindness with a certain sweet gravity and royal demeanor. He maintained an air of courtesy while alleviating the harshness of displeasure felt by those subjected to a new monarchy. Humans are naturally so self-loving that excessive freedom seems sweeter, fairer, and more bearable than proper authority, as the establishment of authority reflects the very rule of that first king, who from his high throne gives existence and movement to all things. That good 250 emperor, well aware of the malice of men—though he was a skilled warrior, brave and glory-seeking—exercised such moderation that his grace and gentleness shone most clearly in times of victory, as he nurtured and treated well those he had subdued. His strength and good fortune were evident when he corrected and punished rebels and obstinate individuals who would dare challenge the might of a rightly angered prince, while also demonstrating favor to those loyal and faithful to him, providing reasons for repentance to those who previously displeased him. Truly, he might be counted among the most fortunate princes if the private matters of his own house had turned out as happily as the fame he earned in warfare and governance. But nothing in human life is stable; this emperor faced issues that diminished the glory of his wisdom, and, similar to Augustus Octavian, the unfortunate fate of his house somewhat obscured the fame of his noble deeds. Such tragic occurrences served as a counterbalance to his fortune, as can be easily perceived by the progression and continuance of this story. This good prince had a daughter, in whom nature had distributed her gifts so perfectly that she alone could claim the perfection of all those who possessed anything worthy of admiration—whether in singular beauty, favor, or courtesy, or in her disposition and upbringing. This fair princess was named Adelasia. When she was very young, a child of the Duke of Saxony, who was a relative, came into the emperor's service. This young prince, besides being one of the fairest and most handsome gentlemen of Germany, also possessed remarkable knowledge of arms and impressive skills in the good sciences, which tempered his ferocity as a warrior and the nature of his homeland. His name was Alerane. Seeing himself the youngest in his family with a very modest inheritance, he endeavored to win everyone's favor and goodwill to improve his own fortunes and endear himself to the emperor. In this attempt, he worked so diligently that through his merits, he earned a reputation as the most valiant and courageous gentleman in the emperor's court. This praise greatly complimented the tenderness of his youth, as he maintained such sobriety and gentle spirit that even though he excelled his peers in all things, he avoided giving cause for offense, appearing familiar among all the courtiers. Everyone (which is no small matter) praised him and loved him, and he considered himself most fortunate to be able to emulate the virtue that rendered Alerane's name so renowned. The thing that filled him with astonishment and gained him favor with his lord and master was a certain incident: one day, while the emperor was out hunting alone in the middle of a meadow and in a desolate place, it happened that a bear, emerging from her cave, was attacked by hunters. The fierce beast, evading the traps and fleeing the hunting dogs, charged down from a mountain at great speed and surprised the emperor while he was separated from his companions and without his sword. But Alerane was fortuitously nearby, and more concerned for the safety of his prince than for his own life, he confronted the bear and killed it in the emperor's presence and many others. All who witnessed it were amazed at Alerane's skill and bravery at such a young age (for he was no more than XVII. at the time), and the emperor embraced him, praising him highly, telling those present that his life was saved chiefly by God's assistance and secondarily by Alerane's prowess. The news spread so widely that there was no talk but of the courage and bravery of this young warrior, which caused fair Adelasia (driven by a natural instinct and the opinion of Alerane's virtue) to feel a certain something (which I cannot describe) within her mind that ignited her senses and heart. The moment she set her eyes on Alerane, love, having prepared an ambush, pierced her delicate heart so thoroughly that he took full possession of her. Indeed, the princess was so strangely in love with the young prince that she found no pleasure or contentment except in the reports and actions of her lover, whom she considered the best of all the men of his time. In this burning fervor, she felt the passions of love so intensely, and his stings so sharp, that she could not dissipate the clouds that darkened her spirits and incessantly tormented her mind. Even though she recognized little opportunity for them to meet in the future, which discouraged her from pursuing her deepest desire, the tyrant love revealed himself in the extreme variety of thoughts and troubles that plagued the spirit of the princess. She could not well conceal what honor and age commanded her to keep secret, but Alerane, who was (as we have already mentioned) both cunning and subtle, perceived the inner turmoil of Adelasia. Moreover, there was between them a natural correspondence and compatibility of their temperaments, leading them to share equal desires, feeding on similar pains and sorrows, just as they parted in joy and grief. For Alerane, by carefully noting the glances that the princess continually cast upon him, noticed the sudden shifts in her color, where sometimes joy appeared only to be quickly followed by an infinity of sighs, and a countenance reflecting the silent secrets held within her heart, confirming to him, without doubt, that he was indeed loved, causing him to reciprocate her sentiments (giving her no less for the merit and service she had owed him) and to submit himself as a willing prey to the same Love. Who, ruling the affections of the princess (as brave and charming as she was), rendered her sorrowful and pensive, altering her so drastically that she believed the company in which she found herself limited her joy; for she imagined that such company shared in the same pleasure that she did when she was free and alone, contemplating her troubles and envisioning her contentment. Alerane, on the other hand, did not rest but, as if he had received the first wound at the hands of the blind little archer Cupid, could not cease thinking of her, whose image appeared before his eyes as if engraved more vividly in his mind than any form could be carved in metal or marble. Yet neither of them dared disclose the smallest hint of the great burden that oppressed their besieged hearts, suffering not to live in any peace, this fair couple of loyal lovers. Their eyes performed the office of hands and tongues, as reliable secretaries and faithful messengers reflecting the effects of the mind. What kindled the fire most was their frequent conversations, which were merely about common matters, without any mention of what their hearts knew well, and to which their eyes bore true witness. A passion truly intolerable for a young princess—as she had never experienced such sorrow before, and more so due to her natural shame, which served as a restraint for every lady desirous of fame or anything that seemed to be the ornament or beauty of her lineage. Adelasia, therefore, floating in the tumultuous seas of her desires, guided by a master who delights in the shipwreck of those he carries, vanquished by an immoderate rage of love, tormented by inexpressible grief, and offended by her own desires, began to lament her sorrows while alone in her chamber, saying: “Ah, what is this passion unknown to me that gives rise to an oblivion of that which used to delight and satisfy me? From whence does this new alteration come, and this unfamiliar desire, for being solitary is the rest and source of my troubles? What diversities and changes weigh down my thoughts in this manner? Ah, Adelasia, what happy misery do you find in this free prison, where pleasure has no place until enemies disturb life with a million painful and dangerous toils? What does it mean but that against the nature of maids of my years, I will not—or cannot—be quiet day or night, taking my rest upon cares and thoughts? Alas, I thought to finish my sorrows and griefs, but only in isolation I began to frame the plot of my torments and pains, with as many forms and devices in my mind as I make wishes and requests about that which I love and hold in high esteem, on which all my affections depend. What is it to say but that my maids offend me, when with discreet words they attempt to divert me from my follies and delightful burdensome thoughts? Why should I not take it well, the care they have for my health, and the pain they take to remind me of my torment? Alas, they do not know wherein lies the force of my evil, and much less can they remedy it. Even so, I would have no other plaster than him who has given me the wound, nor any other food but the hunger that dries me up; I crave no other comfort than the fire that continually burns me, the force of which pierces the marrow within my bones. Ah, Alerane, Alerane, the flower and mirror of all courage and beauty: it is you alone that live within me, from whom my mind conceives its hope, and my heart its nourishment. Alas: that your worthiness should be the downfall of my honor, and your perfection the imperfection of my life. Ah Love, Love, how differently you deal with me. For seeing my Alerane, I am trapped with heat in the midst of ice that is cold. In thinking of him, I vacillate between both rest and suffering continually. Now I flee from him and suddenly again I desire him. In hearing him speak, the honey and sugar that drips from his mouth is the contentment of my mind, until his words seem to differ from my desires. Then, ah Lord, my rest is turned into extreme trouble, your honey into gall, and wormwood more bitter than the bitterness itself; my hope has turned into despair so horrible that it alone will lead me, if God has no pity upon me, to a quick descent into death.” After these words, she remained silent for a long time, her arms crossed, and her eyes uplifted, flowing down like a river of tears; she appeared so rapt, one would think her more a lifeless being than a sensible creature striving for life, until, recovering her spirits again as from an ecstasy, she began her lamentations again in this way: “What? Must such a princess as I am lower myself to love her own subject, and what’s more, her kinsman, without knowing yet how his heart is disposed? Shall I be so shameless and devoid of reason to surrender to anyone but him, whom God and fortune have promised to be my spouse? Rather, death shall cut the thread of my years than I will contaminate my chastity, or let any other enjoy the flower of my virginity but him to whom I shall be linked in marriage. Ah: I say and promise much, but there is a tormentor in my mind who deals so rigorously with my reason that I cannot tell where to determine properly. I dare not think (which I also ought not to do) that Alerane would be so foolish as to despise the love of one who is the foremost of daughters from the mightiest monarchs of the world, and much less that he should forget himself to the extent of abandoning me, having once enjoyed the best and dearest thing within me, and of which I intend to make him the sole and peaceful possessor. Truly, the virtue, gentleness, and good nurturing of Alerane do not promise such treason within him, and that great beauty of his cannot conceal such cruelty as would compel him to refuse one who is neither deformed nor uncouth, a creature that loves him with such sincerity that where she loses the means to enjoy him, there she will feel immediately the miserable end of her sorrowful days.” And then again she held her peace, tossed and tormented by various thoughts flickering between hope and fear. Soon after, she resolved to erase from her heart the memory of love, which had already taken too strong a hold and would not separate from that which heaven seemed to have prepared for the perfection and glory of his triumph. Love then compelled her to resolve upon her final determination. Continuing her discourse, sighing without cease, she said: “Let whatever may come to the utmost, I can but wander like a vagabond and fugitive with my own Alerane (if he will show me the pleasure of accepting me as his own): for I am sure the emperor will never tolerate the marriage I have promised; and I would rather die than let another possess what Alerane alone deserves, having long since vowed and dedicated the same to him. And afterwards, let the common folk chatter as they please about the bold and foolish enterprises of Adelasia, when my heart is content and desire satisfied, and Alerane enjoys the affection of her who loves him more than herself. Love truly does not submit to the whims of parents, nor to the will of those who do submit themselves to its laws. Besides that, I shall not be alone among princesses who have forsaken their parents and homeland to follow their love into distant lands. Fair Helen of Greece, did she not abandon Menelaus her husband and the rich city of Sparta to follow the fair Trojan, Alexander, sailing to Troy? Phedria and Ariadne, did they not despise the delicacies of Crete, leaving their aged father, to go with the Cecropian Theseus? No one forced Medea, the wise and fierce lady (but love) to leave her homeland in Colchis with the Argonaut, Jason. Oh good God, who can resist love's force, to whom so many kings, so many monarchs, so many wise men of all ages have bowed in homage? Surely that is the only reason that compels me (in making myself bold) to forget my duty towards my parents, and especially my honor, which I shall leave to be deliberated upon by ignorant minds that consider nothing but what is outwardly presented to sight. Ah, how much I deceive myself, reckoning much without my host: and what do I know if Alerane (though he loves me) will renounce the favor of the emperor; and forsake his possessions, and (if it may be) risk his life to take a poor and miserable woman like me? Regardless, I will tempt fortune; death is the worst that can happen, which I will hasten rather than my desire lose its effect.” Thus the beautiful and wise princess concluded her unhappy state: and during all this time, her best friend Alerane remained in great distress, feeling such fear as cannot be expressed in words—only true lovers understand the force of this, similar to what the young prince was experiencing, who dared not reveal his sorrow to her, knowing she could give him her loyalty, much less disclose it to any dear friend of his, into whose secrecy he would often commit most of his struggles, which caused his heart to burn like a small fire in the middle of a clear river, seeing himself overwhelmed in waters hotter than those intermixed with sulfur, and sending forth ardent smoke like that of Mount Etna or Vesuvius. The impatient princess, unable to endure this long, could no longer keep secret the flames hidden within her, and began to share them with someone whom her heart favored best, thereby casting away all shame and fear that usually accompany ladies of her status and age. One day, she discreetly took aside one of her governesses, named Radegonde, a woman so virtuous, wise, and composed as any in the emperor’s court, who, due to her approved character and chaste manner of life, had the charge of the upbringing and nurturing of Adelasia since her infancy. The amorous princess then decided to communicate her secrets to this gentlewoman and to let her know her passion, hoping to find some remedy therein. With that purpose, the two retired alone into a small room, where the poor lover, trembling like a leaf (at the blast of the western wind, when the sun begins to spread its beams), sighed so strangely, as if her body and soul could depart, and said: “The trust I have always found in the innate goodness of your character, my mother and beloved lady, combined with the discretion and loyalty that govern all your actions, assures me and emboldens me in this my trouble, to participate my secrets, which are vastly more significant than any I have shared with you, believing that whatever I tell you, be it good or bad, you will accept it as your wisdom demands, and keep it as private as the secret of such a lady as I am deserves. And I will not keep you long in doubt as to what it is; know then that lately the valor, prowess, beauty, and courtesy of Lord Alerane of Saxony have found such a place in my heart that (in spite of myself) I am so in love with him that my life matters to me only for his sake; my heart takes pleasure only in his glory and virtue, having chosen him as my virtuous friend and, by God’s grace, one day my lawful spouse. I have tried a thousand means, and so many ways, to rid him from my memory; but alas! unlucky wretch, fortune is so contrary and merciless to my efforts that the more I labor to extinguish within me the memory of his name and commendable virtues, the more I magnify and amplify them; the flames of this love grow so that I hardly esteem my life without the enjoyment of my desires and the taste of such nectar, which nourishes my hopes in pleasure to quench the fire that consumes me. Otherwise, I see no means possible but that I am compelled either to lose my good senses (of which I already feel some alienation) or to end my days with extreme anguish and unbearable heartache. Alas, I know well that I shall waste my time if I attempt to ask the emperor, my father, to give me Alerane as a husband, as he is already arranging a marriage between the King of Hungary and me; and also that Alerane (though he be a prince of such noble blood and an honorable house as Saxony) is too lowly to be son-in-law to an emperor. In my distress, you alone are the one I look to for help and counsel, being certain of your prudence and good judgment; and therefore I beseech you to have pity upon me, and to feel for this unreasonable passion that torments me beyond measure.” Radegonde, hearing Adelasia confess this that she never would have thought, was so confounded and astonished that for a long time she could not utter a word, her head bowed, revolving a thousand different matters in her mind, and unsure how to respond to the princess. Finally gathering her spirits, she responded to her with tears in her eyes, saying: “Alas, madame, what are you saying? Is it possible that the wisest, most virtuous, and courteous princess in Europe could allow herself to be so swept away (by her own advice) to her own affections and sensual desires? Is it well done that seeing in me some discretion and modesty, you do not emulate its purity? Are these the godly admonitions I have given you in the past, that you would so lightly stain your father's house with the blot of infamy, and yourself with eternal reproach? Would you, madame, that at the end of my years I should begin to betray my lord, the emperor, who has entrusted to my care the most precious jewel in his house? Shall I be so unsteady in my old age as to become an unashamed minister of your foolish and fond love, something I never did even in the ardent time of youth? Alas, madame, forget, I beseech you, this foolishness, cast under your feet this wicked resolution just begun, which could tarnish the honorable brightness of your fame and cause the ruin of us all. Follow the counsel of your dear nurse Radegonde, who loves you more than her own soul. Quench these noxious and burning flames that have ignited, and thrown forth their sparks into your chaste and tender heart. Take heed, I beseech you, that vain hope does not deceive you, and foolish desire does not mislead you. Alas, think it is the part of a wise and prudent mind to restrain the first motions of every passion and to resist the rage that arises in our wills, which often brings itself to late and grievous regret. This thought of yours does not spring from love; for he who thinks to sustain himself with venom sweetened with that drug finds in the end that he is so desperately poisoned that only death serves as the remedy for such an ailment: a lover might truly be called a slave to the most violent, cruel, and bloody tyrant. Do you not realize, madame, that love and folly are two passions so alike that they produce the same effects in the minds of those who possess them, to the extent that the affection of the patient cannot be concealed? Alas, what will become of you and him whom you love so dearly should the emperor discover and perceive your light and foolish resolves? Show, madame, for God’s sake, what you are. Let the ripe fruits of your long-tended prudence appear to the world: drive out this unruly love, which, if you let it enter your heart, you may be assured will take such hold that when you think to oust the enemy, it is he that will expel that small portion of strength and reason that remains within you; and then the comfort of your miseries will metamorphose into lamentations for your losses and a following remorse for what cannot be recovered.” Adelasia, burning with love and fretting with anger, unable to endure a contrary reply, began to look fiercely upon the lady who gave her such wholesome counsel, and said with more than feminine boldness: “And who are you, good gentlewoman, that dares to prescribe laws to Love that is neither subject nor bound to the whims of men? Who has given you permission to act so harshly against that which I have resolved to do, say what you wish? No, no, I love Alerane and will love him regardless of what may come; and since I can gain no other aid from you, nor find suitable counsel for my peace and comfort, rest assured that I will endeavor to find it within myself: and likewise arrange things as well as I can so that I avoid the alliance the emperor is preparing; I will live at ease with him whom (in vain) you try to erase from my memory; and if I happen to fail my purpose, I have a remedy for my miseries, which is death, the final refuge for all woes; which will be very pleasing to me, ending my life in the contemplation and memory of the sincere and perfect love I bear for my Alerane.” Radegonde, no less astonished than struck with fear, hearing the princess’ decision, could not at first respond but turned to tears, the most familiar weapons to women. Then she saw in Adelasia’s expressions that the passion had taken root too deeply for anyone to attempt to pluck it out, thus she wiped her tears, not without evident signs of her great grief, with infinite sighs, turning to the lady, she said to her with a more pleasant expression than before: “Madame, since your misfortune is such that without Alerane you cannot be quiet or at peace in your mind, alleviate your complaints, wipe away your tears, wear a joyful countenance, and setting aside all care, gather good courage, and place all your anguish and trouble upon me. For I promise and swear by the loyalty that I owe you, madame: no matter what comes to me, I will devise to begin my own sorrow only to work for your peace. And then you will see how much I am your friend, and that the words I have spoken have no other source than the desire I have to serve you, seeking every possible way for your advancement.” Adelasia, at these last words, felt such a motion in her heart that she was filled with great joy and pleasure to contain her soul from leaping forth from that corporeal prison (like the spirit of that Roman lady who once left her body to descend into the Elysian fields, to partake of the perfection of her joy with the blessed souls there, when she saw her son return safe and sound from the battle of Thrasymene near Lake Perugia, where the consul Flaminius was defeated by Hannibal); but ultimately, the hope of obtaining what Radegonde had promised made her regain her confidence and call her counselor, saying: “God forbid, dear mother, that what you do for me should rebound to your misfortune or discontent, since your affection consists in the mere pity and preservation of a poor afflicted maiden. Your desire seeks the deliverance of the most passionate princess that ever was born of mother; and believe that fortune will be so favorable that whatever mischief may happen, you shall remain without harm, while I will be she who alone will bear the penalty: therefore once again I implore you,” said she, embracing Radegonde, “to bring to pass what you assure me.” “Do not worry, madame,” said Radegonde, “I trust in a little while to make you feel the effect of my promise; and I will ensure that you speak to the one you desire so much: only be cheerful and do not torment yourself so much before your maids, to ensure that what has been kept secret thus far does not come to light, bringing you great shame and hindrance, and leading me to utter ruin.” During all this time, Alerane lived in despair and cowardice, for although he saw the amorous gestures of Adelasia, yet he dared not set a firm judgment on his own satisfaction, even though his heart told him that he was her only favored friend and promised him that which he feared to think—the possibility of having her one day as his friend if the title of spouse was refused. Thus, tormented by joy and displeasure, wandering between doubt and assurance in what he hoped for, the very same day that Adelasia plotted with Radegonde for achieving her joy and the secret ministry of her love, he wandered alone into a garden overlooking the princess' chamber, and after walking there a great while in an avenue, carefully observing the arrangement of the fruitful trees of various sorts, as there are varieties of colors within a beautiful meadow during the verdant springtime, and with such good and savory taste as a man’s heart could wish, he came beneath a laurel tree so well-spread and adorned with leaves, around which innumerable myrtles with fragrant and sweet scents blossomed, as well as orange trees heavy with unripe fruit, pliable mastic trees, and delicate tamarisks; there he wandered through the thick and green herbs, admiring the variety of flowers that decorated and beautified the area with their lively and natural colors. He, enraptured in this contemplation, reminiscing of her who was both the delight and torment of his mind, began to say sorrowfully: “Oh that the heavens be not favorable and propitious toward my endeavors; since in the midst of my joys, I feel a new delightful displeasure, which nullifies all other consolation except that which I receive through the image painted in my heart of that divine beauty, which is more plentiful in the perfection of pleasures than this paradise and delightful place, although nature and man's art have laboriously worked to express and display their skill and diligence. Ah, Adelasia, the fairest lady among all and the most excellent princess on earth: is it not possible for me to be satisfied with the view and contemplation of your heavenly and angelic face, as I am with the sight of these fair and variously colored flowers? Is it possible that I may inhale that sweet breath which wafts from your delicate mouth, which is nothing but balm, musk, and amber, and that which is even more precious, and whose rarity and value bear no name, as I smell the roses, pinks, and violets hanging over my head, offering themselves into my hands? Oh, unfortunate Alerane, there is no flower that deserves such handling, nor any aroma, the sweetness of which should be inhaled without just merit before! Oh, Love, Love, why have you placed my mind upon such high things: alas I fear a dangerous offense, which in the end will bring about my death; and yet I cannot withdraw my heart from this abyss of love, even though I would force myself to expel it: alas, I have read of him so many times and have heard of his power that I fear to approach him, and yet I dread I shall not escape his grasp. Alas, I know well that he who instills a little mirth and laughter eventually leads to a thousand tears and weeping; which for a fleeting pleasure, passing as swiftly as the whirlwinds, plunges us into great regret, the sorrow of which lingers long and sometimes accompanies us even to the grave. The patients stricken with that amorous fever, although they constantly die, cannot completely see or perceive the lack of their life, even though they still wish and long for it. But, alas, what misfortune is this that I see the poison that causes my suffering and know the way to remedy it, and yet I will not or cannot take the help? Has anyone ever heard anything as strange as a sick person seeking help and discovering recovery, should yet reject it?” Saying this, he wept and sighed so profoundly like a small child threatened by its mother. Then roaming up and down upon the grass, he seemed more like a man deranged and bound by chains than someone of sound mind and understanding. Once he returned to his senses, he resumed his previous remarks, saying: “But wait! Am I wiser, more constant, and perfect than so many emperors, kings, princes, and great lords, who despite their strength, wisdom, or riches, have been vassals to love? Did not Hercules, tamer and subduer of monsters and tyrants, surrender himself to the distaff instead of his mighty mace when ensnared by love? The strong and invincible Achilles was not he sacrificed to the shadow of Hector under the name of love, to celebrate holy marriage with Polyxena, daughter of King Priam? The great dictator Julius Caesar, conqueror of so many people, armies, captains, and kings, was overcome by the beauty and charm of Cleopatra, the Queen of Egypt. His successor Augustus, dressed like a woman by a servant of his chamber, did he not take away Livia from him who was first married to her? And that common enemy of man and of all civility, Claudius Nero, even quelled some of his fury for the love of his lady? What strange things did the learned, wise, and virtuous monarch Marcus Aurelius endure from his beloved Faustina? And that great captain Marcus Antonius, the very terror of the Roman people and fear of strange and barbarous nations, did he not homage to Cupid for the beauty of Queen Cleopatra, which later caused his utter downfall? But why do I recall and reference the countless lovers, so infinite in number? Why have poets of old woven the loves of Jupiter, Apollo, and Mars in their learned and divine tomes but to show that the power of love is as mighty as the gods themselves have felt its invincible and inevitable force? Ah, if sometimes a gentleman finds excuse for lowering himself to love a woman of low birth and blood, why should I be criticized or apprehended for loving the daughter of one of the most powerful princes in Europe? Is it due to her house’s greatness and the antiquity of her lineage? Why, that is the same for the two of us, from whom it originated in that place, where today, my father is the chief and principal. And allowing that Adelasia is the daughter of an emperor: ah, love pays no need to persons, houses, or riches rather does it praise more those whose enterprises are best-known, and whose great feats fly far and wide. Now it remains to devise means of making her understand my pain: for I am confident that she loves me, save that her honor and youth hold her back from making it manifest; but it is my duty to request this, considering her merits and my scant merits in contrast to her perfections. Ah, Alerane, you must unloose the tongue that has long been tied, due to excessive fondness and shame. Set aside the fear of danger, whatever it might be, for you cannot engage in anything more glorious than the pursuit of such a treasure that seems reserved for the fame of your highly esteemed mind, which cannot attain greater perfections without the heavens framing another Adelasia (of whom I believe lady nature herself broke the mold), who cannot displace Alerane from the foremost place in which he has laid the foundation of the joy he hopes to find in love.” During these lamentations, Radegonde, who saw him lost in that ecstasy, conjecturing the cause of his solitude, sent for him through a page: upon hearing this, he was seized by a new fear mixed with secret pleasure, knowing very well that she, being the governess of his lady, understood the deepest secrets of her heart, also hoping she brought him joyful news, and putting on a good countenance to mask his previously troubled look, he approached the lady messenger, who was equally embarrassed by the message she had to deliver as he was pained and mute by the sight of her, whom he considered to be bringing him terms of satisfaction, either of joy or displeasure. After polite greetings between them, the lady prefaced with a short discourse about the matter, making the Saxon prince understand the goodwill and heartfelt love of Adelasia towards him, and begging him for discretion, saying that his lady’s honor depended on its secrecy, assuring him that he stood in her favor as any true and faithful lover could desire. I leave it to your consideration to imagine what sudden joy Alerane felt upon hearing such glad tidings, which he did not anticipate, and thought he lacked the words to thank the messenger adequately, and much less to praise the beauty and courtesy of his lady, who without any of his previous merits (as he believed) held him in such good regard. Moreover, he earnestly implored Radegonde to do humble commendations in his name to his lady and confirm to her his perfect goodwill and unwavering desire, ever at her command, begging her to arrange a private exchange of three words with Adelasia, so she might perceive his heart and the affection with which he wished to serve her all the days of his life. The messenger assured him of everything he requested and instructed him on what to do to achieve what he longed for—namely, that the next night she would cause him to enter her wardrobe, which was adjacent to his lady’s chamber, to ensure that when her maids were asleep, he might repair to the place where he could visit his mistress easily and say to her whatever he thought best. The agreement made, the lady returned to the princess, who was waiting with great anticipation for news about her beloved. Hearing the report from Radegonde, she wished that she might repeat it not just twice or thrice but a million times and even until nightfall, that she slept on that thought with the greatest peace she had felt in a long time. The next day, at the hour Alerane was to arrive, Adelasia faked ill, causing her maids to go to bed, keeping with her only the messenger of her love, who shortly afterward went to seek Alerane, who was daydreaming of castles in the air, entertaining a thousand ideas in his mind about what might come from the venture he was about to undertake. Nevertheless, he was blinded by folly, without considering the fault he was committing, only contemplating the immediate pleasure that seemed so grand it appeared the room in which he was could hardly contain the glory of his fortunate hour. But the princess, on the other hand, felt marvelous turmoil within her mind, almost regretting having called Alerane to come into a place indecent for her honor, at such an inconvenient time. However, seeing the die was cast, she resolved not to dismiss the opportunity, which once lost, would not easily come again. And while she troubled in these thoughts, considering what she was to do, Radegonde entered, leading Alerane by the hand, whom she presented to the princess with great grace: “Madame, I present you this prisoner, whom I just found here, between your room and where your maids lie,” she said, “now consider what you are to do.” In the meantime, Alerane had fallen to his knees before his saint, entirely focused on contemplating her excellent beauty and grace, which rendered him as mute as an image. She too, gazing at him, who thus confounded her honesty, forced by shame and love, could not avoid looking at him, her mind entirely surrendering to her eyes, revealing the contentment of her heart which she had long desired. In the end, Alerane took both Adelasia's hands to kiss them repeatedly, and then summoning courage, he broke the long silence to say: “I never thought (madame) that the sight of something so long desired would be of such effect that it would ravish both the mind and body of their natural duties and actions, if I had not experienced it in beholding the divine excellence of your beauty. And truly, madame Radegonde rightly termed this place my prison, considering that I have long partly lost this liberty, of which I now feel a complete alienation: of one thing I am certain, that being your prisoner as I am indeed, I can boast that I am lodged in the fairest and pleasantest prison a man could wish for. Therefore, I implore you, madame, be mindful of how you treat your captive and slave, who humbly petitions for your pity on his weakness, which you would accept as an unutterable kindness if by your usual goodness you would accept him for your own, for now I vow and dedicate my life, goods, and honor to your command and service.” And saying this, his stomach heaved with continuous sighs and a river of tears flowed from his eyes, better to express and demonstrate the secret force that made him utter these words. This caused Adelasia to embrace him very lovingly and respond: “I do not know (Lord Alerane) what prison it is where the prisoner experiences better conditions than the prison of which he claims to be a slave, considering that I feel such a loss of myself that I cannot tell whether to go or where to retreat but to the man who craves the same freedom to which I myself am requesting. Alas, my beloved Alerane, into what extremity have I been brought! The great love I bear you forces me to forget my duty and lineage, even to disregard my honor, which is to be esteemed above all else. But I place such trust in you that you will not deceive such a simple lady as I am, utterly free from guile and deceit. Should you be tormented, I do not live without grief and suffering, just like you. If you sigh, I am utterly spent and dissolved in tears. Do you desire rest? Alas, I wish and crave the same for both of us, who are now separated and divided—something which can only be acquired unless we unite those who were totally disconnected.” Radegonde interrupted their talk, smilingly saying: “And how can this separation be combined when the parties themselves live in such disjunction?” “You speak the truth, madame,” said Alerane, “for the perfection of unity consists in the binding together of what is separated. Wherefore madame,” he said to Adelasia, “I humbly beseech you, for your comfort and my rest, not to allow this division to be drawn out, since the outer binding will thus combine matters internally so that no death can erase or diminish it later.” “If I may trust in myself,” she replied, “it can indeed come to pass that I would give you very great liberty; but hearing so many tales of men’s instability and fickleness concerning trust, I will content myself with my first fault, without adding any further aggravation to bind and fasten that which I hold most dear.” “Alas, madame,” said Alerane, “do you believe the proof of my loyalty could receive higher perfection by enjoying the pleasures I hope for than it does already? No, no, madame, and therefore rest assured of my heart and steadfastness: for sooner will my body fail than I will fail in serving and honoring you; if not according to the worthiness of your station, yet by all means so far as my power extends. And can you find it in your heart to believe that your Alerane would betray her, for whose service he does not fear a thousand lives should God grant him so many?” Adelasia, drenched in tears, fell into an ecstasy. Noticing this, and seeing Radegonde had departed into the wardrobe to give them space to talk privately, he began to claim her lips, showering kisses upon her, sometimes mixed with tears, sometimes dried up by frequent use, leaving neither eye nor cheek untouched: and noticing the patience of his lady, he seized upon her soft, hard, and round breasts, which quivered and moved with sighs, yielding a certain desire in Alerane to go further. But Adelasia, realizing this, feigned sweet anger and a teasing demeanor that instead ignited the flames of the amorous prince rather than extinguishing them with moist liquor, and making him relent from his endeavor, fiercely said to him: “Oh now, Sir Alerane, how do you dare so impudently abuse this my secret friendship, allowing you to enter so freely into my chamber? Do not think that although I have treated you so intimately, I shall endure that you attempt anything further: for (if God bless me with clarity) no man shall gather the flower of my virginity but he with whom I shall be united in marriage. Otherwise, I shall be unworthy, both of my honorable status and of that man, whoever he may be, deserving of respect and preference.” “So I believe, madame,” answered Alerane: “for if it would please you to honor me by receiving me as your faithful and loyal husband, I swear to you by him who sees and hears all things that no other shall ever be mistress of Alerane’s heart, but the fair princess Adelasia.” She, who sought nothing better, after much talk between them, finally consented for Alerane to pledge his faith to marry her and to help her escape from the court, until the emperor was calmed over their misdeeds. Thus did the Saxon prince attain the full possession of his desires and carried away the prize he had long sought. Radegonde was she who received the oaths of their espousals and arranged the articles of their secret marriage. Following the determination made regarding their escape and a day appointed for it, the two lovers entered the camp to test their bravery and trial for what lay ahead, in which they intended to persevere and endure forever. Then, being in bed together, they consummated the bond that tightly unites the hearts of lovers, tying up the union divided, which they once thought imperfect and could only be completed by mutual affections of the mind. And God knows how this newlywed couple enjoyed their mutual delight: but certainly, they remained together until the morning unveiled the darkness of night, right until daybreak, when Alerane was summoned by Radegonde to depart, and to conclude his previous joy, very lovingly kissed his new wife, saying to her: “Madame, the felicity I feel now, enjoying that which unites me so closely, being indissoluble and never to be broken again, seems so great that no peril can make me forget any part of my joy. Therefore, seeing the state of our current affairs and fearing the danger that may arise, I will take my leave of you for this time and go about to ensure no negligence will diminish your joy and desired pleasure.” “Ah, sir,” she said, “my heart fears both the best and worst of our intended enterprise. But in order that we might test our fortune, by whose guidance we must proceed, I submit myself to the wisdom of your mind and the good fortune that thus far has accompanied all your endeavors.” And they kissed and embraced once again, drinking up one another’s tears which flowed down in such abundance. Thus Alerane departed from his lady’s chamber and returned home to his own house, where he sold all his goods at a low price, telling people that he would employ the money otherwise in projects he hoped would yield greater profit. With that money, he bought precious stones and fine jewels so as to not be burdened with hauling too much gold or other money, and then he prepared his packs to set out with his wife, both dressed in the attire of pilgrims, looking fair and soft on foot, so they might not be discovered: all this was done at night. The princess, pretending to be sick, had her maidservants withdraw into their chamber; then she too went into the garden where Alerane first poured out his grievances, as you have heard before, in which place her husband awaited her. God knows if they renewed the amusements they began on the day of their marriage, but fearing capture, they decided to play their comedy, actions of which were lengthy, and the scroll of their miseries grew so profuse it seemed unbearable, until they finally reached the conclusion and end of their comedic action. Leaving their sumptuous and rich garments behind, they clothed themselves in the attire of pilgrims, taking with them the scallop shell and staff, as those who undertake pilgrimage to St. James in Galicia. The princess adopted the guise of a young girl, disheveling her hair, which she had taken such care to keep combed, curled, and adorned with gold and invaluable jewels—this constituted the primary grace and adornment of woman’s beauty. Who can deny that this natural passion, born as soon as we experience what they call love, is not a certain essence and existence whose force and vigor cannot endure comparison? Is it not a small matter that by the mere instigation of love's strength, the daughter of so great a prince, as the emperor of the Romans was, should wander like a vagabond in disguise and poorly clothed, to experiment and endure the long trials of journeys, the tempests of the weather, the dangers of meeting thieves and murderers who wait in all places for poor travelers, and moreover to feel the bitterness of labor never tasted before, the fury of hunger, the intolerable transformation of thirst, the heat of hot summer, the cold of winter's ice, subject to rains and stormy blasts? Does it not plainly show that love has either a greater perfection than other passions, or that those who feel this change are out of the number of reasonable men endowed with the brightness of that noble quality? This fair lady, circulating the fields with her husband, determined to take flight into Italy, was more joyful, fresh, and lively than when she lived in comfort amid the delicacies and pleasures she experienced in her father's court. See how fortune and love agree to be blind, closing the eyes of those who follow in their wake and subdue themselves to their edicts and fickle dispositions. And truly, this rage of love was the only means to sweeten the bitter gall of grief which those two lovers felt, utterly exhausted by tedious toil, judging their weariness a pastime and pleasure, governed by that changing captain who turns fools into wise men, emboldens the timid and cowardly, fortifies the weak, and in short, unites the wallets and purses of greedy misers and miserly misers. Now while our fair pilgrims, without any vowed dedication, wandered at leisure, being weary from their travels throughout the night after their departure, the entire emperor’s household was in great turmoil and uproar due to Adelasia’s absence. The maids cried out and raged without measure, producing such loud wailing that the emperor, moved with pity—although his grief and anger ran high—commanded that every place in the vicinity be searched, but all that labor was in vain. In the end, realizing Alerane was missing, he suspected it was he who had taken away his fair daughter, which sent him into such anger and frenzy that he seemed on the verge of losing his senses and transgressing the bounds of reason. “Ah, traitor,” said the good prince, “is this the reward for the good deeds bestowed upon you, and of the honor you have received in my company? Do not think you will escape unscathed from the rigorous justice of a father, deserved by your disobedience, and of a prince against whom his subject has committed a villainy. If God gives me life, I will take such measures that posterity will learn from the just vengeance I hope to enact on you (arrant thief and despoiler of my honor and comfort). And you, ungrateful daughter, shall sharply feel the wrong done to your kind and dearly beloved father, who intended to provide for you more honorably than your disloyalty and incontinuity, so far as I perceive, merit, as you have taken a husband unworthy of such folly without my permission and regard for your calling; and with him I hope to make you understand