1350
                                 THE DECAMERON
                             by Boccaccio Giovanni
  THE INDUCTION OF THE AUTHOR TO THE FOLLOWING DISCOURSES

  Gracious Ladies, so often as I consider with my selfe, and observe
respectively, how naturally you are enclined to compassion; as many
times doe I acknowledge, that this present worke of mine, will (in
your judgement) appeare to have but a harsh and offensive beginning,
in regard of the mournfull remembrance it beareth at the verie
entrance of the last Pestilentiall mortality, universally hurtfull
to all that beheld it, or otherwise came to knowledge of it. But for
all that, I desire it may not be so dreadfull to you, to hinder your
further proceeding in reading, as if none were to looke thereon, but
with sighes and teares. For, I could rather wish, that so fearefull
a beginning, should seeme but as an high and steepy hil appeares to
them, that attempt to travell farre on foote, and ascending the same
with some difficulty, come afterward to walk upon a goodly even
plaine, which causeth the more contentment in them, because the
attayning thereto was hard and painfull. For even as pleasures are cut
off by griefe and anguish; so sorrowes cease by joyes most sweete
and happie arriving.
  After this briefe mollestation; briefe I say, because it is
contained within small compasse of Writing; immediately followeth
the most sweete and pleasant taste of pleasure, whereof (before) I
made promise to you. Which (peradventure) could not bee expected by
such a beginning, if promise stood not thereunto engaged. And
indeed, if I could well have conveyed you to the center of my
desire, by any other way, then so rude and rocky a passage as this is,
I would gladly have done it. But because without this Narration, we
could not demonstrate the occasion how and wherefore the matters
hapned, which you shall reade in the ensuing Discourses: I must set
them downe (even as constrained thereto by meere necessity) in writing
after this manner.
  The yeare of our blessed Saviours incarnation, 1348, that
memorable mortality happened in the excellent City, farre beyond all
the rest in Italy; which plague, by operation of the superiour bodies,
or rather for our enormous iniquities, by the just anger of God was
sent upon us mortals. Some few yeeres before, it tooke beginning in
the Easterne partes, sweeping thence an innumerable quantity of living
soules: extending it selfe afterward from place to place Westward,
until it seized on the said City. Where neither humane skill or
providence, could use any prevention, notwithstanding it was
cleansed of many annoyances, by diligent Officers thereto deputed:
besides prohibition of all sickly persons enterance, and all
possible provision dayly used for conservation of such as were in
health, with incessant prayers and supplications of devoute people,
for the asswaging of so dangerous a sicknesse.
  About the beginning of the yeare, it also began in very strange
manner, as appeared by divers admirable effects; yet not as it had
done in the East Countries, where Lord or Lady being touched
therewith, manifest signes of inevitable death followed thereon, by
bleeding at the nose. But here it began with yong children, male and
female, either under the armepits, or in the groine by certaine
swellings, in some to the bignesse of an Apple, in others like an
Egge, and so in divers greater or lesser, which (in their vulgar
Language) they termed to be a Botch or Byle. In very short time after,
those two infected parts were growne mortiferous, and would disperse
abroad indifferently, to all parts of the body; whereupon, such was
the quality of the disease, to shew it selfe by blacke or blew
spottes, which would appeare on the armes of many, others on their
thighes, and every part else of the body: in some great and few, in
others small and thicke.
  Now, as the Byle (at the beginning) was an assured signe of neere
approaching death; so prooved the spots likewise to such as had
them: for the curing of which sicknesse it seemed, that the Physitians
counsell, the vertue of Medicines, or any application else, could
not yeeld any remedy: but rather it plainely appeared, that either the
nature of the disease would not endure it, or ignorance in the
Physitians could not comprehend from whence the cause proceeded, and
so by consequent, no resolution was to be determined. Moreover, beside
the number of such as were skilfull in Art, many more both women and
men, without ever having any knowledge in Physicke, became Physitians:
so that not onely few were healed, but (well-neere) all dyed, within
three dayes after the saide signes were seene; some sooner, and others
later, commonly without either Feaver, or any other accident.
  And this pestilence was yet of farre greater power or violence; for,
not onely healthfull persons speaking to the sicke, comming to see
them, or ayring cloathes in kindnesse to comfort them, was an occasion
of ensuing death: but touching their garments, or any foode whereon
the sicke person fed, or any thing else used in his service, seemed to
transferre the disease from the sicke to the sound, in very rare and
miraculous manner. Among which matter of marvell, let me tell you
one thing, which if the eyes of many (as well as mine owne) had not
seene, hardly could I be perswaded to write it, much lesse to
beleeve it, albeit a man of good credit should report it. I say,
that the quality of this contagious pestilence was not onely of such
efficacy, in taking and catching it one of another, either men or
women: but it extended further, even in the apparent view of many,
that the cloathes, or anything else, wherein one died of that disease,
being toucht, or lyen on by any beast, farre from the kind or
quality of man, they did not onely contaminate and infect the said
beast, were it Dogge, Cat, or any other; but also it died very soone
after.
  Mine owne eyes (as formerly I have said) among divers other, one day
had evident experience heereof: for some poore ragged cloathes of
linnen and wollen, torne from a wretched body dead of that disease,
and hurled in the open streete; two Swine going by, and (according
to their naturall inclination) seeking for foode on every dunghill,
tossed and tumbled the cloaths with their snouts, rubbing their
heads likewise upon them; and immediately, each turning twice or
thrice about, they both fell downe dead on the saide cloathes, as
being fully infected with the contagion of them: which accident, and
other the like, if not far greater, begat divers feares and
imaginations in them that beheld them, all tending to a most
inhumane and uncharitable end; namely, to flie thence from the
sicke, and touching any thing of theirs, by which meanes they
thought their health should be safely warranted.
  Some there were, who considered with themselves, that living
soberly, with abstinence from all superfluity; it would be a
sufficient resistance against all hurtfull accidents. So combining
themselves in a sociable manner, they lived as separatists from all
other company, being shut up in such houses, where no sicke body
should be neere them. And there, for their more security, they used
delicate viands and excellent wines, avoiding luxurie, and refusing
speech to one another, not looking forth at the windowes, to heare
no cries of dying people, or see any coarses carried to buriall; but
having musicall instruments, lived there in all possible pleasure.
Others, were of a contrary opinion, who avouched, that there was no
other physicke more certaine, for a disease so desperate, then to
drinke hard, be merry among themselves, singing continually, walking
every where, and satisfying their appetites with whatsoever they
desired, laughing, and mocking at every mournefull accident, and so
they vowed to spend day and night: for now they would goe to one
Taverne, then to another, living without any rule or measure; which
they might very easily doe, because every one of them, (as if he
were to live no longer in this World) had even forsaken all things
that hee had. By meanes whereof, the most part of the houses were
become common, and all strangers, might do the like (if they pleased
to adventure it) even as boldly as the Lord or owner, without any
let or contradiction.
  Yet in all this their beastly behaviour, they were wise enough, to
shun (so much as they might) the weake and sickly: In misery and
affliction of our City, the venerable authority of the Lawes, as
well divine as humane, was even destroyed, as it were, through want of
the lawfull Ministers of them. For they being all dead, or lying sicke
with the rest, or else lived so solitary, in such great necessity of
servants and attendants, as they could not execute any office, whereby
it was lawfull for every one to do as he listed.
  Betweene these two rehearsed extremities of life, there were other
of a more moderate temper, not being so daintily dieted as the
first, nor drinking so dissolutely as the second; but used all
things sufficient for their appetites, and without shutting up
themselves, walked abroad, some carrying sweete nosegayes of flowers
in their hands; others odoriferous herbes, and others divers kinds
of spiceries, holding them to their noses, and thinking them most
comfortable for the braine, because the ayre seemed to be much
infected by the noysome smell of dead carkases, and other hurtfull
savours. Some other there were also of more inhumane minde (howbeit
peradventure it might be the surest) saying, that there was no
better physicke against the pestilence, nor yet so good, as to flie
away from it, which argument mainely moving them, and caring for no
body but themselves, very many, both men and women, forsooke the City,
their owne houses, their Parents, Kindred, Friends, and Goods,
flying to other mens dwellings else-where. As if the wrath of God,
in punnishing the sinnes of men with this plague, would fall heavily
upon none, but such as were enclosed within the City wals; or else
perswading themselves, that not any should there bee left alive, but
that the finall ending of all things was come.
  Now albeit these persons in their diversity of opinions died not
all, so undoubtedly they did not all escape; but many among them
becomming sicke, and making a generall example of their flight and
folly, among them that could not stirre out of their beds, they
languished more perplexedly then the other did. Let us omit, that
one Citizen fled after another, and one neighbour had not any care
of another, Parents nor kinred never visiting them, but utterly they
were forsaken on all sides: this tribulation pierced into the hearts
of men, and with such a dreadfull terrour, that one Brother forsooke
another, the Unkle the Nephew, the Sister the Brother, and the Wife
her Husband: nay, a matter much greater, and almost incredible;
Fathers and Mothers fled away from their owne Children, even as if
they had no way appertained to them. In regard whereof, it could be no
otherwise, but that a countlesse multitude of men and women fell
sicke; finding no charity among their friends, except a very few,
and subject to the avarice of servants, who attended them
constrainedly, (for great and unreasonable wages) yet few of those
attendants to be found any where too. And they were men or women but
of base condition, as also of groser understanding, who never before
had served in any such necessities, nor indeed were any way else to be
imployed; but to give the sicke person such things as hee called
for, or to awaite the houre of his death; in the performance of
which service, oftentimes for gaine, they lost their owne lives.
  In this extreame calamity, the sicke being thus forsaken of
neighbors, kinred, and friends, standing also in such need of
servants; a custome came up among them, never heard of before, that
there was not any woman, how noble, young, or faire soever shee was,
but falling sicke, shee must of necessity have a man to attend her,
were hee young or otherwise, respect of shame or modesty no way
prevailing, but all parts of her body must be discovered to him, which
(in the like urgency) was not to be seene by any but women: whereon
ensued afterward, that upon the parties healing and recovery, it was
the occasion of further dishonesty, which many being more modestly
curious of, refused such disgracefull attending, chusing rather to
die, then by such helpe to bee healed. In regard whereof, as well
through the want of convenient remedies, (which the sicke by no meanes
could attaine unto) as also the violence of the contagion, the
multitude of them that died night and day, was so great, that it was a
dreadfull sight to behold, and as much to heare spoken of. So that
meere necessity (among them that remained living) begat new
behaviours, quite contrary to all which had beene in former times, and
frequently used among the City Inhabitants.
  The custome of precedent dayes (as now againe it is) was, that
women, kinred, neighbours, and friends, would meete together at the
deceased parties house, and there, with them that were of neerest
alliance, expresse their hearts sorrow for their friends losse. If not
thus, they would assemble before the doore, with many of the best
Cittizens and kindred, and (according to the quality of the
deceased) the Cleargy met there likewise, and the dead body was
carried (in comely manner) on mens shoulders, with funerall pompe of
Torch light, and singing, to the Church appointed by the deceased. But
these seemely orders, after that the fury of the pestilence began to
encrease, they in like manner altogether ceased, and other new
customes came in their place; because not onely people died, without
having any women about them, but infinites also past out of this life,
not having any witnesse, how, when, or in what manner they departed.
So that few or none there were, to deliver outward shew of sorrow
and grieving: but insteed thereof, divers declared idle joy and
rejoycing, a use soone learned of immodest women, having put off all
feminine compassion, yea, or regard of their owne welfare.
  Very few also would accompany the body to the grave, and they not
any of the Neighbours, although it had beene an honourable Citizen,
but onely the meanest kinde of people, such as were grave-makers,
coffin-bearers, or the like, that did these services onely for
money, and the beere being mounted on their shoulders, in all hast
they would runne away with it, not perhaps to the Church appointed
by the dead, but to the neerest at hand, having some foure or sixe
poore Priests following, with lights or no lights, and those of the
silliest; short service being said at the buriall, and the body
unreverently throwne into the first open grave they found. Such was
the pittifull misery of poore people, and divers, who were of better
condition, as it was most lamentable to behold; because the greater
number of them, under hope of healing, or compelled by poverty, kept
still within their house weake and faint, thousands falling sicke
daily, and having no helpe, or being succoured any way with foode or
physicke, all of them died, few or none escaping.
  Great store there were, that died in the streetes by day or night,
and many more beside, although they died in their houses; yet first
they made it knowne to their neighbours, that their lives perished,
rather by the noysome smell of dead and putrified bodies, then by
any violence of the disease in themselves. So that of these and the
rest, dying in this manner every where, the neighbours observed one
course of behaviour, (moved thereto no lesse by feare, that the
smell and corruption of dead bodies should harme them, then charitable
respect of the dead) that themselves when they could, or being
assisted by some bearers of coarses, when they were able to procure
them, would hale the bodies (already dead) out of their houses, laying
them before their doores, where such as passed by, especially in the
mornings, might see them lying in no meane numbers. Afterward,
Bieres were brought thither, and such as might not have the helpe of
Bieres, were glad to lay them on tables; and Bieres have bin observed,
not onely to be charged with two or three dead bodies at once, but
many times it was seene also, that the wife with the husband, two or
three Brethren together; yea, the Father and the Mother, have thus
beene carried along to the grave upon one Biere.
  Moreover, oftentimes it hath beene seene, that when two Priests went
with one Crosse to fetch the body; there would follow (behind) three
or foure bearers with their Bieres, and when the Priests intended
the buriall but of one body, sixe or eight more have made up the
advantage, and yet none of them being attended by any seemly
company, lights, teares, or the very least decencie, but it plainly
appeared, that the very like account was then made of Men or Women, as
if they had bene Dogges or Swine. Wherein might manifestly bee
noted, that that which the naturall course of things could not shew to
the wise, with rare and little losse, to wit, the patient support of
miseries and misfortunes, even in their greatest height: not onely the
wise might now learne, but also the very simplest people; and in
such sort, that they should alwaies bee prepared against all
infelicities whatsoever.
  Hallowed ground could not now suffice, for the great multitude of
dead bodies, which were daily brought to every Church in the City, and
every houre in the day; neither could the bodies have proper place
of buriall, according to our ancient custome: wherefore, after that
the Churches and Church-yards were filled, they were constrained to
make use of great deepe ditches, wherein they were buried by
hundreds at once, ranking dead bodies along in graves, as Merchandizes
are laide along in ships, covering each after other with a small
quantity of earth, and so they filled at last up the whole ditch to
the brim.
  Now, because I would wander no further in everie particularity,
concerning the miseries happening in our Citie: I tell you, that
extremities running on in such manner as you have heard, little
lesse spare was made in the Villages round about; wherein (setting
aside enclosed Castles which were now filled like to small Cities)
poore Labourers and Husband-men, with their whole Families, dyed
most miserably in outhouses, yea, and in the open fieldes also;
without any assistance of physicke, or helpe of servants; and likewise
in the high-wayes, or their ploughed landes, by day or night
indifferently, yet not as men, but like brute beasts.
  By meanes whereof, they became lazie and slothfull in their dayly
endevours, even like to our Citizens; not minding or medling with
their wonted affaires: but, as a waiting for death every houre,
imployed all their paines, not in caring any way for themselves, their
cattle, or gathering the fruits of the earth, or any of their
accustomed labours; but rather wasted and consumed, even such as
were for their instant sustenance. Whereupon, it fell so out, that
their Oxen, Asses, Sheepe, and Goates, their Swine, Pullen, yea
their verie Dogges, the truest and faithfullest servants to men, being
beaten and banished from their houses, went wildly wandring abroad
in the fields, where the Corne grew still on the ground without
gathering, or being so much as reapt or cut. Many of the foresaid
beasts (as endued with reason) after they had pastured themselves in
the day time, would returne full fed at night home to their houses,
without any government of Heardsmen, or any other.
  How many faire Palaces! How many goodly Houses! How many noble
habitations, filled before with families of Lords and Ladies, were
then to be seene emptie, without any one there dwelling, except some
silly servant? How many Kindreds, worthy of memory! How many great
inheritances! And what plenty of riches; were left without any true
successours? How many good men! How many woorthy Women! How many
valiant and comely young men, whom none but Galen, Hippocrates, and
Aeesculapius (if they were living) could have bene reputed any way
unhealthfull; were seene to dine at morning with their Parents,
Friends, and familiar confederates, and went to sup in another world
with their Predecessors?
  It is no meane breach to my braine, to make repetition of so many
miseries; wherefore, being willing to part with them as easily as I
may: I say that our Citie being in this case, voide of inhabitants, it
came to passe (as afterward I understoode by some of good credite)
that in the venerable Church of S. Marie la Neufue, on a Tuesday
morning, there being then no other person, after the hearing of divine
Service, in mourning habits (as the season required) returned thence
seven discrete young Gentlewomen, all allyed together, either by
friendship, neighbor-hood, or parentage. She among them that was
most entred into yeares, exceeded not eight and twenty; and the
yongest was no lesse then eighteene; being of Noble descent, faire
forme, adorned with exquisite behaviour, and gracious modesty.
  Their names I could report, if just occasion did not forbid it, in
regard of the occasions following by them related, and because times
heereafter shall not taxe them with reproofe; the lawes of pleasure
being more straited now adayes (for the matters before revealed)
then at that time they were, not onely to their yeares but to many
much riper. Neither will I likewise minister matter to rash heades
(over-readie in censuring commendable life) any way to impaire the
honestie of Ladies, by their idle detracting speeches. And
therefore, to the end that what each of them saith, may be
comprehended without confusion; I purpose to stile them by names,
wholly agreeing, or (in part) conformable to their qualities. The
first and most aged, we will name Pampinea; the second Fiametta; the
third Philamena; the fourth Aemilia; the fift Lauretta; the sixt
Neiphila; and the last we terme (not without occasion) Elissa, or
Eliza. All of them being assembled at a corner of the Church, not by
any deliberation formerly appointed, but meerely by accident, and
sitting, as it were in a round ring: after divers sighs severelly
delivered, they conferred on sundry matters answerable to the sad
qualitie of the time, and within a while after, Madam Pampinea began
in this manner.
  Faire Ladies, you may (no doubt as well as I) have often heard, that
no injury is offered to any one, by such as make use but of their owne
right. It is a thing naturall for everie one which is borne in this
World, to aide, conserve, and defend her life so long as shee can; and
this right hath bene so powerfully permitted, that although it hath
sometimes happened, that (to defend themselves) men have beene
slaine without any offence: yet Lawes have allowed it to be so, in
whose solicitude lieth the best living of all mortals. How much more
honest and just is it then for us, and for every other well-disposed
person, to seeke for (without wronging any) and to practise all
remedies that wee can, for the conservation of our lives? When I
well consider, what we have heere done this morning, and many other
already past (remembring (withall) what likewise is proper and
convenient for us:) I conceive (as all you may do the like) that
everie one of us hath a due respect of her selfe, and then I
mervaile not, but rather am much amazed (knowing none of us to be
deprived of a Womans best judgement) that wee seeke not after some
remedies for our selves, against that, which everie one among us,
ought (in reason) to feare.
  Heere we meete and remaine (as it seemeth to mee) in no other
manner, then as if we would or should be witnesses, to all the dead
bodies at rest in their grave; or else to listen, when the religious
Sisters heere dwelling (whose number now are well-neere come to bee
none at all) sing Service at such houres as they ought to doe; or else
to acquaint all commers hither (by our mourning habits) with the
quality and quantitie of our hearts miseries. And when we part
hence, we meete with none but dead bodies; or sicke persons
transported from one place to another; or else we see running thorow
the City (in most offensive fury) such as (by authoritie of publike
Lawes) were banished hence, onely for their bad and brutish
behaviour in contempt of those Lawes, because now they know, that
the executors of them are dead and sicke. And if not these, more
lamentable spectacles present themselves to us, by the base
rascality of the City; who being fatted with our blood, tearme
themselves Grave-makers, and in meere contemptible mockeries of us,
are mounted on horsebacke, gallopping every where, reproaching us with
our losses and misfortunes, with lewd and dishonest songs: so that
we can heare nothing else but such and such are dead, and such and
such lie a dying: here hands wringing, and every where most
pittifull complaining.
  If we returne home to our houses (I know not whether your case be
answerable to mine) when I can finde none of all my Family, but
onely my poore waiting Chamber-maide; so great are my feares, that the
very haire on my head declareth my amazement, and wheresoever I go
or sit downe, methinkes I see the ghostes and shadowes of deceased
friends, not with such lovely lookes as I was wont to behold them, but
with most horrid and dreadfull regards, newly stolne upon them I
know not how. In these respects, both heere, else-where, and at home
in my house, methinkes I am alwaies ill, and much more (in mine owne
opinion) then any other body, not having meanes or place of
retirement, as all we have, and none to remaine heere but onely we.
  Moreover, I have often heard it said, that in tarrying or departing,
no distinction is made in things honest or dishonest; onely appetite
will be served; and be they alone or in company, by day or night, they
do whatsoever their appetite desireth: not secular persons onely,
but such as are recluses, and shut up within Monasteries, breaking the
Lawes of obedience, and being addicted to pleasures of the flesh,
are become lascivious and dissolute, making the world beleeve, that
whatsoever is convenient for other women, is no way unbeseeming
them, as thinking in that manner to escape.
  If it be so, as manifestly it maketh shew of it selfe; What do we
here? What stay we for? And whereon do we dreame? Why are we more
respectlesse of our health, then all the rest of the Citizens?
Repute we our selves lesse precious then all the other? Or do we
beleeve, that life is linked to our bodies with stronger chaines, then
to others, and that therefore we should not feare any thing that
hath power to offend us? Wee erre therein, and are deceived. What
brutishnesse were it in us, if we should urge any such beleefe? So
often as we call to minde, what and how many gallant yong men and
women, have beene devoured by this cruell pestilence; we may evidently
observe a contrary argument.
  Wherefore, to the end, that by being over-scrupulous and
carelesse, we fall not into such danger, whence when we would
(perhaps) we cannot recover our selves by any meanes: I thinke it
meete (if your judgement therein shall jumpe with mine) that all of us
as we are (at least, if we will doe as divers before us have done, and
yet dally endeavour to doe) shunning death by the honest example of
other, make our retreate to our Country houses, wherewith all of us
are sufficiently furnished, and there to delight our selves as best we
may, yet without transgressing (in any act) the limits of reason.
There shall we heare the pretty birds sweetly singing, see the
hilles and plaines verdantly flouring; the Corne waving in the field
like the billowes of the Sea, infinite store of goodly trees, and
the Heavens more fairely open to us, then here we can behold them. And
although they are justly displeased, yet will they not there deny us
better beauties to gaze on, then the walles in our City (emptied of
Inhabitants) can affoord us.
  Moreover, the Ayre is much fresh and cleere, and generally, there is
farre greater abundance of all things whatsoever, needefull at this
time for preservation of our health, and lesse offence or mollestation
then we find here.
  And although Country people die, as well as heere our Citizens
doe, the griefe notwithstanding is so much the lesse, as the houses
and dwellers there are rare, in comparison of them in our City. And
beside, if we well observe it, here we forsake no particular person,
but rather we may tearme our selves forsaken; in regard that our
Husbands, Kinred, and Friends, either dying, or flying from the
dead, have left us alone in this great affliction, even as if we
were no way belonging unto them. And therefore, by following this
counsell, we cannot fall into any reprehension; whereas if we
neglect and refuse it, danger, distresse, and death (perhaps) may
ensue thereon.
  Wherefore, if you thinke good, I would allow it for well done, to
take our waiting women, with all such things as are needfull for us,
and (as this day) betake our selves to one place, to morrow to
another, taking there such pleasure and recreation, as so sweete a
season liberally bestoweth on us. In which manner we may remaine, till
we see (if death otherwise prevent us not) what end the gracious
Heavens have reserved for us. I would have you also to consider,
that it is no lesse seemely for us to part hence honestly, then a
great number of other Women to remaine here immodestly.
  The other Ladies and Gentlewomen, having heard Madam Pampinea, not
onely commended her counsell, but desiring also to put it in
execution; had already particularly consulted with themselves, by what
meanes they might instantly depart from thence. Neverthelesse, Madam
Philomena, who was very wise, spake thus.
  Albeit faire Ladies, the case propounded by Madam Pampinea hath
beene very well delivered; yet (for all that) it is against reason for
us to rush on, as we are overready to doe. Remember that we are all
women, and no one among us is so childish, but may consider, that when
wee shall be so assembled together, without providence or conduct of
some man, we can hardly governe our selves. Wee are fraile, offensive,
suspitious, weake spirited, and fearefull: in regard of which
imperfections, I greatly doubt (if we have no better direction then
our owne) this society will sooner dissolve it selfe, and
(perchance) with lesse honour to us, then if we never had begunne
it. And therefore it shall bee expedient for us, to provide before
we proceede any further. Madam Eliza hereon thus replyed.
  Most true it is, that men are the chiefe or head of women, and
without their order, sildome times do any matters of ours sort to
recommendable end. But what meanes shal we make for men? We all know
well enough, that the most part of our friends are dead, and such as
are living, some be dispersed heere, others there, into divers
places and companies, where we have no knowledge of their being; and
to accept of strangers, would seeme very inconvenient: wherefore as we
have such care of our health, so should we bee as respective
withall, in ordering our intention, that wheresoever we ayme at our
pleasure and contentment, reproofe and scandall may by no meanes
pursue us.
  While this discourse thus held among the Ladies, three young
Gentlemen came foorth of the Church (yet not so young, but the
youngest had attained to five and twenty yeares:) in whom neyther
malice of the time, losse of friends or kindred, nor any fearefull
conceit in themselves, had the power to quench affection, but
(perhaps) might a little coole it, in regard of the queazie season.
One of them called himselfe Pamphilus, the second Philostratus, and
the last Dioneus. Each of them was very affable and well
conditioned, and walked abroad (for their greater comfort in such a
time of tribulation) to try if they could meete with their fayre
friends, who (happily) might all three be among these seaven, and
the rest kinne unto them in one degree or other. No sooner were
these Ladies espyed by them, but they met with them also in the same
advantage; whereupon Madam Pampinea (amiably smiling) said.
  See how graciously Fortune is favourable to our beginning, by
presenting our eyes with three so wise and worthy young Gentlemen, who
will gladly be our guides and servants, if wee doe not disdaine them
the office. Madam Neiphila began immediatly to blush, because one of
them had a Love in the company, and said; Good Madam Pampinea take
heed what you say, because (of mine owne knowledge) nothing can be
spoken but good of them all; and I thinke them all to be absolutely
sufficient for a farre greater employment then is here intended: as
being well worthy to keepe company not onely with us, but them of more
faire and precious esteeme then we are. But because it appeareth
plainly enough, that they beare affection to some heere among us, I
feare, if wee should make the motion, that some dishonor or reproofe
may ensue thereby, and yet without blame either in us or them. That is
nothing at all, answered Madam Philomena, let me live honestly, and my
Conscience not checke me with any crime; speake then who can to the
contrary, God and truth shall enter armes for me. I wish that they
were as willing to come, as all we are to bid them welcome: for
truly (as Madam Pampinea saide) we may very well hope, that Fortune
will bee furtherous to our purposed journey.
  The other Ladies hearing them speake in such manner, not only were
silent to themselves, but all with one accord and consent said, that
it were well done to call them, and to acquaint them with their
intention, entreating their company in so pleasant a voyage.
Whereupon, without any more words, Madam Pampinea mounting on her
feete (because one of the three was her Kinsman) went towards them, as
they stood respectively observing them; and (with a pleasing
countenance) giving them a gracious salutation, declared to them their
deliberation, desiring (in behalfe of all the rest) that with a
brotherly and modest mind, they would vouchsafe to beare them company.
  The Gentlemen imagined at the first apprehension, that this was
spoken in mockage of them; but when they better perceived that her
words tended to solenme earnest, they made answer, That they were
all hartily ready to doe them any service. And without any further
delaying, before they departed thence, took order for their aptest
furnishing with all convenient necessaries, and sent word to the place
of their first appointment. On the morrow, being Wednesday, about
breake of day, the Ladies, with certaine of their attending
Gentlewomen, and the three Gentlemen, having three servants to waite
on them, left the Citie to beginne their journey; and having travelled
about a leagues distance, arrived at the place of their first
purpose of stay, which was seated on a little hill, distant (on all
sides) from any high way, plentifully stored with faire spreading
Trees, affoording no meane delight to the eye. On the top of all,
stood a stately Palace, having a large and spacious Court in the
middest round engirt with Galleries, Hals, and Chambers, every one
separate alone by themselves, and beautified with Pictures of
admirable cunning. Nor was there any want of Gardens, Meadowes, and
other most pleasant Walkes, with Welles and Springs of faire running
waters, all encompassed with branching Vines, fitter for curious and
quaffing bibbers, then women sober, and singularly modest.
  This Pallace the company found fully fitted and prepared, the beddes
in the Chambers made and daintily ordred, thickly strewed with variety
of flowers, which could not but give them the greater contentment.
Dioneus, who (above the other) was a pleasant young gallant, and
full of infinite witty conceits, saide; Your wit (faire Ladies) hath
better guided us hither, then our providence: I know not how you
have determined to dispose of your cares; as for mine owne, I left
them at the Cittie gate, when I came thence with you: and therefore
let your resolution bee, to spend the time here in smiles and singing,
(I meane, as may fittest agree with your dignity) or else give me
leave to go seeke my sorrowes agains, and so to remaine discontented
in our desolate City. Madam Pampinea having in like manner shaken
off her sorrowes, delivering a modest and bashfull smile, replyed in
this manner.
  Dioneus, well have you spoken, it is fit to live merrily, and no
other occasion made us forsake the sicke and sad Cittie. But,
because such things as are without meane or measure, are subject to no
long continuance: I, who began the motion, whereby this societie is
thus assembled, and ayme at the long lasting thereof, doe hold it
verie convenient, that wee should all agree, to have one chiefe
Commander among us, in whom the care and providence should consist,
for direction of our merriment, performing honour and obedience to the
partie, as to our Patrone and sole Governour. And because every one
may feele the burthen of solicitude, as also the pleasure of
commanding, and consequently have a sensible taste of both, whereby no
envy may arise on any side, I could wish, that each one of us (for a
day onely) should feele both the burthen and honour, and the person so
to be advanced, shall receive it from the election of us all. As for
such as are to succeed, after him or her that hath had the dayes of
dominion, the party thought fit for succession, must be named so soone
as night approacheth. And being in this eminency (according as he or
she shall please) he may order and dispose how long the time of his
rule shall last, as also of the place and maner, where best we may
continue our delight.
  These words were highly pleasing to them all, and by generall voice,
Madame Pampinea was chosen Queene for the first day. Whereupon, Madame
Philomena ranne presently to a Bay-tree, because she had often heard
what honor belonged to those branches, and how worthy of honour they
were, that rightfully were crowned with them, plucking off divers
branches, shee made of them an apparant and honourable Chaplet,
placing it (by generall consent) upon her head; and this so long as
their company continued, manifested to all the rest, the signall of
Dominion, and Royall greatnesse.
  After that Madame Pampinea was thus made Queen, she commanded
publique silence, and causing the Gentlemens three servants, and the
wayting women also (being foure in number) to be brought before her,
thus she beganne. Because I am to give the first example to you all,
whereby proceeding on from good to better, our company may live in
order and pleasure, acceptable to all, and without shame to any; I
create Parmeno (servant to Dioneus) Maister of the Houshold, hee
taking the care and charge of all our Trayne, and for whatsoever
appertayneth to our Hall service. I appoint also, that Silisco servant
to Pamphilus, shall bee our Dispenser and Treasurer, erforming that
which Parmeno shal command him. Likewise that Tindaro serve as
Groome of the Chamber, to Philostratus his Master, and the other
two, when his fellowes impeached by their offices, cannot be
present. Misia my Chambermaid, and Licisca belonging to Philomena,
shall serve continually in the Kitchin, and diligently make ready such
Vyands, as shal be delivered them by Parmeno. Chimera, waitingwoman to
Lauretta, and Stratilia appertaining to Fiammetta, shall have the
charge and governement of the Ladies Chambers, and preparing all
places where we shall be present. Moreover, we will and commaund
everie one of them (as they desire to deserve our grace) that
wheresoever they goe or come, or whatsoever they heare or see: they
especially respect to bring us tydings of them. After shee had
summarily delivered them these orders, very much commended of everie
one, she arose fairely, saying: Heere we have Gardens, Orchardes,
Medowes, and other places of sufficient pleasure, where every one
may sport and recreate themselves: but so soone as the ninth houre
striketh, then all to meet here againe, to dine in the coole shade.
  This jocund company having received licence from their Queene to
disport themselves, the Gentlemen walked with the Ladies into a goodly
Garden, making Chaplets and Nosegayes of divers flowers, and singing
silently to themselves. When they had spent the time limitted by the
Queene, they returned into the house, where they found that Parmeno
had effectually executed his office. For, when they entred into the
hall, they saw the Tables covered with delicate white Napery, and
the glasses looking like silver, they were so transparantly cleere,
all the roome beside strewed with Flowers of Juniper. When the Queen
and all the rest had washed, according as Parmeno gave order, so every
one was seated at the Table: the Viands (delicately drest) were served
in, and excellent wines plentifully delivered, none attending but
the three servants, and little or no lowd Table-talke passing among
them.
  Dinner being ended, and the Tables withdrawne (all the Ladies, and
the Gentlemen likewise, being skilfull both in singing and dancing,
and playing on instruments artificially) the Queene commanded, that
divers Instruments should be brought, and (as she gave charge) Dioneus
tooke a Lute, and Fiammetta a Violl de gamba, and began to play an
excellent daunce. Whereupon, the Queene with the rest of the Ladies,
and the other two young Gentlemen (having sent their attending
servants to dinner) paced foorth a daunce very majestically. And
when the dance was ended, they sung sundry excellent Canzonets,
outwearing so the time, untill the Queene commanded them all to
rest, because the houre did necessarily require it. The Gentlemen
having their Chambers farre severed from the Ladies, curiously strewed
with flowers, and their beds adorned in exquisite manner, as those
of the Ladies were not a jotte inferiour to them; the silence of the
night bestowed sweet rest on them al. In the morning, the Queene and
all the rest being risen, accounting over much sleepe to be very
hurtfull, they walked abroad into a goodly Meadow, where the grasse
grew verdantly, and the beames of the Sun heated not overviolently,
because the shades of faire spreading Trees, gave a temperate
calmnesse, coole and gentle winds fanning their sweet breath
pleasingly among them. All of them being there set downe in a round
ring, and the Queen in the middest, as being the appointed place of
eminency, she spake:
  You see (faire company) that the Sunne is highly mounted, the
heate (elsewhere) too extreme for us, and therefore here is our
fittest refuge, the ayre being so coole, delicate, and acceptable, and
our folly well worthy reprehension, if we should walke further, and
speede worse. Heere are Tables, Cards, and Chesse, as your
dispositions may bee addicted. But if mine advice might passe for
currant, I would admit none of those exercises, because they are too
troublesome both to them that play, and such as looke on. I could
rather wish, that some quaint discourse might passe among us, a tale
or fable related by some one, to urge the attention of all the rest.
And so wearing out the warmth of the day, one prety Novell will draw
on another, untill the Sun be lower declined, and the heates extremity
more diminished, to solace our selves in some other place, as to our
minds shall seeme convenient. If therefore what I have sayde bee
acceptable to you (I purposing to follow in the same course of
pleasure,) let it appeare by your immediate answere; for, till the
Evening, I thinke we can devise no exercise more commodious for us.
  The Ladies and Gentlemen allowed of the motion, to spend the time in
telling pleasant tales; whereupon the Queene saide: Seeing you have
approved mine advice, I grant free permission for this first day, that
every one shall relate, what to him or her is best pleasing. And
turning her selfe to Pamphilus (who was seated on her right hand) gave
him favour, with one of his Novels, to begin the recreation: which
he not daring to deny, and perceiving generall attention prepared
for him, thus he began.
                     THE FIRST DAY, THE FIRST NOVELL

     WHEREIN IS CONTAINED, HOW HARD A THING IT IS, TO DISTINGUISH
   GOODNESSE FROM HYPOCRISIE; AND HOW (UNDER THE SHADOW OF HOLINESSE)
            THE WICKEDNESSE OF ONE MAN, MAY DECEIVE MANY

  Messire Chappelet du Prat, by making a false confession, beguyled
an holy Religious man, and after dyed. And having (during his life
time) bene a very bad man, at his death, was reputed for a saint,
and called S. Chappelet.

  It is a matter most convenient (deare Ladies) that a man ought to
begin whatsoever he doth, in the great and glorious name of him, who
was the Creator of all things. Wherefore, seeing that I am the man
appointed, to begin this your invention of discoursing Novelties: I
intend to begin also with one of his wonderfull workes. To the end,
that this being heard, our hope may remaine on him, as the thing onely
permanent, and his name for ever to be praised by us. Now, as there is
nothing more certaine, but that even as temporall things are mortall
and transitory, so are they both in and out of themselves, full of
sorrow, paine, and anguish, and subjected to infinite dangers: So in
the same manner, we live mingled among them, seeming as part of
them, and cannot (without some error) continue or defend our selves,
if God by his especiall grace and favour, give us not strength and
good understanding. Which power we may not beleeve, that either it
descendeth to us, or liveth in us, by any merites of our owne; but
of his onely most gracious benignity. Mooved neverthelesse and
entreated by the intercessions of them, who were (as we are)
mortals; and having diligently observed his commandements, are now
with him in eternall blessednes. To whom (as to advocates and
procurators, informed by the experience of our frailty) wee are not to
present our prayers in the presence of so great a Judge; but onely
to himselfe, for the obtaining of all such things as his wisedome
knoweth to be most expedient for us. And well may we credit, that
his goodnesse is more fully enclined towards us, in his continuall
bounty and liberality; then the subtilty of mortall eye, can reach
into the secret of so divine a thought: and sometimes therefore we may
be beguiled in opinion, by electing such and such as our intercessors
before his high Majesty, who perhaps are farre off from him, or driven
into perpetuall exile, as unworthy to appeare in so glorious a
presence. For he, from whom nothing can be hidden, more regardeth
the sincerity of him that prayeth, then ignorant devotion, committed
to the trust of a heedlesse intercessor; and such prayers have alwaies
gracious acceptation in his sight. As manifestly will appeare, by
the Novell which I intend to relate; manifestly (I say) not as in
the judgement of God, but according to the apprehension of men.
  There was one named, Musciatto Francesi, who from beeing a most rich
and great Merchant in France, was become a Knight, and preparing to
goe into Tuscany, with Mounsieur Charles without Land, Brother to
the King of France (who was desired and incited to come thither by
Pope Boniface) found his affaires greatly intricated heere and there
(as oftentimes the matters of Merchants fall out to bee) and that very
hardly hee should sodainly unintangle them, without referring the
charge of them to divers persons. And for all he tooke indifferent
good order, onely he remained doubtfull, whom he might sufficiently
leave, to recover his debts among many Burgundians. And the rather was
his care the more heerein, because he knew the Burgundians to be
people of badde nature, rioters, brablers, full of calumny, and
without any faithfulnesse: so that he could not bethinke himselfe of
any man (how wicked soever he was) in whom he might repose trust to
meete with their lewdnesse. Having a long while examined his
thoughts upon this point, at last hee remembred one Master Chappelet
du Prat, who ofttimes had resorted to his house in Paris. And
because he was a man of little stature, yet handsome enough, the
French not knowing what this word Chappelet might meane, esteeming
he should be called rather (in their tongue) Chappell; imagined,
that in regard of his small stature, they termed him Chappelet, and
not Chappell, and so by the name of Chappelet he was every where
known, and by few or none acknowledged for Chappell.
  This Master Chappelet, was of so good and commendable life; that,
being a Notarie, he held it in high disdaine, that any of his
Contractes (although he made but few) should be found without
falshoode. And looke how many soever hee dealt withall, he would be
urged and required thereto, offering them his paines and travaile
for nothing, but to bee requited otherwise then by money; which
prooved to bee his much larger recompencing, and returned to him the
farre greater benefit. Hee tooke the onely pleasure of the world, to
beare false witnesse, if hee were thereto entreated, and
(oftentimes) when hee was not requested at all. Likewise because in
those times, great trust and beleefe was given to an oath, he making
no care or conscience to be perjured: greatly advantaged himselfe by
Law suites, in regard that many matters relyed upon his oath, and
delivering the truth according to his knowledge.
  He delighted (beyond measure) and addicted his best studies, to
cause enmities and scandals betweene kindred and friends, or any other
persons, agreeing well together; and the more mischiefe he could
procure in this kind, so much the more pleasure and delight tooke he
therein. If he were called to kill any one, or to do any other
villanous deede, he never would make deniall, but go to it very
willingly; and divers times it was well knowen, that many were cruelly
beaten, ye slaine by his hands. Hee was a most horrible blasphemer
of God and his Saints, upon the very least occasion, as being more
addicted to choller, then any other man could be. Never would he
frequent the Church, but basely contemned it, with the Sacraments
and religious rites therein administred, accounting them for vile
and unprofitable things: but very voluntarily would visit Tavernes,
and other places of dishonest accesse, which were continually pleasing
unto him, to satisfie his lust and inordinate lubricitie. Hee would
steale both in publike and private, even with such a conscience, as if
it were given to him by nature so to do. He was a great glutton and
a drunkarde, even he was not able to take any more: being also a
continuall gamester, and carrier of false Dice, to cheate with them
the very best Friends he had.
  But why do I waste time in such extent of words? When it may suffice
to say, that never was there a worse man borne; whose wickednesse
was for long time supported, by the favour, power, and Authoritie of
Monsieur Musciatto, for whose sake many wrongs and injuries were
patiently endured, as well by private persons (whom hee would abuse
notoriously) as others of the Court, betweene whom he made no
difference at all in his vile dealing. This Master Chappelet, being
thus remembred by Musciatto (who very well knew his life and
behaviour) he perfectly perswaded himselfe, that this was a man apt in
all respects, to meete with the treachery of the Burgundians:
whereupon, having sent for him, thus he beganne.
  Chappelet, thou knowest how I am wholly to retreate my selfe from
hence, and having some affaires among the Burgundians, men full of
wickednesse and deceite; I can bethinke my selfe of no meeter a man
then Chappelet, to recover such debts as are due to mee among them.
And because it falleth out so well, that thou art not now hindered
by any other businesse; if thou wilt undergoe this office for me, I
will procure thee favourable Letters from the Court, and give thee a
reasonable portion in all thou recoverest. Master Chappelet, seeing
himselfe idle, and greedy after worldly goods, considering that
Mounsieur Musciatto (who had beene alwayes his best buckler) was now
to depart from thence, without any dreaming on the matter, and
constrained thereto (as it were) by necessity, set downe his
resolution, and answered, that hee would gladly doe it.
  Having made their agreement together, and received from Musciatto
his expresse procuration, and also the Kings gracious Letters; after
that Musciatto was gone on his journey, Master Chappelet went to
Dijon, where he was unknowne (well-neere) of any. And there (quite
from his naturall disposition) he beganne benignely and graciously, in
recovering the debts due; which course he tooke the rather, because
they should have a further feeling of him in the end. Being lodged
in the house of two Florentine brethren, that living on their monies
usance; and (for Mounsieur Musciattoes sake) using him with honour and
respect: it fortuned that he fell sicke, and the two brethren sent for
Physitions to attend him, allowing their servants to be diligent about
him, making no spare of any thing, which gave the best likelyhood of
restoring his health. But all their paines proved to no purpose,
because he (honest man) being now growne aged, and having lived all
his life time very disorderly, fell day by day (according to the
Physicions judgement) from bad to worse, as no other way appeared
but death, whereat the brethren greatly grieved.
  Upon a day, neere to the Chamber where the sicke man lay, they
entred into this communication. What shall we doe (quoth the one to
the other) with this man? We are much hindered by him: for to send him
away (sicke as he is) we shall be greatly blamed thereby, and it
will be a manifest note of our weake wisedome; the people knowing that
first of all we gave him entertainement, and have allowed him honest
physicall attendance, and he not having any way injuried or offended
us, to let him be suddenly expulsed our house (sicke to death as he
is) it can be no way for our credit.
  On the other side, we are to consider also, that hee hath bin so
badde a man, as he will not now make any confession thereof, neither
receive the blessed Sacrament of the Church, and dying so without
confession; there is no Church that will accept his body, but it
must be buried in prophane ground, like to a Dogge. And yet if hee
would confesse himselfe, his sinnes are so many and monstrous, as
the like case also may happen, because there is not any Priest or
Religious person, that can or will absolve him. And being not
absolved, he must be cast into some ditch or pit, and then the
people of the Towne, as well in regard of the account we carry
heere, (which to them appeareth so little pleasing, as we are daily
pursued with their worst words) as also coveting our spoile and
overthrow, upon this accident will cry out and mutiny against us;
Behold these Lombard dogs, which are not to be received into the
Church, why should we suffer them to live heere among us? In furious
madnesse will they come upon us, and our house, where (peradventure)
not contended with robbing us of our goods, our lives will remaine
in their mercy and danger; so that, in what sort soever it happen,
this mans dying here, must needs be banefull to us.
  Master Chappelet, who (as we have formerly saide) was lodged neere
to the place where they thus conferred, having a subtle attention
(as oftentimes we see sicke persons to be possessed withall) heard all
these speeches spoken of him, and causing them to bee called unto him,
thus hee spake.
  I would not have you to be any way doubtfull of me; neither that you
should receive the least damage by me: I have heard what you have
said, and am certaine, that it will happen according to your words, if
matters should fall out as you conceite; but I am minded to deale
otherwise. I have committed so many offences against our Lord God,
in the whole current of my life; that now I intend one action at the
houre of my death, which I trust will make amends for all. Procure
therefore, I pray you, that the most holy and religious man that is to
be found (if there bee any one at all) may come unto me, and referre
the case then to me, for I will deale in such sort for you and my
selfe, that all shall be well, and you no way discontented.
  The two Brethren, although they had no great hope in his speeches,
went yet to a Monastery of Gray-Friars, and requested; that some one
holy and learned man, might come to heare the confession of a Lombard,
that lay very weake and sicke in their house. And one was granted unto
them, being an aged religious Frier, a great read master in the sacred
Scripture, a very venerable person, who being of good and sanctified
life, all the Citizens held him in great respect and esteeme, and on
hee went with them to their house. When he was come up into the
Chamber where Master Chappelet lay, and being there seated downe by
him; he beganne first to comfort him very lovingly, demanding also
of him, how many times he had bin at confession? Whereto Master
Chappelet (who never had bin shrived in all his life time) thus
replied.
  Holy Father, I alwayes used (as a common custome) to bee confessed
once (at the least) every weeke, albeit sometimes much more often; but
true it is, that being falne into this sicknesse, now eight daies
since I have not beene confest, so violent hath bene the extremity
of my weaknesse. My sonne (answered the good old man) thou hast done
well, and so keep thee still hereafter in that minde: but I plainly
perceive, seeing thou hast so often confessed thy selfe, that I
shall take the lesse labour in urging questions to thee.
  Master Chappelet replyed; Say not so good Father, for albeit I
have bene so oftentimes confessed, yet am I willing now to make a
generall confession, even of all sinnes comming to my remembrance,
from the very day of my birth, until this instant houre of my
shrift. And therefore I entreat you (holy Father) to make a particular
demand of everie thing, even as if I had never bene confessed at
all, and to make no respect of my sicknesse: for I had rather be
offensive to mine owne flesh, then by favoring or allowing it ease, to
hazard the perdition of my soule, which my Redeemer bought with so
precious a price.
  These words were highly pleasing to the holy Friar, and seemed to
him as an argument of a good conscience: Wherefore, after hee had much
commended this forwardnesse in him, he began to demand of him if he
had never offended with any Woman? Whereunto master Chappelet
(breathing forth a great sigh) answered.
  Holy Father, I am halfe ashamed to tell you the truth in this
case, as fearing least I should sinne in vaine-glory. Whereto the
Confessor replyed; Speake boldly sonne, and feare not, for in
telling the truth, bee it in confession or otherwise, a man can
never sinne. Then sayde Maister Chappelet, Father, seeing you give
me so good an assurance, I will resolve you faithfully heerein. I am
so true a Virgin-man in this matter, even as when I issued forth of my
mothers Wombe. O sonne (quoth the Friar) how happy and blessed of
God art thou? Well hast thou lived, and therein hast thou not meanly
merited, having had so much libertie to doe the contrary if thou
wouldest, wherein verie few of us can so answer for our selves.
  Afterward, he demanded of him, how much displeasing to God hee had
beene in the sinne of Gluttony? When (sighing againe greatly) hee
answered: Too much, and too often, good Father. For, over and beside
the Fasts of our Lent season, which everie yeare ought to bee duely
observed by devout people, I brought my selfe to such a customarie
use, that I could fast three dayes in every Weeke, with Bread and
Water. But indeede (holy Father) I confesse, that I have drunke
water with such a pleasing appetite and delight (especially in
praying, or walking on pilgrimages) even as greedy drunkards doe, in
drinking good Wine. And many times I have desired such Sallades of
small hearbes, as Women do gather abroad in the open fields, and
feeding onely upon them, without coveting after any other kinde of
sustenance, hath seemed much more pleasing to me, then I thought to
agree with the nature of Fasting, especially, when as it swerveth
from devotion, or is not done as it ought to bee.
 Sonne, Sonne, replied the Confessour, these sinnes are naturall,
and very light, and therefore I would not have thee to charge thy
conscience with them, more then is needfull. It happeneth to every man
(how holy soever he be) that after he hath fasted overlong, feeding
will be welcome to him, and drinking good drinke after his travaile. O
Sir, (said Maister Chappelet) never tell me this to comfort me, for
well you know, and I am not ignorant therein, that such things as
are done for the service of God, ought all to be performed purely, and
without any blemish of the minde; what otherwise is done, savoureth of
sinne. The Friar being well contented with his words, said: It is
not amisse that thou understandest it in this manner, and thy
conscience thus purely cleared, is no little comfort to me. But tell
me now concerning Avarice, hast thou sinned therein, by desiring
more then was reasonable, or withholding from others, such things as
thou oughtst not to detaine? Wherein Maister Chappelet answered.
Good Father, I would not have you to imagine, because you see me
lodged heere in the house of two Usurers, that therefore I am of any
such disposition. No truely Sir, I came hither to no other end, but
onely to chastise and admonish them in friendly manner, to clense
their mindes from such abhominable profit: And assuredly, I should
have prevailed therein, had not this violent sicknesse hindered mine
intention. But understand (holy Father) that my parents left me a rich
man, and immediatly after my Fathers death, the greater part of his
goods I gave away for Gods sake, and then, to sustaine mine owne life,
and to helpe the poore members of Jesus Christ, I betooke my selfe
to a meane estate of Merchandise, desiring none other then honest
gaine thereby, and evermore whatsoever benefit came to me; I
imparted halfe thereof to the poore, converting mine owne small
portion about my necessary affaires, which that other part would
scarcely serve to supply: yet alwayes God gave thereto such a
mercifull blessing, that my businesse dayly thrived more and more,
arising still from good to better.
  Well hast thou done therein good Sonne, said the Confessour: but how
oftentimes hast thou beene angry? Oh Sir (said Maister Chappelet)
therein I assure yee, I have often transgressed. And what man is
able to forbeare it; beholding the dayly actions of men to be so
dishonest? No care of keeping Gods Commandements, nor any feare of his
dreadfull judgements. Many times in a day, I have rather wished my
selfe dead then living, beholding youth pursuing idle vanities, to
sweare and forsweare themselves, tipling in Tavernes, and never
haunting Churches; but rather affecting the worlds follies, then any
such duties as they owe to God. Alas Sonne (quoth the Friar) this is a
good and holy anger, and I can impose no penance on thee for it. But
tell me, hath not rage or furie at any time so over-ruled thee, as
to commit murther or man-slaughter, or to speake evill of any man,
or to doe any other such kinde of injurie? Oh Father (answered Maister
Chappelet) you that seeme to be a man of God, how dare you use any
such vile words? If I had had the very least thought, to doe any
such act as you speake, doe you thinke that God would have suffered me
to live? These are deeds of darknesse, fit for villaines and wicked
livers, of which hellish crew, when at any time I have happened to
meet with some one of them, I have said; God, God convert thee.
  Worthy, and charitable words, replied the Friar: but tell me
Sonne, Didst thou ever beare false witnes against any man, or hast
spoken falsly, or taken ought from any one, contrary to the will of
the owner? Yes indeed Father, said Maister Chappelet, I have spoken
ill of another, because I have sometime seene one of my neighbors, who
with no meane shame of the world, would do nothing else but beat his
wife: and of him once I complained to the poore mans parents,
saying, that he never did it but when he was overcome with drinke.
Those were no ill words, quoth the Friar; but I remember you said,
that you were a Merchant: Did you ever deceive any, as some
Merchants use to doe? Truely Father, answered M. Chappelet, I thinke
not any, except one man, who one day brought me money which he owed me
for a certaine peece of cloath I sold him, and I put it into a purse
without accounting it. About a moneth afterward, I found that there
were foure small pence more then was due to mee: and never happening
to meete with the man againe, after I had kept them the space of a
whole yeare, I then gave them away unto foure poore people, for Gods
sake.
  A small matter, said the Friar, and truly payed backe againe to
the owner, in bestowing them on the poore. Many other questions he
demanded of him, whereto still he answered in the same manner. But
before he proceeded to absolution, Master Chappelet spake thus: I have
yet one sinne more, which I have not revealed to you: when being urged
by the Friar to confesse it, he said. I remember, that I should afford
one day in the weeke, to cleanse the house of my soule, for better
entertainement to my Lord and Saviour, and yet I have done no such
reverence to the Sunday or Sabbath, as I ought to have done. A small
fault Sonne, replyed the Friar. O no (quoth Master Chappelet)
doe not terme it a small fault, because Sunday being a holy day,
is highly to be reverenced: for as on that day, our blessed Lord arose
from death to life. But (quoth the Confessor) hast thou done nothing
else on that day? Yes, said he, being forgetfull of my selfe, once I
did spet in Gods Church. The Friar smiling, said: Alas Sonne, that
is a matter of no moment; for wee that are Religious persons, doe
use to spet there every day. The more is your shame, answered Master
Chappelet, for no place ought to bee kept more pure and cleane then
the sacred Temple, wherein our daily sacrifices are offered up to God.
  In this manner he held on an houre and more, uttering the like
transgressions as these; and at last began to sigh very
passionately, and to shed a few teares, as one that was skilfull
enough in such dissembling pranks: whereat the Confessor being much
mooved, saide: Alas Sonne, what aylest thou? Oh Father (quoth
Chappelet) there remaineth yet one sinne more upon my conscience,
wherof I never at any time made confession, so shamefull it
appeareth to mee to disclose it; and I am partly perswaded, that God
will never pardon me for that sinne. How now Sonne? said the Friar,
never say so; for if all the sinnes that ever were committed by men,
or shall be committed so long as the World endureth, were onely in one
man, and he repenting them, and being so contrite for them, as I see
thou art; the grace and mercy of God is so great, that upon penitent
confession, he will freely pardon him, and therefore spare not to
speake it boldly. Alas Father (said Chappelet, still in pretended
weeping) this sinne of mine is so great, that I can hardly beleeve (if
your earnest prayers do not assist me) that ever I shall obtaine
remission for it. Speake it Sonne, said the Friar, and feare not, I
promise that I will pray to God for thee.
  Master Chappelet still wept and sighed, and continued silent,
notwithstanding all the Confessors comfortable perswasions; but
after hee had helde him a long while in suspence, breathing forth a
sighe, even as if his very heart would have broken, he saide; Holy
Father, seeing you promise to pray to God for me, I will reveale it to
you: Know then, that when I was a little boy, I did once curse my
Mother; which he had no sooner spoken, but he wrung his hands, and
greeved extraordinarily. Oh good Son, saide the Friar: doth that seeme
so great a sinne to thee? Why, men doe daily blaspheme our Lord God,
and yet neverthelesse, upon their hearty repentance, he is alwayes
ready to forgive them; and wilt not thou beleeve to obtaine remission,
for a sinne so ignorantly committed? Weepe no more deare Sonne, but
comfort thy selfe and rest resolved, that if thou wert one of them,
who nayled our blessed Saviour to his Crosse; yet being so truly
repentant, as I see thou art, he would freely forgive thee. Say you so
Father? quoth Chappelet. What mine owne deare Mother? that bare me
in her wombe nine moneths, day and night, and afterwards fed me with
her breasts a thousand times, can I be pardoned for cursing her? Oh
no, it is too haynous a sinne, and except you pray to God very
instantly for me, he will not forgive me.
  When the religious man perceived, that nothing more was to bee
confessed by Master Chappelet; he gave him absolution, and his owne
benediction beside, reputing him to be a most holy man, as verily
beleeving all that hee had said. And who would not have done the like,
hearing a man to speake in this manner, and being upon the very
point of death? Afterward, he saide unto him, Master Chappelet, by
Gods grace you may be soone restored to health, but if it so come to
passe, that God doe take your blessed and well disposed soule to his
mercy, will it please you to have your body buried in our Convent?
Whereto Master Chappelet answered; I thanke you Father for your good
motion, and sorry should I be, if my friends did bury me any where
else, because you have promised to pray to God for me; and beside, I
have alwayes carried a religious devotion to your Order. Wherefore,
I beseech you, so soone as you are come home to your Convent, prevaile
so much by your good meanes, that the holy Eucharist, consecrated this
morning on your high Altar, may be brought unto me: for although I
confesse my selfe utterly unworthy, yet I purpose (by your reverend
permission) to receive it, as also your holy and latest unction, to
this ende, that having lived a greevous sinner, I may yet (at the
last) die a Christian. These words were pleasing to the good olde man,
and he caused every thing to be performed, according as Master
Chappelet had requested.
  The two Brethren, who much doubted the dissembling of Chappelet,
being both in a small partition, which sundered the sicke mans Chamber
from theirs, heard and understood the passage of all, betweene him and
the ghostly Father, being many times scarcely able to refraine from
laughter, at the fraudulent course of his confession. And often they
said within themselves, What manner of man is this, whom neither
age, sickenesse, nor terror of death so neere approaching, and
sensible to his owne soule, nor that which is much more, God, before
whose judgement he knowes not how soone he shall appeare, or else be
sent to a more fearefull place; none of these can alter his wicked
disposition, but that he will needes die according as he hath lived?
Notwithstanding, seeing he had so ordered the matter, that he had
buriall freely allowed him, they cared for no more.
  After that Chappelet had received the Communion, and the other
Ceremonies appointed for him; weakenesse encreasing on him more and
more, the very same day of his goodly confession, he died (not long
after) towards the evening. Whereupon the two Brethren tooke order,
that all needefull things should be in a readinesse, to have him
buried honourably; sending to acquaint the Fathers of the Convent
therewith, that they might come to say their Vigilles, according to
precedent custome, and then on the morrow to fetch the body. The
honest Friar that had confessed him, hearing he was dead, went to
the Prior of the Convent, and by sound of the house Bell, caused all
the Brethren to assemble together, giving them credibly to understand,
that Master Chappelet was a very holy man, as appeared by all the
parts of his confession, and made no doubt, but that many miracles
would be wrought by his sanctified body, perswading them to fetch it
thither with all devoute solemnity and reverence: whereto the Prior,
and all the credulous Brethren presently condiscended very gladly.
  When night was come, they went all to visit the dead body of
Master Chappelet, where they used an especiall and solemne Vigill; and
on the morrow, apparelled in their richest Coapes and Vestiments, with
bookes in their hands, and the Crosse borne before them, singing in
the forme of a very devoute procession, they brought the body
pompeously into their Church, accompanied with all the people of the
Towne, both men and women. The Father Confessor, ascending up into the
Pulpit, preached wonderfull things of him, and the rare holinesse of
his life; his fastes, his virginity, simplicity, innocency, and true
sanctity, recounting also (among other especiall observations) what
Chappelet had confessed, as this most great and greevous sinne, and
how hardly he could be perswaded, that God would grant him pardon
for it. Whereby he tooke occasion to reprove the people then
present, saying; And you (accursed of God) for the verie least and
trifling matter hapning, will not spare to blaspheme God, his
blessed Mother, and the whole Court of heavenly Paradise: Oh, take
example by this singular man, this Saint-like man, nay, a very Saint
indeede.
  Many additions more he made, concerning his faithfulnesse, truth,
and integrity; so that, by the vehement asseveration of his words
(whereto all the people there present gave credible beleefe) he
provoked them unto such zeale and earnest devotion; that the Sermon
was no sooner ended, but (in mighty crowds and throngs) they pressed
about the Biere, kissing his hands and feete, and all the garments
about him were torne in peeces, as precious Reliques of so holy a
person, and happy they thought themselves, that could get the smallest
peece or shred of any thing that came neere to his body: and thus they
continued all the day, the body lying still open, to be visited in
this manner.
  When night was come, they buried him in a goodly Marble tombe,
erected in a faire Chappell purposely; and for many dayes after
following, it was most strange to see, how the people of the Country
came thither on heapes, with holy Candles and other offerings, with
Images of waxe fastened to the Tombe, in signe of Sacred and solemne
Vowes, to this new created Saint. And so farre was spread the fame and
renowne of his sanctity, devotion, and integrity of life, maintained
constantly by the Fathers of the Convent; that if any one fell sicke
in neede, distresse, or adversity, they would make their Vowes to no
other Saint but him: naming him (as yet to this day they do) Saint
Chappelet, affirming upon their Oathes, that infinite miracles were
there daily performed by him, and especially on such, as came in
devotion to visit his shrine.
  In this manner lived and died Master Chappelet du Prat, who before
he became a Saint, was as you have heard: and I will not deny it to be
impossible, but that he may bee at rest among other blessed bodies.
For although he lived lewdly and wickedly, yet such might be his
contrition in the latest extreamity, that (questionlesse) he might
finde mercie. But, because such things remaine unknowne to us, and
speaking by outward appearance, vulgar judgement will censure
otherwise of him, and thinke him to be rather in perdition, then in so
blessed a place as Paradice. But referring that to the Omnipotents
appointment, whose clemencie hath alwayes beene so great to us, that
he regards not our errors, but the integrity of our Faith, making
(by meanes of our continuall Mediator) of an open enemy, a converted
sonne and servant. And as I began in his name, so will I conclude,
desiring that it may evermore be had in due reverence, and referre
we our selves thereto in all our necessities, with this setled
assurance, that he is alwayes ready to heare us. And so he ceased.
                     THE FIRST DAY, THE SECOND NOVELL

          WHEREIN IS CONTAINED AND EXPRESSED, THE LIBERALITY AND
            GOODNESSE OF GOD, EXTENDED TO THE CHRISTIAN FAITH

  Abraham a Jew, being admonished or advised by a friend of his,
named Jehannot de Chevigny, travailed from Paris unto Rome: And
beholding there the wicked behaviour of men in the Church, returned
backe to Paris againe, where yet (neverthelesse) he became a
Christian.

  The Novell recited by Pamphilus, was highly pleasing to the company,
and much commended by the Ladies: and after it had beene diligently
observed among them, the Queene commanded Madam Neiphila (who was
seated neerest to Pamphilus) that, in relating another of hers, she
should follow on in the pastime thus begun. She being no lesse
gracious in countenance, then merrily disposed; made answere, that
shee would obey her charge, and began in this manner.
  Pamphilus hath declared to us, by his Tale, how the goodnesse of God
regardeth not our errors, when they proceede from things which wee
cannot discerne. And I intend to approove by mine, what argument of
infallible truth, the same benignity delivereth of it selfe, by
enduring patiently the faults of them, that (both in word and worke)
should declare unfaigned testimony of such gracious goodnesse, and not
to live so dissolutely as they doe. To the end, that others
illumined by their light of life, may beleeve with the stronger
constancy of minde.
  As I have heeretofore heard (Gracious Ladies) there lived a
wealthy Marchant in Paris, being a Mercer, or seller of Silkes,
named Jehannot de Chevigny, a man of faithfull, honest, and upright
dealing; who held great affection and friendship with a very rich Jew,
named Abraham, that was a Merchant also, and a man of very direct
conversation. Jehannot well noting the honesty and loyall dealing of
this Jew, began to have a Religious kinde of compassion in his
soule, much pittying that a man so good in behaviour, so wise and
discreete in all his actions, should be in danger of perdition
thorow want of Faith. In which regard, lovingly he began to intreate
him, that he would leave the errors of his Jewish beleefe, and
follow the truth of Christianity, which he evidently saw (as being
good and holy) daily to prosper and enlarge it selfe, whereas on the
contrary, his profession decreased, and grew to nothing.
  The Jew made answer, that he beleeved nothing to be so good and
holy, as the Jewish Religion, and having beene borne therein, therein
also he purposed to live and dye, no matter whatsoever being able to
remove him from that resolution. For all this stiffe deniall,
Jehannot would not so give him over; but pursued him still day by
day, reitterating continually his former speeches to him: delivering
infinite excellent and pregnant reasons, that Merchants themselves
were not ignorant, how farre the Christian faith excelled the Jewish
falshoods. And albeit the Jew was a very learned man in his owne
Law, yet notwithstanding the intire amity he bare to Jehannot, or
(perhaps) his words fortified by the blessed Spirit, were so
prevailant with him, that the Jew felt a pleasing apprehension in
them, though as yet his obstinacie stoode farre off from Conversion.
But as he thus continued strong in opinion, so Jehannot lefte not
hourely to labour him: insomuch, that the Jew being conquered by
such earnest and continuall importunity, one day spake to Jehannot,
saying.
  My worthy friend Jehannot, thou art extremely desirous, that I
should convert to Christianitie, and I am well contented to doe it;
onely upon this condition: That first I wil journey to Rome, to see
him whom thou sayest, is Gods general Vicar here on earth, and to
consider on the course of his life and manners, and likewise of his
Colledge of Cardinals. If he and they doe appeare such men to mee,
as thy speeches affirme them to be, and thereby I may comprehend
that thy Faith and Religion is better then mine, as with no meane
paines thou endevourest to perswade mee, I will become a Christian
as thou art: but if I finde it otherwise, I will continue as I am, a
Jew.
  Jehannot hearing these words, became exceeding sorrowfull, and sayd
within himselfe; I have lost all the paines which I did thinke to be
well employed, as hoping to have this man converted heere. For, if
he go to the Court of Rome, and behold there the wickednes of the
Priests lives, farewell all hope in me, of ever seeing him to become a
Christian. But rather, were he already a Christian, without all
question he would turne a Jew. And so going neerer to Abraham, he
said. Alas my loving friend, why shouldst thou undertake such a
tedious travel, and so great a charge, as thy journey from hence to
Rome will cost thee? Consider, that to a rich man (as thou art)
travaile by land or Sea is full of infinite dangers. Doest thou not
thinke, that here are Religious men enow, who wil gladly bestow
Baptisme upon thee? To mee therefore it plainely appeareth, that
such a voyage is to no purpose. If thou standest upon any doubt or
scruple, concerning the faith whereto I wish thee; where canst thou
desire conference with greater Doctours, or men more learned in all
respects, then this famous Cittie doth affoord thee, to resolve thee
in any questionable case? Thou must thinke, that the Prelates are such
there, as heere thou seest them to be, and yet they must needes be
in much better condition at Rome, because they are neere to the
principall Pastor. And therefore, if thou wilt credit my counsell,
reserve this journey to some time more convenient, when the Jubilee of
generall Pardon happeneth, and then (perchance) I will beare thee
company, and go along with thee as in vowed Pilgrimage.
  Whereto the Jew replyed: I beleeve Jehannot that all which thou hast
said, may be so. But, to make short with thee, I am fully determined
(if thou wouldst have me a Christian, as thou instantly urgest me to
bee) to goe thither, for otherwise, I will continue as I am.
Jehannot perceyving his setled purpose, said: Goe then in Gods name.
But perswaded himselfe, that hee would never become a Christian, after
he had once seene the Court of Rome: neverthelesse, he counted his
labour not altogither lost, in regard he bestowed it to a good end,
and honest intentions are to be commended.
  The Jew mounted on horse-backe, and made no lingering in his journey
to Rome; where being arrived, he was very honourably entertained by
other Jewes dwelling in Rome. And during the time of his abiding there
(without revealing to any one the reason of his comming thither)
very heedfully he observed the maner of the Popes life, of the
Cardinals, Prelates, and all the Courtiers. And being a man very
discreet and judicious, hee apparantly perceived, both by his owne
eye, and further information of friends; that from the highest to
the lowest (without any restraint, remorse of conscience, shame, or
feare of punishment) all sinned in abhominable luxurie, and not
naturally onely, but in foule Sodomie, so that the credite of
Strumpets and Boyes was not small, and yet might be too easily
obtayned. Moreover, drunkards, belly-Gods, and servants of the paunch,
more then of any thing else (even like brutish beasts after their
luxury) were every where to be met withall. And upon further
observation, hee saw all men so covetous and greedie of Coyne, that
every thing was bought and solde for ready money, not onely the
blood of men, but (in plaine termes) the faith of Christians, yea, and
matters of divinest qualities, how, or to whomsoever appertaining,
were it for Sacrifices or Benefices, whereof was made no mean
merchandize, and more Brokers were there to be found (then in Paris
attending upon all Trades) of manifest Symonie, under the nice name of
Negotiation, and for gluttony, not sustentation: even as if God had
not knowne the signification of vocables, nor the intentions of wicked
hearts, but would suffer himselfe to bee deceived by the outward names
of things, as wretched men commonly use to doe.
  These things, and many more (fitter for silence, then for
publication) were so deepely displeasing to the Jew, being a most
sober and modest man; that he had soone seene enough, resolving on his
returne to Paris, which very speedily he performed. And when
Jehannot heard of his arrivall, crediting much rather other newes from
him, then ever to see him a converted Christian; he went to welcome
him, and kindly they feasted one another. After some few dayes of
resting, Jehannot demanded of him; what he thought of our holy
Father the Pope and his Cardinals, and generally of all the other
Courtiers? Whereto the Jew readily answered; It is strange Jehannot,
that God should give them so much as he doth. For I will truely tell
thee, that if I had beene able to consider all those things, which
there I have both heard and seene: I could then have resolved my
selfe, never to have found in any Priest, either sanctity, devotion,
good worke, example of honest life, or any good thing else beside. But
if a man desire to see luxury, avarice, gluttony, and such wicked
things, yea, worse, if worse may be, and held in generall estimation
of all men; let him but goe to Rome, which I thinke rather to be the
forge of damnable actions, then any way leaning to grace or goodnesse.
And, for ought I could perceive, me thinkes your chiefe Pastour, and
(consequently) all the rest of his dependants, doe strive so much as
they may (with all their engine arte and endevour) to bring to
nothing, or else to banish quite out of the world, Christian Religion,
whereof they should be the support and foundation.
  But because I perceive, that their wicked intent will never come
to passe, but contrariwise, that your faith enlargeth it selfe,
shining every day much more cleare and splendant: I gather thereby
evidently, that the blessed Spirit is the true ground and defence
thereof, as being more true and holy then any other. In which respect,
whereas I stood stiffe and obstinate against the good admonitions, and
never minded to become a Christian: now I freely open my heart unto
thee, that nothing in the world can or shall hinder me, but I will
be a Christian, as thou art. Let us therefore presently goe to the
Church, and there (according to the true custome of your holy
faiths) helpe me to be baptized.
  Jehannot, who expected a farre contrary conclusion then this,
hearing him speake it with such constancy; was the very gladdest man
in the world, and went with him to the Church of Nostre Dame in Paris,
where he requested the Priests there abiding, to bestow baptisme on
Abraham, which they joyfully did, hearing him so earnestly to desire
it. Jehannot was his Godfather, and named him John, and afterward,
by learned Divines he was more fully instructed in the grounds of
our faith; wherein he grew of great understanding, and led a very
vertuous life.
                     THE FIRST DAY, THE THIRD NOVELL

            WHEREBY THE AUTHOR, APPROVING THE CHRISTIAN FAITH,
         SHEWETH, HOW BENEFICIALL A SODAINE AND INGENIOUS ANSWERE
         MAY FALL OUT TO BEE, ESPECIALLY WHEN A MAN FINDS HIMSELFE
                         IN SOME EVIDENT DANGER

  Melchisedech a Jew, by recounting a Tale of three Rings, to the
great Soldan, named Saladine, prevented a great danger which was
prepared for him.

  Madame Neiphila having ended her Discourse, which was well allowed
of by all the company; it pleased the Queene, that Madame Philomena
should next succeede in order, who thus began.
  The Tale delivered by Neiphila, maketh mee remember a doubtfull
case, which sometime hapned to another Jew. And because that God,
and the truth of his holy Faith, hath bene already very well
discoursed on: it shall not seeme unfitting (in my poore opinion) to
descend now into the accidents of men. Wherefore, I will relate a
matter unto you, which being attentively heard and considered; may
make you much more circumspect, in answering to divers questions and
demands, then (perhaps) otherwise you would be. Consider then (most
woorthy assembly) that like as folly or dulnesse, many times hath
overthrowne some men from place of eminencie, into most great and
greevous miseries: even so, discreet sense and good understanding,
hath delivered many out of irksome perils, and seated them in safest
security. And to prove it true, that folly hath made many fall from
high authority, into poore and despised calamity; may be avouched by
infinite examples, which now were needelesse to remember: But, that
good sense and able understanding, may proove to be the occasion of
great desolation, without happy prevention, I will declare unto you in
very few words, and make it good according to my promise.
  Saladine, was a man so powerfull and valiant, as not onely his
very valour made him Soldan of Babylon, and also gave him many signall
victories, over Kings of the Sarrazens, and of Christians likewise.
Having in divers Warres, and other magnificent employments, of his
owne, wasted all his treasure, and (by reason of some sodaine accident
happening to him) standing in neede to use some great summe of
money, yet not readily knowing where, or how to procure it; he
remembred a rich Jew named Melchisedech, that lent out money to use or
interest in the City of Alexandria. This man he imagined best able
to furnish him, if he could be won to do it willingly: but he was
knowne to be so gripple and miserable, that hardly any meanes would
drawe him to it. In the end, constrained by necessity, and labouring
his wits for some apt device whereby he might have it: he concluded,
though hee might not compell him to do it, yet by a practise
shadowed with good reason to ensnare him. And having sent for him,
entertained him very familiarly in his Court, and sitting downe by
him, thus began.
  Honest man, I have often heard it reported by many, that thou art
very skilfull, and in cases concerning God, thou goest beyond all
other of these times: wherefore, I would gladly bee informed by
thee, which of those three Lawes or Religions, thou takest to be
truest; that of the Jew, the other of the Sarazen, or that of the
Christian? The Jew, being a very wise man, plainely perceived, that
Saladine sought to entrap him in his answere, and so to raise some
quarrell against him. For, if he commended any one of those Lawes
above the other, he knew that Saladine had what he aymed at.
Wherefore, bethinking himselfe to shape such an answere, as might no
way trouble or entangle him: summoning all his sences together, and
considering, that dallying with the Soldane might redound to his no
meane danger, thus he replied.
  My Lord, the question propounded by you, is faire and worthy, and to
answere my opinion truely thereof, doth necessarily require some
time of consideration, if it might stand with your liking to allow it:
but if not, let me first make entrance to my reply, with a pretty
tale, and well worth the hearing. I have oftentimes heard it reported,
that (long since) there was a very wealthy man, who (among other
precious Jewels of his owne) had a goodly Ring of great valew; the
beauty and estimation whereof, made him earnestly desirous to leave it
as a perpetuall memory and honour to his successors. Whereupon, he
willed and ordained, that he among his male children, with whom this
Ring (being left by the Father) should be found in custody after his
death; hee and none other, was to bee reputed his heire, and to be
honoured and reverenced by all the rest, as being the prime and
worthiest person. That Sonne, to whom this Ring was left by him,
kept the same course to his posterity, dealing (in all respects) as
his predecessor had done; so that (in short time) the Ring (from
hand to hand) had many owners by Legacie.
  At length, came to the hand of one, who had three sonnes, all of
them goodly and vertuous persons, and verie obedient to their
Father: in which regard, he affected them all equally, without any
difference or partiall respect. The custome of this Ring being
knowne to them, each one of them (coveting to beare esteeme above
the other) desired (as hee could best make his meanes) his Father,
that in regard he was now growne very old, he would leave that Ring to
him, whereby he should bee acknowledged for his heire. The good man,
who loved no one of them more then the other, knew not how to make his
choise, nor to which of them he should leave the Ring: yet having past
his promise to them severally, he studied by what meanes to satisfie
them all three. Wherefore, secretly having conferred with a curious
and excellent Goldsmith, hee caused two other Rings to bee made, so
really resembling the first made Ring, that himselfe (when he had them
in his hand) could not distinguish which was the right one.
  Lying upon his death-bed, and his Sonnes then plying him by their
best opportunities, he gave to each of them a Ring. And they (after
his death) presuming severally upon their right to the inheritance and
honor, grew to great contradiction and square: each man producing then
his Ring, which were so truely all alike in resemblance, as no one
could know the right Ring from the other. And therefore, suite in Law,
to distinguish the true heire to his Father, continued long time,
and so it dooth yet to this very day. In like manner my good Lord,
concerning those three Lawes given by God the Father, to three such
people as you have propounded: each of them do imagine that they
have the heritage of God, and his true Law, and also duely to performe
his Commandements; but which of them do so indeede, the question (as
of the three Rings) is yet remaining.
  Saladine well perceyving, that the Jew was too cunning to bee caught
in his snare, and had answered so well, that to doe him further
violence, would redound unto his perpetuall dishonour; resolved to
reveale his neede and extremity, and try if hee would therein friendly
sted him. Having disclosed the matter, and how he purposed to have
dealt with him, if he had not returned so wise an answere; the Jew
lent him so great a sum of money as hee demanded, and Saladine repayed
it againe to him justly, giving him other great gifts beside:
respecting him as his especiall friend, and maintaining him in very
honourable condition, neere unto his owne person.
                     THE FIRST DAY, THE FOURTH NOVELL

       WHEREIN MAY BEE NOTED, THAT SUCH MEN AS WILL REPROVE THOSE
      ERROURS IN OTHERS, WHICH REMAINE IN THEMSELVES, COMMONLY ARE
                  THE AUTHORS OF THEIR OWNE REPREHENSION

  A Monke having committed an offence, deserving to be very greevously
punished, freed himselfe from the paine to be inflicted on him, by
wittily reprehending his Abbot, with the very same fault.