your fault, and my displeasure in receiving such a disgrace from one who is the daughter of such a father, as I am, descended from the most royal lineage in all of Europe.” Many other things the emperor said in his great rage and fury; and in the end ordered that someone be sent into Saxony to ascertain if Alerane had conveyed his stolen daughter there; but he could gather no news from that place. He then tried other means to learn anything about them, ordering a trumpet to be blown in all the neighboring towns, proclaiming that if anyone could provide him with word or certain news regarding the two fugitives, he would grant them whatever they wished for all their days. Yet he gained no more from this third search than from the first two. God’s majesty seemed to permit and allow this both for the happy results that were to come later, as well as for punishing the rash endeavor of two lovers who did not live very long in prosperity and joy before they felt the hand of God, who sometimes allows the faithful to fall so they may acknowledge his weakness and thus confess that all health, sustenance, rest, and comfort must be sought from the hands of God. When Alerane and his lady left a town within the emperor’s territory called Hispourge and entered into a certain wild and deserted area, they encountered some thieves who stripped Alerane to his shirt and would have done the same to the poor princess if certain merchants had not intervened, forcing the thieves to flee. Alerane was given some clothing to cover his body and helped with a little amount of money, which once spent, the two royal children were forced to beg for God's sake to sustain their unfortunate life. This distress was so hard for Alerane to comprehend, as he was like (standing on his feet) to die from sorrow and want, not so much due to the adversity into which he had fallen through his own fault, as the pity he felt for his dear beloved lady, whom he saw in such a miserable state and knew that she could regain her former dignity and honor if she chose to prefer reward or recognition over his life, for which she did not spare even the last drop of her blood. Knowing the sorrow and anguish that her husband endured, she wisely comforted him with a cheerful countenance, saying: “How now, dear husband, do you think that fortune is or should be always favorable to princes and great lords? Do you not know that great ships and massive vessels sink more quickly and drown in the wide open seas and rivers amidst the raging waves and surges than in confined streams and brooks, where the waters are calm and still? Do you not see great trees, whose tops rise high above lofty hills and steep mountains, shaken and tossed easily by howling winds rather than those planted in fertile vales? Have you forgotten so many histories, which you have perused and read with such great delight while at the emperor’s court? Do they not describe the changes and shifts of monarchs, the ruin of houses, the destruction of one realm gained through the establishment and reign of another? What prince, monarch, or captain was ever so fortunate as not to experience some grief and misfortune? Alas, sweet heart, think that God chastises us with his rods of tribulation to make us know him; but in the meantime, He keeps for us a better fortune that we do not expect. Moreover, He never forsakes those who, with a good heart, turn to Him, having their trust in His great goodness and infinite mercy.” Alerane, hearing the wise words of his wife, could not suppress his tears, and sighing, he responded to her: “Ah, lady, in beauty and wisdom unparalleled, it is not the present fortune that causes my mind to stray from the siege of constancy, knowing well the qualities and number of fortune’s snares, and how envious she is of human joy and happiness. I am not ignorant that she lays her traps and sets ambushes sooner for those of noble lineage and high birth than for those whose hearts are base and ignoble and whose victories fail to achieve any degree of honor or fame. But, good God!” he exclaimed, embracing his dear beloved spouse, “it is for you, madame, that I bear torment, having made you abandon the grandeur of your estate and deprived you of a king as your husband—causing you thus to bear a horrible and new kind of penalty: hunger and famine (I mean) in the midst of deserts and wild places, and thereby have joined you with an unfortunate fellowship that instead of comfort and ease, provides tears and sighs. Oh God, most high and powerful, how deep and dark are your judgments, and how righteous is your justice! I acknowledge my offense as the cause of your anger and the origin of our transgressions, and that this pain comes upon us because of our sins, wickedly betraying the best prince in the world and abandoning the company of him, from whose bountiful hands I received hospitality and more honor than I deserved. Oh Emperor Otto, how you are now well avenged with the cowardly fraud and deceit committed against you by Alerane of Saxony, taking away from you the one who was the support and future stay of your old age.” And as he persisted with these words, Adelasia, seeing him in deep contemplation, pulled at his arm saying: “Sir, it is time to consider our own circumstances: we have traveled far, and I cannot say how far, without resting; I think (our fortune being no better) that we ought to remain in a certain place, attending for God’s grace and mercy, who (I hope) will not forsake us.” They were then in a desolate Ligurian region, between Asti and Savona, a land that was prosperous at that time, furnished with vast and dense forests, overflowing with mighty trees. By Adelasia’s advice, Alerane, forced by necessity (the master of all arts), retreated into those woods, where he practiced the craft of a collier, and some said nature taught him the methods for cutting wood, preparing his pits, and knowing the season and time when his coals were adequately burned. He endured great hardships regarding his work and went himself to sell the coals which he carried on his shoulders to the nearby market towns until he earned enough to buy a donkey, with which he daily worked to sell his coals, learning other tasks as necessity compelled him. In this period, Adelasia gave birth to a handsome child, whom they named William. Later, with the passage of time, she bore six more sons. They lived almost XVIII. to XX. years in this worthless and miserable life, and had fashioned a small dwelling within a cave that was fair and broad, wherein they had made themselves quite comfortable. When the eldest of their sons reached the age of an agreeable young lad, the father sent him at times to Savona, and at other times to Asti, to sell their meager goods for the relief of their household. But the boy, whose blood could not conceal and hide the nobility of his birth, having sold several loads of wood and coal, used the proceeds to buy a fine young falcon, which he carried to his father. The good man gently scolded his son and said that such game was not for men of their status and that they had enough trouble to survive without wasting their money on trifles. Some time later, William, having reached the age of XVI, went to Savona to sell some wares by his father’s command, and with the money, he bought a very fine sword, which when his father saw, he turned aside with tears in his eyes and said to himself: “Ah unfortunate lad, that your ill fortunes should do you such a great wrong: truly neither the poverty of your parents, nor the place of your upbringing can erase the secret shining brilliance of your ancestors' virtue, nor the promise of your courage and manliness in the days to come, should God grant you grace to rise and serve a noble prince.” Nevertheless, for that time he did not cease sharply to scold and threaten his son, which caused the young man, harboring a heart greater than his strength, to secretly resolve to leave his parents. Now fortune happened to be so advantageous and opportune for his purpose that at that very same time, the Hungarians had entered Italy to plunder and rob the countryside, against whom the emperor marched in great expedition with a colossal and noble army, with the intention of forcing them to leave his lands in peace. William, having learned of this, proceeded toward the emperor’s camp, where he displayed such promise (being at such a young age) of his future bravery and prowess by his acts of arms during that war. When the fighting was over and the enemy put to flight, the emperor retired to Provence, to arrange matters within his realm of Arles, which was then subject to the Empire. Afterwards, he returned to Italy with the intent to stay in Savona for a certain time, which displeased William not at all, as it meant he would be close by his parents, who were very concerned for his well-being, utterly unaware of where he had gone. Notwithstanding, some hope (what I know not) caused them to expect some good fortune for their son in the future, who had now grown tall and was among the most valiant soldiers in the emperor's service. This he declared very bravely in combat as he fought one-on-one with a German soldier, who was fierce, sturdy, and was feared by all men, yet he overcame him in the presence of the emperor, his grandfather. The emperor, for reasons I know not, affectionately focused his gaze on that young champion and began to harbor more goodwill for him than for any other in his court, a circumstance occasioned by an ancient gentleman, serving in the prince's court, who observed the resemblance in the face, demeanor, and countenance of William to that of the emperor himself at that age—a likeness seen more clearly by various others who grew up in their youth alongside Otto. Noticing this, he ordered the young man to be brought forth and inquired about the names of his parents and the place of his birth. William, who was no less courteous, humble, well-mannered, skillful, valiant, and courageous, knelt before the emperor with a proud countenance resembling the nobility of his ancestors, replying: “Most sacred and renowned emperor, I have nothing for which to thank fortune, except for the honor your majesty has bestowed upon me by allowing me into your noble service. For the fortune and condition of my parents is so lowly that I blush for the shame of disclosing it to you. However, being your humble servant and having received favor from your majesty, in a manner uncommon, should it please you to command me to inform you of my background, I shall fulfill it as well as my duty, which binds me to your majesty, and to satisfy what you require of me. Therefore, let it be known to your majesty that I am the son of two poor Germans who, fleeing their home country, withdrew into the deserts of Savona, where (to amuse themselves during their hard life) they produce coals and sell them, to sustain and relieve their miserable existence: in which labor I spent all my childhood, though it was to my great sorrow. For my heart believed (Sir) that such a vile state was unworthy of my courageous mind, which daily aspired to greater things. And leaving my father and mother, I have come to your service to learn chivalry and the use of arms, and (my obedience to your majesty saved) to seek a means to illustrate the lowly and obscure upbringing from which I have come.” The emperor, seeing the courteous demeanor of the young man in this wise response, remembering the likeness of his face which almost resembled both of them, suspected he was the son of Alerane and his daughter Adelasia, who, out of fear of being discovered, had made themselves citizens of those deserts, though William had given other names and not his parents' true names. This caused his heart to beat quickly and he felt a longing to see his daughter, and to cherish her with affection as though he had never conceived any offense or displeasure against her. He then called forth a gentleman, the near kinsman of Alerane, to whom he said with a cheerful demeanor and joyful expression: “You know, as I believe, the wrong and displeasure that your cousin Alerane has done me, by the theft and robbery committed against my daughter. You are no stranger to the shame he has brought upon your house, having committed such an abominable crime within my court and against my person, being his sovereign lord. Nevertheless, since it is the force of love that has made me forget him until now, rather than seeking vengeance, I am very eager to see him, and to accept him as my son-in-law, and good cousin, willing to elevate him to that estate in my house which his rank and blood deserve. I do not tell you this without reason. For this young soldier, who has today so valiantly and skillfully vanquished his adversary, by the consensus of all present who have known me since my youth, closely represents my figure and characteristics of face, which I had at his age, to which I am persuaded and firmly believe he is my nephew, the son of your cousin Alerane and my daughter Adelasia. Therefore, I wish you to accompany this young man to his residence, to see them who are his parents, for I intend to do them good if they are not others than those I take them for. But if they are those two whom I so greatly wish to see, do me the kindness so that I may satisfy my heart with that contentment, swearing to you by the crown of my empire, I will not treat them any worse nor otherwise than my own person.” The gentleman, upon hearing the emperor's affectionate and gentle words, said unto him: “Ah, sir, I humbly thank your majesty for the compassion you have shown toward our dishonored lineage and house of Saxony, dismembered and sullied through Alerane’s transgression against you. I pray God to reward it (we being unable) and to grant you the joy you desire, and me the grace to perform some agreeable service in this and in all other matters. I am prepared, sir, not only to go seek my cousin (if it be he whom you believe it is) to bring him the beneficent news your majesty has promised, but rather to deliver him into your hands so you may take revenge on him for the injury he has done to the entire empire.” “No, no,” said the emperor, “the desired time for revenge has passed, and my malice towards Alerane has emptied its gall. If previously I had thirsted to bring ruin and destruction upon those two offenders, now I seek to further their advancement and peace, considering the long punishment they have undergone for their wrongs, and the benefit I see currently before my eyes, which is so great that it may by its scent and fragrance support the weakness and frailty of my old age, and by its virtue compel me to have mercy upon his parents, who have almost entirely spent me due to their own downfall.” With these words, the good prince gave clear evidence of his longing to see his only daughter by the lively color rising to his face and certain tears streaming down his hoary and frosted beard. He then had William approach him and ordered him to escort the gentleman to that part of the forest where his father lived. The young man readily and dutifully obeyed. Thus Lord Gunfort (for so was Alerane’s cousin called), accompanied by his little cousin and many other gentlemen, proceeded toward the cave where the collier prince resided. As they neared the craggy cave, Alerane's lodging, the entire company dismounted and saw him busy loading his coal to send to Asti. The emperor’s arrival at Savona had prevented Alerane from going there himself, as he still felt guilty about his wrongdoing towards him. Alerane, seeing this noble assembly, was shocked, as if horns had suddenly sprouted from his head, and the sight of his son dressed up splendidly, alongside Gunfort his cousin, astonished him even more. For he immediately suspected he had been discovered and that the emperor had sent for him to take revenge for the fault committed so long ago. And as he plotted various scenarios concerning his harsh fate in his mind, his son came to embrace him on his knees and kiss his hands with honest and humble reverence, saying to Gunfort: “Sir, this is he of whom I told the emperor, and from him I received my being: This is my father.” All this while, the good father warmly embraced his son, weeping with extreme joy, saying to him: “Alas, my son, if your arrival is as happy for me as it is joyful, if your news is good and prosperous, you revive your father, half dead, and with your lamentable despair, fill him with such hope that one day will be the support of his old age and the recovery of his greatest losses.” The son, unable to digest the discourse of his parents' affairs, was so astonished that he could comprehend nothing at that poignant reunion: instead, he stood still in wonderment, as though he had fallen from the clouds. Now while the father and son were thus welcoming one another, Gunfort observed all of Alerane’s expressions and gestures. There was not a part of the collier’s body he did not examine; yet remembering his cousin’s voice and seeing a wound in his face, he was certain it was he. Then, arms outstretched, he rushed to embrace Alerane, who was rendered red with his warm tears, saying: “Ah, Alerane, now the present torment, but in the past the source of pleasure for our lineage. What eclipse has so long obscured the shining sun of your valiant prowess? Why have you concealed your sanctuary from us, who have desired only your advancement? Can you bear to witness the tears of your cousin Gunfort running down his cheeks upon your neck, and to feel his embrace, bestowing upon you such love and friendship—which you cannot find elsewhere unless you are somehow moved by him in your heartfelt welcome? Will you deny what I know through a certain instinct and natural connection, which is that you are Alerane, the son of the Duke of Saxony, renowned throughout all Germany? Do you mean (through your own unfortunate situation so deeply ingrained in your heart by living in these wilds) to deprive your son of the honor the heavens and his good fortune have prepared for him? Oh cruel and heartless father to allow your progeny to be buried in the tomb of oblivion, with eternal reproach. O unkind kinsman towards your kin, whom you regard with such little consideration that you do not deign to speak with your cousin Gunfort, who has come hither for your comfort and to uplift your family.” Alerane, intensely shamed, both by the recollection of his ancient fault and seeing himself in such poor condition before the emperor’s courtiers, replied to Gunfort, saying: “My lord and cousin, I beg you to believe that the lack of desire to present my complaint to you, and the lack of courtesy in entertaining you have not led me to forget my duty toward you, as you are my kin and also the one to whom I have done a grievous wrong, having offended the emperor. But you know well how piercing the pricks of conscience are and with what worm they gnaw the hearts of those who recognize their culpability. I am (as you said) the present disgrace of our house, for what the emperor has conceived of my folly, and will be the peace (if you would be so kind as to rid me of this miserable life) for both you and the mind of a father justly angry with his daughter, and the peace of a prince offended with his subject: for I swear to you, I have never desired life as much as now I seek death, for I am certain, once I am gone, my poor companion and beloved wife shall live in ease enjoying the presence and grace of her father.” “What do you mean?” Gunfort replied, “the emperor is so satisfied and pacified that he has sworn to receive you as his son-in-law and my lady, your wife, as his dearly beloved daughter; whom I implore you to bring before us, or to indicate to us where she is, so I might pay my respects to her as my princess and sovereign lady.” William stood all amazed, nearly beside himself, hearing this conversation; and he thought he was either in a dream or else enchanted—until Alerane called his wife by her given name, who was so filled with terror and fear at hearing the name Adelasia, her heart gripped as she beheld such a large assembly gathered around her husband; and then her son came to carry out his duty—for not only to his mother, but to the daughter of an emperor and the wife of a prince of Saxony. She once again embraced and kissed him, though seized by fear and shame, so moved by that sudden sight that she struggled to prevent herself from fainting and collapsing between the arms of her son. She thought she had passed the place where Gunfort stood, who then approached her, after his reverence and duty was done, making her understand his charge and the goodwill of the emperor, who had resolved to receive her again with such good order and entertainment as might be devised. Those earnest words led them to resolve to test fortune and trust the promises that Gunfort made on behalf of the emperor. Thus they forsook the cave, their coals, and furnaces to re-enter their former delights and pleasures. That night they lodged at a village not far from the forest, where they stayed several days preparing their attire for these strange princes and as best as they could to adorn and supply Adelasia—who, being almost XXXIV. or XXXV. years old, still showed some signs of the perfection of her divine beauty and modest dignity, which once rendered her marvelous and singular among all who lived in her time. During this time, this noble company adorned themselves, Gunfort sent a gentleman from that entourage to the emperor, to inform him of the success of their journey. The emperor was exceedingly joyful and awaited the arrival of his children, intending to receive them with loving and honorable gesture. When all things were prepared, and Adelasia’s retinue was well arranged according to the dignity of the house from which she came, they rode toward Savona, which journey seemed to them mere sport because of the pleasure mixed with the compassion each felt during the discourse that Alerane made regarding his misfortunes and hardships, both in his journeys and during his time spent in the wilderness. William, recalling these events, praised God and thanked Him for having inspired him to abandon his parents, recognizing that this single fault was the cause of their restoration and his own advancement and glory, being the son of such a father and the nephew of such a great monarch. The fame of whose name made all men tremble, and who had commanded all the gentlemen of his court to seek out the forlorn lovers, who had been lost and unknown for so long. In short, their entrance into Savona was so royal and triumphant that it seemed as if the emperor himself would have received the honor of such stature and pomp. This he commanded as well for the joy he felt in recovering what he thought had been lost, as to declare and acknowledge to everyone that virtue cannot better reveal herself than at such times as the actions and deeds of great personages are comparable in rarity and excellence to their nobility. For a prince holds greater dignity and admiration than he usually portrays, which cannot enter into the minds of the common folk, who weigh the affections of others using the balance of their own coarse and beastly fantasies. As the Greek poet Euripides in his tragedy of Medea says:
Ill luck and chaunce thou must of force endure,
Bad luck and chance you must inevitably endure,
Fortune’s fickle stay needs thou must sustaine:
You must endure Fortune’s unpredictable nature:
To grudge therat it booteth not at all,
Holding a grudge about it doesn't help at all,
Before it come the witty wise be sure:
Before the clever and wise arrive, be certain:
By wisedom’s lore, and counsell not in vaine,
By wisdom's teachings, and advice not in vain,
To shun and eke auoyde. The whirling ball,
To avoid and escape. The spinning ball,
Of fortune’s threates, the sage may well rebound
A wise person can definitely bounce back from the challenges of fate.
By good foresight, before it light on ground.
With good foresight, before it lands on the ground.
The Emperour then hauing forgotten, or wisely dissembling that which he could not amende, met his doughter and sonne in lawe at the Palace gate, with so pleasaunt cheere and ioyfull countenance, as the like long time before he did not vse. Where Alerane and Adelasia being light of from their horse, came to kisse his handes (and both vppon their knees) began to frame an oration for excuse of their fault, and to pray pardon of his maiestie. The good Prince rauished with ioy, and satisfied with repentaunce, stopped their mouthes with sweete kisses and hard embracings. “O happie ill time (said he) and sorowful ioy, which now bringeth to me a pleasure more great than euer was my heauy displeasure. From whence commeth this my pleasaunt ioye? O wel deuised flight, by the which I gaine that (by preseruinge my losse once made and committed) which I neuer had: if I may say so, considering the ornament of my house, and quietnesse of my life.” And saying so, hee kissed and embraced his litle neuewes, and was loth that Adelasia should make rehersall of other talke but of mirthe and pleasure. “For (said he) it sufficeth me that I haue ouerpassed and spent the greatest part of my life in heauinesse, vtterly vnwilling to renewe olde sores and wounds.” Thus the mariage begon, vnknowen and againste the Emperour’s will, was consummate and celebrated with great pompe and magnificence, by his owne commaundement, in the Citie of Sauonne, where he made sir William knight, with his 284 owne hand. Many goodly factes at the tourney and tilte were done and atchieued, whereat William almost euery day bare away the prise and victorie, to the great pleasure of his father and contentacion of his graundfather, who then made him marques of Monferrat. To the second sonne of Alerane, he gaue the Marquisat of Sauonne, with all the appurtenances and iurisdictions adioyning, of whom be descended the Marqueses of Caretto. The third he made Marques of Saluce, the race of whom is to this daye of good fame and nobilitie. Of the fourth sonne sprange out the original of the house of Cera. The fifte was Marques of Incise, whose name and progeny liueth to this daye. The sixt sonne did gouerne Pouzon. The seuenth was established Senior of Bosco, vnder the name and title of Marques. And Alerane was made and constituted ouerseer of the goods and dominions of his children, and the Emperor’s Lieutenaunt of his possessions which he had in Liguria. Thus the emperoure by moderatinge his passion vanquished himselfe, and gaue example to the posteritie to pursue the offence before it do take roote: but when the thinge cannot be corrected, to vse modestie and mercie which maketh kinges to liue in peace, and their Empire in assuraunce. Hauinge taken order with all his affayres in Italye, hee tooke leaue of his doughter and children, and retired into Almaine. And Alerane liued honourably amonges his people, was beloued of his father in lawe, and in good reputacion and fame, arriued to old yeares, still remembring that aduersitie oughte not to bring us to dispaire, nor prosperitie to insolencie or ill behauiour, and contempt of thinges that seeme small and base, sithe there is nothing vnder the heauens that is stable and sure. For he that of late was great and made all men to stoupe before him, is become altogether such a one as though he had never beene, and the poore humble man aduaunced to that estate, from whence the firste did fall and was deposed, makinge lawes sometimes for him, vnder whom he liued a subiect. And behold of what force the prouidence of God is, and what poise his balance doth containe, and how blame worthy they be that referre the effectes of that deuine counsel to the inconstant and mutable reuolucion of fortune that is blinde and vncertaine.
The Emperor, either having forgotten or cleverly pretending not to notice what he could not fix, met his daughter and son-in-law at the palace gate, wearing a cheerful smile and a joyful expression that he hadn't shown in a long time. When Alerane and Adelasia dismounted from their horses, they came to kiss his hands (both on their knees) and began to apologize for their mistakes, asking for his majesty's forgiveness. The good Prince, overwhelmed with joy and pleased with their repentance, silenced them with sweet kisses and tight embraces. "Oh, happy misfortune," he said, "and sorrowful joy, which now brings me a pleasure greater than ever was my heavy displeasure. Where does this delightful joy come from? Oh, well-planned escape, through which I gain what I never had (by preserving my loss once made and committed): if I can say so, considering the honor of my house and the peace of my life." Saying this, he kissed and hugged his little nephews and was reluctant to let Adelasia talk about anything other than joy and happiness. "For," he said, "it’s enough that I have spent most of my life in sorrow, completely unwilling to reopen old wounds." Thus, the marriage began, unknown and against the Emperor's will, and was celebrated with great pomp and magnificence by his own command in the City of Savona, where he knighted Sir William with his own hand. Many good deeds were achieved at the tournament and jousting, where William almost daily took home the prize and victory, greatly pleasing his father and satisfying his grandfather, who then made him the Marquis of Monferrat. To Alerane's second son, he granted the Marquisate of Savona, along with all the associated rights and jurisdictions, from whom the Marquesses of Caretto are descended. The third was made Marquis of Saluce, whose lineage is still well-known and noble to this day. The fourth son established the original house of Cera. The fifth became the Marquis of Incise, whose name and descendants live on today. The sixth son governed Pouzon. The seventh was established as the Lord of Bosco, under the name and title of Marquis. Alerane was appointed overseer of his children's estates and the Emperor’s lieutenant for his possessions in Liguria. Thus, the Emperor, by moderating his emotions, conquered himself and set an example for future generations to address offenses before they take root; but when things cannot be corrected, to act with modesty and mercy, which allows kings to live in peace and their empires to be secure. Having organized all his affairs in Italy, he said goodbye to his daughter and children and returned to Germany. Alerane lived honorably among his people, was loved by his father-in-law, and maintained a good reputation until old age, always remembering that adversity should not lead us to despair, nor should prosperity lead to arrogance or bad behavior, especially toward things that seem small and insignificant, since nothing under the heavens is stable and certain. For he who was once great and made everyone bow before him has become as if he had never existed, and the poor humble man has risen to the position from which the former fell and was deposed, sometimes making laws for him under whom he lived as a subject. And behold the strength of God’s providence, and the weight of His balance, and how blameworthy are those who attribute the effects of that divine counsel to the unstable and capricious revolutions of fortune, which are blind and uncertain.
THE FORTY-FIFTH NOUELL.
The Duchesse of Sauoie, being the kinge of England’s sister, was in the Duke her husbandes absence, vniustlye accused of adulterie, by a noble man, his Lieutenaunte: and shoulde haue beene put to death, if by the prowesse and valiaunt combate of Don Iohn di Mendozza, (a gentleman of Spaine) she had not beene deliuered. With a discourse of maruelous accidentes, touchinge the same, to the singuler praise and commendation of chaste and honest Ladies.
The Duchesse of Savoy, being the sister of the King of England, was unjustly accused of adultery by a nobleman, her husband’s lieutenant, during her husband the Duke's absence. She would have been sentenced to death if it hadn’t been for the bravery and valiant combat of Don John de Mendoza, a gentleman from Spain, who rescued her. This story includes incredible events that highlight the praise and commendation of chaste and virtuous ladies.
Loue commonly is counted the greatest passion amongs all the most greuous, that ordinarily do assault the sprites of men, which after it hath once taken hold of anye gentle subiecte, followeth the nature of the corrupt humour, in those that haue a feauer, which taking his beginning at the harte, desperseth it selfe incurablye, through all the other sensible partes of the bodie: whereof this present historie giueth vs amplie to vnderstand, being no lesse maruelous than true. Those that haue read the aunciente histories and chronicles of Spaine, haue sene in diuers places the occasion of the cruell ennimitie which raigned by the space of XL. yeares, betweene the houses of Mendozza and Tolledo, families not onely righte noble and aunciente, but also most aboundante in riches, subiectes and seignories of all the whole realme. It happened one day that their armies being redie to ioyne in battaile, the Lord Iohn of Mendozza chief of his armie, a man much commended by al histories, had a widow to his sister, a very deuout Lady, who after she vnderstode the heauie newes of that battaile, falling downe vppon her knees, praied God incessauntly, that it would please him to reconcile the two families together, and to make an ende of so manye mischiefes. And as she vnderstode that they were in the chiefest of the conflicte, and that there were a greate nomber slaine on both partes, she made a vow to God, that if her brother retorned victorious from that enterprise, she would make a voyage to Rome on foote. The ouerthrowe fell (after much bloudshead vpon them of Tolledo. Mendozza brought away the victorie, with the lesse losse of his people. Wherof Isabell aduertised, declared vnto her brother the vow that she had made. 286 Which seemed very straung vnto him, specially how she durst enterprise so longe a voyage on foote, and thoughte to turne her purpose, howbeit she was so importunate vppon him, as in the ende hee gaue her leaue, with charge that she should go wel accompanied and by small iourneis, for respect of her health. The Ladie Isabell being departed from Spaine, hauing trauersed the mountaines Pirenees, passed by Fraunce, went ouer the Alpes, and came to Thurin, where the Duke of Sauoye had then for wyfe, a sister of the kinge of Englande, whoe was bruted to be the fairest creature of the weste partes of the world. For this cause the Lady Isabel desired greatly in passing by to see her, to know whether truth did aunswere the great renowne of her beauty. Wherein she had fortune so fauourable, that entring into Thurin, she found the Duchesse vpon her Coche, goinge abroade to take the ayre of the fields: which the Lady Isabell vnderstandinge, stayde to behold her, being by fortune at that present at the doore of her Coche. And then with great admiration, considering the wonderfull beautie of that princesse, iudging her the chiefest of beautie of al those that she had euer seene, she spake somewhat loude in the Spanish tongue, to those of her companie, in this maner: “If God woulde haue permitted that my brother and this Princesse might haue married together, euery man might well haue said, that there had bin mette the moste excellente couple for perfection of beautie, that were to be found in all Europa.” And her wordes in deede were true: for the Lord Mendozza was euen one of the fairest knightes that in his time was to be found in all Spaine. The Duchesse whoe vnderstoode the Spanishe tongue very well, passing forth, behelde all that companie: and fayninge as thoughe shee had not vnderstande those woordes, thoughte that shee surely was some greate Lady. Wherefore when shee was a litle paste her, she saide to one of her pages: “Marke whether that ladye and her companye go to their lodging, and say vnto her, that I desire her, (at my returne) to come and see mee at my Castell.” Which the page did. So the Duchesse walking a long the riuer of Poo, mused vppon the words spoken by the Spanishe Ladye, which made her not longe to tarie there, but toke the waye backe againe to her Castel, where being arriued, she founde the Lady Isabell, 287 who at the Duchesse request, attended her with her company: and after dutiful reuerence, the Duchesse with like gratulacion, receiued her very courteouslie, taking her a part, and demaunding her of what prouince of Spaine shee was, of what house, and what fortune had brought her into that place. And then the Lady Isabell made her to vnderstand, from the beginninge, the occasion of her long voyage, and of what house she was: the duchesse vnderstanding her nobilitie, excused her selfe, for that shee had not done her that honour which shee deserved, imputinge the faulte vpon the ignorance of her estate. And after diuers other curteous communications the Duchesse pressed her to know whereunto the wordes tended that shee had spoken of her, and of the beautie of her brother. The Spanishe lady somewhat abashed, saide vnto her: “Madame, if I had knowen so much of your skill in our tongue, as now I do, I would haue beene better aduised before I had soe exalted the beautie of my brother, whose praise had beene more commendable in the mouth of another: yet thus much I dare affirme (without affection be it spoken), as they that know him can report, that hee is one of the comliest Gentlemen that Spaine hath bredde these twenty yeares. But of that which I haue saide touching your beautie, if I haue offended, muche a doe shall I haue to get the same pardoned, because I cannot repent mee, nor say otherwise, except I should speake contrary to truth. And that durste I enterprise to be verified by yourselfe, if it were possible that nature for one quarter of one houre onelye had transported into some other that which with right great wonder she sheweth to be in you.” Wherunto the Duchesse to the ende shee woulde seeme to excuse her prayse, aunswered with a litle bashfulnes, which beautified much her liuely colour, saying: “Madame if you continue in these termes, you will constraine me to thincke, that by chaunging of place you haue also chaunged your iudgemente: for I am one of the leaste to be commended for beauty of all this lande, or els I will beleeue that you haue the beautie and valour of my Lorde your brother soe printed in your minde, as all that whiche presenteth it selfe vnto you, hauinge anye apparaunce of beautie, you measure by the perfection of his.” And at that instante the Ladie Isabell, whoe 288 thoughte that the duchesse had taken in euill parte the comparison that she had made betweene her brother and her, somwhat in choler and heate, said vnto her: “Madame, you shall pardon mee for that I haue so much forgotten my selfe, to presume to compare your beautie to his: whereof if he be to be commended, yet I maye well be blamed, being his sister, to publishe the same in an vnknowen place: notwithstanding, I am wel assured, that when you shall speake, euen with his enemies, that yet besides his beautie, they will well assure him to be one of the gentlest and best condicioned gentlemen that liueth.” The Duchesse seinge her in these alterations, and so affected to the praise of her brother, toke great pleasure in her speach, and willingly woulde haue had her to passe further, had it not bin for feare to offende her, and to put her in a choler. And to thintent to turne her from that matter, she commaunded the table to be couered for supper, where she caused her to be serued honourably of all the most delicate and most exquisite meates that were possible to be gotten. Supper done, and the tables vncouered, after they had a little talked together, and that it was time to withdrawe themselues, the Duchesse the more to honor her, would that she should lodge in her chamber with her, where the pilgrime (wearied with the way) toke very good rest. But the Duchesse pricked with the strange talke of the Lady Isabell, hauing a hammer working in her head, could not sleepe. And had so wel the beauty of the unknowen knight graued in the bottom of her hart, as thinking to close her eyes, she thought that he flew continuallye before her like a certaine fansie or shadowe. In sorte, that to know further what he was, she would gladly haue made greater inquirie. Then sodainlye after a little shame and feare intermingled with a certain womanhoode longe obserued by her, and therewithall the fidelitie which shee bare to the Duke her husbande, presentinge it selfe before her, shee buried altogether her first counsell which died and tooke ende, euen so sone almoste as it was borne. And so tossed with an infinite number of diuers thoughtes passed the night, vntill the daye beginning to lighten the world with his burning lampe, constrained her to ryse. And then the Lady Isabel, ready to departe, went to take leaue of the Duchesse, who willingly 289 would haue wished that she had neuer sene her, for the newe flame that she felt at her harte. Neuerthelesse, dissembling her euill, not able to holde her any longer, made her to promise by othe, at her retourne from her voyage, to repasse by Thurin, and after she had made her a very liberall offer of her goodes, taking her leaue, she left her to the tuicion of God. Certaine dayes after the departing of the Spanish lady, the Duchesse thinking to quenche this new fier, the same began further to flame, and the more that hope failed her, the more did desire encrease in her. And after an infinite number of sundrie cogitacions, Loue got the victorie. And she resolued with her selfe in the ende, whatsoeuer might come thereof, to communicate her cause to one of her beloued damsels called Emilia, and to haue her aduise, in whom she wonted to repose her trust in all her secrete affaires, and causing her to be called for secretely, she said vnto her: “Emilia, I beleue that if thou hast taken any good heede to my auncient maner of behauiour, euer since I departed from England, thou haste knowen me to be the very ramper and refuge of all afflicted persons. But now my destenies be turned contrarie. For I haue nowe more neede of counsel than any other liuing creature, and hauing no person about me worthy to be priuie of my misfortune, but thou, my first and last refuge is to thee alone: of whom I hope to receiue consolation in a matter whiche toucheth me no lesse than my life and honour.” And then the Duchesse declared vnto her priuily, how since the departing of the Lady Isabell she had had no reste in her minde, and how she was enamoured of a knight whome she neuer sawe, whose beautie and good grace had touched her so nere, as being altogether vnable any longer to resiste her mishap, she knew not to whom to haue recourse, but to the fidelitie of her counsell: adding thereunto for conclusion, that she loued him not dishonestly, or for hope she had to satisfie any lasciuious appetite, but onely to haue a sight of him: whiche (as shee thought) would bring unto her such contentation, as ther by her grief shoulde take ende. Emilia who euer loued her maistresse as she did her owne heart, had great compassion vpon her, when she vnderstode the light foundation of her straunge loue: neuerthelesse desiring to please her euen to the last point of her life, 290 she said vnto her: “Madame if it wil please you to recreate your selfe from these your sorrowes, and to respite me onely twoo dayes, I hope to prouide by some good meanes that you shal shortly see him who vndeseruedly doth worke you all this euill.” The Duchesse nourished with this hope, desired her effectually to thinke vppon it: promising vnto her, that if her woordes came to good effect, she would make her such recompence as she her self should confesse she had not done pleasure to an ingrate or vnthankefull woman. Emilia which had the brute to be one of the moste subtile and sharpe witted dames of all Thurin, slept not during the time of her prescription. But after she had searched an infinite number of meanes to come to that which she desired, there was one that semed moste expedient for that purpose, and of least perill aboue other. And her time of delaye expired, shee went to Madame the Duchesse, and sayd: “Madame, God knoweth howe many troubles my minde hath sustayned, and how much I haue striued with mine own conscience to satisfie your commaundement, neuerthelesse, after I had debated thinges so substantially as was possible, I coulde deuise nothing more worthy your contente, than that whiche I wyll nowe declare vnto you, if it wyll please you to heare mee. Whiche to be short is, that for the execution of this our enterpryse, it behoueth you to fayne your selfe to be sicke, and to suffer your selfe to be trayned into suche maladies as there shall rather appeare in you token of death, than hope of lyfe. And being brought into such extremitie, you shall make a vowe (your health recouered) to go within a certayne time to Saint Iames on pilgrimage, which thing you may easely obtayne of the Duke your husbande. And then may you make your voyage liberally with the Ladye Isabell, who will passe this waye vpon her retourne, without discouering your affection vnto her, and wyll not fayle by reknowledging the curtesie that you haue vsed towardes her in these partes, to conduct you by her brother’s house, wher you may see him at your ease, that maketh you to suffer this great torment. And I will aduertise you furthermore of one thing, which till this time I haue kept close, whiche is: that for as mutch as we two togethers cannot without great difficultie accomplishe our businesse, it hath seemed good vnto me to know of you, if 291 you would that a third persone shalbe called hereunto, who is so much at my commaundement as I dare comit my trust vnto him. It is maister Fraunces Appian the Millanor, your phisitian, who (to say the very truth vnto you) hath bene so affectioned to mee this yeare or two, as he hath not ceassed by al meanes possible, to wynne me (but to honest loue) for he pretendeth to marry me. And because that hetherto I haue made small accompt of him, and haue not vsed any fauour towards him, nor hitherto any good entertainement, I assure my self seing the great amitie that he beareth me, that if I did but fauorably behold him fiue or sixe times with pleasaunt lookes, adding therunto a few kisses, he would hazard a thousand liues for my sake if he had them, to content me. And for as much as I know him to be a diligent man, learned, and of great reputation, and one that may stande vs to great stead in this busines, I thought good not to conceale or kepe from your knowledge my aduise herein.” The Duchesse vnderstanding all this pretie discourse, so apt for her affections (rauished with great ioye) embraced hard Emilia, and saide vnto her: “Emilia my deare friend, if thou diddest knowe in what wise I do esteme thee, and what I meane in time to come, to bestowe vpon thee, I am well assured, albeit thou hast hetherto sufficiently shewed thy good will, yet thou wilt hereafter doe me greater pleasure promising thee, by the faithe of a Prince, that if our enterprise doe well succeede, I will not vse thee as a seruaunt, but as my kinswoman and the best beloued frend I haue. For I holde my selfe so satisfied with that thou hast sayd vnto me, as if fortune be on our side, I see no maner of impediment that may let our enterprise. Goe thy way then, and entertaine thy Phisitian, as thou thinkest best, for it is very expedient that he be a partie, and for the rest let me alone: for neuer was there any Lazar that better coulde dissemble his impotencye, than I knowe how to counterfeit to be sicke.” The Duchesse being departed from Emilia, began to plaine her selfe bitterly, faining sometime to fele a certain paine in her stomack, sometime to haue a disease in her head, in such sort, as after diuers womanly plaintes (propre to those that feele themselues sicke) she was in the end constrayned to laye her self downe, and knew so well howe to 292 dissemble her sicknesse, as (after she had certaine dayes kept her bedde) there was mutch doubt of her health. And during this time Emilia had layed so many amorous baytes to seede her Phisitian, that he whiche knewe very well the moste happy remedies for the body, could not now finde out any that was able to heale the maladie of his owne minde. Emilia hauing noseled maister Appian with amorous toyes, began to make him vnderstande the originall of the Duchesse sickenesse, the effectes of her passion, the order that she had vsed during the furious course of the same: adding thereunto for conclusion, that if he would keepe the matter secrete, and ayde them with his counsell, she would by and by promise hym mariage by woordes, for the present tyme, and that from thenceforth she would neuer denie him any fauour or priuitie. That onely reserued which no man can honestly demaunde, till the mariage be solempnized in the face of the church. In witnesse wherof she kissed him with great affection. The Phisitian more eased there withall, than if he had sene his Hippocrates or Galen, raysed againe from death, promised rather to lose his life than she should want his helpe. And for the better beginning of this enterprise, they wente presentlye to visite the Duchesse: in whom they found her pulse so to beate, the tongue so charged, the stomacke so weakened by continuall suffocation of the matrice, that the pacient was in verye great perill of death. Whereunto euery man did easely geue credite for the reputation and great experience of the Phisitian: and maister Appian hauing commauuded all the chamber to be voyded, made the Duchesse to vnderstande in fewe wordes, how it behoued her to gouerne her selfe. And the better to cloke her cause, he brought her at that instant a little perfume, by receiuing the sauour wherof she should often times fal into certaine litle soundinges, and by vsing the perfume it woulde diminishe her colour for a time, and make her looke as though she had kepte her bed halfe a yeare before: neuerthelesse it should doe her no other displeasure, and that in three or foure dayes, with certaine other drugges, hee would restore her colour so freshe as euer it was. Whiche counsell the Duchesse liked best of any thing in the world. And they three together played their partes so wel, as the common brute throughout all 293 the citie was, that the Duchesse was in great daunger of death. The duke being aduertised of these thinges, caused all the phisitians of Thurin to assemble, to prouide for the health of the Duchesse: who being come together, with the Duke into her bedde chamber, a litle after she had receiued maister Appian’s perfumes: and seing her to sowne diuers times before them, were in great dispaire of her health. And after they had somewhat debated the matter with Maister Appian, not knowing wherupon to resolue, they said vnto the Duke, that it behoued him to prouide for her soule, for that they saw in her the ordinarie tokens and messangers of death. The poore Duke being sorowfull beyond measure, for that he loued the Duchesse entierly, sent for the Suffragane of the Bishop of Thurin, a man of uery holy life, to thintent he might geue her ghostly councell. To whom she confessed her self with a voyce so feeble, that it seemed to be more than halfe dead. Her talke was not long, but yet she made him beleue that nature failed her, and that by litle and litle she drewe towardes her ende: desiring him to haue her and her poore soule in remembraunce when he made his orisons and praiers. The Suffragan being gone, the Duke and others, with a great number of Gentlemen and Ladies, went into the chamber. But she began then to enter into so great rauing, as euery body was afeard of her. And after that she had tossed her selfe in her bed like a senselesse creature, her speach fayled her. Whereat those present, stricken with no smal wonder, thinking the soule would straight wayes haue departed the body, some of them cried vpon her, Madame remember Iesus, som other S. Barbara. But wilie Emilia more priuie of her counsell than the rest, taking her tenderly by the arme, cried upon her with a loude voice: “Madame call vpon S. Iames, who hath so often succoured you in youre aduersities.” And with that the Duchesse awaked as it wer out of a heauy sleepe, and rowling her eyes to and fro, with a straunge trembling of all her members, began to pronounce with an interrupted voyce: “O glorious Apostle, in whome from my tender youth, I haue euer had my stedfast trust and hope, be now mine intercessor in this cruel assault of death, to Iesus Christ. And I make a vowe nowe vnto thee, that if I may recouer health, I will my self in person, go honor thy sacred body, 294 in the proper place where it reposeth.” And hauing ended her fayned prayer, she counterfaited a sleepe, and so continued the space of twoo or three houres, whiche caused all the companie to withdrawe themselues, excepte the poore Duke, who would not depart from her vntil she waked, and in the meane time ceassed not to praye to God for the health of his loyall spouse. After shee had so well plaied this pageaunt by the space of an houre or twoo, faining then to awake, she began to stretche forth her armes and legges with suche force, as whosoeuer had heard the noyse, would easely haue iudged that she had bene deliuered from some great torment. And beholding the Duke her husband, with a pitifull eye (who had leaned his head nere vnto her’s in the bed) she cast her stretched armes negligently vpon his neck, and kissing him sayd; “Now may I safely kisse you my Lorde, that within these three houres was in such pitifull plight, as I thought my self for euer depriued of that benefit. Thankes be geuen to God and that good Sainct to whom I made my vow I am presently so wel eased, as if I fele myself no worse, I will yet deteine you (husband) a while from an other mariage.” But the poore Duke altogether rauished with ioye, hauing his white beard all tempered with teares, knew not what answere to make, but behelde her with such admiration, as he seemed to be besides himself. And in the meane time certayn whiche wer at the dore, hearing them speake, entred the chamber, who finding the Duchesse somwhat better then she was, published her recouerie incontinently throw al the citie, whereof the citizens being aduertised (because they loued her dearly) made processions and other thankesgeuing to God, as in cases like are accustomed. Within a whyle after, the Duchesse began by litle and litle to taste her meates, and to vse suche diet as shee recouered her former health. Except the newe plague which pynched her tender harte for the Lorde Mendozza, whiche she could not cure, but by the presence of him that bare the oyntment boxe for that sore. And so long she continued in the amorous thoughtes, till the Lady Isabell retourned from her pilgrimage, who came to the castell according to her promise. And after friendly gretinges one of an other, the Duchesse made her to vnderstande how since her departure she had neuer almost 295 commen out of her bed, for that she had been afflicted with a moste grieuous sickenesse. Neuerthelesse by the helpe of God, and the intercession of good S. Iames (to whom she had vowed her selfe) she had recouered health. And if she could obtaine leaue of the Duke her husband, she would thinke her selfe happy to make a voyage thither in her companie. Which the Spanishe Lady persuaded by all meanes possible, shewing vnto her many commodities, she should finde in Spayne, and the honorable company of Gentlemen and Ladies, who at her arriuall there (if it would please her to doe them so muche honor as to visite them in passing by) would leaue nothing vndone for the best manner of entertainement that possibly might be deuised. And by this meane the Ladye Isabell thought to pricke her forward, who was in dede but to quicke of the spurre already, and thinking euery houre VII. determined one morning thereof to moue the Duke her husbande, to whom she sayd: “My Lorde, I beleue that you doe sufficiently well remember my trouble paste, and the extreme martyredome that I suffred in my late sickenesse, and namely of the vowe whiche I made for recouery of my health. Nowe finding my selfe whole and strong, my desire is that with your licence I might accomplishe my voyage, specially with so good opportunitie: for the noble woman of Spayne of whome I have heretofore told you, is returned, and it should be a great ease to vs both to go in companie together. And for so much as it is a matter of necessitie, and that early or late, I must aduenture to paye my vowed debte, it is best both for my commoditie and also for my honour, to goe in her companie.” Whereunto the good Duke did willingly accorde: who neuer had any manner of suspicion that sutch a treason was lodged in the harte of so great a Princesse. And hauing giuen order for all things requisite for her departing, she tooke a certaine number of Gentlemen and damsels, amongst which, Maister Appian and Emilia were not forgotten, and being all apparelled in pilgrimes weedes, by long trauaile and weary iourneis, after they had passed the cold Alpes, they came into the countie of Rossilion, and entred into Spayne: and then the Duchesse feling her selfe to approche the place where her harte of long tyme had taken hold, 296 desired the Lady Isabell and her company earnestly, not to make it knowen to any persone what she was. And so traueiling by small iourneyes, and deuising of diuerse matters, they arriued within two litle dayes iourney to the place where the Lorde of Mendozza kept his ordinarie housholde. For which cause the Spanishe lady entreated the Duchesse not to be offended, if she sent some one of her men before to geue aduertisement of their comming, which the Duchesse graunted. And the messenger finding the Lord of Mendozza readie to receiue them, and hauing done him to vnderstand of the coming of the Duchesse, of the first talke betwene her and his syster, of the great entertainement that she had geuen them, of the singuler beautie with the which she was adorned: he was not so grosse but that he knewe by and by, that the Duchesse at those yeares, had not bene so liberall of her labour, to make such a voiage one foote, without some other respect: and dissembling what he thought, caused thirty or fortie of his gentlemen incontinently to make them ready. To whome making as though hee would goe hunte the Hare, he went to meete the Duchesse: and hauing discouered them a farre of in a fielde, the Lady Isabelle did forthwith knowe theim. Who aduertised the Duchesse that he which ridde vppon the whyte Ienet of Spayne, was the Lorde of Mendozza her brother, and that the other were his servauntes. The Prince then after he had made his horse to vaute three or foure times aloft in the ayre, with an excellent grace and marueilous dexteritie lighted from his horse, and kissing her hand, sayd vnto her: “Madame, I beleue that if the wandering knightes of olde tyme, who haue eternized their memorie, by an infinite numbre of renowmed victories, had had so muche good lucke, as many tymes in their aduentures to meete with such pilgrimes as you be, they woulde willinglye haue abandoned the Launce and Murrion, to take the Staffe and Scrippe.” The Duchesse then beyng comparable with anye ladye of her tyme, for her education and comely talke, assayled with ioye, feare, and shame, that no lacke of dutie might be founde in her, sayde vnto hym: “And in deede my Lorde like as if the knightes of whom you speake, had tasted of some good hap (as you terme it) by meting with such pilgrimes: so also we hope that the Saint to whome we be 297 vowed, in the honor of whom we haue enterprised this perillous voyage, will receiue vs in good parte: otherwyse our payne were altogether loste, and our iourney euil imployed.” And after they had geuen this first amorous atteint, the Lord of Mendozza taking her by the arme, conducted her vnto his castell, deuising of pleasaunt matters. And he was greatlye astonned, to see so rare a beautie, as appeared in the Princesse: whiche neither the wearinesse of the waye, nor the parching beames of the Sunne, coulde in any wyse so appaire, but that there rested ynough, to drawe vnto her the very hartes of the moste colde and frosen men of the world. And albeit the Lorde of Mendozza tooke great pleasure and admiration in beholding her, yet was it nothing in respect of the Duchesse: who after she had aduised and well marked the beautie, excellency, and other good giftes of grace, in the Lorde of Mendozza, she confessed that al that which she had heard of his sister, was but a dreame in comparison of the proufe, which discouered it selfe vpon the first viewe: seeming vnto her by good iudgement, that all the beauties of the worlde were but paintinges, in respect of the perfection of that whiche shee sawe with her eyes. Wherin she was not deceiued, albeit that her feruent loue might haue bewitched her senses. For all the histories in Latine, Spanishe, and Italian, the whiche make mention of Mendozza, geue vnto him the firste place in beautie of all the Princes and Lordes that were in his tyme. The poore Duchesse, after she had manifested by outwarde gestures, and countenaunces, to the Lord of Mendozza, that which was in the inward part of her harte, without receiuing the full satisfaction of his sight, whiche she desired, determined (hauing soiourned three dayes in his castell) to departe the nexte morning (vnwares to the knight), to performe her voyage. And so soone as the light of the daye began to appeare, she went to the chamber of the Lady Isabell, whom she thanked affectuously, aswell for her good companye, as for the great courtesie and humanitie, that she had receiued in her house. And hauing taken leaue of her, departed with her traine. The knight Mendozza, about an houre or two after her departure, aduertised thereof, was greatly troubled, what the matter might be that she was gone without taking leaue of him. And after that he had a 298 little thought therupon, he easely perceiued, that all the fault therof was in him selfe: and that this great Princesse had abandoned her countrie, of purpose by all iudgement to visite him, and that he had shewed himself very slacke for her satisfaction, in that he had not offred her his seruice: wherat being iustly greued, she did not vouchsafe to geue him a farewell. And so accusing himselfe, he determined to followe after her, accompanied onelye with twoo pages. And beyng on horsebacke, it was not long before hee espied her in the hyghe waye to Saint Iames, where lighting, hee walked twoo myles with her, reasonyng the matter without intermission: desiring her amonges other thynges, to let hym vnderstand what displeasure shee had concerned in his house, that caused her so spedy and secret a departure: adding thereunto, that if her pleasure were, he would accompanie her to the place whether she was vowed, and would also reconduct her in his owne persone to Thurin, in so honourable sorte, as she should finde cause to be contented. Then passing further, with sighes sayd vnto her: “Madame, fortune had done me a great benefite, if when my sister made her vowe to go to Rome, I had lost the battaile against mine enemies, and that her vowe had bene without effect. For it might haue bene that I should haue remained quiet by the losse of some of my people. But alas, I fele now, since your comming into this countrie, a battaile so cruel, and assault so furious in my harte, as not being able any longer to resiste it, I finde my selfe vanquished, and caught captiue, in such sorte as I know not to whom to complain, but to you, which is the motion of all my disquietnesse: and yet, which grieueth me most, you dissemble as though you did not vnderstand it. And to bring me to my last end, you are departed this day out of my house, not daining to see me, or to appease me with one farewel, which hath so further inflamed my passion, as I die a thousand times a day. Beseching you for the time to come, to entreate me more fauourably, or you shall see me, in that state, wherein you would be loth to see your enemy: which is, most cruel death.” And in dede, he shewed sufficiently, how great the grief was that pressed him, and how well the passion that he felt, was agreable to the wordes which he spake: for in pronouncing his wordes he sighed so in his tale, and 299 changed his colour so often, and had his face so besprent with teares, as it semed his soule attached with superfluous sorrowe, would at that very instant haue abandoned his bodye. Which the Princesse perceiuinge, touching at the quicke the very spring of all his euill, sayd vnto him: “Seignior Mendozza, I know not what you wold that I should do more for you, nor for what occasion you do pretende, that I should be the cause of your death: for if the occasion thereof should happen through my default, my life by strengthe or abilitie, could not endure one houre after, for the sorowe I should conceiue therof. Thinke me to be yours, and be not offended, I besech you, if openly I doe no longer talke with you: for I would not to winne al the goodes in the world, that any of this traine which doth accompany me, should perceiue any one sparke of the great kindled fire, wherin my harte burneth day and night for you, being assured that if you had felt one houre of my payne, in place to accuse me of crueltie, your self complaining, wold pitie the griefe whiche I haue sustained for your long absence: for without the continual presence of your persone, representing it selfe in the eyes of mine understanding, with a firme hope once to haue seen you: it had bene impossible for me, to resist the long and hard assaulte, wherwith loue hath euery houre assailed me. But one thing I must nedes confesse vnto you, that by reason of the cold welcome which you made me in the beginning, I thought it preceded of some euill opinion conceiued of me or peraduenture that you had thought me ouer liberall of mine honour, to haue left the countrie where I commaunde, to render my selfe subiect to your good grace, which caused me without leaue to depart your house. But now that I do know by your countenaunce and teares, the contrarie, I acknowledge my fault, and desire you to forget it. With full promise that vppon my retourne from my voiage of S. Iames, I will make you amendes, in the very same place, wher I committed the fault: and remaining your prisoner for a certaine time, I wil not depart from you, vntill I have satisfied, by sufficient penance the greatnes of my trespas. In the meane time you shal content your selfe with my good will: and without passing any further retorne againe home to your castell, for feare least some suspicious persone in my company should conceiue 300 that in me, which all the dayes of my life I neuer gaue occasion so much as once to thinke.” To whome the Lorde of Mendozza obeied, more to content her than otherwise, for hee had the beauties and good behauiours of the Princesse, so imprinted in the moste pleasaunt place of his harte, as he would haue desired neuer to haue departed her companie. But like as they determined iocundly, to imploy and satisfie their desire, at her retorne from her voyage, euen so fortune in the meane while did beset the same, and so fully brake the threde of their enterprises, as the issue had not so good successe, as was their prefixed hope. Now leaue we the Duchesse to perfourme her voyage, and the Lord of Mendozza to entertain his amorous passions, and let vs digresse to the duke, who about X. or XII. dayes after the Duchesse his wife was departed, began to fele her absence, which not being able to susteine for the great loue he bare vnto her, and specially knowing the great fault that he had committed (being the sister of a king and wife of such a Prince) so to let her go like an vnfeathered shaft, in so long a voyage: determined with him selfe (for feare least if any misfortune happening vnto her, the same should touch his honour) to call together his counsel, and to prouide some remedie. The counsel assembled, and the cause proponed, euerie of them told the Duke that he had ouer lightly consented to the will of the Duchesse, and that if she should chaunce to incure any inconuenience, all men would impute it to his reproch wherof they would haue aduertised him at the beginning, sauing for feare they had to displease him: adding for conclusion, that it was most expedient the Duke should put himselfe on the sea to goe seeke her in Galisia. Which he did, and imbarked him selfe with a great companie of gentlemen, to whome the winde was so fauourable, as he ariued at S. Iames before her: and hauing made enquirie for her, vnderstode she was not come. Neuerthelesse he was aduertised by certaine pilgrims, that it could not be long before she would be there, for that they had left her not paste three or foure dayes iourney from thence, traueiling with her trayne, by small iourneis: wherof the Duke was exceading glad, and sent certaine of his gentlemen to mete her vpon the way, as she came, who rode not farre before 301 they met the Duchesse with her companie, and did her to vnderstand of the Duke’s arriuall, and of the cause of his comming from Thurin. Which tidinges was not very ioyfull to her, and by her will would have wished that he had not taken so much paynes: neuerthelesse, preferring honor before affection, she made the more haste to see him, and at her arriuall seemed to bee glad of his comming, and to lament the payne that he had taken by committing himselse in so many daungers for her sake. Afterwardes they entred into the churche with great deuotion, where when the Duchesse had made certaine particuler praiers, shee began to perceiue that God had withstanded her lasciuious wil, and pitying the good Duke her husband, would not permit him to be deceiued in suche disloyal sort, repentantly bewayling her forepassed faulte. And feling herself pressed euen at the very soule with a certaine remorse of conscience, she was so victorious over her affections, as she determined wholly to forget Mendozza and his beautie: praysing God neuerthelesse that it had pleased him to graunt her the grace so well to dispose her matters, that her affections had not exceeded the bondes of honor: determining from thenceforth, not onely to put Mendozza in vtter obliuion, but also for euer clerely to cut of his amorous prastise, and therfore would not so much as bid him once farewell, nor yet to let him in any wise vnderstand those newes. And so settled in this deliberation, solicited her husbande very instantly to departe, whiche he did, and all thinges prepared to the Sea, they toke againe their course to Thurin, and had the wynde so prosperous, as from thence in fewe dayes after, they arriued at Marsellis; and wearye of the Seas, he caused horses to be prepared to ryde from thence to Thurin by land, wher he and his wife liued together in right great ioy and amitie. The Lorde of Mendozza greatly payned with the long absence of the Duchesse, sent a gentleman of purpose to Galisia to know the cause of her long tarying. Who brought certain newes that the Duke was comen in persone to fetche his wife, and that he caried her awaye with him by Sea; wherewithal he was marueilously out of pacience, determining neuerthelesse one daye when his affaires were in good order, to go visite her at Thurin. During the time that these thinges 302 remained in this estate, as well of the one side, as of the other: the Almaines prepared a great army, and entred into Fraunce, where they wasted and burned al the countrey as they passed. The king being aduertised hereof, sent for the Duke of Savoie, to goe mete them with the men of armes of Fraunce. But before his departure from Thurin, he lefte for his Lieutenant generall, the Earle of Pancalier, by the aduise and counsell of whome he intended that all the affaires of the Duchie should be ruled and gouerned in his absence, and that he should in so ample wyse be honoured and obeyed, as his owne persone. This Earle of Pancalier was a nobleman, verie prudent in his doinges, and knewe right well how to gouerne the common wealth, who seing that hee had the whole countrie at his commaundement, and hym selfe many tymes in presence of the Duchesse, viewing her so fayre and comelie, could not so well rule his affections, but that by litle and litle he fell into loue with her, in such wyse as hee forgat hym selfe, making no conscience to offer his seruice vnto her. But the Princesse, who was resolued to lyue a good woman, abhorred all his lasciuious orations, requiring hym to bee better aduysed another tyme, before he presumed to vtter sutche talke, excepte to sutch that were his equals. Telling hym that a man ought not to bee so vnshamfast to offer his seruice to anye great Ladie, or to make other sute vnto her, before hee hadde fyrste knowen by her gesture or woordes, some lykelyhoode of loue: which he could not deeme in her, for so much as she neither to him or to any other had euer, (til that day in all her life) shewed such fauour, as other suspicion could be conceiued, but that which was conuenable and meete for her honour. Which when the Countie of Pancalier vnderstoode, he toke his leaue of her, ashamed of that he had done. But he folowing the custome of louers, not thinking himselfe cast of for the first refuse, eftsones renewed his requestes: and framing a louing stile, besought her to haue pitie vppon him, and to respect the greatnesse of his passion: and that he could not prolonge his life without the fauour of her good grace, who onely was the very remedie of his euill. The Duchesse pestred with such like talke, said vnto him: “Sir Countie, me thinke you ought to haue satisfyed your selfe with my first deniall, without further 303 continuance in the pursuing of your rash enterprise. Haue you forgotten the place that you keepe, and the honour whereunto my Lorde the Duke my husbande hath exalted you? Is this nowe the loyall reward that you render vnto him for creating you his Lieutenaunt ouer all his landes and seignories, to demaund the preheminence of his bedde? Assure your selfe for final warning, that if euer hereafter you shal againe fall into like error, I sweare vnto you by the faith of a Princesse, that I will make you to be chastised in suche sort, as al semblable traytors and disloyal seruants shal take example.” The Earle seeing himselfe refused, and thus rebuked, and in doubt that the Princesse woulde make her husbande to vnderstande his enterprise upon his retourne, chaunging his greate loue into hatred more then mortall, determined whatsoeuer should come thereof, to inuente all meanes possible, vtterly to destroye the Duchesse. And after that he fansied diuers thinges in minde, he deuised (by the instinct of the deuil) to cause one of his nephewes, being of the age of XVIII. or twentie yeares, which was his heire apparant, for that he had no children, and was one of the fayrest and best condicioned gentlemen of all Thurin, to sort that deuilish attempt to purpose. And finding opportunitie, one daye hee saide to the yonge man (that depended wholly vppon him) these words: “Nephew, thou knowest that all the hope of liuing thou hast in this world resteth in me alone, of whom I make so good accompte as of my childe. And for that it pleased God to giue me no children, I haue constituted and ordeined thee my sole and ouely heyre with ful hope that from henceforth thou wilt dutifully acknowledge thy selfe most bounde vnto mee, and therefore obedient in all thinges which I shal commaunde thee, specially in that which may be most for thine aduancemente. The Duke as thou knowest, is absent, olde, and crooked, and at all houres in the mercy of death throughe the daungers of the warres. Nowe if he should chaunce to die, my desire is to mary thee with some great Lady: yea and if it were possible with the Duchesse her selfe, which God knoweth what profite it would bring both to thee and thy frendes, and in my iudgement an easie matter to compasse, if thou wilt dispose thy selfe after my counsell, or at leaste wise, if thou canst not come to the title of husband, thou maiest 304 not faile to be receiued as her frend. Thou art a comly gentleman, and in good fauour with the Duchesse, as I haue oftentimes percieued by her communication, albeit that holdinge fast the bridle of her honor, shee hath been afraid hetherto to open herselfe vnto thee. Spare not my goods, make thy selfe braue and gallant from henceforth whatsoeuer it coste, and be dilligente to please her in all that thou maiest, and time shall make thee know that which thy tender yeares hath hitherto hidden from thee.” The poore yonge man giuing faith to the vnfaithfull inuentions of his vncle (whom hee counted as his father) began oft to frequent the presence of the Duchesse, and shamefastlye to solicite her by lookes and other offices of humanitie, as nature had taught him, continuing that order the space of a moneth. Which by the Duchesse wel viewed and marked, she was diligent for her part to accept the honest and affectionate seruice which the yong man dailye did vnto her, and shewed vnto him likewise a certaine more curteous fauour than to the rest of the pages, as wel for the birth and beautie wherwithal nature had enriched him, as for that she saw him enclined to do her better seruice than the rest, not thinking of any dishonest appetite in the yong man, nor the malice of his vncle, who conceiued none other felicitie but in reuenge of the Duchesse, his ennemie, and not able to beare the cruell mallice rooted in his harte, determined to play double or quit. And callinge his nephew before him he said vnto him: “My childe, I do perceiue and see that thou art one of the most happiest gentlemen of al Europe, if thou knewest how to folow thine owne good luck. For the Duchesse not onely is amorous of thee, but also consumeth for the earnest loue shee beareth thee. But as thou knowest women be shamefast and woulde be sued vnto in secrete, and do delight to be deceiued of men, to thend it might seeme how with deceit or force they were constrained to yeld to that which of their own minds they would willingly offer, were it not for a litle shamefastnes that doth withdrawe them. And thereof assure thy sefe, for I haue oftentimes experimented the same, to my great good lucke. Wherfore credite my councel, and follow mine aduise. And thou thy selfe shalt confesse vnto me, before to morrow at this time, that thou art the happiest man of the world. I will, then, that this night when thou seest conuenient time, thou shalt 305 conueye thy selfe secretlye into the chamber of the Duchesse, and there hide thy selfe vnder her bedde, for feare of being espied: where thou shalt remaine vntil an houre after midnight, when all men be in the depth of their sleepe. And when thou perceiuest euery man at rest, thou shalte closely rise, and approching the Duchesse bed, thou shalt tell what thou art, and I am sure for the earnest loue she beareth thee, and for the long absence of her husband, she wil curteouslie receiue thee betwene her armes, and feast thee with such delights as amorous folke doe embrace their louers.” The simple yong man giuing faith to the words of his vncle that was honoured as a king (thinking perhaps that it proceeded by the perswasion of the Duchesse) followed his commaundement, and obeied whollie his traiterous and abhominable hest. Who (oportunitie found) accomplished from pointe to point, that which his cruel vncle had commaunded. And a litle before midnight, fearing least his treason shoulde be discouered, toke with him three councellors, and certaine other of the guarde of the castell. Whereunto as Lieutenaunt to the Duke, he might both enter and issue at al times when he list, and not opening the cause of his intent, went straight to the portall of the Duchesse chamber, and knockinge at the dore, said that the Duke was come. Which being opened, hee entred in with a nomber of lightes, accompanied with the guarde, hauinge a rapier readye drawen in his hande, like a furious man besides himselfe, began to looke rounde about, and vnder the bedde of the Duchesse: from whence he caused his owne proper nephew to be drawne. To whom, without geuing him leisure to speake, for feare lest his malice should be discouered, he saide: “O detestable villaine thou shalt die.” And therewithall he thruste the rapier into him, to the hard hiltes, and doubling another blowe to make him faile of his speache, hee pearced his throte, so fiercely, as the poore innocente after he had a little staggered, fell downe deade to the grounde. When he had put up his rapier, he turned towards the Counsellers, and saide vnto them: “My frends, this is not the first time I haue espied the lasciuious and dishonest loue betweene this my lecherous nephew and the Duchesse, whom I haue caused to die to honourably in respect of his desert, for by the very rigor of the law, he deserued to haue bin burnt quick, or els to be torne in peeces with foure horses. But my Ladie 306 the Duchesse I meane not to punishe, or to prouide chastisement for her: For you be not ignoraunt, that the auncient custome of Lombardie and Sauoye requireth that euery woman taken in adulterie, shal be burned aliue, if within a yeare and a day she finde not a Champion to fight the combate for her innocencie. But for the bounden duetie that I beare to my Lord the Duke, and for respect of the estate which he hath committed to my charge, I will tomorrow dispatch a poaste, to make him vnderstande the whole accident as it is come to passe. And the Duchesse shall remaine in this chamber, with certaine of her maids, vnder sure keeping and safegarde.” All this time the Duchesse who had both iudgemente and spirite so good as any Princesse that raigned in her time, suspected by and by the treason of the Earle. And with a pitifull eye beholding the dead body of her page, fetching a deepe sighe, cried out: “Oh, innocent soule: which sometime gauest life to this bodye that nowe is but earth, thou art nowe in place where thou seest clearelye the iniquitie of the murderer, that latelye did put thee to death.” And hauing made an ende of this exclamation with her armes a crosse, shee remained as in a sowne with out mouing either hande or foote. And after she had continued a while in that state, shee desired the Counsellers to cause the bodye to be buried, and to restore it to the earth whereof it had the first creation. “For (quoth she) it hath not deserued to be tied to the gibet, and to be foode for birds of the ayre.” Which they graunted not without a certaine greuous suspicion betweene her and the page. For so muche as she excused not herselfe, but the innocencie of him, without speaking any worde of her owne particular iustification. This pitifull aduenture was out of hande published through all the Citie, with so great sorrow and murmure of the people, as it seemed the enemies had sacked the towne. For there was not one, from the very least to the greateste of al, but did both loue and reuerence the Duchesse, in such sort as it seemed vnto them, that this misfortune was fallen vpon euery one of their children. The Earle of Pancalier did nothing all that day, but dispatch the poastes. And hauing caused all the whole matter to be registred as it was seen to be done, he commaunded the Counsellers, and them of the Garde, to subscribe his letters. And all the matter being put in order he 307 sent away two currors with diligence, the one into Englande to aduertise the king her brother, and the other to the Duke: who being arriued, ech man in his place, presented their charges. Whereunto both the brother and the husband gaue full credite without any maner of difficultie: perswaded principally thereunto by the death of the nephew: who (as it was very likely) had not been put to death by his owne vncle, and of whom he was also the very heire, without his most greueous fault, praysinge greatly the fidelitie of the Earle, that had not pardoned his owne proper bloud, to conserue his dutie and honour to his soueraigne Lorde. And it was concluded betweene them, by deliberate aduise and counsaile, as well of those of the king of England, as by a great nomber of learned men of Fraunce, whom the French kinge made to assemble for that respect in fauour of the Duke, that the custome should be so inuiolably kepte, as if the Duchesse were the most simple damsell of all the countrie: to the ende that in time to come, greate Lordes and Ladyes which be as it were lampes to giue lighte to others, might take example. And that from thenceforth they should not suffer their vertues to be obscured by the clouds of such execrable vices. The king of England to gratifie the Earle of Pancalier: who (in his iudgement) had shewed himself right noble in this act, sent him an excellent harnesse, with a sword of the selfe same trampe by the Currour, with letters of aunsweare written with his owne hand, how he vnderstode the maner of his proceedings. And the messenger vsed such diligence, as within few daies he arriued at Thurin. Shortly after that the king of England had sent back the Currour, the Duke of Sauoie retorned his, whom he staied so much the longer, because the matter touched him most neere: for he would that the matter should be debated by most graue and deliberate counsell. And when he had resolued what to do, he wrote to the counsellers and other Magistrates of Thurin, aboue al things to haue respecte that the custome should be inuiolably obserued, and that they should not in any case fauour the adultery of his wife, vpon paine of death. Then in particuler, hee wrote his letters to the Earle, whereby he did greatly allow his fidelitie, for the which he hoped to make him suche recompence, as both he and his should taste therof during their liues. The Currour of the duke arriued, 308 and the matter proponed in counsell, it was iudged, that (followinge the auncient custome) a piller of marble should be placed in the fieldes neere Thurin: which is betweene the bridge of the riuer Poo and the Citie, wherupon should be written the accusation of the Earle of Pancalier against the Duchesse, which the Duchesse vnderstanding (hauing none other companie but Emilia, and a yong damsell) dispoiled herselfe of her silken garmentes, and did put on mourninge weede, martired with an infinite nomber of sondrie tormentes, seing herselfe abandoned of al worldly succour, made her complaints to God: beseeching him with teares to be protector of her innocencie. Emilia who vnderstode by her that shee was vniustlie accused, and seing the iminent perill that was prepared for her, determined by her accustomed prudence to prouide therfore. And after she had a litle comforted her she saide vnto her: “Madame, the case so requireth that now you must not consume time in teares and other womanish plaints, which can nothing diminishe your euill. It seemes most expediente vnto mee, that you fortefie your selfe againste your enemye, and finde some meane to sende maister Appian in poaste to the Duke of Mendozza, one of the best renowmed in prowesse of all the knightes in Spaine, whoe being aduertised of your misfortune, wyll prouide so well for your affaires, (that your honour being recouered) your life shall remaine assured. Wherefore if you will follow mine aduise, you shall write him an earnest letter (as you know right wel how to indite) which Appian shal present on your behalfe. For if you follow not this counsel, I know none els (as the world goeth now) that will hazarde his life vnder the condicion of so straunge a lotte as yours is, specially hauing respect to the renowne and magnanimitie of the Earle, who as you know, is in reputation to be one of the most valiaunt men and most happy in armes that is in all Sauoie or Lombardie.” “My deare frende (quoth the Duchesse) doe what thou wilt: for I am so resolued and confirmed in my sorowe, as I haue no care either of death or life, no more than if I had neuer been borne. For neither in the one nor in the other, can I forsee anye remedie for mine honour alreadie lost.” “Madame (quoth Emilia) let us for this time leaue the care of honour in the hands of God, who knoweth 309 both howe to keepe it and restore it, as shall seeme good vnto him. And let vs giue order for our parte that there be no want of diligence, for feare of being ouertaken.” And hauing made an ende of her tale, shee gaue her incke and paper, sayinge vnto her: “Now Madame I shall see at this pinche, if your harte will serue you at a neede or no.” The Duchesse withdrew her selfe a part, and after she had longe discoursed in her minde of that which was paste betweene the knight and her, she wrote vnto him as followeth: “My Lord Mendozza, I do not write these letters vnto you, vppon any hope to be deliuered by your meane from the poinaunt pricke of fierce death which doth now besiege me, knowing death alwayes to be the true port and sure refuge of all afflicted persons. For since that God willeth it, nature permitteth it, and my heauie fortune consenteth to it, I will receiue it with righte good will, knowinge that the graue is none other but a strong rampier and impregnable cartel, wherein we close our selues against the assaults of life, and the furious stormes of fortune. It is farre better (as appeareth manifestly by me) with eyes shut to waite in graue, than no longer to experimente life (the eyes beinge open) liuing with so many troubles vpon earth. But gladly woulde I bringe to remembraunce, and set before your eyes how sometime I abandoned the place which was no lesse deare vnto me than mine owne country where I was borne, and delicatelye nourished in honor and delightes, to extende my selfe into an infinite nomber of perills, contrarye to the deutie of those that be of mine estate, losinge the name of a Princesse to take the title of a caytife pilgrim, for the onely seruent and vnmeasured loue which I bare you, before I did euer see you, or by anye meanes bounde thereunto by any your preceding benefites. The remembraunce whereof (as I thinke) ought now to deliuer such an harde enterprise, to the port of your conscience, that breaking the vaile of your tender hart, you shoulde therefore take pitie and compassion of my straunge and cruell fortune. Which is not onely reduced to the mercy of a most dolorous prison, and resteth in the power of a bloudie and mercilesse tyrant: but (which is worse) in the continuall hazarde of a shamefull death. Which I do not much lament hauing long desired to accelerate the same 310 with mine owne hands, to finde rest in an other worlde: were it not that by death I shoulde leaue an eternall blot to my good name, and a perpetuall heritage of infamie to my house and kindred. Wherefore if it so be, that frendship loketh for no rewarde, or that frendship cannot be paid but by the tribute of an other, make me now to taste the auncient fruite of frendship. And if pitie be the sole and onely keye of Paradise, displaye it now on the behalfe of her, who (forsaken of al humaine succour) attendeth but the fatall houre to be throwen into the fier as a poore innocent lambe in sacrifice. And for that the bearer shal make you vnderstand the rest by mouth (whom it may please you to credite as mine owne selfe) I will make an ende of my heauie letter. Beseching God to giue a good life vnto you, and to mee an honorable death.” The letter closed and sealed vp with the seale of the Duchesse, shee commaunded Emilia to deliuer it to Appian, and to require him to vse diligence, not ceasing to ride day and night vntil he come to the place where they left the knight Mendozza, giuinge charge to make him vnderstande (at length) her innocencie and false accusation. Appian being dispatched, was so affected to please his maistresse, and so desirous to see her deliuered of her imprisonmente, as hee ceassed not to trauaile day and night, till he came within the frontiers of Spaine. And after that he had ridden yet two or three dayes iourney, approching nere the place wher he thought to find the knight Mendozza, he began to inquire of the host of the inne where he laye that nighte, as well of his good health, as of his other affayres, whoe made him aunswere, that it wente euen so euill with him at that present, as with the poorest gentleman of al Spaine: although that he were in deede a very great Lorde. “For (quoth he) within these few monethes past, his ennemies of Tolledo, whom he hath diuers times vanquished, have so wel allied themselues together out of al partes of Spaine, that they haue brought a great armie to the field. And fortune of the warre hath been so fauourable unto them, that they discomfited Mendozza and all his armie. Who hath retired himselfe, with those few of his people that hee could saue aliue, into a litle towne of his, where yet to this present he is besieged. And so it is (as euery man sayth) that he 311 doth his endeuour maruellouslie well, in such sort as his ennemies cannot enter the towne.” Master Appian then demaunded of him, if the towne besieged were farre of. And he answered, that it was about VII. or VIII. poastes. Then withoute making any longer inquirie, he toke a guide that accompanied him euen almoste to the campe. And when he sawe the towne a farre of, he sent the guide backe againe, and went the same daye to offer his seruice to a certaine captaine of lighte horsemen, who receiued him into wages, and then he bought armour to serue his purpose. And maister Appian besides his learning was a wise and polliticke man, and determined so sone as any skirmishe did begin to be formost, and in deede he vsed the matter so well, as hee suffred himselfe to be taken prisoner and to be caried into the towne. And being within, he desired those that had taken him, to conduct him to the Lorde of Mendozza their chieftaine: whoe knew him by and by, for that in the voyage which the Duchesse made into Spaine, he saw him euer more neere her then any other of her gentlemen. And after that the Lord of Mendozza had demaunded of him by what meanes he entred the towne, vpon his aunswere, he perceyued that he was a man of good experience, and well affected to the seruice of his maistres, that durst hazard his life in such wise to obey her desire. Incontinently maister Appian deliuered vnto him the Duchesse letter: which when he had read, he retired into his chamber with maister Appian, hauing his face all bedewed with teares: and because that the letter did import credite, he prayed maister Appian to declare his charge. Who said unto him, “My lady the Duchesse which is at this day the most afflicted Princesse vnder the coape of Heauen, commendeth herselfe vnto your honour, and doth humbly besech you not to be offended for that at her last being in Galisia, shee departed withoute accomplishing her promise made vnto you: prayinge you to impute the fault vpon the importunitie of the Duke her husband: whom being constrained to obey, she could not satisfye the good will that she bare vnto you.” Then he began to declare in order howe the Earle of Pancalier fell in loue with her, and not beinge able to obtaine his desire, caused his nephew to hide him vnder her bedde: and how hee had slaine him with his owne handes. Finallye, the 312 imprisonmente of the Duchesse, and the iudgemente giuen againste her. Wherat the Lord of Mendozza was greatly astonned: and when hee had heard the whole discourse, hee began to conceiue some euill opinion of the duchesse: thinkinge it to be incredible, that the earle of Pancalier woulde so forget himselfe, as to murder his owne proper nephewe and adopted sonne, to be reuenged of a seely woman. Neuerthelesse, he dissembled that which he thoughte, in the presence of maister Appian, and said vnto him: “Appian my frende, if mine aduerse fortune did not speake sufficiently for me, I could tel thee here a long tale of my miseries: but thou seest into what extremitie I am presently reduced, in sorte that I am vtterly vnable to succour thy maistresse, I my selfe stil attending the houre of death: and all the pleasures which presentlye I can doe for thee, is to set thee at libertie from the perill prepared for vs.” And without longer talke, hee caused a hot skirmishe to be giuen to his enemies, to set Appian at large: who being issued forth, made certaine of his men to conduct him to place of suretie. Appian seinge no way for Mendozza to abandon his citie for peril of death prepared