  So ceased Madame Philotnena, after the conclusion of her Tale:
when Dioneus sitting next unto her, (without tarrying for any other
command from the Queene, knowing by the order formerly begun, that hee
was to follow in the same course) spake in this manner.
  Gracious Ladies, if I faile not in understanding your generall
intention, we are purposely assembled heere to tell Tales; and
especially such as may please our selves. In which respect, because
nothing shold be done disorderly, I hold it lawfull for every one
(as our Queene decreed before her Dignity) to relate such a
Noveltie, as in their owne judgement may cause most contentment.
Wherefore having heard that by the good admonitions of Jehannot de
Chevigny, Abraham the Jew was advised to the salvation of his soule,
and Melchisedech (by his witty understanding) defended his riches from
the traines of Saladine: I now purpose to tell you in a few plaine
words, without feare of receiving any reprehension, how cunningly a
Monke compassed his deliverance, from a punishment intended towards
him.
  There was in the Country of Lunigiana (which is not far distant from
our owne) a Monastery, which sometime was better furnished with
holinesse and Religion, then now adayes they are: wherein lived (among
divers other) a yong Novice Monke, whose hot and lusty disposition
(being in the vigour of his yeeres) was such, as neither Fasts nor
prayers had any great power over him. It chanced on a fasting day
about high noon, when all the other Monkes were asleep in their
Dormitaries or Dorters, this frolicke Friar was walking alone in their
Church, which stoode in a very solitarie place, where ruminating on
many matters by himselfe, hee espyed a prettie handsome Wench (some
Husbandmans daughter in the Countrey, that had beene gathering
rootes and hearbes in the field) upon her knees before in Altar;
whom he had no sooner seene, but immediately hee felt effeminate
temptations, and such as ill fitted with his profession.
  Lascivious desire, and no religious devotion, made him draw neere
her, and whether under shrift (the onely cloake to compasse carnal
affections) or some other as close conference to as pernitious and
vile a purpose, I know not: but so farre he prevailed upon her
frailety, and such a bargaine passed betweene them, that from the
Church, he wonne her to his Chamber, before any person could
perceive it. Now, while this yong lusty Monke (transported with
overfond affection) was more carelesse of his dalliance, then he
should have bene: the Lord Abbot being newly arisen from sleepe, and
walking softly about the Cloyster, came to the Monkes Dorter doore,
where hearing what noyse was made betweene them, and a feminine
voyce more strange then hee was wont to heare; he layed his eare close
to the Chamber doore, and plainly perceived, that a woman was
within. Wherewith being much moved, he intended sodainly to make him
open the doore; but (upon better consideration) hee conceyved it farre
more fitting for him, to returne backe to his owne Chamber, and
tarry till the Monke should come forth.
  The Monke, though his delight with the Damosell was extraordinary,
yet feare and suspition followed upon it; for, in the very height of
all his wantonnesse, he heard a soft treading about the doore. And
prying thorow a small crevice in the same dore, perceived apparantly,
that the Abbot himselfe stood listening there, and could not be
ignorant but that the Maide was with him in the Chamber. As after
pleasure ensueth paine, for the veniall Monke knew well enough (though
wanton heate would not let him heede it before) that most greevous
punishment must bee inflicted on him, which made him sad beyond all
measure: Neverthelesse, without disclosing his dismay to the yong
Maiden, he began to consider with himselfe on many meanes, whereby
to find out one that might best fit his turne. And suddenly
conceited an apt stratagem, which sorted to such effect as he would
have it: whereupon, seeming satisfied for that season, he tolde the
Damosell, that (being carefull of her credit) as hee had brought her
in unseene of any, so he would free her from thence againe, desiring
her to tarrie there (without making any noyse at all) untill such time
as he returned to her.
  Going forth of the chamber, and locking it fast with the key, he
went directly to the Lord Abbots lodging, and delivering him the saide
key (as every Monke used to doe the like, when he went abroade out
of the Convent) setting a good countenance on the matter, boldly
saide; My Lord, I have not yet brought in all my part of the wood,
which lieth ready cut downe in the Forrest; and having now
convenient time to doe it, if you please to give me leave, I will
goe and fetch it. The Abbot perswading himselfe, that he had not beene
discovered by the Monke, and to be resolved more assuredly in the
offence committed; being not a little jocund of so happy an
accident, gladly tooke the key, and gave him leave to fetch the wood.
  No sooner was he gone, but the Abbot beganne to consider with
himselfe, what he were best to doe in this case, either (in the
presence of all the other Monkes) to open the Chamber doore, that so
the offence being knowne to them all, they might have no occasion of
murmuring against him, when he proceeded in the Monkes punishment;
or rather should first understand of the Damosell her selfe, how,
and in what manner shee was brought thither. Furthermore, he
considered, that shee might be a woman of respect, or some such mans
daughter, as would not take it well, to have her disgraced before
all the Monkes. Wherefore hee concluded, first to see (himselfe)
what shee was, and then (afterward) to resolve upon the rest. So going
very softly to the Chamber, and entring in, locked the doore fast with
the key, when the poore Damosell thinking it had beene the gallant
young Monke; but finding it to be the Lord Abbot, shee fell on her
knees weeping, as fearing now to receive publike shame, by being
betrayed in this unkinde manner.
  My Lord Abbot looking demurely on the Maide, and perceiving her to
be faire, feate, and lovely; felt immediately (although he was olde)
no lesse spurring on to fleshly desires, then the young Monke before
had done; whereupon he beganne to conferre thus privately with
himselfe. Why should I not take pleasure, when I may freely have it?
Cares and molestations I endure every day, but sildome find such
delights prepared for me. This is a delicate sweete young Damosell,
and here is no eye that can discover me. If I can enduce her to doe as
I would have her, I know no reason why I should gaine-say it. No man
can know it, or any tongue blaze it abroade; and sinne so concealed,
is halfe pardoned. Such a faire fortune as this is, perhaps
hereafter will never befall me; and therefore I hold it wisedome, to
take such a benefit when a man may enjoy it.
  Upon this immodest meditation, and his purpose quite altered which
he came for; he went neerer to her, and very kindly began to comfort
her, desiring her to forbeare weeping: and (by further insinuating
speeches) acquainted her with his amorous intention. The Maide, who
was made neither of yron nor diamond, and seeking to prevent one shame
by another, was easily wonne to the Abbots will, which caused him to
embrace and kisse her often.
  Our lusty young novice Monke, whom the Abbot imagined to bee gone
for wood, had hid himselfe aloft upon the roofe of the Dorter,
where, when he saw the Abbot enter alone into the Chamber, he lost a
great part of his former feare, promising to himselfe a kinde of
perswasion, that somewhat would ensue to his better comfort; but
when he beheld him lockt into the Chamber, then his hope grew to
undoubted certainty. A little chincke or crevice favoured him, whereat
he could both heare and see, whatsoever was done or spoken by them:
so, when the Abbot thought hee had staide long enough with the
Damosell, leaving her still there, and locking the doore fast
againe, hee returned thence to his owne Chamber.
  Within some short while after, the Abbot knowing the Monke to be
in the Convent, and supposing him to be lately returned with the wood,
determined to reprove him sharpely, and to have him closely
imprisoned, that the Damosell might remaine solie to himselfe. And
causing him to be called presently before him, with a very stearne and
angry countenance, giving him many harsh and bitter speeches,
commanded, that he should be clapt in prison.
  The Monke very readily answered, saying. My good Lord, I have not
yet beene so long in the Order of Saint Benedict, as to learne all the
particularities thereto belonging. And beside Sir, you never shewed
mee or any of my Brethren, in what manner we young Monkes ought to use
women, as you have otherwise done for our custome of prayer and
fasting. But seeing you have so lately therein instructed mee, and
by your owne example how to doe it: I heere solemnely promise you,
if you please to pardon me but this one error, I will never faile
therein againe, but dayly follow what I have seene you doe.
  The Abbot, being a man of quicke apprehension, perceived instantly
by this answere; that the Monke not onely knew as much as he did,
but also had seene (what was intended) that hee should not. Wherefore,
finding himselfe to be as faulty as the Monke, and that hee could
not shame him, but worthily had deserved as much himselfe; pardoning
him, and imposing silence on eithers offence: they convayed the
poore abused Damosell forth of their doores, she purposing (never
after) to transgresse in the like manner.
                     THE FIRST DAY, THE FIFT NOVELL

         DECLARING, THAT WISE AND VERTUOUS LADIES, OUGHT TO HOLD
         THEIR CHASTITIE IN MORE ESTEEME, THEN THE GREATNESSE AND
        TREASURES OF PRINCES: AND THAT A DISCREETE LORD SHOULD NOT
                          OFFER MODESTIE VIOLENCE

  The Lady Marquesse of Montferrat, with a Banquet of Hennes, and
divers other gracious speeches beside, repressed the fond love of
the King of France.

  The Tale reported by Dioneus, at the first hearing of the Ladies,
began to rellish of some immodestie, as the bashfull blood mounting up
into their faces, delivered by apparant testimonie. And beholding
one another with scarse-pleasing lookes, during all the time it was in
discoursing, no sooner had he concluded: but with a few milde and
gentle speeches, they gave him a modest reprehension, and meaning to
let him know that such tales ought not to be tolde among women.
Afterward, the Queene commaunded Madam Fiammetta, (sitting on a
banke of flowers before her) to take her turne as next in order; and
she, smiling with such a virgin blush, as very beautifully became her,
began in this manner.
  It is no little joy to mee, that we understand so well (by the
discourses already past) what power consisteth in the delivery of wise
and readie answeres; And because it is a great part of sence and
judgement in men, to affect women of greater birth and quality then
themselves, as also an admirable fore-sight in women, to keepe off
from being surprized in love, by Lords going beyond them in degree:
a matter offereth it selfe to my memory, well deserving my speech
and your attention, how a Gentlewoman (both in word and deede)
should defend her honor in that kind, when importunity laboureth to
betray it.
  The Marquesse of Montferrat was a worthy and valiant Knight, who
being Captaine Generall for the Church, the necessary service required
his company on the Seas, in a goodly Army of the Christians against
the Turkes. Upon a day, in the Court of King Philip, sirnamed the
one eyed King (who likewise made preparation in France, for a royall
assistance to that expedition) as many speeches were delivered,
concerning the valour and manhoode of this Marquesse: it fortuned,
that a Knight was then present, who knew him very familiarly, and he
gave an addition to the former commendation, that the whole world
contained not a more equall couple in marriage, then the Marquesse and
his Lady. For, as among all knights, the Marquesse could hardly be
paraleld for Armes and Honour; even so his wife, in comparison of
all other Ladies, was scarcely matchable for beauty and vertue.
Which words were so weighty in the apprehension of King Philip, that
sodainly (having as yet never seen her) he began to affect her very
earnestly, concluding to embarke himselfe at Gennes or Genoua, there
to set forward on the intended voyage, and journying thither by
land, hee would shape some honest excuse to see the Lady Marquesse,
whose Lord being then from home, opinion perswaded him over fondly,
that he should easily obtaine the issue of his amorous desire.
  When hee was come within a dayes journey, where the Ladie
Marquesse then lay; he sent her word that she should expect his
company on the morrow at dinner. The Lady, being singularly wise and
judicious, answered the Messenger, that she reputed the Kings
comming to her, as an extraordinary grace and favour, and that he
should bee most heartily welcome. Afterward, entring into further
consideration with her selfe, what the King might meane by his private
visitation, knowing her Husband to be from home, and it to bee no
meane barre to his apter entertainement: at last she discreetly
conceited (and therin was not deceived) that babling report of her
beauty and perfections, might thus occasion the Kings comming thither,
his journey lying else a quite contrary way. Notwithstanding, being
a Princely Lady, and so loyal a wife as ever lived shee intended to
give him her best entertainement: summoning the chiefest Gentlemen
in the Country together, to take due order (by their advice) for
giving the King a gracious Welcome. But concerning the dinner, and
diet for service to his Table, that remained onely at her own
disposing.
  Sending presently abroad, and buying all the Hennes that the Country
affoorded, shee commaunded her Cookes, that onely of them (without any
other provision beside) they should prepare all the services that they
could devise. On the morrow, the King came according to his promise,
and was most honourably welcomed by the Lady, who seemed in his eye
(far beyond the Knights speeches of her) the fairest creature that
ever he had seene before; whereat he mervailed not a little, extolling
her perfections to be peerelesse, which much the more enflamed his
affections, and (almost) made his desires impatient. The King beeing
withdrawne into such Chambers, as orderly were prepared for him, and
as beseemed so great a Prince: the houre of dinner drawing on, the
King and the Lady Marquesse were seated at one Table, and his
attendants placed at other tables, answerable to their degrees of
honour.
  Plenty of dishes being served in, and the rarest Wines that the
Countrey yeelded, the King had more minde to the faire Lady Marques,
then any meate that stood on the Table. Neverthelesse, observing
each service after other, and that all the Viands (though variously
cooked, and in divers kindes) were nothing else but Hennes onely, he
began to wonder; and so much the rather, because he knew the Country
to be of such quality, that it afforded all plenty both of Fowles
and Venison: beside, after the time of his comming was heard, they had
respite enough, both for hawking and hunting; and therefore it
encreased his marvell the more, that nothing was provided for him, but
Hennes onely: wherein to be the better resolved, turning a merry
countenance to the Lady, thus he spake. Madam, are Hennes onely bred
in this Country, and no Cockes? The Lady Marquesse, very well
understanding his demand, which fitted her with an apt opportunity, to
thwart his idle hope, and defend her owne honour; boldly returned
the King this answere. Not so my Lord, but women and wives,
howsoever they differ in garments and graces one from another; yet
notwithstanding, they are all heere as they bee in other places.
  When the King heard this reply, he knew well enough the occasion
of his Henne dinner, as also, what vertue lay couched under her
answere; perceiving apparantly, that wanton words would prove but in
vaine, and such a woman was not easily to be seduced; wherefore, as
hee grew enamored on her inconsiderately, so he found it best
fitting for his honour, to quench this heate with wisedome discreetly.
And so, without any more words, or further hope of speeding in so
unkingly a purpose, dinner being ended, by a sudden departing, he
smoothly shadowed the cause of his comming, and thanking her for the
honour shee had done him, commended her to her chaste disposition, and
posted away with speede to Gennes.
                     THE FIRST DAY, THE SIXT NOVELL

        DECLARING, THAT IN FEW, DISCREETE, AND WELL PLACED WORDS,
      THE COVERED CRAFT OF CHURCH-MEN MAY BEE JUSTLY REPROVED, AND
                  THEIR HYPOCRISIE HONESTLY DISCOVERED

  An honest plaine meaning man, (simply and conscionably)
reprehended the malignity, hypocrisie, and misdemeanour of many
Religious persons.

  Madam Aemilia sitting next to the gentle Lady Fiammetta,
perceiving the modest chastisement, which the vertuous Lady
Marquesse had given to the King of France, was generally graced by the
whole Assembly; began (after the Queene had thereto appointed her)
in these words. Nor will I conceale the deserved reprehension, which
an honest simple lay-man, gave to a covetous holy Father, in very
few words; yet more to be commended, then derided.
  Not long since (worthy Ladies) there dwelt in our owne native
City, a Friar Minor, an Inquisitor after matters of Faith; who,
although he laboured greatly to seeme a sanctified man, and an earnest
affecter of Christian Religion, (as all of them appeare to be in
outward shew;) yet he was a much better Inquisitor after them that had
their purses plenteously stored with money, then of such as were
slenderly grounded in Faith. By which diligent continued care in
him, he found out a man, more rich in purse, then understanding; and
yet not so defective in matters of faith, as misguided by his owne
simple speaking, and (perhaps) when his braine was well warmed with
wine, words fell more foolishly from him, then in better judgement
they could have done.
  Being on a day in company, (very little differing in quality from
him selfe) he chanced to say; that he had beene at such good wine,
as God himselfe did never drinke better. Which words (by some
Sicophant then in presence) being carried to this curious
Inquisitor, and he well knowing, that the mans faculties were great,
and his bagges swolne up full with no meane abundance: Cum gladijs
et fustibus; With Booke, Bell, and Candle, he raysed an hoast of
execrations against him, and the Sumner cited him with a solemne
Processe to appeare before him, understanding sufficiently, that
this course would sooner fetch money from him, then amend any
misbeliefe in the man; for no further reformation did he seeke after.
  The man comming before him, hee demanded, if the accusation
intimated against him, was true or no? Whereto the honest man
answered, that he could not denie the speaking of such words, and
declared in what manner they were uttered. Presently the Inquisitor,
most devoutly addicted to Saint John with the golden beard, saide;
What? Doest thou make our Lord a drinker, and a curious quaffer of
wines, as if he were a glutton, a belly-god, or a Taverne haunter,
as thou, and other drunkards are. Being an hypocrite, as thou art,
thou thinkest this to be but a light matter, because it may seeme so
in thine owne opinion: but I tell thee plainely, that it deserveth
fire and faggot, if I should proceede in justice to inflict it on
thee: with these, and other such like threatning words, as also a very
stearne and angry countenance, he made the man beleeve himselfe to
be an Epicure, and that hee denied the eternity of the soule;
whereby he fell into such a trembling feare, as doubting indeede,
least he should be burned; that, to be more mercifully dealt withal,
he rounded him in the eare, and by secret meanes, so annointed his
hands with Saint Johns golden grease (a verie singular remedie against
the Disease Pestilentiall in covetous Priests, especially Friars
Minors, that dare touch no money) as the case became very quickly
altered.
  This soveraigne Unction was of such vertue (though Galen speakes not
a word thereof among all his cheefest Medicines) and so farre
prevailed, that the terrible threatning words of fire and faggot,
became meerly frozen up, and gracious language blew a more gentle
and calmer ayre; the Inquisitor delivering him an hallowed
Crucifixe, creating him a Soldier of the Crosse (because he had
payed Crosses good store for it,) and even as if he were to travell
under that Standard to the holy Land; so did hee appoint him a
home-paying pennance, namely, to visit him thrice every weeke in his
Chamber, and to annoint his hands with the selfe-same yellow
unguent, and afterward, to heare Masse of the holy Crosse, visiting
him also at dinner time, which being ended, to do nothing all the rest
of the day, but according as he directed him.
  The simple man, yet not so simple, but seeing that this weekely
greazing the Inquisitors hands, would in time graspe away all his
gold, grew weary of this annointing, and began to consider with
himselfe, how to stay the course of this chargeable penance. And
comming one morning (according to his injunction) to heare Masse, in
the Gospell he observed these words; You shall receive an hundred
for one, and so possesse eternall life; which saying, he kept
perfectly in his memory: and as he was commanded, at dinner time, he
came to the Inquisitor, finding him (among his fellowes) seated at the
Table. The Inquisitor presently demaunded of him, whether he had heard
Masse that morning, or no? Yes Sir, replyed the man very readily. Hast
thou heard any thing therein (quoth the Inquisitor) whereof thou art
doubtfull, or desirst to be further informed? Surely Sir, answered the
plaine-meaning man, I make no doubt of any thing I have heard, but
do beleeve all constantly: onely one thing troubleth me much, and
maketh me very compassionate of you, and of all these holy Fathers
your brethren, perceiving in what wofull and wretched estate you
will be, when you shall come into another world. What words are these,
quoth the Inquisitor? And why art thou moved to such compassion of us?
O good Sir, saide the man, do you remember the wordes in the Gospell
this morning, You shall receive an hundred for one? That is verie true
replyed the Inquisitor, but what mooveth thee to urge those words?
 I will tell you Sir, answered the plain fellow, so it might please
you not to be offended. Since the time of my resorting hither, I
have daily seene many poore people at your doore, and (out of your
abundance) when you and your Brethren have fed sufficiently, every one
hath had a good messe of Pottage: now Sir, if for every dishfull
given, you are sure to receive an hundred againe, you will all be
meerely drowned in pottage. Although the rest (sitting at the Table
with the Inquisitor) laughed heartily at this jest; yet he found
himselfe toucht in another nature, having hypocritically received for
one poore offence, above three hundred peeces of Gold, and not a mite
to be restored againe. But fearing to be further disclosed, yet
threatning him with another Processe in law, for abusing the words of
the Gospel, he was content to dismisse him for altogither, without
any more golden greasing in the hand.
                    THE FIRST DAY, THE SEVENTH NOVELL

      APPROVING, THAT IT IS MUCH UNFITTING FOR A PRINCE, OR GREAT
         PERSON, TO BEE COVETOUS; BUT RATHER TO BE LIBERALL TO
                               ALL MEN

  Bergamino, by telling a tale of a skilfull man, named Primasso,
and of an Abbot of Clugni; honestly checked a new kinde of
Covetousnesse, in Mayster Can de la Scala.

  The courteous demeanor of Madam Aemilia, and the quaintnesse of
her discourse, caused both the Queene, and the rest of the company, to
commend the invention of carrying the Crosse, and the golden
oyntment appointed for pennance. Afterward, Philostratus, who was in
order to speake next, began in this manner.
  It is a commendable thing (faire Ladies) to hit a But that never
stirreth out of his place: but it is a matter much more admirable,
to see a thing suddainely appearing, and sildome or never frequented
before, to bee as suddenly hit by an ordinary Archer. The vicious
and polluted lives of Priests, yeeldeth matter of it selfe in many
things, deserving speech and reprehension, as a true But of wickednes,
and well worthy to be sharply shot at. And therefore, though that
honest meaning man did wisely, in touching Master Inquisitor to the
quicke, with the hypocriticall charity of Monkes and Friars, in giving
such things to the poore, as were more meete for Swine, or to be worse
throwne away, yet I hold him more to be commended, who (by occasion of
a former tale, and which I purpose to relate) pleasantly reprooved
Master Can de la Scala, a Magnifico and mighty Lord, for a sudden
and unaccustomed covetousnesse appearing in him, figuring by other
men, that which hee intended to say of him, in manner following.
  Master Can de la Scala, as fame ranne abroad of him in all places,
was (beyond the infinite favours of Fortune towards him) one of the
most notable and magnificent Lords that ever lived in Italy, since the
daies of Fredericke the second, Emperor. He determining to procure a
very solemne assembly at Verona, and many people being met there
from divers places, especially Gentlemen of all degrees; suddenly
(upon what occasion I know not) his minde altred, and hee would not
goe forward with his intention. Most of them he partly recompenced
which were come thither, and they dismissed to depart at their
pleasure, one onely man remained unrespected, or in any kinde sort
sent away, whose name was Bergamino, a man very pleasantly disposed,
and so wittily readie in speaking and answering, as none could
easily credit it, but such as heard him; and although his recompence
seemed over-long delayed, yet hee made no doubt of a beneficiall
ending.
  By some enemies of his, Master Can de la Scala was incensed, that
whatsoever he gave or bestowed on him, was as ill imployed and utterly
lost, as if it were throwne into the fire, and therefore he neither
did or spake any thing to him. Some few dayes being passed over, and
Bergamino perceiving, that hee was neither called, nor any account
made of, notwithstanding many manly good parts in him; observing
beside, that hee found a shrewd consumption in his purse, his Inne,
horses, and servants, being chargeable to him, he began to grow
extremely melancholly, and yet hee attended in expectation day by day,
as thinking it farre unfitting for him, to depart before he was bidden
farewell.
  Having brought with him thither three goodly rich garments, which
had beene given him by sundrie Lords, for his more sightly
appearance at this great meeting; the importunate Host being greedie
of payment, first he delivered him one of them, and yet not halfe
the score being wiped off, the second must needes follow; and
beside, except he meant to leave his lodging, hee must live upon the
third so long as it would last, till hee saw what end his hopes
would sort too. It fortuned, during the time of living thus upon his
last refuge, that hee met with Maister Can one day at dinner, where he
presented himselfe before him, with a discontented countenance:
which Maister Can well observing, more to distaste him, then take
delight in any thing that could come from him, he sayd. Bergamino, how
cheerest thou? Thou art very melancholly, I prythee tell us why?
Bergamino suddenly, without any premeditation, yet seeming as if he
had long considered thereon, reported this Tale.
  Sir, I have heard of a certaine man, named Primasso, one skilfully
learned in the Grammar, and (beyond all other) a very witty and
ready versifier: in regard whereof, he was so much admired, and
farre renowned, that such as never saw him, but onely heard of him,
could easily say, this is Primasso. It came to passe, that being
once at Paris, in poore estate, as commonly he could light on no
better fortune (because vertue is slenderly rewarded, by such as
have the greatest possessions) he heard much fame of the Abbot of
Clugni, a man reputed (next to the Pope) to be the richest Prelate
of the Church. Of him he heard wonderfull and magnificent matters,
that he alwayes kept an open and hospitable Court, and never made
refusall of any (from whence soever hee came or went) but they did
eate and drinke freely there; provided, that they came when the
Abbot was set at the Table. Primasso hearing this, and being an
earnest desirer to see magnificent and vertuous men, hee resolved to
goe see this rare bounty of the Abbot, demanding how far he dwelt from
Paris? Being answered, about some three Leagues thence. Primasso
made account, that if he went on betimes in the morning, he should
easily reach thither before the houre for dinner.
  Being instructed in the way, and not finding any to walke along with
him; fearing, if he went without some furnishment, and should stay
long there for his dinner, he might (perhaps) complaine of hunger:
he therefore carried three loaves of bread with him, knowing that he
could meet with water every where, albeit he used to drinke but
little. Having aptly conveyed his bread about him, he went on his
journy, and arrived at the Lord Abbots Court, an indifferent while
before dinner time: wherefore entering into the great Hall, and so
from place to place, beholding the great multitude of Tables,
bountifull preparation in the Kitchin, and what admirable provision
there was for dinner, he said to himselfe; Truly this man is more
magnificent then fame hath made him, because shee speakes too
sparingly of him.
  While thus he went about, considering on all these things very
respectively, he saw the Maister of the Abbots Houshold (because
then it was the houre of dinner) command water to be brought for
washing hands, so everie one sitting down at the Tatle, it fell to the
lot of Primasso, to sit directly against the doore, whereat the
Abbot must enter into the Hall. The custome in this Court was such,
that no manner of Foode should be served to any of the Table, untill
such time as the Lord Abbot was himselfe set: whereupon, every thing
being fit and ready, the Master of the Houshold went to tell his Lord,
that nothing now wanted but his onely presence.
  The Abbot comming from his Chamber to enter the Hall, looking
about him, as hee was wont to doe; the first man hee saw was Primasso,
who being but in homely habite, and he having not seene him before
to his remembrance, a present bad conceite possessed his braine,
that he never saw an unworthier person, saying within himselfe: See
how I give my goods away to bee devoured. So returning backe to his
Chamber againe; commaunded the doore to be made fast, demaunding of
every man neere about him, if they knew the base Knave that sate
before his entrance into the Hall, and all his servants answered no.
Primasso being extreamely hungry, with travailing on foote so farre,
and never used to fast so long; expecting still when meate would be
served in, and that the Abbot came not at all: drew out one of his
loaves which hee brought with him, and very heartily fell to feeding.
  My Lord Abbot, after hee had stayed within an indifferent while,
sent forth one of his men, to see if the poore fellow was gone, or no.
The servant told him, that he stayed there, and fed upon dry bread,
which it seemed he had brought thither with him. Let him feede on
his owne (replyed the Abbot) for he shall taste of none of mine this
day. Gladly wold the Abbot, that Primasso should have gone thence of
himselfe, and yet held it scarsely honest in his Lordship, to dismisse
him by his owne command. Primasso having eaten one of his Loaves,
and yet the Abbot was not come; began to feede upon the second: the
Abbot still sending to expect his absence, and answered as he was
before. At length, the Abbot not comming, and Primasso having eaten up
his second loafe, hunger compeld him to begin with the third.
  When these newes were carried to the Abbot, sodainly he brake
forth and saide. What new kinde of needy tricke hath my braine begotte
this day? Why do I grow disdainfull against any man whatsoever? I have
long time allowed my meate to be eaten by all commers that did
please to visit me, without exception against any person, Gentleman,
Yeoman, poore or rich, Marchant or Minstrill, honest man or knave,
never refraining my presence in the Hall, by basely contemning one
poore man. Beleeve me, covetousnesse of one mans meate, doth ill agree
with mine estate and calling. What though he appeareth a wretched
fellow to me? He may be of greater merit then I can imagine, and
deserve more honor then I am able to give him.
  Having thus discoursed with himselfe, he would needs understand of
whence, and what he was, and finding him to be Primasso, come onely to
see the magnificence which he had reported of him, knowing also (by
the generall fame noysed every where of him) that he was reputed to be
a learned, honest, and ingenious man: he grew greatly ashamed of his
owne folly, and being desirous to make him an amends, strove many
waies how to do him honor. When dinner was ended, the Abbot bestowed
honorable garments on him, such as beseemed his degree and merit,
and putting good store of money in his purse, as also giving him a
good horse to ride on, left it at his owne free election, whether he
would stay there still with him, or depart at his pleasure.
Wherewith Primasso being highly contented, yeelding him the
heartiest thankes he could devise to do, returned to Paris on
horse-backe, albeit he came poorely thether on foot.
  Master Can de la Scala, who was a man of good understanding,
perceived immediately (without any further interpretation) what
Bergamino meant by this morall, and smiling on him, saide:
Bergamino, thou hast honestly expressed thy vertue and necessities,
and justly reprooved mine avarice, niggardnesse, and base folly. And
trust me Bergamino, I never felt such a fit of covetousnesse come upon
me, as this which I have dishonestly declared to thee: and which I
will now banish from me, with the same correction as thou hast
taught mee. So, having payed the Host all his charges, redeeming
also his robes or garments, mounting him on a good Gelding, and
putting plenty of Crownes in his purse, he referd it to his owne
choise to depart, or dwell there still with him.
                     THE FIRST DAY, THE EIGHT NOVELL

       WHICH PLAINLY DECLARETH, THAT A COVETOUS GENTLEMAN, IS NOT
                      WORTHY OF ANY HONOR OR RESPECT

  Guillaume Boursier, with a few quaint and familiar words, checkt the
miserable covetousnesse of Signior Herminio de Grimaldi.

  Madam Lauretta, sitting next to Philostratus, when she had heard the
witty conceite of Bergamino; knowing, that she was to say somewhat,
without injunction or command, pleasantly thus began.
  This last discourse (faire and vertuous company) induceth me to tell
you, how an honest Courtier reprehended in like manner (and nothing
unprofitably) base covetousnesse in a Merchant of extraordinary
wealth. Which Tale, although (in effect) it may seeme to resemble
the former; yet perhaps, it will prove no lesse pleasing to you, in
regard it sorted to as good an end.
  It is no long time since, that there lived in Genes or Geneway, a
Gentleman named Signior Herminio de Grimaldo, who (as every one wel
knew) was more rich in inheritances, and ready summes of currant money
then any other knowne Citizen in Italy. And as hee surpassed other men
in wealth, so did he likewise excell them in wretched Avarice, being
so miserably greedy and covetous, as no man in the world could be more
wicked that way; because, not onely he kept his purse lockt up from
pleasuring any, but denied needfull things to himselfe, enduring
many miseries onely to avoid expences, contrary to the Genewayes
generall custom, who alwayes delighted to be decently cloathed, and to
have their dyet of the best. By reason of which most miserable
basenesse, they tooke away from him the Sirname of Grimaldi, whereof
he was in right descended, and called him master Herminio the covetous
Mizer, a nickname very notably agreeing with his gripple nature.
  It came to passe, that in this time of his spending nothing, but
multiplying daily by infinite meanes, that a civill honest Gentleman
(a Courtier of ready wit, and discoursive in Languages) came to
Geneway, being named Guillaume Boursier. A man very farre differing
from divers Courtiers in these dayes, who for soothing shamefull and
gracelesse maners in such as allow them maintenance, are called and
reputed to bee Gentlemen, yea speciall favourites: whereas much more
worthily, they should be accounted as knaves and villaines, being
borne and bred in all filthinesse, and skilfull in every kinde of
basest behaviour, not fit to come in Princes Courts. For, whereas in
passed times, they spent their dayes and paines in making peace,
when Gentlemen were at warre or dissention, or treating on honest
marriages, betweene friends and familiars, and (with loving
speeches) would recreate disturbed mindes, desiring none but
commendable exercises in Court, and sharpely reprooving (like Fathers)
disordred life, or ill actions in any, albeit with recompence
little, or none at all; these upstarts now adayes, employ all their
paines in detractions, sowing questions and quarrels betweene one
another, making no spare of lyes and falshoods. Nay which is worse,
they wil do this in the presence of any man, upbraiding him with
injuries, shames, and scandals (true or not true) upon the very
least occasion. And by false and deceitful flatteries and villanies of
their owne inventing, they make Gentlemen to become as vile as
themselves. For which detestable qualities, they are better beloved
and respected of their misdemeanored Lords, and recompenced in more
bountifull maner, then men of vertuous carriage and desert. Which is
an argument sufficient, that goodnesse is gone up to heaven, and
hath quite forsaken these loathed lower Regions, where men are drowned
in the mud of all abhominable vices.
  But returning where I left (being led out of my way by a just and
religious anger against such deformity) this Gentleman, Master
Guillaume Boursier, was willingly seene, and gladly welcommed by all
the best men in Geneway. Having remained some few daies in the City,
and amongst other matters, heard much talke of the miserable
covetousnesse of master Herminio, he grew very desirous to have a
sight of him. Master Herminio had already understood, that this
Gentleman, Master Guillaume Boursier was vertuously disposed, and (how
covetously soever hee was inclined) having in him some sparkes of
noble nature, gave him very good words, and gracious entertainment,
discoursing with him on divers occasions.
  In company of other Genewayes with him, he brought him to a new
erected house of his, a building of great cost and beauty; where,
after he had shewne him all the variable rarieties, he beganne thus.
Master Guillaume, no doubt but you have heard and seene many things,
and you can instruct me in some queint conceit or device, to be fairly
figured in painting, at the entrance into the great Hall of my
House. Master Guillaume hearing him speake so simply, returned him
this answer: Sir, I cannot advise you in any thing, so rare or unseene
as you talk of: but how to sneeze (after a new manner) upon a full and
over-cloyed stomacke, to avoyde base humours that stupifie the braine,
or other matters of the like quality. But if you would be taught a
good one indeede, and had a disposition to see it fairely effected,
I could instruct you in an excellent Emblem, wherwith (as yet) you
never came acquainted.
  Master Herminio hearing him say so, and expecting no such answer
as he had, saide, Good Master Guillaume, tell me what it is, and on my
faith I will have it fairely painted. Whereto Master Guillaume
suddenly replied; Do nothing but this Sir: Paint over the Portall of
your Halles enterance, the lively picture of Liberality, to bid all
your friends better welcome, then hitherto they have beene. When
Master Herminio heard these words, he becam possessed with such a
sudden shame, that his complexion changed from the former palenesse,
and answered thus. Master Guillaume, I will have your advice so
truly figured over my gate, and shee shall give so good welcome to all
my guests, that both you, and all these Gentlemen shall say, I have
both seene her, and am become reasonably acquainted with her. From
that time forward, the words of Master Guillaume were so effectuall
with Signior Herminio, that he became the most bountifull and best
house-keeper, which lived in his time in Geneway: no man more
honouring and friendly welcoming both strangers and Citizens, then
he continually used to do.
                     THE FIRST DAY, THE NINTH NOVELL

        GIVING ALL MEN TO UNDERSTAND, THAT JUSTICE IS NECESSARY
               IN A KING ABOVE AL THINGS ELSE WHATSOEVER

  The King of Cyprus was wittily reprehended, by the words of a
Gentlewoman of Gascoignie, and became vertuously altered from his
vicious disposition.

  The last command of the Queene, remained upon Madam Elissa, or
Eliza, who (without any delaying) thus beganne. Young Ladies, it
hath often beene seene, that much paine hath beene bestowed, and
many reprehensions spent in vaine, till a word happening at adventure,
and perhaps not purposely determined, hath effectually done the deede:
as appeareth by the Tale of Madame Lauretta, and another of mine owne,
where with I intend briefly to acquaint you, approving that when
good words are discreetly observed, they are of soveraigne power and
vertue.
  In the dayes of the first King of Cyprus, after the Conquest made in
the holy Land by Godfrey of Bullen, it fortuned that a Gentlewoman
of Gascoignie, travelling in pilgrimage to visit the sacred
Sepulcher in Jerusalem, returning home againe, arrived at Cyprus,
where shee was villanously abused by certaine base wretches.
Complaining thereof, without any comfort or redresse, shee intended to
make her moane to the King of the Country. Whereupon it was tolde her,
that therein shee should but loose her labour, because hee was so
womanish, and faint-hearted; that not onely he refused to punish
with justice the offence of others, but also suffered shamefull
injuries done to himselfe. And therefore, such as were displeased by
his negligence, might easily discharge their spleene against him,
and doe him what dishonour they would.
  When the Gentlewoman heard this, despairing of any consolation, or
revenge for her wrongs, shee resolved to checke the Kings deniall of
justice, and comming before him weeping, spake in this manner. Sir,
I presume not into your presence, as hoping to have redresse by you,
for divers dishonourable injuries done unto me; but, as full
satisfaction for them, doe but teach me how you suffer such vile
abuses, as daily are offered to your selfe. To the end, that being
therein instructed by you, I may the more patiently beare mine owne;
which (as God knoweth) I would bestow on you very gladly, because
you know so well how to endure them.
  The King, who (till then) had beene very bad, dull, and slothfull,
even as sleeping out his time of governement; beganne to revenge the
wrongs done to this Gentlewoman very severely, and (thence forward)
became a most sharpe Justicer, for the least offence offered against
the honour of his Crowne, or to any of his subjects beside.
                     THE FIRST DAY, THE TENTH NOVELL

       WHEREIN IS DECLARED, THAT HONEST LOVE AGREETH WITH PEOPLE
                               OF ALL AGES

  Master Albert of Bullen, honestly made a Lady to blush, that thought
to have done as much to him, because shee perceived him, to be
amorously affected towards her.

  After that Madam Eliza sate silent, the last charge and labour of
the like employment, remained to the Queene her selfe; whereupon
shee beganne thus to speake: Honest and vertuous young Ladies, like as
the Starres (when the Ayre is faire and cleere) are the adorning and
beauty of Heaven, and flowers (while the Spring time lasteth) doe
graciously embellish the Meadowes; even so sweete speeches and
pleasing conferences, to passe the time with commendable discourses,
are the best habit of the minde, and an outward beauty to the body:
which ornaments of words, when they appeare to be short and sweete,
are much more seemely in women, then in men; because long and
tedious talking (when it may be done in lesser time) is a greater
blemish in women, then in men.
  Among us women, this day, I thinke few or none have therein
offended, but as readily have understood short and pithy speeches, as
they have beene quicke and quaintly delivered. But when answering
suteth not with understanding, it is generally a shame in us, and all
such as live; because our moderne times have converted that vertue,
which was within them who lived before us, into garments of the body,
and shew whose habites were noted to bee most gaudy, fullest of
imbroyderies and fantastick fashions: she was reputed to have most
matter in her, and therefore to be more honoured and esteemed. Never
considering, that whosoever loadeth the backe of an Asse, or puts upon
him the richest braverie; he becommeth not thereby a jot the wiser, or
meriteth any more honor then an Asse should have. I am ashamed to
speake it, because in detecting other, I may (perhaps) as justly taxe
my selfe.
  Such imbroydered bodies, tricked and trimmed in such boasting
bravery, are they any thing else but as Marble Statues, dumbe, dull,
and utterly insensible? Or if (perchaunce) they make an answere,
when some question is demanded of them; it were much better for them
to be silent. For defence of honest devise and conference among men
and women, they would have the world to thinke, that it proceedeth but
from simplicity and precise opinion, covering their owne folly with
the name of honesty: as if there were no other honest woman, but
shee that conferres onely with her Chambermaide, Laundresse, or
Kitchin-woman: as if nature had allowed them, (in their owne idle
conceite) no other kinde of talking.
  Most true it is, that as there is a respect to be used in the action
of things; so, time and place are necessarily to be considered, and
also whom we converse withall; because sometimes it happeneth, that
a man or woman, intending (by a word of jest and merriment) to make
another body blush or be ashamed: not knowing what strength of wit
remaineth in the opposite, doe convert the same disgrace upon
themselves. Therefore, that we may the more advisedly stand upon our
owne guard, and to prevent the common proverbe, That Women (in all
things) make choyse of the worst: I desire that this dayes last
tale, which is to come from my selfe, may make us all wise. To the
end, that as in gentlenesse of minde we conferre with other; so by
excellency in good manners, we may shew our selves not inferiour to
them.
  It is not many yeares since (worthy assembly) that in Bulloigne
there dwelt a learned Physitian, a man famous for skill, and farre
renowned, whose name was Master Albert, and being growne aged, to
the estimate of threescore and tenne yeares: hee had yet such a
sprightly disposition, that though naturall heate and vigour had quite
shaken hands with him, yet amorous flames and desires had not wholly
forsaken him. Having seene (at a Banquet) a very beautifull woman,
being then in the estate of widdowhood, named (as some say) Madam
Margaret de Chisolieri, shee appeared so pleasing in his eye; that his
sences became no lesse disturbed, then as if he had beene of farre
younger temper, and no night could any quietnesse possesse his
soule, except (the day before) he had seene the sweet countenance of
this lovely widdow. In regard whereof, his dayly passage was by her
doore, one while on horsebacke, and then againe on foot; as best might
declare his plaine purpose to see her.
  Both shee and other Gentlewomen, perceiving the occasion of his
passing and repassing; would privately jest thereat together, to see a
man of such yeares and discretion, to be amorously addicted, or
overswayed by effeminate passions. For they were partly perswaded,
that such wanton Ague fits of Love, were fit for none but youthfull
apprehensions, as best agreeing with their chearefull complexion.
Master Albert continuing his dayly walkes by the widdowes lodging,
it chaunced upon a Feastivall day, that shee (accompanied with
divers other women of great account) being sitting at her doore;
espied Master Albert (farre off) comming thitherward, and a resolved
determination among themselves was set downe, to allow him
favourable entertainement, and to jest (in some merry manner) at his
loving folly, as afterward they did indeede.
  No sooner was he come neere, but they all arose, and courteously
invited him to enter with them, conducting him into a goodly Garden,
where readily was prepared choyse of delicate wines and banquetting.
At length, among other pleasant and delightfull discourses, they
demanded of him; how it was possible for him, to be amorously affected
towards so beautifull a woman, both knowing and seeing, how
earnestly she was sollicited by many gracious, gallant, and
youthfull spirits, aptly suting with her yeares and desires? Master
Albert perceiving, that they had drawne him in among them, onely to
scoffe and make a mockery of him; set a merry countenance on the
matter, and honestly thus answered.
  Beleeve mee Gentlewoman (speaking to the widdowe her selfe) it
should not appeare strange to any of wisedome and discretion, that I
am amorously enclined, and especially to you, because you are well
worthy of it. And although those powers, which naturally appertaine to
the exercises of Love, are bereft and gone from aged people; yet
good will thereto cannot be taken from them, neither judgement to know
such as deserve to be affected: for, by how much they exceede youth in
knowledge and experience, by so much the more hath nature made them
meet for respect and reverence. The hope which incited me (being aged)
to love you, that are affected of so many youthfull Gallants, grew
thus. I have often chaunced into divers places, where I have seene
Ladies and Gentlwomen, being disposed to a Collation or rerebanquet
after dinner, to feede on Lupines, and young Onions or Leekes, and
although it may be so, that there is little or no goodnesse at all
in them; yet the heads of them are least hurtfull, and most pleasing
in the mouth. And you Gentlewomen generally (guided by unreasonable
appetite) will hold the heads of them in your hands, and feede upon
the blades or stalkes: which not onely are not good for any thing, but
also are of very bad savour. And what know I (Lady) whether among
the choise of friends, it may fit your fancy to doe the like? For,
if you did so, it were no fault of mine to be chosen of you, but
thereby were all the rest of your suters the sooner answered.
  The widdowed Gentlewoman, and all the rest in her company, being
bashfully ashamed of her owne and their folly, presently said.
Master Albert, you have both well and worthily chastised our over-bold
presumption, and beleeve me Sir, I repute your love and kindnesse of
no meane merrit, comming from a man so wise and vertuous: And
therefore (mine honour reserved) commaund my uttermost, as alwayes
ready to do you any honest service. Master Albert, arising from his
seat, thanking the faire widdow for her gentle offer; tooke leave of
her and all the company, and she blushing, as all the rest were
therein not much behinde her, thinking to checke him, became chidden
her selfe, whereby (if we be wise) let us all take warning.
  The Sunne was now somewhat farre declined, and the heates
extremity well worne away: when the Tales of the seaven Ladies and
three Gentlemen were thus finished, whereupon their Queene
pleasantly said. For this day (faire company) there remaineth nothing
more to be done under my regiment, but onely to bestow a new Queene
upon you, who (according to her judgement) must take her turne, and
dispose what next is to be done, for continuing our time in honest
pleasure. And although the day should endure till darke night; in
regard, that when some time is taken before, the better preparation
may bee made for occasions to follow, to the end also, that whatsoever
the new Queene shall please to appoint, may be the better fitted for
the morrow: I am of opinion, that at the same houre as we now cease,
the following dayes shall severally begin. And therefore, in reverence
to him that giveth life to all things, and in hope of comfort by our
second day; Madam Philomena, a most wise young Lady, shall governe
as Queene this our Kingdome.
  So soone as she had thus spoken, arising from her seate of
dignity, and taking the Lawrell Crowne from off her owne head; she
reverently placed it upon Madam Philomenaes, shee first of all
humbly saluting her, and then all the rest, openly confessing her to
be their Queene, made gracious offer to obey whatsoever she commanded.
Philomena, her cheekes delivering a scarlet tincture, to see her selfe
thus honoured as their Queene, and well remembring the words, so
lately uttered by Madam Pampinea; that dulnesse or neglect might not
be noted in her, tooke cheerefull courage to her, and first of all,
she confirmed the officers, which Pampinea had appointed the day
before, then she ordained for the morrowes provision, as also for
the supper so neere approiching, before they departed away from
thence, and then thus began.
  Lovely Companions, although that Madam Pampinea, more in her owne
courtesie, then any matter of merit remaining in me, hath made me your
Queene: I am not determined, to alter the forme of our intended
life, nor to be guided by mine owne judgement, but to associate the
same with your assistance. And because you may know what I intend to
do, and so (consequently) adde or diminish at your pleasure; in very
few words, you shall plainly understand my meaning. If you have well
considered on the course, which this day hath bene kept by Madam
Pampinea, me thinkes it hath bene very pleasing and commendable; in
which regard, untill by over-tedious continuation, or other
occasions of irkesome offence, it shall seeme injurious, I am of the
minde, not to alter it. Holding on the order then as we have begun
to doe, we will depart from hence to recreate our selves a while,
and when the Sun groweth towards setting, we will sup in the fresh and
open ayre; afterward, with Canzonets and other pastimes, we will
out-weare the houres till bed time. To morrow morning, in the fresh
and gentle breath thereof, we will rise and walke to such places, as
every one shall finde fittest for them, even as already this day we
have done; untill due time shall summon us hither againe, to
continue our discoursive Tales, wherein (me thinkes) consisteth both
pleasure and profit, especially by discreete observation.
  Very true it is, that some things which Madam Pampinea could not
accomplish, by reason of her so small time of authority, I will
begin to undergo, to wit, in restraining some matters whereon we are
to speake, that better premeditation may passe upon them. For, when
respite and a little leysure goeth before them, each discourse will
savour of the more formality; and if it might so please you, thus
would I direct the order. As since the beginning of the world, all men
have bene guided (by Fortune) thorow divers accidents and occasions:
so beyond all hope and expectation, the issue and successe hath bin
good and successful, and accordingly should every one of our arguments
be chosen.
  The Ladies, and the yong Gentlemen likewise, commended her advice,
and promised to imitate it; onely Dioneus excepted, who when every one
was silent, spake thus. Madam, I say as all the rest have done, that
the order by you appointed, is most pleasing and worthy to bee
allowed. But I intreate one speciall favour for my selfe, and to have
it confirmed to mee, so long as our company continueth; namely, that I
may not be constrained to this Law of direction, but to tell my Tale
at liberty, after mine owne minde, and according to the freedome first
instituted. And because no one shall imagine, that I urge this grace
of you, as being unfurnished of discourses in this kinde, I am well
contented to bee the last in every dayes exercise.
  The Queene, knowing him to be a man full of mirth and matter,
began to consider very advisedly, that he would not have mooved this
request, but onely to the end, that if the company grew wearied by any
of the Tales re-counted, hee would shut up the dayes disport with some
mirthfull accident. Wherefore willingly, and with consent of all the
rest he had his suite granted. So, arising all, they walked to a
Christall river, descending downe a little hill into a valley,
graciously shaded with goodly Trees; where washing both their hands
and feete, much pretty pleasure passed among them; till supper time
drawing neere, made them returne home to the Palace. When supper was
ended, and bookes and instruments being laide before them, the
Queene commanded a dance, and that Madam Aemilia, assisted by Madam
Lauretta and Dioneus, should sing a sweet ditty. At which command,
Lauretta undertooke the dance, and led it, Aemilia singing this song
ensuing.

                THE SONG

  So much delight my beauty yeelds to mee,
          That any other Love,
          To wish or prove;
  Can never sute it selfe with my desire.

  Therein I see, upon good observation,
  What sweet content due understanding lends:
  Old or new thoughts cannot in any fashion
  Rob me of that, which mine owne soule commends.
          What object then,
            (mongst infinites of men)
          Can I never finde
            to dispossesse my minde,
  And plaint therein another new desire?
      So much delight, etc.

  But were it so, the blisse that I would chuse,
  Is, by continuall sight to comfort me:
  So rare a presence never to refuse,
  Which mortall tongue or thought, what ere it be
          Must still conceale,
            not able to reveale,
          Such a sacred sweete,
            for none other meete,
  But hearts enflamed with the same desire.
      So much delight, etc.

  The Song being ended, the Chorus whereof was answered by them all,
it passed with generall applause: and after a few other daunces, the
night being well run on, the Queene gave ending to this first dayes
Recreation. So, lights being brought, they departed to their
severall Lodgings, to take their rest till the next morning.
                     THE INDUCTION TO THE SECOND DAY

        WHEREIN, ALL THE DISCOURSES ARE UNDER THE GOVERNMENT OF
      MADAM PHILOMENA: CONCERNING SUCH MEN OR WOMEN, AS (IN DIVERS
    ACCIDENTS) HAVE BEEN MUCH MOLLESTED BY FORTUNE, AND YET AFTERWARD
            (CONTRARY TO THEIR HOPE AND EXPECTATION) HAVE HAD
                 A HAPPY AND SUCCESSEFULL DELIVERANCE

  Already had the bright Sunne renewed the day every where with his
splendant beames, and the Birds sate merrily singing on the blooming
branches, yeelding testimony thereof to the eares of all hearers; when
the seven Ladies, and the three Gentlemen (after they were risen)
entered the Gardens, and there spent some time in walking, as also
making of Nose-gayes and Chaplets of Flowers. And even as they had
done the day before, so did they now follow the same course; for,
after they had dined, in a coole and pleasing aire they fell to
dancing, and then went to sleepe a while, from which being awaked,
they tooke their places (according as it pleased the Queene to
appoint) in the same faire Meadow about her. And she, being a goodly
creature, and highly pleasing to behold, having put on her Crowne of
Lawrell, and giving a gracious countenance to the whole company;
commanded Madam Neiphila that her Tale should begin this daies
delight. Whereupon she, without returning any excuse or deniall, began
in this manner.
                   THE SECOND DAY, THE FIRST NOVELL

      WHEREIN IS SIGNIFIED, HOW EASIE A THING IT IS, FOR WICKED MEN
      TO DECEIVE THE WORLD, UNDER THE SHADOW AND COLOUR OF MIRACLES:
         AND THAT SUCH TREACHERY (OFTENTIMES) REDOUNDETH TO
                       THE HARME OF THE DEVISER

  Martellino counterfeitting to be lame of his members, caused
himselfe to be set on the body of Saint Arriguo, where he made shew of
his sudden recovery; but when his dissimulation was discovered, he was
well beaten, being afterward taken prisoner, and in great danger of
being hanged and strangled by the necke, and yet he escaped in the
end.

  Faire Ladies, it hath happened many times, that he who striveth to
scorne and floute other men, and especially in occasions deserving
to be respected, proveth to mocke himselfe with the selfe same matter,
yea, and to his no meane danger beside. As you shall perceive by a
Tale, which I intend to tell you, obeying therein the command of our
Queene, and according to the subject by her enjoyned. In which
discourse, you may first observe, what great mischance happened to one
our Citizens; and yet afterward, how (beyond all hope) he happily
escaped.
  Not long since, there lived in the City of Trevers, an Almaine or
Germaine, named Arriguo, who being a poore man, served as a Porter, or
burden-bearer for money, when any man pleased to employ him. And
yet, notwithstanding his poore and meane condition, he was generally
reputed, to be of good and sanctified life. In which regard (whether
it were true or no, I know not) it happened, that when he died (at
least as the men of Trevers themselves affirmed) in the very instant
houre of his departing, all the Belles in the great Church of Trevers,
(not being pulled by the helpe of any hand) beganne to ring: which
being accounted for a miracle, every one saide; that this Arriguo
had bene, and was a Saint. And presently all the people of the City
ran to the house where the dead body lay, and carried it (as a
sanctified body) into the great Church, where people, halt, lame,
and blind, or troubled with any other diseases, were brought about it,
even as if every one should forth-with be holpen, onely by their
touching the body.
  It came to passe, that in so great a concourse of people, as
resorted thither from all parts; three of our Citizens went to
Trevers, one of them being named Stechio, the second Martellino, and
the third Marquiso, all being men of such condition, as frequented
Princes Courts, to give them delight by pleasant and counterfetted
qualities. None of these men having ever beene at Trevers before,
seeing how the people crowded thorow the streetes, wondered greatly
thereat: but when they knew the reason why the throngs ranne on heapes
in such sort together, they grew as desirous to see the Shrine, as any
of the rest. Having ordered all affaires at their lodging, Marquiso
saide; It is fit for us to see this Saint, but I know not how we shall
attaine thereto, because (as I have heard) the place is guarded by
Germaine Souldiers, and other warlike men, commanded thither by the
Governour of this City, least any outrage should be there committed:
And beside, the Church is so full of people, as we shall never
compasse to get neere. Martellino being also as forward in desire to
see it, presently replied. All this difficulty cannot dismay me, but I
will go to the very body of the Saint it selfe. But how? quoth
Marquiso. I will tell thee, answered Martellino. I purpose to go in
the disguise of an impotent lame person, supported on the one side
by thy selfe, and on the other by Stechio, as if I were not able to
walke of my selfe: And you two thus sustaining me, desiring to come
neere the Saint to cure me; every one will make way, and freely give
you leave to go on.
  This devise was very pleasing to Marquiso and Stechio, so that
(without any further delaying) they all three left their lodging,
and resorting into a secret corner aside, Martellino so writhed and
mishaped his hands, fingers, and armes, his legges, mouth, eyes, and
whole countenance, that it was a dreadfull sight to looke upon him,
and whosoever beheld him, would verily have imagined, that hee was
utterly lame of his limbes, and greatly deformed in his body. Marquiso
and Stechio, seeing all sorted so well as they could wish, tooke and
led him towards the Church, making very pitious moane, and humbly
desiring (for Gods sake) of every one that they met, to grant them
free passage: whereto they charitably condiscended.
  Thus leading him on, crying; Beware there before, and give way for
Gods sake, they arrived at the body of Saint Arriguo, that (by his
helpe) he might be healed. And while all eyes were diligently
observing, what miracle would be wrought on Martellino, he having
sitten a small space upon the Saints body, and being sufficiently
skilfull in counterfeiting, began first to extend forth the one of his
fingers, next his hand, then his arme, and so (by degrees) the rest of
his body. Which when the people saw, they made such a wonderfull noyse
in praise of Saint Arriguo, even as if it had thundered in the Church.
  Now it chanced by ill fortune, that there stood a Florentine neere
to the body, who knew Martellino very perfectly; but appearing so
monstrously mishapen, when he was brought into the Church, hee could
take no knowledge of him. But when he saw him stand up and walke,
hee knew him then to be the man indeede; whereupon he saide. How
commeth it to passe, that this fellow should be so miraculously cured,
that never truly was any way impotent? Certaine men of the City
hearing these words, entred into further questioning with him,
demanding, how he knew that the man had no such imperfection? Well
enough (answered the Florentine) I know him to be as direct in his
limbes and body, as you; I, or any of us all are: but indeede, he
knowes better how to dissemble counterfet trickes, then any man else
that ever I saw.
  When they heard this, they discoursed no further with the
Florentine, but pressed on mainely to the place where Martellino
stood, crying out aloude. Lay hold on this Traytor, a mocker of God,
and his holy Saints, that had no lamenesse in his limbes; but to
make a mocke of our Saint and us, came hither in false and counterfeit
manner. So laying hands uppon him, they threw him against the
ground, having him by the haire on his head, and tearing the
garments from his backe, spurning him with their feete, and beating
him with their fists, that many were much ashamed to see it.
  Poore Martellino was in a pittifull case, crying out for mercy,
but no man would heare him; for, the more he cryed, the more still
they did beat him, as meaning to leave no life in him: which Stechio
and Marquiso seeing, considered with themselves, that they were
likewise in a desperate case; and therefore, fearing to be as much
misused, they cryed out among the rest, Kill the counterfet knave, lay
on loade, and spare him not; neverthelesse, they tooke care how to get
him out of the peoples handes, as doubting, least they would kill
him indeede, by their extreame violence.
  Sodainly, Marquiso bethought him how to do it, and proceeded thus.
All the Sergeants for Justice standing at the Church doore, hee ran
with all possible speede to the Potestates Lieutenant, and said unto
him. Good my Lord Justice, helpe me in an hard case; yonder is a
villaine that hath cut my purse, I desire he may bee brought before
you, that I may have my money againe. He hearing this, sent for a
dozen of the Sergeants, who went to apprehend unhappy Martellino,
and recover him from the peoples fury, leading him on with them to the
Palace, no meane crowds thronging after him, when they heard that he
was accused to bee a Cutpurse. Now durst they meddle no more with him,
but assisted the Officers; some of them charging him in like manner,
that hee had cut their purses also.
  Upon these clamours and complaints, the Potestates Lieutenant (being
a man of rude quality) tooke him sodainly aside, and examined him of
the crimes wherewith he was charged. But Martellino, as making no
account of these accusations, laughed, and returned scoffing answeres.
Whereat the Judge, waxing much displeased, delivered him over to the
Strappado, and stood by himselfe, to have him confesse the crimes
imposed on him, and then to hang him afterward. Being let downe to the
ground, the Judge still demaunded of him, whether the accusations
against him were true, or no? Affirming, that it nothing avayled him
to deny it: whereupon hee thus spake to the Judge. My Lord, I am heere
ready before you, to confesse the truth; but I pray you, demaund of
all them that accuse me, when and where I did cut their purses, and
then I wil tell you that, which (as yet) I have not done, otherwise
I purpose to make you no more answers.
 Well (quoth the Judge) thou requirest but reason; and calling
divers of the accusers, one of them saide, that he lost his purse
eight dayes before; another saide six, another foure, and some saide
the very same day. Which Martellino hearing, replyed. My Lord, they
all lie in their throats, as I will plainly prove before you. I
would to God I had never set foot within this City, as it is not
many houres since my first entrance, and presently after mine
arrivall, I went (in evill houre I may say for me) to see the Saints
body, where I was thus beaten as you may beholde. That all this is
true which I say unto you, the Seigneurie Officer that keeps your
Booke of presentations, will testifie for me, as also the Host where I
am lodged. Wherefore good my Lord, if you finde all no otherwise, then
as I have said, I humbly entreate you, that upon these bad mens
reportes and false informations, I may not be thus tormented, and
put in perill of my life.
  While matters proceeded in this manner, Marquiso and Stechio,
understanding how roughly the Potestates Lieutenant dealt with
Martellino, and that he had already given him the Strappado; were in
heavy perplexity, saying to themselves; we have carried this businesse
very badly, redeeming him out of the Frying-pan, and flinging him into
the fire. Whereupon, trudging about from place to place, and meeting
at length with their Host, they told him truly how all had happened,
whereat hee could not refraine from laughing. Afterward, he went
with them to one Master Alexander Agolante, who dwelt in Trevers,
and was in great credite with the Cities cheefe Magistrate, to whom
hee related the whole Discourse; all three earnestly entreating him,
to commisserate the case of poore Martellino.
  Master Alexander, after he had laughed heartily at this hotte
peece of service, went with him to the Lord of Trevers; prevailing
so well with him, that he sent to have Martellino brought before
him. The Messengers that went for him, found him standing in his shirt
before the Judge, very shrewdly shaken with the Strappado, trembling
and quaking pitifully. For the Judge would not heare any thing in
his excuse; but hating him (perhaps) because hee was a Florentine:
flatly determined to have him hanged by the necke, and would not
deliver him to the Lord, untill in meere despight he was compeld to do
it.
 The Lord of Trevers, when Martellino came before him, and had
acquainted him truly with every particular: Master Alexander
requested, that he might be dispatched thence for Florence, because he
thought the halter to be about his necke, and that there was no
other helpe but hanging. The Lord, smiling (a long while) at the
accident, and causing Martellino to be handsomely apparrelled,
delivering them also his Passe, they escaped out of further danger,
and tarried no where, till they came unto Florence.
                  THE SECOND DAY, THE SECOND NOVELL

     WHEREBY WEE MAY LEARNE, THAT SUCH THINGS AS SOMETIME SEEME
        HURTFULL TO US, MAY TURNE TO OUR BENEFIT AND COMMODITY

  Rinaldo de Este, after hee was robbed by Theeves, arrived at
Chasteau Guillaume, where he was friendly lodged by a faire Widdow,
and recompenced likewise for all his losses; returning afterward
safe and well home unto his owne house.

  Much merriment was among the Ladies, hearing this Tale of
Martellinos misfortunes, so familiarly reported by Madam Neiphila, and
of the men, it was best respected by Philostratus, who sitting neerest
unto Neiphila, the Queene commanded his Tale to be the next, when
presently he began to speake thus.
  Gracious Ladies, I am to speake of universall occasions, mingled
with some misfortunes in part, and partly with matters leaning to
love, as many times may happen to such people, that trace the
dangerous pathes of amorous desires, or have not learned perfectly, to
say S. Julians pater noster, having good beddes of their owne, yet
casually meete with worser Lodging.
  In the time of Azzo, Marquesse of Ferrara, there was a Marchant
named Rinaldo de Este, who being one day at Bologna, about some
especiall businesse of his owne; his occasions there ended, and riding
from thence towards Verona, he fell in company with other Horsemen,
seeming to be Merchants like himselfe, but indeede were Theeves, men
of most badde life and conversation; yet he having no such mistrust of
them, rode on, conferring with them very familiarly. They perceiving
him to be a Merchant, and likely to have some store of money about
him, concluded betweene themselves to rob him, so soone as they
found apt place and opportunity. But because he should conceive no
such suspition, they rode on like modest men, talking honestly and
friendly with him, of good parts and disposition appearing in him,
offering him all humble and gracious service, accounting themselves
happy by his companie, as hee returned the same courtesie to them,
because hee was alone, and but one servant with him.
  Falling from one discourse to another, they beganne to talke of such
prayers, as men (in journey) use to salute God withall; and one of the
Theeves (they being three in number) spake thus to Rinaldo. Sir, let
it be no offence to you, that I desire to know, what prayer you most
use when thus you travell on the way? Whereto Rinaldo replyed in
this manner. To tell you true Sir, I am a man grosse enough in such
Divine matters, as medling more with Merchandize, then I do with
Bookes. Neverthelesse, at all times when I am thus in journey, in
the morning before I depart my Chamber, I say a Pater noster, and an
Ave Maria for the soules of the father and mother of Saint Julian; and
after that, I pray God and S. Julian to send me a good lodging at
night. And let me tell you Sir, that very oftentimes heeretofore, I
have met with many great dangers upon the way, from all which I
still escaped, and evermore (when night drew on) I came to an
exceeding good Lodging. Which makes mee firmely beleeve, that Saint
Julian (in honour of whom I speake it) hath beggd of God such great
grace for me; and mee thinkes, that if any day I should faile of
this prayer in the morning: I cannot travaile securely, nor come to
a good lodging. No doubt then Sir (quoth the other) but you have saide
that prayer this morning? I would be sory else, said Rinaldo, such
an especiall matter is not to be neglected.
  He and the rest, who had already determined how to handle him before
they parted, saide within themselves: Look thou hast said thy
praier, for when we have thy money, Saint Julian and thou shift for
thy lodging. Afterward, the same man thus againe conferd with him.
As you Sir, so I have ridden many journies, and yet I never used any
such prayer, although I have heard it very much commended, and my
lodging hath proved never the worser. Perhaps this verie night will
therein resolve us both, whether of us two shall be the best lodged,
you that have saide the Prayer, or I that never used it at all. But
I must not deny, that in sted thereof, I have made use of some verses;
as Dirupisti, or the Intemerata, or De profundis, which are (as my
Grandmother hath often told mee) of very great vertue and efficacy.
  Continuing thus in talke of divers things, winning way, and
beguiling the time, still waiting when their purpose should sort to
effect: it fortuned, that the Theeves seeing they were come neere to a
Towne, called Chasteau Guillaume, by the foord of a River, the houre
somewhat late, the place solitarie, and thickely shaded with Trees,
they made their assault; and having robd him, left him there on foote,
stript into his shirt, saying to him. Goe now and see, whether thy
Saint Julian will allow thee this night a good lodging, or no, for our
owne we are sufficiently provided; so passing the River, away they
rode. Rinaldoes servant, seeing his Master so sharply assayled, like a
wicked villaine, would not assist him in any sort: but giving his
horse the spurres, never left gallopping, untill hee came to
Chasteau Guillaume, where hee entred upon the point of night,
providing himselfe of a lodging, but not caring what became of his
Master.
  Rinaldo remaining there in his shirt, bare-foot and bare-legged,
the weather extremely colde, and snowing incessantly, not knowing what
to doe, darke night drawing on, and looking round about him, for
some place where to abide that night, to the end he might not dye with
colde: he found no helpe at all there for him, in regard that (no long
while before) the late warre had burnt and wasted all, and not so much
as the least Cottage left. Compelled by the coldes violence, his teeth
quaking, and all his body trembling, hee trotted on towards
Chausteau Guillaume, not knowing, whether his man was gone thither
or no, or to what place else: but perswaded himselfe, that if he could
get entrance, there was no feare of finding succour. But before he
came within halfe a mile of the Towne, the night grew extreamely
darke, and arriving there so late, hee found the gates fast lockt, and
the Bridges drawne up, so that no entrance might be admitted.
  Grieving greatly heereat, and being much discomforted, rufully hee
went spying about the walls, for some place wherein to shrowd
himselfe, at least, to keepe the snow from falling upon him. By good
hap, hee espied an house upon the wall of the Towne, which had a
terrace jutting out as a penthouse, under which he purposed to stand
all the night, and then to get him gone in the morning. At length, hee
found a doore in the wall, but very fast shut, and some small store of
strawe lying by it, which he gathered together, and sitting downe
thereon very pensively; made many sad complaints to Saint Julian,
saying: This was not according to the trust he reposed in her. But
Saint Julian, taking compassion upon him, without any over-long
tarying; provided him of a good lodging, as you shall heare how.
  In this towne of Chasteau Guillaume, lived a young Lady, who was a
widdow, so beautifull and comely of her person, as sildome was seene a
more lovely creature. The Marquesse Azzo most dearely affected her,
and (as his choysest Jewell of delight) gave her that house to live
in, under the terrace whereof poore Rinaldo made his shelter. It
chaunced the day before, that the Marquesse was come thither,
according to his frequent custome, to weare away that night in her
company, she having secretly prepared a Bath for him, and a costly
supper beside. All things being ready, and nothing wanting but the
Marquesse his presence: suddenly a Post brought him such Letters,
which commanded him instantly to horsebacke, and word hee sent to
the Lady, to spare him for that night, because urgent occasions called
him thence, and hee rode away immediately.
  Much discontented was the Lady at this unexpected accident, and
not knowing now how to spend the time, resolved to use the Bath
which shee had made for the Marquesse, and (after supper) betake her
selfe to rest, and so she entred into the Bath. Close to the doore
where poore Rinaldo sate, stoode the Bath, by which meanes, shee being
therein, heard all his quivering moanes, and complaints, seeming to be
such, as the Swanne singing before her death: whereupon, shee called
her Chamber-maide, saying to her. Goe up above, and looke over the
terrace on the wall downe to this doore, and see who is there, and
what he doth. The Chamber-maide went up aloft, and by a little
glimmering in the ayre, she saw a man sitting in his shirt, bare on
feete and legges, trembling in manner before rehearsed. She
demanding of whence, and what he was; Rinaldoes teeth so trembled in
his head, as very hardly could he forme any words, but (so well as
he could) told her what he was, and how he came thither: most
pittifully entreating her, that if she could affoord him any helpe,
not to suffer him to starve there to death with cold.
  The Chamber-maide, being much moved to compassion, returned to her
Lady, and tolde her all; she likewise pittying his distresse, and
remembring shee had the key of that doore, whereby the Marquesse
both entred and returned, when he intended not to be seene of any,
said to her Maide. Goe, and open the doore softly for him; we have a
good supper, and none to helpe to eate it, and if he be a man
likely, we can allow him one nights lodging too. The Chamber-maide,
commending her Lady for this charitable kindnesse, opened the doore,
and seeing hee appeared as halfe frozen, shee said unto him. Make hast
good man, get thee into this Bath, which yet is good and warme, for my
Lady her selfe came but newly out of it. Whereto very gladly he
condiscended, as not tarrying to be bidden twise; finding himselfe
so singularly comforted with the heate thereof, even as if hee had
beene restored from death to life. Then the Lady sent him garments,
which lately were her deceased husbands, and fitted him so aptly in
all respects, as if purposely they had beene made for him.
  Attending in further expectation, to know what else the Lady would
commaund him; hee began to remember God and Saint Julian, hartily
thanking her, for delivering him from so bad a night as was
threatned towards him, and bringing him to so good entertainment.
After all this, the Lady causing a faire fire to be made in the
neerest Chamber beneath, went and sate by it her selfe, demaunding how
the honest man fared. Madame, answered the Chamber-maide, now that he
is in your deceased Lords garments, he appeareth to be a very goodly
Gentleman, and (questionlesse) is of respective birth and breeding,
well deserving this gracious favour which you have affoorded him.
Goe then (quoth the Lady) and conduct him hither, to sit by this fire,
and sup heere with mee, for I feare he hath had but a sorrie supper.
When Rinaldo was entred into the Chamber, and beheld her to be such
a beautifull Lady, accounting his fortune to exceede all comparison,
he did her most humble reverence, expressing so much thankefulnesse as
possibly he could, for this her extraordinary grace and favour.
  The Lady fixing a stedfast eye upon him, well liking his gentle
language and behaviour, perceiving also, how fitly her deceased
husbands apparell was formed to his person, and resembling him in
all familiar respects, he appeared (in her judgement) farre beyond the
Chambermaides commendations of him; so praying him to sit downe by her
before the fire, she questioned with him, concerning this unhappy
nights accident befalne him, wherein he fully resolved her, and shee
was the more perswaded, by reason of his servants comming into the
Towne before night, assuring him, that he should be found for him
early in the morning.
  Supper being served in to the Table, and hee seated according as the
Lady commanded; shee began to observe him very considerately; for he
was a goodly man, compleate in all perfection of person, a delicate
pleasing countenance, a quicke alluring eye, fixed and constant, not
wantonly gadding, in the joviall youthfulnesse of his time, and truest
temper for amorous apprehension; all these were as battering engines
against a Bulwarke of no strong resistance, and wrought strangely upon
her flexible affections. And though shee fed heartily, as occasion
constrained, yet her thoughts had entertained a new kinde of diet,
digested onely by the eye; yet so cunningly concealed, that no
motive to immodesty could be discerned. Her mercy thus extended to him
in misery, drew on (by Table discourse) his birth, education, parents,
friends, and alies; his wealthy possessions by Merchandize, and a
sound stability in his estate, but above all (and best of all) the
single and sole condition of a batcheler; an apt and easie steele to
strike fire, especially upon such quicke taking tinder, and in a
time favoured by Fortune.
  No imbarment remained, but remembrance of the Marquesse, and that
being summoned to her more advised consideration, her youth and beauty
stood up as conscious accusers, for blemishing her honour and faire
repute, with lewd and luxurious life, far unfit for a Lady of her
degree, and well worthy of generall condemnation. What should I
further say? upon a short conference with her Chamber-maide,
repentance for sinne past, and solemne promise of a constant
conversion, thus shee delivered her minde to Rinaldo.
  Sir, as you have related your Fortunes to mee, by this your
casuall happening hither, if you can like the motion so well as shee
that makes it, my deceased Lord and Husband living so perfectly in
your person; this house, and all mine is yours; and of a widdow I will
become your wife, except (unmanly) you deny me. Rinaldo hearing
these words, and proceeding from a Lady of such absolute
perfections, presuming upon so proud an offer, and condemning himselfe
of folly if he should refuse it, thus replied. Madam, considering that
I stand bound for ever heereafter, to confesse that you are the
gracious preserver of my life, and I no way able to returne requitall;
if you please so to shadow mine insufficiencie, and to accept me and
my fairest fortunes to doe you service: let me die before a thought of
deniall, or any way to yeeld you the least discontentment.
  Heere wanted but a Priest to joyne their hands, as mutuall affection
already had done their hearts, which being sealed with infinit kisses,
the Chamber-maide called up Friar Roger her Confessor, and wedding and
bedding were both effected before the bright morning. In breefe, the
Marquesse having heard of the marriage, did not mislike it, but
confirmed it by great and honourable giftes; and having sent for his
dishonest Servant, he dispatched him (after sound reprehension) to
Ferrara, with Letters to Rinaldoes Father and Friends, of all the
accidents that had befalne him. Moreover, the very same morning, the
three Theeves that had robbed, and so ill intreated Rinaldo, for
another facte by them the same night committed, were taken, and
brought to the Towne of Chasteau Guillaume, where they were hanged for
their offences, and Rinaldo with his wife rode to Ferrara.
                 THE SECOND DAY, THE THIRD NOVELL

       WHEREIN IS DECLARED THE DANGERS OF PRODIGALITIE, AND
               THE MANIFOLD MUTABILITIES OF FORTUNE

  Three young Gentlemen, being Brethren, and having spent all their
Lands and possessions vainely, became poore. A Nephew of theirs
(falling almost into as desperate a condition) became acquainted
with an Abbot, whom he afterward found to be the King of Englands
Daughter, and made him her Husband in mariage, recompencing all his
Uncles losses, and seating them againe in good estate.