for him and his, thoughte his excuse reasonable. And to attempt some other fortune, he vsed such diligence, as he in short time was retourned to Thurin, wher hauing communicated the whole matter to Emilia, she went straight to the Duchesse, to whom she said: “Madame, God giue you the grace to be so constant in your aduersities, as you haue an occasion to be miscontented with the heauy newes that Appian hath brought you.” And then she began to recompt vnto her the misfortune of Mendozza, the thraldome wherunto his enemies had brought him, and for conclusion, that there was no hope of helpe to be expected at his handes. Which when the Duchesse vnderstoode she cryed out: “Oh, poore vnhappy woman, amongste all the most desolate and sorowfull: thou mayst well now say that the lighte of thy life from henceforth beginneth to extinguishe and growe to an ende: seing the succour of him, vpon whom depended thine assuraunce, is denied thee. Ah, ingrate knight: now knowe I righte well (but it is to late) that of the extreme loue which I did beare thee, sprong the first roote of all mine euil, which came not by any accident of fortune, but from celestiall dispensation 313 and deuine prouidence of my God: who now doth permit that mine hipocrisie and counterfaite deuotion shall receiue condigne chastisemente for my sinne.” And then Emilia, seing her so confounded in teares, said vnto her: “Madame, it doth euil become a greate and wise Princesse, (as you hitherto haue euer been reputed) to tormente her selfe, sith that you know howe all the afflictions which we receive from heauen, be but proues of oure fidelitie: or as your selfe confesseth by your complaintes, to bee iust punishment for our sinnes. Nowe then be it the one or the other, you ought to be fortified against the hard assault of your sorow: and to remit the whole to the mercie of God, who of his aboundant grace, will deliuer you of your trouble, as he hath done many others when they thought themselues forsaken of all helpe, by causinge certaine dropps of his pitie to raine down vpon them.” “Alas, deare hart,” (quoth the Duchesse,) “how easie a matter it is for one that that is hole to comforte her that is sicke: but if thou feltest my griefe thou wouldest helpe me to complaine: so greuous a matter it is vnto mee, with life to loose mine honour. And I must confesse vnto thee, that I sustaine a very cruel assault both againste death and life, and I cannot either with the one or with the other, haue peace or truce in my selfe. Ne yet do know how to dissemble my sorrowe, but that in the ende the same will be discouered by the fumes of myne ardente sighes, which thinking to constraine or retaine, I do nothinge els but burie my selfe within mine owne bodye: assuringe thee, that greater is one droppe of bloude that swelteth the harte within, then all the teares that maye be wept in the whole life without. Wherefore I pray thee leaue mee a litle to complaine my dolor, before I go to the place from whence I shal neuer retorne.” Emilia, that willingly would haue sacrificed herselfe to redeeme the Princesse from perill, not beinge able anye longer to endure the hard attempte wherewith pitie constrayned her hart, was forced to goe forth and to withdraw herselfe into another chamber, where she began to lament after so straunge maner, as it seemed that it had been shee that was destened to death. Whiles these ladies continued thus in their sorowes, the knight Mendozza toke no rest by day or night, ne ceassed continually to thincke vpon the distresse of the 314 Duchesse. And after that he had well considered the same, hee accused himselfe for fayling her at that greate neede, saying: “Now do I well knowe that I am for euer hereafter vtterly vnworthy to beare armes, or to haue the honourable title of knight, sith the same order was giuen me, wyth charge to succour afflicted persons, specially Ladies, whose force onely consisteth in teares. And yet neuerthelesse, I (like a caytife) haue so shamefullye neglected my dutye towards the chiefe person of the worlde, to whom I am greatly bounden, as I die a thousand times that day wherein I thincke vpon the same. It behoueth mee then from henceforth to establishe new lawes to my deliberation, and that I breake the gate of mine auncient rigor: louing much better to die in honour, poore, and disinherited, than to liue puissant, vnhappie, and a cowarde. Wherfore let fortune worke her wil: sithens the Duchesse did forsake her countrie, to come to see me in her prosperitie, I may no lesse do now, but visite her in her aduersitie.” Pressed and solicited inwardlye with this newe desire, determined whatsoeuer happened to go to her rescue, and hauinge giuen order to all that was necessary for the defence of the Citie: putting his confidence in the fidelitie of those that were within, caused all his Captaynes to be called before him: whom hee did to vnderstande, how he was determined to go seeke succour, to leuie the siege of his enemies. Duringe which time he constituted his nere kinsman, his Liefetenaunte generall, and the nexte morning before the daye appeared hee gaue a great alarme to his ennemies, wherein hee escaped vnknowen. Being mounted vppon a Ienet of Spaine and out of daunger, he toke post horse, and made such expedition as hee arriued at Lions, where he prouided the beste armour that he could get for money, and two excellent good horses, whereof the one was a courser of Naples. And hauing gotten a certaine unknowen page, toke his waye to Thurin, where beinge arriued, hee lodged in the suburbs, demaunding of his host if there dwelt anye Spaniards in the towne, whoe made aunsweare, that hee knewe but one, which was a good olde religious father, that for the space of twentie yeares was neuer out of Thurin, a man of vertuous life, and welbeloued of all the Citizens, and had the charge of a certaine conuente. Neuerthelesse his lodginge 315 was aparte from his brethren, to solace himselfe, and to auoide the incommoditie of his age. The knight hauinge learned of his hoste the place wher this good father dwelled, went with diligence betimes in the morning, to see him, and said vnto him in the Spanish tongue: “Father, God saue you: I am a Spaniarde comen hither into this country for certaine mine affaires, towardes whom you mighte doe a charitable deede, if it woulde please you to suffer mee to remayne with you foure or fiue dayes onelye, crauinge nothinge els but lodginge: for my seruaunte shall prouide for other necessaries.” Whiche the good father willingly graunted, muche maruelling at his goodlye personage. And whiles the seruante was gone to the towne to bye victualls, the good father demaunded of him, of what countrye in Spaine hee was, whiche the knighte francklye confessed. And the fatherlye man then hauinge his face all be sprent with teares, sayde: “Praysed be the name of GOD, that he hath giuen mee the grace before I dye, to see so great a Lorde in my poore house, of whom I am both the subiecte and neighbour.” And then he began to tell him how for deuocion he had forsaken his natiue countrey and had bestowed himselfe there, the better to withdrawe him from worldly vanitie. Neuerthelesse he said: that he knew his father, his mother, and his graundfather. Desiring him to vse his house at commaundement, where he should be obeyed as if he were in his owne: and then the lord of Mendozza said vnto him, that he was departed from Spaine of purpose to see Fraunce, and there to make his abode for a time. And that passing by Lions one aduertised him of the infortunate chaunce of the Duchesse, whom if he thought to be innocent of the crime whereof she was accused, he would defend her to the sheading of the last drop of his bloude. Neuerthelesse he would not hazard his life or soule to defend her, if he knew her to be guiltie. Which wordes the good man greatly allowed, saying vnto him: “My Lord, touchinge her innocencie, I beleue there is at this day no man liuing, but herselfe and the Earle, her accuser, that can iudge. But one thinge I can well assure you, that wee heere, do deeme her to be one of the beste Princesses, that euer raigned in this countrie, specially for that a yeare paste she went on foote to S. Iames, with suche deuotion and humilitie, 316 as there was no man but pitied to see her so mortified for her soules healthe. And to combate with the Earle of Pancalier, you seeme vnto me very yong: for besides the continual exercise that he hath alwayes had in armes, he is withal esteemed to be one of the strongest, readiest, and most redoubted knights of all Lombardie: the victorie notwithstanding is in the hand of God, who can giue it to whom he pleaseth: which hee made manifest in the yong infante Dauid, against the monstrous Giante Golias.” To whome the knighte aunswered: “Father, I have deuised a waye how to prouide against the scruple of my conscience, touchinge the doubte conceyued by mee, whether the combat that I shall take in hande against the earle of Pancalier, be iust or not, which is, that I vnder colour of confession, might vnderstand of the duchesse, the trouth of the matter. And therfore if you thinke good I may cause my head and beard to be shauen, and apparelling my selfe in such habite as you do weare, we two may easely (as I thinke) with the leaue of her keepers, go into the Duchesse Chamber, to exhort her to pacience: for about this time of the yeare, the day is expired.” Wherunto the good father without any great difficultie, consented, aswell for respect of his good zeale, as for his reuerent duty to the nobility of the stock whereof he came. And so all things prouided, they wente together towards the castle of the Duchesse. And he that had seen the knight Mendozza in his fryer’s apparell, would vnethes haue discerned him, to be so great a Lorde as he was: for besides his dissembled gestures and countenaunces, wherwith he knew right wel how to behaue himselfe, he was so leane and poore, aswell for the care of the battell he lost, and ouerthrowe of his people, as for the mishap of the Duchesse, and the peril of his life at hand, by reason of the combate betweene the Earle and him, as he resembled rather a holy S. Hierome, mortified in some desert, then a Lorde, so noble and valiaunt as he was. Arriued at the castell, the olde father addressed himself to the guarde and sayd: “Maisters, because the time for the death of the miserable duchesse doth approche, we be come hither to geue her such spirituall comforte, as wherwith God hath inspired vs, hoping that hee will this daye geue vs the grace to induce her to die paciently, to the intent that by losse of the bodye, her soule may be 317 saued.” Wherunto they accorded willinglye, and caused the chamber to be opened vnto them. They within the chamber went forth incontinently, thinking that the Gouernour had caused the good fathers to come to heare the last confession of the poore Duchesse, who was so sorowefull and pensife as she was forced to kepe her bed: which came very well to passe, for the knight Mendozza, comming neare vnto her bedde, with his face towardes her, so counterfayted hym selfe as he coulde not in any manner of wyse be knowen. And the good olde father fryer taried in a corner of the chamber a farre of, that he might heare none of their talke: and as the Lorde of Mendozza leaned vpon her bedsyde, he sayde vnto her in the Italian tongue, which was so familiar to him as the Spanishe: “Madame, the peace of our Lorde be with you.” Wherunto the lady aunswered: “Father why speake you of peace, sithe I am in continuall warre, depriued of al contentation, and doe but attende the last end of my calamitie, whiche is a moste cruell and shamefull death, without desert.” And then the Lorde of Mendozza, who had consumed the moste parte of his youthe in good letters, saide vnto her: “I beleue madame you be not ignoraunt howe miseries and tribulations, fall not by accident or fortune, but by the prouidence or dispensation of God, before whome one litle sparrowe onely is not forgotten, as the prophete Amos doth manifeste vnto vs when he sayth: ‘there is none euil in the Citie that I haue not sent thither:’ whiche is also apparaunt in Job, whome the Deuil could not afflicte before he had first obtayned licence of God. And it is necessarye for you to knowe, that tribulations and affliction bee tokens of the fore chosen and elected people of God, and the true markes of our saluation: so that if you consider the order of all the Scriptures, from the beginning of the worlde vntyll this tyme, you shall fynde that they whome God hath alwayes best loued and cherished, he hath commaunded to drinke of the cup of his passion, and to be more afflicted than others: examples whereof be common in the Scriptures. As when Abell was afflicted by Caine his brother, Isaac by his brother Ismaell, Ioseph by his brethren, Dauid by Absolon his sonne, the children of Israel (the electe people of God) by Pharao: whiche thinges beinge profoundlye 318 considered by Sainct Paule, he sayde: ‘If we had not an other hope in Iesus Christe, than in the lyfe present, we might well say that we were the most miserable of al others. And yet moreouer, saith he, it is litle or nothing that we endure, in respect of that which Iesus Christe hath suffered.’ Who (although he framed the whole worke of the worlde) was called the Carpenter’s sonne, for preaching he was sclaundered, he was caried vp to a mountaine to be throwen down, he was called Glotton, Dronkard, louer of Publicanes and sinners, Samaritane, Seducer, Diuell: saying, that in the name of Belzebub he did cast out Diuels. But let vs consider, madame, a litle further, what thinges were done vnto him, hee was naked to clothe vs, prisoner and bounde to vnbinde vs from the chain of the Diuell, made a sacrifice to cleanse vs of all our inward filth, we doe see that he suffred his side to be opened, to close vp hell from vs, we see his handes whiche in so comely order made both heauen and earth for the loue of vs, pearced with pricking nailes, his head crowned with three sharped thornes to crowne vs with heauenly glorie. Let vs way that by his dolour came our ioye, our health grew of his infirmitie, of his death was deriued our life: and should we be ashamed to haue our head touched with a fewe thornes of trouble? Strengthen your self then (madame) in the name of God, and make you ready to receiue death in the name of him that was not ashamed to indure it for you. Is his strong hande any thing weakened? Is it not in him to ouerthrow the furie of your enemie, and so to humble your aduersarie that he shall neuer be able to be relieued? How many poore afflicted persones haue there bene seene to be abandoned of all succour, whom he hath behelde with his pitiful eye, and restored to greater ease and contentation, then euer they were in before? learne then from henceforth, to comforte your selfe in God, and say as the great doctor holy Ignatius sayd in his Epistle to the Romaines: ‘I desire that the fier, the gallowes, the beastes, and all the tormentes of the Diuil might exercise their crueltie vpon me, so as I may haue fruition of my Lorde God.’” And after that the knight had made an ende of his consolation, the Duchesle was so rapte in contentation, as it seemed her soule had already tasted of the celestiall delightes, and would flie euen vp 319 into heauen. And then feeling her selfe lightened like one that had escaped some furious tempest of the seas, she began to confesse her selfe vnto him from point to point, without omitting any thing of that whiche she thought might greue her conscience. And when she came to the accusation of the Earle, she prayed God not to pardon her sinnes, if she had committed in deede or thought, any thing contrarie to the dutie of mariage, except it were one dishonest affection that she had borne to a knight of Spaine, whom vnder pretence of a fained deuotion she had visited in Spayne, not committing any thing sauing good will whiche shee bare vnto him. “Which maketh me thinke (quod she) that God being moued against myne hypocrisie, hath permitted this false accusation to be raysed against me by the Earle of Pancalier, whiche I will paciently suffer, sithe his will is so.” Her confession finished, she plucked of a rich diamonde from her finger, saying: “Good father, albeit I haue heretofore bene a riche Princesse, as you knowe, yet nowe myne ennemies haue taken awaye all my goodes from me (this diamond except) which my brother the kyng of Englande gaue me, when I was maried to the Duke of Sauoie. And because I can not otherwise doe you good, I geue it vnto you, praying you to remember me in your prayers, and to kepe it for my sake: for it is of a greater price then you thinke, and may serue one daie to supply the necessitie of your conuent.” The confession ended and the diamond receiued, the twoo friers retourned home to their conuent. And so sone as they were arriued there, the Lorde of Mendozza sayde vnto hym: “Father, nowe doe I know certainly, that this poore woman is innocent, wherefore I am resolued to defende her so long as life doth last. And I feele my selfe so touched and pressed in mynde, as I thinke it long till I be at the combat. Wherefore I praye you if it chaunce that fortune be contrary vnto me, after my death, make it to be openly knowen what I am, and chiefly that the Duchesse may vnderstande it, for speciall purpose. And if it fortune that I escape with life (which can not be but by the death of the Earle) be secrete vnto me in these thinges which I haue declared vnder the vayle of confession.” The good father promised so to doe. And 320 hauing passed all that day and night in praiers and supplications, he armed himselfe, and made ready his courser. And when the dawning of the daye began to appeare, he went in his armour to the gates of the Citie, and calling one of the Guarde, he sayd vnto him: “Good fellowe, I pray thee bidde the Counte of Pancalier to prepare him selfe, to mainteine the false accusation, which he hath falsely forged against the Duchesse of Sauoie. And further tell him, that there is a knight here, that will make him to denie his horrible vilany before hee parte the fielde, and will in the presence of al the people cut out that periured toung, which durst commit such treason against an innocent Princesse.” This matter was in a moment published throughout all the citie, in such sorte, as you might haue sene the churches full of men and women, praying to God for the redemption of their maistresse. During the time that the guarde had done his ambassage, the Lord of Mendozza went towardes the piller where the accusation was written, attending when the accuser should come forth. The Earle of Pancalier aduertised hereof, began incontinently to feele a certaine remorse of conscience, which inwardly gript hym so nere, as he endured a torment lyke to very death. And being vnable to discharge himself therof, would willingly haue wished that he had neuer attempted the dishonour of the Lady. Neuerthelesse that he might not seeme slacke in that he had begonne, he sent woorde to the knight, that he mould write his name vppon the Piller, to whome Mendozza made aunswere, that he might not know his name, but the combat he would make him feele before the daye went downe. The Earle of Pancalier made difficultie of the combat, if firste he knewe not the name of hym with whom he should haue to doe. The matter well aduised, it was clearely resolued by the Iudges, that the statutes made no mention of the name, and therefore he was not bounde thereunto, but that the statute did expreslye fauour the defendant, geuing vnto him the election of the armour, and semblablie it was requisite that the persone accused should be brought forth in the presence of the twoo Champions. Which thinges vnderstanded by the Earle, albeit that he trusted not his quarell, yet making a vertue of necessitie, and not vnlearned in the order of such conflictes, forthwith armed hymselfe, and came 321 into the place ordayned for the campe, where he founde his enemy armed in a black armour, in token of mourning. Immediately after they sent for the Duchesse, who ignoraunt of the matter wondered much when she vnderstode that there was a knight in the field all armed in black, seming to be a noble man, that promised some great matter by his dexteritie and bolde countenaunce, and would also mainteine against the Earle of Pancalier his accusation to be false. The poore Duchesse then not being able to imagine what he should be, greatly troubled in mind, and comming forth of the Castel was conducted in a litter couered with black cloth, accompanied with more then two hundreth ladies and damsels, in semblable attire vnto the place where the Iudges, the people and the two knightes were, who did but attend her comming. And after they had wayted her going vp to a litle stage ordained for that purpose, the Deputies for the assurance of the campe, demaunded of her these wordes, saying: “Madam, for that you be accused of adulterie by the Earle of Pancalier here present, and the custome requireth that you present a Knight within the yeare and daye, by force of armes to trye your right: are you determined to accepte him that is here present, and to repose your selfe vpon him, both for your fault and innocencie?” The Duchesse aunswered: that shee committed all her right into the mercie of God, who knew the inwarde thoughtes of her harte, and to the manhode of the knight, albeit she thought that she had neuer seen him. And when she had ended those woordes, she fell downe vppon her knees, then lifting vp her eyes all blubbered with teares towardes heauen, she prayed: “O Lorde God, which art the very veritie it self, and knowest the bytternesse that I fele in my harte, to see my self falsely accused, shew forth now the treasure of thy grace vpon me wretched Princesse: and as thou diddest deliuer Susanna from her trouble, and Iudith from Holofernes, deliuer me from the hande of a tiraunt: who like a lion hungrie for my bloud, deuoureth both myne honour and life.” And hauing made an ende of her prayer, shee remained vnmoueable as if shee had bene in a traunce. And nowe the knight Mendozza, offended to see the Earle to praunce his horse vp and downe the campe, making him to vaut and leape, with a 322 countenaunce very furious sayd vnto him: “Traytour Counte, because I am certayne that the accusation which thou hast forged against this Princesse, is inuented by the greatest villany of the world, I do maintaine here before al the people, that thou hast falsely accused her, and that thou liest in thy throte, in all that thou hast contriued against her, and that thou haste deserued to bee put into a sacke, to bee caste into the Riuer for the murder that thou haste committed vppon thy Nephewe, the innocent bloud of whom doth nowe crie for vengeance to be taken for thy synne before God.” And scarce had he made an ende of his woordes, but the Earle aunswered him with a marueilous audacitie: “Infamous villain, which hidest thy name for feare lest thy vices should be knowen, thou arte nowe fouly deceiued by thinking to warrant her, who hath offended against the Duke her husbande, by her whoredome and adulterie: and for that thou hast parled so proudly, and wilt not be knowen, I can not otherwyse thinke but that thou art some one of her ruffians: and therefore I doe mainteine, that thou thy selfe doest lie, and that thou deseruest to be burnt in the same fire with her, or els to be drawen with foure horses by the crosse pathes of this towne, to serue for an example in the worlds to come, not onely for all lasciuious Ladies and Damsels, but also for such abhominable whoremongers, as be lyke thy selfe.” Incontinently after, the Harraulde of armes began to make the accustomed crie, and the Knightes to put their launces in their restes: they let run their horses with such violence, as ioyning together their shieldes, their bodies and heads, they brake their staues, euen to their Gauntlets, so roughly, as they fel both down to the ground without losing, neuerthelesse, the raines of the bridles. But the heate of the harte, and desire to vanquishe, made them readily to get vp againe, and hauing cast away the troncheons of their staues, layd handes on their swordes, and there began so straunge and cruell a sturre betwene them, as they which were the beholders were affrighted to see them able to endure so much: for they were so fleshed one vppon another, and did so thicke bestowe their strokes without breathing, as the lookers on confessed neuer to haue seene any combat in Piemonte betwene twoo single 323 persons, so furious, nor better followed then that of the Earle and of the knight Mendozza. But the Spanishe knight encouraged with the Iustice of his quarell, and the rewarde of his fight, seemed to redouble his force: for euen when euery man thought that power must needes fayle him, it was the houre wherin he did best behaue himselfe. In such sort, as his enemy not being able any longer to susteine his puissaunt strokes, being wounded in diuers partes of his bodye, did nowe no more but defende himselfe, and beare of the blowes which were bestowed vpon hym without intermission: whiche the Spanishe knight perceiuing, desirous to make an ende of the combat, made so full a blowe with all his force ypon the top of his helmet, as he wounded his head very sore. Wherewithall the harte of the Earle began very muche to faint, and staggering here and there like a dronken man or troubled in his senses, was constrained to fall downe from his horse: and then the Lorde of Mendozza dismounting him selfe, and takyng holde vpon the corps of his shield, plucked it so rudely to him, as he ouerturned him on his other syde. Then with the pomell of his sworde he did so swetely bumbast him, as he made his helmet to flye of his head: and setting his foote vpon his throte, made as though with the point of his swearde he woulde haue killed hym, saying: “Counte, the houre is now come that thou must goe make an accompt with God of thine vntrouth and treason which thou hast committed against the Duchesse.” “Ah, sir knight (quoth the Earle) haue pitie vpon me, and kil me not I beseche thee, before I haue a litle bethought me of my conscience.” “Villaine (quoth the Spaniard) if I had any hope of thine amendement, I would willingly geue thee dalay of life: but being a traytour as thou art, thou wilt neuer ceasse to afflicte innocentes. Neuerthelesse if thou wilt acknowledge thy fault publikely, and require pardon of the Duchesse, I wil willingly leaue thee to the mercy of the Duke, although that if I did obserue the rigour of the lawe, I should cause the presently to receiue the payne prepared for the Duchesse.” To whom he obeied for safegarde of his life, and kneeling on his knees before the Duchesse in the presence of al the people, made a long discourse of his loue towardes her, of the repulse that 324 she gaue him, and that for reuenge, he ayded him self with his nephewe, thinking to ouerthrowe her chastitie. Finally, howe he had slayne his Nephewe, to induce the Duke to iudge her to be culpable of the adulterie. And then tourning his face towardes the Duchesse, sayde vnto her: “Madame it behoueth me to confesse that the losse of this one life is to litle to paye the tribute of the curelesse faulte that I haue committed against you. Yet sithe it is so, I beseche you by preferring pitie and mercy before the rigor of your iustice, you will permit that I may liue yet certayn dayes to make a view of my life past, and to prouide for the scruple of my conscience.” Then new ioye approched to garnishe the spirite of the Duchesse, and both the soule and the harte began to shewe theim selues ioyful, in such wyse, as she was a long tyme without power to speake, and did nothing els but ioyne her handes and lifte vp her eyes to heauen, saying: “O Lorde God, praysed be thy holy name, for that thou hast caused the bright beames of thy diuinitie, to shyne vpon the darkenesse of my sorrowfull life, enforcing so well the mynde of this traytour the murderer of mine honour by the prickes of thy rigorous iustice, openly to acknowledge before all men, the iniurie that he hath done me.” And without speaking any more wordes, she torned her face for feare lest she should make him any other aunswere. Then all the people began to laude and magnifie God, and to sing psalmes for ioye of the deliueaunce of their Duchesse, who was brought backe and reconducted into the Citie, with so great triumphe, as if she had made a seconde entrie. Whilest these things were adoing, the Deputies for the suretie of the campe caused the wounded Earle to be borne to pryson. The knight Mendozza stale secretly awaye, and after that he had in the next village dressed certaine small woundes that he had receiued in the combat, he toke his way into Spain. In the meane time, the Duchesse caused him to be sought for in euery place, but it was not possible to know any more newes of him, than if he had ben neuer seene. Whereat being grieued beyond measure, she made her mone to Emilia, to know wherefore he should so absent himself from her. “Madame (quoth Emilia,) he is sure some French knight, or els it may be some 325 kinsman of your own, that is come out of England into these partes for certayne other affaires: and fearing least he should bee staied here, will not be knowen, reseruing the manifestation of himself till an other tyme more apte for his purpose.” “Let him bee what he may bee (sayde the Duchesse) for so long as my soule shall remayne within this bodye, I wyll doe hym homage during life: for the whiche I am so duelye bounde debtour vnto him, as neuer subiecte was to his soueraigne Lorde.” In this tyme whylest these matters went thus at Thurin, the Duke of Sauoie, the Lieutenant generall for the king against the Almaines, encountring with his enemies in a skirmishe, by fortune was slayne: whereof the king of England being aduertised, and specially of the deliuerie of his syster, desirous to haue her about him, sente for her to marrie her agayne, and to leaue vnto her the entier gouernement of his householde: and to gratifie her at her firste arriuall, he gaue the rule of his daughter vnto her, which was of the age of sixtene or seuentene yeares, with whom by certayne meanes there was a mariage practized for the Prince of Spayne. Let vs now leaue the Duchesse to liue in honor with her brother, and retorne we to the Lorde of Mendozza, who being arriued nere vnto his Citie, vnderstode incontinently that they which had besiedged it had leuied their campe. For that they of the towne had so well done their endeauour as not onely their enemies were not able to enter, but also they had in a certain skirmishe taken the Lord Ladolpho their chieftaine prisoner, who was yet to that present detained: because meanes were made for peace to be concluded on al sides: neuerthelesse they durst doe nothing without hym: whereat the Lorde of Mendozza beyng replenyshed with greate ioye to see his affaires prosper so well in all partes, entred the Citie: and the articles of the peace communicated vnto him, hee founde them verie profitable for him: and being concluded and approued by him he began to solace himselfe in his owne house, without taking care for any thing saue onely from thenceforth to thinke by what meane he might goe to see the Duchesse, and recount vnto her the issue of his affaires. But fortune prepared him a more readie occasion than he thought of: for the kyng of Spaine being aduertised of certaine talkes that had bene 326 bruted of the mariage of his sonne with the daughter of the king of Englande, determined with speede to send a great companie of noble men thyther, to demaunde his daughter in mariage: of the which the Lorde of Mendozza, as wel for his nobilitie, as for the knowledge he had in languages and other good disciplines, was elected chiefe, with speciall commission to accorde the mariage in case it should so please the kyng. The Ambassadours vsed suche expedition, that they arriued at London, where the kynge for that presente made his abode: who aduertised of their comming, gaue commandement to the Princesse his daughter, and to the Duchesse his sister, to prepare them selues to receyue a great companye of Lordes of Spayne, whiche that daye would come to his Courte to treate of the aforesayde mariage. And God knoweth if the ladies spared oughte of that, whiche they thought might augmente their beautie. The king also for his part, to doe them more honour, wente to meete them in persone, and at their arriuall, gaue them a moste friendly welcome: but sodaynly as they presented themselues to doe their reuerence to the ladies, the Duchesse who incontinently knew the Lord of Mendozza, began so to deteste him as she was not able to rule her selfe, but (with a sodayne mutation of colour) she abandoned the companie: the Lorde of Mendozza knowyng the originall of her griefe, lefte not his dutie vndone towardes the Princesse and other ladyes which accompanied her, dissembling to haue taken no regarde to the absence of the Duchesse. And Emilia, who had followed her mistresse into the chambre, fearynge leaste there were some sodaine mischaunce happened, demaunded of her, wherfore she was retired from a company so honourable: and sayd that she did great wrong to her owne estimation: to whom the Duchesse (with extreme choler) made aunswere: “Why Emilia, thinkest thou that I haue the harte to suffer my hand to be kissed by that moste trayterous and moste cowardly knight of the world, who made no conscience to abandone me in the greatest necessitie of my life? where as I, contrary to the dutie of all the lawes of honour, and contrary to my sexe, did so muche abase my selfe as to visite hym in Spayne. Naye rather my dayes shall ceasse their course than myne affection shall euer reuiue in him: he shall neuer receiue any other 327 fauour of me, but as of his most cruell and mortall enemy.” And then Emilia smiling, sayd vnto her: “In good earnest, madame, I thought that the sharpenesse of your imprisonement, with the other tormentes paste, whiche you indured, might haue put all these matters quite in obliuion, and woulde so haue mortified you, that you had wholly lost all desire of reuenge: but so farre as I can perceiue, I am deceiued of mine accompte, seying that sodaynly so soone as you behelde the knight Mendozza, you began to flie, as if your ghostly enemie had come before you, in his moste hideous and horrible forme.” Yet could not Emilia perswade her, to shewe her selfe abroade before dynner, tyll the king sent for her, with woorde that if she came not, he would himselfe fetche her. And then a little shamefast colour began to renew her alablaster cheekes, which rendred her so ruddye and fayre, as the Spanyards confessed neuer to haue seene in any parte of the worlde, where they had bene, one so faire and beautifull a wydow. The tables couered for dynner, the king tooke his place, and for their more honourable entertaynement, caused them to be set at his owne table: and made the Lorde of Mendozza to be placed right ouer against the Duchesse his sister: who was so inflamed and moued with choler, as shee duste not lift vp her eyes for feare least vpon the sodayne she should bee perceyued: whiche eyes sparkeling sometymes with greate yre, resembled properlye twoo starres of the night, that shoote forth their brightnesse vpon the earth, when all thinges be in silence. And all this tyme the Lorde of Mendozza conceyued suche pleasure at these pretie toyes, as he would not haue chaunged his ioy for the best Citie in all Englande: and as the Duchesse in this order did firmely fix her eyes, shee sawe by fortune a ryche diamonde that Mendozza ware vpon his finger, wherupon hauing oftentymes caste her eyes, she sodaynly knew that it was the very same that shee had geuen to the good father that confessed her at Thurin, the daye before shee was leadde to the Piller, and began then to imagine with her selfe, how it might be that he could come by the same: and not knowing what to saye, immediatly after shee had dyned and the tables taken vp, she caused maister Appian her Phisitian to be called vnto her: whome she desyred to know 328 of the Lord of Mendozza, by what meanes he came by the Diamonde that he ware vpon his finger: which Appian did. And after he had talked with the knight of certain common matters, he sayde vnto hym: “My Lorde, you haue a very fayre Diamonde there, whiche as I thinke I haue sene before this tyme, wherefore sir I praye you tel me where you had it.” To whome the Lorde of Mendozza answered in laughing wise: “Maister Appian, where I had the ring, is to secret for you to know, but tell my lady the Duchesse, that the knowledge thereof onely appertayneth vnto her.” Whiche aunswere Appian declared to the Duchesse: and albeit that she tooke no great pleasure in the aunswere, yet neuerthelesse very desyrous to vnderstande the truth, she repayred to the Knight whiche the same time walked alone in a Gallerie, who after he had kyssed her handes, began to discourse of his fortunes past, declaring vnto her, that he repented of the refusall that he made to maister Appian for her succour, and howe within a while after he rode to Thurin: adding the deuise whereby he had heard her confession, and how the Diamonde came into his handes, putting her in remembraunce from worde to worde, of all his talke with her, during the tyme that he was in frier’s weede, then finally his victorie against the Earle, his secret flyght, and all the whole as before hath bene declared. Whereat the Duchesse no lesse abashed than rapt with ioy and admiration, fel downe in a swoune betwene his armes, holding her mouth so faste closed against his, that it seemed she would drawe the soule out of his bodye, to ioyne and vnite with her’s: and after she had remayned a whyle in this traunce, shee cried out: “O poore harte so long tyme plagued, whiche hast for the space of a yeare nowe passed, bene tossed with so many tempestes and diuers assaultes of fortune: receiue at this present the medicine apt for thy health, sithens thou enioyest him betwene thine armes, that by the pryce of his blood, valiant force and extreme trauailes, hath raised thee from death to life: let fortune from henceforth doe her will in that she is able to deuise against me: and yet wyll I, for this onely benefite, confesse my selfe this daye to be eternally bounde vnto her.” “Madame (quod the knight) I pray you let vs not renewe the memorie of our former griefes: wherein, if by any meane I 329 haue done you good, I was but the organe or instrumente thereof: for God, who is the righter of all wrong, did neuer suffer iustice without his due acquitall, howe long so euer he taried. So (you not beyng in any wyse culpable) if I had neuer enterprysed the combate whereunto I was bounde, our Lorde God would haue raysed some other to achieue the same.” “Well then my Lord, (quoth the Duchesse) sithens it pleaseth you not, that I renewe my dolours past, which have taken ende by your meane, I shall humbly beseche you to excuse mee, if this daye I haue not geuen you that honour and good entertainement whiche you deserued: assuring you that before you shall departe this countrey, I wyll make you amendes according vnto your own discretion.” “Madame, (quod the knyght) for all the wronges that euer you did vnto me, (if they may be called wronges) the curtesie, fauour and gentlenesse which alreadie I haue receiued, doth at one instant requite and recompence. Neuerthelesse if it may please you to receyue me for your seconde husbande, sithe it hath pleased God to call your first out of this lyfe into an other: that is and shal bee the fulnesse of all the felicitie that I looke for in this worlde.” “My Lorde Mendozza, (sayd the Duchesse) the recompence whiche you demaunde of me, is very little in respect of the amendes and satisfaction whiche I ought to make you. But of one thing I can well assure you, that if I had the whole world at my commaundement, and that I were the greatest Princesse of the earth, in all kinde of beauties and giftes of grace, I would willingly submitte my self vnto you, in consideration of your worthinesse, and benefits bestowed vpon me with so willing a minde, as presently I do yelde vnto your request: and I must nedes confesse, that I am now greatly bounde to fortune, that hath deliuered me into your handes, from whome I hope never to be seuered so long as my soule shall reste within my body: being predestinated as I beleue to no other ende but to serue and obey you.” And as they thought to make a longer discourse of their talke, Emilia told them that the king was in counsell, and that the other Lordes of Spaine attended his comming: who with his company being come before the king, and hauing done their reuerence vnto him, he began to declare his charge, and how they were of purpose 330 sente to his maiestie in the behalfe of the king of Spaine, to demaunde the Lady his doughter in mariage, for his sonne the Prince of Spaine: which he had chosen aswel to haue his alliance (a matter by him only desired) as for the beautie and good grace, for the which she was specially recommended. And if so bee, he had willed to haue chosen his matche els where, that there was not at that day any Prince in al Europa, that woulde not willingly haue accorded vnto him. To whom the king answered: “My frendes, I feele my selfe so much honored, for that it hath pleased the king to send vnto me, as if he had not preuented me, I had thought to haue sent vnto him for the same purpose. And albeit that herein he hath vanquished me in ciuilitie and courtesie, yet I will not faile if I can to surmount him in amitie. For he hath bound me during life, in such wise as he, and my Lord his sonne, may boldly vaunt themselves to haue a king of England and a realme from henceforth at their commaundement.” The mariage concluded, the Duchesse diligentlye made sute to talke with the king alone, to communicate vnto him the agreement betweene the Lord of Mendozza and her. And perceiuing that the king was gone into his chamber, she went vnto him, and being alone with him, hauing her face al bedewed with teares, kneling, she said vnto him: “My Lord, when I consider my miseries paste, and the cruell assaultes that I haue receiued of fortune, being not onely committed to the mercy of a moste cruell prison, but (which is more) at the very last point of a shamefull death, I am so afflicted, that the onely remembraunce of those miseries terrifieth me, and causeth a certaine extreme bitternesse to rise in my hart. And when on the other side, I thinke of the great goodnesse that Almightie God hath shewed vnto me, by stretching forth his mighty hand to deliuer me out of that perill, chieflie to make mee triumphe ouer the death of mine enemy: I feele such comforte of minde as all the delightes of the world be but griefes, in respect of the ioye, pleasure and contentacion that I receiue: wherein nothing offendeth me so much as hetherto that I haue not acknowledged the benefit receiued of him, who was elected of God to be my deliuerer: neuerthelesse sir, by your onely word, you may both satisfie him, and content mee, yea and (as it were) prolong the 331 dayes of my life.” The king, who loued his sister no lesse than his daughter, seeing her pitifull complainte and teares, and to speake with such affection, toke her vppe, and holdinge her by the arme, said vnto her: “Deare sister and frende, if I have not to this present satisfied him that was the cause of your deliueraunce, I cannot be accused of ingratitude, for that hitherto I haue not knowen him, ne yet your selfe doth knowe what he is, (as you haue oftentimes tolde me:) but of one thing you maye be assured, and I sweare vnto you at this present, by my Scepter, that so sone as I shall vnderstande what he is, I will vse him in such wise as he shall thincke himselfe satisfied and contented, thoughe it did coste me the one halfe of my kingdome: for the pleasure which he hath done vnto you bindeth not you alone, but mee also, to be partaker of that band, both our honours being iointly bound thereunto.” “Alas, my Lord, (said the Duchesse) it is the knighte Mendozza, chiefe of this ambassade, to whom, if it please you to giue your consent that we two might marrie, all auncient bands and debtes shal remain extinct, and so by a smal reward you shal restore life to two persons, almost dead, for the excessiue loue which one beareth the other.” And therewithal she began to declare to the king, thoriginal and processe of the whole discourse. First, the voyage of the sister of Mendozza into Piemont: her owne peregrination to S. Iames, the honest amitie betweene her and Mendozza, the message of maister Appian to Mendozza, his refusall of that request, his retorne after to Thurin, her confession, the Diamonde knowen againe, finally, how all the whole had passed betwene them: the counterfaite deuocion to Sainct Iames onelye reserued, which, for her honour’s sake, shee woulde not tell him. The kinge vnderstanding this straunge discourse, was so rapte with ioye and appalled with gladnesse, as hee could not for a longe time make any aunswere. When his passion was moderated, hee said to his sister: “But be you well assured, that hee will receiue you for his wyfe.” “Yea, my Lord, (quoth shee) I ought well to be assured of it, since he himselfe hath made the requeste.” “And truly, (quoth the kinge) God forbidde that I should be the cause to breake so holy an accorde: for if the Lorde of Mendozza were inferiour in qualitie, nobility, and goods, than hee is: yet 332 hath hee so much done both for you and mee, as we may not honestlie refuse him. Howe much more then be we bounde to him: being a greate Lorde as hee is, issued of noble and famous families of Spaine, rich in goodes, and hauinge hazarded his life for the conseruation of your honour: and therewithall seeketh mine alliaunce. Goe your wayes, (dere sister and frend) goe your wayes, make much of him, and entreate him as you thincke beste. And when I haue walked two or three tornes here, I will come vnto him, to communicate more amplie of these matters.” Scarce had the Duchesse leysure to aduertise the Lorde of Mendozza of that which was concluded betweene the kinge and her, but he came downe into the hall, where the moste parte of the Spanishe gentlemen walked, and with a very ioyfull countenaunce wente to the knight. To whom hee said: “My Lorde Mendozza, I praye you to embrace mee: for so farre as I see, I haue a better intereste in you than I thought.” And the Lorde of Mendozza thinking to embrace him, his knee vppon the ground, was immediatelye desired to stand vp, Whom the kinge cleeping aboute the necke, saide vnto him so loude as euerye man mighte heare: “Sir knighte, by the God of Heauen, since that I might commaunde in the realme of Englande, I haue not entertayned Gentleman nor Prince, to whom I have bin more endebted than to you: nor neuer was there any dearer vnto mee than you, for the greate gratitude and kindnesse, wherewith you haue bound me, and wherby I shal not from henceforth be satisfied, vntil I haue in some thinge acknowledged the bonde wherein I am bounde vnto you.” When hee had spoken those woordes, hee began to declare from point to point, in the presence of all the assemblie, the contentes of the whole before declared historie. Whereat there was none in all the company, but was greatly astonned at the prudence of Mendozza, by so well dissembling, and accomplishing so great enterprises, without making them manifest. And the king of Englande commaunded that the mariage of him and his sister shoulde be published throughe out his realme, that all his nobilitie might be assembled. And for his greater honour, the kinge did from thenceforth constitute him his high Constable of England, and reposed himselfe in him, as vppon a firme piller, for the administration 333 of the wayghtiest affaires of his realme. The mariage solempnized and consummate with the Duchesse, he retourned into Spaine, to accompanye the Prince into England, whose mariage was celebrated at London, with the king of England’s daughter, in such pompe and solempnitie, as semblable Princes be commonlie accustomed to do in such like cases.
Love is often considered the greatest passion among all the worst afflictions that can torment the souls of men. Once it takes hold of a gentle subject, it spreads uncontrollably, similar to the corrupt humor of those suffering from a fever, starting in the heart and infecting all the sensitive parts of the body. This story gives us ample evidence of such, as marvelous as it may be true. Readers of the ancient histories and chronicles of Spain have seen, in various accounts, the cruel enmity that lasted for over 40 years between the houses of Mendoza and Toledo—families not only noble and ancient but also exceedingly rich, owning subjects and estates throughout the entire realm. One day, when their armies were ready to battle, Lord John of Mendoza, a man renowned among historians, had a widow for a sister, a deeply devout lady. After hearing of the grim news concerning the battle, she dropped to her knees and prayed incessantly to God, asking Him to reconcile the two families and put an end to so many troubles. As she learned of the fierce conflict underway and the significant casualties on both sides, she vowed to God that if her brother returned victorious, she would undertake a pilgrimage to Rome on foot. The outcome was a defeat for Toledo after much bloodshed. Mendoza claimed victory with far fewer losses among his men. Isabel, informed of this, shared with her brother the vow she had made. 286 Her vow seemed strange to him, especially in light of the arduous journey she planned to undertake on foot, and he contemplated dissuading her. However, she insisted so fervently that in the end, he consented, charging her to go with good company and to travel slowly for her health. Lady Isabel departed from Spain, traversed the Pyrenees, passed through France, crossed the Alps, and arrived in Turin, where the Duke of Savoy at that time had as his wife a sister of the King of England, rumored to be the fairest creature in the west. For this reason, Lady Isabel was eager to see her, hoping to discover if the rumors about her beauty were true. Fortune smiled upon her; on entering Turin, she saw the Duchess in her carriage, out for a breath of fresh air. As Isabel stood by, admiring the astonishing beauty of the princess, considering her the most beautiful person she had ever seen, she spoke somewhat loudly in Spanish to her companions: “If God had allowed my brother and this princess to wed, everyone would certainly say it was the most excellent union of beauty found in all of Europe.” Her words were indeed true, for Lord Mendoza was one of the most handsome knights in all Spain during his time. The Duchess, who understood Spanish very well, glanced at the group and pretended not to understand the words, thinking that Isabel must surely be some great lady. So, as she passed them, she said to one of her pages, “Pay attention to where that lady and her company go, and tell her I wish for her to visit me at my castle when I return.” The page did as instructed. While the Duchess walked along the Po River, she pondered the Spanish lady's words, which led her not to linger long but to head back to her castle, where she found Lady Isabel waiting, who, at the Duchess's request, stayed with her and her entourage. After exchanging courteous greetings, the Duchess politely asked Isabel about her origins, family, and what had brought her to this place. Isabel then explained to her the reason for her long journey and which family she belonged to. Upon learning of her nobility, the Duchess excused herself for not having honored her as she deserved, attributing her oversight to ignorance of Isabel’s status. After several other polite exchanges, the Duchess pressed her to explain what she had meant by her earlier remarks regarding herself and her brother's beauty. The Spanish lady, somewhat embarrassed, replied, “Madame, had I known how knowledgeable you were of our tongue, I would have been more careful before praising my brother's beauty, which would be more rightly spoken by another. Yet I dare affirm, without affection it be spoken, that those who know him can testify that he is one of the handsomest gentlemen Spain has produced in the last twenty years. But with regard to my comments about your beauty, if I have offended, I will find it very difficult to obtain your pardon, because I cannot recant or say otherwise without contradicting the truth. I would gladly put this to the test myself if it were possible for nature, for a mere quarter of an hour, to transport into another what she has shown to be in you with great wonder.” To this, the Duchess, wanting to seem to excuse her praise, replied with a slight blush that greatly highlighted her lively complexion: “Madame, if you continue in such terms, you will force me to think that by changing place you have changed your judgment as well; for I must be among the least to be praised for beauty throughout this land, or I shall believe you have so fixed my brother's beauty in your mind that all you perceive, having any appearance of beauty, you measure against the perfection of his.” At that instant, Lady Isabel, believing the Duchess had taken offense at her comparison of her brother, somewhat angrily responded, “Madame, you must excuse me for having so far forgotten myself as to presume to compare your beauty with his. If he is to be praised, then I can justly be blamed for publicizing it in an unknown place, yet I am well assured that when you speak, even with his enemies, they will also affirm that beyond his beauty, he is one of the most gentle and well-mannered gentlemen alive.” Seeing her so passionately defending her brother's praise brought the Duchess great enjoyment, and she would have liked her to continue were it not for the fear of offending her and provoking her anger. To change the subject, she ordered the table set for supper, where they were served the finest and most exquisite dishes possible. After supper, once the tables were cleared and they had talked a little more, and it was time for them to retire, the Duchess, wishing to honor her further, invited her to stay in her chamber with her, where the weary pilgrim found good rest. Yet the Duchess, intrigued by the strange conversation of Lady Isabel and plagued with thoughts of the unknown knight, could not sleep. The beauty of the unknown knight was so deeply engraved in her heart that as she tried to close her eyes, she saw him continually flying before her like a fancy or shadow. Wanting to know more of who he was, she desired to make further inquiries. However, then came the moment of sudden shame and fear mixed with a certain womanhood she had long reserved, and in addition, the loyalty she bore to her husband, the Duke. Presenting themselves before her, she buried all thoughts of her previous counsel, which went silent almost as soon as it was born. Thus, tossed by an infinite number of different thoughts, she passed the night until day began to light the world with its burning light, which made her rise. When Lady Isabel was ready to depart, she went to take her leave of the Duchess, who willingly wished that she had never seen her, for the new flame that burned in her heart. Nevertheless, disguising her discomfort and unable to hold her feelings for much longer, she made Isabel promise, swearing that upon her return from her pilgrimage, she would pass through Turin again. After offering her a generous gift of her belongings, she took her leave and entrusted her to God's care. A few days after the departure of the Spanish lady, the Duchess, thinking to quench this new fire, found it burning even more fiercely. The more hope eluded her, the greater her desire grew. After numerous diverse thoughts, love emerged victorious. In the end, she resolved to share her plight with Emilia, one of her beloved ladies-in-waiting, and to seek her advice, confiding in her as she always had for her secret affairs. Summoning her discreetly, she said to her: “Emilia, I believe that if you have paid any good attention to my behavior since I left England, you would know me to be the refuge and support of all the afflicted. But now, my fate has turned against me. I have more need of counsel than any other living creature, and having no one around me worthy to be privy to my misfortune but you, my first and last refuge is to you alone, from whom I hope to receive comfort in a matter that concerns my life and honor.” The Duchess then privately revealed to her how, since Lady Isabel left, she had found no rest of mind and had fallen in love with a knight whom she had never seen, and whose beauty and grace had so affected her that unable to resist her misfortunes any longer, she did not know where to turn but to the loyalty of her counsel. Adding in conclusion that she did not love him dishonestly, nor with hope of satisfying any lascivious appetite, but only sought to catch a glimpse of him, which she thought would bring her such contentment that her grief would end. Emilia, who had always loved her mistress as she loved her own heart, felt great compassion for her when she understood the foundation of her strange love: yet wishing to please her to the full measure of her life, she said to her: “Madame, if you will allow yourself to be distracted from your sorrows, grant me only two days, and I hope to arrange things so that you can shortly see him who has caused you all this trouble.” The Duchess, nourished by this hope, urged her earnestly to think it over, promising that if her words came to a good conclusion, she would make her such compensation as she herself would confess was due to no ungrateful or unthankful woman. Emilia, known to be among the most cunning and sharp-witted ladies in all of Turin, did not rest during her assigned time. After devising numerous means to attain what she desired, there was one that appeared most suitable for the purpose and of least peril. As her time for delay expired, she went to the Duchess and said: “Madame, God knows how many troubles have wearied my mind, and how much I have struggled with my own conscience to fulfill your command, nevertheless, after debating my considerations as thoroughly as possible, I could devise nothing deserving of your contentment than what I will now declare, if you will have the patience to listen. In short, for the execution of this enterprise, it is necessary for you to feign sickness and allow yourself to be stricken with illnesses that will more likely show signs of death than hope of life. And when you find yourself in such extremity, you shall vow (once your health is restored) to go on a pilgrimage to Saint James within a certain time, a thing which you may easily obtain from the Duke, your husband. And you may generously travel with Lady Isabel, who will pass this way upon her return, without revealing your fond regard for her by making sure to acknowledge your courtesy as she has extended to you in these parts, to guide you to her brother’s home, where you can see him at your leisure and relieve yourself of this great torment. Furthermore, I must inform you of one thing, which until now I have kept secret: as it is difficult for us two alone to accomplish our business, I think it prudent for you to know if you would wish a third person to be called to assist us, a third person I have at my command and in whom I dare trust. It is Master Frances Appian, the Milanese physician, who, to speak fully the truth, has been so enamored of me for a year or two that he has never ceased by all possible means to win me (but to honest love) as he intends to marry me. Because until now I have made small account of him and have shown him no favor, nor have I received him warmly, I assure you that seeing the great affection he bears me, if I were but to look favorably upon him five or six times with pleasant looks and add a few kisses, he would risk a thousand lives for my sake if he had them and would wish for nothing more than my contentment. Knowing him to be a diligent and learned man, of great reputation, I thought it wise not to conceal from you my advice in this matter.” The Duchess, understanding this clever discourse so fitting to her affections (overcome with great joy), embraced Emilia warmly and said to her: “Emilia, my dear friend, if you knew how much I value you and what I plan to bestow upon you in the future, I am sure that despite having shown your good will sufficiently thus far, you will do even greater favors for me afterwards.” Then, swearing that if our endeavor be well-fulfilled, I will not treat you as a servant, but like my kinswoman and best-beloved friend, for I consider myself satisfied enough with what you have said to me that if fortune favors us, I see no impediment to our enterprise. Go then, entertain your physician as you deem best. It is very important that he be included, and for the rest, leave it to me: for never was there any Lazarus who better knew how to dissemble his impotence than I know how to feign being ill.” After parting with Emilia, the Duchess began to complain bitterly and pretended to feel certain pains, first in her stomach, and then of an illness in her head, so much so that after various feminine laments (appropriate to those who feel unwell), she at last found herself compelled to lie down, and she knew so well how to fake her sickness that (after having kept her bed for several days) there was much doubt about her health. During this time, Emilia had laid so many romantic baits to interest her physician that he, who knew very well the best remedies for the body, could no longer find any that could heal the malady of his own mind. Having sweetened Master Appian with tender flirts, she began to indicate to him the origin of the Duchess's sickness, the effects of her passion, the steps she had taken during the furious course of the same: adding, in conclusion, that if he would keep the matter secret and help them with his advice, she would promise him marriage on the spot, and from then on she would never deny him any favor or privacy, except that which no man can honestly demand until the marriage is solemnized in the eyes of the church. To witness this, she kissed him with great affection. The physician felt more eased by this than if he had seen Hippocrates or Galen raised from the dead, promising to lose his life rather than let her be without his help. To better initiate this endeavor, they went directly to see the Duchess: where they found her pulse beating weakly, her tongue heavy, and her stomach so weak from the continual suffocation of her womb that she was in great danger of death. To which everyone easily credited due to the reputation and great experience of the physician. Master Appian had commanded that the chamber be cleared, and explained to the Duchess in few words how she should conduct herself. In order to better hide her cause, he happened to give her a little perfume, by inhaling the scent of which she would often faint, and by using the perfume it would initially diminish her complexion, making her appear as though she had been bedridden for half a year: nevertheless, it would harm her in no other way, and that within three or four days, along with some other medicines, he would restore her color to its former brilliance. The Duchess liked this advice best of anything in the world. Together, they played their parts so well that the common rumor throughout all the city was that the Duchess was in great danger of death. The Duke, having been informed of these matters, called all the physicians of Turin to assemble to attend to the Duchess's health: who, having come together with the Duke into her bedroom, shortly after she had received Master Appian’s perfumes, and having seen her faint several times before them, were greatly in despair for her health. After they had debated the matter a little with Master Appian, not knowing what to conclude, they said to the Duke that he should provide for her soul, for they saw in her the usual tokens and messengers of death. The poor Duke, sorrowful beyond measure for he loved the Duchess dearly, sent for the Suffragan of the Bishop of Turin, a man of very holy life, in order that he might give her ghostly counsel. To whom she confessed herself with a voice so weak, it seemed to be more than half-dead. Her talk was not long, but she made him believe that nature was failing her and that little by little she was nearing her end: desiring him to remember her and her poor soul in his prayers. Once the Suffragan had gone, the Duke and others, along with a large number of Gentlemen and Ladies, entered the chamber. However, she then fell into such a great delirium that everyone was fearfully alarmed by her. And after she tossed herself in her bed like a senseless creature, her speech failed. At this, those present, struck with astonishment, thought her soul was about to depart from her body, and some of them cried out to her: “Madame, remember Jesus,” while others said “Saint Barbara.” But clever Emilia, more aware of the scheme than the rest, tenderly grasped her arm and called out loudly: “Madame, call upon Saint James, who has so often helped you in your adversities.” And with that, the Duchess awoke as if from a heavy sleep, and rolling her eyes back and forth with a strange trembling of all her limbs, began to speak in an interrupted voice: “O glorious Apostle, in whom from my tender youth, I have always placed my firm trust and hope, be now my intercessor in this cruel assault of death, to Jesus Christ. And I vow to you now that if I recover my health, I will personally go honor your sacred body in the very place where it rests.” After she finished her feigned prayer, she feigned sleep and so continued for two or three hours, which caused all the company to withdraw themselves, except the poor Duke, who would not leave her until she awoke and in the meantime did not cease to pray to God for the health of his loyal spouse. After performing this charade for about an hour or two, feigning to awaken, she began to stretch her arms and legs with such strength that anyone who had heard the noise would easily have judged that she had been delivered from some great torment. Looking at the Duke, her husband, with a pitiful gaze (who had leaned his head close to hers on the bed), she draped her outstretched arms lazily around his neck, and kissing him said: “Now I may safely kiss you, my Lord, for within these three hours you were in such a pitiful state that I thought I would be forever deprived of that favor. Thanks be to God and to that good Saint to whom I made my vow, I am presently so well eased that if I feel no worse, I will yet keep you (husband) from another marriage for a while.” But the poor Duke, completely ravished with joy and with tears mixing in his white beard, knew not how to respond but gazed at her in such admiration that he seemed beside himself. Meanwhile, certain individuals standing by the door, hearing them speak, entered the chamber, and finding the Duchess slightly better than she had been, immediately published her recovery throughout the city, leading the citizens, who loved her dearly, to make processions and other thanksgivings to God, as is customary in such cases. Shortly after, the Duchess began to slowly regain her strength, eating and following a diet that restored her to her former health, except for the new plague that tormented her tender heart for Lord Mendoza, which she could only cure with the presence of he who bore the ointment box for that wound. She continued in those amorous thoughts until Lady Isabel returned from her pilgrimage, who came to the castle as promised. After friendly greetings were exchanged, the Duchess conveyed to her how, since her departure, she had hardly ever come out of her bed due to being afflicted with a most grievous sickness. Nevertheless, with God's help and the intercession of good Saint James (to whom she had vowed herself), she had regained her health. If she could obtain permission from the Duke her husband, she would consider herself fortunate to make the journey there in her company. This Lady Isabel, using any means possible to persuade her, pointed out to her many benefits she would find in Spain and the honorable company of gentlemen and ladies who, upon her arrival there (should she do them the honor of visiting them while passing through), would do everything possible to provide the best entertainment imaginable. By this means, Lady Isabel hoped to spur the Duchess forward, who was indeed already quite spurred on and thinking every hour VII. determined one morning to speak to the Duke her husband, to whom she said: “My Lord, I believe you remember well my past troubles and the extreme torment I endured during my recent illness, particularly the vow I made for my recovery. Now finding myself whole and strong, my desire is that, with your permission, I may fulfill my journey, especially with such a good opportunity: for the noble woman from Spain, whom I previously told you about, has returned, and it would greatly benefit both of us to travel in each other's company. Since it is a matter of necessity, and that sooner or later, I must undertake the repayment of my vow, it is both to my advantage and my honor to go in her company.” To this, the good Duke willingly agreed, having never suspected that such a treason lurked in the heart of such a high princess. After making arrangements for all things necessary for her departure, she took along a certain number of gentlemen and ladies, among whom were Master Appian and Emilia, and dressing them all in pilgrim's attire, through long travels and weary journeys, once they had crossed the cold Alps, they arrived in the county of Roussillon and entered Spain. The Duchess, feeling herself nearing the place where her heart had long taken root, earnestly requested Lady Isabel and her company not to reveal to anyone what she was. Traveling by short journeys and discussing various matters, they arrived within two little days' journey to the house where Lord Mendoza kept his household. For this reason, the Spanish lady requested the Duchess not to take offense if she sent one of her men ahead to announce their coming, which the Duchess granted. The messenger found Lord Mendoza ready to receive them, and upon informing him of the Duchess's arrival, of the initial conversation between her and his sister, and of the great hospitality she had offered them, he was not so dull as not to realize that the Duchess, at her age, would not have been so generous as to undertake such a journey on foot without some other consideration. Dissembling his thoughts, he ordered thirty or forty of his gentlemen to get ready immediately. Making it seem as though he would go hunting hares, he set out to meet the Duchess: once he caught sight of them from a distance in the field, Lady Isabel immediately recognized them. She informed the Duchess that the one riding the white jennet of Spain was Lord Mendoza, her brother, and that the others were his servants. The Prince, after making his horse vault three or four times in the air with great grace and marvelous dexterity, dismounted and, kissing her hand, said to her: “Madame, I believe that if the wandering knights of old time, who have eternalized their memories through an infinite number of renowned victories, had had such good fortune as to encounter such pilgrims as you, they would willingly have abandoned their lance and armor to take up the staff and satchel.” The Duchess, being comparable to any lady of her time, in both upbringing and graceful conversation, affected by joy, fear, and shame, so that no lack of duty would be found in her, said to him: “Indeed, my Lord, just as if the knights you speak of had found some good luck (as you call it) in meeting such pilgrims, we also hope that the saint to whom we are consecrated, in honor of whom we have embarked on this perilous journey, will receive us favorably; otherwise, our efforts would in every way be wasted, and our journey poorly spent.” After this first amorous exchange had occurred, Lord Mendoza took her by the arm and guided her to his castle, discussing pleasant matters along the way. He was greatly astonished by the rare beauty that appeared in the Princess, which neither the weariness of the journey nor the scorching rays of the sun could diminish, leaving enough beauty to draw the hearts of even the coldest and most hardened men. And though Lord Mendoza delighted in and admired her, it paled in comparison to the Duchess's feelings; once she had keenly considered the beauty, excellence, and other gifts of grace found in Lord Mendoza, she confessed that all she had heard of his sister was but a dream compared to the evidence that unveiled itself to her at first glance, seeming in her good judgement that all the beauties of the world were merely paintings next to the perfection she saw before her. In this judgment, she was not deceived, despite her fervent love potentially clouding her senses. For all the histories in Latin, Spanish, and Italian, that mention Mendoza accord him the highest praise for beauty among all the princes and lords of his time. The poor Duchess, after revealing to Lord Mendoza through her outward gestures and expressions what lay in her heart, without receiving the full satisfaction she desired from his sight, determined (having stayed three days in his castle) to depart the following morning (without the knight's knowledge) to finish her journey. As soon as daylight began to appear, she went to the chamber of Lady Isabel, thanking her warmly, both for her good company and for the great kindness and hospitality she had shown her in her home. After taking leave of her, she set forth with her train. The knight Mendoza, about an hour or two after her departure, troubled greatly by the fact that she had left without taking her leave of him, thought deeply about the situation. After reflecting on the matter, he easily perceived that all the fault lay with himself, and that this great Princess had abandoned her country for the express purpose, as all would judge, of visiting him, while he had failed to offer her the service she deserved; for that reason he was justly troubled that she had not bid him farewell. So, blaming himself, he resolved to follow her, accompanied only by two pages. It was not long before he spotted her high up on the road to Saint James, where he dismounted and walked two miles with her, discussing matters continuously, expressing, among other things, his desire to know what displeasure she had in his house that could have led to her swift and secret departure, adding, that if she wished, he would accompany her to the place she was traveling, and also reconduct her himself back to Turin in such honor that she would find reason to be pleased. Then, with a sigh he said unto her: “Madame, fortune had done me a great favor if, when my sister vowed to go to Rome, I had lost the battle against my enemies, and her vow had remained without effect. For it might have been that I would have remained safe with the loss of some of my people. But alas, since your arrival in this country, I find myself engaged in a battle that is so brutal and an assault that is so fierce in my heart, that being unable to withstand it any longer, I find myself vanquished and taken captive, in such a way that I know not to whom to complain but you, which is the cause of all my restlessness: and yet, what troubles me most is that you seem to ignore it entirely. To bring me to my last gasp, you have today departed from my house without so much as granting me a farewell, which has inflamed my passion to such an extent that I die a thousand deaths a day. I beseech you for all that is to come, treat me with more favor, or you shall see me in a state you would loath to witness in your enemy: which is, the most cruel death.” And indeed, he showed sufficiently how great was his grief, and how well the passion he felt matched the words he spoke; for as he pronounced his words, he sighed greatly and changed color often, and his face was sprinkled with tears, as if it seemed his soul, attached with excessive sorrow, would abandon his body at that very instant. The Princess, perceiving this, grasping the very source of all his suffering, said to him: “Seigneur Mendoza, I do not know what you wish from me any further, nor for what reason you claim that I am the cause of your death; for if such a cause should arise through my fault, my heart, by strength or ability, could not endure even an hour longer, due to the sorrow I would bear from it. Consider me yours, and do not be offended, I pray you, if I no longer converse with you openly; for I would not, to obtain all the riches of the world, let any of this retinue accompanying me perceive a spark of the great fire that is kindled in my heart for you, being assured that if you endured only one hour of my pain, instead of accusing me of cruelty, your own complaints would rather elicit pity for the suffering that I have endured due to your long absence: for without the constant presence of your person appearing before me in my understanding, with firm hope of once more seeing you, it would have been impossible for me to withstand the long and harsh assault that love has every hour taken against me. But one thing I must confess to you: that because of the cold welcome you granted me at the beginning, I thought it was due to some evil opinion conceived of me, or perhaps that you thought me too liberal in my honor, to have left the country where I command, to render myself subject to your goodwill, which prompted me to depart your house without leave. Now that I realize through your countenance and tears that is not the case, I acknowledge my fault and beseech you to forget it. I promise you that upon my return from my pilgrimage to Saint James, I will make amends for this fault in the very same place where I committed it, and remaining your prisoner for a certain time, I will not leave you until I have satisfied, by sufficient penance, the magnitude of my transgression. In the meantime, you must content yourself with my goodwill, and without further ado, return home to your castle, for fear that some suspicious individual in my company might conceive in me what I have never given occasion to suspect throughout my life.” To whom the Lord of Mendoza complied, more to please her than for any other reason, for he had the beauty and good character of the Princess so firmly impressed upon the most agreeable part of his heart that he would have wished never to have left her company. As they resolve happily to employ and fulfill their desires upon her return from her journey, fortune, in the meantime, beset the same and fully broke the thread of their plans, as the outcome did not lead to the good success they had hoped for. Now let us leave the Duchess to fulfill her journey, and Lord Mendoza to entertain his romantic passions, and let us digress to the Duke, who, about ten or twelve days after his wife the Duchess had departed, began to feel her absence, which he could not sustain due to the great love he bore her, especially knowing the grave mistake he had made (being the sister of a king and wife of such a prince) in allowing her to depart like an unfeathered arrow on such a lengthy journey. Determined for this reason (for fear that any misfortune happening to her would affect his honor) to call his council together to seek some remedy. The council assembled and proposed the cause, each of them told the Duke that he had consented too lightly to the Duchess's will, and that if she should happen to incur any misfortune, all men would attribute that to his shame, which they should have advised him of at the start, saving for the fear they had of displeasing him. They concluded by saying that it was most expedient for the Duke to take to the sea and seek her in Galicia. He did so and embarked with a large company of gentlemen, and the wind being greatly favorable, he arrived at Saint James before her. After inquiring about her, he found out she had not yet arrived. Nevertheless, he was informed by certain pilgrims that it could not be long before she would be there, as they had left her no further than three or four days journey from there, traveling with her train by short stages: of which the Duke was exceedingly glad, and sent a number of his gentlemen to meet her on the way as she came, who rode not far before they met the Duchess and her company, informing her of the Duke's arrival and the cause of his coming from Turin. This news was not particularly joyful for her, and if it had been her will, she would have preferred that he had not taken so great pains: nevertheless, placing honor before affection, she hurried to see him, and upon her arrival, seemed glad for his coming and lamented the effort he had taken by putting himself in so many dangers for her sake. Afterwards, they entered the church with great devotion, where, after the Duchess made certain prayers, she began to perceive that God had resisted her lascivious will and, pitying the good Duke her husband, would not permit him to be deceived so disloyally, lamenting her former faults. Feeling herself pressured to the very soul by a certain remorse of conscience, she triumphed over her affections, deciding to wholly forget Mendoza and his beauty; nevertheless, she praised God that he had granted her the grace to dispose her matters so well that her affections had not exceeded the bounds of honor, determining from then on not only to put Mendoza from her mind entirely, but also to completely sever any amorous practices with him, and therefore would not even so much as bid him farewell or let him understand these new developments in any way. Settled in this decision, she urged her husband most insistently to depart, which he did, and having prepared everything necessary for the sea, they once again set their course for Turin, and with such a favorable wind, after a few days they arrived at Marseilles. Weary of the sea, he arranged for horses to ride from there back to Turin, where he and his wife lived together in great joy and friendship. Lord Mendoza, greatly pained by the long absence of the Duchess, sent a gentleman to Galicia to know the cause of her prolonged stay. Who brought certain news that the Duke had come in person to fetch his wife and was carrying her away by sea; wherewith he was marvelously impatient, nevertheless determining that one day when his affairs were in good order, he would visit her in Turin. During the time that these matters remained thus on both sides, the Germans prepared a great army and entered France, where they wasted and burned the country as they passed. The king, being informed of this, summoned the Duke of Savoy, to meet them with the French men-at-arms. But before his departure from Turin, he left as his Lieutenant General the Count of Pancalier, by whose counsel he intended that all affairs of the Duchy should be managed during his absence, and who should be honored and obeyed as his own person. This Count of Pancalier was a nobleman, very prudent in his doings, and knew very well how to govern the commonwealth, who, seeing that he had the whole country at his command, and himself often in the presence of the Duchess, observing her beauty and grace, could not manage his affections, but little by little fell in love with her, to such an extent that he forgot himself and made no conscience of offering her his service. But the Princess, who was resolved to live as a good woman, abhorred all his lascivious advances, urging him to think better of it before presuming to utter such words, except perhaps to those of his equals, telling him that a man should not be so shameless as to offer his service to any great lady or to make other requests of her until he had first known through her gestures or words some likelihood of affection: which he could gauge in her, as she had never, to him or to any other, shown any favor (until that day) in all her life that could provide any cause for suspicion, except what was proper and suitable to her honor. When the Count of Pancalier understood this, he took his leave of her, ashamed of what he had done. Pursuing the customary path of lovers, not considering himself rejected by the first refusal, he renewed his petitions and, adopting a romantic tone, begged her to have pity on him and take heed of the gravity of his passion: insisting that he could not prolong his life without her favor, for she alone was the remedy for his pain. The Duchess, beset by such talk, said to him: “Sir Count, I think you ought to have been satisfied with my first denial, without continuing the pursuit of your foolish endeavor. Have you forgotten the position you hold, and the honor to which my Lord the Duke, my husband, has elevated you? Is this the loyal reward you offer him for making you his lieutenant over all his lands and estates, to demand precedence in his own bed? Assure yourself as a final warning that if you ever again fall into such error, I swear to you by the faith of a Princess that I will have you punished so that all other similar traitors and disloyal servants may take example.” The Earl, seeing himself refused and thus rebuked, feared that the Princess would reveal his ambitions to her husband upon his return, and changing his great love into hatred more than mortal, determined that, come what may, he would invent every possible means to utterly destroy the Duchess. After pondering many things in his mind, he devised (by the devil's inspiration) to use one of his nephews, aged 18 or twenty years, who was his heir apparent, for he had no children and was one of the most handsome and well-mannered gentlemen in all of Turin, to set that devilish plan into action. One day he said to the young man (who completely depended on him) these words: “Nephew, you know that all the hope of living you have in this world rests with me alone, whom I regard as my child. And because God has not granted me any children, I have made you my sole heir, with the full hope that from now on you will dutifully acknowledge yourself most bound to me and obedient in all things I command you, especially those matters which may be most for your advancement. The Duke, as you know, is absent, old, and crooked, and at all times in the mercy of death due to the dangers of war. Now if he should happen to die, my desire is to marry you to some great lady: yes, and if it were possible, to the Duchess herself, for God knows what profit it would bring both you and your friends, and I believe it is a straightforward matter to achieve if you will direct yourself according to my coaching, or at the very least, if you cannot attain the title of husband, you should not fail to be received as her friend. You are a handsome gentleman, and in good standing with the Duchess, as I have often noticed by her conversation, although, keeping a tight grip on her honor, she has feared so far to open herself to you. Spare neither my goods, but make yourself brave and gallant from here on, no matter the cost, and be diligent to please her in all that you can; and time shall reveal to you what your tender years have yet concealed.” The poor young man, giving credence to the unfaithful schemes of his uncle (whom he regarded as his father), began often to frequent the presence of the Duchess and shamefacedly solicit her with looks and other gestures of courtesy, as nature had taught him, continuing this way for the space of a month. Lady Isabel, having duly observed this, diligently accepted the honest and affectionate service the young man rendered to her and showed him a bit more courteous favor than the other pages, both for his birth and beauty with which nature had endowed him, and for the fact that she saw he was inclined to serve her better than the rest, not suspecting any dishonest desire in the young man, nor the malice of his uncle, who conceived of no other happiness than revenge against the Duchess, his enemy, and being unable to tolerate the cruel malice rooted in his heart, determined to repay her in kind. Calling his nephew before him, he said to him: “My child, I see that you are one of the happiest gentlemen in all of Europe if you knew how to follow your own good fortune; for the Duchess is not only in love with you but is also consumed with the earnest love she bears you. But as you know, women are shy and prefer to be wooed in secret, and they delight in being deceived by men, so it may appear that they yield to what they would willingly have offered of their own volition, but for a bit of modesty that withholds them. Rest assured, I have often experienced this, to my great good fortune. Therefore, heed my counsel, and follow my advice, and you yourself shall acknowledge that before tomorrow at this time, you are the happiest man in the world. I command that this night, whenever the opportunity arises, you secretly convey yourself into the chamber of the Duchess, and there hide yourself beneath her bed, for fear of being discovered. You shall remain there until one hour after midnight when everyone is deep in their sleep. When you see that everyone is at rest, you shall quietly rise and approach the Duchess's bed, and I assure you that due to her earnest love for you and the long absence from her husband, she will kindly receive you into her arms and indulge you with those pleasures that amorous individuals extend to their lovers.” The naive young man, taking his uncle’s words to heart, who was honored as a king (perhaps thinking it was conveyed by the Duchess), followed his orders entirely, and seizing the available opportunity, accomplished exactly what his cruel uncle commanded. Shortly before midnight, fearing that his treason would be discovered, he took with him three counselors and certain guards of the castle. As Lieutenant to the Duke, he could enter and exit freely at all times without exposing the objective of his intent, and, without revealing the purpose of his intentions, went straight to the entrance of the Duchess's chamber and knocked on the door, announcing that the Duke had arrived. Once the door was opened, he entered with a number of lights, accompanied by the guards, his sword drawn and ready, like a furious man beside himself, looking about and under the Duchess's bed, from which he had his own nephew forcibly dragged out. Before giving him a chance to speak, lest his malice be uncovered, he exclaimed: “Oh, detestable villain, you shall die.” And with that, he thrust the sword through him to the hilt, doubling another blow to ensure he failed to speak, piercing his throat with such force that the poor innocent, after staggering slightly, fell dead to the ground. Once he had sheathed his sword, he turned to the Counselors and said to them: “My friends, this is not the first time I have spied the lascivious and dishonest love between this treasonous nephew and the Duchess, whom I have caused to die honorably in light of his action, for by the very severity of the law, he deserved to be burned alive or torn to pieces by four horses. But I do not intend to punish my lady the Duchess, nor to provide harsher sanctions upon her; for you are not unaware that the ancient custom of Lombardy and Savoy requires that every woman caught in adultery shall be burned alive, unless within a year and a day she can find a champion to fight for her innocence. However, out of the duty I bear towards my Lord the Duke and in consideration of the position he has entrusted to me, I will tomorrow send a messenger to inform him of the entire event as it has transpired. The Duchess shall remain in this chamber with a few of her maids under strict vigilance and guard.” All this time, the Duchess, who possessed as much judgment and spirit as any Princess reigning in her time, suspected immediately the Earl's treason. With a pitiful gaze upon the dead body of her page, drawing a deep sigh, she cried out: “Oh, innocent soul, who once gave life to this body that is now but dust, you are now in a place where you can see clearly the wrongdoing of your murderer, who has recently caused you to die.” Having concluded this exclamation with her arms crossed, she remained as if in a swoon, without moving either hand or foot. After continuing in that state for a while, she asked the Counselors to have the body buried and returned to the earth from which it had originated. “For,” she said, “it does not deserve to be tied to the gallows or to feed the birds of the air.” At this, they granted her requests, not without a certain heavy suspicion between her and her page, as she defended not herself but his innocence without any words of her own justification. This dreadful event was soon publicized throughout all the city, with such great sorrow and murmurs from the people that it seemed as if the enemies had sacked the town. The Earl of Pancalier did nothing all day but dispatch messengers. After he had the entire matter documented as it had appeared, he commanded the Counselors and those of the Guard to sign his letters. Once the business was arranged, he sent away two couriers diligently, one to England to inform the king, her brother, and the other to the Duke, who upon arriving, each man in his stead, delivered their charges. To which both brother and husband gave full credence without any form of difficulty, persuaded primarily by the death of his nephew, who (as it was very likely) had not been killed by his own uncle, and of whom he was also the very heir, without his most grievous fault, greatly praising the loyalty of the Earl for not sparing his own kin, in order to preserve his duty and honor to his sovereign lord. It was concluded among them, with deliberation and advice, including those of the King of England and numerous learned men from France, whom the French king made assemble for that purpose in favor of the Duke, that the custom should be upheld so inviolably as if the Duchess were the most simple damsel in the whole land; so that in the future, high lords and ladies, who are like lamps that give light to others, may take heed. That from then on they not suffer their virtues to be obscured by the clouds of such execrable vices. The King of England, to gratify the Earl of Pancalier, whom (in his judgment) had shown himself noble in this act, sent him an excellent suit of armor, with a sword of the same quality by messenger, along with reply letters penned in his own hand, that he understood the nature of his proceedings. After the King of England sent back the courier, the Duke of Savoy returned his, whom he delayed the longer because the matter affected him the most closely; for he wanted the matter discussed by the most esteemed and deliberate counsel. And once he had resolved what to do, he wrote to the Counselors and other Magistrates of Turin, above all to ensure that the custom be strictly observed and that they in no case favor the adultery of his wife under penalty of death. Furthermore, he sent individual letters to the Earl, praising his loyalty for which he hoped to offer him a compensation, for both him and his descendants would enjoy it throughout their lives. When the duke’s courier arrived, the matter was proposed in council, and it was decided that, following the ancient custom, a pillar of marble should be placed in the fields near Turin: between the bridge of the Po River and the city, upon which should be written the accusation of the Earl of Pancalier against the Duchess, which the Duchess understood (having no other company but Emilia and a young maid) and stripped herself of her silken garments, donning mourning attire, tortured by an infinite number of diverse torments, and seeing herself abandoned of all earthly assistance, made her complaints to God: beseeching him with tears to take up the protection of her innocence. Emilia, who understood from her that she was unjustly accused and seeing the imminent peril against her, determined through her accustomed prudence to provide accordingly. After having comforted her a little, she said: “Madame, the situation now requires that you do not waste time in tears and other womanly complaints, which can do nothing to lessen your misery. It seems most expedient to me that you fortify yourself against your enemy and find some means to send Master Appian posthaste to the Duke of Mendoza, one of the best renowned knights in all Spain, who, after being informed of your misfortune, will take care of your affairs so well (that your honor being restored) your life shall remain assured. Therefore, if you will follow my advice, you should write him a heartfelt letter (as you know how to compose) which Appian shall present on your behalf. For if you do not heed this counsel, I know none other (as the world now goes) who would risk his life in the condition of such strange fortune as yours is, especially considering the reputation and manliness of the Earl, who, as you know, enjoys a reputation as one of the most valiant men and happiest in arms throughout all Savoy or Lombardy.” “My dear friend,” the Duchess replied, “do as
THE FORTY-SIXTH NOUELL.