  The fortunes of Rinaldo de Este, being heard by the Ladies and
Gentlemen, they admired his happinesse, and commended his devotion
to Saint Julian, who (in such extreame necessity) sent him so good
succour. Nor was the Lady to be blamed, for leaving base liberty,
and converting to the chaste embraces of the marriage bed, the dignity
of Womens honour, and eternall disgrace living otherwise. While thus
they descanted on the happy night betweene her and Rinaldo, Madam
Pampinea sitting next to Philostratus, considering, that her Discourse
must follow in order, and thinking on what shee was to say; the Queene
had no sooner sent out her command, but she being no lesse faire
then forward, began in this manner. Ladies of great respect, the
more we conferre on the accidents of Fortune, so much the more
remaineth to consider on her mutabilities, wherein there is no need of
wonder, if discreetly we observe that al such things as we fondly
tearme to be our owne, are in her power, and so (consequently)
change from one to another, without any stay or arrest (according to
her concealed judgement) or setled order (at least) that can bee
knowne to us. Now, although these things appeare thus dayly to us,
even apparantly in all occasions, and as hath beene discerned by
some of our precedent Discourses; yet notwithstanding, seeing it
pleaseth the Queene, that our arguments should aime at these ends, I
will adde to the former tales another of my owne, perhaps not
unprofitable for the hearers, nor unpleasing in observation.
  Sometime heeretofore, there dwelt in our Cittie, a Knight named
Signior Theobaldo, who (according as some report) issued from the
Family of Lamberti, but others derive him of the Agolanti; guiding
(perhaps) their opinion heerein, more from the traine of Children,
belonging to the saide Theobaldo (evermore equall to that of the
Agolanti) then any other matter else. But setting aside from which
of these two houses he came, I say, that in his time he was a very
wealthy Knight, and had three sonnes; the first being named
Lamberto, the second Theobaldo, and the third Agolanto, all goodly and
gracefull youths: howbeit, the eldest had not compleated eighteene
yeares, when Signior Theobaldo the Father deceased, who left them
all his goods and inheritances. And they, seeing themselves rich in
ready monies and revennewes, without any other governement then
their owne voluntary disposition, kept no restraint upon their
expences, but maintained many servants, and store of unvalewable
Horses, beside Hawkes and Hounds, with open house for all commers; and
not onely all delights else fit for Gentlemen, but what vanities
beside best agreed with their wanton and youthfull appetites.
  Not long had they run on this race, but the Treasures lefte them
by their Father, began greatly to diminish; and their Revennewes
suffised not, to support such lavish expences as they had begun: but
they fell to engaging and pawning their inheritances, selling one to
day, and another to morrow, so that they saw themselves quickely
come to nothing, and then poverty opened their eyes, which prodigality
had before clozed up. Heereupon, Lamberto (on a day) calling his
Brethren to him, shewed them what the honors of their Father had
beene, to what height his wealth amounted, and now to what an ebbe
of poverty it was falne, only thorow their inordinate expences.
Wherefore hee counselled them, (as best he could) before further
misery insulted over them, to make sale of the small remainder that
was left, and then to betake themselves unto some other abiding, where
fairer Fortune might chance to shine uppon them.
  This advice prevailed with them; and so, without taking leave of any
body, or other solemnity then closest secrecie, they departed from
Florence, not tarrying in any place untill they were arrived in
England. Comming to the City of London, and taking there a small house
upon yearely rent, living on so little charge as possibly might be,
they began to lend out money at use: wherein Fortune was so favourable
to them, that (in few yeares) they had gathered a great summe of mony:
by means whereof it came to passe, that one while one of them, and
afterward another, returned backe againe to Florence: where, with
those summes, a great part of their inheritances were redeemed, and
many other bought beside. Linking themselves in marriage, and yet
continuing their usances in England; they sent a Nephew of theirs
thither, named Alessandro, a yong man, and of faire demeanor, to
maintaine their stocke in employment: while they three remained stil
in Florence, and growing forgetful of their former misery, fell againe
into as unreasonable expences as ever, never respecting their houshold
charges, because they had good credite among the Merchants, and the
monies still sent from Alessandro, supporting their expences divers
yeeres.
  The dealings of Alessandro in England grew verie great, for hee lent
out much money to many Gentlemen, Lords, and Barons of the Land,
upon engagement of their Mannors; Castles, and other revennues: from
whence he derived immeasurable benefite. While the three Brethren held
on in their lavish expences, borrowing moneys when they wanted
untill their supplies came from England, whereon (indeede) was theyr
onely dependance: it fortuned, that (contrary to the opinion of all
men) warre happened betweene the King of England, and one of his
sonnes, which occasioned much trouble in the whole Countrey, by taking
part on either side, some with the sonne, and other with the Father.
In regard whereof, those Castles and places pawned to Alessandro, were
sodainely seized from him, nothing then remaining, that turned him any
profite. But living in hope day by day, that peace would be
concluded betweene the Father and the Sonne, he never doubted, but all
things then should be restored to him, both the principall and
interest, and therfore he would not depart out of the Countrey.
  The three Brethren at Florence, bounding within no limites their
disordered spending; borrowed dayly more and more. And after some
few yeares, the creditors seeing no effect of their hopes to come from
them, all credit being lost with them, and no repayment of promised
dues, they were imprisoned, their Landes and all they had, not
suffising to pay the moitie of Debts, but their bodies remained in
prison for the rest, theyr Wives and young children being sent thence,
some to one village, some to another, so that nothing now was to be
expected, but poverty and misery of life for ever. As for honest
Alessandro, who had awaited long time for peace in England, perceyving
there was no likelyhoode of it; and considering also, that (beside his
tarrying there in vaine to recover his dues) he was in danger of his
life; without any further deferring, he set away for Italy. It came to
passe, that as he yssued foorth of Bruges, hee saw a young Abbot
also journeying thence, being cloathed in white, accompanied with
divers Monkes, and a great traine before, conducting the needfull
Carriage. Two auncient Knights, kinsmen to the King, followed after;
with whom Alessandro acquainted himselfe, as having formerly known
them, and was kindely accepted into their company. Alessandro riding
along with them, courteously requested to know, what those Monks
were that rode before, and such a traine attending on them? Whereto
one of the Knights thus answered.
  He that rideth before, is a yong Gentleman, and our Kinsman, who
is newly elected Abbot of one of the best Abbeys in England, and
because he is more yong in yeeres, then the decrees for such a dignity
do allow, we travaile with him to Rome, to entreat our Holy Father,
that his.youth may be dispensed withall, and he confirmed in the
said dignitie; but hee is not to speake a word to any person. On
rode this new Abbot, sometimes before his Traine, and other whiles
after, as we see great Lords use to do, when they ride upon the
High-wayes.
  It chanced on a day, that Alessandro rode somewhat neere to the
Abbot, who stedfastly beholding him, perceived that he was a very
comely young man, so affable, lovely, and gracious, that even in
this first encounter, he had never seene any man before that better
pleased him. Calling him a little closer, he began to conferre
familiarly with him, demanding what he was, whence he came, and
whether he travelled. Alessandro imparted freely to him all his
affaires, in every thing satisfying his demands, and offering
(although his power was small) to doe him all the service he could.
  When the Abbot had heard his gentle answeres, so wisely and
discreetly delivered, considering also (more particularly) his
commendable carriage, hee tooke him to be (at the least) a
well-borne Gentleman, and far differing from his owne logger headed
traine. Wherefore, taking compassion on his great misfortunes, he
comforted him very kindly, wishing him to live alwayes in good hope.
For, if he were vertuous and honest, he should surely attaine to the
seate from whence Fortune had throwne him, or rather much higher.
Intreating him also, that seeing he journied towards Tuscany, as he
himselfe did the like, to continue stil (if he pleased) in his
company. Alessandro most humbly thanked him for such gracious comfort;
protesting, that he would be alwaies readie to do whatsoever he
commanded.
  The Abbot riding on, with newer crotchets in his braine then he
had before the sight of Alessandro, it fortuned, that after divers
dayes of travaile, they came to a small Country Village, which
affoorded little store of Lodging, and yet the Abbot would needes
lye there. Alessandro, being well acquainted with the Hoste of the
house, willed him to provide for the Abbot and his people, and then to
lodge him where hee thought it meetest. Now before the Abbots
comming thither, the Harbenger that marshalled all such matters, had
provided for his Traine in the Village, some in one place, and
others elsewhere, in the best maner that the Towne could yeelde. But
when the Abbot had supt, a great part of the night being spent, and
every one else at his rest; Alessandro demaunded of the Hoste, what
provision he had made for him, and how hee should be lodged that
night?
  In good sadnesse Sir (quoth the Host) you see that my house is
full of Guests, so that I and my people, must gladly sleepe on the
tables and benches: Neverthelesse, next adjoyning to my Lord Abbots
Chamber, there are certaine Corn-lofts, whether I can closely bring
you, and making shift there with a slender Pallet-bed, it may serve
for one night, insted of a better. But mine Host (quoth Alessandro)
how can I passe thorow my Lords Chamber, which is so little, as it
would not allow Lodging for any of his Monkes? If I had remembred so
much (said the Host) before the Curtaines were drawne, I could have
lodged his Monkes in the Corne-lofts, and then both you and I might
have slept where now they doe. But feare you not, my Lords Curtaines
are close drawne, hee sleepeth (no doubt) soundly, and I can
conveigh you thither quietly enough, without the least disturbance
to him, and a Pallet-bed shall be fitted there for you. Alessandro
perceiving that all this might be easily done, and no disease
offered to the Abbot, accepted it willingly, and went thither
without any noyse at all.
  My Lord Abbot, whose thoughts were so busied about amorous
desires, that no sleepe at all could enter his eyes, heard all this
talke between the Host and Alessandro, and also where hee was
appointed to Lodge, he saide thus within himselfe. Seeing Fortune hath
fitted me with a propitious time, to compasse the happinesse of my
hearts desire; I know no reason why I should refuse it. Perhaps, I
shall never have the like offer againe, or ever be enabled with such
an opportunitie. So, beeing fully determined to prosecute his
intention, and perswading himself also, that the silence of the
night had bestowed sleepe on all the rest; with a lowe and trembling
voyce, he called Alessandro, advising him to come and lye downe by
him, which (after some few faint excuses) he did, and putting off
his cloaths, lay downe by the Abbot, being not a little proude of so
gracious a favour.
  The Abbot, laying his arme over the others body, began to imbrace
and hugge him; even as amorous friends (provoked by earnest
affection), use to doe. Whereat Alessandro verie much mervayling,
and being an Italian himselfe, fearing least this folly in the
Abbot, would convert to foule and dishonest action, shrunke modestly
from him. Which the Abbot perceiving, and doubting least Alessandro
would depart and leave him, pleasantly smiling, and with bashfull
behaviour baring his stomack, he tooke Alessandroes hand, and laying
it thereon, saide; Alessandro, let all bad thoughts of bestiall
abuse be farre off from thee, and feele here, to resolve thee from all
such feare. Allessandro feeling the Abbots brest, found there two
pretty little mountaines, round, plumpe, and smooth, appearing as if
they had beene of polished Ivory; whereby he perceived, that the Abbot
was a woman: which, setting an edge on his youthful desires, made
him fall to embracing, and immediately he offered to kisse her; but
she somewhat rudely repulsing him, as halfe offended, saide.
  Alessandro, forbeare such boldnesse, uppon thy lives perill, and
before thou further presume to touch me, understand what I shall
tell thee. I am (as thou perceivest) no man, but a woman; and
departing a Virgin from my Fathers House, am travelling towards the
Popes holinesse, to the end that he should bestow me in marriage.
But the other day, when first I beheld thee, whether it proceeded from
thy happinesse in fortune, or the fatall houre of my owne infelicity
for ever, I know not; I conceyved such an effectuall kinde of liking
towardes thee, as never did Woman love a man more truely then I doe
thee having sworn within my soule to make thee my Husband before any
other; and if thou wilt not accept me as thy wife, set a locke upon
thy lippes concerning what thou hast heard, and depart hence to
thine owne bed againe.
  No doubt, but that these were strange newes to Alessandro, and
seemed meerely as a miracle to him. What shee was, he knew not, but in
regard of her traine and company, hee reputed her to be both noble and
rich, as also she was wonderfull faire and beautifull. His owne
fortunes stood out of future expectation by his kinsmens overthrow,
and his great losses in England; wherefore, upon an opportunity so
fairely offered, he held it no wisedome to returne refusall, but
accepted her gracious motion, and referred all to her disposing.
Shee arising out of her bed, called him to a little Table standing by,
where hung a faire Crucifixe upon the wall; before which, and
calling him to witnesse, that suffered such bitter and cruell torments
on his Crosse, putting a Ring upon his finger, there she faithfully
espoused him, refusing all the world, to be onely his: which being
on either side confirmed solemnly, by an holy Vow, and chaste
kisses; shee commanded him backe to his Chamber, and she returned to
her bed againe, sufficiently satisfied with her Loves acceptation, and
so they journied on till they came to Rome.
  When they had rested themselves there for some few dayes, the
supposed Abbot, with the two Knights, and none else in company but
Alessandro, went before the Pope, and having done him such reverence
as beseemed, the Abbot began to speake in this manner.
  Holy Father (as you know much better then any other) everie one that
desireth to live well and vertuously, ought to shunne (so farre as
in them lyeth) all occasions that may induce to the contrarie. To
the end therefore, that I (who desire nothing more) then to live
within the compasse of a vertuous conversation, may perfect my hopes
in this behalfe: I have fled from my Fathers Court, and am come hither
in this habite as you see, to crave therein your holy and fatherly
furtherance. I am daughter to the King of England, and have
sufficiently furnished my selfe with some of his Treasures, that
your Holinesse may bestow me in marriage; because mine unkind
Father, never regarding my youth and beauty (inferior to few in my
native country) would marry me to the King of North-Wales, an aged,
impotent, and sickely man. Yet let me tell your sanctity, that his age
and weakenesse hath not so much occasioned my Right, as feare of
mine owne youth and frailety; when being married to him, instead of
loyall and unstained life, lewd and dishonest desires might make me to
wander, by breaking the divine Lawes of wedlocke, and abusing the
royall blood of my Father.
  As I travailed hither with this vertuous intention, our Lord, who
onely knoweth perfectly, what is best fitting for all his creatures;
presented mine eyes (no doubt in his meere mercy and goodnesse) with a
man meete to be my husband, which (pointing to Alessandro) is this
young Gentleman standing by me, whose honest, vertuous, and civill
demeanour, deserveth a Lady of farre greater worth, although (perhaps)
Nobility in blood be denied him, and may make him seeme not so
excellent, as one derived from Royall discent. Holy and religious
vowes have past betweene us both, and the Ring on his finger, is the
firme pledge of my faith and constancie, never to accept any other man
in marriage, but him onely, although my Father, or any else doe
dislike it. Wherefore (holy Father) the principall cause of my comming
hither, being already effectually concluded on, I desire to compleat
the rest of my Pilgrimage, by visiting the sanctified places in this
City, whereof there are great plenty: And also, that sacred
marriage, being contracted in the presence of God onely, betweene
Alessandro and my selfe, may by you be publikely confirmed, and in
an open congregation. For, seeing God hath so appointed it, and our
soules have so solemnely vowed it, that no disaster whatsoever can
alter it: you being Gods Vicar here on earth, I hope will not
gainesay, but confirme it with your fatherly benediction, that wee may
live in Gods feare, and dye in his favour.
  Perswade your selves (faire Ladies) that Alessandro was in no
meane admiration, when hee heard, that his wife was daughter to the
King of England, unspeakable joy (questionlesse) wholly overcame
him: but the two Knights were not a little troubled and offended, at
such a straunge and unexpected accident, yea, so violent were their
passions, that had they beene any where else, then in the Popes
presence, Alessandro had felt their furie, and (perhaps) the Princesse
her selfe too. On the other side, the Pope was much amazed at the
habite she went disguised in, and likewise at the election of her
husband; but, perceiving there was no resistance to be made against
it, hee yeelded the more willingly to satisfie her desire. And
therefore, having first comforted the two Knights, and made peace
betweene them, the Princesse, and Alessandro, he gave order for the
rest that was to be done.
  When the appointed day for the solemnity was come, hee caused the
Princesse (cloathed in most rich and royall garments) to appeare
before all the Cardinals, and many other great persons then in
presence, who were come to this worthy Feast, which hee had caused
purposely to bee prepared, where she seemed so faire and goodly a
Lady, that every eye was highly delighted to behold her, commending
her with no meane admiration. In like manner was Alessandro greatly
honoured by the two Knights, being most sumptuous in appearance, and
not like a man that had lent money to usury, but rather of very royall
quality; the Pope himselfe celebrating the marriage betweene them,
which being finished, with the most magnificent pompe that could be
devised, hee gave them his benediction, and licenced their departure
thence.
  Alessandro, his Princesse and her traine thus leaving Rome, they
would needes visite Florence, where the newes of this accident was
(long before) noysed, and they received by the Citizens in royall
manner. There did shee deliver the three brethren out of prison,
having first payed all their debts, and reseated them againe (with
their wives) in their former inheritances and possessions.
Afterward, departing from Florence, and Agolanto, one of the Uncles
travailing with them to Paris; they were there also most honourably
entertained by the King of France. From whence the two Knights went
before for England, and prevailed so successefully with the King; that
hee received his daughter into grace and favour, as also his Sonne
in law her husband, to whom hee gave the order of Knighthoode, and
(for his greater dignitie) created him Earle of Cornewall.
  And such was the noble spirit of Alessandro, that he pacified the
troubles betweene the King and his sonne, whereon ensued great comfort
to the Kingdome, winning the love and favour of all the people; and
Agolanto (by the meanes of Alessandro) recovered all that was due to
him and his brethren in England, returning richly home to Florence,
Count Alessandro (his kinsman) having first dub'd him Knight. Long
time he lived in peace and tranquility, with the faire Princesse his
wife, proving to be so absolute in wisedome, and so famous a Souldier;
that (as some report) by assistance of his Father in law, he conquered
the Realme of Ireland, and was crowned King thereof.
                   THE SECOND DAY, THE FOURTH NOVELL

      WHEREBY MAY BE DISCERNED, INTO HOW MANY DANGERS A MAN MAY
         FALL, THROUGH A COVETOUS DESIRE TO ENRICH HIMSELFE

  Landolpho Ruffolo, falling into poverty, became a Pirate on the
Seas, and being taken by the Genewayes, hardly escaped drowning: Which
yet (neverthelesse) he did, upon a little Chest or Coffer, full of
very rich Jewels, being carried thereon to Corfu, where he was well
entertained by a good woman; And afterward, returned richly home to
his owne house.

  Madam Lauretta, sitting next to Madam Pampinea, and seeing how
triumphantly she had finished her discourse; without attending any
thing else, spake thus. Gracious Ladies, we shall never behold (in
mine opinion) a greater act of Fortune, then to see a man so suddainly
exalted, even from the lowest depth of poverty, to a Royall estate
of dignity; as the discourse of Madam Pampinea hath made good, by
the happy advancement of Alessandro. And because it appeareth
necessary, that whosoever discourseth on the subject proposed,
should no way vary from the very same termes; I shall not shame to
tell a tale, which, though it containe far greater mishapes then the
former, may sort to as happy an issue, albeit not so noble and
magnificent. In which respect, it may (perhaps) merit the lesse
attention; but howsoever that fault shall be found in you, I meane
to discharge mine owne duty.
   Opinion hath made it famous for long time, that the Seacoast of
Rhegium to Gaieta, is the onely delactable part of all Italy, wherein,
somewhat neere to Salerno, is a shore looking upon the Sea, which
the inhabitants there dwelling, doe call the coast of Malfy, full of
small Townes, Gardens, Springs, and wealthy men, trading in as many
kindes of Merchandizes, as any other people that I know. Among which
Townes, there is one, named Ravello, wherein (as yet to this day there
are rich people) there was (not long since) a very wealthy man,
named Landolpho Ruffolo, who being not contented with his riches,
but coveting to multiply them double and trebble, fell in danger, to
loose both himselfe and wealth together. This man (as other
Merchants are wont to doe) after hee had considered on his affaires,
bought him a very goodly Ship, lading it with divers sorts of
Merchandizes, all belonging to himselfe onely, and making his voyage
to the Isle of Cyprus. Where he found, over and beside the
Merchandizes he had brought thither, many Ships more there arrived,
and all laden with the same commodities, in regard whereof, it was
needefull for him, not onely to make a good Mart of his goods; but
also was further constrained (if hee meant to vent his commodities) to
sell them away (almost) for nothing, endangering his utter destruction
and overthrow. Whereupon, grieving exceedingly at so great a losse,
not knowing what to doe, and seeing, that from very aboundant
wealth, hee was likely to fall into as low poverty: he resolved to
die, or to recompence his losses upon others, because he would not
returne home poore, having departed thence so rich.
  Meeting with a Merchant, that bought his great Ship of him; with the
money made thereof, and also his other Merchandizes, hee purchased
another, being a lighter vessell, apt and proper for the use of a
Pirate, arming and furnishing it in ample manner, for roving and
robbing upon the Seas. Thus hee began to make other mens goods his
owne, especially from the Turkes he tooke much wealth, Fortune being
alwayes therein so favourable to him, that hee could never compasse
the like by trading. So that, within the space of one yeare, hee had
robd and taken so many Gallies from the Turke; that he found
himselfe well recovered, not onely of all his losses by Merchandize,
but likewise his wealth was wholly redoubled. Finding his losses to be
very liberally requited, and having now sufficient, it were folly to
hazard a second fall; wherefore, conferring with his owne thoughts,
and finding that he had enough, and needed not to covet after more: he
fully concluded, now to returne home to his owne house againe, and
live upon his goods thus gotten.
  Continuing still in feare of the losses he had sustained by
traffique, and minding never more to imploy his money that way, but to
keep this light vessell, which had holpen him to all his wealth: he
commanded his men to put forth their Oares, and shape,their course for
his owne dwelling. Being aloft in the higher Seas, darke night
over-taking them, and a mighty winde suddainly comming upon them: it
not onely was contrary to their course, but held on with such
impetuous violence; that the small vessell, being unable to endure it,
made to land-ward speedily, and in expectation of a more friendly
wind, entred a little port of the Sea, directing up into a small
Island, and there safely sheltred it selfe. Into the same port which
Landolpho had thus taken for his refuge, entred (soone after) two
great Carrackes of Genewayes, lately come from Constantinople. When
the men in them had espied the small Barke, and lockt up her passage
from getting forth; understanding the Owners name, and that report had
famed him to be very rich, they determined (as men evermore addicted
naturally, to covet after money and spoile) to make it their owne as a
prize at Sea.
  Landing some store of their men, well armed with Crossebowes and
other weapons, they tooke possession of such a place, where none durst
issue forth of the small Barke, but endangered his life with their
Darts and Arrowes. Entering aboord the Barke, and making it their owne
by full possession, all the men they threw over-boord, without sparing
any but Landolpho himselfe, whom they mounted into one of the
Carrackes, leaving him nothing but a poore shirt of Maile on his
backe, and having rifled the Barke of all her riches, sunke it into
the bottome of the sea. The day following, the rough windes being
calmed, the Carrackes set saile againe, having a prosperous passage
all the day long; but upon the entrance of darke night, the windes
blew more tempestuously then before, and sweld the Sea in such rude
stormes, that the two Carracks were sundered each from other, and by
violence of the tempest it came to passe, that the Carracke wherein
lay poore miserable Landolpho (beneath the Isle of Cephalonia) ran
against a rocke, and even as a glasse against a wall, so split the
Carracke in peeces, the goods and merchandize floating on the Sea,
Chests, Coffers, Beds, and such like other things, as often hapneth in
such lamentable accidents.
  Now, notwithstanding the nights obscurity, and impetuous violence of
the billowes; such as could swimme, made shift to save their lives
by swimming. Others caught hold on such things, as by Fortunes favour,
floated neerest to them, among whom, distressed Landolpho, desirous to
save his life, if possibly it might be, espied a Chest or Coffer
before him, ordained (no doubt) to be the meanes of his safety from
drowning. Now although the day before, he had wished for death
infinite times, rather then to returne home in such wretched
poverty; yet, seeing how other men strove for safety of their lives by
any helpe, were it never so little, bee tooke advantage of this favour
offred him, and the rather in a necessitie so urgent. Keeping fast
upon the Coffer so well as he could, and being driven by the winds and
waves, one while this way, and anon quite contrary, he made shift
for himselfe till day appeared; when looking every way about him,
seeing nothing but clouds, the seas and the Coffer, which one while
shrunke from under him, and another while supported him, according
as the windes and billowes carried it: all that day and night thus
he floated up and downe, drinking more then willingly hee would, but
almost hunger-starved thorow want of foode. The next morning, either
by the appointment of heaven or power of the Windes, Landolpho who was
(well-neere) become a Spundge, holding his armes strongly about the
Chest, as we have seene some doe, who (dreading drowning) take hold on
any the very smallest helpe; drew neere unto the shore of the Iland
Corfu, where (by good fortune) a poore woman was scowring dishes
with the salt water and sand, to make them (housewife like) neate
and cleane.
  When shee saw the Chest drawing neere her, and not discerning the
shape of any man, shee grew fearefull, and retyring from it, cried out
aloude. He had no power of speaking to her, neither did his sight
doe him the smallest service; but even as the waves and windes
pleased, the Chest was driven still neerer to the Land, and then the
woman perceyved that it had the forme of a ofer, and looking more
advisedly, beheld two armes extended over it, and afterward, she
espied the face of a man, not being able to judge, whether he were
alive, or no. Moved by charitable and womanly compassion, shee stept
in among the billowes, and getting fast holde on the hayre of his
head, drew both the Chest and him to the Land, and calling forth her
Daughters to helpe her, with much adoe she unfolded his armes from the
Chest, setting it up on her Daughters head, and then betweene them,
Landolpho was led into the Towne, and there conveyed into a warme
Stove, where quickly he recovered by her pains, his strength
benummed with extreame cold.
  Good wines and comfortable broathes shee cherished him withall, that
his sences being indifferently restored, hee knew the place where
hee was; but not in what manner he was brought thither, till the
good woman shewed him the Cofer that had kept him floating upon the
waves, and (next under God) had saved his life. The Chest seemed of
such slender weight, that nothing of any value could be expected in
it, either to recompence the womans great paines and kindnesse
bestowne on him, or any matter of his owne benefit. Neverthelesse, the
woman being absent, he opened the Chest, and found innumerable
precious stones therein, some costly and curiously set in Gold, and
others not fixed in any mettall. Having knowledge of their great worth
and value (being a Merchant, and skil'd in such matters) he became
much comforted, praysing God for this good successe, and such an
admirable meanes of deliverance from danger.
  Then considering with himselfe, that (in a short time) hee had beene
twice well buffeted and beaten by Fortune, and fearing, least a
third mishap might follow in like manner, hee consulted with his
thoughts, how he might safest order the businesse, and bring so rich a
booty (without perill) to his owne home. Wherefore, wrapping up the
jewels in very unsightly coloures, that no suspition at all should
be conceived of them, hee saide to the good woman, that the Chest
would not doe him any further service; but if shee pleased to lende
him a small sacke or bagge, shee might keepe the Cofer, for in her
house it would divers way stead her. The woman gladly did as he
desired, and Landolpho returning her infinite thankes, for the
loving kindnesse shee had affoorded him, throwing the sacke on his
necke, passed by a Barke to Brundusiam, and from thence to Tranium,
where Merchants in the City bestowed good garments on him, he
acquainting them with his disasterous fortunes, but not a word
concerning his last good successe.
  Being come home in safety to Ravello, he fell on his knees, and
thanked God for all his mercies towards him. Then opening the sacke,
and viewing the jewels at more leysure then formerly he had done, he
found them to be of so great estimation, that selling them but at
ordinary and reasonable rates, he was three times richer, then when
hee departed first from his house. And having vented them all, he sent
a great summe of money to the good woman at Corfu, that had rescued
him out of the Sea, and saved his life in a danger so dreadfull. The
like he did to Tranium, to the Merchants that had newly cloathed
him; living richly upon the remainder, and never adventuring more to
the Sea, but ended his dayes in wealth and honour.
                    THE SECOND DAY, THE FIFT NOVELL

      COMPREHENDING, HOW NEEDFULL A THING IT IS, FOR A MAN THAT
      TRAVELLETH IN AFFAIRES OF THE WORLD, TO BE PROVIDENT AND
        WELL ADVISED, AND CAREFULLY TO KEEPE HIMSELFE FROM THE
           CRAFTY AND DECEITFULL ALLUREMENTS OF STRUMPETS

  Andrea de Piero, travelling from Perouse to Naples to buy Horses,
was (in the space of one night) surprised by three admirable
accidents, out of all which he fortunately escaped, and with a rich
Ring, returned home to his owne house.

  The precious Stones and jewels found by Landolpho, maketh mee to
remember (said Madam Fiammetta, who was next to deliver her discourse)
a Tale, containing no lesse perils, then that reported by Madam
Lauretta: but somewhat different from it, because the one happened
in sundry yeeres, and this other had no longer time, then the compasse
of one poore night, as instantly I will relate unto you.
  As I have heard reported by many, there sometime lived in Perouse or
Perugia, a young man, named Andrea de Piero, whose profession was to
trade about Horses, in the nature of a Horse-courser, or
Horsemaster, who hearing of a good Faire or Market (for his purpose)
at Naples, did put five hundred Crownes of gold in his purse, and
journeyed thither in the company of other Horse-coursers, arriving
there on a Sunday in the evening. According to instructions given
him by his Host, he went the next day into the Horse-market, where
he saw very many Horses that he liked, cheapening their prices as he
went up and downe, but could fall to no agreement; yet to manifest
that he came purposely to buy, and not as a cheapener onely,
oftentimes (like a shallow-brainde trader in the world) he shewed
his purse of gold before all passengers, never respecting who, or what
they were that observed his follie.
  It came to passe, that a young Sicillian wench (very beautifull, but
at commaund of whosoever would, and for small hire) pass then by,
and (without his percieving) seeing such store of gold in his purse;
presently she said to her selfe: why should not all those crownes be
mine, when the foole that owes them, can keepe them no closer? And
so she went on. With this young wanton there was (at the same time) an
olde woman (as commonly such stuffe is alwayes so attended) seeming to
be a Sicillian also, who so soone as shee saw Andrea, knew him, and
leaving her youthfull commodity, ranne to him, and embraced him very
kindly. Which when the younger Lasse perceived, without proceeding any
further, she stayed to see what would ensue thereon. Andrea conferring
with the olde Bawde, and knowing her (but not for any such creature)
declared himselfe very affable to her; she making him promise, that
shee would come and drinke with him at his lodging. So breaking off
further speeches for that time, shee returned to her young
Cammerado; and Andrea went about buying his horses, still cheapning
good store, but did not buy any all that morning.
  The Punke that had taken notice of Andreas purse, upon the olde
womans comming backe to her (having formerly studied, how shee might
get all the gold, or the greater part thereof) cunningly questioned
with her, what the man was, whence hee came, and the occasion of his
businesse there? wherein she fully informed her particularly, and in
as ample manner as himselfe could have done: That shee had long time
dwelt in Sicily with his Father, and afterward at Perouse;
recounting also, at what time she came thence, and the cause which now
had drawne him to Naples. The witty young housewife, being thorowly
instructed, concerning the Parents and kindred of Andrea, their names,
quality, and all other circumstances thereto leading; began to frame
the foundation of her purpose thereupon, setting her resolution
downe constantly, that the purse and gold was (already) more than
halfe her owne.
  Being come home to her owne house, away shee sent the olde Pandresse
about other businesse, which might hold her time long enough of
employment, and hinder her returning to Andrea according to promise,
purposing, not to trust her in this serious piece of service.
Calling a young crafty Girle to her, whom she had well tutoured in the
like ambassages, when evening drew on, she sent her to Andreas
lodging, where (by good fortune) she found him sitting alone at the
doore, and demanding of him, if he knew an honest Gentleman lodging
there, whose name was Signior Andrea de Piero; he made her answere,
that himselfe was the man. Then taking him aside, she said. Sir, there
is a worthy Gentlewoman of this Citie, that would gladly speake with
you, if you pleased to vouchsafe her so much favour.
  Andrea, hearing such a kinde of salutation, and from a
Gentlewoman, named of worth; began to grow proud in his owne
imaginations, and to make no meane estimation of himselfe: As
(undoubtedly) that he was an hansome proper man, and of such cariage
and perfections, as had attracted the amorous eye of this Gentlewoman,
and induced her to like and love him beyond all other, Naples not
containing a man of better merit. Whereupon he answered the Mayde,
that he was ready to attend her Mistresse, desiring to know, when it
should be, and where the Gentlewoman would speake with him? So soone
as you please Sir, replied the Damosell, for she tarrieth your comming
in her owne house.
  Instantly Andrea (without leaving any direction of his departure
in his lodging, or when he intended to returne againe) said to the
Girle: Goe before, and I will follow. This little Chamber-commodity,
conducted him to her Mistresses dwelling, which was in a streete named
Malpertuis, a title manifesting sufficiently the streetes honesty: but
hee, having no such knowledge thereof, neither suspecting any harme at
all, but that he went to a most honest house, and to a Gentlewoman
of good respect; entred boldly: the Mayde going in before, and guiding
him up a faire payre of stayres, which he having more then halfe
ascended, the cunning young Queane gave a call to her Mistresse,
saying; Signior Andrea is come already, whereupon, she appeared at the
stayres-head, as if she had stayed there purposely to entertaine
him. She was young, very beautifull, comely of person, and rich in
adornements, which Andrea well observing, and seeing her descend two
or three steps, with open armes to embrace him, catching fast hold
about his neck; he stood as a man confounded with admiration, and
she contained a cunning kinde of silence, even as if she were unable
to utter one word, seeming hindered by extremity of joy at his
presence, and to make him effectually admire her extraordinary
kindnesse, having teares plenteously at commaund, intermixed with
sighes and broken speeches, at last, thus she spake.
  Signior Andrea, you are the most welcome friend to me in the
world; sealing this salutation with infinite sweet kisses and
embraces: whereat (in wonderfull amazement) he being strangely
transported, replied; Madame, you honour me beyond all compasse of
merit. Then, taking him by the hand, shee guided him thorough a goodly
Hall, into her owne Chamber, which was delicately embalmed with Roses,
Orenge flowers, and all other pleasing smelles, and a costly bed in
the middest, curtained round about, verie artificiall Pictures
beautifying the walles, with many other embellishments, such as
those Countries are liberally stored withall. He being meerely a
novice in these kinds of wanton carriages of the World, and free
from any base or degenerate conceite; firmely perswaded himselfe, that
(questionlesse) she was a Lady of no meane esteeme, and he more then
happy, to be thus respected and honored by her. They both being seated
on a curious Chest at the beds feete, teares cunningly trickling downe
her Cheekes, and sighes intermedled with inward sobbings, breathed
foorth in sad, but verie seemely manner, thus shee beganne.
  I am sure Andrea, that you greatly marvell at me, in gracing you
with this solemne and kinde entertainment, and why I should so melt my
selfe in sighes and teares, at a man that hath no knowledge of mee, or
perhaps, sildome or never heard any speeches of mee: but you shall
instantly receive from mee matter to augment your greater marvaile,
meeting heere with your owne Sister, beyond all hope or expectation in
eyther of us both. But seeing that Heaven hath beene so gracious to
me, to let mee see one of my Brethren before I dye (though gladly I
would have seene them all) which is some addition of comfort to me,
and that which (happily) thou hast never heard before, in plaine and
truest manner, I will reveale unto thee.
  Piero, my Father and thine, dwelt long time (as thou canst not
choose but to have understood) in Palermo; where, through the
bounty, and other gracious good parts remaining in him, he was much
renowned, and to this day, is no doubt remembred, by many of his
loving Friends and Wellwillers. Among them that most intimately
affected Piero, my mother (who was Gentlewoman, and at that time a
widow) did deerest of all other love him; so that: forgetting the
feare of her Father, Brethren, yea, and her owne honour, they became
so privately acquainted, that I was begotten, and am heere now such as
thou seest me. Afterward, occasions so befalling our Father, to
abandon Palermo, and returne to Perouse, he left my mother and me
his little daughter, never after (for ought that I could learne)
once remembring either her or me: so that (if he had not beene my
Father) I could have much condemned him, in regard of his
ingratitude to my mother, and love which hee ought to have shewne me
as his childe, being borne of no Chamber-maide, neyther of a Citty
sinner; albeit I must needes say, that she was blame-worthy, without
any further knowledge of him (rioved onely thereto by most loyal
affection) to commit both her selfe, and all the wealth shee had, into
his hands: but things ill done, and so long time since, are more
easily controulled, then amended.
 Being left so young at Palermo, and growing (well neere) to the
stature as now you see me; my Mother (being wealthy) gave me in
marriage to one of the Gergentes Family, a Gentleman, and of great
revennues, who in his love to me and my mother, went and dwelt at
Palermo: where falling into the Guelphes Faction, and making one in
the enterprize with Charles our King; it came to passe, that they were
discovered to Fredericke King of Arragon, before their intent could be
put in execution: Whereupon, we were enforced to flye from Sicily,
even when my hope stoode fairely, to have beene the greatest Lady in
all the Island. Packing up then such few things as wee could take with
us, (few I may well call them, in regard of our wealthy possessions,
both in Pallaces, Houses, and Lands, all which we were constrained
to forgo:) we made our recourse to this Citty, where we found King
Charles so benigne and gracious to us, that recompencing the greater
part of our losses, he bestowed Lands and houses on us here, beside
a continuall large pension to my husband your brother in Law, as
heereafter himselfe shall better acquaint you withal. Thus came I
hither, and thus remaine here, where I am able to welcome my brother
Andrea, thankes more to Fortune, then any friendlinesse in him. With
which words she embraced and kissed him many times, sighing and
weeping as she did before.
 Andrea hearing this Fable so artificially delivered, composed from
point to point with such likely protestations, without faltring or
failing in any one words utterance; and remembring perfectly for
truth, that his Father had formerly dwelt at Palermo; knowing also (by
some sensible feeling in himselfe) the custome of young people, who
are easily conquered by affection in their youthfull heate, seeing
beside the tears, trembling speeches, and earnest embracings of this
cunning commodity; he tooke all to be true by her thus spoken, and
upon her silence, thus replyed. Lady, let it not seeme strange to you,
that your words have raysed marvell in me, because (indeed) I had no
knowledge of you, even no more then as if I had never seene you: never
also having heard my father speak either of you or your mother (for
some considerations best known unto himselfe:) or if at any time he
used such language, either my youth then, or defective memory since,
hath utterly lost it. But truely, it is no little joy and comfort to
me, to finde a sister here, where I had no such hope or expectation,
and where also myselfe am a meere stranger. For to speake my minde
freely of you, and the perfections gracefully appearing in you I
know not any man of how great repute or qualitie soever, but you may
well beseeme his acceptance, much rather then mine, that am but a mean
Merchant. But faire Sister, I desire to be resolved in one thing, to
wit; by what means you had understanding of my being in this City?
whereto readily she returned him this answer.
  Brother, a poore Woman of this City, whom I employ sometimes
houshold occasions, came to mee this morning, and (having seene you)
tolde me, that shee dwelt a long while with our Father, both at
Palermo and Perouse. And because I held it much better beseeming my
condition, to have you visite me in mine owne dwelling, then I to come
see you at a common Inne, I made the bolder to send for you hither.
After which words, in very orderly manner, she enquired of his
chiefest kindred and friends, calling them readily by their proper
names, according to her former instructions. Whereto Andrea still made
her answere, confirming thereby his beliefe of her the more
strongly, and crediting whatsoever she saide, farre better then
before.
  Their conference having long time continued, and the heate of the
day being somewhat extraordinary, she called for Greeke wine, and
banquetting stuffe, drinking to Andrea; and he pledging her very
contentedly. After which, he would have returned to his lodging,
because it drew neere supper time; which by no meanes shee would
permit, but seeming more then halfe displeased, shee saide. Now I
plainely perceive brother, how little account you make of me,
considering, you are with your owne Sister, who (you say) you never
saw before, and in her owne House, whether you should alwayes resort
when you come to this City; and would you now refuse her, to goe and
sup at a common Inne? Beleeve me Brother, you shall sup with me, for
although my Husband is now from home, to my no little
discontentment: yet you shall find Brother, that his wife, can bid you
welcome, and make you good cheere beside.
  Now was Andrea so confounded this extremity of courtesie, that he
knew not what to say, but onely thus replied. I love you as a Sister
ought to be loved, and accept of your exceeding kindnesse: but if I
returne not to my lodging, I shall wrong mine Host and his guests
too much, because they will not sup untill I come. For that (quoth
shee) we have a present remedy, one of my servants shall goe and
give warning, whereby they shall not tarry your comming. Albeit, you
might doe me a great kindnesse, to send for your friends to sup with
us here, where I assure ye, they shall finde that your Sister (for
your sake) will bid them welcome, and after supper, you may all
walke together to your Inne. Andrea answered, that he had no such
friends there, as should be so burthenous to her: but seeing she urged
him so farre, he would stay to sup with her, and referred himselfe
solely to her disposition.
  Ceremonious shew was made, of sending a servant to the Inne, for not
expecting Andreas presence at Supper, though no such matter was
performed; but, after divers other discoursings, the table being
covered, and variety of costly viands placed thereon, downe they
sate to feeding, with plenty of curious Wines liberally walking about,
so that it was darke night before they arose from the table. Andrea
then offring to take his leave, she would (by no meanes) suffer it,
but tolde him, that Naples was a Citie of such strict Lawes and
Ordinances, as admitted no night-walkers, although they were
Natives, much lesse strangers, but punnished them with great severity.
And therefore, as she had formerly sent word to his Inne, that they
should not expect his comming to supper, the like had she done
concerning his bed, intending to give her Brother Andrea one nights
lodging, which as easily she could affoord him, as shee had done a
Supper. All which this new-caught Woodcocke verily crediting, and that
he was in company of his owne Sister Fiordeliza (for so did she
cunningly stile her selfe, and in which beleefe he was meerely
deluded) he accepted the more gladly her gentle offer, and concluded
to stay there all that night.
  After supper, their conference lasted very long, purposely dilated
out in length, that a great part of the night might therein be wasted:
when, leaving Andrea to his Chamber, and a Lad to attend, that he
should lacke nothing; she with her women went to their lodgings, and
thus our Brother and supposed Sister were parted. The season then
being somewhat hot and soultry, Andrea put off his hose and doublet,
and being in his shirt alone, layed them underneath the beds boulster,
as seeming carefull of his money. But finding a provocation to the
house of Office, he demanded of the Lad, where hee might find it;
who shewed him a little doore in a corner of the Chamber, appointing
him to enter there. Safely enough he went in, but chanced to tread
upon a board, which was fastened at neither, ende to the joynts
whereon it lay, being a pit-fall made of purpose, to entrap any such
coxcombe, as would be trained to so base a place of lodging, so that
both he and the board fell downe together into the draught; yet such
being his good fortune, to receive no harme in the fall (although it
was of extraordinary height) onely the filth of the place, (it being
over full) had fowly myred him.
  Now for your better understanding the quality of the place, and what
ensued thereupon, it is not unnecessary to describe it, according to a
common use, observed in those parts. There was a narrow passage or
entrie, as often we see reserved betweene two houses, for eithers
benefit to such a needfull place; and boards loosely lay upon the
joynts, which such as were acquainted withall, could easily avoide any
perille in passing to or from the stoole. But our so newly created
Brother, not dreaming to find a Queane to his Sister, receiving so
foule a fall into the vault, and knowing not how to helpe himselfe,
being sorrowfull beyond measure; cryed out to the boy for light and
aide, who intended not to give him any. For the crafty wag, (a meete
attendant for so honest a Mistresse) no sooner heard him to be fallen,
but presently he ran to enforme her thereof, and shee as speedily
returned to the Chamber, where finding his cloathes under the beds
head, shee needed no instruction for search of his pockets. But having
found the gold, which Andrea indiscreetely carried alwayes about
him, as thinking it could no where else be so safe: This was all
shee aymed at, and for which shee had ensnared him, faigning her selfe
to be of Palermo, and Daughter to Piero of Perouse, so that not
regarding him any longer, but making fast the house of Office doore,
there she left him in that miserable taking.
 Poore Andrea perceiving, that his calles could get no answere from
the Lad; cryed out louder, but all to no purpose: when seeing into his
owne simplicity, and understanding his error, though somewhat too
late, hee made such meanes constrainedly, that he got over a wall,
which severed that foule sinke from the Worlds eye; and being in the
open streete, went to the doore of the House, which then he knew too
well to his cost, making loud exclaimes with rapping and knocking, but
all as fruitelesse as before. Sorrowing exceedingly, and manifestly
beholding his misfortune; Alas (quoth he) how soone have I lost a
Sister, and five hundred Crownes besides? With many other words,
loud calles, and beatings uppon the doore without intermission, the
neighbours finding themselves disturbed, and unable to endure any such
ceaselesse vexation, rose from their beddes, and called to him,
desiring him to be gone, and let them rest. A Maide also of the same
house, looking forth at the window, and seeming as newly raised from
sleepe, called to him, saying; What noyse is that beneath? Why
Virgin (answered Andrea) know you not me? I am Andrea de Piero,
Brother to your Mistresse Fiordeliza. Thou art a drunken knave replyed
the Maide, more full of drinke then wit: goe sleepe, goe sleepe, and
come againe to morrow: for I know no Andrea de Piero, neither hath
my Mistresse any such Brother. Get thee gone go ie good man, and
suffer us to sleepe I prythee. How now (quoth Andrea) doest thou not
understand what I say? Thou knowest that I supt with thy Mistresse
this night; but if our Sicilian kindred be so soone forgot, I
prythee give mee my Cloathes which I left in my Chamber, and then
verie gladly will I get mee gone. Hereat the Maide laughing out
aloude, saide; Surely the man is mad, or walketh the streetes in a
dreame: and so clasping fast the Window, away she went and left him.
 Now could Andrea assure himselfe, that his Golde and cloathes were
past recovery, which mooving him to the mor impatience, his former
intercessions became converted into furie, and what hee could not
compasse by faire intreats, he intended to winne by outrage and
violence: so that taking up a great stone in his hand, hee layed
upon the doore verie powerfull strokes. The neighbors hearing this
mollestation still, admitting them not the least respite of rest,
reputed him for a troublesome fellow, and that he used those
counterfet words, onely to disturbe the Mistresse of the house, and
all that dwelled neere about her; looking againe out at their
windowes, they altogether beganne to rate and reprove him, even like
so many bawling Curres, barking at a strange dog passing through the
street. This is shamefull villany (quoth one) and not to be
suffered, that honest women should thus be molested in their houses,
with foolish idle words, and at such an unseasonable time of the
night. For Gods sake (good man) be gone, and let us sleepe; if thou
have any thing to say to the Gentlewoman of the house, come tomorrow
in the daytime, and no doubt but she will make thee sufficient answer.
  Andrea, being some what pacified with these speeches, a
shagge-hayr'd swash-buckler, a grim visagde Ruffian (as sildome
bawdy houses are without such swaggering Champions) not seene or heard
by Andrea, all the while of his being in the house; rapping out two or
three terrible Oathes, opening a Casement, and with a stearne
dreadfull voyce, demanded, who durst keepe that noyse beneath?
Andrea fearefully looking up, and (by a little glimmering of the
Moone) seeing such a rough fellow, with a blacke beard, strowting like
the quilles of a Porcupine, and patches on his face, for hurts
received in no honest quarrels, yawning also and stretching, as
angry to have his sleepe disturbed: trembling and quaking, answered; I
am the Gentlewomans brother of the house. The Ruffian interrupting
him, and speaking more fiercely then before; sealing his words with
horrible Oathes, said. Sirra, Rascall, I know not of whence, or what
thou art; but if I come downe to thee, I will so bumbast thy prating
Coxecombe, as thou wast never so beaten in all thy life, like a
drunken slave and beast as thou art, that all this night wilt not
let us sleepe. And so hee clapt to the window againe.
  The Neighbours well acquainted with this Ruffians rude conditions,
speaking in gentle manner to Andrea, said. Shift for thy selfe (good
man) in time, and tarrie not for his comming downe to thee, except
thou art weary of thy life: Be gone therefore, and say thou hast a
friendly warning. These words dismaying Andrea, but much more the
sterne oathes and ougly sight of the Ruffian, incited also by the
Neighbours counsell, whom he imagined to advise him in charitable
manner: it caused him to depart thence, taking the way home-ward to
his Inne, in no mean affliction and torment of minde, for the
monstrous abuse offered him, and losse of his money. Well he remembred
the passages, whereby the day before the young Gyrle had guided him,
but the loathsome smell about him, was so extreamely to himselfe, that
desiring to wash him at the Sea side, he strayed too farre wide on the
contrary hand, wandring up the street called Ruga Gatellana.
  Proceeding on still, even to the highest part of the Citie, hee
espyed a Lanthorne and light, as also a man carrying it, and another
man with him in company, both of them comming towards him. Now,
because he suspected them two of the watch, or some persons that would
apprehend him., he stept aside to shunne them, and entred into an olde
house hard by at hand. The other mens intention was to the very same
place; and going in, without any knowledge of Andreaes beeing there,
one of them layde downe divers instruments of Iron which he had
brought thither on his backe, and had much talke with his fellow
concerning those Engines. At last one of them saide; I smell the
most abhominable stinke that ever I felt in all my life. So, lifting
up the Lanthorn, he espied poore pittifull Andrea, closely couched
behinde the wall. Which sight somewhat affrighting him, he yet
boldly demaunded, what and who he was? Whereto Andrea answered
nothing, but lay still and held his peace. Neerer they drew towards
him with their light, demanding how hee came thither, and in that
filthy manner.
  Constraint having now no other evasion, but that (of necessitie) all
must out: hee related to them the whole adventure, in the same sort as
it had befalne him. They greatly pittying his misfortune, one of
them said to the other: Questionlesse, this villanie was done in the
house of Scarabone Buttafucco. And then turning to Andrea, proceeded
thus. In good faith poore man, albeit thou hast lost thy money, yet
art thou much beholding to Fortune, for falling (though in a foule
place) yet in a succesfull manner, and entring no more backe into
the house. For beleeve mee friend, if thou haddest not falne, but
quietly gone to sleepe in the house, that sleepe had beene thy last in
this world, and with thy money, thou hadst lost thy life likewise. But
teares and lamentations are now helpelesse, because as easily mayest
thou plucke the Starres from the Firmament, as get againe the least
doyt of thy losse. And for that shag-haird Slave in the house, he will
be thy deathsman, if hee but understand that thou makest any
enquirie after thy money. When he had thus admonished him, he began
also in this manner to comfort him. Honest fellow,- we cannot but
pitty thy present condition: wherfore if thou wilt frendly associate
us, in a businesse which we are instantly going to effect; thy losse
hath not bene so great, but on our words we will warrant thee, that
thine immediate gaine shall farre exceede it. What will not a man
(in desperate extremity) both well like and allow of, especially
when it carryeth apparance of present comfort. So fared it with
Andrea, hee perswaded himselfe, worse then had already happened, could
not befall him; and therefore he would gladly adventure with them.
  The selfe same day preceding this disastrous night to Andrea, in the
cheefe Church of the Cittie, had beene buried the Archbishop of Naples
named Signior Phillippo Minutulo, in his richest pontificall Robes and
Ornaments, and a Ruby on his finger valued to be worth five hundred
duckets of gold: this dead body they purposed to rob and rifle,
acquainting Andrea with their whole intent, whose necessitie
(coupled with a covetous desire) made him more forward then well
advised, to joyne with them in this sacriligious enterprize. On they
went towards the great Church, Andreaes unsavourie perfume much
displeasing them, whereupon the one said to his fellow: Can we
devise no ease for this foule and noysome inconveniences? the very
smell of him will be a meanes to betray us. There is a Well-pit hard
by, answered the other, with a pulley and bucket descending downe into
it, and there we may wash him from this filthinesse. To the Well-pit
they came, where they found the rope and pulley hanging readie, but
the bucket for safety was taken away; whereon they concluded, to
fasten the rope about him, and so let him downe into the Well-pit, and
when he had washed himselfe, hee should wagge the rope, and then
they would draw him up againe, which accordingly they forthwith
performed.
  Now it came to passe, that while he was thus washing himselfe in the
Well-pit, the Watch of the Citie walking the round, and finding it
to bee a very hote and sweltring night, they grew dry and thirsty, and
therefore went to the Well to drinke. The other two men, perceiving
the Watch so neere upon them, left Andrea in the pit to shift for
himselfe, running away to shelter themselves. Their flight was not
discovered by the Watch, but they comming to the Wellpit, Andrea
remained still in the bottome, and having cleansed himselfe so well as
hee could, sate wagging the rope, expecting when hee should be haled
up. This dumbe signe the Watch discerned not, but sitting downe by the
Welles side, they layde downe their Billes and other weapons,
tugging to draw up the rope, thinking the Bucket was fastened thereto,
and full of water. Andrea being haled up to the Pits brim, left
holding the rope any longer, catching fast hold with his hands for his
better safety; and the Watch at the sight hereof being greatly
agrighted, as thinking that they had dragd up a Spirit; not daring
to speake one word, ran away with all the hast they could make.
  Andrea hereat was not a little amazed, so that if he had not taken
very good hold on the brim: he might have falne to the bottome, and
doubtlesse there his life had perished. Being come forth of the
Well, and treading on Billes and Halbards, which he well knew that his
companions had not brought thither with them; his mervaile so much the
more encreased, ignorance and feare still seizing him, with silent
bemoaning his many misfortunes, away thence he wandred, but hee wist
not whither. As he went on, he met his two fellowes, who purposely
returned to drag him out of the Well, and seeing their intent
already performed, desired to know who had done it: wherein Andrea
could not resolve them, rehearsing what hee could, and what weapons
hee found lying about the Well. Whereat they smiled, as knowing,
that the Watch had haled him up, for feare of whom they left him,
and so declared to him the reason of their returne.
  Leaving off all further talke, because now it was about midnight,
they went to the great Church, where finding their enterance to be
easie: they approached neere the Tombe, which was very great, being
tall of Marble, and the cover-stone weighty, yet with crowes of yron
and other helps, they raised it so high, that a man might without
perill passe into it. Now began they to question one another, which of
the three should enter into the Tombe. Not I, said the first; so
said the second: No nor I, answered Andrea. Which when the other two
heard, they caught fast hold of him, saying. Wilt not thou goe into
the Tombe? Be advised what thou sayest, for, if thou wilt not goe
in: we will so beat thee with one of these yron crowes, that thou
shalt never goe out of this Church alive.
  Thus poore Andrea is still made a property, and Fortune (this fatall
night) will have no other foole but he, as delighting in his hourly
disasters. Feare of their fury makes him obedient, into the grave he
goes, and being within, thus consults with himselfe. These cunning
companions suppose me to be simple, and make me enter the Tombe,
having an absolute intention to deceive me. For, when I have given
them all the riches that I finde here, and am ready to come forth
for mine equall portion: away will they runne for their owne safety,
and leaving me heere, not onely shall I loose my right among them, but
must remaine to what danger may follow after. Having thus meditated,
he resolved to make sure of his owne share first, and remembring the
rich Ring, whereof they had tolde him: forthwith hee tooke it from the
Archbishops finger, finding it indifferently fitte for his owne.
Afterward, hee tooke the Crosse, Miter, rich garments, Gloves and all,
leaving him nothing but his shirt, giving them all these severall
parcels, protesting that there was nothing else. Still they pressed
upon him, affirming that there was a Ring beside, urging him to search
diligently for it; yet still he answered, that he could not finde
it, and for their longer tarrying with him, seemed as if he serched
very carefully, but all appeared to no purpose.
  The other two fellowes, as cunning in craft as the third could be,
still willed him to search, and watching their aptest opportunity:
tooke away the proppes that supported the Tombe-stone, and running
thence with their got booty, left poore Andrea mewed up in the
grave. Which when he perceived, and saw this miserie to exceede all
the rest, it is farre easier for you to guesse at his greefe, then I
am any way, able to expresse it. His head, shoulders, yea all his
utmost strength he employeth, to remove that over-heavy hinderer of
his libertie: but all his labour beeing spent in vaine, sorrow threw
him in a swoond upon the Byshoppes dead body, where if both of them
might at that instant have bin observed, the Arch-byshops dead
bodie, and Andrea in greefe dying, very hardly had bene distinguished.
But his senses regaining their former offices, among his silent
complaints, consideration presented him with choyse of these two
unavoydable extremities: Dye starving must he in the Tombe with
putrifaction of the dead bodie; or if any man came to open the
Grave, then must he be apprehended as a sacrilegious Theefe, and so be
hanged, according to the Lawes in that case provided.
  As hee continued in these strange afflictions of minde, sodainely
hee heard a noise in the Church of divers men, who (as he imagined)
came about the like businesse, as hee and his fellowes had
undertaken before; wherein he was not a jot deceived, albeit his feare
the more augmented. Having opened the Tombe, and supported the
stone, they varied also among themselves for entrance, and an
indiffrent while contended about it. At length, a Priest being one
in the company, boldly said. Why how now you white-liver'd Rascals?
What are you affraid of? Do you thinke he will eate you? Dead men
cannot bite, and therefore I my selfe will go in. Having thus
spoken, he prepared his entrance to the tomb in such order, that he
thrust in his feete before, for his easier descending downe into it.
  Andrea sitting upright in the Tombe, and desiring to make use of
this happy opportunity, caught the Priest fast by one of his legges,
making shew as if he meant to dragge him downe. Which when the
Priest felt, he cryed out aloud, getting out with all the haste he
could make, and all his companions, being well-neere frighted out of
their wits, ranne away amaine, as if they had bene followed by a
thousand divels. Andrea little dreaming on such fortunate successe,
made meanes to get out of the grave, and afterward forth of the
Church, at the very same place where he entred.
  Now began day-light to appeare, when he (having the rich Ring on his
finger) wandred on hee knew not whether: till comming to the Sea side,
he found the way directing to his Inne, where al his company were with
his Host, who had bene verie carefull for him.
  Having related his manifold mischances, his Hoste friendly advised
him with speede to get him out of Naples. As instantly he did,
returning home to Perouse, having adventured his five hundred
Crownes on a Ring, wherewith hee purposed to have bought Horses,
according to the intent of his journey thither.
                  THE SECOND DAY, THE SIXT NOVELL

   HEEREIN ALL MEN ARE ADMONISHED, NEVER TO DISTRUST THE POWERFULL
              HAND OF HEAVEN, WHEN FORTUNE SEEMETH TO BE MOST
                       ADVERSE AGAINST THEM

  Madame Beritola Caracalla, was found in an Island with two Goates,
having lost her two Sonnes, and thence travailed into Lunigiana: where
one of her Sonnes became servant to the Lord thereof, and was found
somewhat overfamiliar with his Masters daughter, who therefore
caused him to be imprisoned. Afterward, when the country of Sicely
rebelled against King Charles, the aforesaid Sonne chanced to bee
knowne by his Mother, and was married to his Masters daughter. And his
Brother being found likewise, they both returned to great estate and
credit.

  The Ladies and Gentlemen also, having smiled sufficiently at the
severall accidents which did befall the poore Traveller Andrea,
reported at large by Madam Fiammetta, the Lady Aimillia seeing her
tale to be fully concluded, began (by commandement of the Queene) to
speak in this manner.
  The diversitie of changes and alterations in Fortune as they are
great, so must they needs be greevous; and as often as we take
occasion to talke of them, so often do they awake and quicken our
understandings, avouching, that it is no easie matter to depend upon
her flatteries. And I am of opinion, that to heare them recounted,
ought not any way to offend us, be it of men wretched, or fortunate;
because, as they instruct the one with good advice, so they animate
the other with comfort. And therefore, although great occasions have
beene already related, yet I purpose to tell a Tale, no lesse true
then lamentable; which albeit it sorted to a successefull ending,
yet notwithstanding, such and so many were the bitter thwartings, as
hardly can I beleeve, that ever any sorrow was more joyfully sweetned.
  You must understand then (most gracious Ladies) that after the death
of Fredericke the second Emperour, one named Manfred, was crowned King
of Sicily, about whom, lived in great account and authority, a
Neapolitane Gentleman, called Henriet Capece, who had to Wife a
beautifull Gentlewoman, and a Neapolitane also, named Madam Beritola
Caracalla. This Henriet held the government of the Kingdome of Sicily,
and understanding that King Charles the first, had wonne the battle at
Beneventum, and slaine King Manfred, the whole Kingdome revolting also
to his devotion, and little trust to be reposed in the Sicillians,
or he willing to subject himselfe to his Lordes enemie; provided for
his secret flight from thence. But this being discovered to the
Sicillians, he and many more, who had beene loyall servants to King
Manfred, were suddenly taken and imprisoned by King Charles, and the
sole possession of the Iland confirmed to him.
  Madam Beritola not knowing (in so sudden and strange an alteration
of State affaires) what was become of her Husband, fearing also
greatly before, those inconveniences which afterward followed; being
overcome with many passionate considerations, having left and forsaken
all her goods, going aboord a small Barke with a Sonne of hers, aged
about some eight yeeres, named Geoffrey, and growne great with child
with another, she fled thence to Lapary, where she was brought to
bed of another Sonne, whom she named (answerable both to his and her
hard fortune,) The poore expelled.
  Having provided her selfe of a Nurse, they altogether went aboard
againe, setting sayle for Naples to visit her Parents; but it
chanced quite contrary to her expectation, because by stormie windes
and weather, the vessell being bound for Naples, was hurried to the
Ile of Ponzo, where entring into a small Port of the Sea, they
concluded to make their aboade, till a time more furtherous should
favour their voyage.
  As the rest, so did Madam Beritola goe on shore in the Iland,
where having found a separate and solitary place, fit for her silent
and sad meditations, secretly by her selfe, shee sorrowed for the
absence of her husband. Resorting daily to this her sad exercise,
and continuing there her complaints, unseene by any of the
Marriners, or whosoever else: there arrived suddenly a Galley of
Pyrates, who seazing on the small Barke, carried it and all the rest
in it away with them. When Beritola had finished het wofull
complaints, as daily shee was accustomed to doe, shee returned backe
to her children againe; but find no person there remayning, whereat
she wondered not a little: immediately (suspecting what had happened
indeede) she lent her lookes on the Sea, and saw the Galley, which
as yet had not gone farre, drawing the smaller vessell after her.
Hereby plainly she perceyved, that now she had lost her children, as
formerly shee had done her husband; being left there poore,
forsaken, and miserable, not knowing when, where, or how to finde
any of them againe; and calling for her Husband and Children, shee
fell downe in a swound uppon the shore.
  Now was not any body neere, with coole water or any other remedy
to helpe the recovery of her lost powers; wherefore her spirits
might the more freely wander at their owne pleasure: but after they
were returned backe againe, and had won their wonted offices in her
body, drowned in teares, and wringing her hands, she did nothing but
call for her children and husband, straying all about in hope to finde
them, seeking in caves, dens, and every where else, that presented the
verie least glimpse of comfort. But when she saw all her paines sort
to no purpose, and darke night drawing swiftly on, hope and dismay
raising infinite perturbations, made her yet to be somewhat respective
of her selfe, and therefore departing from the sea-shore, she returned
to the solitary place, where she used to sigh and mourne alone by
her selfe.
  The night being over-past with infinite feares and afrights, and
bright day saluting the world againe, with the expence of nine
houres and more, she fell to her former fruitlesse travailes. Being
somewhat sharply bitten with hunger, because the former day and
night shee had not tasted any foode: shee made therefore a benefit
of necessity, and fed on the greene hearbes so well as she could,
not without any piercing afflictions, what should become of her in
this extraordinary misery. As shee walked in these pensive
meditations, she saw a Goate enter into a Cave, and (within a while
after) come forth againe, wandring along thorow the woods. Whereupon
she stayed, and entred where she saw the beast issue foorth, where she
found two young Kids, yeaned (as it seemed) the selfesame day, which
sight was very pleasing to her, and nothing in that distresse could
more content her.
  As yet, she had milke freshly running in both her brests, by
reason of her so late delivery in child bed; wherefore shee lay
downe unto the two yong Kids, and taking them tenderly in her armes,
suffered each of them to sucke a teate, whereof they made not any
refusall, but tooke them as lovingly as their dammes, and from that
time forward, they made no distinguishing betweene their damme and
her. Thus this unfortunate Lady, having found some company in this
solitary desart, fed on herbes and roots, drinking faire running
water, and weeping silently to her selfe, so often as she remembred
her husband, children, and former dayes past in much better manner.
Heere she resolved now to live and dye, being at last deprived both of
the damme and yonger Kids also, by theyr wandering further into the
neere adjoyning Woods, according to their naturall inclinations;
whereby the poore distressed Ladie became more savage and wilde in her
daily conditions, then otherwise shee would have bene.
  After many monthes were over-passed, at the very same place where
she tooke landing; by chance, there arrived another small vessell of
certaine Pisans, which remained there divers daies. In this Barke
was a Gentleman, named Conrado de Marchesi Malespini, with his holy
and vertuous wife, who were returned backe from a Pilgrimage, having
visited all the sanctified places that then were in the kingdome of
Apulia, and now were bound homeward to their owne abiding. This
Gentleman, for the expelling of melancholly perturbations, one
especiall day amongst other, with his wife, servants, and wainting
hounds, wandred up into the Iland not far from the place of Madam
Beritolaes desert dwelling. The hounds questing after game, at last
happened on the two Kids where they were feeding, and (by this time)
had attained to indifferent growth; and finding themselves thus
pursued by the hounds, fled to no other part of the wood, then to
the cave where Beritola remained, and seeming as if they sought to
be rescued only by her, she sodainly caught up a staffe, and forced
the hounds thence to flight.
  By this time, Conrado and his wife, who had followed closely after
the hounds, was come thither, and seeing what had hapned, looking on
the Lady, who was become blacke, swarthy, meager, and hairy, they
wondered not a little at her, and she a great deale more at them. When
(uppon her request) Conrado had checkt backe his hounds, they
prevailed so much by earnest intreaties, to know what she was, and the
reason of her living there; that she intirely related her quality,
unfortunate accidents, and strange determination for living there.
Which when the Gentleman had heard, who very well knew her husband,
compassion forced teares from his eyes, and earnestly he laboured by
kinde perswasions, to alter so cruell a deliberation; making an
honourable offer, for conducting her home to his owne dwelling,
where shee should remaine with him in noble respect, as if she were
his owne sister, without parting from him, till Fortune should smile
as fairely on her, as ever she had done before.
  When these gentle offers could not prevaile with her, the
Gentleman left his wife in her company, saying, that he would go fetch
some foode for her; and because her garments were all rent and
torne, hee would bring her other of his wives, not doubting but to
winne her thence with them. His wife abode there with Beritola,
verie much bemoaning her great disasters: and when both viands and
garments were brought, by extremitie of intercession, they caused
her to put them on, and also to feede with them, albeit shee
protested, that shee would not part thence into any place, where any
knowledge should be taken of her. In the end, they perswaded her to go
w-th them into Lunigiana, carrying also with her the two yong Goats
and their damme, which were then in the cave altogether, prettily
playing before Beritola, to the great admiration of Conrado and his
wife, as also the servants attending on them.
  When the windes and weather grew favourable for them, Madame
Beritola went aboord with Conrado and his Wife, being followed by
the two young Goates and their Damme; and because her name should
bee knowne to none but Conrado, and his wife onely, shee would be
stiled no otherwise but the Goatherdesse. Merrily, yet gently blew the
gale, which brought them to enter the River of Maira, where going on
shore, and into their owne Castle, Beritola kept company with the wife
of Conrado, but in a mourning habite; and a waiting Gentlewoman of
theirs, honest, humble, and very dutifull, the Goates alwayes
familiarly keeping them company.
  Returne wee now to the Pyrates, which at Ponzo seized on the small
Barke wherein Madame Beritola was brought thither, and carried
thence away, without any sight or knowledge of her. With such other
spoyles as they had taken, they shaped their course for Geneway, and
there (by consent of the Patrones of the Galley) made a division of
their booties. It came to passe, that (among other things) the Nurse
that attended on Beritola, and the two Children with her, fell to
the share of one Messer Gastarino d'Oria, who sent them together to
his owne House, there to be employed in service as Servants. The Nurse
weeping beyond measure for the losse of her Ladie, and bemoaning her
owne miserable Fortune, whereinto shee was now fallen with the two
young Laddes; after long lamenting, which shee found utterly
fruitlesse and to none effect, though she was used as a servant with
them, and being but a very poore woman, yet was shee wise and
discreetly advised. Wherefore, comforting both her selfe and them so
well as she could, and considering the depth of their disaster, shee
conceited thus, that if the Children should be knowne, it might
redound to their greater danger, and shee be no way advantaged
thereby.
  Hereupon, hoping that Fortune (earely or late) would alter her
stearne malice, and that they might (if they lived) regaine once
more their former condition, shee would not disclose them to any one
whatsoever, till shee should see the time aptly disposed for THE
SECOND DAY, THE SIXT 75
  it. Being thus determined, to all such as questioned her
concerning them, she answered that they were her owne Children, naming
the eldest not Geoffrey, but Jehannot de Procida. As for the
yongest, shee cared not greatly for changing his name, and therefore
wisely informed Geoffrey, upon what reason shee had altered his
name, and what danger he might fall into, if he should otherwise be
discovered; being not satisfied with thus telling him once, but
remembring him thereof verie often, which the gentle youth (being so
well instructed by the wise and carefull Nurse) did very warily
observe.
  The two young Laddes, verie poorely garmented, but much worse
hosed and shodde, continued thus in the house of Gasparino, where both
they and the Nurse were long time employed about verie base and
drudging Offices, which yet they endured with admirable patience.
But Jehannot, aged already about sixteene yeeres, having a loftier
spirit, then belonged to a slavish servant, despising the basenesse of
his servile condition; departed from the drudgery of Messer Gasparino,
and going aboord the Gallies which were bound for Alexandria, fortuned
into many places, yet none of them affoording him any advancement.
In the end, about three or foure yeeres after his departure from
Gasparino, being now a brave yong man, and of very goodly forme: he
understood, that his father (whom he supposed to be dead) was as yet
living, but in captivity, and prisoner to King Charles. Wherefore,
despairing of any successefull fortune, he wandred here and there,
till he came to Lunigiana, and there (by strange accident) he became
servant to Messer Conrado Malespino, where the service proved well
liking to them both.
  Very sildome times hee had a sight of his Mother, because shee
alwayes kept company with Conradoes wife; and yet when they came
within view of each other, shee knew not him, nor he her, so much
yeres had altred them both from what they were wont to be, and when
they saw each other last. Jehannot being thus in the service of Messer
Conrado, it fortuned that a daughter of his, named Sophia, being the
widdow of one Messer Nicolas Grignam, returned home to her Fathers
house. Very beautifull and amiable she was, young likewise, aged but
little above sixteene; growing wonderously amorous of Jehannot, and he
of her, in extraordinary and most fervent manner: which love was not
long without full effect, continuing many moneths before any person
could perceyve it: which making them to build on the more assurance,
they began to carry their meanes with lesse discretion then is
required in such nice cases, and which cannot be too providently
managed.
  Upon a day, he and she walking to a goodly Wood, plentifully
furnished with spreading Trees: having out gone the rest of their
company, they made choise of a pleasant place, very daintily shaded
and beautified with all sorts of flowers. There they spent some time
in amorous talking, beside some other sweete embraces, which though it
seemed over-short to them, yet was it so unadvisedly prolonged, that
they were on a sodain surprized, first by the mother, and next by
Messer Conrado himselfe; who greeving beyond measure, to be thus
treacherously dealt withall, caused them to be apprehended by three of
his servants; and (without telling them any reason why) led bound to
another Castle of his, and fretting with extremity rage, concluded
in his minde, that they should both shamefully be put to death.
  The Mother unto this regardlesse daughter, having heard the angrie
wordes of her Husband, and how hee would be revenged on the faulty;
could not endure that he should be so severe: wherefore, although shee
was likewise much afflicted in minde, and reputed her Daughter
worthy (for so great an offence) of all cruell punnishment, yet she
hasted to her displeased husband, and began to entreate, that hee
would not runne on in such a furious spleene, now in his aged yeeres
to be the murtherer of his owne childe, and soile his hands in the
blood of his servant. Rather he might finde out some milde course
for the satisfaction of his anger, by committing them to close
imprisonment, there to remaine and mourne for their folly committed.
The vertuous and religious Lady alledged so many commendable examples,
and used such plenty of moving perswasions, that she quite altred
his minde from putting them to death, and hee commanded onely, that
they should separately be imprisoned, with little store of food, and
lodging of the uneasiest, untill he should otherwise determine of
them; and so it was done. What their life now was in captivity and
continuall teares, with stricter abstinence then was needefull for
them, all this I must commit to your consideration. Jehannot and Spina
remaining in this comfortlesse condition, and an whole yeere being now
out-worne, yet Conrado keeping them thus still imprisoned: it came
to passe, that Don Pedro King of Arragon, by the meanes of Messer John
de Procida, caused the Isle of Sicily to revolt, and tooke it away
from King Charles; whereat Conrado (he being of the Ghibbiline
faction) not a little rejoyced. Jehannot having intelligence
thereof, by some of them that had him in custody, breathing foorth a
vehement sighe, spake in this manner. Alas poore miserable wretch as I
am! that have already gone begging thorough the world above foureteene
yeeres, in expectation of nothing else but this opportunity; and now
it is come, must I be in prison, to the end, that I should never
more hope for any future happinesse? And how can I get forth of this
prison, except it bee by death onely? How now, replyed the Officer
of the Guard? What doth this businesse of great Kings concerne thee?
What affayres hast thou in Sicily?
  Once more Jehannot sighed extreamly, and returned him this answer.
Me thinkes my heart (quoth hee) doeth cleave in sunder, when I call to
minde the charge which my Father had there; for although I was but a
little boy when I fled thence, yet I can well remember, that I saw him
Governor there, at such time as King Manfred lived. The Guard,
pursuing on still his purpose, demanded of him, what and who his
Father was? My Father (replied Jehannot?) I may now securely speake of
him, being out of the perill which neerely concerned me if I had beene
discovered: he was the named (and so still if he be living) henriet
Capece, and my name is Geoffrey, and not Jehannot; and I make no
doubt, but if I were freed from hence, and might returned home to
Sicily, I should (for his sake) be placed in some authority.
  The honest man of the Guard, without seeking after any further
information; so soone as he could compasse any leysure, reported all
to Messer Conrado, who having heard these newes (albeit he made no
shew thereof to the revealer) went to Madam Beritola, graciously
demaunding of her, if she had any sonne by her husband, who was called
Geoffrey. The Lady replyed in teares, that if her eldest sonne were as
yet living, he was so named, and now aged about two and twenty yeeres.
Conrado hearing this, imagined this same to be the man; considering
further withall, that if it fell out to prove so, hee might have the
better meanes of mercie, and closely concealing his daughters shame,
joyfully joyne them in marriage together.
  Hereupon, he secretly called Jehannot before him, examining him
particularly of all his passed life, and finding (by most manifest
arguments) that his name was truly Geoffrey, and the eldest son of
Henriet Capece, he spake thus to him. Jehannot, thou knowest how great
the injuries are that thou hast done me, and my deere daughter; gently
intreating thee (as became an honest servant) that thou shouldest
alwayes have bene respective of mine honor, and all that appertaine
unto me. There are many noble Gentlemen, who sustaining the wrong
which thou hast offred me, they would have procured thy shamefull
death, which pitty and compassion will not suffer in me. Wherefore
seeing (as thou informest me) that thou art honourably derived both by
father and mother, I will give end to all thy anguishes, even when thy
selfe art so pleased, releasing thee from that captivity wherein I
have so long kept thee, and in one instant, reduce thine honor and
mine into compleat perfection. As thou knowest my daughter Spina, whom
thou hast embraced as a friend (although far unfitting for thee, or
her) is a widdow, and her marriage is both great and good; what her
manners and conditions are, thou indifferently knowest, and art not
ignorant of her father and mother: concerning thine owne estate, as
now I purpose not to speake any thing. Therefore, when thou wilt, I am
determined, that whereas thou hast immodestly affected her, she
shall become thy honest wife, and accepting thee as my sonne, to
remaine with me so long as you both please.
  Imprisonment had somwhat mishapen Jehannot in his outward forme, but
not impaired a jot of his noble spirit; much lesse the true love which
he bare his friend. And although most earnestly he desired that
which now Conrado had so frankly offered him, and was in his power
onely to bestow on him; yet could he not cloud any part of his
greatnes, but with a resolved judgement, thus replied. My Lord,
affectation of rule, desire of welthy possessions, or any other matter
whatsoever could never make me a traitor to you or yours; but that I
have loved, do love, and for ever shal love your beauteous daughter:
if that be treason, I do free confesse it, and will die a thousand
deaths before you or any else shall enforce me to deny it, for I
hold her highly worthy of my love. If I have bin more unmannerly
with her then became me, I have committed but that error, which
evermore is so attendant uppon youth; that to deny, is to denie
youth also. And if reverend age would but remember, that once he was
young and measure others offences by his owne, they would not be
thoght so great, as you (and many more) account them to be, mine being
committed as a friend, and not as an enemy. What you make offer of
so willingly, I have alwayes desired; and if I had thought it would
have beene granted, long since I had most humbly requested it: and
so much the more acceptable would it have bin to me, by how much the
further off it stood from my hopes. But if you bee so forward as
your words doe witnesse, then feed me not with any further
fruitlesse expectation; but rather send me backe to prison, and lay as
many afflictions on me as you please. For my endeered love to your
daughter Spina, maketh mee to love you the more for her sake, how
hardly soever you intreat me; and bindeth me in the greater
reverence to you, as being the Father of my fairest friend.
  Messer Conrado hearing these words, stood as one confounded with
admiration, reputing him to be a man of loftie spirit, and his
affection most fervent to his Daughter, which was not a little to
his liking. Wherefore, embracing him, and kissing his cheeke,
without any longer dallying, hee sent in like manner for his Daughter.
Her restraint in prison, had made her lookes meager, pale, and
wanne, and very weake was she also of her person, faire differing from
the Woman she was wont to be, before be, before her affection to
Jehannot. There in presence of her Father, and with free consent of
either, they were contracted as man and wife, and the espousals agreed
on according to custome. Some few dayes after, (without any ones
knowledge of that which was done) having furnished them with all
things fit for the purpose, and time aptly serving, that the Mothers
should be partakers in this joy; he called his wife, and Madam
Beritola, to whom first he spake in this manner.
  What will you say Madame, if I cause you to see your eldest Son, not
long since married to one of my daughters? Whereunto Beritola thus
replied. My Lord, I can say nothing else unto you, but that I shal
be much more obliged to you, then already I am; and the rather,
because you will let me see the thing which is deerer then mine owne
life; and rendering it unto me in such manner as you speake of, you
will recall backe some part of my former lost hopes: and with these
words, the teares streamed aboundantly from her eyes. Then turning
to his wife, he said: And you deere Love, if I shew you such a Son
in law, what will you thinke of it? Sir (quoth she) what pleaseth you,
must and shall satisfie me, be he gentleman or beggar. Well said
Madam, answered Messer Conrado, I hope shortly, to make you both
joyfull. So when the amorous couple had recovered their former
feature, and honorable garments prepared for them, privately thus he
said to Geoffrey; Beyond the joy which already thou art inriched
withall, how would it please thee to meete thine owne Mother here? I
cannot beleeve Sir (replied Geoffrey) that her greevous misfortunes
have suffered her to live so long; and yet, if heaven hath bin so
mercifull to her, my joyes were incomparable, for by her gracious
counsel, I might well hope to recover no meane happines in Sicily.
Soone after, both the mothers were sent for, who were transported with
unspeakable joy, when they beheld the so lately married couple:
being much amazed what inspiration had guided Messer Conrado to this
extraordinary benignity, in joyning Jehannot in marriage with Spina.
 Hereupon, Madam Beritola remembring the speeches betweene her and
Messer Conrado, began to observe him very advisedly; and by a hidden
vertue which long had silently slept in her, and now with joy of
spirit awaked, calling to mind the lineatures of her sonnes infancy,
without awaiting for any other demonstration, she folded him in her
armes with earnest affection. Motherly joy and pity now contended so
violently togither, that she was not able to utter one word, the
sensitive vertues being so closely combined, that (even as dead) she
fell downe in the armes of her Son. And he wondering greatly
thereat, making a better recollection of his thoughts, did well
remember, that hee had often before seene her in the Castle, without
any other knowledge of her. Neverthelesse, by meere instinct of
Nature, whose power in such actions declares it selfe to be highly
predominant; his very soule assured him, that she was his Mother,
and blaming his understanding, that he had not before bene better
advised, he threw his armes about her, and wept exceedingly.
  Afterward, by the loving paines of Conradoes wife, as also her
daughter Spina, Madam Beritola (being recovered from her passionate
traunce, and her vitall spirits executing their Offices againe) fell
once more to the embracing of her Sonne, kissing him infinite times,
with teares and speeches of motherly kindnesse, he likewise expressing
the same dutifull humanity to her. Which ceremonious courtesies
being passed over and over, to no little joy in all the beholders,
beside repetition of their severall misfortunes, Messer Conrado made
all knowne to his friends, who were very glad of this new alliance
made by him, which was honoured with many solemne feastings. Which
being all concluded, Geoffrey having found out fit place and
opportunity, for conference with his new created Father, without any
sinister opposition, began as followeth.
  Honourable Father, you have raised my contentment to the highest
degree, and have heaped also many gracious favours on my Noble Mother;
but now in the finall conclusion, that nothing may remaine uneffected,
which consisteth in your power to performe: I would humbly entreate
you, to honour my Mother with your company, at a Feast of my making,
where I would gladly also have my Brother present. Messer Gasparino
d'Oria (as I have heretofore told you) questing as a common Pyrat on
the Seas, tooke us and sent us home to his house as slaves, where
(as yet) he detaineth him. I would likewise have you send into Sicily,
who informing himselfe more amply in the state of the Countrey, may
understand what is become of Henriet my Father, and whether he be
living or no. If he be alive, then to know in what condition he is;
and being secretly instructed in all things, then to returne backe
againe to you.
  This motion made by Geoffrey, was so pleasing to Conrado, that
without any reference to further leysure, hee dispatched thence two
discreete persons, the one to Geneway, and the other to Sicily: he
which went for Geneway, having met with Gasparino, earnestly entreated
him (on the behalfe of Conrado) to send him the Poore expelled; and
his Nurse recounting every thing in order, which Conrado had tolde
him, concerning Geoffrey and his mother. When Gasparino had heard
the whole discourse, he marvelled greatly thereat, and saide; True
it is, that I will doe any thing for Messer Conrado, which may bee
to his love and liking, provided, that it lye in my power to performe;
and (about some foureteene yeeres since) I brought such a Lad as you
seeke for, with his mother, home to my house, whom I will gladly
send unto him. But you may tell him from me, that I advise him from
over-rash crediting the Fables of Jehannot, that now termes himselfe
by the name of Geoffrey, because he is a more wicked boy then he
taketh him to be, and so did I finde him.
  Having thus spoken, and giving kinde welcome to the Messenger,
secretly he called the Nurse unto him, whom hee heedfully examined
concerning this case. She having heard the rebellion in the Kingdome
of Sicily; and understanding withall that Henriet was yet living,
joyfully threw off all her former feare, relating every thing to him
orderly, and the reasons moving her to conceale the whole businesse in
such manner as shee had done. Gasparino well perceiving, that the
report of the Nurse, and the message received from Conrado, varied not
in any one circumstance, began the better to credit her words. And
being a man most ingenious, making further inquisition into the
businesse, by all the possible meanes hee could devise; and finding
every thing to yeeld undoubted assurance, ashamed of the vile and base
usage wherein he had so long time kept the Lad, and desiring (by his
best meanes) to make him amends, he had a beautifull daughter, aged
about thirteene yeares, and knowing what manner of man he was, his
Father Henriet also yet living, he gave her to him in marriage, with a
very bountifull and honourable dowry.
  The joviall dayes of feasting being past, he went aboord a Galley
with the Poore expelled, his Daughter, the Ambassador, and the
Nurse, departing thence to Lericy, where they were nobly welcommed
by Messer Conrado, and his Castle being not farre from thence, with an
honourable traine they were conducted thither, and entertained with
all possible kindnesse. Now concerning the comfort of the Mother,
meeting so happily with both her sonnes, the joy of the brethren and
mother together, having also found the faithful Nurse, Gasparino and
his daughter, in company now with Conrado and his wife, friends,
familiars, and all generally in a jubilee of rejoycing: it exceedeth
capacity in mee to expresse it, and therefore I referre it to your
more able imagination.
  In the time of this mutuall contentment, to the end that nothing
might be wanting to compleat and perfect this universall joy; our
Lord, a most abundant bestower where he beginneth, added long wished
tydings concerning the life and good estate of Henry Capece. For, even
as they were feasting, and the concourse great of worthy guests,
both Lords and Ladies; the first service was scarsely set on the
Tables, but the Ambassador which was sent to Sicily, arrived there
before them. Among many other important matters, he spake of
Henriet, who being so long a time detained in prison by King
Charles, when the commotion arose in the Citty against the King; the
people (grudging at Henriets long imprisonment) slew the Guards, and
set him at liberty. Then as capitall enemie to King Charles, hee was
created Captaine Generall, following the chase, and killing the
French.
  Now by this meanes, he grew great in the grace of King Pedro, who
replanted him in all the goods and honours which he had before, with
verie high and eminent authority. Hereunto the Ambassador added,
that hee was entertayned with extraordinary grace, and delivery of
publike joy and exaltation, when his Wife and Sonne were knowne to
be living, of whom no tydings had at any time bene heard, since the
houre of his surprizall. Moreover, that a swift winged Bark was now
sent thither (upon the happy hearing of this newes) well furnished
with noble Gentlemen, to attend till their returning backe. We neede
to make no doubt concerning the tydings brought by this Ambassadour,
nor of the Gentlemens welcome, thus sent to Madame Beritola and
Geoffrey; who before they would sit downe at the Table, saluted Messer
Conrado and his kinde Lady (on the behalfe of Henriet) for all the
great graces extended to her and her Sonne, with promise of any thing,
lying in the power of Henriet, to rest continually at their command.
The like they did to Signior Gasparino (whose liberall favours came
unlooked for) with certaine assurance, that when Henriet should
understand what he had done for his other Sonne, the Poore expelled,
there would be no defaylance of reciprocall courtesies.
  As the longest joyes have no perpetuity of lasting, so all these
graceful ceremonies had their conclusion, with as many sighes and
teares at parting, as joyes abounded at their first encountring.
Imagine then, that you see such aboord, as were to have here no longer
abiding, Madam Beritola and Geoffrey, with the rest; as the Poore
expelled, the so late married Wives, and the faithfull Nurse bearing
them company. With prosperous windes they arrived in Sicily, where the
Wife, Sonnes, and Daughters, were joyfully met by Henriet at
Palermo, and with such honourable pompe, as a case so important
equally deserved. The Histories make further mention, that there
they lived (a long while after) in much felicitie, with thankfull
hearts (no doubt) in Heaven, in acknowledgement of so many great
mercies received.
                   THE SECOND DAY, THE SEVENTH NOVELL

   A LIVELY DEMONSTRATION, THAT THE BEAUTY OF A WOMAN (OFTENTIMES)
            IS VERY HURTFULL TO HER SELFE, AND THE OCCASION
            OF MANY EVILS, YEA, AND OF DEATH, TO DIVERS MEN

  The Soldan of Babylon sent one of his Daughters, to be joyned in
marriage with the King of Cholcos, who by divers accidents (in the
space of foure yeeres) happened into the custodie of nine men, and
in sundry places. At length, being restored backe to her Father, she
went to the saide King of Cholcos, as a Maid, and as at first she
was intended to be his wife.