A King of England loued the daughter of one of his noble men, which was Countesse of Salesburie, who after great sute to atchieue that he could not winne, for the entire loue he bare her, and her greate constancie, hee made her his queene and wife.
A King of England loved the daughter of one of his noblemen, who was the Countess of Salisbury. After much effort to win her over, which he could not achieve due to the deep love he had for her and her strong loyalty, he made her his queen and wife.
This historie ensuinge, describing the perfect figure of womanhode, the naturall qualitie of loue incensinge the hartes indifferentlye of all nature’s children, the liuely image of a good condicioned Prince, the zealous loue of parentes and the glorious reward that chastitie conduceth to her imbracers, I deeme worthie to be annexed to the former Nouell, wherein as you haue hearde, bee contayned the straunge aduentures of a fayre and innocente Duchesse: whose life tried like gould in the fornace, glittereth at this daye like a bright starry planet, shining in the firmament with moste splendent brightnesse aboue all the rest, to the eternal prayse of feminine kinde. And as a noble man of Spaine, by heate of Loue’s rage, pursued the louinge trace of a king of England’s sister: euen so a renowmed and most victorious Prince (as the Auctour of theim both affirmeth) thorow the furie of that passion, which (as Apuleus sayth) in the firste heate is but small, but aboundinge by increase, doth set all men on fier, maketh earnest sute by discourse of wordes to a Lady herselfe, a Countesse, and Earle’s doughter, a beautifull and faire wighte, a creature incomparable, the wife of a noble man his own subiect: who seing her constante forte to be impregnable, after pleasaunte sute and milde requeste, attempteth by vndermining to inuade, and when with siege prolixe, hee perceiueth no ingenious deuise can atchieue that long and painfull worke, he threateth mighte and maine, dire and cruell assaultes, to winne and gette the same: and laste of all surrendred into his hands, and the prisoner cryinge for mercie, he mercifully is contented to mitigate his conceyued rigour, and pitifully to release the Lady, whom for her womanlye stoutnesse and coragious constancie hee imbraceth and entertayneth for his owne. This greate and worthy king, by the 335 first viewe of a delicate Ladie, thorowe the sappe of loue soaked into his noble harte, was transported into manye passions, and rapte with infinite pangues, which afterwards bredde him great disquietnes. This worthie Prince (I say) who before that time like an Alexander, was able to conquere and gain whole kingdomes, and made all Fraunce to quake for feare, at whose approch the gates of euery Citie did flie open, and fame of him prouoked ech Frenchman’s knee to bowe, whose helmet was made of manhods trampe, and mace well steeled with stoute attemptes, was by the weakest staye of dame Nature’s frame, a woman (shaped with no visage sterne or vglie loke) affrighted and appalled: whose harte was armed with no lethal sworde or deadly launce, but with a curat of honour and weapon of womanhode, and for all his glorious conquests, she durst by singuler combat to giue refusall to his face: which singuler perseueration in defence of her chastitie inexpugnable, esclarisheth to the whole flocke of womankinde the brighte beames of wisedome, vertue and honestie. No prayers, intreatie, suplication, teares, sobbes, sighes, or other like humaine actions, poured forth of a Princesse hart, could withdrawe her from the boundes of honestie. No promise, present, practise, deuise, sute, freinde, parent, letter or counsellour, could make her to stray oute of the limites of vertue. No threate, menace, rigour, feare, punishmente, exile, terror, or other crueltie, could diuert her from the siege of constancie. In her youthly time till her mariage day, shee delighted in virginitie: from her mariage day during her widow state, she reioysed in chastity: the one she conserued like a hardie Cloelia, the other she kept like a constant Panthea. This notable historie therfore I haue purposed to make common, aswel for encouragement of Ladies to imbrace constancie, as to imbolden them in the refusal of dishonest sutes, for which if they do not acquire semblable honour, as this Lady did, yet they shall not be frustrate of the due reward incidente to honour, which is fame and immortall prayse. Gentlemen may learne by the successe of this discourse, what tormentes be in Loue, what trauailes in pursute, what passions like ague fittes, what disconueniences, what loste labour, what plaints, what 336 griefes: what vnnatural attemptes be forced. Many other notorious examples be contayned in the same, to the greate comforte and pleasure as I trust, of the wel aduised reader: and although the auctour of the same, perchaunce hath not rightlye touched the proper names of the aucthours of this tragedie, by perfecte appellations: as Edward the third for his eldest sonne Edward the Prince of Wales (who as I read in Fabian) maried the Countesse of Salesburie, which before was Countesse of Kent, and wife vnto sir Thomas Holland: and whose name, (as Polidore sayth) was Iane, daughter to Edmond Earle of Kent, of whom the same Prince Edward begat Edward that died in his childish yeres, and Richard that afterwards was king of England the second of that name, and for that she was kin to him, was deuorced: whose sayde father maried Philip, daughter to the earle of Henault, and had by her VII. sonnes: and Ælips for the name of the sayde Countesse, beinge none suche amonges our vulgare termes, but Frosard remembreth her name to be Alice, which in deede is common amonges vs: and the Castell of Salesburie, where there is none by that name, vppon the frontiers of Scotlande, albeit the same Frosard doth make mention of a castell of the Earle of Salesburie’s, giuen vnto him by Edward the third when he was sir William Montague and maried the saide Lady Alice for his seruice and prowesse against the Scottes: and Rosamburghe for Roxboroughe: and that the said Edwarde when hee saw that hee could not by loue and other perswasions attaine the Countesse but by force, maried the same Countesse, which is altogether vntrue, for that Polydore and other aucthors do remember but one wife that hee had, which was the sayde vertuous Queene Philip, with other like defaults: yet the grace of the historie for all those errours is not diminished. Whereof I thoughte good to giue this aduertisemente: and waying with my selfe that by the publishing hereof no dishonour can dedounde to the illustre race of our noble kinges and Princes, ne yet to the blemishinge of the fame of that noble kinge, eternized for his victories and vertues in the auncient Annales, Chronicles and Monuments, forren and domesticall, (because all nature’s children be thral and subiecte to the infirmities of their first parentes,) I do 337 with submission humblie referre the same to the iudgement and correction of them, to whom it shall appartaine: which beinge considered, the Nouell doth begin in this forme and order.
This following story, which describes the ideal figure of womanhood, the natural quality of love that ignites the hearts of all of nature’s children, the lively image of a good-natured Prince, the passionate love of parents, and the glorious rewards that chastity brings to its followers, deserves to be added to the previous story, where, as you have heard, are the strange adventures of a beautiful and innocent Duchess: whose life, tested like gold in a furnace, shines today like a bright star, lighting up the sky with a brilliant brightness above all others, forever praised by women everywhere. And just as a nobleman from Spain, driven by the heat of love, pursued the love of a sister of a king of England, so a renowned and most victorious Prince (as both authors affirm) through the fury of that passion, which (as Apuleius says) starts small but increases, sets all men ablaze, earnestly attempts to win over a Lady herself, a Countess and the daughter of an Earl, a beautiful and fair being, an incomparable creature, the wife of a nobleman who is his own subject: who, seeing that her resolve is unyielding, after pleasant flattery and gentle requests, attempts to invade her by deceit. When, after a long siege, he realizes that no clever scheme can achieve that long and difficult task, he threatens with force and cruel assaults to conquer and claim her: and finally, when she surrenders to him, crying for mercy, he mercifully decides to ease his fierce intentions and compassionately releases the Lady, whom he embraces and keeps for himself because of her womanly strength and courageous constancy. This great and worthy king, at the first sight of a delicate Lady, with the sap of love soaking into his noble heart, was transported into many passions and overwhelmed with countless pangs, which later caused him much distress. This worthy Prince (I say) who, before that time, like an Alexander, was able to conquer and claim entire kingdoms, making all of France tremble with fear, at whose approach the gates of every city flew open, and whose fame made every Frenchman bow, whose helmet was made of the stamp of manhood, and who wielded a mace well-steeled with mighty deeds, was unsettled and terrified by the frail frame of womanhood—not shaped with a stern or ugly visage—whose heart was armed not with lethal swords or deadly lances but with a breastplate of honor and a weapon of womanhood, and for all his glorious victories, she dared to refuse him to his face in a singular battle: which devoted perseverance in defense of her unyielding chastity shines for all women, illuminating the bright beams of wisdom, virtue, and honesty. No prayers, pleas, supplications, tears, sobs, sighs, or other similar human actions, poured forth from a princess’s heart, could sway her from the bounds of honor. No promise, gift, scheme, plea, friend, relative, letter, or advisor could lead her away from the boundaries of virtue. No threat, punishment, fear, exile, terror, or other cruelty could divert her from her steadfastness. In her youth until her wedding day, she delighted in virginity: from her wedding day through her widowhood, she rejoiced in chastity: the former she preserved like brave Cloelia, and the latter she maintained like steadfast Panthea. This notable story, therefore, I have decided to share, both to encourage ladies to embrace constancy and to embolden them in rejecting dishonorable advances, for even if they do not achieve the same honor as this Lady did, they shall not be deprived of the due rewards of honor, which are fame and everlasting praise. Gentlemen may learn from this story about the torments of love, the trials of pursuit, the feverish passions, the inconveniences, the wasted efforts, the complaints, and what unnatural attempts are forced upon them. Many other notable examples are included for the great comfort and pleasure, I trust, of the careful reader: and although the author might not have accurately cited the proper names associated with this tragedy, for instance, Edward III for his first son Edward, the Prince of Wales (who, as I read in Fabian), married the Countess of Salisbury, formerly the Countess of Kent and wife to Sir Thomas Holland, whose name (as Polydore states) was Jane, daughter of the Earl of Kent, from whom the same Prince Edward had Edward, who died in childhood, and Richard, who later became King of England as the second of that name, and for that reason was divorced due to being related to him; whose aforementioned father married Philip, daughter of the Earl of Hainaut, and had by her VII. sons; and Ælips for the name of the aforementioned Countess, which doesn’t appear among our common terms, but Frosard recalls her name as Alice, which is indeed common among us; and the castle of Salisbury, where there is none by that name on the borders of Scotland, even though the same Frosard mentions a castle belonging to the Earl of Salisbury, given to him by Edward III when he was Sir William Montague and married the Lady Alice for his service and prowess against the Scots: and Rosamburghe for Roxborough: and that Edward when he saw that he could not attain the Countess through love and other persuasions but by force, married the same Countess, which is entirely untrue, as Polydore and other authors recall only one wife he had, which was the virtuous Queen Philip, among other similar inaccuracies: yet the essence of the story, despite these errors, remains intact. Therefore, I thought it good to give this notice and, weighing within myself that by publishing this, no dishonor could reflect upon the illustrious lineage of our noble kings and princes, nor blemish the fame of that noble king, immortalized for his victories and virtues in ancient annals, chronicles, and monuments, both foreign and domestic (since all of nature’s children are subject to the infirmities of their first parents), I do 337 humbly submit this to the judgment and correction of those to whom it pertains: and considering this, the story begins in this manner and order.
There was a kinge of Englande named Edwarde, which had to his first wyfe the doughter of the Counte of Henault of whom hee had children, the eldest whereof was called also Edward, the renowmed Prince of Wales, who besides Poictiers subdued the French men, toke Iohn the French king prisoner, and sent him into England. This Edwarde father of the Prince of Wales, was not onely a capitall eunemie of the Frenchmen, but also had continual warres with the Scottes his neighbours, and seing himself so disquieted on euery side, ordayned for his Lieutenant vpon the frontiers of Scotland, one of his Captaynes, named William, Lord Montague: to whom because he had fortified Roxborough, and addressed many enterprises against the enemies, he gaue the Earledome of Sarisburie, and maried him honourablie with one of the fairest Ladies of England. Certaine dayes after, kinge Edward sent him into Flaunders, in the companie of the Earle of Suffolke, where fortune was so contrarie, as they were both taken prisoners, by the Frenchmen, and sente to the Louure at Paris. The Scottes hearing tell of their discomfiture, and how the marches were destitute of a gouernour, they speedely sente thether an armie, with intente to take the Countesse prisoner, to rase her Castle, and to make bootie of the riches that was there. But the Earle of Sarisburie before his departure, had giuen so good order, that their successe was not such as they hoped: for they wer so liuely repelled by them that wer within, as not able to endure their furie, in steede of making their approches, they were constrayned to go further of. And hauinge intelligence by certaine spies, that the king of England was departed from London, with a great armie, to come to succour the Countesse, perceyuing that a farre of, they were able to do litle good, they were faine shortly to retire home again to their shame. King Edward departed from London, trauayling by great iourneyes with his armye towardes Sarisburie, was aduertized, that the Scottes were discamped, and fled againe into Scotland. Albeit they had so spoyled the castle in manye places, as the markes gaue sufficiente witnesse, what their intente 338 and meaning was. And althoughe the kinge had thoughte to retourne backe againe vppon their retire, yet being aduertised of the great battrie, and of the hotte assault they had giuen to the Castell, he went foorth to visit the place. The Countesse whose name was Ælips, vnderstanding of the kinge’s comming, causing all things to bee in so good readinesse, as the shortnesse of the time could serue, furnished her selfe so well as shee could with a certaine nomber of Gentlewomen and Souldiours that remained, to issue forth to meete the king, who besides her natural beautie, for the which she was recommended aboue all the Ladies of her prouince, was enriched with the furniture of vertue and curtesie, which made her so incomparable, that at one instante, she rauished the hartes of all the Princes and Lordes that did behold her, in such wise, as there was no talke in all the armie but of her graces and vertue, and specially of her excellent and surpassing beauty. The kinge hauing made reuerence vnto her, after hee had well viewed all her gestures and countenaunces, thoughte that hee had neuer seen a more goodlier creature. Then rapte with an incredible admiration he said vnto her: “Madame Countesse, I do beleeue, that if in this attire and furniture wherein you now be, accompanied with so rare and excellente beautie, ye had beene placed vppon one of the rampiers of your Castell, you had made more breaches with the lokes and beames of your sparkling eyes, in the hartes of your ennemyes, than they had beene able to haue done in your castel, with their thundring ordinaunce.” The Countesse somewhat shamefast and abashed, to heare herselfe so greatly praysed of a Prince so greate, began to blushe and taint with roseall colour, the whitenesse of her alablaster face. Then lifting vp her bashfull eyes, somewhat towards the king, she said vnto him: “My soueraigne Lord, your grace may speake your pleasure, but I am well assured, that if you had seen the nomber of shotte, which by the space of XII. houres were bestowed so thicke as hayle, vpon euery part of the fort, you might haue iudged what good wil the Scots did beare vnto mee and my people. And for my selfe I am assured, that if I had made proufe of that which you saye, and submitted myselfe to their mercie, my bodye nowe had been dissolued into duste.” The king astonned with so sage and wise aunswere, chaunging 339 his minde, went towarde the castell: where after interteignement and accustomed welcome, he began by litle and litle, to feele himselfe attached wyth a newe fier. Which the more he laboured to resist, the more it inflamed: and feelinge this new mutacion in himselfe, there came into his mind, an infinite nomber of matters, balancing betwene hope and feare, somtimes determining to yeld vnto his passions, and somtimes thinking clerely to cut them of, for feare least by committinge himselfe to his affections, the vrgent affayres of the warres, wherewith hee was inuolued, should haue ill successe. But in the ende vanquished wyth Loue, hee purposed to proue the hart of the Countesse, and the better to attayne the same he toke her by the hande, and prayed her to shewe him the commodities of the fortresse. Which shee did so well, and with so good grace intertaigne them all the whyle wyth infinite talke of diuers matters, that the litle grifts of loue which were scarcely planted, began to growe so farre as the rootes remayned fast grounded in the depthe of his harte. And the kyng not able any longer to endure such a charge in his minde, pressed with griefe, deuised by what meanes he might enioye her, which was the cause of his disquiet. But the Countesse seing him so pensife, without any apparaunt occasion, sayde vnto him: “Sir, I doe not a litle maruell to see you reduced into these alterations: for (me thincke) your grace is maruelously chaunged within these two or thre houres, that your highnes vouchsaued to enter into this castel for my succour and reliefe in so good time, as al the dayes of my life, both I and mine be greatly bound vnto you, as to him which is not onely content liberally to haue bestowed vpon vs the goods which we possesse, but also by his generositie, doth conserue and defend vs from the incursions of the enemie. Wherein your grace doth deserue double prayse, for a deede so charitable: but I cannot tell nor yet deuise, what should bee the cause that your highnesse is so pensife and sorowful, sith without great losse on your parte, your enemies vnderstandinge of your stoute approche, be retired, which ought, as I suppose, to driue awaye the Melancholie from your Stomacke, and to revoke your former ioy, for so much as victorie acquired withoute effusion of bloud, is alwayes most noble and acceptable before God.” The king hearing 340 this angel’s voyce, so amiably pronouncing these words, thinking that of her owne accord shee came to make him mery, determined to let her vnderstand his griefe, vpon so conueniente occasion offred. Then with a trembling voice he said vnto her: “Ah Madame, how farre be my thoughtes farre differente from those which you do thincke me to haue: I feele my hart so opprest with care, as it is impossible to tell you what it is, howbeit the same hath not beene of long continuance, being attached therewithall, since my comminge hether, which troubleth me so sore, as I cannot tell whereupon well to determine.” The Countesse seing the king thus moued, not knowing the cause whye, was vncertaine what aunswere to make. Which the king perceyuing, said vnto her, fetching a deepe sighe from the bottome of his stomacke: “And what say you Madame thereunto, can you giue mee no remedie?” The Countesse, which neuer thoughte that any such discurtesie could take place in the kinge’s hart, taking things in good part, said vnto him: “Syr, I know not what remedie to giue you, if first you do not discouer vnto me the griefe. But if it trouble you, that the Scottishe kinge hath spoyled your countrie, the losse is not soe greate, as therewith a Prince so mightie as you be, neede to be offended: sithens by the grace of God, the vengeaunce lieth in your handes, and you may in time chasten him, as at other times you haue done.” Whereunto the kinge seinge her simplicitie, aunsweared: “Madame, the beginninge of my griefe ryseth not of that, but my wounde resteth in the inwarde parte of my harte, which pricketh mee so soore, as if I desire from henceforth to prolonge my life, I muste open the same vnto you, reseruing the cause thereof so secrete, as none but you and I must be partakers. I must now then confesse vnto you, that in comminge to your Castell, and castinge downe my head to behold your celestiall face, and the rest of the graces, wherewith the heauens haue prodigally endued you, I haue felt (vnhappie man as I am) such a sodaine alteration, in al the most sensible partes of my body, as knowing my forces diminished, I cannot tel to whom to make complaint of my libertie lost (which of long time I haue so happily preserued) but onely to you, that like a faithfull keeper and onely treasurer of my hart, you may by some shining beame of pitie bring againe to 341 his former mirth and ioye, that which you desire in me: and by the contrarie, you may procure to me a life more painefull and greeuous than a thousand deathes together.” When he had ended these woordes, hee helde his peace, to let her speake, attendinge none other thing by her aunswere, but the last decree either of death or life. But the Countesse with a grauitie conformable to her honestie and honour, without other mouing, said vnto him: “If any other besides your grace had been so forgetful of himself to enter in these termes, or to vse such talke vnto me, I knowe what should be mine aunswere, and so it might be, that he shoulde haue occasion not to be well contented, but knowing this your attempt to proceede rather from the pleasantnes of your hart, than for other affection, I wil beleue from henceforth, and perswade my selfe, that a Prince so renowmed and gentle as you be, doth not thincke, and much lesse meane, to attempt any thing against mine honour, which is a thousand times dearer vnto mee than life. And I am perswaded, that you do not so litle esteeme my father and my husband, who is for your seruice prisoner in the hands of the Frenchmen, our mortal enemies, as in their absence to procure vnto them such defamation and slaunder. And by making this request your grace doth swarue from the bounds of honestie very farre, and you do greate iniury to your fame, if men should know what termes you do vse vnto me. In like maner, I purpose not to violate the faith, which I haue giuen to my husband, but I intend to keepe the same vnspotted, so long as my soule shalbe caried in the Chariot of this mortall body. And if I should so far forget my self, as willingly to commit a thing so dishonest, your grace oughte for the loyal seruice of my father and husband toward you, sharpely to rebuke me, and to punish me according to my desert. For this cause (most dradde soueraigne Lord) you which are accustomed to vanquishe and subdue other, bee nowe a conquerour ouer your selfe, and throughly bridle that concupiscence (if there be any) vnder the raynes of reason, that being quenched and ouercome, they may no more reuiue in you, and hauing liuely resisted the first assaultes, the victorie is but easie, which shalbe a thousande times more glorious and gainefull for you, than if you had conquered a kingdome.” The Countesse 342 had scarce made an ende of her tale, but one came to tell them that the Tables were couered for dinner: the king well fedde with Loue, dined for that time very soberly, and not able to eate but vppon amorous dishes, did caste his lokes inconstantly here and there, and still his eyes threw the last loke vppon that part of the table where the Countesse sate, meaninge thereby to extinguish the boiling flames, which incessantly did burne him, howbeit by thinking to coole them, he further plonged himselfe therein. And wandering thus in diuers cogitacions, the wise aunsweare that the Countesse made, like a vaunt currour, was continually in his remembraunce, and was well assured of her inuincible chastitie. By reason whereof, seing that so hard an enterprise required a longer abode, and that a hart so chast, could not so quickly be remoued from purpose, carefull on the other side to giue order to the waightie affayres of his realme, disquieted also on euery side, through the turmoile of warres, determined to depart the next day in the morning, reseruing till another time more conuenient the pursute of his loue. Hauing taken order for his departure, in the morning he wente to seeke the Countesse, and taking his leaue of her, praied her to thinke better of the talke made vnto her the daye before, but aboue al, he besought her to haue pitie vpon him. Wherunto the Countesse aunswered, that not onely shee praied God incessantly to giue him victory ouer his outward enemies, but also grace to tame the carnal passion, which did so torment him. Certaine dayes after that king Edward was arriued at London, which was the place of his ordinarie abode, the Countesse of Sarisburie was aduertised, that the Earle her husband, being out of pryson, consumed with griefe and sicknes, died by the way homewards. And because they had no children, the Earledome retourned to the kinge, which first gaue the same vnto him. And after she had lamented the death of her husband the space of manye dayes, shee returned to her father’s house, which was Earle of Warwike. And for so much as he was one of the king’s priuie Counsel, and the most part of the affayres of the Realme passed by his aduise and counsell, he continued at London, that hee might be more neare vnto the kinge’s person. The king aduertised of the comming of the Countesse, thoughte that fortune had opened a way to bring his 343 enterprise to desired effect, specially for that the death of her husband, and the witnesse of his earnest good will, woulde make her more tractable. The kinge seing all thing (as he thought) to succede after his desire, began to renue his first affections, seeking by all meanes to practise the good will of the Countesse, who then was of the age of XXVI. yeares. Afterwards he ordeyned many triumphes at the Tilt and Torney, Maskes, Momeries, Feastes, Banquettes, and other like pastimes, whereat ladies accustomablye doe assemble, who made much of theym all, and secretely talked wyth them. Notwithstanding he could not so well disguise and counterfaite his passions, but that he still shewed himselfe to beare beste good will to the Countesse. Thus the kinge could not vse such discretion in loue, but that from his secret fier, some euident flames did issue oute: but the Countesse which was a wise and curteous Ladye, did easely perceiue, how the king by chaunging the place, had not altered his affection, and that hee still prosecuted his talke begon at Sarisburie. She despising all his amorous countenaunces, continued her firme and chaste minde: and if it chaunced that sometimes the king made more of her than discretion required, sodainly might haue been discried a certaine palenesse in her face, which declared the litle pleasure that she toke in his toyes, with a certaine rigour appearinge, that yelded to the king an assured testimonie that he laboured in vaine. Neuerthelesse, she, to cut of all meanes of the kinges pursute, kept still her father’s house, shewinge herself in no place where the king mighte see her. The king offended, seing himselfe depriued and banished her presence, whom he esteemed as the comfort of his life, made his secretarie priuie to the whole matter, whose fidelity he had wel proued in matters daungerous, with mind to pursue her by other way, if it chaunced that she persisted in her wonted rigor and refusal. Howbeit before he preceded any further, sithe he could not secretely talke with her, he purposed to send her a letter, the tenor whereof insueth:
There was a king of England named Edward, who had his first wife, the daughter of the Count of Hainault, with whom he had children. The eldest was also named Edward, the renowned Prince of Wales, who conquered the French at Poitiers, captured King John of France, and sent him to England. This Edward, father of the Prince of Wales, was not only a fierce enemy of the French but also engaged in continuous wars with the Scots, his neighbors. Seeing himself troubled on every side, he appointed one of his captains, named William, Lord Montague, as his lieutenant on the Scottish borders. Due to Montague's fortification of Roxburgh and his many efforts against the enemies, Edward granted him the Earldom of Salisbury and honorably married him to one of the most beautiful ladies in England. A few days later, King Edward sent him to Flanders alongside the Earl of Suffolk, but fortune was against them, and both were captured by the French and sent to the Louvre in Paris. The Scots, hearing of their defeat and how the borders were left without a governor, quickly sent over an army to capture the Countess, destroy her castle, and seize its riches. However, the Earl of Salisbury, before his departure, had made such excellent arrangements that their success was not as they hoped. They were driven back with such vigor by those inside that instead of making their advances, they had to retreat further away. Having learned through spies that the King of England had left London with a great army to give aid to the Countess, realizing they were too far away to achieve anything, they were forced to retreat home in shame. King Edward, traveling from London towards Salisbury with his army, was informed that the Scots had broken camp and fled back to Scotland. Although they had plundered the castle in many places, the signs were clear about their intentions. 338 Despite having thought to return upon their retreat, the king, informed of the significant damage and the fierce assault they had laid on the castle, proceeded to visit the site. The Countess, named Ælips, upon hearing of the king’s arrival, prepared everything as best she could with the time available, gathering a number of ladies and soldiers who remained to meet the king. Besides her natural beauty, for which she was favored above all the ladies of her province, she was also adorned with virtues and courtesy, making her so unique that she captivated the hearts of all the princes and lords who beheld her, leading to only discussions of her graces and virtues, especially her extraordinary beauty. The king, having shown her respect after observing her demeanor and expressions, thought that he had never seen a more beautiful creature. Captivated by incredible admiration, he said to her: “Madame Countess, I believe that if in this attire and beauty you had been placed on one of the ramparts of your castle, you would have caused more damage with the looks of your sparkling eyes in the hearts of your enemies than they could have done to your castle with their thunderous artillery.” The Countess, somewhat bashful and embarrassed to hear herself praised so highly by such a great prince, began to blush, tainting the alabaster whiteness of her face with rosy color. Then, lifting her bashful eyes slightly toward the king, she said to him: “My sovereign Lord, you may speak as you please, but I assure you that if you had seen the number of shots that for twelve hours rained down thick as hail on every part of the fort, you might have judged how much goodwill the Scots bore toward me and my people. And for myself, I am certain that had I not defended myself and submitted to their mercy, my body would now be reduced to dust.” The king, astonished by such a wise and sage response, changed his mind and headed toward the castle, where, after exchanging greetings and the customary welcome, he gradually began to feel himself drawn in by a new fire. The more he tried to resist it, the more it inflamed; and feeling this transformation within him, an infinite number of thoughts flooded his mind, balancing between hope and fear, sometimes deciding to yield to his passions, and sometimes resolving to suppress them entirely, fearing that committing himself to his affections might lead to adverse outcomes in the urgent matters of war in which he was involved. But ultimately conquered by love, he resolved to test the Countess's heart. To better achieve that, he took her by the hand and asked her to show him the castle’s advantages. She did this with such grace and provided endless conversation that the little sparks of love, once scarcely planted, began to grow as the roots remained firmly grounded in the depths of his heart. Unable to endure such a burden in his mind any longer, pressed with grief, he devised means by which he might enjoy her, who was the cause of his turmoil. But the Countess, seeing him so pensive without any apparent cause, said to him: “Sir, I am quite surprised to see you in such a state of alteration; for it seems to me that you have been marvellously changed in these two or three hours since you graciously entered this castle for my aid and relief. All the days of my life, both I and mine are greatly indebted to you for being one who not only generously bestowed upon us the goods we possess, but also by your kindness, protects us from the incursions of the enemy. In which, your grace deserves double praise for such a charitable deed. But I cannot tell, nor can I devise, why your highness is so pensive and sorrowful, since without significant loss on your part, your enemies, understanding your fearless approach, have retreated, which, I suppose, should have banished any melancholy from you and restored your earlier joy, as victory won without shedding blood is always most noble and acceptable before God.” The king, hearing this angelic voice amiably express such words, thinking she came of her own accord to cheer him up, resolved to reveal his grief, upon such a fitting opportunity presented. Then, with a trembling voice, he said to her: “Ah Madame, how far my thoughts differ from those you think I have. I feel my heart so oppressed with worry that it's impossible to tell you what it is, even though it has not been long, having taken this burden upon myself since I came here, which troubles me so deeply I cannot determine clearly what to do.” The Countess, seeing the king thus moved but not knowing why, was uncertain how to respond. The king, noticing her uncertainty, said to her, letting out a deep sigh from the depths of his being: “And what do you say, Madame? Can you not give me any remedy?” The Countess, who never thought such discourtesy could arise in the king’s heart, took matters lightly and said to him: “Sir, I do not know what remedy to give you unless you first reveal to me your grief. But if it troubles you that the Scottish king has plundered your land, the loss is not so great that a mighty prince like you should take offense; since by God's grace, your vengeance lies in your hands, and you may chastise him in time, as you have done before.” To this, the king, seeing her simplicity, replied: “Madame, my grief does not stem from that; rather, my wound is lodged deep within my heart, pricking me so painfully that if I desire to prolong my life from here on, I must confide in you, reserving the cause so secret that only you and I will partake. I must confess to you now that upon coming to your castle, and lowering my head to gaze upon your celestial face and the other graces with which heaven has abundantly blessed you, I have felt (unhappy man that I am) such a sudden change in all the most sensitive parts of my being that, knowing my strength has diminished, I cannot tell to whom I can complain about my lost freedom (which I have so happily preserved for a long time) but to you, as a faithful keeper and sole treasurer of my heart. You may, by some shining beam of pity, restore to its former joy that which you desire in me; and conversely, you may bring me a life more painful and grievous than a thousand deaths combined.” When he finished his words, he fell silent, allowing her to speak, waiting for nothing other than the final decision of either death or life. But the Countess, with a gravity in keeping with her honor, without further ado, said to him: “If anyone else besides your grace had been so forgetful of himself to speak in these terms or to use such words with me, I would know how to respond, and it might be that he would have cause to be displeased. But knowing your intention arises more from the joy of your heart than from any other affection, I will believe henceforth and convince myself that a prince as renowned and noble as you would not think—and much less intend—to attempt anything against my honor, which is a thousand times dearer to me than life. I am convinced that you hold my father and my husband, who is for your service a prisoner in the hands of the French, our mortal enemies, in such regard that in their absence, you would not seek to bring them shame or disgrace. By making this request, you do indeed stray far from the bounds of honesty and do great injury to your reputation, should others learn of the terms you use with me. Similarly, I do not intend to violate the faith I owe to my husband; I intend to keep it unblemished as long as my soul is carried in this mortal body. And if I should so far forget myself as to willingly commit something so dishonest, your grace should for the loyal service of my father and husband rebuke me sharply and punish me according to my deserts. For this reason, most fearsome sovereign Lord, you who are accustomed to conquer and subdue others, now be a conqueror over yourself, and thoroughly restrain that desire (if there be any) under the reins of reason, so that, once quenched and overcome, it may no longer revive within you; and having successfully resisted the first assaults, the victory will be so easy that it will be a thousand times more glorious and rewarding for you than if you had conquered a kingdom.” ” The Countess 342 had barely finished her tale when someone came to tell them that dinner was served. The king, well-fed with love, dined that time very soberly, unable to eat but upon amorous dishes, casting his glances disorderly here and there, and still his eyes threw the last look upon that part of the table where the Countess sat, intending thereby to extinguish the burning flames that incessantly consumed him; however, by trying to cool them, he only plunged himself deeper into them. As he wandered in various thoughts, the wise answer that the Countess made, like a boastful runner, was continually on his mind, assuring him of her invincible chastity. Because of this, seeing that such a difficult undertaking required a longer stay, and that a heart so chaste could not be so easily swayed, troubled on the other hand by the pressing matters of his realm and agitated by the turmoil of war, he resolved to leave the next day in the morning, reserving for another time the pursuit of his love, which required a more convenient occasion. Having arranged for his departure, he went to seek the Countess in the morning, and taking his leave of her, implored her to reconsider the conversation from the day before, but above all, he begged her to have pity on him. To which the Countess replied, that not only did she pray God unceasingly to grant him victory over his outward enemies, but also grace to tame the carnal passion that tormented him. A few days after the King Edward had returned to London, his usual residence, the Countess of Salisbury was informed that her husband, having been released from prison, died on the way home, consumed with grief and illness. Because they had no children, the earldom returned to the king, who was the one that initially conferred it upon him. After mourning her husband for many days, she returned to her father's house, who was the Earl of Warwick. As he was one of the king’s privy council, and most affairs of the realm passed with his advice and counsel, he stayed in London to be closer to the king’s person. The king, informed of the Countess's arrival, thought that fate had opened a way to fulfill his desire, especially since the death of her husband and the expression of his earnest goodwill would make her more amenable. Seeing everything (as he thought) proceeding as he desired, the king began to renew his initial affections, seeking by all means to win the Countess, who was then twenty-six years old. Later, he arranged many tournaments at the tilt and tournaments, masks, mummeries, feasts, banquets, and other similar entertainments where ladies usually gathered, who fluttered around them and secretly conversed with them. Nevertheless, he could not hide his passions so effectively that he didn’t still show himself to have the greatest affection for the Countess. Thus, the king could not conduct himself with such discretion in love that from his inner fire, some evident flames did not emerge; but the Countess, wise and courteous, easily perceived that the king, despite changing the venue, had not altered his affection and that he still pursued the conversation started at Salisbury. She, despising all his amorous advances, maintained her firm and chaste intent; and if it happened that sometimes the king esteemed her more than propriety warranted, a certain pallor would suddenly appear on her face, expressing the little pleasure she took in his flirtation, with a certain rigidity suggesting to the king assuredly that he labored in vain. Nevertheless, to eliminate all chances of the king’s pursuit, she continued to stay at her father's house, showing herself in no place where the king might see her. The king, offended, seeing himself deprived and exiled from the presence of her whom he valued as the comfort of his life, made his secretary privy to the entire matter, whose loyalty he had well tested in dangerous matters, intending to pursue her by other means if she persisted in her usual rigidity and rejections. However, before proceeding any further, since he could not speak with her in secret, he planned to send her a letter, the contents of which follow:
“Madame, if you please by good aduise to consider the beginning of my Loue, the continuance of the same, and then the last issue wherunto it tendeth, I am assured that laying your hand on your hart, you wil accuse your selfe, not only of your curst and froward 344 stomacke hitherto appearing, but also of that newe ingratitude, which you shewe vnto me at this houre, whoe not contented to bathe and plondge mee into the missehappe of my paines paste, but by a newe onset, to abandon your selfe from my presence, as from the sighte of your mortall eunemie: wherein I finde that heauen and all his influences, doe crie out for myne ouerthrowe, whereunto I doe agree, since my life taking no vigor and increase, being onely sustained by the fauour of your diuine graces, can not be maintained one onely minute of a daye, without the liberall helpe of your sweetenesse and vertue: beseching you, that if the hartie prayers of any mortal tormented man, may euer haue force and power to moue you to pitie, it may please you miraculously to deliuer from henceforth this my poore miserable afflicted mynde, either from death or martyrdome:
“Ma'am, if you would kindly consider the start of my love, its continuation, and then the final outcome it leads to, I am sure that upon reflecting, you will find yourself not only accusing yourself of your harsh and stubborn attitude thus far but also of that new ingratitude you show me at this moment. You seem not content to immerse me in the troubles of my past pains, but now, by a new blow, to distance yourself from my presence, as if I were a sight to avoid. In this, I see that heaven and all its influences cry out for my downfall, which I accept since my life holds no strength or growth, solely sustained by the favor of your divine graces. It cannot last even a single minute of the day without your generous help of sweetness and virtue. I plead with you that if the heartfelt prayers of any tormented mortal can ever move you to compassion, please miraculously free my poor, wretched mind from either death or martyrdom from this point forward:
He that is more yours than his ownne,
He who belongs to you more than to himself,
Edward, the desolate king of England.”