  Peradventure the Novell related by Madam Aemillia, did not extend it
selfe so farre in length, as it mooved compassion in the Ladies
mindes, the hard fortunes of Beritol and her Children, which had
incited them to weeping: but that it pleased the Queen (upon the Tales
conclusion) to command Pamphilus, to follow next in order with his
Discourse; and he being thereto very obedient, began in this manner.
  It is a matter of no meane difficulty (vertuous Ladies) for us to
take intire knowledge of every thing we doe, because (as oftentimes
hath bene observed) many men, imagining if they were rich, they should
live securely, and without any cares. And therefore, not onely have
theyr prayers and intercessions aimed at that end, but also their
studies and daily endevours, without refusall of any paines or
perils have not meanely expressed their hourely solicitude. And
although it hath happened accordingly to them, and their covetous
desires fully accomplished; yet at length they have mette with such
kinde people, who likewise thirsting after their wealthy
possessions, have bereft them of life, being their kinde and
intimate friends, before they attained to such riches. Some other,
being of lowe and base condition, by adventuring in many skirmishes
and foughten battels, trampling in the bloud of their brethren and
friends, have bene mounted to the soveraigne dignity of Kingdomes
(beleeving that therein consisted the truest happinesse) but bought
with the deerest price of their lives. For, beside their infinit cares
and feares wherewith such greatnesse is continually attended, at the
royall Tables, they have drunke poyson in a Golden pot. Many other
in like manner (with most earnest appetite) have coveted beauty and
bodily strength, not foreseeing with any judgement, that these
wishes were not without perill; when being endued with them, they
either have bene the occasion of their death, or such a lingering
lamentable estate of life, as death were a thousand times more welcome
to them.
  But, because I would not speake particularly of all our fraile and
humane affections, I dare assure ye, that there is not any one of
these desires to be elected among us mortals, with entire forsight
or providence, warrantable against their ominous yssue. Wherefore,
if we would walke directly, wee should dispose our willes and
affections, to be guided onely by him, who best knoweth what is
needfull for us, and will bestow them at his good pleasure. Nor let me
lay this blamefull imputation uppon men onely, for offending in many
through over lavish desires: because you your selves (gracious Ladies)
sinne highly in one, as namely, in coveting to be beautifull. So
that it is not sufficient for you, to enjoy those beauties bestowne on
you by Nature; but you practice to increase them by the rarities of
Art. Wherefore, let it not offend you, that I tell you the hard
fortune of a faire Sarazine, to whom it hapned by straunge adventures,
that within the compasse of foure yeares, nine severall times to be
married. and onely for her beauty.
  It is now a long time since, that there lived Soldane in Babylon,
named Beminidab, to whom (while he lived) many things happened,
answerable to his owne desires. Among divers other Children both
male and female, hee had a daughter called Alathiella, and shee
(according to the common voyce of every one that saw her) was the
fayrest Lady then living in all the world. And because the King of
Cholcos had wonderfully assisted him, in a most valiant foughten
battell against a mighty Armie of Arabians, who on a sodaine had
assailed him; he demanded his faire daughter in marriage, which
likewise was kindly granted to him. Whereupon a goodly and
well-armed Ship was prepared for her, with full furnishment of all
necessary provision, and accompanied with an honourable traine both of
Lords and Ladies, as also most costly and sumptuous accoustrements;
commending her to the mercy of heaven, in this maner was she sent
away.
  The time being propitious for their parting thence, the Mariners
hoised their sayles, leaving the port of Alexandria, and sayling
prosperously many dayes together. When they had past the Countrey of
Sardinia, and (as they imagined) were well neere to their journeyes
end; sodainely arose boysterous and contrary windes, which were so
impetuous beyond all measure, and so tormented the Ship wherein the
Lady was; that the Mariners seeing no signe of comfort, gave over
all hope of escaping with life. Neverthelesse, as men most expert in
implacable dangers, they laboured to their uttermost power, and
contended with infinite blustring tempests, for the space of two dayes
and nights together, hoping the third day would prove more favourable.
But therein they saw themselves deceyved, for the violence continued
still, encreasing in the night time more and more, being not any way
able to comprehend either where they were, or what course they
tooke, neither by Marinall judgement, or any apprehension else
whatsoever, the heavens were so clouded, and the nights darkenesse
so extreame.
 Beeing (unknowne to them) neere the Isle of Majorica, they felt the
Shippe to split in the bottome: by meanes whereof, perceiving now no
hope of escaping (every one caring for himselfe, and not any other)
they threw foorth a Squiffe on the troubled waves, reposing more
confidence of safety that way, then abiding any longer in the broken
ship. Howbeit such as were first descended downe, made stout
resistance against all other followers, with their drawne weapons: but
safety of life so far prevayled, that what with the Tempests violence,
and over lading of the Squiffe, it sunke to the bottome, and all
perished that were therein. The Ship being thus split, and more then
halfe full of water, tossed and tormented by the blustring windes,
first one way, and then another: was at last driven into a strond of
the Isle Majorica, no other persons therein remaining, but onely the
Lady and her women, all of them (through the rude tempest, and their
owne conceived feare) lying still, as if they were more then halfe
dead. And there, within a stones cast of the neighboring shore the
ship (by the rough surging billowes) was fixed fast in the sands,
and so continued all the rest of the night, without any further
molestation of the windes.
  When day appeared, and the violent stormes were more mildly appeased
the Ladie, who seemed well-neere dead, lifted up her head, and began
(weake as she was) to call first one, and then another: but shee
called in vaine, for such as she named were farre enough from her.
Wherefore, hearing no answere, nor seeing any one, she wondred
greatly, her feares encreasing then more and more. Raising her selfe
so well as shee could, she beheld the Ladies that were of her company,
and some other of her women, lying still without any stirring:
whereupon, first jogging one, and then another, and calling them
severally by their names; shee found them bereft of understanding, and
even as if they were dead, their hearts were so quayled, and their
feare so over-ruling, which was no meane dismay to the poore Lady
her selfe. Neverthelesse, necessity now being her best counsellor,
seeing her selfe thus all alone, and not knowing in what place shee
was, shee used such meanes to them that were living, that (at the
last) they came to better knowledge of themselves. And being unable to
guesse, what was become of the men and Marriners, seeing the Ship also
driven on the sands, and filled with water, she began with them to
lament most greevously: and now it was about the houre of mid day,
before they could descry any person on the shore, or any els to pity
them in so urgent a necessity.
  At length, noone being past, a Gentleman named Bajazeth, attended by
divers of his followers on horsebacke, and returning from a Countrie
house belonging to him, chanced to ride by on the sands. Uppon sight
of the Ship lying in that case, he imagined truely what had hapned,
and commanded one of his men to enter aboord it, which (with some
difficultie) hee did, to resolve his Lord what remained therein. There
hee found the faire yong Lady, with such small store of company as was
left her, fearefully hidden under the prow of the Ship. So soone as
they saw him, they held up their hands, wofully desiring mercy of him:
but he perceiving their lamentable condition, and that hee understoode
not what they saide to him, their affliction grew the greater,
labouring by signes and gestures, to give him knowledge of their
misfortune.
  The servant gathering what he could by their outward behaviour,
declared to his Lord what hee had seene in the Ship; who caused the
Women to be brought on shore, and all the precious things remaining
with them; conducting them with him to a place not far off, where with
food and warmth he gave them comfort. By the rich garments which the
Lady was cloathed withall, he reputed her to be a Gentlewoman well
derived, as the great reverence done to her by the rest, gave him good
reason to conceive. And although her lookes were pale and wan, as also
her person mightily altered, by the tempestuous violence of the Sea:
yet notwithstanding, she appeared faire and lovely in the eye of
Bajazeth, whereupon forthwith he determined, that if she were not
married, hee would enjoy her as his owne in marriage: or if he could
not winne her to bee his wife, yet (at the least) shee should be his
friend, because she remained now in his power.
  Bajazeth was a man of stearne lookes, rough and harsh both in speech
and behaviour; yet causing the Lady to be honourably used divers dayes
together, shee became thereby well comforted and recovered. And seeing
her beautie to exceede all comparison, he was afflicted beyond
measure, that he could not understand her, nor she him, whereby hee
could not know of whence or what she was. His amorous flames
encreasing more and more; by kinde, courteous, and affable actions, he
laboured to compasse what he aymed at. But all his endeavour proved to
no purpose, for she refused all familiar privacie with him, which so
much the more kindled the fury of his fire. This being well observed
by the Lady, having now remained there a moneth and more, and
collecting by the customes of the Countrey, that she was among Turkes;
and in such a place, where although she were knowne, yet it would
little advantage her; beside, that long protraction of time would
provoke Bajazeth by faire meanes or force to obtaine his will: she
propounded to her selfe (with magnanimity of spirit) to tread all
misfortunes under her feete, commanding her Women (whereof shee had
but three now remaining alive) that they should not disclose what
she was, except it were in some such place, where manifest signes
might yeeld hope of regaining their liberty. Moreover, she
admonished them stoutly to defend their honour and chastity;
affirming, that she had absolutely resolved with her selfe, that never
any other shou enjoy her, but her intended husband: wherein her
women did much commend her, promising to preserve their reputation,
according as shee had commanded.
  Day by day, were the torments of Bajazeth wonderfully augmented, yet
still his kinde offers scornefully refused, and he as farre off from
compassing his desires, as when he first beganne to moove the
matter: wherefore, perceiving that all faire courses served to no
effect, hee resolved to compasse his purpose by craft and subtilty,
reserving rigorous extremitie for his finall conclusion. And having
once observed, that wine was verie pleasing to the Lady, she being
never used to drinke any at all, because (by her Countries Law) it was
forbidden her: and no meane store having beene lately brought to
Bajazeth in a Barke of Geneway: hee resolved to surprize her by meanes
thereof, as a cheefe minister of Venus, to heate the coolest blood.
And seeming now in his outward behaviour, as if hee had given over his
amorous pursuite, and which she strove by all her best endeavours to
withstand: one night, after a very majesticke and solemne manner,
hee prepared a delicate and sumptuous supper, whereto the Lady was
invited: and hee had given order, that hee who attended on her Cup,
should serve her with many Wines compounded and mingled together;
which hee accordingly performed, as being cunning enough in such
occasions.
  Alathiella mistrusting no such trechery intended against her, and
liking the Wines pleasing taste extraordinarily, dranke more then
stoode with her precedent modest resolution, and forgetting all her
passed adversities, became very frolicke and merry: so that seeing
some women dance after the manner observed there in Majorica, she also
fell to dauncing according to the Alexandrian custome. Which when
Bajazeth beheld, he imagined the victory to be more then halfe
wonne, and his hearts desire verie neere the obtaining: plying her
still with wine upon wine, and continuing this revelling the most part
of the night.
  At the length, the invited guests being all gone, the Lady retyred
then to her chamber, attended on by none but Bajazeth himselfe, and as
familiarly as if he had bene one of her women, shee no way
contradicting his bold intrusion, so farre had wine over-gone her
sences, and prevailed against all modest bashfulnesse. These wanton
embracings, strange to her that had never tasted them before, yet
pleasing beyond measure, by reason of his treacherous advantage;
afterward drew on many more of the ike carowsing meetings, without
so much as thought of her passed miseries, or those more honourable
and chaste respects, that ever ought to attend on Ladies.
  Now, Fortune envying thus their stollen pleasures, and that shee,
being the purposed wife of a potent King, should thus become the
wanton friend of a much mean man, whose onely glory was her shame;
altered the course of their too common pastimes, by preparing a
farre greater infelicity for them. This Bajazeth had a Brother, aged
about five and twenty yeeres, of most compleate person, in the very
beauty of his time, and fresh as the sweetest smelling Rose, he
being named Amurath. After he had once seene this Ladie (whose faire
feature pleased him beyond all womens else) shee seemed in his sodaine
apprehension, both by her outward behaviour and civill apparancie,
highly to deserve his verie best opinion, for she was not meanely
entred into his favour. Now hee found nothing to his hinderance, in
obtaining the heighth of his hearts desire, but onely the strict
custodie and guard, wherein his brother Bajazeth kept her: which
raised a cruell conceite in his minde, wherein followed (not long
after) as cruell an effect.
  It came to passe, that at the same time; in the Port of the
Cittie, called Caffa, there lay then a Ship laden with Merchandize,
being bound thence for Smyrna, of which Ship two Geneway Merchants
(being brethren) were the Patrons and Owners, who had given
direction for hoysing the sailes to depart thence when the winde
should serve. With these two Genewayes Amurath had covenanted, for
himselfe to goe aboord the ship the night ensuing, and the Lady in his
company. When night was come, having resolved with himselfe what was
to be done: in a disguised habite hee went to the house of Bajazeth,
who stood not any way doubtfull of him, and with certaine of his
most faithfull Confederates (whom he had sworne to the intended
action) they hid themselves closely in the house. After some part of
the night was over-past, he knowing the severall lodgings both of
Bajazeth and Alathiella, slew his brother soundly sleeping; and
seizing on the Lady, whom he found awake and weeping, threatned to
kill her also, if she made any noyse. So, being well furnished with
the greater part of worldly jewels belonging to Bajazeth, unheard or
undescried by any body, they went presently to the Port, and there
(without any further delay) Amurath and the Lady were received into
the Ship, but his companions returned backe againe; when the Mariners,
having their sailes ready set, and the winde aptly fitting for them,
lanched forth merrily into the maine.
  You may well imagine, that the Ladie was extraordinarily afflicted
with greefe for her first misfortune; and now this second chancing
so sodainely, must needs offend her in greater manner: but Amurath did
so kindely comfort her with milde, modest, and manly perswasions, that
all remembrance of Bajazeth was quickely forgotten, and shee became
converted to lovely demeanor, even when Fortune prepared a fresh
miserie for her, as not satisfied with those whereof shee had tasted
already. The Lady being unequalled for beauty (as I said before) her
behaviour also in such exquisit and commendable kinde expressed; the
two Brethren owners of the Ship, became so deeply enamored of her,
that forgetting all their more serious affaires, they studied by all
possible meanes, to be pleasing and gracious in her eye, yet with such
a carefull carriage, that Amurath should neither see, or suspect it.
  When the Brethren had imparted their loves extreamity each to the
other, and plainely perceyved, that though they were equally in
their fiery torments, yet their desires were utterly contrary: they
began severally to consider, that gaine gotten by Mirchandize,
admitted an equall and honest division, but this purchase was of a
different quality, pleading the title of a sole possession, without
any partner or intruder. Fearefull and jealous were they both, least
either should ayme at the others intention, yet willing enough to
shake hands, in ridding Amurath out of the way, who onely was the
hinderer of their hopes, Whereupon they concluded together, that on
a day when the Ship sayled on very swiftly, and Amurath was sitting
upon the Decke, studiously observing how the Billowes combatted each
with other, and not suspecting any such treason in them towards him:
stealing softly behinde him, sodainely they threw him into the Sea,
the shippe floating on above halfe a Leagues distance, before any
perceived his fall into the Sea. When the Ladie heard thereof, and saw
no likely meanes of recovering him againe, she fell to her wonted
teares and lamentations: but the two Lovers came quickely to comfort
her, using kinde words and pithy perswasions (albeit she understood
them not, or at the most very little) to appease the violence of her
passions; and, to speak uprightly, she did not so much emoane the
losse of Amurath, as the multiplying of her owne misfortunes, still
one succeeding in the necke of another. After divers long and well
delivered Orations, as also very faire and courteous behaviour, they
had indifferently pacified her complainings: they beganne to discourse
and commune with themselves, which of them had most right and title to
Alathiella, and consequently ought to enjoy her. Now that Amurath
was gone, each pleaded his priviledge to bee as good as the others,
both in the Ship, Goods, and all advantages else whatsoever happening:
which the elder brother absolutely denied, alleadging first his
propriety of birth, a reason sufficient, whereby his younger ought
to give him place: Likewise, his right and interest both in the ship
and goods, to be more then the others, as being heire to his father,
and therefore in justice to be highest preferred. Last of all, that
his strength onely threw Amurath into the Sea, and therefore gave
him the full possession of his prize, no right at all remaining to his
brother.
  From temperate and calme speeches, they fell to frownes and ruder
Language, which heated their blood in such violent manner, that
forgetting brotherly affection, and all respect of Parents or Friends,
they drew forth their Ponyards, stabbing each other so often and
desperately, that before any in the shippe had the power or meanes
to part them, both of them being very dangerously wounded, the younger
brother fell downe dead: the elder being in little better case, by
receiving so many perilous hurts, remained (neverthelesse) living.
This unhappy accident displeased the Lady very highly, seeing her
selfe thus left alone, without the help or counsell of any bodie;
and fearing greatly, least the anger of the two Brethrens Parents
and Friends, should now bee laide to her charge, and thereon follow
severity of punishment. But the earnest entreaties of the wounded
surviver, and their arrivall at Smirna soone after, delivered him from
the danger of death, gave some ease to her sorrow, and there with
him she went on shore.
 Remaining there with him in a common Inne, while he continued in
the Chirurgians cure, the fame of her singular and much admired beauty
was soone spread abroad throughout all the City: and amongst the rest,
to the hearing of the Prince of Ionia, who lately before (on very
urgent occasions) was come to Smyrna. This rare rumour, made him
desirous to see her, and after he had seene her, shee seemed farre
fairer in his eye, then common report had noised her to be, and
suddenly grew so enamored of her, that she was the onely Idea of his
best desires. Afterward, understanding in what manner shee was brought
thither, he devised how to make her his own, practising all possible
meanes to accomplish it: which when the wounded Brothers Parents heard
of, they not onely made tender of their willingnesse therein, but also
immediately sent her to him: a matter most highly pleasing to the
Prince, and likewise to the Lady her selfe; because she thought now to
be freed from no meane perill, which (otherwise) the wounded Merchants
friends might have inflicted uppon her.
  The Prince perceiving, that beside her matchlesse beauty, shee had
the true character of Royall behaviour; greeved the more, that he
could not be further informed of what Countrey shee was. His opinion
being so stedfastly grounded, that (lesse then Noble) she could not
be, was a motive to set a keener edge on his affection towardes her,
yet not to enjoy her as in honoirable and loving complement onely, but
as his espoused Lady and Wife. Which appearing to her by apparant
demonstrations, though entercourse of speech wanted to confirme it;
remembrance of her so many sad disasters, and being now in a most
noble and respected condition, her comfort enlarged it selfe with a
setled hope, her feares grew free from any more mollestations, and her
beauties became the onely theame and argument of private and publike
conference in all Natolia, that (well-neere) there was no other
discourse, in any Assembly whatsoever.
  Heereupon the Duke of Athens, beeing young, goodly, and valiant of
person as also a neere Kinsman to the Prince, had a desire to see her;
and under colour of visiting his noble Kinsman, (as oftentimes
before he had done) attended with an honourable traine, to Smirna he
came, being there most royally welcommed, and bounteously feasted.
Within some few dayes of his there being, conference passed betweene
them, concerning the rare beauty of the Ladie; the Duke questioning
the Prince, whether shee was of such wonder, as fame had acquainted
the World withall? Whereto the Prince replyed; Much more (Noble
kinsman) then can bee spoken of, as your owne eyes shall witnesse,
without crediting any words of mine. The Duke soliciting the Prince
thereto very earnestly, they both went together to see her; and she
having before heard of their comming, adorned her selfe the more
Majestically, entertaining them with ceremonious demeanor (after her
Countries custome) which gave most gracious and unspeakable acception.

  At the Princes affable motion, shee sate downe betweene them,
their delight being beyond expression, to behold her, but abridged
of much more felicitie, because they understood not any part of her
Language: so that they could have no other conference, but by lookes
and outward signes onely; and the more they beheld her, the more
they marvelled at her rare perfections, especially the Duke, who
hardly credited that shee was a mortall creature. Thus not perceyving,
what deepe carowses of amorous poyson his eyes dranke downe by the
meere sight of her, yet thinking thereby onely to bee satisfied, hee
lost both himselfe and his best sences, growing in love (beyond all
measure) with her. When the Prince and he were parted from her, and
hee was at his owne private amorous- meditations in his Chamber, he
reputed the Prince farre happier then any man else whatsoever, by
the enjoying of such a peerelesse beauty.
  After many intricate and distracted cogitations, which molested
his braines incessantly, regarding more his loves wanton heate, then
reason, kindred, and honourable hospitality; he resolutely
determined (whatsoever ensued thereupon) to bereave the Prince of
his faire felicity, that none but himselfe might possesse such a
treasure, which he esteemed to bee the height of all happinesse. His
courage being conformable to his bad intent, with all hast it must
be put in execution; so that equity, justice, and honesty, being quite
abandoned, nothing but subtile stratagems were now his meditations.
  On a day, according to a fore-compacted treachery which he had
ordered with a Gentleman of the Princes Chamber, who was named
Churiacy, he prepared his horses to be in readinesse, and dispatched
all his affaires else for a sodaine departure. The night following,
hee was secretly conveyed by the said Churiacy, and a friend of his
with him (being both armed) into the Princes Chamber, where he
(while the Ladie was soundly sleeping) stood at a gazing window
towards the Sea, naked in his shirt, to take the coole ayre, because
the season was exceeding hot. Having formerly enstructed his friend
what was to be done, very softly they stept to the Prince, and running
their weapons quite thorow his bodie, immediately they threw him forth
of the window.
  Here you are to observe, that the Pallace was seated on the Sea
shore, and verie high, and the Window whereat the Prince then stood
looking foorth, was directly over divers houses, which the long
continuance of time, and incessant beating on by the surges of the
Sea, had so defaced and ruined them, as seldome they were visited by
any person; whereof the Duke having knowledge before, was the easier
perswaded that the falling of the Princes body in so vast a place,
could neither bee heard or descryed by any. The Duke and his
Companion, having thus executed what they came for, proceeded yet in
their cunning a little further; casting a strangling Cord about the
necke of Churiacy, seemed as if they hugged and imbraced him: but drew
it with so maine strength, that he never spake word after, and so
threw him downe after the Prince.
  This done, and plainely perceiving that they were not heard or
seene, either by the Lady, or any other: the Duke tooke a light in his
hand, going on to the bed, where the Lady lay most sweetely
sleeping; whom the more he beheld, the more he admired and
commended: but if in her garments shee appeared so pleasing, what
did shee now in a bed of such state and Majestie? Being no way daunted
with his so late committed sin, but swimming rather in surfet of
joy, his hands all bloody, and his soule much more ugly; he laide
him downe on the bed by her, bestowing infinite kisses and embraces on
her, she supposing him to be the Prince all this while, not opening
her eyes to bee otherwise resolved. But this was not the delight he
aymed at, neither did he thinke it safe for him, to delay time with
any longer tarrying there: Wherefore, having his agents at hand fit
and convenient for the purpose, they surprized her in such sort,
that shee could not make any noyse or outcry, and carrying her through
the same false posterne, whereat themselves had entred, laying her
in a Princely litter; away they went with all possible speede, not
tarrying in any place, untill they were arrived neere Athens. But
thither he would not bring her, because himselfe was a married man,
but rather to a goodly Castle of his owne, not distant farre from
the City; where he caused her to bee kept very secretly (to her no
little greefe and sorrow) yet attended on and served in most
honourable manner.
  The Gentlemen usually attending on the Prince, having waited all the
next morning till noone, in expectation of his rising, and hearing
no stirring in the Chamber, did thrust at the doore, which was but
onely closed together, and finding no body there, they presently
imagined, that he was privately gone to some other place, where
(with the Ladie, whom he so deerely affected) hee might remaine some
few dayes for his more contentment, and so they rested verily
perswaded. Within some few dayes following, while no other doubt
came in question, the Princes Foole, entering by chance among the
ruined houses, where lay the dead bodies of the Prince and Churiacy:
tooke hold of the cord about Churiacyes necke, and so went along
dragging it after him. The dead body being knowne to many, with no
meane mervaile how he should bee murthered in so vile manner: by gifts
and faire perswasions they wonne him to bring them to the place
where he found it. And there (to the no little greefe of the whole
Cittie) they found the Princes body also, which they caused to bee
intered with all the most Majesticke pompe that might be.
  Upon further inquisition, who should commit horrid a deede,
perceyving likewise that the Duke of Athens was not to be found, but
was closely gone: they judged (according to the truth) that he had his
hand in this bloody businesse, and had carried away the Lady with him.
Immediately, they elected the Princes brother to be their Lord and
Soveraigne, inciting him to revenge so horrid a wrong, and promising
to assist him with their utmost power. The new chosen Prince being
assured afterward, by other more apparant and remarkeable proofes,
that his people informed him With nothing but truth: sodainly, and
according as they had concluded, with the help of neighbors, kindred
and frends, collected from divers places; he mustred a good and
powerfull army, marching on towards Athens, to make war against the
Duke.
  No sooner heard he of this warlike preparation made against him, but
he likewise levied forces for his owne defence, and to his succour
came many great States: among whom, the Emperor of Constantinople sent
his sonne Constantine, attended on by his Nephew Emanuell, with
Troopes of faire and towardly force, who were honoutably welcommed and
entertained by the Duke, but much more by the Dutchesse, because
shee was their sister in Law.
  Military provision thus proceeding on daily more and more, the
Dutches making choise of a fit and convenient houre, took these two
Princes with her to a with-drawing Chamber; and there in flouds of
teares flowing from her eyes, wringing her hands, and sighing
incessantly, she recounted the whole History, occasion of the warre,
and how dishonourably the Duke dealt with her about this strange
woman, whom hee purposed to keepe in despight of her, as thinking that
she knew nothing therof, and complaining very earnestly unto them,
entreated that for the Dukes honour, and her comfort, they would
give their best assistance in this case.
  The two young Lords knew all this matter, before shee thus
reported it to them; and therefore, without staying to listen [to] her
any longer, but comforting her so wel as they could, with promise of
their best emploied paines: being informd by her, in what place the
Lady was so closely kept they took their leave, and parted from her.
Often they had heard the Lady much commended, and her incomparable
beauty highly extolled, yea even by the Duke himselfe; which made them
the more desirous to see her: wherfore earnestly they solicited him to
let them have a sight of her, and he (forgetting what happened to
the Prince, by shewing her so unadvisedly to him) made them promise to
grant their request. Causing a very magnificent dinner to be prepared,
and in a goodly garden, at the Castle where the Lady was kept: on
the morrow, attended on by a smal traine, away they rode to dine
with her.
  Constantine being seated at the Table, hee began (as one
confounded with admiration) to observe her judiciously, affirming
secretly to his soule that he had never seene so compleat a woman
before; and allowing it for justice, that the Duke or any other
whosoever, if (to enjoy so rare a beauty) they had committed
treason, or any mischeefe els beside, yet in reason they ought to be
held excused. Nor did he bestow so many lookes upon her, but his
praises infinitely surpassed them, as thinking that he could not
sufficiently commend her, following the Duke step by step in
affection; for being now growne amorous of her, and remembrance of the
intended warre utterly abandoned; no other thoughts could come
neerer him but how to bereave the Duke of her, yet concealing his
love, and not imparting it to any one.
  While his fancies were thus amorously set on fire, the time came,
that they must make head against the Prince, who already was
marching with in the Dukes dominions: wherfore the Duke,
Constantine, and all the rest, according to a counsel held among them,
went to defend certaine of the Frontiers, to the end that the Prince
might passe no further. Remaining there divers dayes together,
Constantine (who could thinke on nothing else but the beautiful
Lady) considered with himself, that while the Duke was now so farre
from her, it was an easie matter to compasse his intent: Hereupon, the
better to colour his present returne to Athens, he seemed to be
surprized with a sudden extreame sicknesse, in regard whereof (by
the Dukes free license, and leaving all his power to his Cosen
Emanuel) forthwith he journyed backe to Athens. After some
conference had with his sister, about her dishonourable wrongs endured
at his hands onely, by the Lady, he solemnly protested, that if she
were so pleased, hee would aide her powerfully in the matter, by
taking her from the place where shee was, and never more afterward, to
be seene in that Country any more.
  The Dutchesse being faithfully perswaded, that he would do this
onely for her sake, and not in any affection he bare to the Lady,
answered, that it highly pleased her; alwayes provided, that it
might be performed in such sort, as the Duke her husband should
never understand, that ever she gave any consent thereto; which
Constantine sware unto her by many deepe oaths, whereby she referred
all to his owne disposition. Constantine heereupon secretly prepared
in a readinesse a subtile Barke, sending it in an evening, neere to
the Garden where the Lady resorted; having first informed the people
which were in it, fully what was to be done. Afterwards, accompanied
with some other of his attendants, he went to the Palace to the
Lady, where he was gladly entertained, not onely by such as wayted
on her, but also by the Lady her selfe.
  Leading her along by the arme towards the Garden, attended on by two
of her servants, and two of his owne; seeming as if he was sent from
the Duke, to conferre with her: they walked alone to a Port opening on
the Sea, which standing ready open, upon a signe given by him to one
of his complices, the Barke was brought close to the shore; and the
Ladie being sodainly seized on, was immediately conveyed into it;
and he returning backe to her people, with his sword drawne, said: Let
no man stirre, or speake a word, except he be willing to loose his
life: for I intend not to rob the Duke of his faire friend, but to
expell the shame and dishonor that he hath offered to my Sister: no
one being so hardy as to returne him any answer. Aboord went
Constantine with his consorts, and sitting neere to the Lady, who
wrung her hands, and wept bitterly; he commaunded the Mariners to
launch forth, flying away on the wings of the winde, till about the
breake of day following, they arrived at Melasso. There they tooke
landing, and reposed on shore for some few dayes, Constantine
labouring to comfort the Lady, even as if she had bene his owne
Sister, shee having good cause to curse her infortunate beauty.
  Going aboord the Barke againe, within few dayes they came to
Setalia, and there fearing the reprehension of his father, and least
the Lady should be taken from him; it pleased Constantine to make
his stay, as in a place of no meane security. And (as before) after
much kinde behaviour used towards the Lady, without any meanes in
her selfe to redresse the least of all these great extremities, she
became more milde and affable, for discontentment did not a jot quaile
her.
  While occurrences passed on in this manner, it fortuned, that Osbech
the King of Turky (who was in continuall war with the Emperour) came
by accident to Lajazzo: and hearing there how lasciviously Constantine
spent his time in Setalia, with a Lady which he had stolne, being
but weake and slenderly guarded; in the night with certaine well
provided ships, his men and he entred the town, and surprized many
people in their beds, before they knew of their enimies comming,
killing such as stood upon their defence against them, (among whom was
Constantine) and burning the whole Towne, brought their booty and
prisoners aboord their Shippes, wherewith they returned backe to
Lajazzo. Being thus come to Lajazzo, Osbech who was a brave and
gallant young man, upon a review of the pillage, found the faire Lady,
whom he knew to be the beloved of Constantine, because shee was
found lying on his bed. Without any further delay, he made choice of
her to be his wife; causing his nuptials to be honourably
solemnized, and many moneths he lived there in great joy with her.
  But before occasions grew to this effect, the Emperour made a
confederacie with Bassano, King of Cappadocia, that hee should descend
with his forces, one way upon Osbech, and he would assault him with
his power on the other. But he could not so conveniently bring this to
passe, because the Emperour would not yeeld to Bassano, in any
unreasonable matter he demanded. Neverthelesse, when hee understoode
what had happened to his Sonne (for whom his greefe was beyond all
measure) hee graunted the King of Cappadociaes request; soliciting him
with all instancy, to be the more speedy in assayling Osbech. It was
not long, before hee heard of this conjuration made against him; and
therefore hee speedily mustered up all his forces, ere he would be
encompassed by two such potent kings, and marched on to meete the King
of Cappadocia, leaving his Ladie and Wife (for her safety) at Lajazzo,
in the custodie of a true and loyall Servant of his.
  Within a short while after, he drew neere the Campe belonging to the
King of Cappadocia, where boldly he gave him battell; chancing therein
to be slaine, his Army broken and discomfited, by meanes whereof,
the King of Cappadocia remaining Conquerour, marched on towardes
Lajazzo, every one yeelding him obeysance all the way as he went. In
the meane space, the servant to Osbech, who was named Antiochus, and
with whom the faire Ladie was left in guard; although hee was aged,
yet seeing shee was so extraordinarily beautifull, he fell in love
with her, forgetting the solemne vowes he had made to his master.
One happinesse he had in this case to helpe him, namely, that he
understood and could speake her Language: a matter of no meane comfort
to her, who constrainedly had lived divers yeeres together, in the
state of a deafe or dumbe Woman, because every where else they
understoode her not, nor shee them, but by shewes and signes.
  This benefite of familiar conference, beganne to embolden his hopes,
elevate his courage, and make him seeme more youthfull in his owne
opinion, then any ability of body could speake unto him, or promise
him in the possession of her, who was so farre beyond him, and so
unequall to be enjoyed by him; yet to advance his hopes a great
deale higher, Newes came, that Osbech was vanquished and slaine, and
that Bassano made every where havocke of all: whereon they concluded
together, not to tarrie there any longer, but storing themselves
with the goods of Osbech, secretly they departed thence to Rhodes.
Being : g seated there in some indifferent abiding, it came to
passe, that Antiochus fell into a deadly sickenesse, to whom came a
Cyprian Merchant, one much esteemed by him, as beeing an intimate
friend and kinde acquaintance, and in whom hee reposed no small
confidence. Feeling his sickenesse to encrease more and more upon
him dayly, hee determined, not onely to leave such wealth as hee had
to this Merchant, but the faire Lady likewise. And calling them both
to his beds side, he spake in this manner.
  Deere Love, and my most worthily respected friend, I perceive
plainly and infallibly, that I am drawing neere unto my end, which
much discontenteth me; because my hope was to have lived longer in
this world, for the enjoying of your kinde and most esteemed
company. Yet one thing maketh my death very pleasing and welcome to
me; namely, that lying thus in my bed of latest comfort in this
life, I shall expire and finish my course, in the armes of those two
persons, whome I most affected in all this world, as you my
ever-deerest friend, and you faire Lady, whom (since the very first
sight of you) I loved and honoured in my soule. Irkesome and verie
greevous it is to me, that (if I dye) I shall leave you here a
stranger, without the counsaile and helpe of any bodie: and yet much
more offensive would it become, if I had not such a friend as you
heere present, who (I am faithfully perswaded) will have the like care
and respect of her (even for my sake) as of my selfe, if time had
allotted my longer tarrying here. And therefore (worthy friend) most
earnestly I desire you, that if I dye, all mine affaires and she may
remaine to your trustie care, as being (by my selfe) absolutely
commended to your providence, and so to dispose both of the one and
other, as may best agree with the comfort of my soule. As for you
(choice beauty) I humbly entreate, that after my death you would not
forget me, to the end, I may make my vaunt in another world, that I
was affected here by the fairest Lady that ever Nature framed. If of
these two things you will give mee assurance, I shall depart from
you with no meane comfort.
  The friendly Merchant, and likewise the Ladie, hearing these
words, wept both bitterly: and after hee had given over speaking,
kindely they comforted him, with promises and solemne Vowes, that if
hee dyed, all should be performed which hee had requested. Within a
short while after, he departed out of this life, and they gave him
verie honourable buriall, according to that Country custome. Which
being done, the Merchant dispatching all his affaires at Rhodes, was
desirous to returne home to Cyprus, in a Carracke of the Catelans then
there being: mooving the Ladie in the matter, to understand how shee
stoode enclined, because urgent occasions called him thence to Cyprus.
The Lady made answere, that shee was willing to passe thither with
him, hoping for the love hee bare to deceased Antiochus, that hee
would respect her as his Sister. The Merchant was willing to give
her any contentment, but yet resolved her, that under the title of
being his Sister, it would be no warrant of securitie to them both.
Wherefore, hee rather advised her, to stile him as her husband, and he
would terme her his Wife, and so hee should be sure to defend her from
all injuries whatsoever.
  Being aboord the Carrack, they had a Cabine and small bed
conveniently allowed them, where they slept together, that they
might the better be reputed as man and wife; for, to passe
otherwise, would have beene very dangerous to them both. And
questionlesse, their faithfull promise made at Rhodes to Antiochus,
sickenesse on the Sea, and mutuall respect they had of each others
credit, was a constant restraint to all wanton desires, and a motive
rather to incite Chastitie, then otherwise, and so (I hope) you are
perswaded of them. But howsoever, the windes blewe merrily, the
Carracke sayled lustily, and (by this time) they are arrived at Baffa,
where the Cyprian Merchant dwelt, and where shee continued a long
while with him, no one knowing otherwise, but that shee was his wife
indeede.
 Now it fortuned, that there arrived also at the same Baffa (about
some especiall occasions of his) a Gentleman whose name was Antigonus,
well stept into yeeres, and better stored with wisedome then wealth:
because by medling in many matters, while hee followed the service
of the King of Cyprus, Fortune had beene very adverse to him. This
ancient Gentleman, passing (on a day) by the house where the Lady lay,
and the Merchant being gone about his bussinesse into Armenia: hee
chanced to see the Lady at a window of the house, and because shee was
very beautifull, he observed her the more advisedly, recollecting
his sences together, that (doubtlesse) he had seene her before, but in
what place hee could not remember. The Lady her selfe likewise, who
had so long time beene Fortunes tennis ball, and the terme of her many
miseries drawing now neere an ending: began to conceive (upon the very
first sight of Antigonus) that she had formerly seene him in
Alexandria, serving her Father in place of great degree. Heereupon,
a sodaine hope perswaded her, that by the advice and furtherance of
this Gentleman, shee should recover her wonted Royall condition: and
opportunity now aptly fitting her, by the absence of her pretended
Merchant-husband, shee sent for him, requesting to have a few words
with him.
  When he was come into the house, she bashfully demanded of him, if
he was not named Antigonus of Famagosta, because she knew one like him
so called? He answered that he was so named: saying moreover, Madam me
thinkes I should know you, but I cannot remember where I have seene
you, wherefore I would entreat (if it might stand with your good
liking) that my memory might be quickned with better knowledge of you.
The Lady perceiving him to be the man indeed, weeping incessantly, she
threw her armes about his necke, and soone after asked Antigonus
(who stood as one confounded with mervaile) if he had never seene
her in Alexandria? Upon these words, Antigonus knew her immediately to
be Alathiella, daughter to the great Soldane, who was supposed (long
since) to be drowned in the Sea: and offering to do her such reverence
as became him, she would not permit him, but desired that he would bee
assistant to her, and willed him also to sit downe awhile by her.
  A goodly chaire being brought him, in very humble maner he
demanded of her, what had become of her in so long a time, because
it was verily beleeved throughout all Egypt, that she was drowned in
the Sea. I would it had bin so, answered the Lady, rather then to
leade such a life as I have done; and I thinke my Father himselfe
would wish it so, if ever he should come to the knowledge thereof.
With these words the teares rained downe her faire cheekes:
wherefore Antigonus thus spake unto hir. Madam, discomfort not your
selfe before you have occasion; but (if you be so pleased) relate your
passed accidents to me, and what the course of your life hath bene:
perhaps, I shall give you such friendly advice as may stand you
insted, and no way be injurious to you.
  Fetching a sighe, even as if her heart would have split in sunder,
thus she replyed.
  Ah Antigonus, me thinkes when I looke on thee, I seeme to behold
my royall Father, and therefore mooved with the like religious zeale
and charitable love, as in duty I owe unto him: I wil make known to
thee, what I rather ought to conceale and hide from any person living.
I know thee to be honourable, discreete, and truely wise, though I
am a fraile, simple, and weake woman, therefore I dare discover to
thee, rather then any other that I know, by what strange and
unexpected misfortunes I have lived so long obscurely in the world.
And if in thy great and grave judgement (after the hearing of my
many miseries) thou canst any way restore me to my former estate, I
pray thee do it: but if thou perceive it impossible to be done, as
earnestly likewise I entreate thee, never to reveale to any living
person, that either thou hast seene mee, or heard any speech of me.
After these words, the teares still streaming from her faire eyes, she
recounted the whole passage of her rare mishappes, even from her
shipwracke in the sea of Majorica, untill that very instant houre;
speaking them in such harsh manner as they hapned, and not sparing any
jot of them.
  Antigonus being mooved to much compassion, declared how hee pitied
her by his teares; and having bene silent an indifferent while, as
considering in this case what was best to be done, thus he began.
Madam, seeing you have past through such a multitude of misfortunes,
yet undiscovered, what and who you are: I will render you as
blamelesse to your Father, and estate you as fairely in his love, as
at the houre when you parted from him, and afterward make you wife
to the King of Colchos. Shee demanding of him, by what meanes possibly
this could be accomplished, breefely he made it knowne to her, how,
and in what manner he would performe it.
  To cut off further tedious circumstances, forthwith he returned to
Famagosta, and going before the King of the country, thus he spake
to him. Sir, you may (if so you will be pleased) in an instant, do
me an exceeding honor, who have bene impoverished by your service, and
also a deed of great renowne to your selfe, without any much matter of
expence and cost. The King demanding how? Antigonus thus answered. The
faire daughter of the Soldane, so generally reported to be drowned, is
arrived at Baffa, and to preserve her honor from blemishing, hath
suffered many crosses and calamities: being at this instant in very
poore estate, yet desirous to revisite her father. If you please to
send her home under my conduct, it will be great honour to you, and no
meane benefite to me: which kindnesse will for ever be thankfully
remembred by the Soldan.
  The King in royall magnificence, replied sodainly, that he was
highly pleased with these good tydings; and having sent honorably
for hir from Baffa, with great pompe she was conducted to Famagosta,
and there most graciously welcommed both by the King and Queene,
with solemne triumphes, bankets, and revelling, performed in most
Majesticke manner. Being questioned by the King and Queene, concerning
so large a time of strange misfortunes: according as Antigonus had
formerly enstructed her, so did she shape the forme of her answers,
and satisfied (with honor) all their demands. So, within few daies
after, upon her earnest and instant request, with an honourable traine
of Lords and Ladies, shee was sent thence, and conducted all the way
by Antigonus, untill she came unto the Soldans Court.
  After some few dayes of her reposing there, the Soldan was
desirous to understand, how she could possibly live so long in any
Kingdome or Province whatsoever, and yet no knowledge to be taken of
her? The Lady, who perfectly retained by heart, and had all her
lessons at her fingers ends, by the warie instruction which
Antigonus had given her, answered her father in this manner. Sir,
about the twentieth day after my departure from you, a very terrible
and dreadfull tempest overtooke us, so that in dead time of the night,
our ship being split in sunder upon the sands, neere to a place called
Varna, what became of all the men that were aboord, I neither know,
nor ever heard of. Onely I remember, then when death appeared, and I
being recovered from death to life, certaine Pezants of the
Countrey, comming to get what they could finde in the ship so
wrackt, I was first (with two of my women) brought and set safely on
the shore.
  No sooner were we there, but certaine rude shagge-haird villaines
set upon us, carrying away from me both my women, then haling me along
by the haire of my head: neither teares or intercessions could draw
any pitty from them. As thus they dragd me into a spacious Wood, foure
horsemen on a sodaine came riding by, who seeing how dishonourably the
villaines used me, rescued me from them, and forced them to flight.
But the foure horsemen, seeming (in my judgement) to bee persons of
power and authority, letting them go, came to me; urging sundry
questions to me, which neither I understood, or they mine answeres.
After many deliberations held among themselves, setting me upon one of
their horses, they brought me to a Monasterie of religious women,
according to the custome of their Law: and there, whatsoever they
did or sayde, I know not, but I was most benignely welcommed
thither, and honoured of them extraordinarily; where (with them in
Devotion) I dedicated my selfe to the Goddesse of chastity, who is
highly reverenced and regarded among the women of that Countrey, and
to her religious service they are wholly addicted.
  After I had continued some time among them, and learned a little
of their language; they asked me, of whence, and what I was. Reason
gave me so much understanding, to be fearefull of telling them the
trueth, for feare of expulsion from among them, as an enemy to their
Law and Religion: wherefore I answered (according as necessitie urged)
that I was daughter to a Gentleman of Cyprus who sent me to bee
married in Candie; but our fortunes (meaning such as had the charge of
me) fell out quite contrary to our expectation, by losses, shipwracke,
and other mischances; adding many matters more beside, onely in regard
of feare, and yeelding obediently to observe their customes.
  At length, she that was in cheefest preheminence among these Women
(whom they termed by the name of their Ladie Abbesse) demaunded of
mee, whether I was willing to abide in that condition of life, or to
returne home againe into, Cyprus. I answerd, that I desired nothing
more. But shee, being very carefull of mine honour, would never repose
confidence in any that came for Cyprus, till two honest Gentlemen of
France who hapned thither about two moneths since, accompanied with
their wives, one of them being a neere kinswoman to the Lady
Abbesse. And she well knowing, that they travelled in pilgrimage to
Jerusalem, to visite the holy Sepulcher, where (as they beleeve)
that he whom they held for their God was buried, after the jewes had
put him to death; recommended me to their loving trust, with especiall
charge, for delivering mee to my Father in Cyprus. What honourable
love and respect I found in the company of those Gentlemen and their
Wives, during our voyage backe to Cyprus, the historie would be
overtedious in reporting, neither is it much materiall to our purpose,
because your demaund is to another end.
  Sayling on prosperously in our Ship, it was not long before we
arrived at Baga, where being landed, and not knowing any person,
neither what I should say to the Gentlemen, who onely were carefull
for delivering me to my Father, according as they were charged by
the reverend Abbesse: it was the will of heaven doubtlesse (in pitty
and compassion of my passed disasters) that I was no sooner come on
shore at Baffa, but I should there haply meet with Antigonus, whom I
called unto in our Country language because I would not be
understood by the Gentlemen nor their wives, requesting him to
acknowledge me as his daughter. Quickly he apprehended mine intention,
accomplishing what requested, and (according to his poore power)
most bounteously feasted the Gentlemen and their wives, conducting
me to the King of Cyprus, who received me royally, and sent me home to
you with so much honour, as I am no way able to relate. What else
retnaineth to be said, Antigonus who hath oft heard the whole story of
my misfortunes, at better leysure will report.
  Antigonus then turning to the Soldan, saide: My Lord, as shee hath
often told me, and by relation both of the Gentlemen and their
wives, she hath delivered nothing but truth. Onely shee hath forgotten
somewhat worth the speaking, as thinking it not fit for her to
utter, because indeed it is not so convenient for her. Namely, how
much the Gentlemen and their wives (with whom she came) commended
the rare honesty and integrity of life, as also the unspotted vertue
wherein shee lived among those chaste religious women, as they
constantly (both with teares and solemne protestations) avouched to
me, when kindly they resigned their charge to me. Of all which
matters, and many more beside, if I should make discourse to your
Excellencie; this whole day, the night ensuing, and the next daies
full extendure, are not sufficient to acquaint you withall. Let it
suffice then that I have said so much, as (both by the reports, and
mine owne understanding) may give you faithfull assurance, to make
your Royall vaunt, of having the fairest, most vertuous, and honest
Lady to your daughter, of any King or Prince whatsoever.
  The Soldane was joyfull beyond all measure, welcomming both him
and the rest in most stately manner, oftentimes entreating the Gods
very heartily, that he might live to requite them with equall
recompence, who had so graciously honored his daughter: but above
all the rest, the King of Cyprus, who sent her home so Majestically.
And having bestowne great gifts on Antigonus, within a few dayes
after, hee gave him leave to returne to Cyprus: with thankfull favours
to the King as well by Letters, as also by Ambassadours expressely
sent, both from himselfe and his Daughter.
  When as this businesse was fully finished, the Soldane, desiring
to accomplish what formerly was intended and begun, namely, that she
might be wife to the King of Colchos; hee gave him intelligence of all
that had happened; writing moreover to him, that (if he were so
pleased) he wold yet send her in Royall manner to him. The King of
Colchos was exceeding joyfull of these glad tydings, and dispatching a
worthy traine to fetch her, she was conveyed thither very pompously,
and she who had bene imbraced by so many, was received by him as an
honest Virgin, living long time after with him in much joy and
felicity. And therefore it hath bene saide as a common Proverbe: The
mouth well kist comes not short of good Fortune, but is still
renewed like the Moone.
                   THE SECOND DAY, THE EIGHT NOVELL

       WHEREBY ALL MEN MAY PLAINELY UNDERSTAND, THAT LOYALTY
      FAITHFULLY KEPT TO THE PRINCE (WHAT PERILS SOEVER DOE ENSUE)
      DOTH YET NEVERTHELESSE RENOWNE A MAN, AND BRING HIM TO FARRE
                             GREATER HONOUR

  The Count D'Angiers being falsly accused, was banished out of
France, and left his two children in England in divers places.
Returning afterward (unknowne) thorow Scotland, hee found them
advanced unto great dignitie. Then, repayring in the habite of a
Servitour, into the King of France his Armie, and his innocencie
made publiquely knowne, hee was reseated in his former honourable
degree.

  The Ladies sighed verie often, hearing the variety of wofull
miseries happening to Alathiella: but who knoweth, what occasion
mooved them to those sighes? Perhappes there were some among them, who
rather sighed they could not be so often maried as she was, rather
then for any other compassion they had of her disasters. But leaving
that to their owne construction, they smiled merrily at the last
speeches of Pamphilus: and the Queene perceyving the Novell to be
ended, shee fixed her eye upon Madame Eliza, as signifying thereby,
that she was next to succeed in order; which shee joyfully
embracing, spake as followeth. The field is very large and spacious,
wherein all this day we have walked, and there is not any one here
so wearied with running the former races, but nimbly would adventure
on as many more, so copious are the alterations of Fortune, in sad
repetition of her wonderfull changes: and among the infinity of her
various courses, I must make addition of another, which I trust,
will no way discontent you.
  When the Romaine Empire was translated from the French to the
Germaines, mighty dissentions grew betweene both the Nations,
insomuch, that it drew a dismall and a lingering warre. In which
respect, as well for the safety of his owne Kingdome, as to annoy
and disturbe his enemies; the King of France and one of his sonnes,
having congregated the forces of their owne Dominions, as also of
their friends and confederates, they resolved manfully to encounter
their enemies. But before they would adventure any rash proceeding,
they held it as the cheefest part of policy and royall providence, not
to leave the State without a Chiefe or Governour. And having had
good experience of Gualtier, Count D'Angiers, to be a wise and
worthy Lord, singularly expert in military discipline and faithfull in
all affaires of the Kingdome (yet fitter for ease and pleasure, then
laborious toyle and travalle:) he was elected Lieutenant Governour
in their sted, over the whole kingdom of France, and then they went on
in their enterprize.
  Now began the Count to execute the office committed to his trust, by
orderly proceeding, and with great discretion, yet not entering into
any businesse, without consent of the Queene and her faire daughter in
Law: who although they were left under his care and custodie, yet
(notwithstanding) he honoured them as his superiours, and as the
dignity of their quality required. Here you are to observe, concerning
Count Gualtier himselfe, that he was a most compleate person, aged
litle above forty yeeres, as affable and singularly conditioned, as
any Nobleman possibly could be, nor did those times affoord a
Gentleman, that equalled him in all respects. It fortuned, that the
King and his sonne being busy in the aforenamed war, the wife and Lady
of Count Gualtier died in the mean while, leaving him onely a sonne
and a daughter very yong, and of tender yeeres, which made his owne
home the lesse welcom to him, having lost his deere Love, and second
selfe.
  Heereupon, he resorted to the Court of the said Ladies the more
frequently, often conferring with them, about the waighty affaires
of the Kingdome: in which time of so serious interparlance, the
Kings sonnes wife, threw many affectionate regards upon him, convaying
such conspiring passions to her heart (in regard of his person and
vertues) that her love exceeded all capacity of governement. Her
desires out-stepping al compasse of modesty, or the dignity of her
Princely condition, throwes off all regard of civill and sober
thoughts, and guides her into a Labyrinth of wanton imaginations. For,
she regards not now the eminency of his high Authority, his gravity of
yeares, and those parts that are the true conducts to honour: but
lookes upon her owne loose and lascivious appetite, her young,
gallant, and over-ready yeelding nature, comparing them with his
want of a wife, and likely hope thereby of her sooner prevailing;
supposing, that nothing could be her hindrance, but onely bashfull
shamefastnesse, which she rather chose utterly to forsake and set
aside, then to faile of her hot enflarned affection, and therefore she
would needs be the discoverer of her owne disgrace.
  Upon a day, being alone by her selfe, and the time seeming
suteable to her intention: shee sent for the Count, under colour of
some other important conference with him. The Count D'Aongiers,
whose thoughts were quite contrary to hers: immediately went to her,
where they both sitting downe together on a beds side in her
Chamber, according as formerly shee had plotted her purpose; twice hee
demaunded of her, upon what occasion she had thus sent for him. She
sitting a long while silent, as if she had no answere to make him,
pressed by the violence of her amorous passions, a Vermillion tincture
leaping up into her face, yet shame enforcing teares from her eyes,
with words broken and halfe confused, at last she began to deliver her
minde in this manner.
  Honourable Lord, and my deerely respected Friend, being so wise a
man as you are, it is no difficult matter for you to know, what a
frayle condition is imposed both on men and women; yet (for divers
occasions) much more upon the one, then the other. Wherefore
desertfully, in the censure of a just and upright judge, a fault of
divers conditions (in respect of the person) ought not to bee censured
with one and the same punnishment. Beside, who will not say, that a
man or woman of poore and meane estate, having no other helpe for
maintainance, but laborious travaile of their bodies, should
worthily receive more sharpe reprehension, in yeelding to amorous
desires, or such passions as are incited by love; then a wealthy
Lady whose living relieth not on her pains or cares, neither wanteth
any thing that she can wish to have: I dare presume, that you your
selfe will allow this to be equall and just. In which respect, I am of
the minde, that the fore-named allegations, ought to serve as a
sufficient excuse, yea, and to the advantage of her who is so
possessed, if the passions of love should over-reach her: alwayes
provided, that shee can pleade in her owne defence, the choice of a
wise and vertuous friend, answerable to her owne condition and
quality, and no way to be taxt with a servile or vile election.
  These two speciall observations, allowable in my judgement, and
living now in mee, seizing on my youthfull blood and yeeres, have
found no mean inducement to love, in regard of my husbands far
distance from me, medling in the rude uncivill actions of warre,
when he should rather be at home in more sweet imployment. You see
Sir, that these Oratours advance themselves here in your presence,
to acquaint you with the extremity of my over-commanding agony: and if
the same power hath dominion in you, which your discretion
(questionlesse) cannot be voide of; then let me entreate such advice
from you, as may rather helpe, then hinder my hopes. Beleeve it then
for trueth Sir, that the long absence of my husband from me, the
solitary condition wherein I am left, il agreeing with the hot blood
running in my veines, and the temper of my earnest desires: have so
prevailed against my strongest resistances, that not onely so weake
a woman as I am, but any man of much more potent might, (living in
ease and idlenesse as I do) cannot withstand such continuall assaults,
having no other helpe then flesh and blood.
  Nor am I so ignorant, but publike knowledge of such an error in mee,
would be reputed a shrewd taxation of honesty: whereas (on the other
side) secret carriage, and heedfull managing such amorous affaires,
may passe for currant without any reproach. And let me tel you,
noble Count, that I repute love highly favourable to mee, by guiding
my judgement with such moderation, to make election of a wise, worthy,
and honorable friend, fit to enjoy the grace of a farre greater Lady
then I am, and the first letter of his name, is the Count D'Angiers.
For if error have not misled mine eye, as in love no Lady can be
easily deceived: for person, perfections, and all parts most to bee
commended in a man, the whole Realme of France containeth not your
equall. Observe beside, how forward Fortune sheweth her selfe to us
both in this case; you to bee destitute of a wife, as I am of an
husband; for I account him as dead to me, when he denies me the duties
belonging to a wife. Wherefore, in regard of the unfained affection
I beare you, and compassion which you ought to have of a Royall
Princesse, even almost sicke to death for your sake, I earnestly
entreat you, not to deny mee your loving society, but pittying my
youth and fiery affections (never to be quenched but by your
kindnesse) I may enjoy my hearts desire.
  As shee uttered these words, the teares streamed aboundantly downe
her faire cheekes, preventing her of any further speech: so that
dejecting her head into her bosome, overcome with the predominance
of her passions, she fell upon the Counts knee, whereas else shee
had falne uppon the ground. When he, like a loyall and most honourable
man, sharpely reprehended her fond and idle love: And when shee
would have embraced him about the necke to have kissed him; he
repulsed her roughly from him, protesting upon his honourable
reputation, that rather then hee would so wrong his Lord and
Maister, he would endure a thousand deaths.
  The Ladie seeing her desire disappointed, and her fond expectation
utterly frustrated: grew instantly forgetfull of her intemperate love,
and falling into extremity of rage, converted her former gentle and
loving speeches, into this harsh and ruder language. Villaine (quoth
she) shall the longing comforts of my life, be abridged by thy base
and scornefull deniall? Shall my destruction be wrought by thy most
currish unkindenesse, and all my hoped joyes be defeated in a
moment? Know Slave, that I did not so earnestly desire thy sweete
embracements before, but now as deadly I hate and despise them;
which either thy death or banishment shall deerely pay for. No
sooner had she thus spoken, but tearing her haire, and renting her
garments in peeces, she ranne about like a distracted Woman, crying
out alowd; Helpe, helpe, the Count D'Angiers will forcibly dishonour
mee, the lustfull Count will violate mine honour.
  D'Angiers seeing this, and fearing more the malice of the
over-credulous Court, then either his owne Conscience, or any
dishonourable act by him committed, beleeving likewise, that her
slanderous accusation would be credited, above his true and
spotlesse innocency: closely he conveyed himselfe out of the Court,
making what hast he could, home to his owne house, which being too
weake for warranting his safety upon such pursuite as would be used
against him, without any further advice or counsell, he seated his two
children on horsebacke, himselfe also being but meanly mounted, thus
away thence he went to Calice.
  Upon the clamour and noise of the Lady, the Courtiers quickly
flocked thither; and, as lies soone winne beleefe in hasty opinions,
upon any silly or shallow surmise: so did her accusation passe for
currant, and the Counts advancement being envied by many, made his
honest carriage (in this case) the more suspected. In hast and madding
fury, they ran to the Counts houses, to arrest his person, and carry
him to prison: but when they could not finde him, they raced his
goodly buildings downe to the ground, and used all shamefull
violence to them. Now, as ill newes sildome wants a speedy
Messenger; so, in lesse space then you will imagine, the King and
Dolphin heard thereof in the Campe,-and were therewith so highly
offended, that the Count had a sodaine and severe condemnation, all
his progeny being sentenced with perpetuall exile, and promises of
great and bountifull rewards, to such as could bring his body alive or
dead.
  Thus the innocent Count, by his overhasty and sodaine flight, made
himselfe guilty of this foule imputation: and arriving at Callice with
his children, their poore and homely habites, hid them from being
knowne, and thence they crossed over into England, staying no where
untill hee came to London. Before he would enter into the City, he
gave divers good advertisements to his children, but especially two
precepts above all the rest. First, with patient soules to support the
poore condition, whereto Fortune (without any offence in him or
them) had thus dejected them. Next, that they should have most
heedfull care, at no time to disclose from whence they came, or
whose children they were, because it extended to the perill of their
lives. His Sonne, being named Lewes, and now about nine yeares old,
his Daughter called Violenta, and aged seaven yeares, did both observe
their fathers direction, as afterward it did sufficiently appeare. And
because they might live in the safer securitie, hee thought it for the
best to change their names, calling his Sonne Perotto, and his
Daughter Gianetta, for thus they might best escape unknowne.
  Being entred into the City, and in the poore estate of beggars, they
craved every bodies mercy and almes. It came to passe, that standing
one morning at the Cathedrall Church doore, a great Lady of England
being then wife to the Lord high Marshal, comming forth of the Church,
espied the Count and his children there begging. Of him she demanded
what Countrey-man he was? and whether those children were his owne, or
no? The Count replyed, that he was borne in Piccardy, and for an
unhappy fact committed by his eldest Sonne (a stripling of more
hopefull expectation, then proved) hee was enforced, with those his
two other children, to forsake his country. The Lady being by nature
very pittifull, looking advisedly on the young Girle beganne to grow
in good liking of her; because (indeede) she was amiable, gentle,
and beautifull, whereupon shee saide. Honest man, thy daughter hath
a pleasing countenance, and (perhaps) her inward disposition may
proove answerable to her outward good parts: if therefore thou canst
bee content to leave her with me, I will give her entertainment, and
upon her dutifull carriage and behaviour, if she live to such yeares
as may require it, I will have her honestly bestowne in marriage. This
motion was very pleasing to the Count, who readily declared his
willing consent thereto, and with the teares trickling downe his
cheekes, in thankfull maner he delivered his pretty daughter to the
Lady.
  She being thus happily bestowne, he minded to tarry no longer in
London; but, in his wonted begging manner, travailing thorough the
Country with his sonne Perotto, at length he came into Wales: but
not without much weary paine and travell, being never used before,
to journey so far on foot. There dwelt another Lord, in office of
Marshalship to the King of England, whose power extended over those
parts: a man of very great authority, keeping a most noble and
bountifull house, which they termed the President of Wales his
Court; whereto the Count and his Son oftentimes resorted, as finding
there good releefe and comfort. On a day, one of the Presidents
sons, accompanied with divers other Gentlemens children, were
performing certaine youthfull sports, and pastimes, as running,
leaping, and such like, wherein Perotto presumed to make one among
them, excelling all the rest in such commendable manner, as none of
them came any thing nere him. Divers times the President had taken
notice thereof, and was so well pleased with the Lads behaviour,
that he enquired of whence he was? Answere was made, that he was a
poore mans Son, that every day came for an almes to his gate.
  The President being desirous to make the boy his, the Count (whose
dayly prayers were to the same purpose) frankly gave his Son to the
Nobleman: albeit naturall and fatherly affection, urged some
unwillingnesse to part so with him; yet necessity and discretion,
found it best for the benefit of them both. Being thus eased of care
for his Son and Daughter, and they (though in different places) yet
under good and worthy government; the Count would continue no longer
in England: but, as best hee could procure the meanes, passed over
into Ireland, and being arrived at a place called Stanford, became
servant to an Earle of that Country, a Gentleman professing Armes,
on whom he attended as a serving man, and lived a long while in that
estate very painfully.
  His daughter Violenta, clouded under the borrowed name of
Gianetta, dwelling with the Lady at London, grew so in yeares, beauty,
comelinesse of person, and was so gracefull in the favour of her
Lord and Lady, yea, of every one in the house beside, that it was
wonderfull to behold. Such as but observed her usuall carriage, and
what modesty shined clearely in her eyes, reputed her well worthy of
honourable preferment; in regard, the Lady that had received her of
her Father, not knowing of whence, or what shee was; but as himselfe
had made report, intended to match her in honourable marriage,
according as her vertues worthily deserved. But God, the just rewarder
of all good endeavours, knowing her to be noble by birth, and
(causelesse) to suffer for the sinnes of another; disposed otherwise
of her: and that so worthy a Virgin might be no mate for a man of
ill conditions, no doubt ordained what was to be done, according to
his owne good pleasure.
 The Noble Lady, with whom poore Gianetta dwelt, had but one onely
Sonne by her Husband, and he most deerely affected of them both, as
well in regard he was to be their heire, as also for his vertues and
commendable qualities, wherein he excelled many young Gentlemen.
Endued he was with heroycall valour, compleate in all perfections of
person, and his minde every way answerable to his outward behaviour,
exceeding Gianetta about sixe yeeres in age. Hee perceiving her to
be a faire and comely Maiden, grew to affect her so entirely, that all
things else he held contemptible, and nothing pleasing in his eye
but shee. Now, in regard her parentage was reputed poore, he kept
his love concealed from his Parents, not daring to desire her in
marriage: for loath he was to loose their favour, by disclosing the
vehemency of his afflictions, which proved a greater torment to him,
then if it had beene openly knowne.
  It came to passe, that love over-awed him in such sort, as he fell
into a violent sicknesse, and store of Physicions were sent for, to
save him from death, if possibly it might be. Their judgements
observing the course of his sicknesse, yet not reaching to the cause
of the disease, made a doubtfull question of his recovery; which was
so displeasing to his parents, that their griefe and sorrow grew
beyond measure. Many earnest entreaties they moved to him, to know the
occasion of his sickenesse, whereto he returned no other answere,
but heart-breaking sighes, and incessant teares, which drew him more
and more into weakenesse of body.
  It chanced on a day, a Physicion was brought unto him, being young
in yeeres, but well experienced in his practise: and as hee made
triall of his pulse, Gianetta (who by his Mothers command, attended on
him very diligently) upon some especiall occasion entred into the
Chamber, which when the young Gentleman perceived, and that shee
neither spake word, nor so much as looked towards him, his heart
grew great in amorous desire, and his pulse did beate beyond the
compasse of ordinary custome; whereof the Physicion made good
observation, to note how long that fit would continue. No sooner was
Gianetta gone forth of the Chamber, but the pulse immediately gave
over beating, which perswaded the Physicion, that some part of the
disease had now discovered it selfe apparantly.
  Within a while after, pretending to have some speech with
Gianetta, and holding the Gentleman still by the arme, the Physicion
caused her to be sent for; and immediately shee came. Upon her very
entrance into the Chamber, the pulse began to beate againe extreamely,
and when shee departed, it presently ceased. Now was he thorowly
perswaded, that he had found the true effect of his sicknesse, when
taking the Father and mother aside, thus he spake to them. If you be
desirous of your Sons health, it consisteth not either in Physicion or
physicke, but in the mercy of your faire Maide Gianetta; for
manifest signes have made it knowne to me, and he loveth the
Damosell very dearely: yet (for ought I can perceive, the Maide doth
not know it:) now if you have respect of his life, you know (in this
case) what is to be done. The Nobleman and his Wife hearing this,
became somewhat satisfied, because there remained a remedy to preserve
his life: but yet it was no meane griefe to them, if it should so
succeede, as they feared, namely, the marriage betweene this their
Sonne and Gianetta.
  The Physicion being gone, and they repairing to their sicke Sonne,
the Mother began with him in this manner. Sonne, I was alwayes
perswaded, that thou wouldest not conceale any secret from me, or
the least part of thy desires; especially, when without enjoying them,
thou must remaine in the danger of death. Full well art thou
assured, or in reason oughtest to be, that there is not any thing
for thy contentment, be it of what quality soever, but it should
have beene provided for thee, and in as ample manner as for mine
owne selfe. But though thou hast wandred so farre from duty, and
hazarded both thy life and ours, it commeth so to passe, that Heaven
hath beene more mercifull to thee, then thou wouldest be to thy selfe,
or us. And to prevent thy dying of this disease, a dreame this night
hath acquainted me with the principall occasion of thy sickenesse,
to wit extraordinary affection to a young Maiden, in some such place
as thou hast seene her. I tell thee Sonne, it is a matter of no
disgrace to love, and why shouldst thou shame to manifest as much,
it being so apt and convenient for thy youth? For if I were perswaded,
that thou couldst not love, I should make the lesse esteeme of thee.
Therefore deare Sonne, be not dismayed, but freely discover thine
affections. Expell those disastrous drouping thoughts, that have
indangered thy life by this long lingering sicknesse. And let thy
soule be faithfully assured, that thou canst not require any thing
to be done, remaining within the compasse of my power, but I will
performe it; for I love thee as dearely as mine owne life. Set
therefore aside this nice conceit of shame and feare, revealing the
truth boldly to me, if I may stead thee in thy love; resolving thy
selfe unfaignedly, that if my care stretch not to compasse thy
content, account me for the most cruell Mother living, and utterly
unworthy of such a Sonne.
  The young Gentleman having heard these protestations made by his
Mother, was not a little ashamed of his owne follie; but
recollecting his better thoughts together, and knowing in his soule,
that no one could better further his hopes, then shee; forgetting
all his former feare, he returned her this answere; Madam, and my
dearely affected Mother, nothing hath more occasioned my loves so
strict concealement, but an especiall errour, which I finde by daily
proofe in many, who being growne to yeeres of grave discretion, doe
never remember, that they themselves have bin yong. But because herein
I find you to be both discreet and wise, I will not onely affirme what
you have seen in me to be true, but also will confesse, to whom it is:
upon condition, that the effect of your promise may follow it,
according to the power remaining in you, whereby you onely may
secure my life.
  His Mother, desirous to bee resolved, whether his confession would
agree with the Physitians words, or no, and reserving another
intention to her selfe: bad him feare nothing, but freely discover his
whole desire, and forthwith she doubted not to effect it. Then
Madame (quoth hee) the matchlesse beauty, and commendable qualities of
your Maid Gianetta, to whom (as yet) I have made no motion, to
commisserate this my languishing extremity, nor acquainted any
living creature with my love: the concealing of these afflictions to
myselfe, hath brought mee to this desperate condition: and if some
meane bee not wrought, according to your constant promise, for the
full enjoying of my longing desires, assure your selfe (most Noble
Mother) that the date of my life is very short. The Lady well knowing,
that the time now rather required kindest comfort, then any severe
or sharpe reprehension, smiling on him, said: Alas deere sonne, wast
thou sicke for this? Be of good cheare, and when thy strength is
better restored, then referre the matter to me. The young Gentleman,
being put in good hope by his Mothers promise, began (in short time)
to shew apparant signes of well-forwarded amendment, to the Mothers
great joy and comfort, disposing her selfe dayly to proove, how in
honor she might keepe promise with her sonne.
  Within a short while after, calling Gianetta privately to her, in
gentle manner, and by the way of pleasant discourse, she demanded of
hir, whither she was provided of a Lover, or no. Gianetta, being never
acquainted with any such questions, a scarlet Dye covering all her
modest countenance, thus replyed. Madam, I have no neede of any Lover,
and very unseemely were it, for so poore a Damosell as I am, to have
so much as a thought of Lovers, being banished from my friends and
kinsfolke, and remaining in service as I do.
  If you have none (answered the Ladie) wee will bestow one on you,
which shall content your minde, and bring you to a more pleasing kinde
of life; because it is farre unfit, that so faire a Maid as you
are., should remaine destitute of a Lover. Madam, said Gianetta,
considering with my selfe, that since you received me of my poore
Father, you have used me rather like your daughter, then a servant; it
becommeth mee to doe as pleaseth you. Notwithstanding, I trust (in the
regard of mine owne good and honour) never to use any complaint in
such a case: but if you please to bestow a husband on me, I purpose to
love and honor him onely, and not any other. For, of all the
inheritance left me by my progenitors, nothing remaineth to me but
honourable honesty, and that shall be my Legacie so long as I live.
  These wordes, were of a quite contrary complexion, to those which
the Lady expected from her, and for effecting the promise made unto
hir Sonne: howbeit (like a wise and noble Ladie) much she inwardly
commended the maids answers, and said unto her. But tell me
Gianetta, what if my Lord the King (who is a gallant youthfull Prince,
and you so bright a beautie as you are) should take pleasure in your
love, would ye denie him? Sodainly the Maide returned this answer:
Madame, the King perhaps might enforce me, but with my free consent,
hee shall never have any thing of me that is not honest. Nor did the
Lady dislike her Maides courage and resolution, but breaking of all
her further conference, intended shortly to put her project in proofe,
saying to her son, that when he was fully recovered, he should have
private accesse to Gianetta, whom shee doubted not but would be
tractable enough to him; for she helde it no meane blemish to her
honour, to moove the Maide any more in the matter, but let him
compasse it as he could.
  Farre from the yong Gentlemans humour was this answer of his Mother,
because he aimed not at any dishonourable end: true, faithfull, and
honest love was the sole scope of his intention, foule and loathsome
lust he utterly defied; whereupon he fell into sickenesse againe,
rather more violently then before. Which the Lady perceiving, revealed
her whole intent to Gianetta, and finding her constancie beyond common
comparison, acquainted her Lord with all she had done, and both
consented (though much against their mindes) to let him enjoy her in
honourable marriage: accounting it better, for preservation of their
onely sons life, to match him farre inferiour to his degree, then by
denying h desire, to let him pine and dye for her love.
  After great consultation with Kindred and Friends, the match was
agreed upon, to the no little joy of Gianetta, who devoutly returned
infinite thankes to heaven, for so mercifully respecting her
dejected poore estate, after the bitter passage of so many miseries,
and never tearming her selfe any otherwise, but the daughter of a
poore Piccard. Soone was the yong Gentleman recovered and married,
no man alive so well contented as he, and setting downe an absolute
determination, to lead a loving life with his Gianetta.
  Let us now convert our lookes to Wales, to Perotto; being lefte
there with the other Lord Marshall, who was the President of that
Countrey. On hee grew in yeeres, choisely respected by his Lord,
because hee was most comely of person, and forward to all valiant
attempts: so that in Tourneyes, joustes, and other actions of Armes,
his like was not to bee found in all the Island, being named onely
Perotto the valiant Piccard, and so was he famed farre and neere. As
God had not forgotten his Sister, so in mercy he became as mindefull
of him; for, a contagious mortalitie hapning in the Country, the
greater part of the people perished thereby, the rest flying thence
into other partes of the Land, whereby the whole Province became
dispeopled and desolate.
  In the time of this plague and dreadful visitation, the Lord
President, his Lady, Sonnes, Daughters, Brothers, Nephewes, and
Kindred dyed, none remaining alive, but one onely Daughter
marriageable, a few of the houshold servants, beside Perotto, whom
(after the sickenesse was more mildly asswaged) with counsell and
consent of the Countrey people, the young Lady accepted to be her
husband, because hee was a man so worthy and valiant; and of all the
inheritance left by her deceased Father, she made him Lord, and sole
commander. Within no long while after, the King of England
understanding that his President of Wales was dead, and Fame liberally
relating the vertues, valour, and good parts of Perotto the Piccard,
hee created him President thereof, and to supply the place of his
deceased Lord. These faire fortunes, within the compasse of so short a
time, fell to the two innocent children of the Count D'Angiers after
they were left by him as lost and forlorne.
  Eighteene yeeres were now fully overpast, since the Count
D'Angiers fled from Paris, having suffered (in miserable sort) many
hard and lamentable adversities; and seeing himselfe now to be
growne aged, hee was desirous to leave Ireland, and to know (if hee
might) what was become of both his Children. Heereupon, perceiving his
wonted forme to be so altered, that such as formerly had conversed
most with him, could now not take any knowledge of him, and feeling
his body (through long labour and exercise endured in service) more
lustie then in his idle youthfull yeeres, especially when he left
the Court of France, hee purposed to proceede in his determination.
Being verie poore and simple in apparrel, he departed from the Irish
Earle his Master, with whom he had continued long in service, to no
advantage or advancement, and crossing over into England, travayled to
the place in Wales, where he left Perotto, and where he found him to
be Lord Marshall and President of the country, lusty and in good
health, a man of goodly feature, and most honorably respected and
reverenced of the people.
  Well may you imagine, that this was no small comfort to the poore
aged Countes heart, yet would he not make himselfe knowne to him, or
any other about him, but referred his joy to a further enlarging and
diminishing, by sight of the other limbe of his life, his deerely
affected daughter Gianetta, denying rest to his bodie in any place,
until such time as he came to London. Making there secret enquiry
concerning the Ladie with whom hee had left his daughter; hee
understoode, that a young Gentlewoman, named Gianetta, was married
to that Ladies onely Son, which made a second addition of joy to his
soule, accounting all his passed adversities of no valew, both his
children being living, and in so high honour.
  Having found her dwelling, and (like a kinde Father) being earnestly
desirous to see her; he dayly resorted nere to the house, where Sir
Roger Mandevile (for so was Gianettaes husband named) chauncing to see
him, being moved to compassion, because he was both poore and aged:
commaunded one of his men, to take him into the house, and to give him
some foode for Gods sake, which (accordingly) the servant performed.
Gianetta had divers children by her husband, the eldest being but
eight yeeres of age, yet all of them so faire and comely as could
be. As the old Count sate eating his meate in the Hall, the children
came all about him, embracing, hugging, and making much of him, even
as if Nature had truly instructed them, that this was their aged
(though poor) Grandfather, and hee as lovingly receiving these kilde
relations from them, wisely and silently kept all to himselfe, with
sighes, teares, and joyes intermixed together. Insomuch that the
children would not part from him though their Tutor and Master
called them often, which being tolde to their Mother, shee came foorth
of the neere adjoyning Parlour, and threatned to beate them, if they
would not doe what their Maister commanded them.
  Then the Children began to cry, saying; that they would tarrie
stil by the good olde man, because he loved them better then their
Master did; whereat both the Lady and the Count began to smile. The
Count, a poore Begger, and not as Father to so great a Lady, arose,
and did her humble reverence, because she was now a Noble Woman,
conceyving wonderfull joy in his soule, to see her so faire and goodly
a creature: yet could she take no knowledge of him, Age, want, and
misery had so mightily altered him; his head all white, his beard
without any comly forme, his Garments so poore, and his face so
wrinkled, leane and meager, that he seemed rather some Carter, then
a Count. And Gianetta perceiving that when her Children were fetcht
away, they returned againe to the olde man, and would not leave him,
she desired their Maister to let them alone.
 While thus the Children continued making much of the good olde man,
Lord Andrew Mandevile, Father to Sir Roger, came into the Hall, as
being so willed to doe by the Childrens Schoolemaster. He being a
hastie-minded man, and one that ever-despised Gianetta before, but
much more since her marriage to his sonne, angerly said; Let them
alone with a mischeefe, and so befall them, their best company ought
to bee with beggers, for so they are bred and borne by the Mothers
side: and therefore it is no mervaile, if like will to like, a beggers
brats to keepe company with beggers. The Count hearing these
contemptible wordes, was not a little greeved thereat; and although
his courage was greater then his poore condition would permit him to
expresse; yet, clouding all injuries with noble patience, hanging
downe his head, and shedding many a salt teare, endured this reproach,
as hee had done many, both before and after.
  But honourable Sir Roger, perceiving what delight his Children tooke
in the poore mans company; albeit he was offended at his Fathers harsh
words, by holding his wife in such base respect: yet favoured the
poore Count so much the more, and seeing him weepe, did greatly
compassionate his case, saying to the poore man, that if he would
accept of his service, he willingly would entertaine him. Whereto
the Count replyed, that very gladly he would embrace his kinde
offer: but he was capeable of no other service, save onely to be an
horsekeeper, wherein he had imployed the most part of his time.
Heereupon, more for pleasure and pitty then any necessity of his
service, he was appointed to the keeping of an Horse, which was
onely for his Daughters saddle, and daily after he had done his
diligence about the Horse, he did nothing else but play with the
children. While Fortune pleased thus to dally with the poore Count
D'Angiers, and his children, it came to passe, that the King of France
(after divers leagues of truces passed betweene him and the Germaines)
died, and next after him, his Son the Dolphin was crowned King, and it
was his wife that wrongfully caused the Counts banishment. After
expiration of the last league with the Germains, the warres began to
grow much more fierce and sharpe, and the King of England, (upon
request made to him by his new brother of France) sent him very
honourable supplies of his people, under the conduct of Perotto, his
lately elected President of Wales, and Sir Roger Mandevile, Son to his
other Lord high Marshall; with whom also the poore Count went, and
continued a long while in the Campe as a common Souldier, where yet
like a valiant Gentleman (as indeed he was no lesse) both in advice
and actions; he accomplished many more notable matters, then was
expected to come from him.
  It so fell out, that in the continuance of this warre, the Queene of
France fell into a grievous sicknesse, and perceiving her selfe to
be at the point of death, shee became very penitently sorrowfull for
all her sinnes, earnestly desiring that shee might be confessed by the
Archbishop of Roane, who was reputed to be an holy and vercuous man.
In the repetition of her other offences; she revealed what great wrong
she had done to the Count D'Angiers, resting not so satisfied, with
disclosing the whole matter to him alone; but also confessed the
same before many other worthy persons, and of great honour, entreating
them to worke so with the King, that (if the Count were yet living, or
any of his Children) they might be restored to their former honour
againe.
  It was not long after, but the Queene left this life, and was most
royally enterred, when her confession being disclosed to the King,
after much sorrow for so injuriously wronging a man of so great valour
and honour: Proclamation was made throughout the Campe, and in many
other parts of France beside, that whosoever could produce the Count
D'Angiers, or any of his Children, should richly be rewarded for
each one of them; in regard he was innocent of the foule imputation,
by the Queenes owne confession, and for his wrongfull exile so long,
he should be exalted to his former honour with farre greater
favours, which the King franckely would bestow upon him. When the
Count (who walked up and downe in the habite of a common servitor)
heard this Proclamation, forth-with hee went to his Master Sir Roger
Mandevile, requesting his speedy repaire to Lord Perotto, that being
both assembled together, he would acquaint them with a serious matter,
concerning the late Proclamation published by the King. Being by
themselves alone in the Tent, the Count spake in this manner to
Perotto. Sir, S. Roger Mandevile here, your equall competitor in
this military service, is the husband to your naturall sister,
having as yet never received any dowry with her, but her inherent
unblemishable vertue and honor. Now because she may not stil remain
destitute of a competent Dowry: I desire that Sir Roger, and none
other, may enjoy the royall reward promised by the King. You Lord
Perotto, whose true name is Lewes, manifest your selfe to be nobly
borne, and Sonne to the wrongfull banished Count D'Angiers: avouch
moreover, that Violenta, shadowed under the borrowed name of Gianetta,
is your owne Sister; and deliver me up as your Father, the long exiled
Count D'Angiers. Perotto hearing this, beheld him more advisedly,
and began to know him: then, the tears flowing abundantly from his
eyes, he fell at his feete, and often embracing him, saide: My deere
and noble Father! a thousand times more deerely welcome to your
Sonne Lewes.
  Sir Roger Mandevile, hearing first what the Count had saide, and
seeing what Perotto afterward performed; became surprized with such
extraordinary joy and admiration, that he knew not how to carry
himselfe in this case. Neverthelesse, giving credite to his words, and
being somewhat ashamed, that he had not used the Count in more
respective manner, and remembring beside, the unkinde language of
his furious Father to him: he kneeled downe, humbly craving pardon,
both for his Fathers rudenes and his owne, which was courteously
granted by the Count, embracing him lovingly in his armes.
  When they had a while discoursed their severall fortunes, sometime
in teares, and then againe in joy; Perotto and Sir Roger, would have
the Count to be garmented in better manner, but in no wise he would
suffer it; for it was his onely desire, that Sir Roger should bee
assured of the promised reward, by presenting him in the Kings
presence, and in the homely habit which he did weare, to touch him
with the more sensible shame, for his rash beleefe, and injurious
proceeding. Then Sir Roger Mandevile, guiding the Count by the hand,
and Perotto following after, came before the King, offering to present
the Count and his children, if the reward promised in the Proclamation
might be performed. The King immediately commanded, that a reward of
inestimable valew should be produced; desiring Sir Roger upon the
sight thereof, to make good his offer, for forthwith presenting the
Count and his children. Which hee made no longer delay of, but turning
himselfe about, delivered the aged Count, by the title of his servant,
and presenting Perotto next, saide. Sir, heere I deliver you the
Father and his Son, his Daughter who is my wife, cannot so
conveniently be here now, but shortly, by the permission of heaven,
your Majesty shall have a sight of her.
  When the King heard this, stedfastly he looked on the Count; and,
notwithstanding his wonderfull alteration, both from his wonted
feature and forme: yet, after he had very seriously viewed him, he
knew him perfectly; and the teares trickling downe his cheekes
partly with remorsefull shame, and joy also for his so happy recovery,
he tooke up the Count from kneeling, kissing, and embracing him very
kindely, welcomming Perotto in the selfe same manner. Immediately also
he gave commaund, that the Count should be restored to his honors,
apparell, servants, horses, and furniture, answerable to his high
estate and calling, which was as speedily performed. Moreover, the Kin
greatly honoured Sir Roger Mandevile, desiring to be made acquainted
with all their passed fortunes.
  When Sir Roger had received the royall reward, for thus surrendering
the Count and his Sonne, the Count calling him to him, saide. Take
that Princely remuneration of my soveraigne Lord and King, and
commending me to your unkinde Father, tell him that your Children
are no beggars brats, neither basely borne by their Mothers side.
Sir Roger returning home with his bountifull reward, soone after
brought his Wife and Mother to Paris, and so did Perotto his Wife
where in great joy and triumph, they continued with while with the
noble Count; who had all his goods and honours restored to him, in
farre greater measure then ever they were before: his Sonnes in Law
returning home with their Wives into England, left the Count with
the King at Paris, where he spent the rest of his dayes in great
honour and felicity.
                     THE SECOND DAY, THE NINTH NOVELL

       WHEREIN IS DECLARED, THAT BY OVERLIBERALL COMMENDING THE
      CHASTITY OF WOMEN, IT FALLETH OUT (OFTENTIMES) TO BE VERY
      DANGEROUS, ESPECIALLY BY THE MEANES OF TREACHERERS WHO YET
         (IN THE ENDE) ARE JUSTLY PUNNISHED FOR THEIR TREACHERY

  Bernardo, a Merchant of Geneway, being deceived by another Merchant,
named Ambroginolo, lost a great part of his goods. And commanding
his innocent Wife to be murthered, she escaped, and (in the habite
of a man) became servant to the Soldane. The deceiver being found at
last, shee compassed such meanes, that her Husband Bernardo came
into Alexandria, and there, after due punnishment inflicted on the
false deceiver, she resumed the garments againe of a woman, and
returned home with her Husband to Geneway.

  Madam Eliza having ended her compassionate discourse, which indeede
had moved all the rest to sighing; the Queene, who was faire, comely
of stature, and tarrying a very majesticall countenance, smiling
more familarly then the other, spake to them thus. It is very
necessary, that the promise made to Dioneus, should carefully be kept,
and because now there remaineth none, to report any more Novels, but
onely he and my selfe: I must first deliver mine, and he (who takes it
for an honour) to be the last in relating his owne, last let him be
for his owne deliverance. Then pausing a little while, thus she
began againe. Many times among vulgar people, it hath passed as a
common Proverbe: That the deceiver is often trampled on, by such as he
hath deceived. And this cannot shew it selfe (by any reason) to be
true, except such accidents as awaite on treachery, doe really make
a just discovery thereof. And therefore according to the course of
this day observed, I am the woman that must make good what I have
saide for the approbation of that Proverbe: no way (I hope)
distastfull to you in the hearing, but advantageable to preserve you
from any such beguiling.
  There was a faire and goodly Inne in Paris, much frequented by
many great Italian Merchants, according to such variety of occasions
and businesse, as urged their often resorting thither. One night among
many other, having had a merry Supper together, they began to
discourse on divers matters, and falling from one relation to another;
they communed in very friendly manner, concerning their wives, lefte
at home in their houses. Quoth the first, I cannot well imagine what
my wife is now doing, but I am able to say for my selfe, that if a
pretty female should fall into my company: I could easily forget my
love to my wife, and make use of such an advantage offered.
  A second replyed; And trust me, I should do no lesse, because I am
perswaded, that if my wife be willing to wander, the law is in her
owne hand, and I am farre enough from home: dumbe walles blab no
tales, and offences unknowne are sildome or never called in
question. A third man unapt in censure, with his former fellowes of
the Jury; and it plainely appeared, that all the rest were of the same
opinion, condemning their wives over-rashly, and alledging, that
when husbands strayed so far from home, their wives had wit enough
to make use of their time.
  Onely one man among them all, named Bernardo Lomellino, and dwelling
in Geneway, maintained the contrary; boldly avouching, that by the
especiall favour of Fortune, he had a wife so perfectly compleate in
all graces and vertues, as any Lady in the world possibly could be,
and that Italy scarsely contained her equall. But, she was goodly of
person, and yet very young, quicke, quaint, milde, and courteous,
and not any thing appertaining to the office of a wife, either for
domesticke affayres, or any other imployment whatsoever, but in
womanhoode shee went beyond all other. No Lord, Knight, Esquire, or
Gentleman, could bee better served at his Table, then himselfe dayly
was, with more wisedome, modesty and discretion. After all this, hee
praised her for riding, hawking, hunting, fishing, fowling, reading,
writing, enditing, and most absolute keeping his Bookes of accounts,
that neither himselfe, or any other Merchant could therein excell her.
After infinite other commendations, he came to the former point of
their argument, concerning the easie falling of women into
wantonnesse, maintaining (with a solemne oath) that no woman
possibly could be more chaste and honest then she: in which respect,
he was verily perswaded, that if he stayed from her ten years space
(yea all his life time) out of his house; yet never would shee
falsifie her faith to him, or be lewdly allured by any other man.
  Amongst these Merchants thus communing together, there was a young
proper man, named Ambroginolo of Placentia, who began to laugh at
the last prayses which Bernardo had used of his Wife, and seeming to
make a mockerie thereof, demaunded, if the Emperour had given him this
priviledge, above all other married men? Bernardo being somewhat
offended, answered: No Emperour hath done it, but the especiall
blessing of heaven, exceeding all the Emperours on the earth in grace,
and thereby have received this favour; whereto Ambroginolo presently
thus replyed. Bernardo, without all question to the contrary, I
beleeve that what thou hast said, is true; but (for ought I can
perceive) thou hast slender judgement in the Nature of things:
because, if thou diddst observe them well, thou couldst not be of so
grosse understanding. For, by comprehending matters in their true
kinde and nature, thou wouldst speake of them more correctly then thou
doest. And to the end, thou mayest not imagine, that we who have
spoken of our Wives, doe thinke any otherwise of them, then as well
and honestly as thou canst of thine, nor that any thing else did
urge these speeches of them, or falling into this kinde of
discourse, but onely by a naturall instinct and admonition, I wil
proceede familiarly, a little further with thee, uppon the matter
alreadie propounded. I have evermore understoode, that man was the
most noble creature, formed by God to live in this World, and woman in
the next degree to him: but man, as generally is beleeved, and as is
discerned by apparant effects is the most perfect of both. Having then
the most perfection in him, without all doubt, he must be so much
the more firme and constant. So in like manner, it hath beene, and
is universally graunted, that Woman is more various and mutable, may
be approved by and the reason thereof may be approved by many naturall
circumstances, which were needlesse now to make any mention of. If a
man then be possessed of the greater stability, and yet cannot
containe himselfe from condiscending, I say not to one that
entreates him, but to desire any other that please him; and beside, to
covet the enjoying of his owne pleasing contentment (a thing not
chancing to him once in a moneth, but infinite times in a dayes
space). What can you then conceive of a fraile Woman, subject (by
nature) to entreaties, flatteries, giftes, perswasions, and a thousand
other inticing meanes, which a man (that is affected to her) can
use? Doest thou thinke then that she hath any power to containe?
Assuredly, though thou shouldest rest so resolved, yet cannot I be
of the same opinion. For I am sure thou beleevest, and must needes
confesse it, that thy wife is a Woman, made of flesh and blood, as
other women are: if it be so, she cannot bee without the same desires,
and the weaknesse or strength as other women have, to resist
naturall appetites as her owne are. In regard whereof, it is meerely
impossible (although she be most honest) but she must needs doe that
which other Women doe: for there is nothing else possible, either to
be denied or affirmed to the contrary, as thou most unadvisedly hast
done.
  Bernardo answered in this manner. I am a Merchant, and no
Philosopher, and like a Merchant I meane to answer thee. I am not to
learne, that these accidents by thee related, may happen to fooles,
who are voide of understanding or shame: but such as are wise, and
endued with vertue, have alwayes such a precious esteeme of their
honour, that they wil containe those principles of constancie, which
men are meerely carelesse of, and I justifie my wife to be one of
them. Beleeve me Bernardo, replyed Ambroginolo, if so often as thy
wives minde is addicted to wanton folly, a badge of scorne should
arise on thy forehead, to render testimony of hir female frailty, I
beleeve the number of them would be more, then willingly you would
wish them to be. And among all married men in every degree, the
notes are so secret of their wives imperfections, that the sharpest
sight is not able to discerne them: and the wiser sort of men are
willing not to know them; because shame and losse of honour is never
imposed, but in cases evident and apparant.
  Perswade thy selfe then Bernardo, that what women may accomplish
in secret, they will rarely faile to doe: or if they abstaine, it is
through feare and folly. Wherefore, hold it for a certaine rule,
that that is onely chaste, that never was solicited personally, or
if she endured any such suite, either shee answered yea, or no. And
albeit I know this to be true, by many infallible and naturall
reasons, yet could I not speak so exactly as I doe, if I had not tried
experimentally, the humours and affections of divers Women. Yea, and
let me tell thee more Bernardo, were I in private company with thy
wife, howsoever thou presumest to thinke her to be, I should account
it a matter of no impossibility, to finde in her the selfesame
frailty.
  Bernardoes blood now began to boyle, and patience being a little put
downe by choller, thus he replyed. A combat of words requires
over-long continuance; for I maintaine the matter which thou
deniest, and all this sorts to nothing in the end. But seeing thou
presumest, that all women are so apt and tractable, and thy selfe so
confident of thine owne power: I willingly yeeld (for the better
assurance of my wifes constant loyalty) to have my head smitten off,
if thou canst winne her to any such dishonest act, by any meanes
whatsoever thou canst use unto her; which if thou canst not doe,
thou shalt onely loose a thousand duckets of Gold. Now began
Ambroginolo to be heated with these words, answering thus. Bernardo,
if I had won the wager, I know not what I should doe with thy head;
but if thou be willing to stand upon the proofe, pawne downe five
thousand Duckets of gold, (a matter of much lesse value then thy head)
against a thousand Duckets of mine, granting me a lawfull limited
time, which I require to be no more then the space of three moneths,
after the day of my departing hence. I will stand bound to goe for
Geneway, and there winne such kinde consent of thy Wife, as shall be
to mine owne content. In witnesse whereof, I will bring backe with
me such private and especiall tokens, as thou thy selfe shalt confesse
that I have not failed. Provided, that thou doe first promise upon thy
faith, to absent thy selfe thence during my limitted time, and be no
hinderance to me by thy Letters, concerning the attempt by me
undertaken.
  Bernardo saide, Be it a bargaine, am the man that will make good
my five thousand Duckets; and albeit the other Merchants then present,
earnestly laboured to breake the wager, knowing great harme must needs
ensue thereon: yet both the parties were so hot and fiery, as all
the other men spake to no effect, but writings was made, sealed, and
delivered under either of their hands, Bernardo remaining at Paris,
and Ambroginolo departing for Geneway. There he remained some few
dayes, to learne the streetes name where Bernardo dwelt, as also the
conditions and qualities of his Wife, which scarcely pleased him
when he heard them; because they were farre beyond her Husbands
relation, and shee reputed to be the onely wonder of women; whereby he
plainely perceived, that he had undertaken a very idle enterprise, yet
would he not give it over so, but proceeded therein a little further.
  He wrought such meanes, that he came acquainted with a poore
woman, who often frequented Bernardoes house, and was greatly in
favour with his wife; upon whose poverty he so prevailed, by earnest
perswasions, but much more by large gifts of money, that he won her to
further him in this manner following. A faire and artificiall Chest he
caused to be purposely made, wherein himselfe might be aptly
contained, and so conveyed into the House of Bernardoes Wife, under
colour of a formall excuse; that the poore woman should be absent from
the City two or three dayes, and shee must keepe it safe till she
returne. The Gentlewoman suspecting no guile, but that the Chest was
the receptacle of all the womans wealth; would trust it in no other
roome, then her owne Bed-chamber, which was the place where
Ambroginolo most desired to bee.
  Being thus conveyed into the Chamber, the night going on apace,
and the Gentlewoman fast asleepe in her bed, a lighted Taper stood
burning on the Table by her, as in her Husbands absence shee ever used
to have: Ambroginolo softly opened the Chest, according as cunningly
hee had contrived it, and stepping forth in his sockes made of cloath,
observed the scituation of the Chamber, the paintings, pictures, and
beautifull hangings, with all things else that were remarkable,
which perfectly he committed to his memory. Going neere to the bed, he
saw her lie there sweetly sleeping, and her young Daughter in like
manner by her, she seeming then as compleate and pleasing a
creature, as when shee was attired in her best bravery. No especiall
note or marke could hee descrie, whereof he might make credible
report, but onely a small wart upon her left pappe, with some few
haires growing thereon, appearing to be as yellow as gold.
  Sufficient had he seene, and durst presume no further; but taking
one of her Rings, which lay upon the Table, a purse of hers, hanging
by on the wall, a light wearing Robe of silke, and her girdle, all
which he put into the Chest; and being in himselfe, closed it fast
as it was before, so continuing there in the Chamber two severall
nights, the Gentlewoman neither mistrusting or missing any thing.
The third day being come, the poore woman, according as formerly was
concluded, came to have home her Chest againe, and brought it safely
into her owne house; where Ambroginolo comming forth of it,
satisfied the poore woman to her owne liking, returning (with all
the forenamed things) so fast as conveniently he could to Paris.
  Being arrived there long before his limmitted time, he called the
Merchants together, who were present at the passed words and wager;
avouching before Bernardo, that he had won his five thousand
Duckets, and performed the taske he undertooke. To make good his
protestation, first he described the forme of the Chamber, the curious
pictures hanging about it, in what manner the bed stood, and every
circumstance else beside. Next he shewed the severall things, which he
brought away thence with him, affirming that he had received them of
her selfe. Bernardo confessed, that his description of the Chamber was
true, and acknowledged moreover, that these other things did belong to
his Wife: But (quoth he) this may be gotten, by corrupting some
servant of mine, both for intelligence of the Chamber, as also of
the Ring, Purse, and what else is beside; all which suffice not to win
the wager, without some other more apparant and pregnant token. In
troth, answered Ambroginolo, me thinkes these should serve for
sufficient proofes; but seeing thou art so desirous to know more: I
plainely tell thee, that faire Genevra thy Wife, hath a small round
wart upon her left pappe, and some few little golden haires growing
thereon.
  When Bernardo heard these words, they were as so many stabs to his
heart, yea, beyond all compasse of patient sufferance, and by the
changing of his colour, it was noted manifestly, (being unable to
utter one word) that Ambroginolo had spoken nothing but the truth.
Within a while after, he saide; Gentlemen, that which Ambroginolo hath
saide, is very true, wherefore let him come when he will, and he shall
be paide; which accordingly he performed on the very next day, even to
the utmost penny, departing then from Paris towards Geneway, with a
most malitious intention to his Wife: Being come neere to the City, he
would not enter it, but rode to a Country house of his, standing about
tenne miles distant thence. Being there arrived, he called a
servant, in whom hee reposed especiall trust, sending him to Geneway
with two Horses, writing to his Wife, that he was returned, and shee
should come thither to see him. But secretly he charged his servant,
that so soone as he had brought her to a convenient place, he should
there kill her, without any pitty or compassion, and then returne to
him againe.
  When the servant was come to Geneway, and had delivered his Letter
and message, Genevra gave him most joyfull welcome, and on the
morrow morning mounting on Horse-backe with the servant, rode
merrily towards the Country house; divers things shee discoursed on by
the way, till they descended into a deepe solitary valey, very thickly
beset with high and huge spreading Trees, which the servant supposed
to be a meete place, for the execution of his Masters command.
Suddenly drawing forth his Sword, and holding Genevra fast by the
arme, he saide; Mistresse, quickly commend your soule to God, for
you must die, before you passe any further. Genevra seeing the naked
Sword, and hearing the words so peremptorily delivered, fearefully
answered; Alas deare friend, mercy for Gods sake; and before thou kill
me, tell me wherein I have offended thee, and why thou must kill me?
Alas good Mistresse replied the servant, you have not any way offended
me, but in what occasion you have displeased your Husband, it is
utterly unknowne to me: for he hath strictly commanded me, without
respect of pitty or compassion, to kill you by the way as I bring you,
and if I doe it not, he hath sworne to hang me by the necke. You
know good Mistresse, how much I stand obliged to him, and how
impossible it is for me, to contradict any thing that he commandeth.
God is my witnesse, that I am truly compassionate of you, and yet
(by no meanes) may I let you live.
  Genevra kneeling before him weeping, wringing her hands, thus
replyed. Wilt thou turne Monster, and be a murtherer of her that never
wronged thee, to please another man, and on a bare command? God, who
truly knoweth all things, is my faithfull witnesse, that I never
committed any offence, whereby to deserve the dislike of my Husband,
much lesse so harsh a recompence as this is. But flying from mine owne
justification, and appealing to thy manly mercy, thou mayest (wert
thou but so well pleased) in a moment satisfie both thy Master and me,
in such manner as I will make plaine and apparant to thee. Take thou
my garments, spare me onely thy doublet, and such a Bonnet as is
fitting for a man, so returne with my habite to thy Master, assuring
him, that the deede is done. And here I sweare to thee, by that life
which I enjoy but by thy mercy, I will so strangely disguise my selfe,
and wander so far off from these Countries, as neither he or thou, nor
any person belonging to these parts, shall ever heare any tydings of
me.
  The servant, who had no great good will to kill her, very easily
grew pittifull, tooke off her upper garments, and gave her a poore
ragged doublet, a sillie Chapperone, and such small store of money
as he had, desiring her to forsake that Country, and so left her to
walke on foote out of the valley. When he came to his Maister, and had
delivered him her garments, he assured him, that he had not onely
accomplished his commaund, but also was most secure from any
discovery: because he had no sooner done the deede, but foure or
five very ravenous Woolves, came presently running to the dead
bodie, and gave it buriall in their bellyes. Bernardo soone after
returning to Geneway, was much blamed for such unkinde cruelty to
his wife; but his constant avouching of her treason to him
(according then to the Countries custome) did cleare him from all
pursuite of Law.
  Poor Genevra was left thus alone and disconsolate, and night
stealing fast upon her, shee went to a silly village neere
adjoyning, where (by the meanes of a good olde woman) she got such
provision as the place afforded, making the doublet fit to her body,
and converting her petticoate to a paire of breeches, according to the
Mariners fashion: then cutting her haire, and quaintly disguised
like unto a Saylor, she went to the Sea coast. By good fortune, she
met there with a Gentleman of Cathalogna, whose name was Signior
Enchararcho, who came on land from his Ship, which lay hulling there
about Albagia, to refresh himselfe at a pleasant Spring. Enchararcho
taking her to be a man, as shee appeared no otherwise by her habite;
upon some conference passing betweene them, shee was entertayned
into his service, and being brought aboord the Ship, she went under
the name of Sicurano da Finale. There shee had better apparrell
bestowne on her by the Gentleman, and her service proved so pleasing
and acceptable to him, that hee liked her care and diligence beyond
all comparison.
  It came to passe within a short while after, that this Gentleman
of Cathalogna sayled (with some charge of his) into Alexandria,
carrying thither certaine Faulcons, which he presented to the
Soldan, who oftentimes welcommed this Gentleman to his table, where he
observed the behaviour of Sicurano, attending on his Maisters
Trencher, and therewith was so highly pleased; that hee requested to
have him from the Gentleman, who (for his more advancement)
willingly parted with his so lately entertained servant. Sicurano
was so ready and discreet in his daily services, that he grew in as
great grace with the Soldan, as before hee had done with Enchararcho.
  At a certaine season in the yeare, as customary order (there
observed) had formerly beene, in the City of Acres which was under the
Soldanes subjection, there yeerely met a great assembly of
Merchants, as Christians, Moores, jewes, Sarazens, and many other
Nations besides, as at a common Mart or Fayre. And to the end, that
the Merchants (for the better sale of their goods) might be there in
the safer assurance, the Soldane used to send thither some of his
ordinarie Officers, and a strong guard of Souldiers beside, to
defend them from all injuries and molestation, because he reaped
thereby no meane benefit. And who should be now sent about this
businesse, but his new elected favourite Sicurano, because she was
skilfull and. perfect in the Languages.
  Sicurano being come to Acres, as Lord and Captaine of the Guard
for the Merchants, and for the safety of their Merchandizes, she
discharged her office most commendably, walking with her traine
thorough every part of the Fayre, where she observed a worthy
company of Merchants, Sicilians, Pisans, Genewayes, Venetians, and
other Italians, whom the more willingly she noted, in remembrance of
her native Country. At one especiall time among other, chancing into a
Shop or Booth belonging to the Venetians, she espied (hanging up
with other costly wares) a Purse and a Girdle, which sodainly she
remembred to be sometime her owne; whereat she was not a little
abashed in her minde. But without making any such outward shew,
courteously she requested to know whose they were, and whether they
should be sold, or no.
  Ambroginolo of Placentia, was likewise come thither, and great store
of Merchandizes hee had brought with him, in a Carracke appertaining
to the Venetians, and hee hearing the Captaine of the Guard demaund
whose they were, stepped foorth before him, and smiling, answered:
That they were his, but not to be solde; yet if hee liked them, gladly
he would bestow them on him. Sicurano seeing him smile, suspected
least himselfe had (by some unfitting behaviour) beene the occasion
thereof: and therefore, with a more setled countenance, hee said:
Perhaps thou smilest, because I that am a man, professing Armes,
should question after such womanish toyes. Ambroginolo replyed, My
Lord, pardon mee, I smile not at you, or at your demaund, but at the
manner how I came by these things.
  Sicurano, upon this answere, was ten times more desirous then
before, and saide: If Fortune favoured thee in friendly maner, by
the obtaining of these things: if it may be spoken, tell mee how
thou hadst them. My Lord (answered Ambroginolo) these things (with
many more besides) were given me by a Gentlewoman of Geneway, named
Madam Genevra, the wife to one Bernardo Lomellino, in recompence of
one nights lodging with her, and she desired me to keepe them for
her sake. Now, the maine reason of my smiling, was the remembrance
of her husbands folly, in waging five thousand Duckets of Gold,
against one thousand of mine, that I should not obtaine my will of his
Wife; which I did, and thereby won the wager. But hee, who better
deserved to be punished for his folly, then shee, who was but sicke of
all womens disease; returning from Paris to Geneway, caused her to
be slaine, as afterward it was reported by himselfe.
  When Sicurano heard this horrible lye, immediately shee conceived,
that this was the occasion of her husbands hatred to her, and all
the hard haps which she had since suffered: whereupon, shee reputed it
for more then a mortall sinne, if such a villaine should passe without
due punishment. Sicurano seemed to like well this report, and grew
into such familiarity with Ambroginolo, that (by her perswasions) when
the Fayre was ended, she tooke him higher with her into Alexandria,
and all his Wares along with him, furnishing him with a fit and
convenient shop, where he made great benefite of his Merchandizes,
trusting all his monies in the Captaines custody, because it was the
safest course for him, and so hee continued there with no meane
contentment.
  Much did shee pitty her Husbands perplexity, devising by what good
and warrantable meanes she might make knowne her innocency to him;
wherein her place and authority did greatly sted her, and she
wrought with divers gallant Merchants of Geneway that then remained in
Alexandria, and by vertue of the Soldans friendly letters beside, to
bring him thither upon an lall occasion. Come he did, albeit in
especiall in poore and meane order, which soone was better altered
by her appointment, and he verie honourably (though in private)
entertained by divers of her woorthie friends, till time did favour
what she further intended.
  In the expectation of Bernardoes arrivall, shee had so prevayled
with Ambrogiriolo, that the same tale which he formerly told to her,
he delivered againe in presence of the Soldan, who seemed to be wel
pleased with it. But after shee had once seene her Husband, shee
thought upon her more serious businesse; providing her selfe of an apt
opportunity, when shee entreated such favour of the Soldan, that
both the men might bee brought before him; where if Ambroginolo
would not confesse (without constraint) that which he had made his
vaunt of concerning Bernardoes wife, he might be compelled thereto
perforce.
 Sicuranoes word was a Law with the Soldane, so that Ambroginolo and
Bernardo being brought face to face, the Soldane with a sterne and
angry countenance, in the presence of a most Princely Assembly,
commanded Ambroginolo to declare the truth, upon perill of his life,
by what meanes he won the Wager of the five thousand Golden Duckets he
received of Bernardo. Ambroginolo seeing Sicurano there present,
upon whose favour he wholly relyed, yet perceiving her lookes likewise
to be as dreadful as the Soldans, and hearing her threaten him with
most greevous torments except he revealed the truth indeed; you may
easily guesse in what condition he stood at that instant.
  Frownes and fury he beheld on either side, and Bernardo standing
before him, with a world of famous witnesses, to heare his lye
confounded by his owne confession, and his tongue to denie what it had
before so constantly avouched. Yet dreaming on no other pain or
penalty, but restoring backe the five thousand Duckets of gold, and
the other things by him purloyned, truly he revealed the whole forme
of his falshood. Then Sicurano according as the Soldane had formerly
commanded him, turning to Bernardo, saide. And thou, upon the
suggestion of this foule lye, what didst thou to thy Wife? Being
(quoth Bernardo) overcome with for the losse of my money, and the
dishonor I supposed to receive by my Wife; I caused a servant of
mine to kill her, and as hee credibly avouched, her body was
devoured by ravenous Wolves in a moment after.
  These things being thus spoken and heard, in the presence of the
Soldan, and no reason (as yet) made knowne, why the case was so
seriously urged, and to what end it would succeede: Sicurano spake
in this manner to the Soldane. My gracious Lord, you may plainly
perceive, in what degree that poore Gentlewoman might make her
vaunt, beeing so well provided, both of a loving friend, and a
husband. Such was the friends love, that in an instant, and by a
wicked lye, hee robbed her both of her renowne and honour, and
bereft her also of her husband. And her husband, rather crediting
anothers falshoode, then the invincible trueth, whereof he had
faithfull knowledge, by long and very honorable experience; caused her
to be slaine, and made foode for devouring Wolves. Beside all this,
such was the good will and affection borne to that Woman both by
friend and husband, that the longest continuer of them in her company,
makes them alike in knowledge of her. But because your great wisedom
knoweth perfectly what each of them have worthily deserved: if you
please (in your ever-knowne gracious benignity) to permit the
punishment of the deceiver, and pardon the partie so diceyved; I
will procure such meanes, that she shall appeare here in your
presence, and theirs.
  The Soldane, being desirous to give Sicurano all manner of
satisfaction, having followed the course so indistriously, bad him
to produce the Woman, and hee was well contented. Whereat Bernardo
stoode much amazed, because he verity beleeved that she was dead.
And Ambroginolo foreseeing already a preparation for punishment,
feared, that the repayment of the money would not now serve his turne:
not knowing also, what he should further hope or suspect, if the woman
her selfe did personally appeare, which hee imagined would be a
miracle. Sicurano having thus obtained the Soldanes permission,
teares, humbling her selfe at his feete, in a moment she lost her
manly voyce and demeanour, as knowing that she was now no longer to
use them, but must truly witnesse what she was indeed, and therefore
thus spake.
  Great Soldane, I am the miserable and unfortunate Genevra, that
for the space of sixe whole yeeres, have wandered through the world,
in the habite of a man, falsely and most maliciously slaundered, by
this villainous Traytor Ambroginolo, and by this unkinde cruell
husband, betraied to his servant to be slaine, and left to be devoured
by savage beasts. Afterward, desiring such garments as better fitted
for her, and shewing her breasts, she made it apparant before the
Soldane and his assistants, that shee was the very same woman indeede.
Then turning her selfe to Ambroginolo, with more then manly courage,
she demanded of him, when, and where it was, that he lay with her,
as (villainously) he was not ashamed to make his vaunt? But hee,
having alreadie acknowledged the contrarie, being stricken dumbe
with shamefull disgrace, was not able to utter one word.
  The Soldane, who had alwayes reputed Sicurano to be a man, having
heard and seene so admirable an accident; was so amazed in his
minde, that many times he was very doubtfull, whether this was a
dreame, or an absolute relation of trueth. But, after hee had more
seriously considered thereon, and found it to be reall and infallible:
with extraordinary gracious praises, he commended the life, constancy,
condition and vertues of Genevra, whom (til that time) he had
alwayes called Sicurano. So committing her to the company of
honourable Ladies, to be changed from her manly habite; he pardoned
Bernardo her husband (according to her request formerly made) although
hee had more justly deserved death: which likewise himselfe confessed,
and falling at the feet of Genevra, desired her (in teares) to forgive
his rash transgression, which most lovingly she did, kissing and
embracing him a thousand times.
  Then the Soldane strictly commaunded, that on some high and
eminent place of the Citie, Ambroginolo should be bound and impaled on
a stake, having his naked body nointed all over with hony, and never
to bee taken off, untill (of it selfe) it fell in peeces, which,
according to the sentence, was presently performed. Next, he gave
expresse charge, that all his mony and goods should be given to
Genevra, which valued above ten thousand double Duckets. Forthwith a
solemne Feast was prepared, wherein much honor was done to Bernardo,
being the husband of Genevra: and to her, as to a most worthy woman,
and matchlesse wife, he gave in costly jewels, as also vessels of gold
and silver plate, so much as did amount to above ten thousand double
Duckets more.
  When the feasting was finished, he caused a Ship to be furnished for
them, graunting them license to depart from Geneway when they pleased;
whither they returned most richly and joyfully, being welcomed home
with great honour, especially Madam Genevra, whom every one supposed
to be dead; and alwayes after, so long as she lived, shee was most
famous for her manifold vertues. But as for Ambroginolo, the verie
same day that hee was impaled on the stake, annointed with honey,
and fixed in the place appointed, to his no meane torment: he not
onely died, but likewise was devoured to the bare bones, by Flies,
Waspes, and Hornets, whereof the Countrey notoriously aboundeth. And
his bones, in full forme and fashion, remained strangely blacke for
a long time after, knit together by the sinewes; as a witnesse to many
thousands of people, which afterward beheld the Carkasse of his
wickednesse against so good and vertuous a Woman, that had not so much
as a thought of any evill towards him. And thus was the Proverbe truly
verified, that shame succeedeth after ugly sinne, and the deceiver
is trampled and trod, by such as himselfe hath deceived.
                    THE SECOND DAY, THE TENTH NOVELL

      WHEREIN OLDE MEN ARE WITTILY REPREHENDED, THAT WILL MATCH
      THEMSELVES WITH YOUNGER WOMEN THEN IS FIT FOR THEIR YEERES,
      AND INSUFFICIENT, NEVER CONSIDERING WHAT MAY HAPPEN TO THEM

  Pagamino da Monaco, a roving Pyrate on the Seas, carried away the
fayre Wife of Signior Ricciardo de Chinzica, who understanding where
shee was, went thither; and falling into friendship with Pagamino,
demanded his Wife of him; whereto he yeelde, provided, that shee
would willing goe away with him. She denied to part thence with her
Husband, and Signior Ricciardo dying, she became the wife of Pagamino.

  Every one in this honest and gracious assembly, most highly
commended the Novell re-counted by the Queene: but especially Dioneus,
who remained to finish that dayes pleasure with his owne Discourse,
and after many praises of the former tale were past, thus he began.
Faire Ladies, part of the Queenes Novell hath made an alteration of my
minde, from that which I intended to proceede next withall, and
therfore I will report another. I cannot forget the unmanly
indiscretion of Bernardo, but much more the base arrogance of
Ambroginolo, how justly deserved shame fell upon him, as well it may
happen to all other, that are so vile in their owne opinions, as he
apparantly approved himselfe to be. For, as men wander abroad in the
world, according to their occasions in diversity of Countries and
observations of the peoples behaviour; so are their humours as
variously transported. And if they finde women wantonly disposed
abroade, the like judgement they give of their Wives at home; as if
they had never knowne their birth and breeding, or made proofe of
their loyall carriage towards them. Wherefore, the Tale that I purpose
to relate, will likewise condemne all the like kind of men, but more
especially such as thinke themselves endued with more strength then
Nature meant to bestow on them, foolishly beleeving, that they can
cover their owne defects by fabulous demonstrations, and thinking to
fashion other of their owne complexions, that are meerely strangers to
such grosse follies.
 Know then, that there lived in Pisa (some hundred yeeres before
Tuscany and Liguria embraced the Christian faith) a judge better
stored with wisedome and ingenuity, then corporall abilities of the
body, named Signior Ricciardo di Cinzica. He being more then halfe
perswaded, that hee could content a woman with such satisfaction as
hee daily bestowed on his studies, being a widdower, and extraordinary
wealthy, laboured with no meane paines, to enjoy a faire and youthfull
wife in marriage: both which qualities hee should much rather have
avoyded, if he could have ministred as good counsell to himselfe, as
he did to others, resorting to him for advice. Upon this his amorous
and diligent inquisition, it came so to passe, that a worthy
Gentlewoman, called Bertolomea, one of the fairest and choisest yong
maids in Pisa, whose youth did hardly agree with his age; but muck was
the motive of this mariage, and no expectation of mutuall contentment.
The Judge being married, and the Bride brought solemnly home to his
house, we need make no question of brave cheare and banquetting,
well furnished by their friends on either side: other matters were now
hammering in the judges head, for thogh he could please all his
Clients with counsel, yet now such a suit was commenced against
himselfe, and in Beauties Court of continuall requests, that the Judge
failing in plea for his own defence, was often nonsuited by lack of
answer; yet he wanted not good wines, drugs, and all sorts of
restoratives to comfort the heart, and encrease good blood: but all
availed not.
  But well fare a good courage, where performance faileth, hee could
liberally commend his passed joviall daies, and make a promise of as
faire felicities yet to come; because his youth would renew it selfe
like to the Eagle, and his vigour in as full force as before. But
beside all these ydle allegations, would needs instruct his wife in an
Almanacke or Kalender, which he had (formerly) bought at Ravenna,
and wherein he plainely shewed her, that there was not one day in
the yeere, but it was dedicated to some Saint or other. In reverence
of whom, and for their sakes, he approved by divers arguments and
reasons, that a man and his wife ought to abstaine from bedding
together. Adding withall, that those Saints dayes had their Fasts
and Feasts, beside the foure seasons of the yeer, the vigils of the
Apostles, and a thousand other holy dayes, with Fridayes,
Saterdayes, and Sundayes, in honor of our Lords rest, and al the
holy time of Lent; as also certain observations of the Moone, and
infinit other exceptions beside; thinking perhaps, that it was as
convenient for men to refraine from their wives conversation, as he
did often time from sitting in the Court. These were his dayly
documents to his young wife, wherewith (poore soule) she became so
tyred, as nothing could be more irksom to her, and very careful he
was, lest any other should teach her what belonged to working daies,
because he would have her know none but holy daies. It came to
passe, that the season waxing extremely hot, Signior Ricciardo would
go to recreate himselfe at his house in the country, neere to the
blacke Mountaine, where for his faire wives more contentment, he
continued divers daies together. And for her further recreation, he
gave order to have a day of fishing, he going aboord a small Pinnace
among the Fishers, and she in another, consorted with divers other
Gentlewomen, in whose company she was very well pleased. Delight
made them launch further into the Sea, then either the Judge was
willing they should have done, or agreed with their owne safety. For
sodainly a Galliot came upon them, wherein was one Pagamino a famous
Pyrate, who espying the two Pinnaces, made presently to them, and
seized on that wherein the women were. When he beheld there so faire a
young Woman, he coveted after no other purchase; but mounting her into
his Galliot, in the sight of Signior Ricciardo, who by this time was
fearefully landed, he carried her away with him. When Signior Judge
had seene this theft (he being so jealous of his wife, as scarsely
he would let the ayre breathe on her) it were needlesse to know
whether he was offended, or no. He made complaint at Pisa, and in
other places beside, what injurie he had sustained by those Pyrates,
in carrying away his wife from him: but all in vaine, he neither (as
yet) knew the man, nor what was become of him. Pagamino perceiving
what a beautifull woman shee was, made the more precious esteeme of
his purchase, and being himselfe a Batchelor, intended to keepe her as
his owne, comforting her with kinde and pleasing speeches, not using
any ill demeanor to her, because she wept and lamented greevously. But
when night came, her husbands Kalender falling from her girdle, and
all the fasts and feasts quite out of her remembrance, she received
such curtesies from Pagamino, that before they could arrive at Monaco,
the Judge and his Law cases were almost out of memory; such was his
affable behaviour to her, and she began to converse with him in more
friendly manner, and he entreated her as honourably, as if she had bin
his espoused wife.
  Within a short while after, report had acquainted the Judge, where
and how his wife was kept from him; whereupon hee determined, not to
send, but rather to go himselfe in person, and to redeeme her from the
Pyrate, with what summes of money he should demand. By sea he passed
to Monaco, where he saw his wife, and she him, as (soone after) shee
made known to Pagamino. The next morning, Signior Ricciardo meeting
with Pagamino, made meanes to be acquainted with bim, and within lesse
then an houres space, they grew into familiar conference; Pagamino yet
pretending not to know him, but expected what issue this talke would
sort to. When time served, the Judge discoursed the occasion of his
comming thither, desiring him to demand what ransome he pleased, and
that he might have his wife home with him. Whereto Pagamino answered.
  My Lord Judge, you are welcome hither, and to answer you breefely
very true it is, that I have a yong Gentlewoman in my house, whom I
neither know to be your wife, or any other mans else whatsoever: for I
am ignorant both of you and her, albeit she hath remained a while here
with me. If you be her husband, as you seeme to avouch, I will bring
her to you, for you appeare to be a worthy Gentleman, and
(questionlesse) she cannot chuse but know you perfectly. If she do
confirme that which you have saide, and be willing to depart hence
with you: I shal rest well satisfied, and will have no other
recompence for her ransome (in regard of your grave and reverend
yeeres) but what your selfe shall please to give me. But if it fall
out other then you have affirmed, you shal offer me great wrong, in
seeking to get her from me; because I am a young man, and can as
well maintaine so faire a wife as you, or any man else that I know.
Beleeve it certainly, replyed the judge, that she is my wife, and if
you please to bring me where she is, you shall soone perceive it:
for she will presently cast her armes about my necke, and I durst
adventure the utter losse of her, if she deny to do it in your
presence. Come on then, saide Pagamino, and let us delay the time no
longer.
  When they were entred into Pagaminos house, and sat downe in the
Hall, he caused her to be called, and she (being readily prepared
for the purpose), came forth of her Chamber before them both, where
friendly they sate conversing together; never uttering any word unto
Signieur Ricciardo, or knowing him from any other stranger, that
Pagamino might bring into the house with him. Which when my Lord the
Judge beheld, (who expected to finde a farre more gracious welcome) he
stoode as a man amazed, saying to himselfe. Perhaps the
extraordinary greefe and melancholly suffered by me since the time
of her losse, hath so altred my wonted complexion, that shee is not
able to take knowledge of me. Wherefore, going neerer to her, he
saide: Faire Love, deerely have I bought your going on fishing,
because never man felt the like afflictions as I have done since the
day when I lost you: but by this your uncivil silence, you seeme as if
you did not know me. Why deerest love, seest thou not that I am thy
husband Ricciardo, who am come to pay what ransome this Gentleman
shall demaund, even in the house where now we are, so to convey thee
home againe, upon his kind promise of thy deliverance, after the
payment of thy ransome?
  Bertolomea turning towards him, and seeming as if shee smiled to her
selfe, thus answered. Sir, speake you to me? Advise your selfe well,
least you mistake me for some other, for mine owne part, I never saw
you till now. How now quoth Ricciardo? Consider better what you say,
looke more circumspectly on me, and then you will remember, that I
am your loving husband, and my name is Ricciardo di Cinzica. You
must pardon me Sir, replyed Bertolomea, I know it not so fitting for a
modest; woman to stand gazing in the faces of men: and let me looke
uppon you never so often, certaine I am, that (till this instant) I
have not seene you. My Lord Judge conceived in his minde, that thus
she denied all knowledge of him, as standing in feare of Pagamino, and
would not confesse him in his presence. Wherefore hee entreated of
Pagamino, to affoord him so much favour, that he might speake alone
with her in her Chamber. Pagamino answered, that he was well contented
therewith, provided, that he should not kisse her against her will.
Then he requested Bartolomea, to goe with him alone into her
Chamber, there to heare what he could say, and to answere him as
shee found occasion. When they were come into the Chamber, and none
there present but he and shee, Signior Ricciardo began in this manner.
Heart of my heart, life of my life, the sweetest hope that I have in
this world; wilt thou not know thine owne Ricciardo, who loveth thee
more then he doth himselfe? Why art thou so strange? Am I so
disfigured, that thou knowest me not? Behold me with a more pleasing
eye, I pray thee.
  Bartolomea smiled to her self and without suffering him to proceed
any further in speech, returned him this answere. I would have you
to understand Sir, that my memory is not so oblivious, but I know
you to be Signior Ricciardo di Cinzica, and my husband by name or
title, but during the time that I was with you, it very ill appeared
that you had any knowledge of me. For if you had bene so wise and
considerate, as (in your own judgement) the world reputed you to be,
you could not be voide of so much apprehension, but did apparantly
perceive, that I was yong, fresh, and cheerefully disposed; and so (by
consequent) meet to know matters requisite for such young women,
beside allowance of food and garments, though bashfulnesse and modesty
forbid to utter it. But if studying the Lawes were more welcome to you
then a wife, you ought not to have maried, and you loose the worthy
reputation of a judge, when you fall from that venerable profession,
and make your selfe a common proclaimer of feasts and fasting dayes,
lenten seasons, vigils, and solemnities due to Saints, which prohibite
the houshold conversation of husbands and wives.
  Here am I now with a worthy Gentleman, that entertaineth me with
very honourable respect, and here I live in this Chamber, not so
much as hearing of any feasts or fasting dayes; for, neither Fridaies,
Saturdaies, vigils of Saints, or any lingering Lent, enter at this
doore: but heere is honest and civill conversation, better agreeing
with a youthfull disposition, then those harsh documents wherewith you
tutord me. Wherefore my purpose is to continue here with him, as being
a place sutable to my minde and youth, referring feasts, vigils, and
fasting daies, to a more mature and stayed time of age, when the
body is better able to endure them, and the mind may be prepared for
such ghostly meditations: depart therefore at your owne pleasure,
and make much of your Calender, without enjoying any company of
mine, for you heare my resolved determination.
  The Judge hearing these words, was overcome with exceeding griefe,
and when she was silent, thus he began. Alas deare Love, what an
answere is this? Hast thou no regard of thine owne honor, thy Parents,
and friends? Canst thou rather affect to abide here, for the pleasures
of this man, and so sin capitolly, then to live at Pisa in the state
of my wife? Consider deare heart, when this man shall waxe weary of
thee, to thy shame and his owne disgrace, he will reject thee. I
must and shall love thee for ever, and when I dye, I leave thee Lady
and commandresse of all that is mine. Can an inordinate appetite,
cause thee to be carelesse of thine honour, and of him that loves thee
as his owne life? Alas, my fairest hope, say no more so, but returne
home with me, and now that I am acquainted with thy inclination; I
will endeavour heereafter to give thee better contentment. Wherefore
(deare heart) doe not denie me, but change thy minde, and goe with me,
for I never saw merry day since I lost thee.
 Sir (quoth she) I desire no body to have care of mine honour,
beside my selfe, because it cannot be here abused. And as for my
Parents, what respect had they of me, when they made me your wife?
If then they could be so carelesse of mee, what reason have I to
regard them now? And whereas you taxe me, that I cannot live here
without capitall sin; farre is the thought thereof from me: for,
here I am regarded as the wife of Pagamino, but at Pisa, you reputed
me not worthy your society: because, by the point of the Moone, and
the quadratures of Geometrie; the Planets held conjunction betweene
you and me, whereas here I am subject to no such constellations. You
say beside, that hereafter you will strive to give me better
contentment then you have done; surely, in mine opinion it is no way
possible, because our complexions are so farre different, as yce is
from fire, or gold from drosse. As for your allegation, of this
Gentlemans rejecting me, when his humour is satisfied; should it prove
to be so (as it is the least part of my feare) what fortune soever
shall betide me, never will I make any meanes to you, what miseries or
misadventures may happen to me; but the world will affoord me one
resting place or other, and more to my contentment, then if I were
with you. Therefore I tell you once againe, to live secured from all
offence to holy Saints, and not to injure their feasts, fasts,
vigills, and other ceremonious seasons: here is my demourance, and
from hence I purpose not to part.
  Our Judge was now in a wofull perplexity, and confessing his
folly, in marying a wife so young, and far unfit for his age and
abilitie: being halfe desperate, sad and displeased, he came forth
of the Chamber, using divers speeches to Pagamino, whereof he made
little or no account at all: and in the end, without any other
successe, left his wife there, and returned home to Pisa. There
further afflictions fell upon him, because the people began to
scorne him, demanding dayly of him, what was become of his gallant
young wife, making hornes, with ridiculous pointings at him: whereby
his sences became distracted, so that he ran raving about the
streetes, and afterward died in very miserable manner. Which newes
came no sooner to the eare of Pagamino, but, in the honourable
affection hee bare to Bertolomea, he maried her, with great solemnity;
banishing all Fasts, Vigils, and Lents from his house, and living with
her in much felicity. Wherfore (faire Ladies) I am of opinion, that
Bernardo of Geneway, in his disputation with Ambroginolo; might have
shewne himselfe a great deale wiser, and sparing his rash proceeding
with his wife.
  This tale was so merrily entertained among the whole company, that
each one smiling upon another, with one consent commended Dioneus,
maintaining that he spake nothing but the truth, and condemning
Bernardo for his cruelty. Upon a generall silence commanded, the Queen
perceiving that the time was now very farre spent, and every one had
delivered their severall Novels, which likewise gave a period to her
Royalty: she gave the Crowne to Madam Neiphila, pleasantly speaking to
her in this order. Heereafter, the government of these few people is
committed to your trust and care, for with the day concludeth my
dominion. Madam Neiphila, blushing; at the honor done unto her, her
cheekes appeared of a vermillion tincture, her eyes glittering with
gracefull desires, and sparkeling like the morning Starre. And after
the modest murmure of the Assistants was ceased, and her courage in
chearfull manner setled, seating her selfe higher then she did before,
thus she spake.
  Seeing it is so, that you have elected me your Queene, to varie
somewhat from the course observed by them that went before me, whose
governement you have all so much commended: by approbation of your
counsell, I am desirous to speake my mind, concerning what I wold have
to be next followed. It is not unknowne to you all, that to morrow
shal be Friday, and Saturday the next day following, which are daies
somewhat molestuous to the most part of men, for preparation of
their weekly food and sustenance. Moreover, Friday ought to be
reverendly respected, in remembrance of him, who died to give us life,
and endured his bitter passion, as on that day; which makes me to hold
it fit and expedient, that wee should mind more weight), matters,
and rather attend our prayers and devotions then the repetition of
tales or Novels. Now concerning Saturday, it hath bin a custome
observed among women, to bath and wash themselves from such
immundicities as the former weekes toile hath imposed on them. Beside,
it is a day of fasting, in honour of the ensuing Sabbath, whereon no
labor may be done, but the observation of holy exercises.
  By that which hath bin saide, you may easily conceive, that the
course which we have hitherto continued, cannot bee prosecuted in
one and the same manner: where. fore, I would advise and do hold it an
action wel performed by us, to cease for these few dayes, from
recounting any other Novels. And because we have remained here foure
daies already, except we would allow the enlarging of our company,
with some other friends that may resort unto us: I thinke it necessary
to remove from hence, and take our pleasure in another place, which is
already by me determined. When we shalbe there assembled, and have
slept on the discourses formerly delivered, let our next argument be
still the mutabilities of Fortune, but especially to concerne such
persons, as by their wit and ingenuity, industriously have attained to
some matter earnestly desired, or else recovered againe, after the
losse. Heereon let us severally study and premeditate, that the
hearers may receive benefit thereby, with the comfortable
maintenance of our harmelesse recreations; the priviledge of Dioneus
alwayes reserved to himselfe.
  Every one commended the Queens deliberation, concluding that it
shold be accordingly prosecuted: and thereupon, the master of the
houshold was called, to give him order for that evenings Table
service, and what else concerned the time of the Queenes Royalty,
wherein he was sufficiently instructed: which being done, the
company arose, licensing every one to doe what they listed. The Ladies
and Gentlemen walked to the Garden, and having sported themselves
there a while; when the houre of supper came, they sate downe, and
fared very daintily. Being risen from the Table, according to the
Queenes command, Madam Aemilia led the dance, and the ditty following,
was sung by Madam Pampinea, being answered by all the rest, as a
Chorus.

                    THE SONG

  And if not I, what Lady else can sing,
  Of those delights, which kind contentment bring?
  Come, come, sweet Love, the cause of my chiefe good,
  Of all my hopes, the firme and full effect;
  Sing wee together, but in no sad mood,
  Of sighes or teares, which joy doth countercheck:
  Stolne pleasures are delightfull in the taste,
  But yet Loves fire is oftentimes too fierce;
  Consuming comfort with ore-speedy haste,
  Which into gentle hearts too far doth pierce.
    And if not I, etc.
  The first day that I felt this fiery heate,
  So sweete a passion did possesse my soule,
  That though I found the torment sharp, and great;
  Yet still me thought t'was but a sweete controule.
  Nor could I count it rude, or rigorous,
  Taking my wound from such a piercing eye:
  As made the paine most pleasing, gracious,
  That I desire in such assaults to die.
    And if not I, etc.

  Grant then great God of Love, that I may still
  Enjoy the benefit of my desire;
  And honour her with all my deepest skill,
  That first enflam'd my heart with holy fire.
  To her my bondage is free liberty,
  My sicknesse health, my tortures sweet repose;
  Say shee the word, in full felicity
  All my extreames joyne in an happy close.
    Then if not I, what Lover else can sing,
    Of those delights which kind contentment bring?

  After this Song was ended, they sung divers other beside, and having
great variety of instruments' they played to them as many pleasing
dances. But the Queene considering that the meete houre for rest was
come, with their lighted Torches before them, they all repaired to
their Chambers; sparing the other dayes next succeeding, for those
reasons by the Queene alledged, and spending the Sunday in solemne
devotion.
                    THE INDUCTION TO THE THIRD DAY

     UPON WHICH DAY, ALL MATTERS TO BE DISCOURSED ON, DOE PASSE
    UNDER THE REGIMENT OF MADAM NEIPHILA: CONCERNING SUCH PERSONS
     AS (BY THEIR WIT AND INDUSTRY) HAVE ATTAINED TO THEIR LONG
     WISHED DESIRES, OR RECOVERED SOMETHING, SUPPOSED TO BE LOST

  The morning put on a vermillion countenance and made the Sunne to
rise blushing red, when the Queene (and all the faire company) were
come abroad forth of their Chambers; the Seneshall or great Master
of the Houshold, having (long before); sent all things necessary to
the place of their next intended meeting. And the people which
prepared there every needfull matter, suddainely when they saw the
Queene was setting forward, charged all the rest of their followers,
as if it had beene prepatation for a Campe; to make hast away with the
carriages, the rest of the Familie remaining behind, to attend upon
the Ladies and Gentlemen.
  With a milde, majesticke, and gentle pace, the Queene rode on, being
followed by the other Ladies, and the three young Gentlemen, taking
their way towards the West; conducted by the musicall notes of
sweete singing Nightingales, and infinite other pretty Birds beside,
riding in a tract not much frequented, but richly abounding with faire
hearbes and flowres, which by reason of the Sunnes high mounting,
beganne to open their bosome.
  But, after the dayes warmth was more mildely qualified, and every
one had made benefit of their best content: they went (by order sent
from the Queene) into the Meadow where the Fountaine stood, and
being set about it, as they used to do in telling their Tales (the
argument appointed by the Queene being propounded) the first that
had the charge imposed, was Philostratus, who began in this manner.
                    THE THIRD DAY, THE FIRST NOVELL

        WHEREIN IS DECLARED, THAT VIRGINITY IS VERY HARDLY TO BE
                           KEPT IN ALL PLACES

  Massetto di Lamporechio, by counterfetting himselfe to be dumbe,
became a Gardiner in a Monastery of Nunnes, where he had familiar
conversation with them all.

  Most worthy Ladies, there wants no store of men and women, that
are so simple, as to credit for a certainty, that so soon as a yong
virgin hath the veile put on hir head, and the black Cowle given to
cover withall, she is no longer a woman, nor more sensible of feminine
affections, then as if in turning Nun, shee became converted to a
stone. And if (perchance) they heard some matters, contrary to their
former perswasion; then they grow so furiously offended, as if one had
committed a most foule and enormous sinne, directly against the course
of Nature. And the torrent of this opinion burries them on so
violently, that they wil admit no leisure to consider, how (in such
a scope of liberty) they have power to doe what they list, yea
beyond all meanes of sufficient satisfying, never remembring how
potent the priviledge of idlenes is, especially when it is backt by
solitude. In like manner, there are other people now, who verily
beleeve, that the Spade and Pickaxe, grosse feeding and labour, do
quench al sensual and fleshly concupiscence, yea, in such as till
and husband the ground, by making them dull, blockish, and (almost)
meere senslesse of understanding. But I will approve (according as the
Queene hath commanded me, and within the compasse of her direction) by
a short and pleasant Tale; how greatly they are abused by errour, that
build upon so weake a foundation.
  Not farre from Alexandria, there was a great and goodly
Monasterie, belonging to the Lord of those parts, who is termed the
Admirall. And therein, under the care and trust of one woman, divers
virgins were kept as recluses, or Nuns, vowed to chastity of life; out
of whose number, the Soldan of Babylon (under whom they lived in
subjection) at every three yeers end, had usually three of these
virgins sent him. At the time wherof I am now to speake, there
remained in the Monastery, no more but eight religious Sisters only,
beside the Lady Abbesse, and an honest poor man, who was a Gardiner,
and kept the Garden in commendable order.
  His wages being small, and he not well contented therewith, would
serve there no longer: but making his accounts even, with the Factotum
or Bayliffe belonging to the house, returned thence to the village
of Lamporechio, being a native of the place. Among many other that
gave him welcom home, was a yong Hebrew pezant of the country, sturdy,
strong and yet comely of person, being named Masset. But because he
was born not farre off from Lamporechio, and had there bin brought
up all his yonger dayes, his name of Masset (according to their vulgar
speech) was turnec to Massetto, and therefore he was usually called
and knowne by the name of Massetto of Lamporechio.
  Massetto, falling in talke with the honest poore man, whose name was
Lurco, demanded of him what services hee had done in the Monasterie,
having continued there so long a time? Quoth Lurco, I laboured in
the Garden, which is very faire and great; then I went to the Forest
to fetch home wood, and cleft it for their Chamber fuell, drawing up
all theyr water beside, with many other toilsome services else: but
the allowance of my wages was so little, as it would not pay for the
shoes I wore. And that which was worst of all, they being all women, I
thinke the divel dwels among g them, for a man cannot doe any thing to
please them. When I have bene busie at my worke in the garden, one
would come and say, Put this heere, put that there; and others would
take the dibble out of my hand, telling me, that I did not performe
any thing well, making me so weary of their continuall trifling, as
I have lefte all busines, given over the Garden, and what for one
mollestation, as also many other; I intended to tarry no longer there,
but came away, as thou seest. And yet the Factotum desired me at my
departing, that if I knew any one who would undertake the aforesaid
labours, I should send him thither, as (indeed) I promised to do:
but let mee fall sicke and dye, before I helpe to send them any.
  When Massetto had heard the words of Lurco, hee was so desirous to
dwell among the Nunnes, that nothing else now hammered in his head:
for he meant more subtilly than poore Lurco did, and made no doubt
to please them sufficiently. Then considering with himselfe, how
best he might bring his intent to effect; which appeared not easily to
bee done. He could question no further therein with Lurco, but onely
demaunded other matter of him, saying: Introth thou didst well
Lurco, to come away from so tedious a dwelling, had he need to be more
then a man that is to live with such women? It were better for him
to dwell among so many divels, because they understand not the tenth
part that womens wily wits can dive into.
  After their conference was ended, Massetto began to beate his
braines how he might compasse to dwell among them, and knowing that he
could wel enough performe all the labours whereof Lurco had made
mention, he cared not for any losse he should sustaine thereby, but
onely stood in doubt of his entertainment, because he was too yong and
sprightly. Having pondered on many imaginations, he said to
himselfe. The place is farre enough distant hence, and none there
can take knowledge of mee; if I have wit sufficient, cleanely to
make them beleeve that I am dumbe, then (questionles) I shal be
received. And resolving to prosecute this determination, he tooke a
Spade on his shoulder, and without revealing to any body whether hee
went, in the disguise of a poore labouring Countryman, he travelled to
the Monastery.
  When he was there arrived, he found the great gate open, and
entering in boldly, it was his good hap to espy the Fac-totum in the
court, according as Lurco had given description of him. Making
signes before him, as if he were both dumbe and deafe; he
manifested, that he craved an Almes for Gods sake, making shewes
beside, that if need required, he could cleave wood, or doe any
reasonable kinde of service. The Factotum gladly gave him food, and
afterward shewed him divers knotty logs of wood, which the weake
strength of Lurco had left uncloven; but this fellow being more active
and lusty, quickly rent them all to pieces. Now it so fell out, that
the Fac-totum must needs go to the Forrest, and tooke Massetto along
with him thither: where causing him to fell divers Trees, by signes he
bad him to the two Asses therewith, which commonly carried home all
the wood, and so drive them to the Monasterie before him, which
Massetto knew well enough how to do, and performed it very
effectually.
  Many other servile Offices were there to bee done, which caused
the Fac-totum to make use of his paines divers other dayes beside;
in which time, the Lady Abbesse chancing to see him, demanded of the
Factotum what he was? Madani (quoth hee) a poore labouring man, who is
both deafe and dumbe, hither he came to crave an almes the other
day, the which in charity I could do no lesse but give him; for which,
hee hath done many honest services about the house. It seemes
beside, that hee hath pretty skill in Gardening, so that if I can
perswade him to continue here, I make no question of his able
services: for the old silly man is gon, and we have need of such a
stout fellow, to do the busines belonging to the Monastery, and one
fitter for the turne, comes sildome hither. Moreover, in regard of his
double imperfections, the Sisters can sustaine no impeachment by
him. Whereto the Abbesse answered, saying; By the faith of my body,
you speake but the truth: understand then, if hee have any knowledge
in Gardening, and whether hee will dwell heere, or no: which
compasse so kindly as you can. Let him have a new paire of shoes, fill
his belly daily full of meate, flatter, and make much of him, for
wee shall finde him worke enough to do. All which, the Fac-totum
promised to fulfill sufficiently.
  Massetto, who was not far off from them all this while, but seemed
seriously busied about sweeping and making cleane the Court, heard all
these speeches; and being not a little joyfull of them; said to
himselfe. If once I come to worke in your Garden, let the proofe yeeld
praise of my skill and knowledge. When the Fac-totum perceived, that
he knew perfectly how to undergo his businesse, and had questioned him
by signes, concerning his willingnesse to serve there still, and
received the like answere also, of his dutifull readinesse thereto; he
gave him order to worke in the Garden, because the season did now
require it; and to leave all other affayres for the Monastery,
attending now onely the Gardens preparation.
  As Massetto was thus about his Garden emploiment, the Nunnes began
to resort thither, and thinking the man to be dumbe and deafe indeede,
were the more lavish of their language, mocking and flowting him
very immodestly, as being perswaded, that he heard them not. And the
Lady Abbesse, thinking he might as well be an Eunuch, as deprived both
of hearing and speaking, stood the lesse in feare of the Sisters
walkes, but referred them to their owne care and providence. On a day,
Massetto having laboured somewhat extraordinarily, lay downe to rest
himselfe awhile under the trees, and two delicate yong Nunnes, walking
there to take the aire, drew neere to the place where he dissembled
sleeping; and both of them observing his comelinesse of person,
began to pitty the poverty of his condition; but much more the
misery of his great defectes. Then one of them, who had a little
livelier spirit then the other, thinking Massetto to be fast
asleepe, began in this manner.
  Sister (quoth she) if I were faithfully assured of thy secrecie, I
would tell thee a thing which I have often thought on, and it may
(perhaps) redound to thy profit. Sister, replyed the other Nun, speake
your minde boldly, and beleeve it (on my Maidenhead) that I will never
reveale it to any creature living. Encouraged by this solemne answere,
the first Nun thus prosecuted her former purpose, saying. I know not
Sister, whether it hath entred into thine understanding or no,
strictly we are here kept and attended, never any man daring to
adventure among us, except our good and bonest Fac-totum, who is
very aged; and this dumbe fellow, maimed, and made imperfect by
nature, and therefore not worthy the title of a man. Ah Sister, it
hath oftentimes bin told me, by Gentlewomen comming hither to visite
us, that all other sweetes in the world, are mockeries, to the
incomparable pleasures of man and woman, of which we are barred by our
unkind parents, binding us to perpetuall chastity, which they were
never able to observe themselves.
  A Sister of this house once told me, that before her turne came to
be sent to the Soldane, she fell in frailty with a man that was both
lame and blinde, and discovering the same to her Ghostly Father in
confession; he absolved her of that sinne; affirming, that she had not
transgressed with a man, because he wanted his rationall and
understanding parts. Behold Sister, heere lyes a creature, almost
formed in the self-same mold, dumbe and deafe, which are two the
most rationall and understanding parts that do belong to any man,
and therefore no Man, wanting them. If folly and frailty would be
committed with him (as many times since hee came hither it hath run in
my minde) hee is by Nature, sworne to such secrecie, that he cannot
(if he would) be a blabbe thereof. Beside, the Lawes and
constitution of our Religion doth teach us, that a sinne so
assuredly concealed, is more then halfe absolved.
  Ave Maria Sister (saide the other Nun) what kinde of words are these
you utter? Doe not you know, that we have promised our virginity to
God? Oh Sister (answered the other) how many things are promised to
him every day, and not one of a thousand kept or performed? If wee
have made him such a promise, and some of our weakerwitted sisters
do performe it for us, no doubt but he will accept it in part of
payment. Yea but Sister, replied the second Nun againe, there is
another danger lying in the way: If we prove to be with childe, how
shall we doe then? Sister (quoth our couragious wench) thou art
affraide of harme before it happen: if it come so to passe, let us
consider on it then: thou art but a Novice in matters of such
moment, we are provided of a thousand meanes, whereby to prevent
conception. Or, if they should faile, we are so surely fitted, that
the world shall never know it. Let it suffice, our lives must not be
by any so much as suspected, our Monastery questioned, or our Religion
rashly scandalized. Thus shee schooled her younger Sister in wit,
albeit as forward as shee in will, and longed as desirouslie, to
know what kinde of creature man was.
  After some other questions, how this intention of theirs might bee
safely brought to full effect: the sprightly Nun that had wit at will,
thus answered. You see Sister (quoth she) it is now the houre of
midday, when all the rest of our sisterhood are quiet in their
Chambers, because we are then allowed to sleep, for our earlier rising
to morning Mattins. Here are none in the Garden now but our selves,
and while I awake him, bee you the watch, and afterward follow mee
in my fortune, for I will valiantly leade you the way. Massetto
immitating a Dogges sleepe, heard all this conspiracie intended
against him, and longed as earnestly till shee came to awake him.
Which being done, he seeming very simple and sottish, and she chearing
him with flattering behaviour: into the close Arbour they went,
which the Sunnes bright eye could not pierce into, and there I leave
it to the Nunnes owne approbation, whether Massetto was a man
rationall, or no. Ill deeds require longer time to contrive, then act;
and both the Nuns having bene with Massetto at this new forme of
confession, were enjoyned (by him) such an easie and silent penance,
as brought them the oftner to shrift, and made him to proove a very
perfect Confessour.
  Desires obtayned, but not fully satisfied, doe commonly urge more
frequent accesse, then wisedome thinkes expedient, or can continue
without discovery. Our two joviall Nunnes, not a little proud of their
private stolne pleasures, so long resorted to the close Arbour, till
another Sister, who had often observed their haunt thither, by
meanes of a little hole in her Window; that shee began to suspect them
with Massetto, and imparted the same to two other Sisters, all three
concluding, to accuse them before the Lady Abbesse. But upon a further
conference had with the Offenders, they changed opinion, tooke the
same oath as the forewomen had done; and because they would be free
from any taxation at all: they revealed their adventures to the
other three ignorants, and so fell all eight into one formall
confederacie, but by good and warie observation, least the Abbesse her
selfe should descry them; finding poore Massetto such plenty of
Garden-worke, as made him verie doubtfull in pleasing them all.
  It came to passe in the end, that the Lady Abbesse who all this
while imagined no such matter, walking all alone in the garden on a
day, found Massetto sleeping under an Almond tree, having then very
litle businesse to doe, because he had wrought hard all the night
before. She observed him to be an hansome man, young, lusty,
well-limbde and proportioned, having a mercifull commisseration of his
dumbenesse and deafenes, being perswaded also in like manner, that
if hee were an Eunuch too, hee deserved a thousand times the more to
be pittied. The season was exceeding hot, and he lay downe so
carelesly to sleepe, that somthing was noted wherein shee intended
to be better resolved, almost falling sicke of the other Nunnes
disease. Having awaked him, she commanded him by signes that he should
follow her to her chamber, where he was kept close so long, that the
Nunnes grew offended, because the Gardiner came not to his daily
labour.
  Well may you imagine that Massetto was no misse-proud man now, to be
thus advanced from the Garden to the Chamber, and by no worse woman
then the Lady Abbesse her selfe: what signes, shews, or what
language he speaks there, I am not able to expresse; onely it
appeared, that his behaviour pleased her so well, as it procured his
daily repairing thether; and acquainted her with such familiar
conversation, as she would have condemned in the Nunnes her daughters,
but that they were wise enough to keepe it from her. Now began
Massetto to consider, that hee had undertaken a taske belonging to
great Hercules, in giving content to so many, and by continuing
dumbe in this maner, it would redound to his no meane detriment.
Whereupon, as he was one night sitting by the Abbesse, the string that
retained his tongue from speech, brake on a sodaine, and thus he
spake.
  Madam, I have often heard it said, that one Cocke may doe service to
ten several Hennes, but ten men can very hardly even with all their
best endeavour, give full satisfaction every way to one woman; and yet
I am tied to content nine, which is farre beyond the compasse of my
power to do. Already have I performed so much Garden and Chamber-work,
that I confesse my selfe starke tired, and can travaile no further,
and therefore let me entreate you to lycense my departure hence, or
finde some meanes for my better ease. The Abbesse bearing him
speake, who had so long ben there stricken into admiration, and
accounting it almost a miracle, said. How commeth this to passe? I
verily beleeved thee to be dumbe. Madam (quoth Massetto) so I was
indeed, but not by Nature; onely I had a long lingering sicknes
which bereft me of speech, and which I have not onely recovered againe
this night, but shal ever remaine thankfull to you for it.
  The Abbesse verily credited his answer, demanding what he meant in
saying, that he did service to nine? Madam, quoth he, this were a
dangerous question, and not easily answered before fore the eight
Sisters. Upon this reply, the Abbesse plainely perceived, that not
onely she had fallen into foll but all the Nunnes likewise cried
guilty too: wherfore being a woman of sound discretion, she would
not grant that Massetto should depart, but to keepe him still about
the Nunnes businesse, because the Monastery should not be
scandalized by him. And the Fac-totum being dead a little before,
his strange recovery of speech revealed, and some things else more
neerely concerning them: by generall consent, and with the good liking
of Massetto, he was created the Fac-totum of the Monasterie.
  All the neighboring people dwelling thereabout, who knew Massetto to
be dumbe, by fetching home wood daily from the Forest, and divers
employments in other places, were made to beleeve, that by the
Nunnes devout prayers and discipline, as also the merite of the Saint,
in whose honour the Monastery was built and erected, Massetto had
his long restrained speech restored, and was now become their sole
Factotum, having power now to employ others in drudgeries, and ease
himselfe of all such labours. And albeit he made the Nunnes to be
fruitfull, by encreasing some store of yonger sisters, yet all matters
were so close and cleanly catried, as it was never talkt of, till
after the death of the Ladie Abbesse, when Massetto beganne to grow in
good yeeres, and desired to returne home to his native abiding,
which (within a while after) was granted him.
  Thus Massetto being rich and olde, returned home like a wealthy
father, taking no care for the nursing of his children, but bequeathed
them to the place where they were bred and borne, having (by his wit
and ingenious apprehension) made such a benefit of his youthfull
yeeres, that now he merrily tooke ease in his age.
                    THE THIRD DAY, THE SECOND NOVELL

       WHEREIN IS SIGNIFIED, THE PROVIDENCE OF A WISE MAN, WHEN
      HE SHALL HAVE REASON TO USE REVENGE. AND THE CUNNING MEANES
      OF ANOTHER, WHEN HEE  COMPASSETH CRAFT TO DEFEND HIMSELFE
                          FROM PERILL

  A querry of the Stable, belonging to Agilulffo, King of the
Lombardes, found the meanes of accesse to the Queenes bed, without any
knowledge or consent in her. This being secretly discovered by the
King, and the party known, he gave him a marke, by shearing the
haire of his head. Whereupon, he that was so shorne, sheared
likewise the heads of all his fellowes in the lodging, and so
escaped the punishment intended towards him.