Edward, the sorrowful king of England.
The letter written with his own hande, and sealed with his seale, he commaunded the Secretarie to go to the Countesse, at her father’s house, and secretly to deliuer the same. The Countesse hauing red and perused it, sayd to the Secretarie: “My frende, you shall tell the kyng, that I doe besech him most humbly, to sende me no more letters or messages touching the matters whereof he hath written: for I am in such wyse resolued in the aunswere, which I made him in my castle, as I wyll persiste immutable, to the ende of my life.” The Secretaire retorninge the aunswere of the Countesse, the king rapte with an impacient and extreme choler, desired eftsones to giue another attempt: and consuming by litle and litle in this amorous fier, began to sort out of the limits of reason. And almoste out of his wittes, demaunded of his Secretarie: “Do you thinke it expedient that I make request to her father, whose counsell I want in other thinges?” To whome the Secretarie boldly aunswered, that he thought it vnreasonable to seeke ayde at a father’s handes to corrupt the doughter: faithfully telling to the king, the reproche and infamie that would followe thereof, as well for the olde seruice, that her father hadde done to his auncestours, as for his great prowesse in armes for which he was so greatly commended. But loue, the mortall enemie of all 345 good counsell, so blinded the eyes of the kyng, that without anye further deliberation, he commaunded the Secretarie to go seke the father, to demande his counsell for matters of importance: whiche the Earle vnderstanding, obeyed incontinently, where the king alone in a chamber lying vpon a bed, after hee had commaunded him to shut the dore and to sit downe by him, sayde these wordes: “My lorde, I haue caused you to come hither for a certaine occasion, whiche toucheth me so nighe, as the losse or preseruation of my life. For neuer through any assaut of fortune (the sharpenesse wherof I haue often felt) haue I bene vanquished with so great disquiet, as nowe. For I am so vexed with my passions, as being ouercome by them, I haue none other refuge, but to a most unhappie death that euer man can suffer, if presently I bee not holpen. Knowe ye therefore, that I deeme him onely to be happy that by Reason can rule his wyttes, not suffering hym selfe to be caried into vayne desires: in whiche pointe wee do differ from beastes, who being lead onely by naturall order, doe indifferently runne headlong, whether their appetite doth guide them: but we with the measure of Reason, ought to moderate our doinges with suche prouidence, as without straying we may choose the right way of equitie and iustice: and if at any time, the weake fleshe doth faint and giue ouer, we haue none to blame but our selues: who deceiued by the fading shadow and false apparaunce of things, fal into the ditche by our selues prepared. And that which I do alleage, is proued, not without manifest reason, wherof I nowe doe fele experience, hauing let slip the raynes of the bridle to farre ouer my disordinate affections, beyng drawen from the right hande, and traiterously deceiued. And neuerthelesse I can not tell howe to retire to take the right waye, or howe to retourne my back from that which doth me hurt. Wherefore nowe (vnfortunate and miserable that I am) I acknowledge my selfe to be like vnto him, that followeth his game in the thicket of a woode, rushing through thicke and thynne at all aduentures, not knowing howe to finde the waye he entred in, but rather the more he desireth to follow the trace, the more in the ende he is wrapped in the bushes. So it is my Lorde, that I can not and may not for all my foresayd allegations, so colour my fault, or purge myne error, but that 346 I must confesse and acknowledge it to be in me: but I speake to this ende, that seeking a farre of the originall of my griefe, you would helpe me to complayne, and thereby to take pitie vpon me. For to tell you the truthe, I am so intricated in the labarinthe of my vnbrideled will, as the more I doe aspire to the better (alas) the worsse I am. Haue not I good cause to complaine my Lorde, that after so manye famous victories achieued by Sea and Lande, wherewith I haue renowmed the memorie of my name in all places, am now bound and daunted with an appetite so outragious, as I can not helpe my selfe, whereby myne owne life, or rather death, is consumed in suche anguishe and mortall paine, as I am become the very mansion of all mischiefs, and onely receptacle of all miseries? What sufficient excuse for my fault may I henceforth alleage, that in the end will not display it to be both vnprofitable and voyde of reason? But what shall be the buckeler of my shame, if not my youthly age, which pricketh me forewarde to loue like a sharpe nedle, the force whereof I haue so ofte repelled, as nowe being vanquished, I haue no place for rest, but in thy mercy, who in my father’s dayes diddest liberally spende thy bloud, in manye notable enterprises in his seruice, whiche afterwardes thou haste so well continued, that in many daungerous affaires, I haue diuers times proued the fidelitie of thy counsell, whereby I haue brought to passe thinges of great importaunce, and therein hitherto neuer founde thee slacke and vnfaythfull. Whiche when I remember doe prouoke me to be bolde to declare vnto you mine entent, whiche by youre onely worde you may procure, the fruite whereof being gotten, you shall winne the heart of a king, to be vsed as you liste for euer. And the more the thing shal seeme harde, difficult or painefull, the greater shall your merite be, and the more firmely shall he be bounde, whiche doth receive it. Consider then my Lorde, howe profitable it is, to haue a king at your commaundement. You haue also foure sonnes, whom you cannot honourably aduaunce with out my fauour: swearing unto you by my regall Scepter, that if you comfort me in these my troubles, I will endue the three yongest with so large possessions, as they shall haue no cause to be offended with their eldest brother. Remember likewyse, what 347 rewardes I haue bestowed vpon them that serue me. And if you haue knowen how liberall I haue bene towardes other, thinke then I praye you, how bountifully you bynde me towardes you, vpon whome my life and deathe dependeth.” The king ending his sorowfull complainte, stopped by sobbes and sighes, helde his peace. And the Earle who tenderly loued his Prince, hearing this pitifull discourse, (the faithfull witnesse of his inward passion) and not able to coniecture the occasion, was maruellously troubled in him selfe, and without longer aduise, ouercome with pitie, he made a liberall and very sodayne offer to the king of his life, his children, and of all that he was able to doe. “Commaunde, my soueraigne Lorde (quod he with weaping teares) what it shall please you to haue me doe, if it be, euen to bestowe my life for your sake. For by the faithe and fealtie that I do owe to God and to your grace, I sweare, that many dayes and yeares paste, I haue bound my selfe inuiolably, and all mine abilitie without exception, so long as this tongue is able to sturre, and breathe shall remaine within this bodye, faithfully and truely to serue your maiestie, not onely for that dutie bindeth me, but if it were for your sake, to transgresse and exceede the bondes of mine honour.” But the good olde Earle, whiche neuer thought that a request so vniust and dishonest would haue proceeded out of the mouth of a king, with franke and open harte made that liberall offer. The king then hauing sounded the depth of the Earle’s affection, chaunging colour, his eyes fixed on the grounde, sayde vnto him: “Your doughter the Countesse of Sarisburie, (my Lorde) is the onely medicine of my trauayles, whome I doe loue better than mine owne life, and doe feele my selfe so inflamed with her heauenly beautie, as without her grace and fauour I am not able hereafter to liue: for this consideration, sith you desire to doe me seruice, and to preserue my life, I praye you to deale with her, that she with compassion may looke vpon me. Crauiug this request at your handes, not without extreme shame, considering as well your honorable state, as your auncient merites imploied vpon me and my progenitours: but according to your modestie and accustomed goodnesse, impute the faulte vpon amorous loue, which in such wise hath alienated 348 my libertie, and confounded my heart, that now ranging out of the boundes of honour and reason, I feele my selfe tormented and vexed in mynde. Whereby I am prouoked to make this request, and not able to expel the mortall poyson out of my hart, which hath diminished my force, intoxicated my sense, and hath depriued my minde from all good counsell, as I can not tell what to doe but to seeke to you for helpe, hauing no kinde of rest but when I see her, when I speake of her, or thinke vppon her. And I am at this present reduced into so pitiful plight as being not able to wynne her by intreaties, offers, presentes, sutes, ambassages and letters, my onely and last refuge and assured port of all my miseries, resteth in you, either by death to ende my life, or by force to obtayne my desire.” The Earle hearing the vnciuile and beastly demaunde of his soueraigne Lorde, blushing for shame, and throughly astonned, filled also with a certaine honest and vertuous disdayne, was not able to dissolue his tongue to render a worthy aunswere to the afflicted Prince. Finally, like one awaked from his dead sleepe, he said vnto him: “Sir, my wittes fayle, my vertue reuolteth, my tongue is mute, at the wordes that proceede from you, whereby I fele my selfe brought into two straunge and perillous pointes, as passing either by one or other, I must nedes fall into very great daunger. But to resolue vpon that which is most expedient, hauing geuen vnto you my faithe in pledge, to succour and helpe you euen to the abandoning of honor and life, I will not be contrarie to my woordes. And touching my daughter, for whom you make request, I will reueale vnto her the effecte of your demaunde: yet of one thing I must tell you, sir, power I haue to entreate her, but none at all to force her. Inough it is that she vnderstand of me, what hart and affection you beare vnto her. But I doe maruell, yea and complaine of you, pardon me (most drad soueraigne) and suffer me without offence to discharge my grief before your presence, rather than to your shame and mine eternal infamie, it should be manifested and published abrode by other. I say, that I maruell, sir, what occasion moued you to commit such reproch in my stock and bloud, and by an act so shamefull and lasciuious, to dishonour 349 the same: whiche neuer disdained to serue both you and yours, to the vttermost of their powers. Alas, vnhappy father that I am, is this the guerdon and recompence that I and my children shall expect for our trusty and faithfull seruice? O sir, for God’s sake, if you liste not to be liberall of your owne, seke not to dishonour vs, and to inflict vpon our race such notable infamie. But who can loke for worse at the handes of his mortall and cruell enemie? It is you, euen you it is (most noble Prince) that doth rauishe my daughter’s honor, dispoyle me of my contentation, ye take from my children hardinesse to shewe their faces, and from all our whole house, the auncient fame and glorie. It is you that doth obscure the clearenesse of my bloud, with an attempt so dishonest and detestable, as the memorie thereof shall neuer be forgotten. It is you that doth constraine me to be the infamous minister of the totall destruction of my progenie, and to be a shamelesse Pandarus of my daughter’s honor. Doe you thinke to helpe and succour me, when others shall attempt to obiect vnto my face this slaunder and reproche? but if your selfe doe hurt me, where shall I hereafter seke reliefe and succour. If the hande which ought to helpe me, be the very same that doth giue me the wounde, where shall the hope bee of my recouerie? For this cause, may it please your maiestie, whether iustlie I do make my complainte, and whether you geue me cause to aduaunce my cries vp into the heauens, your selfe shall be the iudge: for, if like a iudge in deede you doe geue ouer your disordinate affection, I then appeale to the iudgement of your inuincible minde, of late accomplished with all curtesie and gentlenesse. On the other side, I doe lament your fortune, when I thinke vpon the reasons which you haue alleaged, and the greater cause I haue to plaine, because I haue knowen you from your youth, and haue alwayes deemed you at libertie and free from such passions, not thral or subiect to the flames of loue, but rather geuen to exercise of armes. And nowe seing you to become a prisoner of an affection vnworthy your estate, I can not tell what to thinke, the noueltie of this sodain chaunce semeth to be so straunge. Remember sir, that for a litle suspicion of adulterie, you caused Roger Mortimer to be put to death. And 350 (being skarce able to tell it without teares) you caused your owne mother miserablie to die in pryson: and God knoweth howe simple your accusations were, and vpon howe light ground your suspicion was conceived. Do not you knowe howe wounderfully you be molested with warres, and that your enemies, trauell day and night to circumuent you, both by Sea and Lande? Is it nowe tyme then to geue your selfe to delightes, and to captiuate your mynde in the pleasures of Ladies? Where is the auncient generositie and nobilitie of your bloud? Wher is magnanimitie and valour, wherewith you haue astonned your eunemies, shewed your selfe amiable to your frends, and wonderfull to your subiects? Touching the last point, wherin you threaten, that if my doughter doe not agree to your desire, you will forcibly enioye her, I can neuer confesse that to be the fact of a valiaunt and true king, but of a vile, cowardly, cruell and libidinous Tryaunt. I trust it be not the pleasure of God, that nowe at the age you be of, you wil begin to force Gentlewomen that be your humble subiects, which if you do, this iland shall lose the name of a Realme, and hereafter shalbe deemed none other, but a sanctuarie of theues and murderers. If then, (to conclude this my sorowefull and heauie complaint) you may, or can by your flatteries, promisses and presentes, allure my doughter to your vnbrideled appetites, I shall haue occasion to bewayle her dishonestie, and to deeme her, as an incontinent daughter, degenerated from the vertues of her progenitors. But touching your owne persone, I haue nothing to saye, but that herein you doe followe the common sort of men, that be sutors to Ladies, willing to please their fansies. There resteth onely nowe for me to aunswere the fauour, whiche in time to come you promise to me and my children: I couet not after any thing reprochfull to me or them, or to any of our posteritie, that may make vs ashamed, knowing in what contempt and reputation they be, which being borne of base parentage, be arriued to goods and honour, by gratifying and obeying Princes and kinges in their dishonest lustes and appetites. Remember sir, that within these fewe dayes, being in campe against the Scottes, you vpbrayded a certaine man (which shalbe namelesse) for being a minister of your father’s loue, who 351 from the state of a barber, was aduaunced to the degree of an Earle, and how you sayd, that if in time to come he amended not his manners, you would sende him to the shop againe. And for my part, I am of opinion, that honest pouertie hath euer bene the auncient and greatest inheritaunce amonges the noble Romaines, which if it be condemned by the ignoraunt multitude, and if we therefore should geue place, making greater accompt and estimation of richesse and treasures, then of vertue: I doe say for mine own part, that by the grace of God, I am abundantly prouided, for the maintenance of me and mine, not like an ambicious man or couetous, but as one satisfied with the good wil of fortune. I do most humbly then besech you (sir) for conclusion, to take in good parte, that which my dutie and honour do constraine me to speake. And so by your grace’s leaue, I will departe towarde my daughter, to let her vnderstande from point to point your maiestie’s pleasure.” And without tarying for other replie of the kyng, he went his way discoursing diuers thinges in his minde, vpon that which had passed betwene the king and him. The reasons which the Earle had made, so pearced the affections of the passionate Prince, as vncertaine what to saye, he condemned himselfe, knowing verie well, that the Earle not only vpon right and iust cause, had pronounced these wordes: but also that he had done the office of a faithfull seruaunt and trustie counseller, in such sort, as feling his conscience touched at the quicke, he could not excuse himself from committing a dishonest charge to a father so commendable and vertuous in the behalfe of his daughter. Thus he determined to chaunge his opinion. Afterwardes when he had throwen forth many sighes, hee spake these wordes to himselfe. “O miserable man, cut of this amorous practise, howe arte thou defrauded of right sense to cast thy mynd vpon her, whom thou oughtest to vse with such reuerence as thou wouldest doe thine own proper sister, for the seruice which thou and thy progenitors haue receiued of the good Earle her father? Open the eyes of thine vnderstanding and knowe thy selfe, geue place to reason, and reforme thy vnshamefull and disordinate appetites. Resist with al thy power this wanton will which doth enuiron thee. 352 Suffer not this tyraunt loue to bewitch or deceiue thee.” Sodainly after he had spoken those wordes, the beautie of the Countesse representing it self before his eyes, made him to alter his minde again, and to reiect that which he before allowed, saying thus: “I feele in minde the cause of mine offence, and thereby doe acknowledge the wrong, but what shall I doe? sithe I am not able any longer to withstande beautie, that cruell murderer, whiche doth force and maister me so much? Let fortune then and loue doe what they list, the faire Countesse shalbe myne, whatsoeuer come of it. Is it a notable vice in a king to loue his subiecte’s daughter? Am I the first vpon whome such inconuenience hath come?” This talke ended, he deluded himself, and thinking vpon the contrary, he accused himself again, and then from this he altered again to the other. And being in this perplexitie, he passed daye and night, with such anguish and dolor, as euery man doubted his health: and floting thus betwene hope and dispaire, he resolued in thend to attend the father’s answere. The Earle then being gone out of the king’s chambre, aggrauated with sorowfull thoughtes, full of rage and discontent, thought good to delay the matter till the next day, before he spake to his daughter: and then calling her vnto him, and causing her to sit against him, he reasoned the matter in such wise. “I am assured, deare daughter, that you will no lesse maruell than be astonned to heare what I shal say vnto you, and so much the more, when you doe see, how farre my tale shall exceade the order of Reason. But for so much as of twoo euils the least is to be chosen, I doubt not, but like a sage and wise woman, which I haue alwayes knowen you to be, you will stay vpon that whiche I haue determined. Touching my self, sith it hath pleased God to geue me knowledge of good and il, hitherto I haue still preferred honour before life, bicause (after mine opinion) it is a lesse matter to die innocently, than to liue in dishonour and shame of the worlde. But you know what libertie he hath, which is vnder the power of another, being sometime constrayned to make faire weather of thinges not onely cleane contrarie to his mynde, but also (which is worse) against his owne conscience, being oftentymes forced according to the qualitie 353 of the tyme, and pleasure of the state, to chaunge his maners, and to put on newe affections. Whereof I haue thought good to put you in remembraunce, because it toucheth the matter, whiche I purpose to tell you. Thus it is (deare daughter) that yesterday after dynner, the kyng sent for mee, and being come before him, with a very instant and pitiful prayer, he required me (his eyes full of teares) to doe a thing for hym that touched his life. I whiche (besides that I am his subiect and seruaunt) haue alwayes borne a particuler affection to his father and him, without deliberation what the matter should be, betrothed to him my faith to obey his request, if it coste me the price of mine honour and life. He assuring himselfe of my liberall promise, after many wordes ioyned with an infinite number of sighes, discouering vnto me the secrete of his harte, told me, that the torment which he indured, proceded no where els but of the feruent loue that he bare vnto you. But, O immortall God, what man of any discretion would haue thought that a king could be so impudent and vnshamefast, as to committe to a father a charge so dishonest towardes his own daughter?” The Earle hauing recited in order the historie past betwene hym and the kyng, sayde thus vnto her: “Consider you, swete daughter, myne vnaduised and simple promisse, and the vnbrideled mynde of an amorous kyng, to whome I made aunswere, that intreate you thereunto I was able, but force you I coulde not. For this cause (deare daughter) I doe praye you at this instant to obeye the kynge’s pleasure, and thereby to make a present by your father of your honest chastitie, so dearely estemed and regarded by you, specially, that the thing may so secretly be done as the fault be not bruted in the eares of other. Neuerthelesse, the choyse resteth in you, and the key of your honour is in your own hands, and that which I haue sayde vnto you, is but to kepe promise with the king.” The Countesse all the while that her father thus talked, chaunged her colour with a comly shamefastnesse, inflamed with a vertuous disdaine, that he whiche had behold her then, would haue thought her rather some celestial goddesse than a humaine creature: and after long silence, with an humble grauitie she began thus to make her aunswere: “Your wordes haue so confounded me, and 354 brought me into such admiration (my Lorde and right honourable father) that if all the partes of my bodie were conuerted into tongues, they could not bee sufficient worthely to expresse the least part of my sorrowe and disquietnesse: and truely very iustly may I complayne of you, for the litle estimation you haue of me, which am deriued of your owne fleshe: and for the ransome of the fraile and transitorie life which you haue geuen me vpon earth, you wyll for recompence nowe defraude me of myne honour: whereby I do perceiue that not onely al nature’s lawes be cancelled and mortified in you, but which is worse, you doe exceede therin the cruelties of beastes, who for all their brutishenesse be not so vnnatural to do wrong to their owne yong, or to offer their fruite to the mercie of an other, as you haue done yours to the pleasure of a Kyng: for notwithstandynge the straight charge and aucthoritie whiche you haue ouer mee, to commaunde me being your right humble and very obedient daughter, yet you oughte to thinke and remember, that you haue neuer seene in mee any acte, mocion, signe, or woorde, to incite you to moue sutch dishonest talk. And although the king many times, with infinite number of prayers, presentes, messages and other such allurementes of persuasion hath displayed and vttered all the art of his mynde to seduce and corrupt me, yet he was neuer able to receiue other aunswere of me, but that honor was a thousand times derer vnto me then life, which still I meant to kepe secret from your knowledge euen as I haue done from other of mine aliaunce, for feare least you should be induced to commit some trespas, or conspire against our king, foreseing the straunge accidentes whiche haue chaunced for like matters, to the ruine of many cities and prouinces. But, good God, my doubt is nothing to purpose, sithe that your selfe is the shamelesse post of an act so dishonest: and to conclude in fewe wordes, daily I had good hope, that the king seing me at a point still to conserue my chastitie inuiolable he would give ouer to pursue me any longer, and would haue suffered me hereafter to liue in quiet with mine equals, but if so be he doe continue obstinate in his olde folly, I am determined rather to die, than to doe the thing that shall hurt me and pleasure him: and for feare that he take from me by force 355 that which of mine owne accord I will not graunt, following your counsell, of twoo euilles I will chose the least, thinking it more honourable to destroy and kill my selfe with mine own handes, then to suffer such blot or shame to obscure the glorie of my name, being desirous to committe nothing in secrete, that sometime hereafter being published, may make me ashamed and chaunge colour. And wher you say that you haue sworne and gaged your faith to the king, for the assuraunce of your promise, it was very ill done, before you did consider, what power fathers haue ouer their children, whiche is so well defined by the lawe of God, as they be not bound to their parentes in that which is against his deuine commaundementes: much lesse may they bynde vs to things incestuous and dishonest, which specially and straightly be inioyned vs not to perfourme, if we therunto be required: and it had bene farre more decent, and excusable before God, if when you made that foolyshe promise to the kyng you had promised him, rather to strangle mee with youre owne handes, than to consent to let me fall into a faulte so abhominable: and to thend I may tell you the last determination, and conclusion of that whiche I am determined by good aduise and immutable counsell: thus it is. You shall tell the king, that I had rather lose my life after the moste cruell and shameful maner that may be deuised, then to consent to a thing so dishonest, hauing long time fixed this saying in mind, ‘That honest death doth honor and beautifie the forepassed life.’” The father hearing the wise aunswere of his daughter, gaue her his blessing, in his hart praysing her godly minde, beseching God to helpe her and to kepe her vnder his protection, and to confirme her in that holy and vertuous determination. Then feling him greatly comforted, he repaired to the king, to whom he said: “Pleaseth your grace, to thintent I might obserue my promise, I sweare by the faith that I doe owe vnto God and you, that I haue done what I can with my daughter, disclosing vnto her your whole minde and pleasure, and exhorting her to satisfy your request, but for a resolute aunswere she saith, that rather she is contented to suffer most cruel death than to commit a thing so contrarie to her honour. You know (sir) what I sayd vnto you still, that I might entreate her, 356 but force her I could not: hauing then obeied your commaundement, and accomplished my promise, it may please you to geue me leaue to go home to one of my Castels, from henceforth to recline my selfe to quietnesse, and to ease my decrepite and feeble age.” Which the king willingly graunted. The same daye hee departed from the Courte with his sonnes and went home to his Countrie, leauing at London his wife and daughter and the reste of his housholde, thinking therby to discharge himself of those thinges with out the kinge’s displeasure. The king on the other side was no soner aduertised of the Earle’s departure, and that he had left his daughter behinde him at London, but he knew the father’s minde and purpose, and fell in suche dispaire of his loue, as he was like to haue runne out of his wittes for sorrowe. The nightes and dayes were all one to him, for hee could take no rest, he gaue ouer vse of armes and administration of iustice, hunting and hauking, wherin before that time he had great delight: and all his study was many times to passe and repasse before the gate of the Countesse, to proue if he might attaine to haue some sight of her: and thinges were brought to so pitifull state, that within fewe dayes the citizens and other gentlemen began to perceiue the raging loue of their Prince, euery of them with common voice blaming the crueltie of the Countesse that was vnmarried, who the more she proued the king inflamed with her loue, the more squeymish she was of her beautie. The peres and noble men seing their king reduced to such extremitie, moued with pitie and compassion, began secretly to pratise for him, some with threatninges, some with flatteries and persuasions: some went to the mother, declaring vnto her the eternall rest and quiet prepared for her and all her friendes, if she would persuade her daughter to encline to the kinge’s mind, and contrariwyse the daunger iminent ouer her head. But all these deuises were in vayne, for the Countesse moued no more then a harde rocke beaten with diuerse tempestes: and at lengthe seing that euery man spake diuersly, as their affections ledde them, shee was so troubled and pensife in harte, as fearing to bee taken, and that the kyng vanquished with his strong passion, by succession of tyme would vse his force, and violentlye oppresse her, founde meanes to get a great sharpe knife, whiche 357 she caried about her secretly vnder her gowne, of purpose, that if she sawe perill to be defloured, shee might kill her selfe. The Courtiers offended with the martyrdome of their master, and desyrous to gratifie and seeke meanes to doe hym pleasure, conspyred all against the Earle’s familie, lettyng the kynge to vnderstande that it were most expedient, for that thinges were out of hope, to cause Ælips to be brought to his Palace, that there he might vse her by force. Wherunto the king (being dronke in his own passion) did willingly agree: notwithstanding, before hee passed any further, for that hee faithfully loued the Countesse, he determined to aduertise her mother of that whiche he intended to doe, and commaunded his Secretarie to go seke her with diligence, and without concealing any thing from her knowledge, to instructe her of the whole. The Secretarie finding the mother of the countesse, said vnto her: “Madame, the king hath willed me to say vnto you that he hath done what he can, and more then his estate requireth, to win the grace and loue of your daughter, but for that she hath despised his long sute, disdained his presence, and abhorred his griefes and complaintes, knowing not what to do any more, his last refuge is in force, doing you to vnderstande hereof, to the intent that you and shee may consider what is to be done in this behalf: for he hath determined whether you will or no, to fetch her out openly by force, to the great dishonour, slaunder and infamie of al your kinne. And where in time past, he hath loued and fauoured the Earle your husband, he meaneth shortly to make him vnderstand what is the effect of the iust indignation of such a Prince as he is.” The good Lady hearing this sodaine and cruell message, was astonned in such wise, as she thought how she sawe her daughter already trained by the heares of her head, her garmentes haled and torne in pieces, with rufull and lamentable voyce crying out to him for mercy: for this cause with blubbering teares, trembling for feare, she fell down at the Secretarie’s feete, and straightlye imbracing his knees, sayde vnto hym: “Maister Secretarie, my deare louing friend: beseche the king in my name to remember the payne and seruice done by our auncestours. Intreate him not to dishonoure my house in the absence of the Earle my husbande: and if you be not able by your perswasion 358 to molifie his hard hart, desire him for a while to take pacience, vntill I haue aduertised my daughter of his will and pleasure, whom I hope to perswade, that shee shall satisfie the kinge’s request.” When she had made this aunswere, the Secretary declared the same to the kinge, who madde with anger and passioned with loue, was content, and neuerthelesse commaunded his gentlemen to be in readinesse to seeke the Countesse. In the meane time the mother of faire Ælips went to her daughter’s chamber, and after she had commaunded all her maids, which accompanied her, to withdraw themselues out of the chamber, shee began in few woordes to recite vnto her the message done vnto her by the Secretary: finally with sobbinge sighes she said vnto her: “The dayes haue been (deare daughter) that I haue seene thee to keepe thy state amonges the chiefeste of all the Ladies of this Realme: and I haue counted my self most happie that euer I did beare the in my wombe, and haue thoughte, by meanes of thy beautie and vertue, one day to see thee become the ioye and comfort of all thy frendes: but now my cogitacions be turned cleane contrary, through thine vnluckie fate: nowe I thincke thee to be borne not onely for the vniuersall ruine of all oure familie, but also (which greeueth me most) to be an occasion and instrument of my death, and desolation of all thy frendes: but if thou wilt somewhat moderate thy rygor all this heauines shortly may be tourned to ioye: for our king and soueraign Lorde is not onely in loue with thee, but for the ardent affection and amitie that he beareth thee, is out of his wittes, and now doth conspire against vs, as though we were traytors and murderers of our Prince: in whose handes (as thou knowest) doth rest the life, honor and goods both of thy selfe and of vs all: and what glory and triumphe shall be reported of thee to our posterity, when they shal know how by thy obstinate crueltie, thou haste procured the death of thine old father, the death of thy hooreheaded mother, and the destruction of thy valiaunt and coragious brethren, and dispoyled the rest of thy bloud of their possessions and abilitie? But what sorrowe and griefe will it be, to see them wander in the world like vagabounds banished from their liuings, and remaine in continuall pouertie, without place and refuge of their miserie? who in steede of blessing 359 or praysinge the houre of thy birth, will cursse the in their minds a thousand times, as the cause of all their ouerthrow and ill fortune. Thinke and consider vpon the same (deare daughter) for in thee alone resteth the conseruacion of our liues, and hope of all our frendes.” This lamentable discourse ended, the afflicted Countesse not able anye longer to resiste that pangue, began to waxe so faint as wyth her armes a crosse she fell downe halfe deade vpon her doughter: who seinge her without mouinge and without any apparaunce of life, and all the partes of her bodye to waxe cold, she quicklye layde her downe, and then with helpe and other thinges apt for sowninges, shee made her come to herselfe againe, and thinking wholy to recouer her, she earnestly promised to do what she would haue her, saying vnto her: “Do awaye your teares (Madame) moderate your tormentes, reuoke your former ioye, and be of good cheere, for I am disposed to obey you. God defende that I should be the cause of the paine which I see you to suffer: nowe am I ready to goe with you to the kinge, where if it shall please you, wee two withoute other company will do our owne errande and attempt the beginning of our enterprise.” The mother full of ioye, lifting vp her hands to the heauens, tenderly embraced her daughter, and manye times did kisse her, and after shee had commaunded her Coche to be made readye, she wente forth with her doughter, accompanied onelye with two Gentlewomen to the kinge’s Palace. Being come thither, they sente worde to the Secretary, that brought her the message, who conducted them to the kinge’s chamber, and presenting them before him, sayde: “Syr, beholde the companye which you haue so long time desired: who are come to do your grace humble reuerence.” The king greatly astonied, went forth to meete them, and with ioyful countinaunce saide: “Welcome, Lady Countesse, and your long desired company. But what good fortune hath broughte you hither nowe?” The Countesse hauing made her obeysance, yet all frighted with feare, aunswered him: “Beholde here my Lorde your fayre Ælips so long time wished for, who taking repentaunce for her former cruelty and rigor, is come to render herselfe at your commaundement.” Then the king beholding the yong Countesse tremblinge for feare, like a leafe shaken with the winde (with her 360 eyes fixed on the grounde) approching neer her, toke her by the hande, and kissing her, sayd: “Welcome, my life and soule.” But she no more moued than a fierce lion enuironed with cruell beastes, stood still and helde her peace, her harte so constrayned for sorrow and despite, as she was not able to aunsweare a word. The kinge who thoughte that such passion proceeded of shame, commaunded the Gentlewomen, that were in her company, to departe the chamber, sauing the mother which broughte her to the entrie of his chamber, who withdrawing herselfe backe, left her to the mercy of loue and the kinge. So sone as the king was entred the chamber he shutte the doore after him. Which Ælips perceiuinge beganne to feele a furious combate betweene her honour and life, fearing to be defloured, and seing her abandoned of al humaine succour, falling downe prostrate at his feete, she sayd vnto him: “Gracious and redoubted Prince, sithe my heauy fortune hath broughte mee hither, like an innocente Lambe to the sacrifice, and that my parents amazed through your furie, are become rauishers of me against my will, and contrary to the duety of their honor, haue deliuered me into your handes, I humbly beseech your maiestie, if there remaine in your noble personage any sparke of vertue and Princely affection, before you passe any further to satisfy your desire, to let me proue and vnderstande by effecte, if your loue be such, as oftentimes by letters and mouth you haue declared vnto me. The requeste which I will make vnto you shall be but easie, and yet shall satisfie mee more than all the contentacion of the world. Otherwise (sir) doe not thinke that so longe as my life doth continue, I am able to do that which can contente your desire. And if my sute shall seeme reasonable, and grounded vppon equitie, before I doe open and declare the same more at large, assure the performaunce thereof vnto me by oth.” The king hearing her prayer to be so reasonable, wherunto rather then to refuse it, he swore by his Scepter, taking God to witnesse and all the heauenly powers for confirmacion of that which he pretended to promise: saide vnto her: “Madame, the onely maistresse and keper of my louing harte, sith of your grace and curtesie you haue vouchsafed to come vnto my Palace, to make request of my onely fauoure and good will, 361 which now I irreuocably do consent and graunt, swearing vnto you by that honourable sacramente of Baptism, whereby I was incorporated to the Church of God, and for the loue that I beare you (for greater assuraunce I cannot giue) I will not refuse any thing, that is in my power and abilitie, to the intent you may not be in doubt whether I do loue you, and intend hereafter to imploy my selfe to serue and pleasure you: for otherwyse I should falsify my faith, and more feruently I cannot bind my selfe if I shoulde sweare by all the othes of the worlde.” The fayre Countesse sitting still vpon her knees, although the king many times prayed her to rise vp, reuerently toke the king by the hand, saying: “And I do kisse this royal hand for loyall testimonie of the fauour which vour grace doth shew me.” Then plucking out a sharpe knife, which was hidden under her kirtle, all bathed and washed in teares, reclining her pitifull eyes towardes the king, that was appalled with that sight, she said vnto him: “Sir, the gift that I require, and wherfore your faith is bound, is this. I most humblie desire you, that rather then to dispoile me of mine honour, with the sworde girded by your side, you do vouchsafe to ende my life, or to suffer me presently, with this sharpe pointed knife in my hand to thrust it to my hart, that mine innocent bloud, doing the funerall honour, may beare witnesse before God of my vndefiled chastity, as being vtterly resolued honourablie to die. And that rather then to lose mine honoure, I may murther my selfe before you wyth this blade and knife in present hand.” The king burning with amorous heate, beholding this pitifull spectacle, and consideringe the inuincible constancie and chastitie of the Countesse, vanquished by remorse of conscience, ioyned with like pitie, taking her by the hand, said: “Rise vp Lady, and liue from henceforth assured: for I will not ne yet pretende all the dayes of my life, to commit any thing in you against your will.” And plucking the knife out of her hand, exclaimed: “This knife hereafter shall bee the pursiuant before God and men of this thine inexpugnable chastitie, the force whereof wanton loue was not able to endure, rather yelding place to vertue, which being not alienated from me, hath made me at one instant victorious ouer my selfe, which by and by I will make you to vnderstande 362 to your greate contentacion and greater maruel. For assuraunce wherof I desire none other thing of you, but a chaste kisse.” Which receyued, hee opened the doore and caused the Countesse to come in with the Secretarie and the gentlewomen, and the same time hee called also the Courtiers and Piers of the Realme, which were then in the base Court of the Palace, among whom was the Archbishop of Yorke, a man of great reputacion and singuler learning, to whom with the knife in his hand he recited particulerly the discourse of his loue: and after he toke the Countesse by the hande, and sayde vnto her: “Madame, the houre is come that for recompence of your honest chastity and vertue, I wil and consent to take you to wife, if you thincke good.” The Countesse hearinge those wordes began to recoloure her bleake and pale face with a vermilion teinte and roseal rudde, and accomplished with incredible delight and ioye, falling downe at his feete, said vnto him “My Lord, for asmuch as I neuer loked to be aduaunced to so honourable state as fortune nowe doth offer, for merite of a benefit so high and great which you present vnto me, vouchsauing to abase your selfe to the espousal of so poore a Lady, your maiesties pleasure being such, behold me ready at your commaundement.” The king taking her vp from kneeling on the ground, commaunded the Bishop to pronounce with highe voice the vsual words of Matrimonie. Then drawing a riche Diamond from his finger hee gaue it to the Countesse, and kissing her, saide: “Madame, you be Queene of England, and presently I doe giue you thirty thousande angells by the yeare for your reuenew. And the Duchie of Lancaster being by confiscation fallen into my hands, I guie also vnto you, to bestowe vppon your selfe and your frends.” Al which inrolled according to the maner of the countrie, the king (accomplishing the mariage) rewarded the Countesse for the rigorous interestes of his so long loue, with suche hap and content as they may iudge which haue made assay of like pleasure, and recouered the fruite of so long pursute. And the more magnificentlye to solemnize the mariage, the kinge assembled all the Nobilitie of Englande, and somoned them to be at London the first day of July then folowinge, to beautifie and assist the Nupcialles and coronation of the Queene. Then he sente for the 363 father and brethren of the Queene, whom he embraced one after an other, honouring the Earle as his father, and his sonnes as his brethren, wherof the Earle wonderfully reioysed, seinge the conceyued hope of his daughter’s honour sorted to so happie effecte, as well to the perpetual fame of him and his, as to the euerlasting aduauncement of his house. At the appointed day the Queene was broughte from her father’s house apparelled with Royall vestures, euen to the Palace, and conducted with an infinite nomber of Lords and Ladies to the Church, where when seruice was done, the kinge was maried (againe) openly, and the same celebrated, shee was conueyed vp into a publike place, and proclamed Queene of England, to the exceedinge gratulacion and ioye incredible of all the subiectes.