  When the Novel of Philostratus was concluded, which made some of the
Ladies blush, and the rest to smile: it pleased the Queene, that Madam
Pampinea should follow next, to second the other gone before; when
she, smiling on the whole assembly, began thus. There are some men
so shallow of capacity, that they will (neverthelesse) make shew of
knowing and understanding such things, as neither they are able to
doe, nor appertaine to them: whereby they will sometimes reprehend
other new errours, and such faults as they have unwillingly committed,
thinking thereby to hide their owne shame, when they make it much more
apparant and manifest. For proofe whereof, faire company, in a
contrary kinde I will shew you the subtill cunning of one, who
(perhaps) may bee reputed of lesse reckning then Massetto; and yet
he went beyond a King, that thought himselfe to be a much wiser man.
  Agilulffo, King of Lombardie, according as his Predecessours had
done before him, made the principall seate of his Kingdome, in the
Citie of Pavia, having embraced in mariage, Tendelinga, the late
left widdow of Vetario, who likewise had beene King of the Lombards; a
most beautifull wife and vertuous Lady, but made unfortunate by a
mischance. The occurrences and estate of the whole Realme, being in an
honourable, quiet and well setled condition, by the discreete care and
providence of the King; a Querrie appertaining to the Queenes Stable
of Horse, being a man but of meane and low quality, though comely of
person, and of equall stature to the King; became immeasurably amorous
of the Queene. And because his base and servile condition, had
endued him with so much understanding, as to know infallibly, that his
affection was mounted beyond the compasse of conveniencie: wisely he
concealed it to himselfe, not acquainting any one therewith, or daring
so much, as to discover it either by lookes, or any other affectionate
behaviour.
  And although hee lived utterly hopelesse, of ever attaining to his
hearts desires; yet notwithstanding, hee proudly gloried, that his
love had soared so high a pitch, as to be enamoured of a Queene. And
dayly, as the fury of his flame encreased; so his cariage was farre
above his fellowes and companions, in the performing of all such
serviceable duties, as any way he imagined might content the Queene.
Whereon ensued, that whensoever shee roade abroad to take the ayre,
shee used oftner to mount on the Horse, which this Querrie brought
when shee made her choise, then any of the other that were led by
his fellowes. And this did he esteeme as no meane happinesse to him,
to order the stirrope for her mounting, and therefore gave dayly his
due attendance: so that, to touch the Stirrop, but (much more) to
put her foote into it, or touch any part of her garments, he thought
it the onely heaven on earth.
  But, as we see it oftentimes come to passe, that by how much the
lower hope declineth, so much the higher love ascendeth; even so
fell it out with this poore Querry; for, most irkesome was it to
him, to endure the heavy waight of his continuall oppressions, not
having any hope at all of the very least mitigation. And being utterly
unable to relinquish his love divers times he resolved on some
desperate conclusion, which might yet give the world an evident
testimony, that he dyed for the love he bare to the Queene. And upon
this determination, hee grounded the successe of his future fortune,
to dye in compassing some part of his desire, without either
speaking to the Queene, or sending any missive of his love; for to
speake or write, were meerely in vaine, and drew on a worser
consequence then death, which he could bestow on himselfe more easily,
and when he listed.
  No other course now beleagers his braines, but onely for secret
accesse to the Queenes bed, and how he might get entrance into her
Chamber, under colour of the King, who (as he knew very well) slept
many nights together from the Queene. Wherefore, to see in what
manner, and what the usuall habit was of the King, when he came to
keepe companie with his Queene: he hid himselfe divers nights in a
Gallery, which was betweene both their lodging Chambers. At length, he
saw the King come forth of his Chamber, himselfe all alone, with a
faire night-mantle wrapt about him, carrying a lighted Taper in the
one hand, and a small white Wand in the other, so went he on to the
Queenes lodging; and knocking at the doore once or twice with the
wand, and not using any word, the doore opened, the light was left
without, and he entered the Chamber, where he stayed not long,
before his returning backe againe, which likewise very diligently he
observed.
  So familiar was he in the Wardrobe, by often fetching and
returning the King and Queenes furnitures; that the fellowes to the
same Mantle which the King wore when he went to the Queene, very
secretly he conveighed away thence with him, being provided of a
Light, and the very like Wand. Now bestowes he costly bathings on
his body, that the least sent of the Stable might not be felt about
him; and finding a time sutable to his desire, when he knew the King
to bee at rest in his owne Lodging, and all else sleeping in their
bed; closely he steals into the Gallery, where alighting his Taper,
with the Tinder purposely brought thither, the Mantle folded about
him, and the Wand in his hand, valiantly he adventures upon his
lives perill. Twice hee knockt softly at the doore, which a wayting
woman immediately opened, and receyving the Light, went forth into the
Gallery, while the supposed King, was conversing with the Queene.
  Alas good Queene, heere is a sinne commited without any guiltie
thought in thee, as (within a while after) it plainely appeared.
For, the Querry having compassed what he most coveted, and fearing
to forfelte his life by delay, when his amorous desire was
indifferently satisfied: returned backe as he came, the sleepy waiting
woman not so much as looking on him, but rather glad, that she might
get her to rest againe. Scarcely was the Querrie stept into his bed,
unheard or discerned by any of his fellowes, divers of them lodging
both in that and the next Chamber: but it pleased the King to visite
the Queene, according to his wonted manner, to the no little
mervaile of the drowsie wayting woman, who was never twice troubled in
a night before. The King being in bed, whereas alwayes till then,
his resort to the Queene, was altogether in sadnesse and
melancholly, both comming and departing without speaking one word: now
his Majestie was become more pleasantly disposing, whereat the
Queene began not a little to mervaile. Now trust mee Sir, quoth
shee, this hath beene a long wished, and now most welcome
alteration, vouchsafing twice in a night to visite me, and both within
the compasse of one houre; for it cannot be much more, since your
being here, and now comming againe.
  The King hearing these words, sodainely presumed, that by some
counterfeit person or other, the Queene had beene this night beguiled:
wherefore (very advisedly) hee considered, that in regard the party
was unknowne to her, and all the women about her; to make no outward
appearance of knowing it, but rather concealed it to himselfe. Farre
from the indiscretion of some haire-braind men, who presently would
have answered and sworne; I came hither this night, till now.
Whereupon many dangers might ensue, to the dishonour and prejudice
of the Queene: beside, her error being discovered to her, might
afterward be an occasion, to urge a wandring in her appetite, and to
covet after change againe. But by this silence, no shame redounded
to him or her, whereas prating, must needs be the publisher of open
infamie: yet was hee much vexed in his minde, which neither by
lookes or words hee would discover, but pleasantly said to the Queene,
Why Madam, although I was once heere before to night, I hope you
mislike not my second seeing you, nor if I should please to come
againe. No truly Sir, quoth she, I onely desire you to have care of
your health. Well, said the King, I will follow your counsaile, and
now returne to mine owne lodging againe, committing my Queene to her
good rest.
  His blood boyling with rage and distemper, by such a monstrous
injurie offered him; he wrapt his night-mantle about out and leaving
his Chamber, imagining, that whatsoever he was, needs he must be one
of his owne house: he tooke a light in his hand, and convayed it
into a little Lanthorne, purposing to be resolved in his suspition. No
guests or strangers were now in his Court, but onely such as
belonged to his houshold, who lodged altogether about the Escurie
and Stables, being there appointed to divers beds. Now, this was his
conceite, that whosoever had beene so lately familiar with the Queene,
his heart and his pulse could (as yet) be hardly at rest, but rather
would be troubled with apparant agitation, as discovering the guilt of
so great an offender. Many Chambers had he passed thorow, where all
were soundly sleeping, and yet he felt both their brests and pulses.
  At last he came to the lodging of the man indeede, that had so
impudently usurped his place, who could not as yet sleepe, for joy
of atchieved adventure. When he espied the King come in, knowing
well the occasion of his search, he began to waxe very doubtfull, so
that his heart and pulse beating extreamely, he felt a further
addition of feare, as being confidently perswaded, that there was
now no other way but death, especially if the King discovered his
agony. And although many considerations were in his braine, yet
because he saw that the King was unarmed, his best refuge was, to make
shew of sleepe, in expectation what the King intended to doe. Among
them all he had sought, yet could not find any likelihood, whereby
to gather a grounded probability; he came to this Querry, whose
heart and pulses laboured so strongly, that he said to himselfe, Yea
mary, this is th man that did the deede.
  Nevertheless, purposing to make no apparance of his further
intention, he did nothing else to him, but drawing forth a paire of
sheares, which purposely he brought thither with him, he clipped
away a part of his lockes, which (in those times) they used to weare
very long, to the end that he might the better know him the next
morning, and so returned backe to his lodging againe. The Querry,
who partly saw, but felt what was done to him; perceived plainely
(being a subtill ingenious fellow) for what intent he was thus marked.
Wherefore, without any longer dallying, up he rose, and taking a paire
of sheares, wherewith they used to trim their Horses; softly he went
from bed to bed, where they all lay yet soundly sleeping, and clipt
away each mans locke from his right eare, in the selfe same manner
as the King had done his, and being not perceived by any one of
them, quietly he laide him downe againe.
  In the morning, when the King was risen, he gave command that before
the Pallace gates were opened, all his whole Family should come before
him, as instantly his will was fulfilled. Standing all uncovered in
his presence, he began to consider with himselfe, which of them was
the man that he had marked. And seeing the most part of them to have
their lockes cut, all after one and the selfe same manner;
marvailing greatly, he saide to himselfe. The man whom I seeke for,
though he be but of meane and base condition, yet it plainely
appeareth, that he is of no deject or common understanding. And
seeing, that without further clamour and noyse, he could not find
out the party he looked for, he concluded, not to win eternall
shame, by compassing a poore revenge: but rather (by way of
admonition) to let the offender know in a word, that he was both noted
and observed. So turning to them all, he saide; He that hath done
it, let him be silent, and doe so no more, and now depart about your
businesse.
  Some other turbulent spirited man, no imprisonments, tortures,
examinations, and interrogations, could have served his turne; by
which course of proceeding, he makes the shame to be publikely knowne,
which reason requireth to keepe concealed. But admit that condigne
vengeance were taken, it diminisheth not one tittle of the shame,
neither qualifieth the peoples bad affections, who will lash out as
liberally in scandal, and upon the very least babling rumor. Such
therfore as heard the Kings words, few though they were, yet truly
wise; marvelled much at them, and by long examinations among
themselves, questioned, but came far short of his meaning; the man
onely excepted whom indeed they concerned, and by whom they were never
discovered, so long as the King lived, neither did he dare at any time
after, to hazard his life in the like action, under the frownes or
favour of Fortune.
                    THE THIRD DAY, THE THIRD NOVELL

   DECLARING, THAT THE LEWD QUALITIES OF SOME PERSONS, OFTENTIMES
       MISGUIDE GOOD PEOPLE, INTO GREAT AND GREEVOUS ERRORS.

  Under colour of Confession, and of a most pure conscience, a faire
yong Gentlewoman, being amourously affected to an honest man,
induced a devoute and solemne religious Friar, to advise her in the
meanes (without his suspition or perceiving) how to enjoy the
benefit of her friend, and bring her desires to their full effect.

  When Madam Pampinea sate silent, and the Querries boldnesse equalled
with his crafty cunning, and great wisedom in the King had passed
amongst them with a generall applause; the Queene turning her selfe to
Madam Philomena, appointed her to follow next in order as the rest had
done before her: whereupon Philomena began after this maner.
  It is my purpose, to acquaint you with a notable mockerie, which was
performed (not in jest, but earnest) by a faire Gentlewoman, to a
grave and devoute Religious Friar, which will yeelde so much the
more pleasure and recreation, to every secular understander, if but
diligently he or she doe observe, how commonly those Religious persons
(at least the most part of them) like notorious fooles, are the
inventers of new courses and customes, as thinking themselves more
wise and skilful in all things then any other; yet prove to be of no
worth or validity, addicting the verie best of all their devices, to
expresse their owne vilenesse of mind, and fatten themselves in
their styes like to pampered Swine. And assure your selves worthy
Ladies, that I doe not tell this tale onely to follow the order
enjoyned me; but also to informe you that such Saint-like holy Sirs,
of whom we are too opinionate and credulous, may be, yea and are
(divers times) cunningly met withall, in theyr craftinesse, not
onely by men, but likewise some of our owne sexe, as shall make it
apparant to you.
  In our owne City (more full of craft and deceit, then love or
faithfull dealing) there lived not many yeeres since, a Gentlewoman of
good spirit, highly minded, endued with beauty and all commendable
qualities, as any other woman (by nature) could be. Her name, or any
others, concerned in this Novel, I meane not to make manifest,
albeit I know them, because some are yet living, and thereby may be
scindalized; and therefore it shall suffice to passe them over with
a smile. This Gentlewoman, seeing her selfe to be descended of very
great parentage, and (by chance) married to an Artezan, a Cloathyer or
Draper, that lived by the making and selling of cloth. Shee could
not (because he was a Tradesman) take downe the height of her minde;
conceiving, that no man of meane condition (how rich soever) was
worthy to enjoy a Gentlewoman in marriage. Observing moreover, that
with all his wealth and treasure, he understood nothing better, then
to open skeines of yarne, fill shuttles lay webbes in his Loomes, or
dispute with his Spinsters, about their businesse.
  Being thus over-swayed with her proud opinion, she would no longer
be embraced or regarded by him in any manner, saving only because
she could not refuse him, but would find some other for her better
satisfaction, who might seeme more worthy of her respect, then the
Draper her Husband did. Heereupon shee fell so deepe in love with a
verie honest man of our City also, and of indifferent yeeres, as
what day shee saw him not, shee could take no rest the night
ensuing. The man himselfe knew nothing hereof, and therefore was the
more carelesse: and she being curious, nice, yet wisely considerate,
durst not let him understand it, neither by any womans close
conveyed message, nor yet by Letters, as fearing the perils which
happen in such cases. But her eye observing his dayly walkes and
resorts, gave her notice of his often conversing with a religious
Friar, who albeit he was a fat and corpulent man, yet notwithstanding,
because he seemed to leade a sanctimonious life, and was reported to
be a most honest man, she perswaded her selfe, that he might be the
best meanes betweene her and her friend.
  Having considered with her selfe, what course was best to be
observed in this case; uppon a day apt and convenient, she went to the
Convent where he kept, and having caused him to be called, shee told
him, that if his leysure so served, very gladly would she be
confessed, and onely had made her choice of him. The holy man seeing
her to be a Gentlewoman (as indeed she was) willingly heard her; and
when she had confessed what she could, she had yet another matter to
acquaint him withall, and thereupon thus she began.
  Holy Father, it is no more then convenient that I should have
recourse to you, to be assisted by your helpe and counsell, in a
matter which I will impart unto you. I know, that you are not ignorant
of my parents and husband, of whom I am affected as deerely as his
life, for proofe whereof, there is not any thing that I can desire,
but immediately I have it of him, he being a most rich man, and may
very sufficiently affoord it. In regard whereof, I love him equally as
my selfe, and (setting aside my best endevours for him) I must tell
you one thing quite contrary to his liking and honour: no woman
could more worthily deserve death, then my selfe. Understand then
(good Father) that there is a man, whose name I know not, but he
seemeth to be honest, and of good worth; moreover (if I am not
deceived) he resorteth oftentimes to you, being faire and comely of
person, going alwayes in blacke garments of good price and value. This
man, imagining (perhaps) no such minde in mee, as truely there is;
hath often attempted mee, and never can I be at my doore, or window,
but hee is alwayes present in my sight, which is not a little
displeasing to me; he watcheth my walks, and much I mervaile, that
he is not now heere.
  Let me tell you holy Sir, that such behaviours doe many times lay
bad imputations upon very honest women, yet without any offence in
them. It hath often run in my mind, to let him have knowledge
thereof my min by my brethren: but afterward I considered, that men
(many times) deliver messages in such sort, as draw on very ungentle
answers, whereon grow words, and words beget actions. In which regard,
because no harme or scandall should ensue, I thought it best to be
silent; determining, to acquaint you rather therewith, then to any
other, as wel because you seem to be his friend, as also in regard
of your office, which priviledgeth you to correct such abuses, not
onely in friends, but also in strangers. Enow other women there are,
(more is the pitty) who perhaps are better disposed to such suites
then I am, and can both like and allow of such courting, otherwise
then I can doe; as being willing to embrace such offers, and (happily)
loath to yeeld deniall. Wherefore, most humbly I entreate you good
Father (even for our blessed Ladies sake) that you would give him a
friendly reprehension, and advise him to use such unmanly meanes no
more heereafter. With which words, she hung downe her bead in her
bosome, cunningly dissembling, as if shee wept, wiping her eyes with
her Handkerchife, when not a teare fel from them, but indeed were
dry enough.
  The holy Religious man, so soone as he heard her description of
the man, presently knew whom shee meant, and highly commending the
Gentlewoman for her good and vertuous seeming disposition, beleeved
faithfully all that shee had said: promising her, to order the
matter so well and discreetly, as shee should not any more bee
offended. And knowing her to be a woman of great wealth (after all
their usuall manner, when they cast forth their fishing nets for
gaine:) liberally he commeuned Almesdeeds, and dayly workes of
Charity, recounting to her beside his owne particular necessities.
Then, giving him two peeces of Gold, she said: I pray you (good
Father) to be mindfull of me, and if he chance to make any deniall,
tell him, that I spake it my selfe to you, and by the way of a sad
complaint her confession being ended, and penance easie enough
enjoyned her, she promised to make her parents bountifull
Benefactors to the Convent, and put more money into his hand, desiring
him in his Masses, to remember the soules of her deceased friends, and
so returned home to her house.
  Within a short while after her departure, the Gentleman, of whome
she made this counterfeit complaint, came thither, as was his usuall
manner, and having done his duty to the holy Father, they sate downe
together privately, falling out of one discourse into another. At
the length, the Friar (in very loving and friendly sort) mildly
reproved him for such amorous glaunces, and other pursuites, which (as
he thought) he dayly used to the Gentlewoman, according to her owne
speeches. The Gentleman mervalled greatly thereat, as one that had
never seene her, and very sildome passed by the way where shee
dwelt, which made him the bolder in his answeres; wherein the
Confessour interrupting him, saide. Never make such admiration at
the matter, neyther waste more words in deniall, because they cannot
serve thy turne; I tell thee plainely, I heard these words even from
her owne selfe, in a very sorowfull and sad complaint. And though
(perhaps) heereafter, thou canst very hardly refraine such follies;
yet let me tell thee so much of her (and under the seale of absolute
assurance) that she is the onely woman of the world, who to my
judgement, doth abhorre all such base behaviour. In regard therefore
of thine owne honour, as also not to vex and prejudice so vertuous a
Gentlewoman, I pray thee refraine such idlenesse henceforward, and
suffer her to live in peace.
  The Gentleman being a little wiser then his ghostly Father,
perceived immediately, the notable pollicy of the Woman. Whereupon,
making somewhat bashfull appearance of any error already committed, he
said; He would afterward be better advised. So departing from the
Friar, hee went on directly, to passe by the house where the
Gentlewoman dwelt, and shee stood alwayes ready on her watch, at a
little Window, to observe when he would walke that way. And seeing him
comming, shee shewed her selfe so joyfull and gracious to him, as he
easily understood, whereto the substance of the holy Fathers chiding
tended. And from that time forward, he used dayly though in covert
manner (to the no litle liking of the Gentlewoman and himselfe) to
make his passage thorough that street, under colour of some
important occasions there concerning him.
  Soone after, it being plainely discerned on either side, that the
one was as well contented with these walkes, as the other could be:
she desired to enflame him a little further, by a more liberall
illustration of her affection towards him, when time and place
affoorded convenient opportunity. To the holy Father againe she
went, (for she had beene too long from shrift) and kneeling downe at
his feete, intended to begin her confession in teares; which the Friar
perceiving, sorrowfully demanded of her; what accident had happened?
Holy Father (quoth shee) no novell accident, only your wicked and
ungracious friend, by whom (since I was heere with you, yea, no longer
agoe then yesterday) I have been so wronged, as I verily beleeve
that he was borne to bee my mortall enemy, and to make me do
somthing to my utter disgrace for ever; and whereby I shall not dare
to be seene any more of you my deare Father. How is this? answered the
Friar, hath he not refrained from afflicting you so abusively?
  Pausing a while, and breathing foorth many a dissembled sighe,
thus shee replyed. No truely, holy Father, there is no likelyhood of
his abstaining; for since I made my complaint to you, he belike taking
it in evil part, to bee contraried in his wanton humours, hath
(meerely in despight) walked seaven times in a day by my doore,
whereas formerly he never used it above once or twice. And well were
it (good Father) if he could be contented with those walkes, and
gazing glances which hee dartes at me: but growne he is so bolde and
shamelesse, that even yesterday, (as I tolde you) hee sent a woman
to me, one of his Pandoraes, as it appeared, and as if I had wanted
either Purses or Girdies, hee sent me by her, a Purse and a Girdle.
Whereat I grew so greevously offended, as had it not bene for my due
respect and feare of God, and next the sacred reverence I beare to you
my ghostly Father, doubtlesse I had done some wicked deede.
Neverthelesse, happily I withstood it, and wil neither say or do any
thing in this case, till first I have made it knowne to you.
  Then I called to minde, that having redelivered the Purse and Girdle
to his shee-Messenger, which brought them with lookes sufficient to
declare my discontentment: I called her backe againe, fearing least
she would keep them to her selfe, and make him beleeve that I had
received them (as I have heard such kinde of women use to do
sometimes) and in anger I snatcht them from her, and have brought them
you, to the end, that you may give him them againe; and tell him, I
have no need of any such things, thankes be to heaven and my
husband, as no woman can be better stored then I am. Wherefore good
Father, purposely am I now come to you, to let him know, that if he
will not abstaine from thus molesting me, I will disclose it to my
Husband, Father, and Brethren, whatsoever befall. For I had rather
he should receive the injury, then I to be causelessly blamed for him;
wherein good Father tell me, if I dooe not well. With many
counterfet sobbes, sighes, and teares these words were delivered;
and drawing foorth from under her gowne, a very faire and rich
purse, as also a Girdle of great worth, she threw them into the Friars
lappe.
  He verily beleeving all this false report, being troubled in his
minde thereat beyond measure, tooke the Gentlewoman by the hand,
saying: Daughter, if thou be offended at these impudent follies,
assuredly I cannot blame thee, nor will any wiseman reproove thee
for it; and I commend thee for following my counsell. But let me alone
for schooling of my Gentleman, ill hath he kept his promise made to
me; wherefore, in regard of his former offence, as also this other
so lately committed, I hope to set him in such heate, as shall make
him leave off from further injurying thee. Suffer not thy selfe to
be conquerd by choller, in disclosing this to thy kindred or
husband, because too much harme may ensue thereon. But feare not any
wrong to thy selfe; for I am a true witnesse of thine honesty and
vertue.
  Now began she to seeme better comforted, and forbearing to play on
this string any longer, as well knowing the covetousnes of him and his
equals, she said: Holy Father, some few nights past, me thought in
my sleepe, that divers spirits of my kindred appeared to me in a
vision, who me thought were in very great pains, and desired nothing
els but Almes; especially my Godmother, who seemed to be afflicted
with such extrem poverty, that it was most Pittifull to behold. And
I am halfe perswaded, that her torments are the greater, seeing me
troubled with such an enemy to goodnesse. Wherefore (good Father) to
deliver her soule and the others out of those fearfull flames, among
your infinite other devout prayers, I would have you to say the
forty Masses of S. Gregory, as a means for their happy deliverance,
and so she put ten ducates into his hand. Which the holy man accepted
thankfully, and with good words, as also many singular examples,
confirmed her bountifull devotion: and when he had given her his
benediction, home she departed.
  After that the Gentlewoman was gone, hee sent for his friend whom
she so much seemed to be troubled withall; and when he was come, hee
beholding his Holy Father to looke discontentedly, thought, that now
he should heare some newes from his Mistresse, and therefore
expected what he would say. The Friar, falling into the course of
his former reprehensions, but yet in more rough and impatient
minner, sharpely checkt him for his immodest behaviour towards the
Gentlewoman, in sending her the Purse and Girdle. The Gentleman, who
as yet could not guesse whereto his speeches tended; somewhat coldly
and temperately, denied the sending of such tokens to her, to the
end that he would not bee utterly discredited with the good man, if so
bee the Gentlewoman had shewne him any such things. But then the
Frier, waxing much more angry, sternly said. Bad man as thou art,
how canst thou deny a manifest truth? See sir, these are none of
your amorous tokens? No, I am sure you doe not know them, nor ever saw
them till now.
  The Gentleman, seeming as if he were much ashamed, saide. Truely
Father I do know them, and confesse that I have done ill, and very
greatly offended: but now I will sweare unto you, seeing I
understand how firmely she is affected, that you shall never heare any
more complaint of me. Such were his vowes and protestations, as in the
end the ghostly Father gave him both the Purse and Girdle: then
after he had preached, and severely conjured him, never more to vexe
her with any gifts at all, and he binding himselfe thereto by a
solemne promise, he gave him license to depart. Now grew the Gentleman
very jocond, being so surely certifyed of his Mistresses love, and
by tokens of such worthy esteeme; wherefore no sooner was he gone from
the Frier, but he went into such a secret place, where he could let
her behold at her Window, what precious tokens he had received from
her, whereof she was extraordinarily joyfull, because her devices grew
still better and better; nothing now wanting, but her husbands
absence, upon some journey from the City, for the full effecting of
her desire.
  Within a few dayes after, such an occasion hapned, as her husband of
necessity must journey to Geneway; and no sooner was he mounted on
horsebacke, taking leave of her and all his friends: but she, being
sure he was gone, went in all hast to her Ghostly Father; and, after a
few faigned outward shewes, thus she spake. I must now plainely tell
you, holy Father, that I can no longer endure this wicked friend of
yours; but because I promised you the other day, that I would not do
any thing, before I had your counsell therein, I am now come to tell
you, the just reason of my anger, and full purpose to avoid all
further mollestation.
  Your friend cannot terme him, but (questionlesse) a very divell of
hell: this morning, before the breake of day, having heard (but how, I
know not) that my husband was ridden to Geneway: got over the wall
into my Garden, and climbing up a tree which standeth close before
my Chamber window, when I was fast asleepe, opened the Casement, and
would have entred in at the window. But, by great good fortune, I
awaked, and made shew of an open outcry: but that he entreated me,
both for Gods sake and yours, to pardon him this error, and never
after he would presume any more to offend me. When he saw, that (for
your sake) I was silent, he closed fast the window againe, departed as
he came, and since I never saw him, or heard any tidings of him. Now
Judge you, holy Father, whether these be honest courses or no, and
to be endured by any civill Gentlewoman; neither would I so
patiently have suffered this, but onely in my dutifull reverence to
you.
  The Ghostly Father hearing this, became the sorrowfullest man in the
world, not knowing how to make her any answere, but only demanded of
her divers times, whether she knew him so perfectly, that she did
not mistake him for some other? Quoth she, I would I did not know
him from any other. Alas deere daughter (replied the Frier) what can
more be sayd in this case, but that it was over-much boldnesse, and
very ill done, and thou shewedst thy selfe a worthy wise woman, in
sending him away so mercifully, as thou didst. Once more I would
entreat thee (deere and vertuous daughter) seeing grace hath
hitherto kept thee from dishonor, and twice already thou hast credited
my counsell, let me now advise thee this last time. Spare speech, or
complaining to any other of thy friends, and leave-it to me, to try if
I can overcome this unchained divell, whom I tooke to be a much more
holy man. If I can recall him from this sensuall appetite, I shall
account my labour well employed; but if I cannot do it, henceforward
(with my blessed benediction) I give thee leave to do, even what thy
heart will best tutor thee to. You see Sir (said shee) what manner
of man he is, yet would I not have you troubled or disobeyed, only I
desire to live without disturbance, which worke (I beseech you) as
best you may: for I promise you, good Father, never to solicite you
more uppon this occasion: And so, in a pretended rage, she returned
backe from the ghostly Father.
  Scarsely was she gone forth of the Church, but in commeth the man
that had (supposedly) so much transgressed; and the Fryer taking him
aside, gave him the most injurious words that could be used to a
man, calling him disloyall, perjured, and a traitor. He who had
formerly twice perceived, how high the holy mans anger mounted, did
nothing but expect what he would say; and, like a man extreamly
perplexed, strove how to get it from him, saying; Holy Father, how
come you to be so heinously offended? What have I done to incense
you so strangely? Heare me dishonest wretch answered the Frier, listen
what I shall say unto thee. Thou answerest me, as if it were a yeare
or two past, since so foule abuses were by thee committed, and they
almost quite out of thy remembrance. But tell me wicked man; where
wast thou this morning, before breake of the day? Wheresoever I was,
replyed the Gentleman, mee thinkes the tidings come very quickly to
you. It is true, said the Frier, they are speedily come to me
indeed, and upon urgent necessity.
  After a little curbing in of his wrath, somewhat in a milder
straine, thus he proceeded. Because the Gentlewomans husband is
journeyed to Geneway, proves this a ladder to your hope, that to
embrace her in your armes, you must climbe over the Garden wall,
like a treacherous robber in the night season, mount up a tree
before her Chamber window, open the Casement, as hoping to compasse
that by importunity, which her spotlesse chastity will never permit.
There is nothing in the world, that she can hate more then you, and
possibly yet you will love her whether [she] will or no. Many
demonstrations her selfe hath made to you, how retrograde you are to
any good conceit of her, and my loving admonishments might have had
better successe in you, then as yet they shew of outward apparance.
But one thing I must tell you, her silent sufferance of your
injuries all this while, hath not bin in any respect of you, but at my
earnest entreaties, and for my sake. But now she w be patient no
longer, and I have given her free license, if ever heereafter you
offer to attempt her any more, to make her complaint before her
Brethren, which will redound to your no meane danger.
  The Gentleman, having wisely collected his Love-lesson out of the
Holy Fathers angry words, pacified the good old man so well as he
could with very solemne promises and protestations, that he should
heare no more) any misbehaviour of his. And being gone from him,
followed the instructions given in her complaint, by climbing over the
Garden Wall, ascending the Tree, and entering at the Casement,
standing ready open to welcome him. Thus the Friers simplicity,
wrought on by her most ingenious subtiltie, made way to obtaine both
their longing desires.
                     THE THIRD DAY, THE FOURTH NOVELL

      WHEREIN IS DECLARED, WHAT CRAFT AND SUBTILTY SOME WILY WITS
      CAN DEVISE, TO DECEIVE THE SIMPLE, AND COMPASSE THEIR OWNE
                                 DESIRES.

  A yong Scholler, named Felice, enstructed Puccio di Rinieri, how
to become rich in a very short time. While Puccio made experience of
the instructions taught him; Felice obtained the favour of his
Daughter.

  After that Philomena had finished her Tale, she sate still; and
Dioneus (with faire and pleasing Language) commended the
Gentlewomans quaint cunning, but smiling at the Confessors witlesse
simplicity. Then the Queene, turning with chearefull looks toward
Pamphilus, commaunded him to continue on their delight; who gladly
yeelded, and thus began. Madame, many men there are, who while they
strive to climbe from a good estate, to a seeming better; doe become
in much worse condition then they were before. As happened to a
neighbour of ours, and no long time since, as the accident will better
acquaint you withall.
  According as I have heard it reported, neere to Saint Brancazio,
there dwelt an honest man, and some-what rich, who was called Puccio
di Rinieri, and who addicted all his paines and endeavours to Alchimy:
wherefore, he kept no other family, but onely a widdowed daughter, and
a servant; and because he had no other Art or exercise, he used
often to frequent the market place. And in regard he was but a weake
witted man and a gourmand or grosse feeder; his language was the
more harsh and rude; like to our common Porters or sottish men, and
his carriage also absurd, boore-like, and clownish. His daughter,
being named Monna Isabetta, aged not above eight and twenty, or thirty
yeeres; was a fresh indifferent faire, plumpe, round woman, cherry
cheekt, like a Queene-Apple; and, to please her Father, fed not so
sparingly, as otherwise she would have done, but when she communed
or jested with any body, she would talke of nothing, but onely
concerning the great vertue in Alchimy, extolling it above all other
Arts.
  Much about this season of the yeare, there returned a young Scholler
from Paris, named Felice, faire of complexion, comely of person,
ingeniously witted and skilfully learned, who (soone after) grew
into familiarity, with Puccio: now because he could resolve him in
many doubts, depending on his profession of Alchimy, (himselfe
having onely practise, but no great learning) he used many questions
to him, shewed him very especiall matters of secrecy, entertaining him
often to dinners and suppers, whensoever he pleased to come and
converse with him; and his daughter likewise, perceiving with what
favour her Father respected him, became the more familiar with him,
allowing him good regard and reverence.
  The young man continuing his resort to the House of Puccio, and
observing the widdow to be faire, fresh, and prettily formall; he
began to consider with himselfe, what those things might be, wherein
she was most wanting; and (if he could) to save anothers labour,
supply them by his best endeavours. Thus not alwayes carrying his eyes
before him, but using many backe and circumspect regards, he proceeded
so farre in his wylie apprehensions, that (by a few sparkes close kept
together) he kindled part of the same fire in her, which began to
flame apparantly in him. And hee very wittily observing the same, as
occasion first smiled on him, and allowed him favourable
opportunity, so did hee impart his intention to her.
  Now albeit he found her plyant enough, to gaine physicke for her
owne griefe, as soone as his; yet the meanes and manner were (as
yet) quite out of all apprehension. For shee in no other part of the
World, would trust her selfe in the young mans company, but onely in
her Fathers house; and that was a place out of all possibility,
because Puccio (by a long continued custome) used to watch
well-neere all the night, as commonly he did, each night after
other, never stirring foorth of the roomes, which much abated the edge
of the young mans appetite. After infinite intricate revolvings,
wheeling about his busied braine, he thought it not altogether an
Herculian taske, to enjoy his happinesse in the house, and without any
suspition, albeit Puccio kept still within doores, and watched as
hee was wont to doe.
  Upon a day as he sate in familiar conference with Puccio, he began
to speake unto him in this manner; I have many times noted, kinde
friend Puccio, that all thy desire and endeavour is, by what meanes
thou mayst become very rich, wherein (me thinkes) thou takest too wide
a course, when there is a much neerer and shorter way, which Mighell
Scotus, and other his associates, very diligently observed and
followed, yet were never willing to instruct other men therein;
whereby the mysterie might bee drowned in oblivion, and prosecuted
by none but onely great Lords, that are able to undergoe it. But
because thou art mine especiall friend, and I have received from
thee infinite kind favours; whereas I never intended, that any man (by
me) should be acquainted with so rare a secret; if thou wilt imitate
the course as I shall shew thee, I purpose to teach it thee in full
perfection. Puccio being very earnestly desirous to understand the
speediest way to so singular a mysterie, first began to entreat him
(with no meane instance) to acquaint him with the rules of so rich a
Science; and afterward sware unto him, never to disclose it to any
person, except hee gave his consent thereto; affirming beside, that it
was a rarity, not easie to bee comprehended by very apprehensive
judgements. Well (quoth Felice) seeing thou has: made me such a
sound and solemne promise, I will make it knowne unto thee.
  Know then friend Puccio, the Philosophers do hold, that such as
covet to become rich indeed, must understand how to make the Stone: as
I will tell thee how, but marke the manner very heedfully. I do not
say, that after the Stone is obtained, thou shalt bee even as rich
as now thou art; but thou shalt plainly perceive, that the very
grosest substances, which hitherto thou hast seene, all of them shalbe
made pure golde: and such as afterward thou makest, shall be more
certaine, then to go or come with Aqua fortis, as now they do. Most
expedient is it therefore, that when a man will go diligently about
this businesse, and purposeth to prosecute such a singular labour,
which will and must continue for the space of 40 nights, he must
give very carefull attendance, wholly abstaining from sleepe,
slumbering, or so much as nodding all that while.
  Moreover, in some apt and convenient place of thy house, there
must be a forge or furnace erected, framed in decent and formall
fashion, and neere it a large table placed, ordered in such sort, as
standing upright on feete, and leaning the reines of thy backe against
it; thou must stande stedfastly in that manner every night, without
the least motion or stirring, untill the breake of day appeareth,
and thine eyes still uppon the Furnace fixed, to keepe ever in memory,
the true order which I have prescribed. So soone as the morning is
seene, thou mayest (if thou wilt) walke, or rest a little upon thy
bed, and afterward go about thy businesse, if thou have any. Then go
to dinner, attending readily till the evenings approch, preparing such
things as I will readily set thee downe in writing, without which
there is not any thing to bee done; and then returne to the same taske
againe, not varying a jot from the course directed. Before the time be
fully expired, thou shalt perceive many apparant signes, that the
stone is still in absolute forwardnesse, but it will bee utterly
lost if thou fayle in the least of all the observances. And when the
experience hath crowned thy labour, thou art sure to have the
Philosophers stone, and thereby shalt be able to enrich all, and worke
wonders beside.
  Puccio instantly replyed. Now trust me Sir, there is no great
difficultie in this labour, neither doth it require any
extraordinary length of time: but it may very easily be followed and
performed, and (by your friendly favor, in helping to direct the
Furnace and Table, according as you imagine most convenient) on Sunday
at night next, I will begin my taske.
 The place which Puccio had chosen, for his hopefull attaining to
the Philosophers Stone, was close to the Chamber where his daughter
lay having no other separation or division, but an old ruinous
tottring wall. So that, when the Scholler was playing his prize,
Puccio heard an unwonted noise in the house, which he had never
observed before, neither knew the wall to have any such motion:
wherefore, not daring to stirre from his standing, least all should be
marrd in the very beginning, he called to his daughter, demanding,
what busle labour she was about? The widdow, being much addicted to
frumping according as questions were demanded of her, and (perhaps)
forgetting who spake to her, pleasantly replied: Whoop Sir, where
are we now? Are the Spirits of Alchimy walking in the house, that we
cannot lye quietly in our beds?
  Pucclo mervalling at this answere, knowing she never gave him the
like before; demanded againe, what she did? The subtle wench,
remembring that she had not answered as became her, said: Pardon mee
Father, my wits were not mine owne, when you demanded such a sodaine
question; and I have heard you say an hundred times, that when folke
go supperles to bed, either they walke in their sleepe, or being
awake, talke very idely, as (no doubt) you have discern'd by me. Nay
daughter (quoth he) it may be, that I was in a waking dreame, and
thought I heard the olde wall totter: but I see I was deceived, for no
it is quiet and still enough. Talke no more good Father, saide she,
least you stirre from your place, and hinder your labour: take no care
for mee, I am able enough to have care of my selfe.
  To prevent any more of these nightly disturbances, they went to
lodge in another part of the house, where they continued out the
time of Puccioes paines, with equall contentment to them both, which
made her divers times say to Felice: You teach my father the cheefe
grounds of Alchimy, while we helpe to waste away his treasure. Thus
the Scholler being but poore, yet well forwarded in Learning, made use
of Puccioes folly, and found benefit thereby, to keepe him out of
wants, which is the bane and overthrow of numberlesse good wits. And
Puccio dying, before the date of his limited time, because he failed
of the Philosophers Stone, Isabetta joyned in marriage with Felice, to
make him amends for instructing her father, by which meanes he came to
be her husband.
                     THE THIRD DAY THE FIFTH NOVELL

    WHEREIN IS DESCRIBED THE FRAILETY OF SOME WOMEN, AND FOLLY OF
    SUCH HUSBANDS, AS LEAVE THEM ALONE TO THEIR OWNE DISPOSITION

  Ricciardo surnamed the Magnifico, gave a Horse to Signior
Francesco Vergillisi, on condition that he might speake to his wife in
his presence; which he did, and she not returning him any answer, made
answer to himselfe on her behalfe, and according to his answer, so the
effect followed.

  Pamphilus having ended his novell of Puccio the Alchimist, the
Queene fixing her eye on Madam Eliza, gave order, that shee should
succeed. She looking somewhat more austerely then any of the rest
not in any spleen, but as it was her usuall manner, thus began. The
world containeth some particular people, who beleeve (because they
know something) that others are ignorant in all things, who for the
most part, while they intend to make a scorne of other men, upon
triall, finde themselves to carry away the scorne. Therefore, I
account it no meane folly in them, who (upon no occasion) wil tempt
the power of another mans wit or experience. But because all men and
women are not of my opinion; I meane that you shall perceive it more
apparantly, by an accident happening to a Knight of Pistoia, as you
shall heare by me related.
  In the Town of Pistoia, bordering upon Florence, there lived not
long since, a Knight named Signieur Francesco, descended of the linage
or family of the Vergellisi, a man very rich, wise, and in many things
provident, but gripple, covetous, and too close handed, without
respect to his worth and reputation. He being called to the Office
of Podesta in the City of Millaine, furnished himselfe with all things
(in honourable manner) beseeming such a charge; onely, a comely
horse for his owne saddle excepted, which he knew not by any meanes
how to compasse, so loath hee was lay out money, albeit his credit
much depended thereon.
  At the same time, there lived in Pistoya likewise, a young man,
named Ricciardo, derived of meane birth, but very wealthy, quicke
witted, and of commendable person, alwayes going so neate, fine, and
formall in his apparrell, that he was generally tearmed the Magnifico,
who had long time affected, yea, and closely courted, (though any
advantage or successe) the Lady and wife of Signior Francesco, who was
very beautifull, vertuous, and chaste. It so chanced, that this
Magnifico had the very choisest and goodliest ambling Gelding in all
Tuscany, which hee loved dearely, for his faire forme, and other
good parts. Upon a flying rumor throughout Pistoia, that he daily made
love to the foresaid Ladie, some busie-body put it into the head of
Signior Francesco, that if he pleased to request the Gelding, the
Magnifico would frankely give it him, in regard of the love he bare to
his wife.
  The base-minded Knight, coveting to have the Horse, and yet not to
part with any money, sent for the Magnifico, desiring to buy his fayre
Gelding of him, because he hoped to have him of free gift. The
Magnifico hearing this request, was very joyfull, and thus answered;
Sir, if you would give me all the wealth which you possesse in this
world, I wil not sell you my horse, rather I wil bestow him on you
as a Gentlemans gift: but yet upon this condition, that before you
have him delivered, I may with your license, and in your presence
speake a few words to your vertuous Ladie, and so farre off in
distance from you, as I may not be heard by any, but onely her
selfe. Signior Francesco, wholly conducted by his base avaricious
desire, and meaning to make a scorne at the Magnifico, made answer,
that he was well contented to let him speak with her when he would;
and leaving him in the great Hall of the house, went to his wives
Chamber, and told her how easily he might enjoy the horse,
commanding her forthwith to come and heare what he could say to her,
only she should abstaine, and not returne him any answer. The Lady
with a modest blush, much condemned this folly in him, that his
covetousnes should serve as a cloake to cover any unfitting speeches
which her chaste eares could never endure to heare. Neverthelesse
being to obey her husbands will, she promised to do it, and followed
him down into the Hall, to heare what the Magnifico would say.
Againe he there confirmed the bargaine made with her husband, and
sitting downe by her in a corner of the Hall, farre enough off from
any ones hearing, taking her curteously by the hand, thus he spake.
  Worthy Lady, it seemeth to me, that you are so truly wise, as no
doubt you have long since perceived, what unfeigned affection your
beauty (far excelling) hath compelled me to beare you. Setting aside
those commendable qualities and singular vertues gloriously shining in
you, and powerfull enough to make a conquest of the stoutest
courage, I held it utterly needlesse, to let you understand by
words, how faithfull the love is I bear you, were it not much more
fervent and constant, then ever any other man can expresse to a woman.
In which condition it shall still continue, without the least
blemish or impayre, so long as I enjoy life or motion; yea, and I dare
assure you, that if in the future world, affection may containe the
same powerfull dominion, as it doth in this; I am the man borne to
love you perpetually. Whereby you may rest confidently perswaded, that
you enjoy not any thing, how poore or precious soever it be, which you
can so solemnely account to be your owne, and in the truest title of
right, as you may my selfe, in all that I have, or for ever shall be
mine.
  To confirme your opinion in this case by any argument of greater
power, let me tell you, that I should repute it as my fairest and most
gracious fortune, if you would command me some such service, as
consisteth in mine ability to performe, and in your courteous favour
to accept, yea, if it were thorow the whole world, right to traval
am I, and obedient. In which regard faire Madam, if I be so much,
yours, as you heare I am, I may boldly adventure (and not without good
reason) to acquaint your chaste eares with my earnest desires, for
on you onely depends my happinesse, life, and absolute comfort, and as
your most humble servant, I beseech you (my deerest good, and sole
hope of my soule) that rigour may dwell no longer in your gentle
brest, but Lady-like pitty and compassion, whereby I shall say, that
as your divine beauty enflamed mine affections, even so it extended
such a merciful qualification, is exceeded all my hope, but not the
halfe part of your pitty.
  Admit (myracle of Ladies) that I should die in this distresse: Alas,
my death would be but your dishonour; I cannot be termed mine owne
murtherer, when the Dart came from your eye that did it, and must
remaine a witnes of your rigor. You cannot then chuse but call to
minde, and say within your own soule: Alas, what a sinne have I
committed, in being so unmercifull to my Magnifico. Repentance then
serves to no purpose, but you must answer for such unkinde cruelty.
Wherefore, to prevent so blacke a scandall to your bright beauty,
beside the ceaselesse acclamations, which will dog your walkes in
the day time, and breake your quiet sleepes in the night season,
with fearefull sights and gastly apparitions, hovering and haunting
about your bed; let all these moove you to milde mercy, and spill
not life, when you may save it.
  So the Magnifico ceasing, with teares streaming from his eyes, and
sighes breaking from his heart, hee sate still in expectation of the
Ladies answere, who made neither long or short of the matter,
neither Tilts nor Tourneying, nor many lost mornings and evenings, nor
infinite other such like Offices, which the Magnifico (for her sake)
from time to time had spent in vaine, without the least shew of
acceptation, or any hope at all to winne her love: mooved now in
this very houre, by these solemne is protestations, or rather most
prevailing asseverations, she began to finde that in her, which
(before) she never felt, namely Love. And although (to keepe her
promise made to her husband) shee spake not a word: yet her heart
heaving, her soule throbbing, sighes intermixing, and complexion
altering, could not hide her intended answer to the Magnifico, if
promise had beene no hinderance to her will. All this while the
Magnifico sate as mute as she, and seeing she would not give him any
answere at all, he could not choose but wonder thereat, yet at
length perceived, that it was thus cunningly contrived by her husband.
Notwithstanding, observing well her countenance, that it was in a
quite contrary temper, another kinde of fire sparkling in her eye,
other humours flowing, her pulses strongly beating, her stomacke
rising, and sighes swelling, all these were arguments of a change, and
motives to advance his hope. Taking courage by this ticklish
perswasion, and instructing his mind with a new kinde of counsell;
he would needes answer himselfe on her behalfe, and as if she had
uttered the words, thus he spake.
  Magnifico, and my friend, surely it is a long time since, when I
first noted thine affection toward me to be very great and most
perfect, but now I am much more certain thereof, by thine owne
honest and gentle speeches, which content me as they ought to do.
Neverthelesse, if heretofore I have seemed cruell and unkinde to thee,
I would not have thee thinke, that my heart was any way guilty of my
outward severity, but did evermore love thee, and held thee deerer
then any man living. But yet it became me to do so, as well in feare
of others, as for the renowne of mine owne reputation. But now is
the time at hand, to let thee knowe more clearly, whether I do
affect thee or no: as a just guerdon of thy constant love
which long thou hast, and still doest beare to me. Wherefore,
comfort thy selfe, and dwell on this undoubted hope, because Signior
Francesco my husband, is to be absent hence for many dayes, beeing
chosen Podesta at Millaine, as thou canst not choose but heare, for it
is common through the Country.
  I know (for my sake) thou hast given him thy goodly ambling Gelding,
and so soone as he is gone, I promise thee upon my word, and by the
faithfull love I beare thee; that I will have further conference
with thee, and let thee understand somewhat more of my minde. And
because this is neither fitting time nor place, to discourse on
matters of such serious moment: observe heereafter, as a signall, when
thou seest my Crimson Skarfe hanging in the window of my Chamber,
which is upon the Garden side, that evening (so soone as it is
night) come to the Garden gate, with wary respect that no eye do
discover thee, and there thou shalt finde me walking, and ready to
acquaint thee with other matters, according as I shall finde occasion.
  When the Magnifico in the person of the Lady, had spoken thus,
then he returned her this answer. Most vertuous Lady, my spirits are
so transported with extraordinary joy, for this your gracious and
welcome answer, that my sences faile me, and all my faculties quite
forsake me, that I cannot give you such thankes as I would. And if I
could speak equally to my desire, yet the season suites not therewith,
neither were it convenient that I should be so troublesome to you. Let
me therefore humbly beseech you, that the desire I have to
accomplish your will (which wordes availe not to expresse) may remaine
in your kinde consideration. And as you have commanded me, so will I
not faile to performe it accordingly, and in more thankfull manner,
then (as yet) I am able to let you know. Now there resteth nothing
else to do, but under the protection of your gracious pardon, I to
give over speech, and you to attend your woorthy Husband.
  Notwithstanding all that hee had spoken, yet shee replyed not one
word; wherefore the Magnifico arose, and returned to the Knight, who
went to meete him, saying in a lowd laughter. How now man? Have I
not kept my promise with thee? No Sir, answered the Magnifico, for you
promised I should speake with your wife, and you have made mee talke
to a marble Statue. This answere, was greatly pleasing to the
Knight, who, although hee had an undoubted opinion of his wife; yet
this did much more strengthen his beliefe, and hee said. Now thou
confessest thy Gelding to bee mine? I doe, replied the Magnifico,
but if I had thought, that no better successe would have ensued on the
bargaine; without your motion for the horse, I would have given him
you: and I am sorie that I did not, because now you have bought my
horse, and yet I have not sold him. The Knight laughed heartily at
this answer, and being thus provided of so faire a beast, hee rode
on his journey to Millaine, and there entred into his authority of
Podesta.
  The Lady remained now in liberty at home, considering on the
Magnificoes words, and likewise the Gelding, which (for her sake)
was given to her husband. Oftentimes shee saw him passe too and fro
before her windowe, still looking when the Flagge of defiance should
be hanged forth, that hee might fight valiantly under her Colours. The
Story saith, that among many of her much better meditations, shee
was heard to talke thus idely to her selfe. What doe I meane?
Wherefore is my youth? The olde miserable man is gone to Millaine, and
God knoweth when hee comes backe againe, ever, or never. Is dignity
preferred before wedlockes holy duty, and pleasures abroade, more then
comforts at home? Ill can age pay youths arrerages, when: time is
spent, and no hope sparde. Actions omitted, are oftentimes repented,
but done in due season, they are sildome sorrowed for. Upon these
un-Lady-like private consultations, whether the window shewed the
signa or no; it is no matter belonging to my charge: I say, husbands
are unwise, to graunt such ill advantages, and wives much worse, if
they take hold of them, onely Judge you the best, and so the Tale is
ended.
                    THE THIRD DAY THE SIXTH NOVELL

      DECLARING, HOW MUCH PERSEVERANCE, AND A COURAGIOUS SPIRIT IS
                            AVAILABLE IN LOVE

  Ricciardo Minutolo fell in love with the wife of Philippello
Fighinolfi, and knowing her to be very jealous of her Husband, gave
her to understand, that hee was greatly enamoured of his Wife, and had
appointed to meete her privately in a Bathing house, on the next day
following: where shee hoping to take him tardie with his close
compacted Mistresse, found her selfe to be deceived by the said
Ricciardo.

  No more remained to be spoken by Madame Eliza, but the cunning of
the Magnifico, being much commended by all the company: the Queene
commanded Madame Fiammetta, to succede next in order with one of her
Novels, who (smiling) made answer that shee would, and began thus.
Gracious Ladies, mee thinkes wee have spoken enough already,
concerning our owne Citie, which as it aboundeth copiously in all
commodities, so is it an example also to every convenient purpose. And
as Madam Eliza hath done, by recounting occasions happening in another
World, so must we now leape a little further off, even so far as
Naples, to see how one of those Saint-like Dames that nicely seemes to
shun loves allurings, was guided by the good spirit to a friend of
hers, and tasted of the fruite, before she knew the flowers. A
sufficient warning for you to apprehend before hand what may follow
after, and to let you see beside, that when an error is committed, how
to bee discreete in keeping it from publike knowledge.
  In the Citie of Naples, it being of great antiquity, and (perhaps)
as pleasantly situated, as any other City in all Italy, there dwelt
sometime a yong Gentleman, of noble parentage, and well knowne to
bee wealthy, named Ricciardo Minutolo, who although hee had a
Gentlewoman of excellent beuty, and worthy the verie kindest affecting
to his wife; yet his gadding eye gazed elsewhere, and he became
enamored of another, which (in generall opinion) surpassed all the
Neapolitane Women else, in feature, favour, and the choysest
perfections, shee being named Madam Catulla wife to as gallant a young
Gentleman, called Philippello Fighinolfi, who most dearly he loved
beyond all other, for her vertue and admired chastity.
  Ricciardo loving this Madam Catulla, and using all such means
whereby the grace and liking of a Lady might be obtained; found it yet
a matter beyond possibility, to compasse the height of his desire:
so that many desperate and dangerous resolutions beleagred his braine,
seeming so intricate and unlikely to affoord any hopefull yssue, as
hee wished for nothing more then death.
  And death (as yet) being deafe to all his earnest imprecations,
delayed him on in lingering afflictions: and continuing still in
such an extreame condition, he was advised by some of his best
friends, utterly to abstaine from this fond pursuit, because his hopes
were meerely in vaine, and Madam Catulla prized nothing more
precious to her in the World, then unstayned loyaltie to her
Husband: and yet shee lived in such extreame jealousie of him, as
fearing least some bird flying in the ayre should snatch him from her.
  Ricciardo not unacquainted with this her jealous humour, as well
by credible hearing thereof, as also by daily observation, began to
with himselfe, that it were best to consider for him, to dissemble
amorous affection in some other place, and (henceforward) to set aside
all hope, of ever enjoying the love of Madam Catulla, because he was
now become the servant to another Gentlewoman, pretending (in her
honour) to performe many worthy actions of Armes, Joustes,
Tournaments, and all such like noble exercises, as he was wont to
doe for Madam Catulla. So that most of the people of Naples, but
especially Madam Catulla, becam perswaded, that his former
fruitlesse love to her was quite changed, and the new elected Lady had
all the glory of his best endevours, persevering so long in this
opinion, as now it passed absolutely for currant. Thus seemed he now
as meere a stranger to her, whose house before he familiarly
frequented, yet as a neighbour gave her the daies salutations,
according as he chanced to see her, or meet her.
  It came so to passe, that it being now the delightfull Summer
season, when all Gentlemen and Gentlewomen used to meete together
(according to a custome long observed in that Country) sporting
along on the Sea Coast, dining and supping there very often, Ricciardo
Minutolo happened to heare, that Madam Catulla (with a company of
her friends) intended also to be present there among them; at which
time, consorted with a seemely traine of his confederates, he resorted
thither, and was graciously welcommed by Madam Catulla, where he
pretended no willing long time of tarrying, but that Catulla and the
other Ladies were faine to entreate him, discoursing of his love to
his new elected Mistresse: which Minutolo graced with so solemne a
countenance, as it ministred much more matter of conference, all
coveting to know what she was.
  So farre they walked, and held on this kinde of discoursing, as
every Lady and Gentlewoman, waxing weary of too long a continued
argument, began to separate her selfe with such an associate as shee
best liked, and as in such walking women are wont to doe; so that
Madam Catulla having few females left with her, stayed behind with
Minutolo, who sodainly shot forth a word concerning her husband
Philipello, and of his loving another woman beside her selfe. She that
was overmuch jealous before, became so sodainely set on fire to know
what shee was of whom Minutolo spake, as she sat silent a long
while, til being able to containe no longer, shee entreated
Ricciardo even for the Ladies sake, whose love he had so devoutly
embraced, to resolve her certainly in this strange alteration of her
husband; whereunto thus he answered.
  Madam, you have so straitly concured me, by urging the remembrance
of her; for whose sake I am not able to deny any thing you can demand,
as I am readie therein to pleasure you. But first you must promise me,
that neither you, or any other person for you, shall at any time
disclose it to your Husband, untill you have seene by effect, that
which I have told you proveth to be true: and when you please, I wil
instruct you how your selfe shall see it. The Ladie was not a little
joyfull to be thus satisfied in her Husbands folly, and constantly
crediting his words to be true, shee sware a solemne oath, that no one
alive should ever know it. So stepping a little further aside, because
no listening eare should heare him, thus he beganne.
  Lady, if I did love you now so effectually as heeretofore I have
done, I should be very circumspect, in uttering any thing which I
immagined might distast you. I know not whether your husband
Philipello, were at any time offended, because I affected you, or
beleeved that I received any kindnes from you: but whether it were
so or no, I could never discerne it by any outward apparance. But
now awaiting for the opportunity of time, which he conceived should
affoord me the least suspition, he seekes to compasse that, which (I
doubt) he feares I would have done to him, in plaine termes Madam,
to have his pleasure of my wife. And as by some carriages I have
observed, within few daies past he hath solicited and pursued his
purpose very secretly, by many Ambassages, and meanes, as (indeed) I
have learned from her selfe, and alwaies she hath returned in such
answers, as she receyved by my direction.
  And no longer ago Madam, then this very morning, before my comming
hither, I found a woman-messenger in my house, in very close
conference with my Wife, when growing doubtfull of that which was true
indeede, I called my Wife, enquiring, what the woman would have with
her; and she told me, it was another pursuite of Philipello
Fighinolfi, who (quoth shee) upon such answers as you have caused me
to send him from time to time, perhappes doth gather some hope of
prevailing in the end, which maketh him still to importune me as he
doth. And now he adventureth so farre, as to understand my finall
intention, having thus ordered his complot, that when I please, I must
meet him secretly in a house of this City, where he hath prepared a
Bath ready for me, and hopeth to enjoy the end of his desire, as
very earnestly he hath solicited me thereto. But if you had not
commanded me, to hold him in suspense with so many frivolous
answers, I would ere this, have sent him such a message, as should
have bene little to his liking.
  With patience Madam I endured all before, but now (me thinkes) he
proceedeth too farre, which is not any way to be suffered; and
therefore I intended to let you know it, that you may perceive, how
wel you are rewarded for the faithfull and loyall love you beare
him, and for which, I was even at deaths dore. Now, because you may be
the surer of my speeches, not to be any lyes or fables, and that you
may (if you please) approve the truth by your owne experience, I
caused my wife to send him word, that she would meet him to morrow
at the Bathing-house appointed, about the houre of noone-day, when
people repose themselves in regard of the heates violence; with
which answer the woman returned very jocondly. Let me now tell you
Lady, I hope you have better opinion of my wit, then any meaning in
me, to send my wife thither; I rather did it to this end, that
having acquainted you with his treacherous intent, you should supply
my wives place, by saving both his reputation and your owne, and
frustrating his unkind purpose to me. Moreover, upon the view of his
owne delusion, wrought by my wife in meere love to you, he shall see
his foule shame, and your most noble care, to keepe the rites of
marriage betweene you still unstained.
  Madame Catulla, having heard this long and unpleasing report,
without any consideration, either what he was that tolde the tale,
or what a treason he intended against her: immediately (as jealous
persons use to doe) she gave faith to his forgerie, and began to
discourse many things to him, which imagination had often misguided
her in, against her honest minded husband, and enflamed with rage,
suddenly replied; that shee would doe according as he had advised her,
as being a matter of no difficulty. But if he came, she would so shame
and dishonour him, as no woman whatsoever should better schoole him.
Ricciardo highly pleased herewith, and being perswaded, that his
purpose would take the full effect: confirmed the Lady in her
determination with many words more; yet putting her in memory, to
keepe her faithfull promise made, without revealing the matter to
any living person, as shee had sworne upon her faith.
  On the morrow morning, Ricciardo went to an auncient woman of his
acquaintance, who was the Mistresse of a Bathing-house, and there
where he had appointed Madame Catulla, that the Bath should bee
prepared for her, giving her to understand the whole businesse, and
desiring her to be favourable therein to him. The woman, who had beene
much beholding to him in other matters, promised very willingly to
fulfill his request, concluding with him, both what should be done and
said. She had in her house a very darke Chamber, without any window to
affoord it the least light, which Chamber she had made ready,
according to Ricciardoes direction, with a rich Bed thereir, so soft
and delicate as possible could bee, wherein he entred so soone as he
had dined, to attend the arrivall of Madame Catulla. On the same
day, as she had heard the speeches of Ricciardo, and gave more
credit to them then became her; shee returned home to her house in
wonderfull impatience. And Philippello her husband came home
discontentedly too, whose head being busied about some worldly
affaires, perhaps he looked not so pleasantly, neither used her so
kindly, as he was wont to doe. Which Catulla perceiving, shee was
ten times more suspicious then before, saying to her selfe. Now
apparent trueth doth disclose it selfe, my husbands head is troubled
now with nothing else, but Ricciardoes wife, with whom (to morrow)
he purposeth his meeting; wherein he shall be disappointed, if I live;
taking no rest at all the whole night, for thinking how to handle
her husband.
  What shall I say more? On the morrow, at the houre of mid-day
accompanied onely with her Chamber-mayde, and without any other
alteration in opinion; shee went to the house where the Bath was
promised, and meeting there with the olde woman, demaunded of her,
if Philippello were come thither as yet or no? The woman, being well
instructed by Ricciardo, answered: Are you shee that should meete
him heere? Yes, replied Catulla. Goe in then to him (quoth the
woman) for he is not farre off before you.
  Madame Catulla, who went to seeke that which shee would not finde,
being brought vailed into the darke Chamber where Ricciardo was,
entred into the Bath, hoping to finde none other there but her
husband, and the custome of the Country, never disallowed such
meetings of men with their wives, but held them to be good and
commendable. In a counterfeit voyce he bad her welcome, and she, not
seeming to be any other then shee was indeed, entertained his
imbracings in as loving manner; yet not daring to speake, least he
should know her, but suffered him to proceede in his owne errour.
  Let passe the wanton follies passing betweene them, and come to
Madame Catulla, who finding it a fit and convenient time, to vent
forth the tempest of her spleene, began in this manner. Alas! how
mighty, are the misfortunes of women, and how ill requited is all
the loyall love of many wives to their husbands? I, a poore
miserable Lady, who, for the space of eight yeeres now fully
compleated, have loved thee: more dearely then mine owne life, finde
now (to my hearts endlesse griefe) how thou wastest and consumest
thy desires, to delight them with a strange woman, like a most vile
and wicked man as thou art. With whom doest thou now imagine thy selfe
to be? Thou art with her, whom thou hast long time deluded by false
blandishments, feigning to affect her, when thou doatest in thy
desires else-where. I am thine owne Catulla, and not the wife of
Ricciardo, trayterous and unfaithfull man, as thou art. I am sure thou
knowest my voyce, and I thinke it a thousand yeeres, until wee may see
each other in the light, to doe thee such dishonour as thou justly
deservest, dogged, disdainfull, and villainous wretch. By conceiving
to have another woman in thy wanton embraces thou hast declared more
joviall disposition, and demonstrations of farre greater kindnesse,
then domesticke familiarity. At home thou lookest sower, sullen or
surly, often froward, and seldome well pleased. But the best is,
whereas thou intendest this husbandrie for another mans ground, thou
hast (against thy will) bestowed it on thine owne, and the water
hath runne a contrary course, quite from the current where thou
meantst it.
  What answer canst thou make, devill, and no man? What, have my words
smitten thee dumbe? Thou mayest (with shame enough) hold thy peace,
for with the face of a man, and love of an husband to his wife, thou
art not able to make any answere.
  Ricciardo durst not speake one word, but still expressed his affable
behaviour towards her, bestowing infinite embraces and kisses on
her: which so much the more augmented her rage and anger, continuing
on her chiding thus. If by these flatteries and idle follies, thou
hopest to comfort or pacifie me, thou runnest quite by as from thy
reckoning; for I shall never imagine my selfe halfe satisfied,
untill in the presence of my parents, friends, and neighbours, I
have revealed thy base behaviour. Tell mee, treacherous man, am not
I as faire, as the wife of Ricciardo? Am I not as good a Gentlewoman
borne, as shee is? What canst thou more respect in her, then is in
mee? Villaine, monster, why doest thou not answere mee? I will send to
Ricciardo, who loveth mee beyond all other women in Naples, and yet
could never vaunt, that I gave him so much as a friendly looke: he
shall know, what a dishonour thou hadst intended towards him; which
both he and his friends will revenge soundly upon thee. The
exclamations of the Lady were so tedious and irksome, that Ricciardo
perceiving, if shee continued longer in these complaints, worse
would ensue thereon, then could bee easily remedied: resolved to
make himselfe knowne unto her, to reclaime her out of this violent
extasie, and holding her somewhat strictly, to prevent her escaping
from him, he said. Madam, afflict your selfe no further, for, what I
could not obtaine by simply loving you, subtilty hath better taught
me, and I am your Ricciardo: which she hearing, and perfectly
knowing him by his voyce; shee would have leapt out of the Bath, but
shee could not, and to avoyde her crying out, he layde his hand on her
mouth, saying. Lady, what is done, cannot now be undone, albeit you
cried out all your life time. If you exclaime, or make this knowne
openly by any meanes; two unavoydable dangers must needes ensue
thereon. The one (which you ought more carefully to respect) is the
wounding of your good renowne and honour, because, when you shall say,
that by treacherie I drew you hither: I will boldly maintaine the
contrary, avouching, that having corrupted you with gold, and not
giving you so much as covetously you desired; you grew offended, and
thereon made the outcry, and you are not to learne, that the world
is more easily induced to beleeve the worst, then any goodnesse, be it
never so manifest. Next unto this, mortall hatred must arise
betweene your husband and mee, and (perhaps) I shall as soone kill
him, as he me; whereby you can hardly, live in any true contentment
after. Wherefore, joy of my life, doe not in one moment, both shame
your selfe, and cause such perill betweene your husband and me: for
you are not the first, neither can be the last, that shall be
deceived. I have not beguiled you, to take any honour from you, but
onely declared, the faithfull affection I beare you, and so shall
doe for ever, as being your bounden and most obedient servant; and
as it is a long time agoe, since I dedicated my selfe and all mine
to your service, so hence-forth must I remaine for ever. You are
wise enough (I know) in all other things: then shew your selfe not
to be silly or simple in this.
  Ricciardo uttered these words, teares streaming aboundantly downe
his cheekes, and Madame Catulla (all the while) likewise showred forth
her sorrowes equally to his, now, although she was exceedingly
troubled in mind, and saw what her owne jealous folly had now
brought her to, a shame beyond all other whatsoever: in the middest of
her tormenting passions, shee considered on the words of Ricciardo,
found good reason in them, in regard of the unavoydable evils
whereupon shee thus spake. Ricciardo, I know not how to beare the
horrible injurie, and notorious treason used by thee against me, grace
and goodnesse having so forsaken me, to let me fall in so foule a
manner. Nor becommeth it me, to make any noyse or out-cry heere,
whereto simplicity, or rather devillish jealousie, did conduct me. But
certaine I am of one thing, that I shall never see any one joyfull
day, till (by one meanes or other) I bee reverged on thee. Thou hast
glutted thy desire with my disgrace, let me therefore go from thee,
never more to looke upon my wronged husband, or let any honest woman
ever see my face.
  Ricciardo perceiving the extremity of her perplexed minde, used
all manly and milde perswasions, which possibly he could devise to
doe, to turne the torrent of this high tide, to a calmer course; as by
outward shew shee made appearance of, untill (in frightfull feares
shunning every one shee met withall, as arguments of her
guiltinesse) shee recovered her owne house, where remorse so
tortured her distressed soule, that she fell into so fierce a
melancholy, as never left her till shee died. Upon the report whereof,
Ricciardo becomming likewise a widdower, and grieving
extraordinarily for his haynous transgression, penitently betooke
himselfe to live in a wildernesse, where (not long after) he ended his
dayes.
                  THE THIRD DAY, THE SEAVENTH NOVELL

     WHEREIN IS SIGNIFIED THE POWER OF LOVE, AND THE DIVERSITY OF
                 DANGERS, WHEREINTO MEN MAY DAYLY FALL.

  Theobaldo Elisei, having received an unkinde repulse by his beloved,
departed from Florence, and returning thither (a long while after)
in the habite of a Pilgrime; he spake with her, and made his wrongs
knowne unto her. He delivered her Father from the danger of death,
because it was proved, that he had slaine Theobaldo: he made peace
with his brethren, and in the end, wisely enjoyed his hearts desire.

  So ceased Fiammetta her discourse, being generally commended, when
the Queene, to prevent the losse of time, commanded Aemillia to follow
next, who thus began. It liketh me best (gracious Ladies) to returne
home againe to our owne City, which it pleased the for.
  mer two discoursers to part from: And there I will shew you, how a
Citizen of ours, recovered the kindnesse of his Love, after hee had
lost it.
  Sometime there dwelt in Florence a young Gentleman, named
Theobaido Elisei, descended of a noble House, who became earnestly
enamoured of a Widdow, called Hermelina, the daughter to
Aldobrandino Palermini: well deserving, for his vertues and
commendable qualities, to enjoy of her whatsoever he could desire.
Secretly they were espoused together, but Fortune, the enemy to Lovers
felicities, opposed her malice against them, in depriving Theobaldo of
those deere delights, which sometime he held in free possession, and
making him as a stranger to her gracious favours. Now grew shee
contemptibly to despise him, not onely denying to heare any message
sent from him, but scorning also to vouch safe so much as a sight of
him, causing in him extreme griefe and melancholy, yet concealling all
her unkindnesse so wisely to himselfe, as no one could understand
the reason of his sadnesse.
  After he had laboured by all hopefull courses, to obtaine that
favour of her, which he had formerly lost, without any offence in him,
as his innocent soule truly witnessed with him, and saw that all his
further endeavours were fruitlesse and in vaine; he concluded to
retreate himselfe from the World, and not to be any longer irkesome in
her eye, that was the onely occasion of his unhappinesse. Hereupon,
storing himselfe with summes of money, as suddenly he could collect
together, secretly he departed from Florence, without speaking any
word to his friends or kindred; except one kinde companion of
his, whom he acquainted with most of his secrets, and so travelled
to Ancona, where he termed himselfe by the name of Sandoloscio.
Repairing to a wealthy Merchant there, he placed himselfe as his
servant, and went in a Ship of his with him to Cyprus; his actions and
behaviour proved so pleasing to the Merchant, as not onely he
allowed him very sufficient wages, but also grew into such association
with him; as he gave the most of his affaires into his hands, which he
guided with such honest and discreete care, that hee himselfe (in
few yeeres compasse) proved to be a rich Merchant, and of famous
report.
  While matters went on in this successefull manner, although he could
not chuse, but still he remembred his cruell Mistresse, and was very
desperately transported for her love, as coveting (above all things
else) to see her once more; yet was he of such powerfull constancy, as
7 whole yeeres together, he vanquished all those fierce conflicts. But
on a day it chanced he heard a song sung in Cyprus, which he
himselfe had formerly made, in honour of the love he bare to his
Mistresse, and what delight he conceived, by being dayly in her
presence; whereby he gathered, that it was impossible for him to
forget her, and proceeded on so desirously, as he could not live,
except he had a sight of her once more, and therefore determined on
his returne to Florence. Having set all his affaires in due order,
accompanied with a servant of his onely, he passed to Ancona, where
when he was arrived, he sent his Merchandises to Florence, in name
of the Merchant of Ancona, who was his especiall friend and partner;
travayling himselfe alone with his servant, in the habite of a
Pilgrime, as if he had beene newly returned from Jerusalem.
  Being come to Florence, he went to an Inne kept by two brethren,
neere neighbours to the dwelling of his Mistresse, and the first thing
he did, was passing by her doore, to get a sight of her if he were
so happie. But he found the windowes, doores, and all parts of the
house fast shut up, whereby he suspected her to be dead, or else to be
changed from her dwelling: wherefore (much perplexed in minde) he went
on to the two brothers Inne, finding foure persons standing at the
gate, attired in mourning, whereat he marvelled not a little;
knowing himselfe to be so transfigured, both in body and babite, farre
from the manner of common use at his parting thence, as it was a
difficult matter to know him: he stept boldly to a Shooe-makers shop
neere adjoyning, and demanded the reason of their wearing mourning.
The Shooe-maker made answer thus; Sir, those men are clad in mourning,
because a brother of theirs, being named Theobaldo (who hath beene
absent hence a long while) about some fifteene dayes since was slaine.
And they having heard, by proofe made in the Court of justice, that
one Aldobrandino Palermini (who is kept close prisoner) was the
murtherer of him, as he came in a disguised habite to his daughter, of
whom he was most affectionately enamoured; cannot chuse, but let the
World know by their outward habits, the inward affliction of their
hearts, for a deede so dishonourably committed. Theobaldo wondered
greatly hereat, imagining, that some man belike resembling him in
shape, might be slaine in this manner, and by Aldobrandino, for
whose misfortune he grieved marvellously. As concerning his Mistresse,
he understood that shee was living, and in good health; and night
drawing on apace, he went to his lodging, with infinite molestations
in his minde, where after supper, he was lodged in a Corne-loft with
his man. Now by reason of many disturbing imaginations, which
incessantly wheeled about his braine, his bed also being none of the
best, and his supper (perhaps) somewhat of the coursest; a great
part of the night was spent, yet could he not close his eyes together.
But lying still broade awake, about the dead time of night, he heard
the treading of divers persons over his head, who discended downe a
paire of stayres by his Chamber, into the lower parts of the house,
carrying a light with them, which he discerned by the chinkes and
crannies in the wall. Stepping softly out of his bed, to see what
the meaning hereof might be, he espied a faire young woman, who
carried a light in her hand, and three men in her company,
descending downe the stayres together, one of them speaking thus to
the young woman. Now we may boldly warrant our saftey, because we have
heard it assuredly, that the death of Theobaldo Elisei, hath beene
sufficiently approved by the Brethren, against Aldobrandino Palermini,
and he hath confessed the fact; whereupon the sentence is already
set downe in writing. But yet it behooveth us notwithstanding, to
conceale it very secretly, because if ever hereafter it should be
knowne, that we are they who murthered him, we shall be in the same
danger, as now Aldobrandino is.
  When Theobaldo had heard these words, hee began to consider with
himselfe, how many and great the dangers are, wherewith mens minds may
dayly be molested. First, he thought on his owne brethren in their
sorrow, and buried a stranger insteed of him, accusing afterward (by
false opinion, and upon the testimony of as false witnesses) a man
most innocent, making him ready for the stroke of death. Next, he made
a strict observation in his soule, concerning the blinded severity
of Law, and the Ministers thereto belonging, who pretending a diligent
and carefull inquisition for truth, doe oftentimes (by their
tortures and torments) heare lies avouched (onely for ease of paine)
in the place of a true confession, yet thinking themselves (by doing
so) to be the Ministers of God and justice, whereas indeede they are
the Divels executioners of his wickednesse. Lastly, converting his
thoughts to Aldobrandino, the imagined murtherer of a man yet
living, infinite cares beleagured his soule, in devising what might
best be done for his deliverance.
  So soone as he was risen in the morning, leaving his servant behinde
him in his lodging, he went (when he thought it fit time) all alone
toward the house of his Mistresse, where finding by good fortune the
gate open, he entred into a small Parlour beneath, and where he saw
his Mistresse sitting on the ground, wringing hands, and wofully
weeping, which (in meere compassion) moved him to weepe likewise;
and going somewhat neere her, he saide. Madame, torment your selfe
no more, for your peace is not farre off from you. The Gentlewoman
hearing him say so, lifted up her head, and in teares spake thus. Good
man, thou seemest to me to be a Pilgrime stranger; what doest thou
know, either concerning my peace, or mine affliction? Madame
(replied the Pilgrime) I am of Constantinople, and (doubtlesse) am
conducted hither by the hand of Heaven, to convert your teares into
rejoycing, and to deliver your Father from death. How is this?
answered shee: If thou be of Constantinople, and art but now arrived
here; doest thou know who we are, either I, or my Father?
  The Pilgrime discoursed to her, even from the one end to the
other, the history of her husbands sad disasters, telling her, how
many yeeres since she was espoused to him, and many other important
matters, which well shee knew, and was greatly amazed thereat,
thinking him verily to be a Prophet, and kneeling at his feete,
entreated him very earnestly, that if he were come to deliver her
Father Aldobrandino from death, to doe it speedily, because the time
was very short. The Pilgrime appearing to be a man of great holinesse,
saide. Rise up Madame, refraine from weeping, and observe
attentively what I shall say; yet with this caution, that you never
reveale it to any person whatsoever. This tribulation whereinto you
are falne, (as by revelation I am faithfully informed) is for a
grievous sinne by you heretofore committed, whereof divine mercy is
willing to purge you, and to make a perfect amends by a sensible
feeling of this affliction; as seeking your sound and absolute
recovery, least you fall into farre greater danger then before. Good
man (quoth shee) I am burthened with many sinnes, and doe not know for
which any amends should be made by me; any one sooner then other:
wherefore if you have intelligence thereof, for charities sake tell it
me, and I will doe so much as lieth in me, to make a full satisfaction
for it. Madame, answered the Pilgrime, I know well enough what it
is, and will demand it no more of you, to winne any further
knowledge thereof, then I have already: but because in revealing it
your selfe, it may touch you with the more true compunction of
soule; let us goe to the point indeede, and tell mee, doe you
remember, that at any time you were married to an Husband, or no?
  At the hearing of these words, shee breathed foorth a very
vehement sigh, and was stricken with admiration at this question,
beleeving that not any one had knowledge thereof. Howbeit, since the
day of the supposed Theobaldaes buriall, such a rumour ran abroade, by
meanes of some speeches, rashly dispersed by a friend of
Theobaldoes, who (indeede) knew it; whereupon shee returned him this
answer. It appeareth to me (good man) that divine ordinativation
hath revealed unto you all the secrets of men; and therefore I am
determined, not to conceale any of mine from you. True it is, that
in my younger yeeres, being left a widdow, I entirely affected an
unfortunate young Gentleman, who (in secret) was my Husband, and whose
death is imposed on my Father. The death of him I have the more
bemoaned, because (in reason) it did neerely concerne me, by shewing
my selfe so savage and rigorous to him before his departure:
neverthelesse, let me assure you Sir, that neither his parting long
absence from me, or his untimely death, never had the power to bereave
my heart of his remembrance.
  Madame, saide the Pilgrime, the unfortinate young Gentleman that
is slaine, did never love you; but sure I am, that Theobaldo Elisei
loved you deerely. But tell me, what was the occasion whereby you
conceived such hatred against him? Did he at any time offend you? No
truly Sir, quoth shee; but the reason of my anger towards him, was
by the words and threatnings of a religious Father, to whom once I
revealed (under confession) how faithfully I affected him, and what
private familiarity had passed betweene us. When iristantly he used
such dreadfull threatnings to me, and which (even yet) doe afflict
my soule, that I did not abstaine, and utterly refuse him, the
Divell would fetch me quicke to Hell, and cast me into the bottome
of his quenchlesse and everlasting fire.
  These menaces were so prevailing with me, as I refused all further
conversition with Theobaldo, in which regard, I would receive
neither letters or messages from him. Howbeit, I am perswaded, that if
he had continued here still, and not departed hence in such
desperate manner as hee did, seeing him melt and consume dayly away,
even as Snow by power of the Sunne-beames: my austere deliberation had
beene long agoe quite altered, because not at any time (since then)
life hath allowed me one merry day, neither did I, or ever can love
any man like unto him.
  At these wordes the Pilgrime sighed, and then proceeded on againe
thus. Surely Madame, this one onely sin, may justly torment you,
because I know for a certainty, that Theobaldo never offered you any
in many, the day hee first became enamoured of you; and what grace
or favour you affoorded him, was your owne voluntary gift, and (as
he tooke it) no more then in modesty might well become you; for hee
loving you first, you had beene most cruell and unkinde, if you should
not have requited him with the like affection. If then he continued so
just and loyall to you, as (of mine owne knowledge) I am able to say
he did; what should move you to repulse him so rudely? Such matters
ought well to bee considered on before hand; for if you did imagine,
that you should repent it as an action ill done, yet you could not doe
it, because as hee became yours, so were you likewise onely his; and
he being yours, you might dispose of him at your pleasure, as being
truely obliged to none but you. How could you then with-draw your
selfe from him, being onely his, and not commit most manifest theft, a
farre unfitting thing for you to doe, except you had gone with his
consent.
  Now Madame, let me further give you to understand, that I am a
religious person, and a pilgrime, and therefore am well acquainted
with all the courses of their dealing; if therefore I speake
somewhat more amply of them, and for your good, it can not be so
unseeming for mee to doe it, as it would appeare ugly in another. In
which respect, I will speake the more freely to you, to the ende, that
you may take better knowledge of them, then (as it seemeth) hitherto
you have done. In former passed times such as professed Religion, were
learned and most holy persons; but our religious professours now
adayes, and such as covet to bee so esteemed; have no matter at all of
Religion in them, but onely the outward shew and habite. Which yet
is no true badge of Religion neither, because it was ordained by
religious institutions, that their garments should bee made of
arrow, plaine, and coursest spun cloth, to make a publike
manifestation to the world, that (in meere devotion, and religious
disposition) by wrapping their bodies in such base clothing, they
condemned and despised all temporall occasions. But now adaies they
make them large, deepe, glistering, and of the finest cloth or stuffes
to bee gotten, reducing those habites to so proude and pontificall a
forme, that they walke Peacock-like, rustling, and strouting with them
in the Churches; yea, and in open publike places, as if they were
ordinary secular persons, to have their pride more notoriously
observed. And as the Angler bestoweth his best cunning, with one
line and baite to catch many fishes at one strike; even so do these
counterfeited habit-mongers, by their dissembling and crafty
dealing, beguile many credulous widdowes: simple women, yea, and men
of weake capacity, to credit whatsoever they doe or say, and herein
they doe most of all exercise themselves.
  And to the end, that my speeches may not savor of any untruth
against them; these men which I speake of, have not any habite at
all of religious men, but onely the colour of their garments, and
whereas they in times past, desired nothing more then the salvation of
mens soules; these fresher witted fellowes, covet after women and
wealth, and employ all their paines by their whispering confessions,
and figures of painted fearefull examples, to affright and terrifie
unsetled and weake consciences, by horrible and blasphemous
speeches; yet adding perswasion withall, that their sinnes may be
purged by Almes-deedes and Masses. To the end, that such as credit
them in these their dayly courses, being guided more by apparance of
devotion, then any true compunction of heart, to escape severe
penances by them enjoyned: may some of them bring bread, others
wine, others coyne, all of them matter of commoditie and benefit,
and simply say, these gifts are for the soules of their good friends
deceased.
  I make not any doubt, but almes-deedes and prayers, are very mighty;
and prevailing meanes, to appease heavens anger for some sinnes
committed; but if such as bestow them, did either see or know, to whom
they give them: they would more warily keepe them, or else cast them
before Swine, in regard they are altogether so unworthy of them. But
come we now to the case of your ghostly father, crying out in your
eare, that secret mariage was a most greevous sinne: Is not the breach
thereof farre greater? Familiar conversation betweene man and man
and woman, is a concession meerely naturall: but to rob, kill, or
banish any one, proceedeth from the mindes malignity. That thou did
rob Theobaldo, your selfe hath already sufficiently witnessed, by
taking that from him, which with free consent in mariage you gave him.
Next I must say, that by all the power remaining in you, you kild him,
because you would not permit him to remaine with you, declaring your
selfe in the very height of cruelty, that hee might destroy his life
by his owne hands. In which case the Law requireth, that whosoever
is the occasion of an ill act committed, hee or she is as deepe in the
fault, as the party that did it. Now concerning his banishment, and
wandring seaven yeeres in exile thorow the world; you cannot denie,
but that you were the onely occasion thereof. In all which three
severall actions, farre more capitally have you offended; then by
contracting of mariage in such clandestine manner.
  But let us see, whether Theobaldo deserved all these severall
castigations, or not. In trueth he did not, your selfe have
confessed (beside that which I know) that hee loved you more deerely
then himselfe, and nothing could be more honoured, magnified and
exalted, then dayly you were by him, above all other women whatsoever.
When hee came in any place, where honestly, and without suspition
hee might speake to you: all his honour, and all his liberty, lay
wholly committed into your power. Was hee not a noble young Gentleman?
Was he (among all those parts that most adorne a man, and appertaine
to the very choycest respect) inferiour to any one of best merit in
your Citie? I know that you cannot make deniall to any of these
demands. How could you then by the perswasion of a beast, a foole, a
villaine, yea, a vagabond, envying both his happinesse and yours,
enter into so cruell a minde against him? I know not what error
misguideth women, in scorning and despising their husbands: but if
they entred into a better consideration, understanding triely what
they are, and what nobility of nature God hath endued man withall,
farre above all other creatures; it would bee their highest title of
glory, when they are so preciously esteemed of them, so dearely
affected by them, and so gladly embraced in all their best abilities.
  This is so great a sinne, as the divine justice (which in an
equall Ballance bringeth all operations to their full effect) did
not purpose to leave unpunished; but as you enforced against all
reason, to take away Theobaldo from your selfe: even so your father
Aldobrandino, without any occasion given by Theobaldo, is in perill of
his life, and you a partaker of his tribulation. Out of which if you
desire to be delivered, it is very convenient that you promise one
thing which I shall tell you, and may much better be by you performed.
Namely, that if Theobaido do returne from his long banishment, you
shall restore him to your love, grace, and good acceptation;
accounting him in the selfe-same degree of favour and private
entertainment, as he was at the first, before your wicked ghostly
father so hellishly incensed you against him.
  When the Pilgrim had finished his speeches, the Gentlewoman who
had listned to them very attentively (because all the edged reasons
appeared to be plainly true) became verily perswaded, that all these
afictions had falne on her and her father, for the ingratefull offence
by her committed, and therefore thus is replied. Worthy man, and the
friend to goodnesse, I know undoubtedly, that the words which you have
spoken are true, and also I understand by your demonstration, what
manner of people some of those religious persons are, whom
heretofore I have reputed to be Saints, but find them now to be far
otherwise. And to speake truly, I perceive the fault to be great and
greevous, wherein I have offended against Theobaldo, and would (if I
could) willingly make amends, even in such manner as you have advised.
But how is it possible to be done? Theobaldo being dead, can be [no]
more recalled to this life; and therefore, I know not what promise I
should make, in a matter which is not to bee performed. Whereto the
Pilgrime without any longer pausing, thus answered.
  Madam, by such revelations as have beene shewne to me, I know for
a certainety, that Theobaldo is not dead, but living, in health, and
in good estate; if he had the fruition of your grace and favour.
Take heede what you say Sir (quoth the Gentlewoman) for I saw him
lye slain before my doore, his bodie having received many wounds,
which I folded in mine armes, and washed his face with my brinish
teares; whereby (perhaps) the scandall arose, that flew abroad to my
disgrace. Beleeve me Madam, replyed the Pilgrim, say what you will,
I dare assure you that Theobaldo is living, and if you dare make
promise, concerning what hath bin formerly requested, and keepe it
inviolably, I make no doubt, but you your selfe shall shortly see him.
I promise it (quoth she) and binde my selfe thereto by a sacred
oath, to keepe it faithfully: for never could any thing happen to
yeeld me the like contentment, as to see my Father free from danger,
and Theobaldo living.
  At this instant Theobaldo thought it to be a very apt and convenient
time to disclose himselfe, and to comfort the Lady, with an assured
signall of hope, for the deliverance of her Father, wherefore he said:
Ladie, to the end that I may comfort you infallibly in this
dangerous perill of your fathers life, I am to make knowne an
especiall secret to you, which you are to keepe carefully (as you
tender your owne life) from ever being revealed to the world. They
were then in a place of sufficient privacie, and by themselves,
because she reposed great confidence in the Pilgrims sanctity or life,
as thinking him none other then he seemed to be. Theobaldo tooke out
of his Purse a Ring, which she gave him the last night of their
conversing together, and he had kept with no meane care: and shewing
it to her, said; Do you know this Ring Madam? So soone as she saw
it, immediatly she knew it, and answered, Yes Sir, I know the Ring,
and confesse that heretofore I gave it to Theobaldo.
  Heereupon the Pilgrime stood up, and sodainly putting off his
poore linnen Frock, and the Hood from his head, using his Florentine
tongue, he said; Tell me Madam, do you not know me? When she had
advisedly beheld him, and knew him indeed to be Theobaldo, she was
stricken into a wonderfull astonishment, being as fearfull of him,
as she was of the dead body which she saw lying in the street. And I
dare assure you, that she durst not go neere him, to respect him as
Theobaldo lately come from Cyprus, but (in terror) fled away from him;
as if Theobaldo had bin newly risen out of his grave, and came thither
purposely to affright her; wherefore he said. Be not affraid Madam,
I am your Theobaldo, in health, alive, and never as yet died,
neither have I received any wounds to kill mee, as you and my brethren
had formerly imagined.
  Some better assurance getting possession of her, as knowing him
perfectly by his voice, and looking more stedfastly on his face, which
constantly avouched him to be Theobaldo; the teares trickling amaine
downe her faire cheekes, she ran to embrace him, casting her armes
about his necke, and kissing him a thousand times, my faithfull
husband, nothing in the world can be so welcom to me. Theobaldo having
most kindly kissed and embraced her, said; Sweet wife, time wit not
now allow us those ceremonious courtesies, which (indeed) so long a
separation do justly challenge; for I must about a more weighty
busines, to have your Father safely delivered, which I hope to do
before to morow night when you shall heare tydings to your better
contentment. And questionlesse, if I speed no worse then my good
hope perswadeth me, I will see you againe to night, and acquaint you
at better leysure, in such things as I cannot do now at this present.
  So putting on his Pilgrimes habit againe, kissing her once more, and
comforting her with future good successe, he departed from her,
going to the prison where Aldobrandino lay, whom hee found more
pensive, as being in hourely expectation of death, then any hope he
had to be freed from it. Being brought neerer to him by the
prisoners favour, as seeming to be a man come onely to comfort him:
sitting downe by him, thus he began. Aldobrandino, I am a friend of
thine, whom Heaven hath sent to doe thee good, in meere pittie and
compassion of thine innocency. And therefore, if thou wilt grant me
one small request, which I am earnestly to crave at thy hands, thou
shalt heare (without any failing) before to morrow at night, the
sentence of thy free absolution, whereas now thou expectest nothing
but death; whereunto Aldobrandino thus answered. Friendly man,
seeing thou art so carefull of my safety (although I know thee not,
neither doe remember that ere I saw thee till now) thou must needs
be some especiall kinde friend of mine. And to tell thee the truth,
I never committed the sinful deed for which I am condemned to death.
True it is, I have other heinous and greevous sins, which
(undoubtedly) have throwne. this heavy judgement on me, and
therefore I am the more willing to undergo it. Neverthelesse, let me
thus I us farre assure thee, that I would gladly not onely promise
something which might be to the glory of God, if he were pleased in
this case to have mercy on me; but also would as willingly performe
and accomplish it. Wherefore, demaund whatsoever thou pleasest, for
unfained (if I escape with life) I will truly keepe promise with thee.
  Sir, replyed the Pilgrime, I desire nor demand any thing of you, but
that you would pardon the foure Brethren of Theobaldo, that brought
you to this hard extremity, as thinking you to be guilty of their
brothers death, and that you would also accept them as your brethren
and friends upon their craving pardon for what they have done.
  Sir, answered Aldobrandino, no man knoweth how sweet revenge is, nor
with what heate it is to be desired, but onely the man who hath bene
wronged. Notwithstanding, not to hinder hope, which onely aymeth at
Heaven, I freely forgive them, and henceforth pardon them for ever,
intending more. over, that if mercy give me life, and cleere me from
this bloody imputation, to love and respect them so long as I shall
live. This answere was most pleasing to the Pilgrime, and without
any further multiplication of speeches, he entreated him to be of good
comfort, for he feared not but before the time prefixed, he should
heare certaine tydings of his deliverance.
  At his departing from him, hee went directly to the Signoria, and
prevailed so far that he spake privately with a Knight, who was then
one of the States chiefest Lords, to whom he saide. Sir, a man ought
to bestow his best paines and diligence, that the truth of things
should be apparantly knowne, especially, such men as hold the place
and office as you doe: to the end, that those persons which have
committed no foule offence, should not bee punished, but onely the
guilty and haynous transgressors. And because it will be no meane
honor to you, to lay the blame where it worthily deserveth, I am
come hither purposely, to informe you in a case of most weighty
importance. It is not unknowne to you, with what rigour the State hath
proceeded against Aldobrandino Palermini, and you think verily he is
the man that hath slaine Theobaldo Elisei, whereupon your Law hath
condemned him to die. I dare assure you Sir, that a very unjust course
hath beene taken in this case, because Aldobrandino is falsly
accused as you your selfe will confesse before midnight, when they are
delivered into your power, that were the murderers of the man.
  The honest Knight, who was very sorrowfull for Aldobrandino,
gladly gave attention to the Pilgrime, and having conferred on many
matters, appertaining to the fact committed: the two Brethren who were
Theobaldoes Hostes, and their Chambermaid, upon good advice given,
were apprehended in their first sleep, without any resistance made
in their defence. But when the tortures were sent for, to understand
truly how the case went, they would not endure any paine at all, but
each aside by himselfe, and then altogether confessed openly, that
they did the deede, yet not knowing him to be Theobaldo Elisei. And
when it was demanded of them, upon what occasion they did so foule
an act, they answered, that they were so hatefull against the mans
life, because he would luxuriouslie have abused one of their wives,
when they both were absent from their owne home.
  When the Pilgrim had heard their voluntary confession, he tooke
his leave of his Knight, returning secretly to the house of Madam
Hermelina, and there (because all her people were in their beds) she
carefully awaited his returne, to beare some glad tydings of her
father, and to make a further reconciliation betweene her and
Theobaldo, when sitting downe by her, he said: Deare Love, be of
good cheere, for (upon my word) to morrow you shall have your father
home safe, well, and delivered from all further danger: and to
confirme her the more confidently in his words, he declared at large
the whole carriage of the businesse. Hermelina being wondrously
joyfull, for two such succesefull accidents to injoy her husband alive
and in health, and also to have her father freed from so great a
danger; kissed and embraced him most affectionately, welcomming him
lovingly into her bed, whereto so long time hee had beene a stranger.
  No sooner did bright day appeare, but Theobaldo arose, having
acquainted her with such matters as were to be done, and once more
earnestly desiring her, to conceale (as yet) these occurrences to
her selfe. So in his Pilgrims habit, he departed from her house, to
awaite convenient: opportunity, for attending on the businesse
belonging to Aldobrandino. At the usuall houre appointed, the Lords
were all set in the Signioria, and had received full information,
concerning the offence imputed to Aldobrandino, setting him at liberty
by publique consent, and sentencing the other malefactors with
death, who (within a few dayes after) were beheaded in place the
murther was committed. Thus Aldobrandino being released, to his
exceeding comfort, and no small joy of his daughter, kindred, and
friends, all knowing perfectly, that this had happened by the Pilgrims
meanes, they conducted him home to Aldobrandinoes house, where they
desired him to continue so long as himselfe pleased, using him with
most honourable and gracious respect, bilt especially Hermelina, who
knew (better then the rest) on whom she bestowed her liberall favours,
yet concealing all closely to her selfe. After two or three dayes were
over-past, in these complementall entercoursings of kindnesse,
Theobaldo began to consider, that it was high time for reconciliation,
to be solemnely past betweene his brethren and Aldobrandino. For, they
were not a little amazed at his strange deliverance, and went likewise
continually armed, as standing in feare of Aldobrandino and his
friends; which made him the more earnest, for accomplishment of the
promise formerly made unto him. Aldobrandino lovingly replied, that he
was ready to make good his word. Whereupon, the Pilgrime provided a
goodly Banquet, whereat he pursued to have present Aldobrandino, his
Daughter, Kindred, and their wives. But first, himselfe went in
person, to invite them in peace to his banquet, using many pregnant
and forcible reasons to them, such as are requisite in the like
discordant cases. In the end, they were so wise and prevailing with
them that they willingly condiscended, and thought it no disparagement
unto them, for the recovery of Aldobrandinoes kindnesse againe, to
crave pardon for their great error committed. On the morrow following,
about dinner time, the foure brethren of Theobaldo, attired in their
mourning garments, with their wives and frends came first to the house
of Aldobrandino, who purposely stayed for them; and having laid
downe their weapons on the ground, in the presence of all such as
Aldobrandino had invited as his witnesses, they offered themselves
to his mercy, and humbly required pardon of him, for the matter
wherein they had offended him. Aldobrandino shedding teares, most
lovingly embraced them, and (to be briefe) pardoned whatsoever
injuries he had received. After this, the sisters and wives, all
clad in mourning, courteously submitted themselves, and were
graciously welcommed by Madame Hermelina, as also divers other
Gentlewomen there present with her. Being all seated at the Tables,
which were furnished with such rarities as could be wished for; al
things else deserved their due commendation, but onely sad silence,
occasioned by the fresh remembrance of sorow, appearing in the habites
of Theobaldoes friends and kindred, which the Pilgrim himselfe plainly
perceived, to be the onely disgrace to him and his feast. Wherefore,
as before he had resolved, when time served to purge away this
melancholly, he arose from the Table, when some (as yet) had scarse
begun to eate, and thus spake.
  Gracious company, there is no defect in this Banquet, or more debars
it of the honour it might else have, but onely the presence of
Theobaldo, who having bin continually in your company, it seemes you
are not willing to take knowledge of him, and therefore I meane my
selfe to shew him. So, uncasing himselfe out of his Pilgrimes clothes,
and standing in his Hose and Doublet, to their no little admiration,
they all knew him, yet doubted whether it were he, or no. Which he
perceiving, he repeated his brethrens and absent kindreds names, and
what occurrences hapned betweene them from time to time, beside the
relation of his owne passed fortunes, inciting teares in the eyes of
his brethren, and all else there present, every one hugging and
embracing him, yea, many beside, who were no kin at all to him.
Hermelina onely excepted: which when Aldobrandino saw, he said unto
her; How now Hermelina? Why doest thou not welcome home Theobaldo,
so kindly as the rest have done?
  She making a modest courtesie to her Father, and answering so
loude as every one might her, There is not any one in this assembly
that more willingly would give him all expression of a joyfull
welcom home and thankefull gratitude for such especiall favours
received, then in my heart I could affoord to do, but onely in
regard of those infamous speeches noysed out against me, on the day
when we wept for him, who was supposed to be Theobaldo, which
slander was to my great discredit. Go on boldly, replied Aldobrandino,
doest thou think that I regard any such praters? In the procuring of
my deliverance, he hath approved them to be manifest lyars, albeit I
my selfe did never credit them. Go then I command thee, and- let me
see thee both kisse and embrace him. She who desired nothing more,
shewed her selfe not sloth full in obeying her father to do but her
duty to her husband. Wherefore being risen, as all the rest had
done, but yet in farre more effectuall manner, she declared her
unfained love to Theobaldo. These bountifull favours of
Aldobrandino, were joyfully accepted by Theobaldoes brethren, as
also to every one there present; so that all former rancour and hatred
which had caused heavie variances betweene them, was now converted
to mutuall kindnesse and solemne friendship on every side.
  When the feasting dayes were finished, the garments of sad
mourning were quite laid aside, and those (becomming so generall a
joy) put on, to make their hearts and habites suteable. Now,
concerning the man slaine, and supposed to be Theobaldo, hee was
one, that in all parts of body, and truenesse of complexion so neerely
resembled him, as Theobaldoes owne brethren could not distinguish
the one from the other: but hee was of Lunigiana, named Fatinolo,
and not Theobaldo, whom the two Brethren Inne-keepers maliced, about
some idle suspition conceived, and having slaine him, layde his body
at the doore of Aldobrandino, where by reason of Theobaldoes
absence, it was generally reputed to be hee, and Aldobrandino
charged to doe the deede, by vehement perswasion of the brethren,
knowing what love had passed betweene him and his daughter
Hermelina. But happy was the Pilgrims returne, first to heare those
words in the Inne, the meanes to bring the murther to light, and
then the discreet carriage of the Pilgrime, untill he plainly approved
himselfe, to bee truely Theobaldo.
                    THE THIRD DAY, THE EIGHT NOVELL

    WHEREIN IS DISPLAYED, THE APPARANT FOLLY OF JEALOUSIE: AND THE
            SUBTILITY OF SOME RELIGIOUS CARNALL MINDED MEN, TO
                   BEGUILE SILLY AND SIMPLE MARIED MEN

  Ferando, by drinking a certaine kinde of powder, was buried dead.
And by the Abbot, who was enamored of his Wife, was taken out of his
Grave, and put into a darke prison, where they made him beleeve,
that hee was in Purgatorie. Afterward, when time came that hee
should be, raised to life againe; he was made to keepe a childe
which the Abbot had got by his Wife.

  When the long discourse of Madame Emilia was ended, not
displeasing to any, in regard of the length, but rather held too
short, because no exceptions could bee taken against it, comparing the
raritie of the accidents, and changes together: the Queene turned to
Madame Lauretto, giving her such a manifest signe, as she knew, that
it was her turne to follow next, and therefore shee tooke occasion
to begin thus. Faire Ladies, I intend to tell you a Tale of trueth,
which (perhaps) in your opinions, will seeme to sound like a lye:
and yet I heard by the very last relation, that a dead man was wept
and mournd for, in sted of another being then alive. In which respect,
I am now to let you know, how a living man was buried for dead, and
being raised againe, yet not as living, himselfe, and divers more
beside, did beleeve that he came forth of his grave, and adored him as
a Saint, who was the occasion thereof, and who (as a bad man.)
deserved justly to be condemned.
  In Tuscanie there was sometime an Abbey, seated, as now we see
commonly they are, in a place not much frequented with people, and
thereof a Monke was Abbot, very holy and curious in all things else,
save onely a wanton appetite to women: which yet he kept so cleanly to
himselfe, that though some did suspect it, yet it was knowne to very
few. It came to passe, that a rich Country Franklin, named Ferando,
dwelt as neere neighbour to the said Abby, he being a man materiall,
of simple and grosse understanding, yet he fell into great familiarity
with the Abbot; who made use of this friendly conversation to no other
end, but for divers times of recreation; when he delighted to smile at
his silly and sottish behaviour.
  Upon this his private frequentation with the Abbot, at last he
observed, that Ferando had a very beautifull woman to his Wife, with
whom he grew so deeply in love, as he had no other meditations
either by day or night, but how to become acceptable in her favour.
Neverthelesse, he concealed his amorous passions privately to
himselfe, and could plainely perceive, that although Ferando (in all
things else) was meerely a simple fellow, and more like an Idiot, then
of any sensible apprehension: yet was he wise enough in loving his
Wife, keeping her carfully out of all company, as one (indeede) very
jealous, least any should kisse her, but onely himselfe, which drove
the Abbot into despaire, for ever attaining the issue of his desire.
Yet being subtill, crafty, and cautelous, he wrought so on the
flexible nature of Ferando, that hee brought his wife with him
divers dayes to the Monasterie; where they walked in the goodly
Garden, discoursing on the beatitudes of eternall life, as also the
most holy deedes of men and women, long since departed out of this
life, in mervailous civill and modest manner. Yet all these were but
traines to a further intention, for the Abbot must needes be her
ghostly Father, and she come to be confessed by him; which the foole
Ferando tooke as an especiall favour, and therefore he gave his
consent the sooner.
  At the appointed time, when the woman came to confession to the
Abbot, and was on her knees before him, to his no small contentment,
before she would say any thing else, thus she began: Sacred Father, if
God had not given me such an husband as I have, or else had bestowed
on me none at all; I might have beene so happy, by the meanes of
your holy doctrine, very easily to have entred into the way, whereof
you spake the other day, which leadeth to eternall life. But when I
consider with my selfe, what manner of man Ferando is, and thinke upon
his folly withall; I may well terme my selfe to be a widow, although I
am a maried wife, because while he liveth, I cannot have any other
husband. And yet (as sottish as you see him) he is (without any
occasion given him) so extreamely jealous of me; as I am not able to
live with him, but only in continuall tribulation and hearts griefe.
In which respect, before I enter into confession, I most humbly
beseech you, that you would vouchsafe (in this distresse) to assist me
with your fatherly advice and counsell, because, if thereby I cannot
attaine to a more pleasing kinde of happinesse; neither confessior, or
any thing else, is able to doe me any good at all.
  These words were not a little welcome to my Lord Abbot, because
(thereby) he halfe assured himselfe, that Fortune had laid open the
path to his hoped pleasures. Whereupon he said. Deare daughter, I make
no question to the contrary, but it must needes be an exceeding
infelicity, to so faire and goodly a young woman as you are, to be
plagued with so sottish an husband, brainsick, and without the use
of common understanding; but yet subject to a more hellish
affliction then all these, namely jealousie, and therefore you being
in this wofull manner tormented, your tribulations are not only so
much the more credited, but also as amply grieved for, and pittied. In
which heavy and irksome perturbations, I see not any meanes of remedy,
but onely one, being a kinde of physicke (beyond all other) to cure
him of his foolish jealousie; which medicine is very familiar to me,
because I know best how to compound it, alwayes provided, that you can
be of so strong a capacity, as to be secret in what I shall say unto
you.
  Good Father (answered the Woman) never make you any doubt thereof,
for I would rather endure death it selfe, then disclose any thing
which you enjoyne me to keepe secret: wherefore, I beseech you Sir
to tell me, how, and by what meanes it may be done. If (quoth the
Abbot) you desire to have him perfectly cured, of disease so dangerous
and offensive, of necessity he Must be sent into Purgatory. How may
that be done, saide the woman, he being alive? He must needs die,
answered the Abbot, for his more speedy passage thither; and when he
hath endured so much punishment, as may expiate the quality of his
jealousie, we have certaine devoute and zealous prayers, whereby to
bring him backe againe to life, in as able manner as ever he was.
Why then, replyed the woman, I must remaine in the state of a
Widdow? Very true, saide the Abbot, for a certaine time, in all
which space, you may not (by no meanes) marrie againe, because the
heavens will therewith be highly offended: but Ferando being
returned to life againe, you must repossesse him as your Husband,
but never to be jealous any more. Alas Sir (quoth the woman) so that
he may be cured of his wicked jealousie, and I no longer live in
such an hellish imprisonment, do as you please.
  Now was the Abbot (well neere) on the highest step of his hope,
making her constant promise, to accomplish it: But (quoth he) what
shall be my recompence when I have done it? Father, saide she,
whatsoever you please to aske, if it remaine within the compasse of my
power: but you being such a vertuous and sanctified man, and I a woman
of so meane worth or merit; what sufficient recompence can I be able
to make you? Whereunto the Abbot thus replyed. Faire woman, you are
able to do as much for me, as I am for you, because I doe dispose my
selfe, to performe a matter for your comfort and consolation, even
so ought you to be as mindfull of me, in any action concerning my life
and welfare. In any such matter Sir (quoth she) depending on your
benefit so strictly, you may safely presume to command me. You must
then (saide the Abbot) grant me your love, and the kinde embracing
of your person; because so violent are mine affections, as I pine
and consume away daily, till I enjoy the fruition of my desires, and
none can helpe me therein but you.
 When the woman heard these words, as one confounded with much
amazement, thus shee replied. Alas, holy Father! What a strange motion
have you made to me? I beleeved very faithfully, that you were no
lesse then a Saint, and is it convenient, that when silly women come
to ask counsell of such sanctified men, they should returne them
such unfitting answeres? Be not amazed good woman, saide the Abbot, at
the motion which I have made unto you, because holinesse is not
thereby impaired a jot in me; for it is the inhabitant of the soule,
the other is an imperfection attending on the body: but be it
whatsoever, your beauty hath so powerfully prevailed on me, that
entire love hath compelld me to let you know it. And more may you
boast of your beauty, then any that ever I beheld before, considering,
it is so pleasing to a sanctified man, that it can draw him from
divine contemplations, to regard a matter of so humble an equalitie.
  Let me tell you moreover, woorthy Woman, that see me reverenced here
as Lord Abbot, yet am I but as other men are, and in regard I am
neither aged, nor mishapen, me thinkes the motion I have made,
should be the lesse offensive to you, and therefore the sooner
granted. For, all the while as Ferando remaineth in Purgatory, doe you
but imagine him to be present with you, and your perswasion will the
more absolutely be confirmed. No man can, or shall be privy to our
close meetings, for I carry the same holy opinion among all men, as
you your selfe conceived of me, and none dare be so saucie, as to call
in question whatsoever I doe or say, because my words are Oracles, and
mine actions more than halfe miracles; doe you not then refuse so
gracious an offer. Enow there are, who would gladly enjoy that,
which is francke and freely presented to you, and which (if you be a
wise Woman) is meerely impossible for you to refuse. Richly am I
possessed of Gold and Jewels, which shall be all yours, if you
please in favour to be mine, wherein I will not be gaine-saide, except
your selfe do deny me.
  The Woman having her eyes fixed on the ground, knew not well how
shee should denie him; and yet in plaine words, to say shee consented,
shee held it to be overbase and immodest, and ill agreeing with her
former reputation: when the Abbot had well noted this attention in
her, and how silent shee stood without returning any answere; he
accounted the conquest to be more then halfe his owne: so that
continuing on his former perswasions, hee never ceased, but allured
her still to beleeve whatsoever he saide. And much ashamed of his
importunity, but more of her owne flexible yeelding weaknesse, made
answere, that shee would willingly accomplish his request; which yet
shee did not absolutely grant, untill Ferando were first sent into
Purgatory. And till then (quoth the Abbot) I will not urge any more,
because I purpose his speedy sending thither: but yet, so farre lend
me your assistance, that either to morrow, or else the next day, he
may come hither once more to converse with me. So putting a faire gold
Ring on her finger, they parted till the next meeting.
  Not a little joyfull was the Woman of so rich a gift, hoping to
enjoy a great many more of them, and returning home to her neighbours,
acquainted them with wonderfull matters, all concerning the
sanctimonious life of the Abbot, a meere miracle of men, and worthy to
be truely termed a Saint. Within two dayes after, Ferando went to
the Abbey againe, and so soone as the Abbot espyed him, he presently
prepared for his sending of him into Purgatorie. He never was
without a certaine kinde of drugge, which being beaten into powder,
would worke so powerfully upon the braine, and all the other vitall
senses, as to entrance them with a deadly sleepe, and deprive them
of all motion, either in the pulses, or in any other part else, even
as if the body were dead indeede; in which operation, it would so hold
and continue, according to the quantity given and drunke, as it
preased the Abbot to order the matter. This powder or drugge, was sent
him by a great Prince of the East, and therewith he wrought wonders
upon his Novices, sending them into Purgatory when he pleased, and
by such punishments as he inflicted on them there, made them (like
credulous asses) believe whatsoever himselfe listed.
  So much of this powder had the Abbot provided, as should suffice for
three dayes entrancing, and having compounded it with a very
pleasant Wine, calling Ferando into his Chamber, there gave it him
to drinke, and afterward walked with him about the Cloyster, in very
friendly conference together, the silly sot never dreaming on the
treachery intended against him. Many Monkes beside were recreating
themselves in the Cloyster, most of them delighting to behold the
follies of Ferando, on whom the potion beganne so to worke, that he
slept in walking, nodding and reeling as hee went, till at the last he
fell downe, as if he had bene dead.
  The Abbot pretending great admiration at this accident, called his
Monkes about him, all labouring by rubbing his temples, throwing
cold water and vinegar in his face, to revive him againe; alleaging
that some fume or vapour in the stomacke, had thus over-awed his
understanding faculties, and quite deprived him of life indeede. At
length, when by tasting the pulse, and all their best employed paines,
they saw that their labour was spent in vaine; the Abbot used such
perswasions to the Monkes, that they all beleeved him to be dead:
whereupon they sent for his wife and friends, who crediting as much as
the rest did, were very sad and sorrowfull for him.
  The Abbot (cloathed as he was) laide him in a hollow vault under a
Tombe, such as there are used instead of Graves; his Wife returning
home againe to her House, with a young Sonne which shee had by her
Husband, protesting to keepe still within her House, and never more to
be seene in any company, but onely to attend her young Sonne, and be
very carefull of such wealth as her Husband had left unto her.
 From the City of Bologna, that very instant day, a well staide and
governed Monke there arrived, who was a neere kinsman to the Abbot,
and one whom he might securely trust. In the dead time of the night,
the Abbot and this Monke arose, and taking Ferando out of the vault,
carried him into a darke dungeon or prison, which he termed by the
name of Purgatory, and where hee used to discipline his Monkes, when
they had committed any notorious offence, deserving to be punished
in Purgatory. There they tooke off all his usuall wearing garments,
and cloathed him in the habite of a Monke, even as if he had beene one
of the house; and laying him m a bundle of straw, so left him untill
his senses should be restored againe. On the day following, late in
the evening, the Abbot, accompanied with his trusty Monke, (by way
of visitation) went to see and comfort the supposed widow, finding her
attired in blacke, very sad and pensive, which by his wonted
perswasions, indifferently he appeased; challenging the benefit of
promise. Shee being thus alone, not hindered by her Husbands
jealousie, and espying another goodly gold Ring on his finger, how
frailety and folly over-ruled her, I know not, shee was a weake woman,
he a divelish deluding man; and the strongest holdes by over long
battery and besieging, must needs yeeld at the last, as I feare shee
did: for very often afterward, the Abbot used in this manner to
visit her, and the simple ignorant Country people, carrying no such
ill opinion of the holy Abbot, and having- seene Ferando lying for
dead in the vault, and also in the habite of a Monke; were verily
perswaded, that when they saw the Abbot passe by to and fro, but
most commonly in the night season, it was the ghost of Ferando, who
walked in this manner after his death, as a just pennance for his
jealousie.
  When Ferandoes senses were recovered againe, and he found himselfe
to be in such a darkesome place; not knowing where he was, he
beganne to crie and make a noyse. When presently the Monke of
Bologna (according as the Abbot had tutored him) stept into the
dungeon, carrying a little waxe candle in the one hand, and a smarting
whip in the other, going to Ferando, he stript off his cloathes, and
began to lash him very soundly. Ferando roaring and crying, could
say nothing else, but where am I? The Monke (with a dreadfull voyce)
replyed: Thou art in Purgatory. How? saide Ferando; what? Am I dead?
Thou art dead (quoth the Monke) and began to lash him lustily
againe. Poore Ferando, crying out for his Wife and little Sonne,
demanded a number of idle questions, whereto the Monke still fitted
him with as fantasticke answers. Within a while after, he set both
foode and wine before him, which when Ferando saw, he saide; How is
this? Doe dead men eate and drinke? Yes, replyed the Monke, and this
foode which here thou seest, thy Wife brought hither to the Church
this morning, to have Masses devoutly sung for thy soule, and as to
other, so must it be set before thee, for such is the command of the
Patrone of this place.
  Ferando having lyen entranced three dayes and three nights, felt his
stomacke well prepared to eate, and feeding very heartily, still
saide; O my good Wife, O my loving Wife, long mayest thou live for
this extraordinary kindnesse. I promise thee (sweete heart) while I
was alive, I cannot remember, that ever any foode and wine was halfe
so pleasing to me. O my deare Wife; O my hony Wife. Canst thou
(quoth the Monke) prayse and commend her now, using her so
villainously in thy life time? Then did he whip him more fiercely then
before, when Ferando holding up his hands, as craving for mercy,
demanded wherefore he was so severely punished? I am so commanded
(quoth the Monke) by supreme power, and twice every day must thou be
thus disciplinde. Upon what occasion? replyed Ferando. Because
(quoth the Monke) thou wast most notoriously jealous of thy Wife, shee
being the very kindest woman to thee, as all the Countrey containeth
not her equall. It is too true, answered Ferando, I was over-much
jealous of her indeede: but had I knowne, that jealousie was such a
hatefull sinne against Heaven, I never would have offended therein.
  Now (quoth the Monke) thou canst confesse thine owne wilfull follie,
but this should have beene thought on before, and whilest thou wast
living in the World. But if the Fates vouchsafe to favour thee so
much, as hereafter to send thee to the World once more; remember thy
punishment here in Purgatory, and sinne no more in that foule sinne of
jealousie. I pray you Sir tell me, replyed Ferando, after men are
dead, and put into Purgatory, is there any hope of their ever visiting
the World any more? Yes, saide the Monke, if the fury of the Fates
be once appeased. O that I knew (quoth Ferando) by what meanes they
would be appeased, and let me visite the World on againe: I would be
the best Husband that ever lived, and never more be jealous, never
wrong so good a Wife, nor ever use one unkind word against her. In the
meane while, and till their anger may be qualified; when next my
Wife doth send me food, I pray you worke so much, that some Candles
may be sent me also, because I live here in uncomfortable
darkenesse; and what should I doe with food, if I have no light.
Shee sends Lights enow, answered the Monke, but they are burnt out
on the Altar in Masse-time, and thou canst have none other here, but
such as I must bring my selfe; neither are they allowed, but onely for
the time of thy feeding and correcting.
  Ferando breathing foorth a vehement sigh, desired to know what he
was, being thus appointed to punish him in Purgatory? I am (quoth
the Monke) a dead man, as thou art, borne in Sardignia, where I served
a very jealous Master; and because: I soothed him in his jealousie,
I had this pennance imposed on me, to serve thee here in Purgatory
with meate and drinke, and (twice every day) to discipline thy body,
untill the Fates have otherwise determined both for thee and me.
Why? saide Ferando, are any other persons here, beside you and I? Many
thousands, replyed the Monke, whom thou canst neither heare nor see,
no more then they are able to doe the like by us. But how farre, saide
Ferando, is Purgatory distant from our native Countries? About some
fifty thousand leagues, answered the Monke; but yet passable in a
moment, whensoever the offended Fates are pleased: and many Masses are
dally saide for thy soule, at the earnest entreaty of thy Wife, in
hope of thy conversion; and becomming a new man, hating to be
jealous any more hereafter.
  In these and such like speeches, as thus they beguiled the time,
so did they observe it for a dayly course, sometime discipling,
other whiles eating and drinking, for the space of ten whole moneths
together: in the which time, the Abbot sildome failed to visite
Ferandoes wife, without the least suspition in any of the
neighbours, by reason of their setled opinion, concerning the
nightly walking Ferandoes ghost. But, as all pleasures cannot bee
exempted from some following paine or other, so it came to passe, that
Ferandoes wife proved to be conceived with childe, and the time was
drawing on for her deliverance. Now began the Abbot to consider,
that Ferandoes folly was sufficiently chastised, and he had beene long
enough in Purgatory: wherefore, the better to countenance all passed
inconveniences, it was now thought high time, that Ferando should be
sent to the world againe, and set free from the paines of Purgatory,
as having payed for his jealousie dearely, to teach him better
wisedome hereafter.
  Late in the dead time of the night, the Abbot himselfe entred into
the darke dungeon, and in an hollow counterfeited voyce, called to
Ferando, saying. Comfort thy selfe Ferando, for the Fates are now
pleased, that thou shalt bee released out of Purgatory, and sent to
live in the world againe. Thou didst leave thy wife newly conceived
with childe, and this very morning she is delivered of a goodly Sonne,
whom thou shalt cause to be named Bennet: because, by the incessant
prayers of the holy Abbot, thine owne loving Wife, and for sweet Saint
Bennets sake, this grace and favour is afforded thee. Ferando
hearing this, was exceeding joyfull, and returned this answere: For
ever honored be the Fates, the holy Lord Abbot, blessed Saint
Bennet, and my most dearely beloved Wife, whom I will faithfully
love for ever, and never more offend her by any jealous in me.
  When the next foode was sent to Ferando, so much of the powder was
mingled with the wine, as would serve onely for foure houres
entrauncing, in which time, they clothed him in his owne wearing
apparell againe, the Abbot himselfe in person, and his honest trusty
Monke of Bologna, conveying and laying him in the same vault under the
Tombe, where at the first they gave him buriall. The next morning
following, the breake of day, Ferando recovered his senses, and thorow
divers chinkes and crannies of the Tombe, descried daylight, which hee
had not see in tenne moneths space before. Perceiving then plainely,
that he was alive, he cryed out aloude, saying: Open, open, and let
mee forth of Purgatory, for I have beene heere long enough in
conscience. Thrusting up his head against the cover of the Tombe,
which was not of any great strength, neither well closed together; hee
put it quite off the Tombe, and so got forth upon his feete: at
which instant time, the Monks having ended their morning Mattins,
and hearing the noyse, ran in hast thither, and knowing the voyce of
Ferando, saw that he was come forth of the Monument.
  Some of them were ancient Signiors of the house, and yet but meere
Novices (as all the rest were) in these cunning and politique
stratagems of the Lord Abbot, when hee intended to punish any one in
Purgatory: and therefore, being affrighted, and amazed at this rare
accident; they fled away from him, running to the Abbot, who making
a shew to them, as if he were but new come forth of his Oratory, in
a kinde of pacifying speeches, saide; Peace my deare Sonnes, be not
affraide, but fetch the Crosse and Holy-water hither; then follow
me, and I will shew you, what miracles the Fates have pleased to
shew in our Convent, therefore be silent, and make no more noise;
all which was performed according to his command.
  Ferando looking leane and pale, as one, that in so long time hadde
not seene the light of heaven, and endured such strict discipline
twice every day: stood in a gastly amazement by the Tombesside, as not
daring to adventure any further, or knowing perfectly, whether he
was (as yet) truly alive, or no. But when he saw the Monkes and
Abbot comming, with their lighted Torches, and singing in a solemne
manner of Procession, he humbled himselfe at the Abbots feete, saying.
Holy Father, by your zealous prayers (as hath bin miraculously
revealed to me) and the prayers of blessed S. Bennet; as also of my
honest, deare, and loving Wife, I have bin delivered from the paines
of Purgatory, and brought againe to live in this world; for which
unspeakable grace and favour, most humbly I thanke the well-pleased
Fates, S. Bennet, your Father-hood, and my kinde Wife, and will
remember all your loves to me for ever. Blessed be the Fates, answered
the Abbot, for working so great a wonder heere in our Monastery. Go
then my good Son, seeing the Fates have bin so gracious to thee; Go (I
say) home to thine owne house, and comfort thy kind wife, who ever
since thy departure out of this life, hath lived in continuall
mourning, love, cherish, and make much of her, never afflicting her
henceforth with causlesse jealousie. No I warrant you good Father,
replyed Ferando; I have bin well whipt in Purgatory for such folly,
and therefore I might be called a starke foole, if I should that way
offend any more, either my loving wife, or any other.
  The Abbot causing Miserere to be devoutly sung, sprinkling Ferando
well with Holy-water, and placing a lighted Taper in his hand, sent
him home so to his owne dwelling Village: where when the Neighbours
beheld him, as people halfe frighted out of their wits, they fled away
from him, so scared and terrified, as if they had seene some dreadfull
sight, or gastly apporition; his wife being as fearfull of him, as any
of the rest. He called to them kindly by their severall names, telling
them, that he was newly risen out of his grave, and was a man as he
had bin before. Then they began to touch and feele him, growing into
more certaine assurance of him, perceiving him to be a living man
indeede: whereupon they demanded many questions of him; and id as if
he were become farre wiser then before, told them tydings, from
their long deceased Kindred and Friends, as if he had met with them
all in Purgatory, reporting a thousand lyes and fables to them,
which (neverthelesse) they beleeved.
  Then he told them what the miraculous voice had said unto him,
concerning the birth of another young Sonne, whom (according as he was
commanded) he caused to be named Bennet Ferando. Thus his returne to
life againe, and the daily wonders reported by him, caused no meane
admiration in the people, with much commendation of the Abbots
holinesse, and Ferandoes happy curing his jealousie.
                    THE THIRD DAY, THE NINTH NOVELL

     COMMENDING THE GOOD JUDGEMENT AND UNDERSTANDING IN LADIES OR
      GENTLEWOMEN, THAT ARE OF A QUICKE AND APPREHENSIVE SPIRIT

  Juliet of Narbona, cured the King of France of a daungerous Fistula,
in recompence whereof, she requested to enjoy as her husband in
marriage, Bertrand Count of Roussilion. Hee having married her against
his will, as utterly despising her, went to Florence, where hee made
love to a young Gentlewoman. Juliet, by a queint and cunning policy,
compassed the meanes (insted of his chosen new friend) to lye with her
owne husband, by whom shee conceived, and had two Sonnes; which
being afterward made knowne unto Count Bertrand, he accepted her
into his favour againe, and loved her as his loyall and honourable
wife.

  Now there remained no more (to preserve the priviledge granted to
Dioneus uninfringed) but the Queene onely, to declare her Novell.
Wherefore, when the discourse of Madam Lauretta was ended, without
attending any motion to bee made for her next succeeding, with a
gracious and pleasing disposition, thus she began to speake. Who shall
tell any Tale heereafter, to carry any hope or expectation of a
liking, having heard the rare and wittie discourse of Madame Lauretta?
Beleeve me, it was very advantageable to us all, that she was not this
dayes first beginner, because few or none would have had any courage
to follow after her; and therefore the rest yet remaining, are the
more to be feared and suspected. Neverthelesse, to avoid the breach of
order, and to claime no priviledge by my place, of not performing what
I ought to do: prove as it may, a Tale you must have, and thus I
proceed.
  There lived sometime in the kingdome of France, a Gentleman named
Isnarde, being the Count of Roussillion: who because hee was
continually weake, crazie, and sickly, kept a Physitian daily in his
house, who was called Master Gerard of Narbona. Count Isnarde had
one onely Sonne, very young in yeares, yet of towardly hope, faire,
comely, and of pleasing person, named Bertrand; with whom, many
other children of his age, had their education: and among them, a
daughter of the fore-named Physitian, called juliet; who, even in
these tender yeares, fixed her affection upon young Bertrand, with
such an earnest and intimate resolution, as was most admirable in so
yong a Maiden, and more then many times is noted in yeares of
greater discretion. Old Count Isnarde dying, young Bertrand fell as
a Ward to the King, and being sent to Paris, remained there under
his royall custodie and protection, to no little discomfort of young
Juliet, who became greevously afflicted in minde, because she had lost
the company of Bertrand.
   Within some few yeares after, the Physitian her Father also dyed,
and then her desires grew wholly addicted, to visite Paris her selfe
in person, onely because she would see the young Count, awaiting but
time and opportunitie, to fit her stolne journey thither. But her
kindred and friends, to whose care and trust she was committed, in
regard of her rich dowrie, and being left as a fatherlesse Orphane:
were so circumspect of her walks and daily behaviour, as she could not
compasse any meane; of escaping. Her yeares made her now almost fit
for marriage, which so much more encreased her love to the Count,
making refusall of many woorthy husbands, and laboured by the
motions of her friends and kindred, yet all denyed, they not knowing
any reason for her refusalles. By this time the Count was become a
gallant goodly Gentleman, and able to make election of his wife,
whereby her affections were the more violently enflamed, as fearing
least some other should be preferred before her, and so her hopes be
utterly disappointed.
   It was noysed abroad by common report, that the King of France
was in a very dangerous condition, by reason of a strange swelling
on his stomacke, which failing of apt and convenient curing, became
a Fistula, afflicting him daily with extraordinary paine and
anguish, no Chirurgeon or Physitian being found, that could minister
any hope of healing, but rather encreased the greefe, and drove it
to more vehement extreamitie, compelling the King, as dispairing
utterly of all helpe, to give over any further counsell or advice.
Heereof faire Juliet was wondrously joyfull, as hoping that this
accident would prove the meanes, not onely of her journey to Paris,
but if the disease were no more then she imagined; she could easily
cure it, and thereby compasse Count Bertrand to be her husband.
Hereupon, quickning up her wits, with remembrance of those rules of
Art, which (by long practise and experience) she had learned of her
skilfull Father, she compounded certaine hearbes together, such as she
knew fitting for that kinde of infirmity, and having reduced her
compound into powder, away she rode forthwith to Paris.
   Being there arrived, all other serious matters set aside, first
shee must needs have a sight of Count Bertrand, as being the onely
Saint that caused her pilgrimage. Next she made meanes for her accesse
to the King, humbly entreating his Majesty, to vouchsafe her the sight
of his Fistula. When the King saw her, her modest lookes did
plainely deliver, that she was a faire, comely, and discreete young
Gentlewoman; wherefore, he would no longer hide it, but layed it
open to her view. When shee had seene and felt it, presently she put
the King in comfort; affirming, that she knew her selfe able to cure
his Fistula, saying: Sir, if your Highnesse will referre the matter to
me, without any perill of life, or any the least paine to your person,
I hope (by the helpe of heaven) to make you whole and sound within
eight dayes space. The King hearing her words, beganne merrily to
smile at her, saying: How is it possible for thee, being a yong
Maiden, to do that which the best Physitians in Europe, are not able
to performe? I commend thy kindnesse, and will not remaine
unthankefull for thy forward willingnesse: but I am fully
determined, to use no more counsell, or to make any further triall
of Physicke or Chirurgery. Whereto faire Juliet thus replyed: Great
King, let not my skill and experience be despised, because I am young,
and a Maiden; for my profession is not Physicke, neither do I
undertake the ministering thereof, as depending on mine owne
knowledge; but by the gracious assistance of heaven, and some rules of
skilfull observation, which I learned of reverend Gerard of Narbona
who was my worthy Father, and a Physitian of no meane fame, all the
while he lived.
  At the hearing of these words, the King began somewhat to admire
at her gracious carriage, and saide within himselfe. What know I,
whether this Virgin is sent to me by the direction of heaven, or no?
Why should I disdaine to make proofe of her skill? Her promise is,
to cure me in a small times compasse, and without any paine or
affliction to me: she shall not come so farre, to returne againe
with the losse of he labour, I am resolved to try her cunning, and
thereon saide. Faire Virgin, if you cause me to breake my setled
determination, and faile of curing me, what can you expect to follow
thereon? Whatsoever great King (quoth she) shall please you. Let me be
strongly guarded, yet not hindered, when I am to prosecute the
businesse: and then if I do not perfectly heale you within eight
daies, let a good fire be made, and therein consume my body unto
ashes. But if I accomplish the cure, and set your Highnesse free
from all further greevance, what recompence then shall remaine to me?
  Much did the King commend the confident perswasion which she had
of her owne power, and presently replyed. Faire beauty (quoth he) in
regard that thou art a Maide and unmaried, if thou keepe promise,
and I finde my selfe to be fully cured: I will match thee with some
such Gentleman in marriage, as shall be of honourable and worthy
reputation, with a sufficient dowry beside. My gracious Soveraigne
saide she, willing am I, and most heirtily thankfull withall, that
your Highnesse shall bestow me in marriage: but I desire then, to have
such a husband, as I shall desire or demand by your gracious favour,
without presuming to crave any of your Sonnes, Kindred, or Alliance,
or appertaining unto your Royal blood. Whereto the King gladly
granted. Young Juliet began to minister her Physicke, and within fewer
dayes then her limited time, the King was sound and perfectly cured;
which when he perceived, he saide unto her. Trust me vertuous Mayde,
most woorthily hast thou wonne a Husband, name him, and thou shalt
have him. Royall King (quoth she) then have I won the Count Bertrand
of Roussillion, whom I have most entirely loved from mine Infancy, and
cannot (in my soule) affect any other. Very loath was the King to
grant her the young Count, but in regard of his solemne passed
promise, and his royal word engaged, which he would not by any
meanes breake; he commanded, that the Count should be sent for, and
spake thus to him. Noble Count, it is not unknowne to us, that you are
a Gentleman of great honour, and it is our Royall pleasure, to
discharge your wardship, that you may repaire home to your owne House,
there to settle your affaires in such order, as you may be the readier
to enjoy a Wife, which we intend to bestowe upon you. The Count
returned his Highnesse most humble thankes, desiring to know of
whence, and what she was? It is this Gentlewoman, answered the King,
who (by the helpe of Heaven) hath beene the meanes to save my life.
Well did the Count know her, as having very often before seene her;
and although she was very faire and amiable, yet in regard of her
meane birth, which he held as a disparagement to his Nobility in
blood; he made a scorne of her, and spake thus to the King. Would your
Highnesse give me a Quacksalver to my Wife, one that deales in drugges
and Physicarie? I hope I am able to bestowe my selfe much better
then so. Why? quoth the King, wouldst thou have us breake our faith;
which for the recovery of our health, we have given to this vertuous
virgin, and she will have no other reward, but onely Count Bertrand to
be her husband? Sir, replied the Count, you may dispossesse me of
all that is mine, because I am your Ward and Subject, any where else
you may bestow me: but pardon me to tell you, that this marriage
cannot be made with any liking or allowance of mine, neither will I
ever give consent thereto.
  Sir, saide the King, it is our will that it shall be so, vertuous
she is, faire and wise; she loveth thee most affectionately, and
with her mayest thou lead a more Noble life, then with the greatest
Lady in our Kingdome. Silent, and discontented stoode the Count, but
the King commanded preparation for the marriage; and when the
appointed time was come, the Count (albeit against his will)
received his wife at the Kings hand; she loving him deerly as her owne
life. When all was done, the Count requested of the King, that what
else remained for further solemnization of the marriage, it might be
performed in his owne Country, reserving to himselfe what else he
intended. Being mounted on horseback, and humbly taking their leave of
the King, the Count would not ride home to his owne dwelling, but into
Tuscany, where he heard of a warre between the Florentines and the
Senesi, purposing to take part with the Florentines, to whom he was
willingly and honourably welcommed, being created Captaine of a worthy
Company, and continuing there a long while in service.
  The poore forsaken new married Countesse, could scarsely be
pleased with such dishonourable unkindnesse, yet governing her
impatience with no meane discretion, and hoping by her vertuous
carriage, to compasse the meanes of his recall: home she rode to
Roussillion, where all the people received her very lovingly. Now,
by reason of the Counts so long absence, all things were there farre
out of order; mutinies, quarrels, and civill dissentions, having
procured many dissolute irruptions, to the expence of much blood in
many places. But she, like a jolly stirring Lady, very wise and
provident in such disturbances, reduced all occasions to such civility
againe, that the people admired her rare behaviour, and condemned
the Count for his unkindnesse towards her.
  After that the whole Country of Roussillion (by the policy and
wisedome of this worthy Lady) was fully reestablished in their ancient
liberties; she made choise of two discreet knights, whom she sent to
the Count her husband, to let him understand, that if in displeasure
to her, hee was thus become a stranger to his owne Country: upon the
returne of his answer, to give him contentment, she would depart
thence, and by no meanes disturbe him. Roughly and churlishly he
replied; Let her do as she list, for I have no determination to
dwell with her, or neere where she is. Tell her from me, when she
shall have this Ring, which you behold heere on my finger, and a Sonne
in her armes begotten by me; then will I come live with her, and be
her love. The Ring he made most precious and deere account of, and
never tooke it off from his finger, in regard of an especiall vertue
and property, which he well knew to be remaining in it. And these
two Knights, hearing the impossibility of these two strict conditions,
with no other favour else to be derived from him; sorrowfully returned
backe to their Lady, and acquainted her with this unkinde answer, as
also his unalterable determination, which well you may conceive,
must needs be very unwelcome to her.
  After she had an indifferent while considered with her selfe, her
resolution became so indauntable; that she would adventure to practise
such meanes, whereby to compasse those two apparant impossibilities,
and so to enjoy the love of her husband. Having absolutely concluded
what was to be done, she assembled all the cheefest men of the
country, revealing unto them (in mournfull manner) what an attempt she
had made already, in hope of recovering her husbands favour, and
what a rude answer was thereon returned. In the end, she told them,
that it did not sute with her unworthinesse, to make the Count live as
an exile from his owne inheritance, upon no other inducement, but
onely in regard of her: wherefore, she had determined betweene
heaven and her soule, to spend the remainder of her dayes in
Pilgrimages and prayers, for preservation of the Counts soule and
her owne; earnestly desiring them, to undertake the charge and
government of the Country, and signifying unto the Count, how she
had forsaken his house, and purposed to wander so farre thence, that
never would she visit Roussillion any more. In the deliverie of
these words, the Lords and Gentlemen wept and sighed
extraordinarily, using many earnest imprecations to alter this resolve
in her, but all was in vaine.
  Having taken her sad and sorrowfull farewell of them all,
accompanied onely with her Maide, and one of her Kinsmen, away she
went, attired in a Pilgrimes habit, yet well furnished with money
and precious jewels, to avoyde all wants which might: befall her in
travaile; not acquainting any one whether she went. In no place stayed
she, untill she was arrived at Florence, where happening into a
poore Widdowes house, like a poore Pilgrime, she seemed well contented
therewith. And desiring to heare some tydings of the Count, the next
day shee saw him passe by the house on horse-backe, with his
company. Now, albeit shee knew him well enough, yet shee demanded of
the good old Widdow, what Gentleman he was? She made answer, that he
was a stranger there, yet a Nobleman, called Count Bertrand of
Roussillion, a very courteous Knight, beloved and much respected in
the City. Moreover, that he was farre in love with a neighbour of
hers, a young Gentlewoman, but very poore and meane in substance,
yet of honest life, vertuous, and never taxed with any evill report:
onely her poverty was the maine imbarment of her marriage, dwelling in
house with her mother, who was a wise, honest, and worthy Lady.
  The Countesse having well observed her words, and considered thereon
from point to point; debating soberly with her owne thoughts, in
such a doubtfull case what was best to be done. When she had
understood which was the house, the ancient Ladies name, and
likewise her daughters, to whom her husband was now so
affectionately devoted; she made choise of a fit and convenient
time, when (in her Pilgrimes habit) secretly she went to the house.
There she found the mother and daughter in poore condition, and with
as poore a family: whom after she had ceremoniously saluted, she
told the old Lady, that she requested but a little conference with
her. The Lady arose, and giving her kinde entertainement, they went
together into a withdrawing Chamber, where being both set downe, the
Countesse began in this manner.
  Madame, in my poore opinion, you are not free from the frownes of
Fortune, no more then I my selfe am: but if you were so well
pleased, there is no one that can comfort both our calamities in
such manner, as you are able to do. And beleeve me answered the
Lady, there is nothing in the world that can be so welcome to me, as
honest comfort. The Countesse proceeding on in her former speeches
said: I have now need (good Madame) both of your trust and fidelity,
whereon if I should rely, and you faile me, it will be your owne
undoing as well as mine. Speake then boldly, replied the old Lady, and
remaine constantly assured, that you shall no way be deceived by me.
Hereupon, the Countesse declared the whole course of her love, from
the very originall to the instant, revealing also what she was, and
the occasion of her comming thither, relating every thing so
perfectly, that the Lady verily beleeved her, by some reports which
she had formerly heard, and which mooved her the more to compassion.
Now, when all circumstances were at full discovered, thus spake the
Countesse.
  Among my other miseries and misfortunes, which hath halfe broken
my heart in the meere repetition, beside the sad and afflicting
sufferance; two things there are, which if I cannot compasse to
have, all hope is quite frustrate for ever, of gaining the grace of my
Lord and Husband. Yet these two things may I obtaine by your helpe, if
all be true which I have heard, and you can therein best resolve
mee. Since my comming to this City, it hath credibly bene told me,
that the Count my husband, is deeply in love with your daughter. If
the Count (quoth the Ladie) love my daughter, and have a wife of his
owne, he must thinke, and so shall surely finde it, that his
greatnesse is no priviledge for him, whereby to worke dishonour upon
her poverty. But indeede, some apparances there are, and such a matter
as you speake of, may be so presumed; yet so farre from a very thought
of entertaining in her or me; as whatsoever I am able to doe, to yeeld
you any comfort and content, you shall find me therein both willing
and ready: for I prize my daughters spotlesse poverty at as high a
rate, as he can doe the pride of his honour.
  Madame, quoth the Countesse, most heartily I thanke you. But
before I presume any further on your kindnesse, let me first tell you,
what faithfully I intend to do for you, if I can bring my purpose to
effect. I see that your daughter is beautifull, and of sufficient
yeeres for marriage; and is debarred thereof (as I have heard) onely
by lack of a competent dowry. Wherefore Madame, in recompence of the
favour I expect from you, I will enrich her with so much ready money
as you shall thinke sufficient to match her in the degree of honour.
Poverty made the poore Lady, very well to like of such a bountifull
offer, and having a noble heart shee said: Great Countesse say,
wherein am I able to do you any service, as can deserve such a
gracious offer? If the action be honest; without blame or scandall
to my poore, yet undetected reputation, gladly I will do it; and it
being accomplished, let the requitall rest in your owne noble nature.
  Observe me then Madame, replied the Countesse. It is most convenient
for my purpose, that by some trusty and faithfull messenger, you
should advertise the Count my husband, that your daughter is, and
shall be at his command: but that she may remaine absolutely
assured, that his love is constant to her, and above all other: shee
must entreat him, to send her (as a testimony thereof) the Ring
which he weareth upon his little finger, albeit shee hath heard,
that he loveth it deerly. If he send the Ring, you shall give it me,
and afterward send him word, that your daughter is ready to accomplish
his pleasure; but, for the more safety and secrecie, he must repaire
hither to your house, where I being in bed insteed of your daughter,
faire Fortune may so favour mee, that (unknowne to him) I may conceive
with childe. Upon which good successe, when time shall serve, having
the Ring on my finger, and a childe in my armes begotten by him, his
love and liking may be recovered, and (by your meanes) I continue with
my Husband, as every vertuous Wife ought to doe.
  The good old Lady imagined, that this was a matter somewhat
difficult, and might lay a blamefull imputation on her daughter.
Neverthelesse, considering, what an honest office it was in her, to
bee the meanes, whereby so worthy a Countesse should recover an
unkinde husband, led altogether by lust, and not a jot of cordiall
love; she knew the intent to be honest, the Countesse vertuous, and
her promise religious, and therefore undertooke to effect it. Within
few dayes after, verie ingeniously, and according to the instructed
order, the Ring was obtayned, albeit much against the Counts will; and
the Countesse, in sted of the Ladies vertuous daughter, was embraced
by him in bed: the houre proving so auspicious, and juno being Lady of
the ascendent, conjoyned with the witty Mercury, shee conceived of two
goodly Sonnes, and her deliverance agreed correspondently with the
just time.
 Thus the old Lady, not at this time onely, but at many other meetings
besides; gave the Countesse free possession of her husbands pleasures,
yet alwayes in such darke and concealed secrecie, as it was never
suspected, nor knowne by any but themselves, the Count lying with
his owne wife, and disappointed of her whom he more deerely loved.
Alwayes at his uprising in the mornings (which usually was before
the break of day, for preventing the least scruple of suspicion)
many familiar conferences passed betweene them, with the gifts of
divers faire: and costly jewels; all which the Countesse carefully
kept, and perceiving assuredly, that shee was conceived with childe,
shee would no longer bee troublesome to the good old Lady; but calling
her aside, spake thus to her. Madame, I must needes give thankes to
heaven and you, because my desires are amply accomplished, and both
time and your deserts doe justly challenge, that I should
accordingly quite you before my departure. It remaineth now in your
owne power, to make what demand you please of me, which yet I will not
give you by way of reward, because that would seeme to bee base and
mercenary: but onely whatsoever you shall receive of me, is in
honourable recompence of faire and vertuous deservings, such as any
honest and well-minded Lady in the like distresse, may with good
credit allow, and yet no prejudice to her reputation.
  Although poverty might well have tutored the Ladies tongue,
to-demand a liberall recompence for her paines; yet shee requested but
an 100 pounds, as a friendly helpe towards her daughters marriage, and
that with a bashfull blushing was uttered too; yet the Countesse
gave her five hundred pounds, besides so many rich and costly
jewels, as amounted to a farre greater summe. So shee returned to
her wonted lodging, at the aged widdowes house, where first shee was
entertained at her comming to Florence; and the good old Lady, to
avoyde the Counts repairing to her house any more, departed thence
sodainly with her daughter, to divers friends of hers that dwelt in
the Country, whereat the Count was much discontented; albeit
afterward, he did never heare any more tidings of hir or her daughter,
who was worthily married, to her Mothers great comfort.
  Not long after, Count Bertrand was recalled home by his people:
and he having heard of his wives absence, went to Roussillion so
much the more willingly. And the Countesse knowing her husbands
departure from Florence, as also his safe arrivall at his owne
dwelling, remained still in Florence, untill the time of her
deliverance, which was of two goodly Sonnes, lively resembling the
lookes of their Father, and all the perfect lineaments of his body.
Perswade your selves, she was not a little carefull of their
nursing; and when she saw the time answerable to her determination,
she tooke her journey (unknowne to any) and arrived with them at
Montpellier, where she rested her selfe for divers dayes, after so
long and wearisome a journey.
  Upon the day of all Saints, the Count kept a solemne Feastivall, for
the assembly of his Lords, Knights, Ladies, and Gentlewomen: upon
which Joviall day of generall rejoycing, the Countesse attired in
her wonted Pilgrimes weed, repaired thither, entring into the great
Hall where the Tables were readily covered for dinner. Preassing
through the throng of people, with her two children in her armes, s
presumed unto the place where the Count sate, and falling on her knees
before him, the teares trickling abundantly downe her cheekes, thus
she spake. Worthy Lord, I am thy poore, despised, and unfortunate
wife; who, that thou mightst returne home, and not be an exile from
thine owne abiding, have thus long gone begging through the world. Yet
now at length, I hope thou wilt be so honourably-minded, as to
performe thine owne too strict imposed conditions, made to the two
Knights which I sent unto thee, and which (by thy command) I was
enjoyned to do. Behold here in mine armes, not onely one Sonne by thee
begotten, but two Twins, and thy Ring beside. High time is it now,
if men of honour respect their promises, and after so long and tedious
travell, I should at last be welcommed as thy true wife.
  The Count hearing this, stoode as confounded with admiration; for
full well he knew the Ring: and both the children were so perfectly
like him, as he was confirmed to be their Father by generall
judgement. Upon his urging by what possible meanes this could be
brought to passe: the Countesse in presence of the whole assembly, and
unto her eternall commendation, related the whole history, even in
such manner as you have formerly heard it. Moreover, she reported
the private speeches in bed, uttered betweene himselfe and her,
being witnessed more apparantly, by the costly jewels there openly
shewne. All which infallible proofes, proclaiming his shame, and her
most noble carriage to her husband; he confessed, that she had told
nothing but the truth in every point which she had reported.
  Commending her admirable constancy, exceliency of wit, and sprightly
courage, in making such a bold adventure; he kissed the two sweete
boyes, and to keepe his promise, whereto he was earnestly
importuned, by all his best esteemed friends there present, especially
the honourable Ladies, who would have no deniall, but by forgetting
his former harsh and uncivill carriage towards her, to accept her
for ever as his lawfull wife, folding her in his armes, and sweetly
kissing her divers times together, he bad her welcome to him, as his
vertuous, loyall, and most loving wife, and so (for ever after) he
would acknowledge her. Well knew hee that she had store of better
beseeming garments in the house, and therefore requested the Ladies to
walke with her to her Chamber, to uncase her of those Pilgrimes weeds,
and cloath her in her owne more sumptuous garments, even those which
shee wore on her wedding day, because that was not the day of his
contentment, but onely this; for now he confessed her to be his wife
indeede, and now he would give the king thanks for her, and now was
Count Bertrand truly married to the faire Juliet of Narbona.
                    THE THIRD DAY, THE TENTH NOVELL

  Alibech turns hermit, and a monk, Rustico, teaches her to put the
Devil in Hell. Afterwards she is brought home, and married to
Neerbale.

  Dioneus listened attentively to the Queen's discourse, and when
she had done and he knew that only he remained to complete the day's
entertainment, without trifling away the time or awaiting a command
from the Queen, thus he began.
  Gracious ladies, it may be you have not heard how the Devil is put
in Hell. Therefore, and since it will not be far off the subject of
this day's discourse, I will tell it you. Perhaps, hearing it, you may
the better understand that albeit Love more affects gay palaces and
luxurious bowers than the cabins of the poor, yet he by no means
disdains to manifest his power even in the depths of the forest, on
stark mountains and in the caves of the desert; and thus we must
acknowledge that all things wheresoever they be are subject to him.
  Coming, then, to my story, I must tell you that in Capsa, a city
of Barbary, there dwelt aforetime a very rich man, who had among
several children a little daughter, fair and of a docile temper, whose
name was Alibech.
  This girl, a heathen in a place where many were Christian, used
often to hear her neighbours extol the Christian faith and devotion to
the service of God; wherefore she asked one of them how God could best
be served and with the least hindrance. She was told that they best
served Him who removed themselves farthest from the things of the
world, as in particular the hermits who had withdrawn from the city to
the wilds of Thebais.
  The simple maiden, aged perhaps some fourteen years, moved rather by
a childish whim than any real vocation, set out on the morrow alone
and telling nobody to walk into the desert. So firmly was she resolved
that after several days of hardship she reached the wilderness of
Thebais. From afar she descried a little hut, and coming up to it,
found there a holy man. Amazed to see such a one there, he asked
what she came to seek. Her answer was that, aspiring towards God,
she came thither to serve Him, and in the hope of finding a teacher to
that end.
  The pious hermit, seeing her so young and fair, was afraid lest
the Devil might ensnare him; so he praised her intent, and giving
her roots, wild apples and dates to eat and a draught of water,
said: "Daughter, not far from here there dwells a holy man such as
thou seekest: a fitter man than I. Go thou to him." And he put her
on the way.
  The second hermit advised her as the first; and faring farther she
came to the cell of a young hermit, a very pious and righteous man,
whose name was Rustico. To him she repeated her mission. Willing to
put his resolution to so great a test, he forebore to send her away,
and took her into his cell. At nightfall he made her a bed of
palm-leaves, and bade her lie down to rest.
  Temptations did not long delay an assault on his constancy; and
finding it much beyond his strength to withstand them, he soon gave up
the battle, and confessed himself worsted. So putting away all saintly
thoughts, prayers and mortifications, he let his mind dwell on the
freshness and beauty of his companion. From this he passed to thinking
of the best means of bringing her to his desires without giving her
cause to suspect him of lewdness.
 Therefore, satisfying himself by a few questions that she had never
had carnal knowledge of a man, and was indeed as innocent as she
seemed, he thought of a plan to enjoy her under colour of serving God.
He began expounding to her the Devil's enmity to the Almighty, and
went on to impress upon her that the most acceptable service she could
render to God would be to put the Devil in Hell, whereto the Lord
had condemned him.
  The little maid asked him how this might be done. "Thou shalt soon
learn," replied Rustico, "only do as thou seest me do." Thereupon he
took off what few clothes he wore, and stood stark naked; and as
soon as the girl had done likewise he fell on his knees as though to
pray, and made her kneel face to face with him.
  This done, Rustico's desire was more than ever inflamed at the sight
of her beauty, and the resurrection of the flesh came to pass.
Seeing this, and not knowing what it meant, Alibech asked: "Rustico,
what is it thou hast that thrusts itself out in front, and that I have
not?" "My daughter," quoth Rustico, "it is that same Devil of whom I
have been telling thee. Dost thou mark him? Behold, he gives me such
sore trouble that I can hardly bear it."
  "The Lord be praised!" said she; "for now I see that I am more
blessed than thou in that I have not this Devil."
  Rustico retorted: "Thou sayest truly; but thou hast another thing
that I have not, and hast it in place of this."
  "What is that?" says Alibech.
  To this Rustico replied: "Thou hast Hell; and will tell thee my
belief that God gave it thee for the health of my soul. For, if thou
wilt take pity on me for the troubling of this Devil, and suffer me to
put him in Hell, thou wilt comfort me extremely, and at the same
time please and serve God in the highest measure; to which end, as
thou sayest, thou art come hither."
  All unsuspecting, the girl answered. him: "My father, since I have
this Hell, let the thing be done when thou desirest it."
  Then Rustico said: "Bless thee, my dear daughter; let us go at
once and put him in his place, that I may be at peace."
  So saying, he laid her on one of their rough beds, and set about
showing her how to shut the accursed one in his prison. The girl,
who until then had no experience of putting devils in Hell, felt
some pain at this first trial of it; which made her say to Rustico:
"Father, this Devil must indeed be wicked, and in very sooth an
enemy of God, for he hurts Hell itself, let alone other things, when
he is put back in it."
  "My daughter," said Rustico, "it will not always be so." And to make
sure of it, before either of them moved from the bed they put him in
six times, after which the Devil hung his head and was glad to let
them be.
  But in the succeeding days he rose up many times; and the girl,
always disposing herself to subdue him, began to take pleasure in
the exercise, and to say such things as: "I see now the truth of
what the good folk in Capsa told me, that serving God is a delight;
for I never remember doing anything that gave me as much joy and
pleasure as this putting the Devil in Hell. So I think the people
who spend their time otherwise than in serving God must be very
foolish."
  Often she would come to Rustico and say: "Father, I came hither to
serve God, not to stand idle. Let us go put the Devil in Hell." And
once, when it had been done, she asked: "Rustico, why does he want
to get out of Hell? If only he would stay there as willingly as Hell
takes him in and holds him, he would never want to come out at all."
By thus constantly egging him on and exhorting him to God's service
the girl so preyed upon Rustico that he shivered with cold when
another man would have sweated. He had perforce to tell her that it
was not just to punish the Devil by putting him in Hell save when he
had lifted his head in pride; and that by God's mercy they had so
chastened him that he only implored Heaven to be left in peace. Thus
for a time he silenced her.
  But she, finding that Rustico did not call on her to put the Devil
in Hell, said one day: "Even though your Devil is punished and no
longer troubles you, my Hell gives me no peace. You will do a
charity if with your Devil you will quiet the raging of my Hell, as
with my Hell I tamed the pride of your Devil To these demands
Rustico on a diet of herbs and water could ill respond; and he told
her that to appease Hell would need too many devils, none the less
he would do all that in him lay. At times he could satisfy her, but so
seldom that it was like feeding an elephant with peas. Therefore the
girl thought she was not serving God as well as she would like, and
she grumbled most of the time.
  Whilst things stood thus amiss between Rustico's Devil and Alibech's
Hell, for overmuch eagerness of the one part and too little
performance of the other, a fire broke out in Capsa and burned the
father of Alibech with his children and every one of his kin, so
that Alibech became the sole heiress to his goods. Whereupon a certain
Neerbale, a young man who had wasted his patrimony in high living,
sought for Alibech in the belief that she was alive, and succeeded
in finding her before the Court had declared her father's goods
forfeit as being without an owner. Much to the relief of Rustico and
against the girl's will, Neerbale brought her back to Capsa and
married her, so becoming entitled in her right to a large fortune.
  One day, when as yet Neerbale had not lain with her, some of her
women asked how she had served God in the desert. She replied that she
had served Him by putting the Devil in Hell, and that Neerbale had
committed a grievous sin in taking her from such pious work. Then they
asked: "How is the Devil put in Hell?" To which the girl answered with
words and gestures showing how it had been done. The women laughed
so heartily that they have not done laughing yet, and said to her:
"Grieve not, my child; that is done as well here. Neerbale will
serve God right well with thee in this way."
  As one repeated the words to another throughout the town, it
became a familiar saying that the most acceptable of all services to
God is to put the Devil in Hell. The saying has crossed the sea and
become current among us, as it still is.
  Wherefore, young ladies, I beseech you if you would deserve Heaven's
grace, lend yourselves to the putting of the Devil in Hell; for it
is a thing beloved of God, pleasing to the participants, and one
from which much good comes and ensues.
  A thousand times and more were the chaste ladies moved to laughter
by Dioneus's novel, so much were his phrases to their liking. And
the Queen perceiving that as his tale was ended, her office had
expired, took the crown of laurel from her head and graciously
placed it on the head of Philostratus, saying: "Now we shall see
whether the wolf will rule the sheep better than the sheep ruled the
wolves." At this Philostratus laughed, and retorted: "If I had my way,
the wolves would have taught the sheep to put the Devil in Hell, no
less well than Rustico taught Alibech. Since we did not, call us not
wolves, for ye were no sheep. Howbeit, I will reign as best I may,
seeing ye have laid the trust on me."
  Neiphila cried out: "Mark this, Philostratus; in trying to teach
us you might have had such a lesson as Masetto di Lamporechio had of
the nuns, and recovered your speech just as your bare bones had
learned to whistle without a master." Finding himself thus evenly
matched, Philostratus ceased his pleasantries; and beginning to
consider on the charge committed to his care, called the Master of the
houshold, to know in what estate all matters were, because where any
defect appeared, every thing might be the sooner remedied, for the
better satisfaction of the company, during the time of his
authority. Then returning backe to the assembly, thus he began. Lovely
Ladies, I would have you to know, that since the time of ability in
me, to distinguish betweene good and evill, I have alwayes bene
subject (perhaps by the meanes of some beauty heere among us) to the
proud and imperious dominion of love, with expression of all duty,
humility, and most intimate desire to please yet all hath prooved to
no purpose, but still I have bin rejected for some other, whereby my
condition hath falne from ill to worse, and so still it is likely,
even to the houre: of my death. In which respect, it best pleaseth me,
that our conferences to morrow, shall extend to no other argument, bit
only such cases as are most conformable to my calamity, namely of
such, whose love hath had unhappy ending, because I await no other
issue of mine; nor willingly would I be called by any other name,
but only, the miserable and unfortunate Lover.
  Having thus spoken, he arose againe; granting leave to the rest,
to recreate themselves till supper time. The Garden was very faire and
spacious, affoording, large limits for their severall walkes; the
Sun being already so low descended, that it could not be offensive
to any one, the Connies, Kids, and young Hindes skipping every where
about them, to their no meane, pleasure and contentment, Dioneus and
Fiammetta, sate singing together, of Messire Guiglielmo, and the
Lady of Vertur. Philomena and Pamphilus playing at the Chesse, all
sporting themselves as best they pleased. But the houre of Supper
being come, and the Tables covered about the faire fountaine, they
sate downe and supt in most loving manner. Then Philostratus, not to
swerve from the course which had beene observed by the Queenes
before him, so soone as the Tables were taken away, gave commaund that
Madam Lauretta should beginne the dance, and likewise to sing a
Song. My gracious Lord (quoth she) I can skill of no other Songs,
but onely a peece of mine owne, which I have already learned by heart,
and may well beseeme this assembly: if you please to allow of that,
I am ready to performe it with all obedience. Lady, replyed the
King, you your selfe being so faire and lovely, so needs must be
whatsoever commeth from you, therefore let us heare such as you
have. Madam Lauretta, giving enstruction to the Chorus prepared, and
began in this manner.