The letter, written in his own hand and sealed with his seal, he instructed the Secretary to deliver it secretly to the Countess at her father's house. After reading it, the Countess said to the Secretary, “My friend, please tell the king that I humbly beg him not to send me any more letters or messages regarding his previous writings. I am firmly resolved to stick to the answer I gave him in my castle for the rest of my life.” When the Secretary returned to the king with the Countess's response, the king, filled with impatient and extreme anger, wanted to make another attempt. Gradually consumed by his passionate feelings, he began to go beyond the limits of reason. Almost out of his mind, he asked the Secretary, “Do you think it wise to approach her father when I need his counsel for other matters?” The Secretary boldly replied that it was unreasonable to seek help from a father to corrupt his daughter, honestly telling the king of the shame and infamy that would follow such actions, for both her father's loyal service to the king's ancestors and his great prowess in arms for which he was so highly regarded. But love, the mortal enemy of all good judgment, so blinded the king that without any further thought, he ordered the Secretary to seek her father to ask for his advice on important matters. The Earl, upon hearing this, immediately complied. When the king was alone in a room lying on a bed, he commanded the Earl to close the door and sit beside him, and then said these words: “My lord, I have called you here for a reason that touches me very closely, as much as the loss or preservation of my life. I have never been so disturbed by fate (the sharpness of which I have often felt) as I am now. I am so tormented by my passions that, having been overcome by them, I have no other refuge but a most wretched death that anyone could suffer unless I receive help immediately. Therefore, know that I consider only him happy who can govern his senses by reason, not allowing himself to be carried away by vain desires. In this respect, we differ from beasts, which, being led solely by natural instincts, run headlong in whichever direction their appetites guide them; but we, using our reason, should moderate our actions with such foresight that we may choose the correct path of equity and justice without straying. If at any time weak flesh grows faint and gives in, we have no one to blame but ourselves, deceived by the fleeting shadows and false appearances of things, falling into the ditch of our own making. What I assert is not without clear reason, of which I now have experience, having let go of the reins of my bridle too far over my uncontrolled affections, being drawn from the righteous path and treacherously deceived. Nevertheless, I do not know how to turn back to find the right path or how to withdraw from that which harms me. Thus, now (unfortunate and miserable that I am), I acknowledge myself as one who follows his game in the depths of a forest, rushing through thick and thin without knowing how to find the way he entered, and the more he desires to follow the trail, the more he ends up entangled in the bushes. So, my lord, I cannot and must not, despite all my previous pleadings, color my fault or cleanse my error, except that I must confess and acknowledge it within myself. Yet I mention this so that, tracing the origin of my grief from a distance, you might help me complain and thereby take pity on me. To tell the truth, I am so entangled in the labyrinth of my uncontrolled will that the more I aspire to better things (alas) the worse I become. Have I not good reason to complain, my lord, that after so many glorious victories achieved by sea and land, with which I have glorified the memory of my name everywhere, I am now bound and daunted by such an outrageous appetite that I cannot help myself, leading my life, or rather my death, to be consumed in such anguish and mortal pain that I have become the very dwelling of all misfortunes and the sole receptacle of all miseries? What excuse can I possibly claim for my fault that in the end will not reveal it to be both unprofitable and devoid of reason? But what shall guard me from my shame if not my youth, which pricks me forward into love like a sharp needle? The strength of which I have so often rejected, but now being vanquished, I have no place to rest but in your mercy, who in my father's days generously spilled your blood in many notable enterprises in his service, which you have continued so well that in many dangerous affairs, I have often tested your loyalty through your counsel, with which I have accomplished great importance, and up to now, have never found you slack or unfaithful. Remembering this urges me to boldly declare to you my intentions, which with your sole word you can fulfill; the fruit of which, if obtained, will win you the heart of a king, to be used as you wish for eternity. The harder, more difficult, and painful the task seems, the greater your merit will be, and the more firmly bound will he be, who shall receive it. Consider then, my lord, how beneficial it is to have a king at your command. You also have four sons, whom you cannot honorably advance without my favor. I swear to you by my royal Scepter, that if you comfort me in these troubles, I will endow the three youngest with such ample possessions that they will have no cause to be offended by their eldest brother. Also, remember what rewards I have bestowed upon those who serve me. And if you know how generous I have been toward others, then please realize how bountifully you bind me to you, upon whom my life and death depend.” The king, finishing his sorrowful complaint, was interrupted by sobs and sighs, and fell silent. The Earl, who loved his prince dearly, hearing this pitiful narrative (the faithful witness of his inner turmoil) and unable to discern the cause, was exceedingly troubled within himself. Overcome with pity, he immediately made a generous and very sudden offer to the king of his life, his children, and all that he could do. “Command me, my sovereign lord,” he said with weeping tears, “to do what you wish of me, even to give my life for your sake. For by the faith and loyalty I owe to God and you, I swear that many days and years ago, I bound myself inviolably, and all my ability without exception, for as long as this tongue can stir, and breath remains within this body, faithfully and truly to serve your majesty. Not only out of duty, but if it were for your sake, to transgress and exceed the bonds of my honor.” But the good old Earl, who never imagined that such an unjust and dishonorable request would come from a king, made that generous offer with an open heart. The king, having gauged the depth of the Earl's affection, changing color, his eyes fixed on the ground, said to him: “Your daughter, the Countess of Salisbury, my lord, is the only medicine for my troubles, whom I love more than my life, and I feel myself so inflamed by her heavenly beauty that without her grace and favor, I cannot live hereafter. For this reason, if you wish to serve me and preserve my life, I ask you to deal with her so that she may compassionately look upon me. I make this request of you with great shame, considering both your honorable station and your ancient merits spent on me and my ancestors. But according to your modesty and accustomed goodness, attribute the fault to amorous love, which has so alienated my liberty and confounded my heart that now breaking the bounds of honor and reason, I feel tormented and vexed in mind. Thus, I am provoked to make this request, being unable to expel the mortal poison from my heart, which has diminished my strength, intoxicated my senses, and deprived my mind of all good counsel, leaving me unable to determine what to do but seek your help, finding no rest except when I see her, when I speak of her, or think upon her. I am presently reduced to such a pitiful state that, being unable to win her by pleas, offers, presents, petitions, ambassadors, and letters, my only and final refuge, and what remains after all my hardships, lies with you, either by death to end my life, or by force to obtain my desire.” The Earl, hearing the uncivil and beastly demand of his sovereign lord, blushing with shame, thoroughly astonished and filled with a certain honorable and virtuous disdain, was unable to articulate a worthy response to the afflicted prince. Finally, as if awakened from a deep sleep, he said to him: “Sir, my wits fail, my virtue revolts, my tongue is mute at your words, bringing me to two strange and perilous points, as passing either way, I must necessarily fall into great danger. But to resolve what is most expedient, having given you my faith in pledge to support and help you even at the cost of my honor and life, I will not contradict my words. And regarding my daughter, for whom you make this request, I will reveal to her the essence of your demand; yet I must tell you, sir, I have the power to entreat her but none to force her. It is sufficient that she understands from me the heart and affection you bear towards her. However, I marvel and complain about you, pardon me (most revered sovereign) and allow me to express my sorrow in your presence rather than that it should be manifested and published abroad by others, causing you both shame and my eternal infamy. I say that I marvel, sir, what occasion led you to commit such a reproach against my lineage and blood, and through an act so shameful and lascivious, to tarnish it: which my ancestors never disdained to serve both you and yours to the utmost of their powers. Alas, what an unhappy father I am! Is this the reward and recompense that my children and I can expect for our loyal and faithful service? O sir, for God’s sake, if you are not willing to be liberal with your own, do not seek to dishonor us or inflict such notorious infamy upon our lineage. But who can expect worse from the hands of a mortal and cruel enemy than what you, yes you (most noble prince), do to ravish my daughter’s honor, deprive me of my contentment, strip my children of the courage to show their faces, and from our entire house, the ancient fame and glory? It is you who shrouds the brightness of my blood with an act so dishonorable and detestable that the memory of it will never be forgotten. It is you who compels me to be the infamous agent of the total ruin of my progeny, and to be a shameless Pandarus regarding my daughter’s honor. Do you think you will help and assist me when others will bring this slander and reproach to my face? But if you yourself wound me, where shall I seek relief and succor afterward? If the very hand that ought to help me is the same that inflicts the wound, where is the hope for my recovery? For this reason, your majesty, it is for you to determine whether I justly make this complaint, and whether you give me cause to raise my cries to the heavens; you shall be the judge: for if, like a true judge, you give up your disordered affection, I shall then appeal to the judgment of your indomitable mind, recently endowed with all courtesy and gentleness. On the other hand, I lament your fortune upon contemplating the reasons you have cited, and the greater cause I have to complain because I have known you from your youth, and I have always considered you free and unshackled by such passions, not enslaved or subjected to the flames of love, but rather inclined to the exercise of arms. And now, seeing you become a prisoner of an affection unworthy of your station, I cannot tell what to think; the novelty of this sudden occurrence seems so strange. Remember, sir, that for a little suspicion of adultery, you had Roger Mortimer put to death. And (barely able to express it without tears) you caused your own mother to die miserably in prison: and God knows how simple your accusations were, and how trivial the grounds for your suspicions. Do you not see how wonderfully troubled you are by wars and that your enemies toil day and night to circumvent you, both by sea and land? Is it now time then to indulge in pleasures and to bind your mind in the delights of ladies? Where is the ancient generosity and nobility of your blood? Where is the magnanimity and courage with which you astonished your enemies, presented yourself amiable to your friends, and astonishing to your subjects? Regarding the last point, wherein you threaten that if my daughter does not acquiesce to your desire, you will forcibly enjoy her, I can never admit that to be the act of a valiant and true king, but that of a vile, cowardly, cruel, and lustful tyrant. I trust it is not the divine will that now, at your age, you will begin to force gentlewomen who are your humble subjects; if you do, this island will lose the title of a realm and will thereafter be deemed nothing more than a refuge for thieves and murderers. If then, (to conclude this my sorrowful and heavy complaint) you can, or will, through your flatteries, promises, and gifts, allure my daughter to your uncontrolled desires, I shall have cause to lament her dishonor and to deem her an indecent daughter, descended from the virtues of her ancestors. But regarding your own person, I have nothing to say except that herein you follow the common sort of men who are suitors to ladies, eager to please their whims. There remains for me only to respond to your promised favor for the future concerning me and my children: I covet not after anything that would bring reproach to me or them, or to any of our descendants that may bring us shame, knowing the contempt and reputation of those born of base parentage who arrive at wealth and honor by gratifying and obeying princes and kings in their dishonest desires and appetites. Remember, sir, that only a few days ago, while encamped against the Scots, you reproached a certain man (who shall remain nameless) for being a minister of your father’s love, who was promoted from the position of a barber to the rank of an Earl, and how you said that if he did not amend his ways in the future, you would send him back to the shop. And for my part, I believe that honest poverty has always been the ancient and greatest inheritance among the noble Romans; if it is condemned by the ignorant multitude, and if we should therefore yield, placing greater value on riches and treasures than on virtue, I say for my own part, that by the grace of God, I am abundantly provided for the maintenance of myself and mine, not as an ambitious or covetous man, but rather as one satisfied with the goodwill of fortune. I humbly beseech you, sir, in conclusion, to take in good part that which my duty and honor compel me to express. Thus, with your grace’s permission, I will depart towards my daughter to inform her point by point of your majesty’s wishes.” Without waiting for any further reply from the king, he departed, contemplating various matters in his mind regarding what had passed between the king and himself. The arguments made by the Earl so pierced the passions of the troubled prince that uncertain of what to say, he condemned himself, well aware that the Earl, not only justly and rightly, had pronounced these words, but also had performed the duty of a faithful servant and trusted advisor, touching his conscience so deeply that he could not excuse himself from committing a dishonorable charge to a father so commendable and virtuous on behalf of his daughter. Thus, he resolved to change his opinion. Afterward, having heaved many sighs, he spoke these words to himself: “O miserable man, cut off from this amorous pursuit, how are you deprived of right sense to cast your mind upon her, whom you ought to treat with the same reverence you would your own sister, for the service your family and ancestors have received from the good Earl, her father? Open the eyes of your understanding and know yourself, give way to reason, and reform your shameless and uncontrolled desires. Resist with all your strength this wanton will that surrounds you. Do not allow this tyrant love to bewitch or deceive you.” Suddenly, after he spoke these words, the beauty of the Countess presenting itself before his eyes made him alter his mind again and reject what he had accepted before, saying so: “I feel in my heart the cause of my offense, acknowledging the wrong, but what shall I do? Since I can no longer resist beauty, that cruel murderer, which forces and masters me so greatly? Let fortune then and love do as they will; the fair Countess shall be mine, whatever the outcome. Is it a notable vice in a king to love the daughter of his subject? Am I the first upon whom such inconvenience has befallen?” This thought ended, he deluded himself, and while contemplating the contrary, he accused himself again, and then from this he shifted back to the other. Being in this perplexity, he passed day and night in such anguish and sorrow that everyone doubted his health: and floating thus between hope and despair, he ultimately resolved to wait for the father’s answer. The Earl, having exited the king’s chamber, burdened with sorrowful thoughts, full of rage and discontent, decided to postpone the matter until the next day before speaking to his daughter. Then, calling her to him and causing her to sit before him, he reasoned the matter as follows: “I am sure, dear daughter, that you will be no less astonished than amazed to hear what I shall say unto you, especially when you see how far my tale exceeds the bounds of reason. But since of two evils the least is to be chosen, I doubt not that, like the wise woman I have always known you to be, you will agree with that which I have resolved. Concerning myself, since it has pleased God to give me knowledge of good and evil, I have always preferred honor to life, because (in my opinion) it is a lesser matter to die innocently than to live in dishonor and shame before the world. But you know the liberty he has who is under another's power, being sometimes compelled to make fair weather of things that are not only contrary to his desires, but also (which is worse) against his own conscience, often forced by the changes of time and the desires of the state to change his ways and adopt new affections. I thought it good to remind you of this since it touches upon the matter I intend to discuss. Thus it is, dear daughter, that yesterday after dinner, the king sent for me, and upon my arrival before him, with a very earnest and pitiful plea, he required me (his eyes filled with tears) to do something for him that touches his life. I, who (besides being his subject and servant) have always had a particular affection for him and his father, without deliberation on the matter promised to obey his request, if it cost me my honor and life. He, confident in my generous promise, after many words mingled with countless sighs, revealing to me the secret of his heart, told me that the torment he endured arose from the fervent love he bore towards you. But, O immortal God, what man of sense would have thought that a king could be so shameless and brazen as to entrust a father with such an outrageous charge concerning his own daughter?” The Earl, having recounted in order the events that had transpired between him and the king, said this to her: “Consider, sweet daughter, my unthoughtful and simple promise, and the uncontrolled mind of an amorous king, to whom I responded that I could entreat you about this, but I could not force you. For this reason (dear daughter), I ask you now to obey the king’s wishes, and thereby to make a present of your esteemed and cherished chastity, so highly valued by you, especially that this may be done so secretly that your fault is not reported in the ears of others. Nevertheless, the choice rests with you, and the key to your honor is in your own hands, and what I have said to you is merely to keep my promise to the king.” All the while that her father spoke in this manner, the Countess changed color with a modest shame, inflamed with virtuous disdain, so that one who beheld her then would have thought her more like a celestial goddess than a human being. After a long silence, with humble gravity, she began to respond: “Your words have so confounded me and brought me into such astonishment (my lord and revered father) that if all parts of my body were transformed into tongues, they could not sufficiently express even the least part of my sorrow and distress. Truly, you may justly be criticized for the little estimation you have of me, being derived from your own flesh: and for the ransom of the frail and fleeting life you have given me on earth, you now wish to deprive me of my honor. Thus, I perceive that not only all of nature’s laws are annulled and mortified in you, but which is worse, you even exceed the cruelties of beasts, who, despite their brutishness, are not so unnatural as to wrong their own young or to offer their own offspring to the mercy of another, as you have done yours to the pleasure of a king. For notwithstanding the strong obligation and authority you have over me to command me being your truly humble and obedient daughter, yet you ought to think and remember that you have never seen in me any act, motion, sign, or word that could incite you to engage in such dishonorable talk. And although the king has often, with countless prayers, gifts, messages, and other such means of persuasion, displayed and voiced the full extent of his efforts to seduce and corrupt me, he was never able to receive any other answer from me than that my honor was a thousand times dearer to me than life, which I still meant to keep hidden from your knowledge just as I have from others in my dealings, fearing that you might be tempted into a transgression or conspire against our king, foreseeing the strange events that could arise from such matters to the ruin of many cities and provinces. But, good God, my doubts are pointless, since you yourself are the shameless herald of such a dishonorable act: and to conclude in few words, I had hoped daily that the king, seeing me always inclined to uphold my unblemished chastity, would cease to pursue me any longer, and would have allowed me to live in peace with my equals. But if he insists obstinately on his foolishness, I am determined to die rather than to do that which shall harm me and please him; and fearing he might seize that which I will not grant of my own accord, following your counsel, of two evils I shall choose the lesser, believing it more honorable to destroy and kill myself with my own hands than to suffer such a blot or shame that obscures the glory of my name, being desirous to commit nothing in secret, which, when made known, would bring me shame and cause me to change color. And where you say that you have sworn and promised your faith to the king, you did very ill to do so without first considering what power fathers have over their children, which is so well defined by the law of God, as they are not bound to their parents in that which is against his divine commandments; much less can they bind us to incestuous and dishonest things, which especially and directly are forbidden to us to carry out, should we be required to do so. It would have been far more proper and excusable before God if, when you made that foolish promise to the king, you had promised him rather to strangle me with your own hands than to consent to let me fall into such an abominable fault. And to the end that I may tell you the final decision and conclusion of what I have determined by good advice and immutable council: thus it is. You shall tell the king that I would rather lose my life in the most cruel and shameful manner imaginable than consent to a thing so dishonorable, having long contemplated this saying in mind, ‘That an honest death honors and beautifies the preceding life.’” The father, hearing his daughter’s wise response, gave her his blessing, in his heart praising her noble spirit, beseeching God to help her and keep her under his protection, and to confirm her in that holy and virtuous determination. Then feeling greatly comforted, he went to the king, to whom he said: “Your grace, in order to keep my promise, I swear by the faith I owe to God and to you, that I have done what I could with my daughter, revealing to her your entire mind and pleasure and urging her to satisfy your request; but for a definite answer, she says she would rather endure the most cruel death than commit an act so contrary to her honor. You know, sir, what I told you before, that I could plead with her, but I could not force her; having then obeyed your command and fulfilled my promise, it may please you to allow me to return home to one of my castles, from henceforth to relax into peace and ease my decrepit and feeble age.” Which the king willingly granted. That same day he departed from court with his sons and returned home, leaving his wife and daughter and the rest of his household in London, thinking thereby to relieve himself of those things without incurring the king’s displeasure. On the other hand, the king was hardly informed of the Earl’s departure and that he had left his daughter behind in London when he learned of the father’s intentions and fell into such despair over his love that he nearly lost his wits for sorrow. The nights and days became all the same to him, for he could not find rest; he gave up the use of arms and the administration of justice, hunting and hawking, in which he had previously taken great pleasure: and all his attention was often to pace back and forth before the Countess’s door, trying to catch a glimpse of her: and matters were brought to such a pitiful state that within a few days, the citizens and other gentlemen began to perceive the raging love of their prince, each of them openly blaming the harshness of the unmarried Countess, who, the more she provoked the king inflamed by her love, the more she recoiled from her beauty. The peers and noblemen seeing their king reduced to such extremity, moved with pity and compassion, began secretly to conspire for him, some with threats, some with flatteries and persuasions: some approached the mother, declaring to her the eternal rest and peace prepared for her and all her friends, if she would persuade her daughter to yield to the king's wishes, and conversely the imminent danger over her head. But all these schemes were in vain, for the Countess was as unmoved as a hard rock battered by various storms: and finally, seeing that everyone spoke differently, as their affections led them, she became so troubled and pensive at heart that fearing to be taken, and that the king, overtaken by his strong passion, would eventually force her and violently oppress her, found means to acquire a sharp knife, which she carried secretly under her gown, intending that if she saw peril of being deflowered, she might kill herself. The courtiers, offended by the martyrdom of their master, desiring to gratify him and seeking means to please him, conspired against the Earl’s family, letting the king know that it was most expedient, as things seemed hopeless, to bring the Countess to his palace, that he might take her by force. To which the king (being dulled by his own passion) willingly agreed: however, before proceeding further, out of his genuine love for the Countess, he resolved to notify her mother of what he intended to do, and instructed his Secretary to diligently seek her out and without concealing anything from her to inform her of the whole situation. The Secretary, finding the Countess's mother, said to her: “Madame, the king has commanded me to say to you that he has done what he can, and more than his state requires, to win the grace and love of your daughter; but since she has disdained his lengthy suit, scorned his presence, and shunned his grievances and complaints, not knowing what more to do, his last refuge lies in force, letting you know this so both you and she may consider what should be done in this matter: for he is determined, whether you will or not, to fetch her out openly by force, to the great dishonor, slander, and infamy of your entire kin. And while he has previously adored and favored the Earl, your husband, he intends shortly to make him understand the effect of such a prince’s righteous indignation.” The good lady, hearing this sudden and cruel message, was astonished to the degree that she envisioned her daughter already grasped by the hair, her garments pulled and torn to pieces, with a sorrowful and lamentable voice crying out for mercy: therefore, with teary eyes, trembling in fear, she fell down at the Secretary’s feet, and closely embraced his knees, saying to him: “Master Secretary, my dear loving friend: I beg you to beseech the king in my name to remember the pain and service rendered by our ancestors. Entreat him not to dishonor my house in the absence of the Earl, my husband: and if you cannot soften his hardened heart by your persuasion, ask him for a while to be patient until I have informed my daughter of his will and pleasure, whom I hope to persuade that she shall satisfy the king’s request.” When she had made this response, the Secretary relayed it to the king, who, maddened with anger and consumed by love, was content but still commanded his gentlemen to prepare to seek the Countess. Meanwhile, the mother of fair Ælips went to her daughter’s chamber, and after ordering all her maids who accompanied her to withdraw from the chamber, she began in few words to recount the message sent to her by the Secretary: finally, with sobbing sighs, she said to her: “There were days, dear daughter, when I saw you keeping your station among the finest ladies of this realm; and I considered myself most fortunate to have borne you in my womb and hoped that through your beauty and virtue, one day I would see you become the joy and comfort of all your friends: but now my thoughts have completely reversed, through your unfortunate fate: now I think you are born not only for the universal ruin of our family but also (which grieves me the most) to be an occasion and instrument of my death and the desolation of all your friends: but if you will soften your rigidity, all this sorrow may soon turn to joy: for our king and sovereign lord is not only in love with you, but, out of the ardent affection and friendship that he bears you, is out of his mind, and now plots against us as if we were traitors and murderers of our prince: in whose hands (as you know) rests the life, honor, and possessions both of yourself and us all: and what glory and triumph shall be praised of you to our descendants, when they shall discover how your stubborn cruelty has brought about the death of your aged father, the death of your gray-haired mother, and the undoing of your valiant and courageous brothers, stripping the rest of your kin of their possessions and ability? But what sorrow and grief it would be to see them wandering in the world like vagabonds, banished from their livelihoods, and remaining in perpetual poverty, without a place and refuge for their miseries? Who, instead of blessing or praising the hour of your birth, will curse it many times in their hearts as the cause of all their ruin and ill fortune. Think and consider upon this (dear daughter) for in you alone rests the preservation of our lives and hope of all our friends.” This lamentable discourse ended, the afflicted Countess, unable any longer to withstand that pang, began to grow so faint that with her arms crossed she collapsed half-dead upon her daughter: who seeing her motionless and without any apparent life, with all parts of her body growing cold, quickly laid her down, and then with help and other means appropriate for reviving her, made her come to her senses again, and wholly intending to recover her, she earnestly promised to do what she wished her, saying to her: “Dry your tears, Madame, moderate your torment, restore your former joy, and be of good cheer, for I am ready to obey you. God forbid that I should be the cause of the suffering I see you endure: now I am prepared to go with you to the king, where if it pleases you, we two, without any other company, will do our undertaking and attempt to commence our initiative.” The mother, full of joy, lifted up her hands to the heavens, tenderly embraced her daughter, and many times kissed her, and after commanding her coach to be made ready, she set out with her daughter, accompanied only by two gentlewomen to the king’s palace. Upon reaching there, they sent word to the Secretary, who delivered her the message, and he guided them to the king’s chamber and presenting them before him, said: “Sir, behold the company you have long wished for: who have come to pay your grace humble reverence.” The king, greatly astonished, went forth to meet them, and with a joyful countenance said: “Welcome, Lady Countess, and your long-desired company. But what good fortune has brought you here now?” The Countess, making her obeisance but still fearful, answered him: “Behold here, my lord, your fair Ælips, long desired, who, having repented of her former cruelty and rigor, has come to render herself at your command.” Then the king, seeing the young Countess trembling with fear, like a leaf shaken by the wind (with her eyes fixed on the ground), approached her, took her by the hand, and kissed her, saying: “Welcome, my life and soul.” But she moved not more than a fierce lion surrounded by cruel beasts; she stood still and held her peace, her heart so constricted by sorrow and resentment that she was unable to utter a word. The king, thinking that such passion proceeded from shame, commanded the gentlewomen accompanying her to leave the chamber, save for her mother, who brought her to the entrance of his chamber, who withdrawing herself, left her at the mercy of love and the king. As soon as the king entered the chamber, he shut the door behind him. The Countess, perceiving this, began to feel a furious combat between her honor and life, fearing to be deflowered, and seeing herself abandoned of all human aid, falling down prostrate at his feet, she said to him: “Gracious and revered Prince, since my heavy fortune has brought me here, like an innocent lamb to the sacrifice, and that my parents, amazed by your fury, have become my ravishers against my will and contrary to the duty of their honor, delivering me into your hands, I humbly beseech your majesty, if any spark of virtue and princely affection remains in your noble person, before you proceed further to satisfy your desire, to allow me to test and know by experience if your love is what you have so often declared to me in letters and speech. The request I will make unto you shall be but easy and yet shall satisfy me more than all the happiness in the world. Otherwise, sir, do not think that as long as my life lasts, I am capable of doing that which can satisfy your desire. And if my request seems reasonable and grounded upon fairness, before I declare it further, assure me of the performance thereof by your oath.” The king, hearing her prayer taken to be so reasonable, out of a desire to grant it rather than to refuse, swore by his Scepter, taking God and all the heavenly powers as witnesses for the confirmation of that which he intended to promise, said to her: “Madame, the only mistress and keeper of my loving heart, since by your grace and courtesy you have deigned to come to my palace, to make request of my sole favor and goodwill, which now I irrevocably consent to and grant, swearing to you by the honorable sacrament of Baptism, through which I was incorporated into the Church of God, and for the love that I bear you (for greater assurance, I cannot provide), I will not refuse you anything that is within my power and ability, so that you will not doubt whether I do love you and intend hereafter to dedicate myself to serve and please you; otherwise I would be committing treachery, and I could not bind myself more fervently if I should swear by every oath in the world.” The lovely Countess, still upon her knees, though the king repeatedly urged her to rise, reverently took the king by the hand, saying: “And I kiss this royal hand as a loyal testimony of the favor your grace shows me.” Then pulling out a sharp knife, which was hidden under her gown, all bathed in tears, lifting her pitiful eyes toward the king, who was appalled at that sight, she said to him: “Sir, the gift I request, for which your faith is bound, is this. I most humbly ask you that rather than to deprive me of my honor, with the sword you have at your side, you would graciously allow me to end my life, or let me at once, with this sharp-pointed knife in my hand, thrust it to my heart, that my innocent blood, rendering the funeral honor, may witness before God of my undefiled chastity, being utterly resolved to die honorably. And that rather than lose my honor, I would murder myself before you with this blade and knife in my hand.” The king, burned by amorous heat, observing this pitiful spectacle, and contemplating the invincible constancy and chastity of the Countess, overcome by remorse of conscience mingling with equal pity, took her by the hand and said: “Rise, lady, and live henceforth assured: for I will not, nor do I intend in all my days, to commit anything in you against your will.” And seizing the knife from her hand, he exclaimed: “This knife shall henceforth be the messenger before God and men of your unassailable chastity, the force of which wanton love could not withstand, yielding instead to virtue, which remained unalienated from me, and has made me in an instant victorious over myself, of which I will soon make you understand to your great contentment and greater marvel. For assurance of this, I desire nothing more from you than a chaste kiss.” Upon receiving it, he opened the door and caused the Countess to enter with the Secretary and gentlewomen, and at that moment he called in the courtiers and peers of the realm, who were then in the lower courtyard of the palace, among whom was the Archbishop of York, a man of great reputation and singular learning; to him, with the knife in his hand, he recited in detail the discourse of his love: and afterwards he took the Countess by the hand and said to her: “Madame, the hour has come that for the recompense of your honest chastity and virtue, I will and consent to take you as my wife, if you find it agreeable.” The Countess, hearing those words, began to regain color in her pale and wan face, adorned with incredible joy and delight. Falling down at his feet, she said to him, “My lord, since I never expected to be raised to such an honorable state as fortune now offers, as a reward for so great a benefit which you present unto me, deigning to lower yourself to marry such a poor lady, your majesty's pleasure being such, behold me ready at your command.” The king, lifting her from kneeling on the ground, commanded the bishop to pronounce aloud the customary words of matrimony. Then drawing a rich diamond from his finger, he gave it to the Countess, and kissing her, said: “Madame, you are now Queen of England, and presently I give you thirty thousand angels each year for your revenue. And the Duchy of Lancaster, having fallen into my hands by confiscation, I also grant to you for your benefit and that of your friends.” All of which, duly inscribed in accordance with the custom of the country, the king, completing the marriage, rewarded the Countess for the arduous interest of his long love with such fortune and satisfaction as those may judge who have tasted of similar pleasures and recovered the fruit of such long pursuit. And to celebrate the marriage more magnificently, the king assembled all the nobility of England and summoned them to be in London on the first day of July following, to adorn and assist at the nuptials and coronation of the queen. He then sent for the father and brothers of the queen, whom he embraced one by one, honoring the Earl as his father, and his sons as his brothers, of whom the Earl was astounded, seeing the hoped-for honor of his daughter turn to such happy effect, both for the perpetual fame of himself and his family, as well as for the everlasting advancement of his house. On the appointed day, the queen was brought from her father’s house dressed in royal attire, to the palace, and escorted by a multitude of lords and ladies to the church, where, once the service was complete, the king was married (again) publicly, and after the same was celebrated, she was conveyed up to a public place and proclaimed Queen of England, to the exceeding joy and incredible delight of all the subjects.
AN ADUERTISEMENT
To the Reader.
After these tragicall Nouelles and dolorous Histories of Bandello, I haue thoughte good for thy recreacion, to refresh thy mind with some pleasaunt deuises and disportes: least thy spirites, and sences should be apalled and astonned with the sondrie kindes of cruelties remembred in the vij. of the former nouelles. Which be so straunge and terrible as they be able to affright the stoutest. And yet considering that they be very good lessons for auoyding like inconueniences, and apt examples for continuacion of good and honest life, they are the better to be borne with, and may with lesse astonnishment be read and marked. They that follow, be mitigated and sweetened with pleasure, not altogether so sower as the former be. Prayinge thee moste hartely, paciently to beare with those that shall occure, either in these that folow, or in the other that are past before.
After these tragic news and painful stories from Bandello, I thought it would be good for your enjoyment to refresh your mind with some pleasant ideas and entertainments. This way, your spirits and senses won't be overwhelmed and shocked by the various kinds of cruelties mentioned in the previously noted tales. These are so strange and terrifying that they could frighten even the bravest. However, considering that they provide valuable lessons for avoiding similar troubles and serve as good examples for continuing a decent and honest life, they are easier to tolerate and can be read and reflected on with less shock. What follows is softened and brightened with enjoyment, not quite as grim as the previous ones. I sincerely ask you to patiently endure what occurs, whether in these that follow or in those that have come before.
END OF VOL I.
BALLANTYNE PRESS: EDINBURGH AND LONDON.
Title Page of Tome 1
(lines shown in boldface printed in blackletter type)
Title Page of Tome 1
(lines shown in bold printed in blackletter type)
The Palace of Pleasure
Beautified, adorned and
well furnished, with Pleasaunt
Histories and excellent
Nouelles, selected out of
diuers good and commendable
Authors.
¶ By William Painter Clarke of the
Ordinaunce and Armarie.
[Illustration: HONI SOIT QVI MAL Y PENSE]
1566
IMPRINTED AT
London, by Henry Denham,
for Richard Tottell and William Iones.
Spelling in the Novels
Fused forms such as “thende” occur side by side with “the ende”. Word-initial “u” and non-initial “v” are in the original.
Fused forms like “thende” appear alongside “the ende.” The original includes word-initial “u” and non-initial “v.”
Specific words:
Specific words:
“renowme” is far more frequent than “renowne”
“alablaster” is standard for the period
“Cræsus” is used consistently
“renowme” is far more common than “renowne”
“alablaster” is standard for the time
“Cræsus” is used consistently
Error Handling
The printed book did not include an Errata list. It is therefore impossible to tell whether irregularities of spelling, punctuation and typography in the primary text are unique to the Jacobs edition (1890), or whether they were deliberately carried over from Haslewood (1813) and/or Painter (1566 and later).
The printed book didn't have an Errata list. Because of this, it’s impossible to determine if the spelling, punctuation, and typography mistakes in the main text are specific to the Jacobs edition (1890) or if they were intentionally carried over from Haslewood (1813) and/or Painter (1566 and later).
Errors and anomalies are handled in one of three ways, all using mouse-hover popups:
Errors and issues are addressed in one of three ways, all utilizing mouse-hover popups:
Clear errors in the text are marked but not changed: guie.
Clear errors in the text are highlighted but not corrected: guie.
Missing punctuation—generally closing quotation marks—is added in grey with a note: ” .
Missing punctuation—typically closing quotation marks—is added in grey with a note: ” .
Unusual forms were verified and noted: quisq’;.
Unusual forms were confirmed and recorded: quisq’;.
Download ePUB
If you like this ebook, consider a donation!