               THE SONG

        No soule so comfortlesse,
        Hath more cause to expresse,
        Like woe and heavinesse,
          As I poore amorous Maide.

  He that did forme the Heavens and every Starre,
    Made me as best him pleased,
  Lovely and gracious, no Element at jarre,
  Or else in gentle breasts to moove sterne Warre,
    But to have strifes appeased
  Where Beauties eye should make the deepest scarre.
    And yet when all things are confest,
    Never was any soule distrest,
    Like my poore amorous Maide.
      No soule so comfortlesse, etc.

  There was a time, when once I was held deare,
    Blest were those happy dayes:
  Numberlesse Love suites whispred in mine eare,
  All of faire hope, but none of desperate feare;
    And all sung Beauties praise.
  Why should blacke cloudes obscure so bright a cleare?
    And why should others swimme in joy,
    And no heart drowned in annoy,
    Like mine poore amorous Maide?
      No soule so comfortlesse, etc.

  Well may I curse that sad and dismall day,
    When in unkinde exchange;
  Another Beauty did my hopes betray,
  And stole my dearest Love from me away:
    Which I thought very strange,
  Considering vowes were past, and what else may
    Assure a loyall Maidens trust.
    Never was Lover so unjust,
    Like mine poore amorous Maide.
      No soule so comfortlesse, etc.

  Come then kinde Death, and finish all my woes,
    Thy helpe is now the best.
  Come lovely Nymphes, lend hands mine eyes to close,
  And let him wander wheresoere he goes,
    Vaunting of mine unrest;
  Beguiling others by his treacherous showes.
    Grave on my Monument,
    No true love was worse spent,
    Then mine poore amorous Maide.
      No soule so comfortlesse, etc.

  So did Madam Lauretta finish her Song, which being well observed
of them all, was understood by some in divers kinds: some alluding
it one way, and others according to their owne apprehensions, but
all consenting that both it was an excellent Ditty, well devised,
and most sweetly sung. Afterward, lighted Torches being brought,
because the Stars had already richly spangled all the heavens, and the
fit houre of rest approaching: the King commanded them all to their
Chambers, where we meane to leave them untill the next morning.
                          THE FOURTH DAY

  WHEREIN ALL THE SEVERALL DESCOURSES, ARE UNDER THE GOVERNMENT OF
            HONOURABLE PHILSTRATUS: AND CONCERNING SUCH
        PERSONS, WHOSE LOVES HAVE HAD SUCCESSELESSE ENDING

  Most worthy Ladies, I have alwayes heard, as well by the sayings
of the judecious, as also by mine owne observation and reading, that
the impetuous and violent windes of envy, do sildome blow turbulently,
but on the highest Towers and tops of the trees most eminently
advanced. Yet (in mine opinion) I have found my selfe much deceived;
because, by striving with my very uttermost endeavour, to shunne the
outrage of those implacable winds; I have laboured to go, not onely by
plaine and even pathes but likewise through the deepest vallies. As
very easily may be seene and observed in the reading of these few
small Novels, which I have written not only in our vulgar Florentine
prose, without any ambitious title: but also in a most humble stile,
so low and gentle as possibly I could. And although I have bene rudely
shaken, yea, almost halfe unrooted, by the extreame agitation of those
blustering winds, and torne in peeces by that base back-biter, Envy:
yet have I not (for all that) discontinued, or broken any part of mine
intended enterprize. Wherefore, I can sufficiently witnesse (by mine
owne comprehension) the saying so much observed by the wise, to be
most true: That nothing is without Envy in this world, but misery
onely.
  But what shall I say to them, who take so great compassion on my
povertie, as they advise me to get some thing, whereon to make my
living? Assuredly, I know not what to say in this case, except by
due consideration made with my selfe, how they would answer me, if
necessitie should drive me to crave kindnesse of them;
questionlesse, they would then say: Goe, seeke comfort among thy
fables and follies.
  But now it is time (bright beauties) to returne whence we parted,
and to follow our former order begun, because it may seeme we have
wandered too farre. By this time the Sun had chased the Starre-light
from the heavens, and the shadie moisture from the ground, when
Philostratus the King being risen, all the company arose likewise.
When being come into the goodly Garden, they spent the time in
varietie of sports, dining where they had supt the night before. And
after that the Sunne was at his highest, and they had refreshed
their spirits with a little slumbering, they sate downe (according
to custome) about the faire Fountaine. And then the King commanded
Madam Fiammettal that she should give beginning to the dayes Novels:
when she, without any longer delaying, began:
                    THE FOURTH DAY, THE FIRST NOVELL

   WHEREIN IS DECLARED THE POWER OF LOVE, AND THEIR CRUILTY JUSTLY
           REPREHENDED, WHO IMAGE TO MAKE THE VIGOUR THEREOF
             CEASE, BY ABUSING OR KILLING ONE OF THE LOVERS

  Tancrede, Prince of Salerne, caused the amorous friend of his
daughter to bee slaine, and sent her his heart in a cup of Gold: which
afterwards she steeped in an impoysoned water, and then drinking it,
so dyed.

  Our King (most Noble and vertuous Ladies) hath this day given us a
subject, very rough and stearne to discourse on, and so much the
rather, if we consider, that we are come hither to be merry and
pleasant, where sad Tragicall reports are no way suteable, especially,
by reviving the teares of others, to bedew our owne cheekes withall.
Nor can any such argument be spoken of, without moving compassion both
in the reporters, and hearers. But (perhaps) it was his Highnesse
pleasure, to moderate the delights which we have already had. Or
whatsoever else hath provoked him thereto, seeing it is not lawfull
for me, to alter or contradict his appointment; I will recount an
accident very pittifull, or rather most unfortinate, and well worthy
to be graced with bur teares.
  Tancrede, Prince of Salerne (which City, before the Consulles of
Rome held dominion in that part of Italy, stoode free, and thence
(perchance) tooke the moderne title of a Principality was a very
humane Lord, and of ingenious nature; if, in his elder yeeres, he
had not soiled his hands in the blood of Lovers, especially one of
them, being both neere and deere unto him. So it fortuned, that during
the whole life time of this Prince, he had but one onely daughter
(albeit it had beene much better, if he had had at all) whom he so
choisely loved and esteemed, as never was any childe more deerely
affected of a Father: and so farre extended his over-curious respect
of her, as he would seldome admit her to be forth of his sight;
neither would he suffer her to marry, although she had outstept (by
divers yeeres) the age meete for marriage.
  Neverthelesse, at length, he matched her with the Sonne to the
Duke of Capua, who lived no long while with her; but left her in a
widdowed estate, and then she returned home to her father againe.
  This Lady, had all the most absolute perfections, both of favour and
feature, as could be wished in any woman, young, queintly disposed,
and of admirable understanding, more (perhappes) then was requisite in
so weake a body. Continuing thus in Court with the King her Father,
who loved her beyond all his future hopes; like a Lady of great and
glorious magnificence, she lived in all delights and pleasure. She
well perceiving, that her Father thus exceeding in his affection to
her, had no minde at all of re-marrying her, and holding it most
immodest in her, to solicite him with any such suite: concluded in her
mindes private consultations, to make choise of some one especiall
friend or favourite (if Fortune would prove so furtherous to her) whom
she might acquaint secretly, with her sober, honest, and familiar
purposes. Her Fathers Court being much frequented, with plentifull
accesse of brave Gentlemen, and others of inferiour quality, as
commonly the Courts of
Kings and Princes are, whose carriage and demeanor she very
heedfully observed. There was a young Gentleman among all the rest,
a servant to her Father, and named Cuiscardo, a man not derived from
any great descent by blood, yet much more Noble by vertue and
commandable behaviour, then appeared in any of the other, none pleased
her opinion, like as he did; so that by often noting his parts and
perfections, her affections being but a glowing sparke at first,
grew like a Bavin to take Rame, yet kept so closely as possibly she
could; as Ladies are warie enough in their love.
  The young Gentleman, though poore, being neither blocke nor dullard,
perceived what he made no outward shew of, and understood himselfe
so sufficiently, that holding it no meane happinesse to be affected by
her, he thought it very base and cowardly in him, if he should not
expresse the like to her againe. So loving mutually (yet secretly)
in this maner, and she coveting nothing more, then to have private
conference with him, yet not daring to trust any one with so important
a matter; at length she devised a new cunning stratageme, to
compasse her longing desire, and acquaint him with her private
purpose, which proved to be in this manner. She wrote a Letter,
concerning what was the next day to be done, for their secret
meeting together; and conveying it within the joynt of an hollow Cane,
in jesting manner threw it to Guiscardo, saying; Let your man make use
of this, insteed of a paire of bellowes, when he meaneth to make
fire in your Chamber. Guiscardo taking up the Cane, and considering
with himselfe, that neither was it given, or the wordes thus spoken,
but doubtlesse on some important occasion: went unto his lodging
with the Cane, where viewing it respectively, he found it to be cleft,
and opening it with his knife, found there the written Letter
enclosed.
  After he had reade it, and well considered on the service therein
concerned; he was the most joyfull man of the world, and began to
contrive his aptest meanes, for meeting with his gracious Mistresse,
and according as she had given him direction. In a corner of the Kings
Palace, it being seated on a rising hill, a cave had long beene made
in the body of the same hill, which received no light into it, but
by a small spiracle or vent-loope, made out ingeniously on the hils
side. And because it had not beene a long time frequented, by the
accesse of any body, that vent-light was over-growne with briars and
bushes, which almost engirt it round about. No one could descend
into this cave or vault, but only by a secret paire of staires,
answering to a lower Chamber of the Palace, and very neere to the
Princesse lodging, as being altogether at her command, by meanes of
a strong barred and defensible doore, whereby to mount or descend at
her pleasure. And both the cave it selfe, as also the degrees
conducting downe into it, were now so quite worne out of memory (in
regard it had not beene visited by any one in long time before) as
no man remembred that there was any such thing.
  But Love, from whose bright discerning eies, nothing can be so
closely concealed, but at the length it commeth to light, had made
this amorous Lady mindefull thereof, and because she would not be
discovered in her intention, many dayes together, her soule became
perplexed; by what meanes that strong doore might best be opened,
before she could compasse to performe it. But after that she had found
out the way, and gone downe her selfe alone into the cave; observing
the loope-light and had made it commodious for her purpose, she gave
knowledge thereof to Guiscardo, to have him devise an apt course for
his descent, acquainting him truly with the height, and how farre it
was distant from the ground within. After he had found the
souspirall in the hils side, and given it a larger entrance for his
safer passage; he provided a Ladder of cords, with steppes
sufficient for his descending and ascending, as also a wearing sute
made of leather, to keepe his skinne unscrached of the thornes, and to
avoyde all suspition of his resorting thither. In this manner went
he to the saide loope-hole the night following, and having fastened
the one end of his corded ladder, to the strong stumpe of a tree being
by it; by meanes of the saide ladder, descended downe into the cave,
and there attended the comming of his Lady.
  She, on the morrow morning, pretending to her waiting woman, that
she was scarsly well, and therefore would not be diseased the most
part of that day; commanded them to leave her alone in her Chamber,
and not to returne untill she called for them, locking the doore her
selfe for better security. Then opened she the doore of the cave,
and going downe the staires, found there her amorous friend Guiscardo,
whom she saluting with a chaste and modest kisse; causing him to
ascend up the stayres with her into her Chamber. This long desired,
and now obtained meeting, caused the two deerely affected Lovers, in
kinde discourse of amorous argument (without incivill or rude
demeanor) to spend there the most part of that day, to their hearts
joy and mutuall contentment. And having concluded on their often
meeting there, in this cunning and concealed sort; Guiscardo went
downe into the cave againe, the Princesse making the doore fast
after him, and then went forth among her Women. So in the night
season, Guiscardo ascended up againe by his Ladder of cords, and
covering the loopehole with brambles and bushes, returned (unseene
of any) to his owne lodging: the cave being afterward guilty of
their often meeting there in this manner.
  But Fortune, who hath alwayes bin a fatall enemy to lovers stolne
felicities, became envious of their thus secret meeting, and overthrew
(in an instant) all their poore happinesse, by an accident most
spightfull and malicious. The King had used divers dayes before, after
dinner time, to resort all alone to his daughters Chamber, there
conversing with her in most loving manner. One unhappy day amongst the
rest, when the Princesse, being named Ghismonda, was sporting in her
private Garden among her Ladies, the King (at his wonted time) went to
his daughters Chamber, being neither heard or seene by any. Nor
would he have his daughter called from her pleasure, but finding the
windowes fast shut, and the Curtaines close drawne about the bed; he
sate downe in a chaire behind it, and leaning his head upon the bed,
his body being covered with the curtaine, as if he hid himselfe
purposely; he mused on so many matters, at last he fell fast asleepe.
  It hath bin observed as an ancient Adage, that when disasters are
ordained to any one, commonly they prove to be inevitable, as poore
Ghismonda could witnesse too well. For while the King thus slept,
she having (unluckily) appointed another meeting with Guiscardo,
left hir Gentlewomen in the Garden, and stealing softly into her
Chamber, having made all fast and sure, for being descried by any
person: opened the doore to Guiscardo, who stood there ready on the
staire-head, awaiting his entrance; and they sitting downe on the
bed side (according as they were wont to do) began their usuall
kinde of conference againe, with sighes and loving kisses mingled
among them. It chanced that the King awaked, and both hearing and
seeing this familiarity of Guiscardo with his Daughter, he became
extreamly confounded with greefe thereat. Once he intended, to cry out
for have them both there apprehended; but he helde it a part of
greater wisedome, to sit silent still, and (if he could) to keepe
himselfe so closely concealed: to the end, that he might the more
secretly, and with farre lesse disgrace to himselfe, performe what
he had rashly intended to do.
   The poore discovered Lovers, having ended their amorous
interparlance, without suspition of the Kings being so neere in
person, or any else, to betray their overconfident trust; Guiscardo
descended againe into the Cave, and she leaving the Chamber,
returned to her women in the Garden; all which Tancrede too well
observed, and in a rapture of fury, departed (unseene) into his owne
lodging. The same night, about the houre of mens first sleepe, and
according as he had given order; Guiscardo was apprehended, even as he
was comming forth of the loope-hole, and in his homely leather habite.
Very closely was he brought before the King, whose heart was swolne so
great with griefe, as hardly was he able to speake: notwithstanding,
at the last he began thus. Guiscardo . cardo, the love and respect I
have used towards thee, hath not deserved the shamefull wrong which
thou hast requited me withall, and as I have seene with mine owne eyes
this day. Whereto Guiscardo could answer nothing else, but onely this:
Alas my Lord! Love is able to do much more, then either you, or I.
Whereupon, Tancrede commanded, that he should be secretly well
guarded, in a neere adjoyning Chamber, and on the next day,
Ghismonda having (as yet) heard nothing hereof, the Kings braine being
infinitely busied and troubled, after dinner, and as he often had used
to do: he went to his daughters Chamber, where calling for her, and
shutting the doores closely to them, the teares trickling downe his
aged white beard, thus he spake to her.
  Ghismonda, I was once grounded in a setled perswasion, that I truely
knew thy vertue, and honest integrity of life; and this beleefe
could never have beene altred in mee, by any sinister reports
whatsoever, had not mine eyes seene, and mine eares heard the
contrary. Nor did I so much as conceive a thought either of thine
affection, or private conversing with any man, but onely he that was
to be thy husband. But now, I my selfe being able to avouch thy folly,
imagine what an heart-breake this will be to me, so long as life
remaineth in this poore, weake, and aged body. Yet, if needes thou
must have yeelded to this wanton weaknesse, I would thou hadst made
choise of a man, answerable to thy birth and Nobility: whereas on
the contrary, among so many worthy spirits as resort to my Court, thou
likest best to converse with that silly young man Guiscardo, one of
very meane and base descent, and by me (even for Gods sake)
  from his very youngest yeares, brought up to this instant in my
Court; wherein thou hast given me much affliction of minde, and so
overthrowne my senses, as I cannot well imagine how I should deale
with thee. For him, whom I have this night caused to be surprized,
even as he came forth of your close contrived conveyance, and
detaine as my prisoner, I have resolved how to proceed with him: but
concerning thy selfe, mine oppressions are so many and violent, as I
know not what to say of thee. e. way, thou hast meerly murthered the
unfeigned affection I bare thee, as never any father could expresse
more to his childe: and then againe, thou hast kindled a most just
indignation in me, by thine immodest and wilfull folly, and whereas
Nature pleadeth pardon for the one, yet justice standeth up against
the other, and urgeth cruell severity against thee: neverthelesse,
before I will determine upon any resolution, I come purposely first to
heare thee speake, and what thou canst say for thy selfe, in a bad
case, so desperate and dangerous.
  Having thus spoken, he hung downe the head in his bosome, weeping as
aboundantly, as if he had beene a childe severely disciplinde. On
the other side, Ghismonda hearing the speeches of her Father, and
perceiving withall, that not onely her secret love was discovered, but
also Guiscardo was in close prison, the matter which most of all did
torment her; she fell into a very strange kinde of extasie, scorning
teares, and entreating tearmes, such as feminine frailety are
alwayes aptest unto: but rather, with height of courage, controuling
feare or servile basenesse, and declaring invincible fortitude in
her very lookes, she concluded with her selfe, rather then to urge any
humble perswasions, she would lay her life downe at the stake. For
plainely she perceived, that Guiscardo already was a dead man in
Law, and death was likewise welcome to her, rather then the
deprivation of her Love; and therefore, not like a weeping woman, or
as checkt by the offence committed, but carelesse of any harme
happening to her: stoutely and couragiously, not a teare appearing
in her eye, or her soule any way to be perturbed, thus she spake to
her Father.
  Tancrede, to denie what I have done, or to entreate any favour
from you, is now no part of my disposition: for as the one can
little availe me, so shall not the other any way advantage me.
Moreover, I covet not that you should extend any clemency or kindnesse
to me, but by my voluntary confession of the truth do intend (first of
all) to defend mine honour, with reasons sound, good, and
substantiall, and then vertuously pursue to full effect, the
greatnesse of my minde and constant resolution. True it is, that I
have loved, and still do, honourable Guiscardo, purposing the like
so long as I shall live, which will be but a small while: but if it be
possible to continue the same affection after death, it is for ever
vowed to him onely. Nor did mine owne womanish weaknesse so much
thereto induce me, as the matchlesse vertues shining clearly in
Guiscardo, and the little respect you had of marrying me againe. Why
royall Father, you cannot be ignorant, that you being composed of
flesh and blood, have begotten a Daughter of the selfe same
composition, and not made of stone or iron. Moreover, you ought to
remember (although now you are farre stept in yeeres) what the Lawes
of youth are, and with what difficulty they are to be contradicted.
Considering withall, that albeit (during the vigour of your best time)
you evermore were exercised in Armes; yet you should likewise
understand, that negligence and idle delights, have mighty power,
not onely in young people, but also in them of greatest yeares.
  I being then made of flesh and blood, and so derived from your
selfe; having had also so little benefit of life, that I am yet in the
spring, and blooming time of my blood: by either of these reasons, I
must needs be subject to naturall desires, wherein such knowledge as I
have once already had, in the estate of my marriage, perhaps might
move a further intelligence of the like delights, according to the
better ability of strength, which exceeding all capacity of
resistance, induced a second motive to affection, answerable to my
time and youthfull desires, and so (like a yong woman) I became came
againe; yet did I strive, even with all my utmost might, and best
vertuous faculties abiding in me, no way to disgrace either you or
my selfe, as (in equall censure) yet have I not done. But Nature is
above all humane power, and Love commanded by Nature, hath prevailed
for Love, joyning with Fortune: in meere pitty and commiseration of my
extreame wrong, I found them both most benigne and gracious,
teaching mee a way secret enough, whereby I might reach the height
of my desires, howsoever you became instructed, or (perhaps) found
it out by accident; so it was, and I deny it not.
  Nor did I make election of Guiscardo by chance, or rashly, as many
women doe, but by deliberate counsell in my soule, and most mature
advise; I chose him above all other, and having his honest
harmelesse conversation, mutually we enjoyed our hearts contentment.
Now it appeareth, that I have not offended but by love; in imitation
of vulgar opinion, rather then truth: you seeke to reprove me
bitterly, alleaging no other maine argument for your anger, but
onely my not choosing a Gentleman, or one more worthy. Wherein it is
most evident, that you do not so much checke my fault, as the
ordination of Fortune, who many times advanceth men of meanest
esteeme, and abaseth them of greater merit. But leaving this
discourse, let us looke into the originall of things, wherein we are
first to observe, that from one masse or lumpe of flesh, both we,
and all other received our flesh, and one Creator hath created all
things; yea, all creatures, equally in their forces and faculties, and
equall likewise in their vertue: which vertue was the first that
made distinction of birth and equality, in regard, that such as have
the most liberall portion thereof, and performed actions thereto
answerable, were thereby tearmed noble; all the rest remaining
unnoble: now although contrary use did afterward hide and conceale
this Law, yet was it not therefore banished from Nature or good
manners. In which respect, whosoever did execute all his actions by
vertue, declared himselfe openly to be noble; and he that tearmed
him otherwise, it was an errour in the miscaller, and not in the
person so wrongfully called; as the very same priviledge is yet in
full force among us at this day.
  Cast an heedfull eye then (good Father) upon all your Gentlemen, and
advisedly examine their vertues, conditions, and manner of
behaviour. On the other side, observe those parts remaining in
Guiscardo: and then if you will Judge truly, and without affection,
you will confesse him to be most Noble, and that all your Gentlemen
(in respect of him) are but base Groomes and villaines. His vertues
and excelling perfections, I never credited from the report or
judgement of any person; but onely by your speeches, and mine owne
eyes as true witnesses. Who did ever more commend Guiscardo, extolling
all those singularities in him, most requisite to be in an honest
vertuous man; then you your selfe have done? Nor neede you to be
sorry, or ashamed of your good opinion concerning him: for if mine
eyes have not deceived my judgement, you never gave him the least part
of praise, but I have knowne much more in him, then ever your words
were able to expresse: wherefore, if I have beene any way deceived,
truly the deceit proceeded onely from you. How wil you then maintaine,
that I have throwne my liking on a man of base condition? In troth
(Sir) you cannot. Perhaps you will alledge, that he is but meane and
poore; I confesse it, and surely it is to your shame, that you have
not bestowne place of more preferment, on a man so honest and well
deserving, and having bene so long a time your servant.
Neverthelesse poverty impayreth not any part of noble Nature, but
wealth hurries into horrible confusions. Many Kings and great
Princes have heeretofore beene poore, when divers of them that have
delved into the earth, and kept Flockes in the field, have beene
advanced to riches, and exceeded the other in wealth.
  Now, as concerning your last doubt, which most of all afflicteth
you, namely, how you shall deale with me; boldly rid your braine of
any such disturbance; for if you have resolved now in your extremity
of yeres, to doe that which your younger dayes evermore despised, I
meane, to become cruell; use your utmost cruelty against me: for I wil
never intreat you to the contrary, because I am the sole occasion of
this offence, if it doe deserve the name of an offence. And this I
dare assure you, that if you deale not with me, as you have done
already, or intend to Guiscardo, mine owne hands shall act as much:
and therfore give over your teares to women; and if you purpose to
be cruel, let him and me in death drinke both of one cup, at least
if you imagine that we have deserved it.
  The King knew well enough the high spirit of his Daughter, but yet
(neverthelesse) he did not beleeve, that her words would prove
actions, or she do as she said. And therefore parting from her, and
without intent of using any cruelty to her, concluded, by quenching
the heat of another to coole the fiery rage of her distemper,
commanding two of his follow (who had the custody of Guiscardo) that
without any rumour or noise at all, they should strangle him the night
ensuing, and taking the heart forth of his body, to bring it to him,
which they performed according to their charge. On the next day, the
King called for a goodly standing cup of Gold, wherein he put the
heart of Guiscardo, sending it by one of his most familiar servants to
his Daughter, with command also to use these words to her. Thy
Father hath sent thee this present, to comfort thee with that thing
which most of all thou affectest, even as thou hast comforted him with
that which he most hated.
  Ghismonda, nothing altered from her cruell deliberation, after her
Father was departed from her, caused certaine poisonous roots and
hearbes to be brought her, which shee (by distillation) made a water
of, to drinke sodainly, whensoever any crosse accident should come
from her Father; whereupon, when the Messenger from her Father had
delivered her the present, and uttered the words as he was commaunded:
shee tooke the Cup, and looking into it with a setled countenance,
by sight of the heart, and effect of the message, she knew certainely,
that was the heart of Guiscardo; then looking stearnely on the
servant, thus she spake unto him. My honest friend, it is no more then
right and justice, that so worthy a heart as this is, should have
any worser grave then gold, wherein my Father hath dealt most
wisely. So, lifting the heart up to her mouth, and sweetly kissing it,
she proceeded thus. In all things, even till this instant, (being
the utmost period of my life) I have evermore found my Fathers love
most effectuall to me; but now it appeareth farre greater, then at any
time heretofore: and therefore from my mouth, thou must deliver him
the latest thankes that ever I shall give him, for sending me such
an honourable present.
  These words being ended, holding the Cup fast in her hand, and
looking seriously upon the heart, she began againe in this manner.
Thou sweete entertainer of all my dearest delights, accursed be his
cruelty, that causeth me thus to see thee with my corporall eyes, it
being sufficient enough for me, alwayes to behold thee with the
sight of my soule. Thou hast runne thy race, and as Fortune
ordained, so are thy dayes finished: for as all flesh hath an
ending; so hast thou concluded, albeit too soone, and before thy due
time. The travalles and miseries of this World, have now no more to
meddle with thee, and thy very heaviest enemy hath bestowed such a
grave on thee, as thy greatnesse in vertue worthily deserveth; now
nothing else is wanting, wherewith to beautifie thy Funerall, but only
her sighes and teares, that was so deare unto thee in thy life time.
And because thou mightest the more freely enjoy them, see how my
mercilesse Father (on his owne meere motion) hath sent thee to me; and
truly I will bestow them frankly on thee, though once I had
resolved, to die with drie eyes, and not shedding one teare,
dreadlesse of their utmost malice towards me.
  And when I have given thee the due oblation of my teares, my
soule, which sometime thou hast kept most carfully, shall come to make
a sweet conjunction with thine: for in what company else can I
travaile more contentedly, and to those unfrequented silent shades,
but onely in thine? As yet am sure it is present here, in this Cup
sent me by my Father, as having a provident respect to the place,
for possess' of our equall and mutuall pleasures; because thy soule
affecting mine so truly, cannot walke alone, without his deare
companion.
  Having thus finished her complaint, even as if her bead had been
converted into a well spring of water, so did teares abundantly flow
from her faire eyes, kissing the heart of Guiscardo infinite times.
All which while, her women standing by her, neither knew what heart it
was, nor to what effect her speeches tended: but being moved to
compassionate teares, they often demanded (albeit in vaine) the
occasion of her sad complaining, comforting her to their utmost power.
When she was not able to weepe any longer, wiping her eyes, and
lifting up her head, without any signe of the least dismay, thus she
spake to the heart.
  Deare heart, all my duty is performed to thee, and nothing now
remaineth uneffected; but onely breathing my last, to let my ghost
accompany thine.
  Then calling for the glasse of water, which she had readily prepared
the day before, and powring it upon the heart lying in the Cup,
couragiously advancing it to her mouth, she dranke it up every drop;
which being done, she lay downe upon her bed, holding her Lovers heart
fast in her hand, and laying it so neere to her owne as she could. Now
although her women knew not what water it was, yet when they had seene
her to quaffe it off in that manner, they sent word to the King, who
much suspecting what had happened, went in all haste to his
Daughters Chamber, entring at the very instant, when she was laide
upon her bed; beholding her in such passionate pangs, with teares
streaming downe his reverend beard, he used many kinde words to
comfort her: when boldly thus she spake unto him. Father (quoth she)
well may you spare these teares, because they are unfitting for you,
and not any way desired by me; who but your selfe, hath seene any
man to mourne for his owne wilfull offence. Neverthelesse, if but
the least jot of that love do yet abide in you, whereof you have
made such liberall profession to me; let me obtaine this my very
last request, to wit, that seeing I might not privately enjoy the
benefit of Guiscardoes love, and while he lived, let yet (in death)
one publike grave containe both our bodies, that death may affoord us,
what you so cruelly in life denied us.
  Extremity of griefe and sorrow, withheld his tongue from returning
any answer, and she perceiving her end approaching, held the heart
still closer to her owne bare brest, saying; Here Fortune, receive two
true hearts latest oblation; for, in this manner are we comming to
thee. So closing her eyes, all sense forsooke her, life leaving her
body breathlesse. Thus ended the haplesse love of Guiscardo, and
Ghismonda, for whose sad disaster, when the King had mourned
sufficiently, and repented fruitlesly; he caused both their bodies
to be honourably embalmed, and buried in a most royall Monument; not
without generall sorrow of the subjects of Salerne.
                   THE FOURTH DAY, THE SECOND NOVELL
       REPREHENDING THE LEWD LIVES OF DISSEMBLING HYPOCRITES; AND
           CHECKING THE ARROGANT PRIDE OF VAINE-HEADED WOMEN

  Fryar Albert made a young Venetian Gentlewoman beleeve, that God
Cupid was falne in love with her, and he resorted oftentimes unto her,
in the disguise of the same God. Afterward, being frighted by the
Gentlewomans kindred and friends, he cast himselfe out of her
Chamber window, and was bidden in a poore mans House; on the day
following, in the shape of a wilde or savage man, he was brought
upon the Rialto of Saint Marke, and being there publikely knowne by
the Brethren of his Order, he was committed to Prison.

  The Novell recounted by Madam Fiammetta, caused teares many times in
the eyes of all the company; but it being finished, the King shewing a
stearne countenance, saide; I should have much commended the kindnesse
of fortune, if in the whole course of my life, I had tasted the
least moity of that delight, which Guiscardo received by conversing
with faire Ghismonda. Nor neede any of you to wonder thereat, or how
it can be otherwise, because hourely I feele a thousand dying
torments, without enjoying any hope of ease or pleasure: but referring
my fortunes to their owne poore condition, it is my will, that Madam
Pampinea proceed next in the argument of successelesse love, according
as Madam Fiammetta hath already begun, to let fall more dew-drops on
the fire of mine afflictions. Madam Pampinea perceiving what a taske
was imposed on her, knew well (by her owne disposition) the
inclination of the company, whereof shee was more respective then of
the Kings command: wherefore, chusing rather to recreate their
spirits, then to satisfie the Kings melancholy humour; she
determined to relate a Tale of mirthfull matter, and yet to keepe
within compasse of the purposed Argument It hath bene continually used
as a common Proverbe; that a bad man taken and reputed to be honest
and good, may commit many evils, yet neither credited, or suspected:
which proverbe giveth me very ample matter to speake of, and yet not
varying from our intention, concerning the hypocrisie of some
religious persons, who having their garments long and large, their
faces made artificially pale, their language meeke and humble to get
mens goods from them; yet sowre, harsh and stearne enough, in checking
and controuling other mens errours, as also in urging others to
give, and themselves to take, without any other hope or meanes of
salvation. Nor doe they endeavour like other men, to worke out their
soules health with feare and trembling; but, even as if they were sole
owners, Lords, and possessors of Paradice, will appoint to every dying
person, place (there) of greater or lesser excellency, according as
they thinke good, or as the legacies left by them are in quantity,
whereby they not onely deceive themselves, but all such as give credit
to their subtile perswasions. And were it lawfull for me, to make
knowne no more then is meerely necessary; I could quickly disclose
to simple credulous people, what craft lieth concealed under their
holy habites: and I would wish, that their lies and deluding should
speed with them, as they did with a Franciscane Friar, none of the
younger Novices, but one of them of greatest reputation, and belonging
to one of the best Monasteries in Venice. Which I am the rather
desirous to report, to recreate your spirits, after your teares for
the death of faire Ghismonda.
  Sometime (Honourable Ladies) there lived in the City of Imola, a man
of most lewd and wicked life; named, Bertho de la messa, whose
shamelesse deedes were so well knowne to all the Citizens, and won
such respect among them; as all his lies could not compasse any
beleefe, no, not when he delivered a matter of sound truth. Wherefore,
perceiving that his lewdnesse allowed him no longer dwelling there;
like a desperate adventurer, he transported himselfe thence to Venice,
the receptacle of all foule sinne and abhomination, intending there to
exercise his wonted bad behaviour, and live as wickedly as ever he had
done before. It came to passe, that some remorse of conscience tooke
hold of him, for the former passages of his dissolute life, and he
pretended to be surprized with very great devotion, becomming much
more Catholike then any other man, taking on him the profession of a
Franciscane coldelier, and calling himselfe, Fryar Albert of Imola.
  In this habite and outward appearance, hee seemed to leade an
austere and sanctimonious life, highly commending penance and
abstinence, never eating flesh, or drinking wine, but when he was
provided of both in a close corner. And before any person could take
notice thereof, hee became (of a theefe) Ruffian, forswearer, and
murtherer, as formerly he had-beene a great Preacher; yet not
abandoning the forenamed vices, when secretly he could put any of them
in execution. Moreover, being made Priest, when he was celebrating
Masse at the Altar, if he saw himselfe to be observed by any; he would
most mournefully reade the passion of our Saviour, as one whose teares
cost him little, whensoever hee pleased to use them; so that, in a
short while, by his preaching and teares, he fed the humours of the
Venetians so pleasingly, that they made him executor (well-neere) of
all their Testaments, yea, many chose him as depositary or Guardion of
their monies; because he was both Confessour and Councellor, almost to
all the men and women.
  By this well seeming out-side of sanctity, the Wolfe became a
Shepheard, and his renowne for holinesse was so famous in those parts,
as Saint Frances himselfe had hardly any more. It fortuned, that a
young Gentlewoman, being somewhat foolish, wanton and proud minded,
named Madam Lisetta de Caquirino, wife to a wealthy Merchant, who went
with certaine Gallies into Flanders, and there lay as Lieger long
time: in company of other Gentlewomen, went to be confessed by this
ghostly Father; kneel. at his feete, although her heart was high
enough, like a proud minded woman, (for Venetians are presumptuous,
vaine-glorious, and witted much like to their skittish Gondoloes)
she made a very short rehearsall of her sinnes. At length Fryar Albert
demanded of her, whether shee had any amorous friend or lover? Her
patience being exceedingly provoked, stearne anger appeared in her
lookes, which caused her to returne him this answer. How now Sir
Domine? what? have you no eyes in your head? Can you not distinguish
between mine, and these other common beauties? I could have Lovers
enow, if I were so pleased; but those perfections remaining in me, are
not to be affected by this man, or that. How many beauties have you
beheld, any way answerable to mine, and are more fit for Gods, then
mortals.
  Many other idle speeches shee uttered, in proud opinion of her
beauty, whereby Friar Albert presently perceived, that this
Gentlewoman had but a hollow braine, and was fit game for folly to
flye at; which made him instantly enamoured of her, and that beyond
all capacity of resisting, which yet he referred to a further, and
more commodious time. Neverthelesse, to shew himselfe an holy and
religious man now, he began to reprehend her, and told her plainely,
that she was vain-glorious, and overcome with infinite follies.
Heereupon, him call.ed him a logger headed beast, and he knew not
the difference betweene an ordinary complexion, and beauty of the
highest merit. In which respect, Friar Albert, being loth to offend
her any further; after confession was fully ended, let her passe
away among the other Gentlewomen, she giving him divers disdainfull
lookes.
  Within some few dayes after, taking one of his trusty brethren in
his company, he went to the House of Madam Lisetta, where requiring to
have some conference alone with her selfe; shee tooke him into a
private Parlor, and being there, not to be seene by any body, he
fell on his knees before her, speaking in this manner. Madam, for
charities sake, and in regard of your owne most gracious nature, I
beseech you to pardon those harsh speeches, which I used to you the
other day, when you were with me at confession: because, the very
night ensuing thereon, I was chastised in such cruell manner, as I was
never able to stirre forth of my bed, untill this very instant
morning; whereto the weake-witted Gentlewoman thus replyed. And who
I pray you (quoth she) did chastise you so severely? I will tell you
Madam, said Friar Albert, but it is a matter of admirable secrecie.
  Being alone by my selfe the same night in my Dorter, and in very
serious devotion, according to my usuall manner: suddenly I saw a
bright splendour about me, and I could no sooner arise to discerne
what it might be, and whence it came, but I espied a very goodly young
Lad standing by me, holding a golden Bow in his hand, and a rich
Quiver of Arrowes hanging at his backe. Catching fast hold on my Hood,
against the ground he threw me rudely, trampling on me with his feete,
and beating me with so many cruell blowes, that I thought my body to
be broken in peeces. Then I desired to know, why he was so rigorous to
me in his correction? Because (quoth he) thou didst so saucily presume
this day, to reprove the celestiall beauty of Madam Lisetta, who (next
to my Mother Venus) I love most dearely. Whereupon I perceived, he was
the great commanding God Cupid, and therefore I craved most humbly
pardon of him. I will pardon thee (quoth he) but upon this
condition, that thou goe to her so soone as conveniently thou canst,
and (by lowly humility) prevaile to obtaine her free pardon: which
if she will not vouchsafe to grant thee, then shall I in stearne anger
returne againe, and lay so many torturing afflictions on thee, that
all thy whole life time shall be most hatefull to thee. And what the
displeased God saide else beside, I dare not disclose, except you
please first to pardon me.
  Mistresse shallow-braine, being swolne big with this wind, like an
empty bladder; conceived no small pride in hearing these words,
constantly crediting them to be true, and therefore thus answered. Did
I not tel you Father Albert, that my beauty was celestiall? But I
sweare by my beauty, notwithstanding your idle passed arrogancy, I
am heartily sorry for your so severe correction; which that it may
no more be inflicted on you, I do freely pardon you; yet with this
proviso, that you tell me what the God else saide unto you; whereto
Fryar Albert thus replyed. Madam, seeing you have so graciously
vouchsafed to pardon me, I will thankfully tell you all: but you
must be very carefull and respective, that whatsoever I shall
reveale unto you, must so closely be concealed, as no living
creature in the World may know it; for you are the onely happy Lady
now living, and that happinesse relleth on your silence and
secrecie: with solemne vowes and protestations she sealed up her
many promises, and then the Fryar thus proceeded.
  Madam, the further charge imposed on me by God Cupid, was to tell
you, that himselfe is so extremely enamored of your beauty, and you
are become so gracious in his affection; as, many nights he hath
come to see you in your Chamber, sitting on your pillow, while you
slept sweetly, and desiring very often to awake you, but onely fearing
to affright you. Wherefore, now he sends you word by me, that one
night he intendeth to come visite you, and to spend some time in
conversing with you. But in regard he is a God, and meerely a spirit
in forme, whereby neither you or any else have capacity of beholding
him, much lesse to touch or feele him: he saith that (for your sake)
he will come in the shape of a man, giving me charge also to know of
you, when you shall please to have him come, and in whose similitude
you would have him to come, whereof he will not falle; in which
respect, you may justly thinke your selfe to be the onely happy
woman livng, and farre beyond all other in your good fortune.
  Mistresse want-wit presently answered, shee was well contented, that
God Cupid should love her, and she would returne the like love
againe to him; protesting withill, that wheresoever shee should see
his majesticall picture, she would set a hallowed burning Taper before
it. Moreover, at all times he should be most welcome to her,
whensoever hee would vouchsafe to visite her; for, he should alwayes
finde her alone in her private Chamber: on this condition, that his
olde Love Psyches, and all other beauties else whatsoever, must be set
aside, and none but her selfe onely to be his best Mistresse,
referring his personall forme of appearance, to what shape himselfe
best pleased to assume, so that it might not be frightfull, or
offensive to her.
  Madam (quoth Friar Albert) most wisely have you answered, and
leave the matter to me; for I will take order sufficiently, and to
your contentment. But you may do me a great grace, and without any
prejudice to your selfe, in granting me one poore request; namely,
to vouchsafe the Gods appearance to you, in my bodily shape and
person, and in the perfect forme of a man as now you behold me: so may
you safely give him entertainment, without any taxation of the
world, or ill apprehension of the most curious inquisition. Beside,
a greater happinesse can never befall me: for, while he assumeth the
soule out of my body, and walketh on the earth in my humane figure:
I shall be wandering in the joyes of Lovers Paradise, feeling the
fruition of their felicities; which are such, as no mortality can be
capeable of, no, not so much as in imagination.
   The wise Gentlewoman replied, that she was well contented, in
regard of the severe punishment inflicted on him by God Cupid, for the
reproachfull speeches he had given her; to allow him so poore a
kinde of consolation, as he had requested her to grant him. Whereuppon
Friar Albert saide: Be ready then Madam to give him welcome to
morrow in the evening, at the entering into your house, for comming in
an humane body, he cannot but enter at your doores: n e whereas, if
(in powerfull manner) he made use of his wings, he then would Eye in
at your window, and then you could not be able to see him.
   Upon this conclusion, Albert departed, leaving Lisetta in no
meane pride of imagination, that God Cupid should be enamoured of
her beauty; and therefore she thought each houre a yeare, till she
might see him in the mortall shape of Friar Albert. And now was his
braine wonderfully busied, to visite her in more then common or humane
manner; and therefore he made him a sute (close to his body) of
white Taffata, all poudred over with Starres, and spangles of Gold,
a Bow and Quiver of Arrowes, with wings also fastened to his backe
behinde him, and all cunningly covered with his Friars habit, which
must be the sole meanes of his safe passage.
   Having obtained licence of his Superiour, and being accompanied
with an holy Brother of the Convent, yet ignorant of the businesse
by him intended; he went to the house of a friend of his, which was
his usuall receptacle, whensoever he went about such deeds of darknes.
There did he put on his dissembled habit of God Cupid, with his
winges, Bowe, and Quiver, in formall fashion; and then (clouded over
with his Monkes Cowle) leaves his companion to awaite his returning
backe, while he visited foolish Lisetta, according to her expectation,
readily attending for the Gods arrivall.
   Albert being come to the house, knocked at the doore, and the Maide
admitting him entrance, according as her Mistresse had appointed,
she conducted him to her Mistresses Chamber, where laying aside his
Friars habite, and she seeing him shine with such glorious
splendour, adding action also to his assumed dissimulation, with
majesticke motion of his body, wings, and bow, as if he had bene God
Cupid indeede, converted into a body much bigger of stature, then
Painters commonly do describe him, her wisedome was overcome with
feare and admiration, that she fell on her knees before him,
expressing all humble reverence unto him. And he spreading his wings
over her, as with wiers and strings he had made them pliant; shewed
how graciously he accepted her humiliation; folding her in his
armes, and sweetly kissing her many times together, with repetition of
his entire love and affection towards her. So delicately was he
perfumed with odorifferous savours, and so compleate of person in
his spangled garments, that she could do nothing else, but wonder at
his rare behaviour, reputing her felicity beyond all Womens in the
world, and utterly impossible to be equalled, such was the pride of
her presuming. For he told her clivers tales and fables, of his
awefull power among the other Gods, and stolne pleasures of his upon
the earth; yet gracing her praises above all his other Loves, and
vowes made now, to affect none but her onely, as his often visitations
should more constantly assure her, that she verily credited all his
protestations, and thought his kisses and embraces, farre to exceed
any mortall comparison.
  After they had spent so much time in amorous discoursing, as might
best fit with this their first meeting, and stand cleare from
suspition on either side: our Albert Cupid, or Cupid Albert, which
of them you best please to terme him, closing his spangled winges
together againe behinde his backe, fastening also on his Bow and
Quiver of Arrowes, overclouds all with his religious Monkes Cowle, and
then with a parting kisse or two, returned to the place where he had
left his fellow and companion, perhaps imployed in as devout an
exercise, as he had bin in his absence from him; whence both repayring
home to the Monastery, all this nightes wandering was allowed as
tollerable, by them who made no spare of doing the like.
 On the morrow following, Madam Lisetta immediately after dinner,
being attended by her Chamber-maid, went to see Friar Albert,
finding him in his wonted forme and fashion, and telling him what
had hapned betweene her and God Cupid, with all the other lies and
tales which hee had told her. Truly Madam (answered Albert) what
your successe with him hath beene, I am no way able to comprehend; but
this I can assure you, that so soone as I had acquainted him with your
answer, I felt a sodaine rapture made of my soule, and visibly (to
my apprehension) saw it carried by Elves and Fairies, into the
floury fields about Elisium, where Lovers departed out of this life,
walke among the beds of Lillies and Roses, such as are not in this
world to be seene, neither to be imagined by any humane capacity. So
super-abounding was the pleasure of this joy and solace, that, how
long I continued there, or by what meanes I was transported hither
againe this morning, it is beyond all ability in mee to expresse, or
how I assumed my body againe after that great God had made use thereof
to your service. Well Fryar Albert (quoth shee) you may see what an
happinesse hath befalne you, by so grosse an opinion of my
perfections, and what a felicity you enjoy, and still are like to
do, by my pardoning your error, and granting the God accesse to me
in your shape: which as I envy not, so I wish you heereafter to be
wiser, in taking upon you to judge of beauty. Much other idle folly
proceeded from her, which still he soothed to her contentment, and (as
occasion served) many meetings they had in the former manner.
  It fortuned within few dayes after that Madam Lisetta being in
company with one of her Gossips, and their conference (as commonly
it falleth out to be) concerning other women of the City; their
beauty, behaviour, amorous suters and servants, and generall opinion
conceived of their worth, and merit; wherein Lisetta was over-much
conceyted of her selfe, not admitting any other to be her equall.
Among other speeches, savouring of an unseasoned braine: Gossip (quoth
she) if you knew what account is made of my beauty, and who holdes
it in no meane estimation, you would then freely confesse, that I
deserve to be preferred before any other. As women are ambitious in
their owne opinions, so commonly are they covetous of one anothers
secrets, especially in matter of emulation, whereupon the Gossip
thus replyed. Beleeve me Madam, I make no doubt but your speeches
may be true, in regard of your admired beauty, and many other
perfections beside; yet let me tell you, priviledges, how great and
singular soever they be, without they are knowen to others, beside
such as do particularly enjoy them; they carry no more account, then
things of ordinary estimation. Whereas on the contrary, when any
Lady or Gentlewoman hath some eminent and peculiar favour, which few
or none other can reach unto, and it is made famous by generall
notion; then do all women else admire and honor her, as the glory of
their kinde, and a miracle of Nature.
  I perceive Gossip said Lisetta, whereat you aime, and such is my
love to you, as you should not lose your longing in this case, were
I but constantly secured of your secrecy, which as hitherto I have
bene no way able to taxe, so would I be loth now to be more suspitious
of then needs. But yet this matter is of such maine moment, that if
you will protest as you are truly vertuous, never to reveale it to any
living body, I will disclose to you almost a miracle. The vertuous
oath being past, with many other solemne protestations beside, Lisetta
then pro. ceeded in this maner.
  I know Gossip, that it is a matter of common and ordinary custome,
for Ladies and Gentlewomen to be graced with favourites, men of fraile
and mortall conditions, whose natures are as subject to inconstancy,
as their very best endevours dedicated to folly, as I could name no
mean number of our Ladies heere in Venice. But when Soveraigne deities
shall feele the impression of our humane desires, and behold
subjects of such prevailing efficacy, as to subdue their greatest
power, yea, and make them enamored of mortall creatures: you may
well imagine Gossip, such a beauty is superiour to any other. And such
is the happy fortune of your friend Lisetta, of whose perfections,
great Cupid the awefull commanding God of Love himselfe, conceived
such an extraordinary liking: as he hath abandoned his seate of
supreme Majesty, and appeared to in the shape of a mortall man, with
lively expression of his amourous passions, and what extremities of
anguish he hath endured, onely for my love. May this be possible?
replied the Gossip. Can the Gods be toucht with the apprehension of
our fraile passions? True it is Gossip, answered and so certainly
true, that his sacred kisses, sweete embraces, and most pleasing
speeches with proffer of his continuall devotion towards me, hath
given me good cause to confirme what I say, and to thinke my
felicity farre beyond all other womens, being honoured with his
often nightly visitations.
  The Gossip inwardly smiling at her idle speeches, which
(nevertheles) she avouched with very vehement asseverations: fell
instantly sicke of womens naturall disease, thinking every minute a
tedious month, till she were in company with some other Gossips, to
breake the obligation of her vertuous promise, and that others (as
well as her selfe) might laugh at the folly of this shallow-witted
woman. The next day following, it was her hap to be at a wedding,
among a great number of other women, whom quickly she acquainted
with this so strange a wonder; as they did the like to their husbands:
and passing so from hand to hand, in lesse space then two dayes, all
Venice was fully possessed with it. Among the rest, the brethren to
this foolish woman, heard this admirable newes concerning their
Sister; and they discreetly concealing it to themselves, closely
concluded to watch the walks of this pretended God: and if he soared
not too lofty a flight, they would clip his wings, to come the
better acquainted with him. It fortuned, that the Friar hearing his
Cupidicall visitations over-publikely discovered, purposed to check
and reprove Lisetta for her indiscretion. And being habited
according to his former manner, his Friarly Cowle covering all his
former bravery, he left his companion where he used to stay, and
closely walked along unto the house. No sooner was he entred, but
the Brethren being ambushed neere to the doore, went in after him, and
ascending the staires, by such time as he had uncased himselfe, and
appeared like God Cupid, with his spangled wings displayed: they
rushed into the Chamber, and he having no other refuge, opened a large
Casement, standing directly over the great gulfe or River, and
presently leapt into the water; which being deepe, and he skilfull
in swimming, he had no other harme by his fall, albeit the sodaine
affright did much perplex him.
  Recovering the further side of the River, he espied a light, and the
doore of an house open, wherein dwelt a poore man, whom he earnestly
intreated, to save both his life and reputation, telling him many lies
and tales by what meanes he was thus disguised, and throwne by
night-walking Villaines into the water. The poore man, being moved
to compassionate his distressed estate, laid him in his owne bed,
ministring such other comforts to him, as the time and his poverty did
permit; and day drawing on, he went about his businesse, advising
him to take his rest, and it should not be long till he returned.
So, locking the doore, and leaving the counterfet God in bed, away
goes the poore man to his daily labor. The Brethren to Lisetta,
perceiving God Cupid to be fied and gone, and she in melancholly
sadnesse sitting by them: they tooke up the Reliques he had left
behind him, I meane the Friars hood and Cowle, which shewing to
their sister, and sharpely reproving her unwomanly behaviour: they
left her in no meane discomfort, returning home to their owne
houses, with their conquered spolle of the forlorne Friar.
  During the times of these occurrences, broad day speeding on, and
the poore man returning homeward by the Rialto, to visit his guest
so left in bed: he beheld divers crouds of people, and a generall
rumor noysed among them, that God Cupid had bene that night with Madam
Lisetta, where being over-closely pursued by her Brethren, for feare
of being surprized, he leapt out of her window into the gulfe, and
no one could tell what was become of him. Heereupon, the poore man
began to imagine, that the guest entertained by him in the night time,
must needs be the same suppose God Cupid, as by his wings and other
embellishments appeared: wherefore being come home, and sitting
downe on the beds side by him, after some few speeches passing
betweene them, he knew him to be Friar Albert, who promised to give
him fifty ducates, if he would not betray him to Lisettaes Brethren.
Upon the acceptation of this offer, the money being sent for, and
paied downe; there wanted nothing now, but some apt and convenient
meanes, whereby Albert might safely be conveyed into the Monastery,
which being wholly referred to the poore mans care and trust, thus
he spake. Sir, I see no likely-hood of your cleare escaping home,
except in this manner as I advise you. We observe this day as a
merry Festivall, and it is lawfull for any one, to disguise a man in
the skin of a Beare, or in the shape of a savage man, or any other
forme of better advice. Which being so done, he is brought upon S.
Markes market place, where being hunted a while with dogs, upon the
huntings conclusion, the Feast is ended; and then each man leades
his monster whether him pleaseth. If you can accept any of these
shapes, before you be seene heere in my poore abiding, then can I
safely (afterward) bring you where you would be. Otherwise, I see no
possible meanes, how you may escape hence unknown; for it is without
all question to the contrary, that the Gentlewomans brethren,
knowing your concealment in some one place or other, wil set such
spies and watches for you throughout the City, as you must needs be
taken by them.
  Now, although it seemed a most severe imposition, for Albert to
passe in any of these disguises: yet his exceeding feare of
Lisettaes brethren and friends, made him gladly yeelde, and to undergo
what shape the poore man pleased, which thus he ordered. Annointing
his naked body with Hony, he then covered it over with downy small
Feathers, and fastening a chaine about his necke, and a strange ugly
vizard on his face, he gave him a great staffe in the one hand, and
two huge Mastive dogs chained together in the other, which he had
borrowed in the Butchery. Afterward, he sent a man to the Rialto,
who there proclaimed by the sound of Trumpet: That all such as desired
to see God Cupid, which the last nights had descended downe from the
skies, and fell (by ill hap) into the Venetian gulfe, let them repaire
to the publike Market place of S. Marke, and there he would appeare in
his owne likenesse.
  This being done, soone after he left his house, and leading him thus
disguised along by the chaine, he was followed by great crowds of
people, every one questioning of whence, and what he was. In which
manner, he brought him, to the Market place, where an infinite
number of people were gathered together, as well of the followers,
as of them that before heard the proclamation. There he made choice of
a pillar, which stood in a place somewhat highly exalted, wherto he
chained his savage man, making shew, as if be meant to awaite there,
till the hunting should begin: in which time, the Flies, Waspes, and
Hornets, did so terribly sting his naked body, being annointed with
Hony, that he endured therby unspeakable anguish. When the poore man
saw, that there needed no more concourse of people; pretending, as
if he purposed to let loose his Salvage man; he tooke the maske or
vizard from Alberts face, and then he spake aloud in this manner.
Gentlemen and others, seeing the wilde Boare commeth not to our
hunting, because I imagine that he cannot easily be found: I meane (to
the end you may not lose your labour in comming hither) to shew you
the great God of Love called Cupid, who Poets feigned long since to be
a little boy, but now growne to manly stature. You see in what maner
he hath left his high dwelling onely for the comfort of our Venetian
beauties: but belike, the night-fogs overflagging his wings, he fell
into our gulfe, and comes now to present his service to you. No sooner
had he taken off his vizard, but every one knew him to be Fryar
Albert; and sodainely arose such shoutes outcries, with most bitter
words breathed forth against him, hurling also stones, durt and
filth in his face, that his best acquaintance then could take no
knowledge of him, and not any one pittying his abusing. So long
continued the offended people in their fury, that the newes therof was
carried to the Convent, and six of his Religious Brethren came, who
casting an habite about him, and releasing him from his chaine, they
led him to the Monastery, not without much mollestation and trouble of
the people; where imprisoning him in their house, severity of some
inflicted punishment, or rather conceite for his open shame,
shortned his dayes, and so he dyed. Thus you see (fayre Ladies) when
licentious life must be clouded with a cloake of sanctifie, and
evill actions daylie committed, yet escaping uncredited: there will
come a time at length, for just discovering of all, that the good
may shine in their true luster of glory, and the bad sinke in their
owne deserved shame.
                    THE FOURTH DAY, THE THIRD NOVELL

     HEEREIN IS DECLARED, HOW DANGEROUS THE OCCASION IS, ENSUING BY
        ANGER AND DESPIGHT, IN SUCH AS ENTIRELY LOVE, ESPECIALLY
           BEING INJURIED AND OFFENDED BY THEM THAT THEY LOVE

  Three yong Gentlemen affecting three Sisters, fledde with them
into Candie. The eldest of them (through jealousie) becommeth the
death of her Lover; The second, by consenting to the Duke of Candies
request, is the meanes of saving her life. Afterward, her owne
Friend killeth her, and thence flyeth away with the elder Sister.
The third couple, are charged with her death, and being committed
prisoners, they confesse the fact; and fearing death, by corruption of
money they prevaile with their Keepers, escaping from thence to
Rhodes, where they dyed in great poverty.

  When the King perceyved that Madame Pampinea had ended her
discourse, he sat sadly a pretty while, without uttering one word, but
afterward spake thus. Little goodnesse appeared in the beginning of
this Novell, because it ministred occasion of mirth; yet the ending
proved better, and I could wish, that worse inflictions had falne on
the venerious Friar. Then turning towards Madam Lauretta, he said;
Lady, do you tell us a better tale, if possible it may be. She
smiling, thus answered the King: Sir, you are over-cruelly bent
against poore Lovers, in desiring, that their amourous processions
should have harsh and sinister concludings. Neverthelesse, in
obedience to your severe command, among three persons amourously
perplexed, I will relate an unhappy ending; whereas all may be saide
to speede as unfortunately, being equally alike, in enjoying the issue
of their desires, and thus I purpose to proceed.
  Every Vice (choice Ladies) as very well you know, redoundeth to
the great disgrace and prejudice of him, or her, by whom it is
practised, and oftentimes to others. Now, among those common
hurtfull enemies, the sinne or vice which most carrieth us with full
carrere, and draweth us into unadvoydable dangers (in mine opinion)
seemeth to be that of choller or anger, which is a sodain and
inconsiderate moving, provoked by some received injury, which having
excluded all respect of reason, and dimnd (with darke vapors) the
bright discerning sight of the understanding, enflameth the minde with
most violent fury. And albeit this inconvenience hapneth most to
men, and more to some few then others, yet notwithstanding, it hath
bene noted, that women have felt the selfesame infirmity, and in
more extreme manner, because it much sooner is kindled in them, and
burneth with the brighter flame, in regard they have the lesser
consideration, and therefore not to be wondred at. For if we wil
advisedly observe, we shall plainely perceive, that fire even of his
owne nature) taketh hold on such things as are light and tender,
much sooner then it can on hard and weighty substances; and some of us
women (let men take no offence at my words) are farre more soft and
delicate then they be, and therefore more fraile. In which regard,
seeing wee are naturally enclined hereto, and considering also, how
much our affability and gentlenesse do shew themselves pleasing and
full of content to those men with whom we are to live; and likewise,
how anger and fury are compacted of extraordinary perils: I purpose
(because we may be the more valiant in our courage, to outstand the
fierce assaults of wrath and rage) to shew you by mine ensuing Novell,
how the loves of three yong Gentlemen, and of as many Gentlewomen,
came to fatall and fortunat successe by the tempestuous anger of one
among them, as I have formerly related unto you.
  Marseilles (as you are not now to learne) is in Provence; seated
on the Sea, and is also a very ancient and most Noble Citty, which
hath bene (heeretofore) inhabited with farre richer and more wealthy
Merchants, then at this instant time it is. Among whom, there was
one named Narnaldo Civida, a man but of meane condition, yet cleare in
faith and reputation, and in lands, goods, and ready monies,
immeasurably rich. Many children he had by his Wife, among whom were
three Daughters, which exceeded his Sonnes in yeeres. Two of them
being twinnes, and borne of one body, were counted to be fifteene
yeeres old; the third was foureteene, and nothing hindered marriage in
their Parents owne expectation but the returne home of Narnaldo, who
was then abroad in Spaine with his Merchandizes. The eldest of these
Sisters was named Ninetta, the second Magdalena, and the third
Bertella. A Gentleman (albeit but poore in fortunes) and called
Restagnone, was so extraordinarily enamoured of Ninetta, as no man
possibly could be more, and she likewise as earnest in affection
towards him; yet both carrying their loves proceeding with such
secrecy, as long time they enjoyed their hearts sweet contentment, yet
undiscovered.
  It came to passe, that two other young Gallants, the one named
Folco, and the other Hugnetto, (who had attained to incredible wealth,
by the decease of their Father) were also as far in love, the one with
Magdalena, and the other with Bertella. When Restagnone had
intelligence thereof, by the meanes of his faire friend Ninetta, he
purposed to releeve his poverty, by friendly furthering both their
love, and his owne: and growing into familiarity with them, one
while he would walke abroad with Folco, and then againe with Hugnetto,
but oftner with them both together, to visite their Mistresses, and
continue worthy friendship. On a day, when hee saw the time suteable
to his intent, and that hee had invited the two Gentlemen home unto
his House, he fell into this like Conference with them.
  Kinde Friends (quoth he) the honest familiarity which hath past
betweene us, may render you some certaine assurance, of the constant
love I beare to you both, being as willing to worke any meanes that
may tend to your good, as I desire to compasse And because the truth
of mine affection cannot conceale it selfe to you, I meane to acquaint
you with an intention, wherewith my braine hath a long While travelled
and now may soone be delivered of, if it may passe with your liking
and approbation. Let me then tell you, that except your speeches
savour of untruth, and your actions carry a double understaning, in
common behaviour both by night and day, you appeare to and consume
away, in the cordiall love you beare to two of the Sisters, as I
suffer the same afflictions for the third, with reciprocall. requitall
of their deerest affection to us. Now, to qualifie the heate of our
tormenting flames, if you will condescend to such a course as I
shall advise you, the remedy will yeild them equall ease to ours,
and we may safely injoy the benefit of contentment. As wealth
aboundeth with you both, so doth want most extremely tyrannize over
me: but if one banke might be made of both your rich substances, I
embraced therein as a third partaker, and some quarter of the world
dissigned out by us, where to live at hearts ease upon your
possessions, I durst engage my credit, that all the sisters (not
meanely stored with their Fathers treasure) shall beare us company
to what place soever we please. There each man freely enjoying his
owne deerest love, may live like three brethren, without any
hinderance to our mutuall content: it remaineth now in you
Gentlemen, to accept this comfortable offer, or to refuse it.
  The two Brothers, whose pass exceeded their best means for
support, perceiving some hope how to enjoy their loves; desired no
long time of deliberation, or greatly disputed with their thoughts
what was best to be done: but readily replyed, that let happen any
danger whatsoever, they would joyne with him in this determination,
and he should partake with them in their wealthiest fortunes. After
Restagnone had heard their answer, within some few dayes following, he
went to confer with Ninetta, which was no easie matter for him to
compasse. Neverthelesse, opportunity proved so favourable to him, that
meeting with her at a private place appointed, he discoursed at large,
what had passed betweene him and the other two young Gentlemen,
maintaining the same with many good reasons, to have her like and
allow of the enterprize. Which although (for a while) he could very
hardly doe; yet, in regard shee had more desire then power, without
suspition to be daily in his company, she thus answered. My hearts
chosen friend, I cannot any way mislike your advice, and will take
such order with my Sisters, that they shal agree to our resolution.
Let it therefore be your charge, that you and the rest make every
thing ready, to depart from hence so soone, as with best convenient
meanes we may be enabled.
  Restagnone being returned to Folco and Hugnetto, who thought
everie houre a yeare, to heare what would succeede upon the promise
past between them; he told them in plain termes, that their Ladies
were as free in consent as they, and nothing wanted now, but
furnishment for their sodaine departing. Having concluded, that Candye
should bee their harbour for entertainment, they made sale of some few
inheritances which lay the readiest for the purpose, as also the goods
in their Houses; and then, under colour of venting Merchandizes
abroad, they bought a nimble Pinnace, fortified with good strength and
preparation, and wayted but for a convenient winde. On the other side,
Ninetta who was sufficiently acquainted with the forwardnesse of her
Sisters desires, and her owne, had so substantially prevailed with
them, that a good Voyage now was the sole expectation. Whereupon,
the same night when they should set away, they opened a stronk
barred Chest of their Fathers, whence they tooke great store of Gold
and costly jewels, wherewith escaping secretly out of the house;
they came to the place where their Lovers attended for them, and going
all aboord the Pinnace, the windes were so furtherous to them, that
without touching any where, the night following, they arrived at
Geneway.
 There being out of perill or pursuit, they all knit the knot of
holy wedlocke, and then freely enjoyed their long wished desires, from
whence setting saile againe, and being well furnished with all
things wanting passing on from Port to Port, at the end of eight
dayes, they landed in Candie, not meeting with any impeachment on
the way. Determining there to spend their daies, first they provided
themselves of goodly land in the Countrey, and then of beautifull
dwelling houses in the City, with al due furnishments belonging to
them, and Families well beseeming such worthy Gentlemen, and all
delights else for their dally recreations, inviting their. Neighbours,
and they them againe in loving manner; so that no lovers could wish to
live in more ample contentment.
  Passing on their time in this height of felicity, and not crossed by
any sinister accidents, it came to passe (as often wee may obserye
in the like occasions, that although delights doe most especially
please us, yet they breede surfet, when they swell too over-great in
abundance) that Restagnone, who most deerely affected his faire
Ninetta, and had her now in his free possession, without any perill of
loosing her: grew now also to bee weary of her, and consequently, to
faile in those familiar performances, which formerly had passed
betweene them. For, being one day invited to a Banket, hee saw there a
beautifull Gentlewoman of that Countrey, whose perfections pleasing
him beyond all comparison: he laboured (by painfull pursuite) to win
his purpose; and meeting with her in divers private places, grew
prodigall in his expences upon her. This could not be so closely
carried, but being seene and observed by Ninetta, she became possessed
with such extreame jealousie, that hee could not doe any thing
whatsoever, but immediately she had knowledge of it: which fire,
growing to a flame in her, her patience became extreamely provoked,
urging rough and rude speeches from her to him, and daily tormenting
him beyond power of sufferance.
  As the enjoying of any thing in too much plenty, makes it appeare
irkesome and loathing to us, and the deniall of our desires, do more
and more whet on the appetite: even so did the angry spleen of Ninetta
proceed on in violence, against this new commenced love of Restagnone.
For, in succession of time, whether he enjoyed the embracements of his
new Mistresse, or no: yet Ninetta (by sinister reports, but much
more through her owne jealous imaginations) held it for infallible,
and to bee most certaine. Heereupon, she fell into an extreame
melancholly, which melancholly begat implacable fury, and
(consequently) such contemptible disdaine, as converted her formerly
kindely love to Restagnone, into Most cruell and bloudie hatred;
yea, and so strangely was reason or respect confounded in her, as no
revenge else but speed death, might satisfie the wrongs shee
imagined to receive by Restagnone and his Minion.
  Upon enquiry, by what meanes shee might best compasse her bloody
intention, she grew acquainted with a Grecian woman, and wonderfully
expert in the compounding of poysons, whom shee so perswaded by
gifts and bounteous promises, that at the length shee prevayled with
her. A deadly water was distilled by her, which (without any other
counsell to the contrary) on a day when Restagnone had his blood
somewhat over-heated, and little dreamed on any such Treason conspired
against him by his Wife, shee caused him to drinke a great draught
thereof, under pretence, that it was a most soveraigne and cordiall
water; but such was the powerfull operation thereof, that the very
next morning, Restagnone was found to bee dead in his bed. When his
death was understoode by Folco, Hugnetto, and their Wives, and not
knowing how hee came to bee thus empoysoned (because their Sister
seemed to bemoane his sodaine death, with as apparant shewes of
mourning, as they could possibly expresse) they buried him very
honourably, and so all suspition ceased.
  But as Fortune is infinite in her fagaries, never acting disaster so
closely, but as cunningly discovereth it againe: so it came to
passe, that within a few dayes following, the Grecian Woman that had
delivered the poyson to Ninetta, for such another deede of
damnation, was apprehended even in the action. And being put upon he
tortures, among many other horrid villanies her committed, she
confessed the empoysoning of Restagnone, and every particle thereto
appertaining. Whereupon, the Duke of Candie, without any noyse or
publication, setting a strong guard (in the night time) about the
house of Folco, where Ninetta then was lodged; there sodainly they
seized on her, and upon examination, in maintenance of desperate
revenge, voluntarily confessed the fact, and what else concerned the
occasion of his death, by the wrongs which he had offered her.
  Folco and Hugnetto understanding secretly, both from the Duke, and
other intimate friends, what was the reason of Ninettaes apprehension,
which was not a little displeasing to them, labored by all their
best paines and endeavour, to worke such meanes with the Duke, that
her life might not perish by fire, although she had most justly
deserved it; but all theyr attempts proved to no effect, because the
Duke had concluded to execute justice.
  Heere you are to observe, that Magdalena (beeing a very beautifull
Woman, yong, and in the choisest flower of her time:) had often before
bene solicited by the Duke, to entertaine his love and kindnesse:
whereto by no meanes she would listen or give consent. And being now
most earnestly importuned by her for the safetie of her Sisters
life, hee tooke hold on this her dayly suite to him, and in private
told her, that if she was so desirous of Ninettaes life: it lay in her
power to obtain it, by granting him the fruition of her love. She
apparantly perceiving that Ninetta was not likely to live, but by
the prostitution of her chaste honour, which she preferred before
the losse of her owne life, or her sisters, concluded to let her dye,
rather then run into any such disgrace. But having an excellent
ingenious wit, quicke, and apprehensive in perillous occasions, she
intended now to make a triall of overreaching the lascivious Duke in
his wanton purpose, and yet to be assured of her sisters life, without
any blemish to her reputation.
  Soliciting him still as shee was wont to doe, this promise passed
from her to him, that when Ninetta was delivered out of prison, and in
safetie at home in her house: hee should resort thither in some queint
disguise, and enjoy his long expected desire; but untill then she
would not yeeld. So violent was the Duke in the prosecution of his
purpose, that under colour of altering the manner of Ninettaes
death, not suffering her to bee consumed by fire, but to be drowned,
according to a custome observed there long time, and at the
importunity of her Sister Magdalena, in the still silence of the
night, Ninetta was conveyed into a sacke, and sent in that manner to
the House of Folco, the Duke following soone after, to challenge her
promise.
  Magdalena, having acquainted her Husband with her vertuous
intention, for preserving her Sisters life, and disappointing the Duke
in his wicked desire; was as contrary to her true meaning in this
case, as Ninetta had formerly beene adverse to Restagnone, onely being
over-ruled likewise by jealousie, and perswaded in his rash opinion,
that the Duke had already dishonoured Magdalena, otherwise, he would
not have delivered Ninetta out of prison. Mad fury gave further fire
to this unmanly perswasion, and nothing will now quench this but the
life of poore Magdalena, suddenly sacrificed in the rescue of her
Sister, such a divell is anger, when the understandings bright eye
is thereby abused. No credit might bee given to her womanly
protestations, or any thing seeme to alter his bloody purpose; but,
having slaine Magdalena with his Poniard (notwithstanding her teares
and humble entreaties) he ranne in haste to Ninettaes Chamber, she not
dreaming on any such desperate accident, and to her he used these
dissembling speeches.
  Sister (quoth he) my wife hath advised, that I should speedily
convey you hence, as fearing the renewing of the Dukes fury, and
your falling againe into the hands of justice: I have a Barke
readily prepared for you, and your life being secured, it is all
that she and I doe most desire. Ninetta being fearefull, and no way
distrusting what he had saide; in thankfull allowance of her Sisters
care, and curteous tender of his so ready service; departed thence
presently with him, not taking any farewell of her other Sister and
her Husband. To the Seashore they came, very weakely provided of
monies to defray their charges, and getting aboard the Barke, directed
their course themselves knew not whether.
  The amorous Duke in his disguise, having long daunced attendance
at Folcoes doore, and no admittance of his entrance; angerly
returned backe to his Court, protesting severe revenge on Magdalena,
if she gave him not the better satisfaction, to cleare her from thus
basely abusing him. On the morrow morning, when Magdalena was found
murthered in her Chamber, and tidings thereof carried to the Duke;
present search was made for the bloody offendor, but Folco being
fled and gone with Ninetta; some there were, who bearing deadly hatred
to Hugnetto, incensed the Duke against him and his wife, as
supposing them to be guilty of Magdalenaes death. He being thereto
very easily perswaded, in regard of his immoderate love to the
slaine Gentlewoman; went himselfe in person (attended on by his Guard)
to Hugnettoes House, where both he and his wife were seized as
prisoners.
  These newes were very strange to them, and their imprisonment as
unwelcome; and although they were truly inocent, either in knowledge
of the horrid fact, or the departure of Folco with Ninetta: yet
being unable to endure the tortures extremity, they made themselves
culpable by confession, and that they had a hand with Folco in the
murder of Magdalena. Upon this their forced confession, and sentence
of death pronounced on them by the Duke himselfe; before the day
appointed for their publike execution, by great summes of money, which
they had closely hid in their House, to serve when any urgent
extremitie should happen to them; they corrupted their keepers, and
before any intelligence could be had of their flight, they escaped
by Sea to Rhodes, where they lived afterward in great distresse and
misery. The just vengeance of Heaven followed after Folco and Ninetta,
he for murthering his honest wife, and she for poysoning her offending
Husband: for being beaten a long while on the Seas, by tempestuous
stormes and weather, and not admitted landing in any Port or creeke;
they were driven backe on the Coast of Candie againe, where being
apprehended, and brought to the City before the Duke, they confessed
their several notorious offences, and ended their loathed lives in one
fire together.
  Thus the idle and loose love of Restagnone, with the franticke
rage and jealousie of Ninetta and Folco, overturned all their long
continued happinesse, and threw a disastrous ending on them all.
                  THE FOURTH DAY, THE FOURTH NOVELL

      IN COMMENDATION OF JUSTICE BETWEENE PRINCES; AND DECLARING
       WITHALL, THAT NEITHER FEARE, DANGERS, NOR DEATH IT SELFE,
                CAN ANY WAY DAUNT A TRUE AND LOYALL LOVER

  Gerbino, contrary to the former plighted faith of his
Grand-father, King Gulielmo, fought with a Ship at Sea, belonging to
the King of Thunis, to take away his Daughter, who was then in the
same Ship. Shee being slaine by them that had the possession of her,
he likewise slew them; and afterward had his owne head smitten off.

  Madam Lauretta having concluded her Novel, and the company
complaining on Lovers misfortunes, some blaming the angry and
jealous fury of Ninetta, and every one delivering their severall
opinions; the King, as awaking out of a passionate perplexity, exalted
his lookes, giving a signe to Madame Elisa, that shee should follow
next in order, whereto she obeying, began in this manner. I have heard
(Gracious Ladies, quoth she) of many people, who are verily perswaded,
that loves arrowes, never wound any body, but onely by the eyes lookes
and gazes, mocking and scorning such as maintaine that men may fall in
love by hearing onely. Wherein (beleeve me) they are greatly deceived,
as will appeare by a Novell which I must now relate unto you, and
wherein you shall plainely perceive, that not onely fame or report
is as prevailing as sight; but also hath conducted divers, to a
wretched and miserable ending of their lives.
  Gulielmo the second, King of Sicilie, according as the Sicilian
Chronicles record, had two children, the one a sonne, named Don
Rogero, and the other a daughter, called Madame Constance. The saide
Rogero died before his Father, leaving a sonne behind him, named
Gerbino, who, with much care and cost, was brought up by his
Grand-father, proving to be a very goodly Prince, and wonderously
esteemed for his great valour and humanity. His fame could not
containe it selfe, within the bounds or limits of Sicilie onely, but
being published very prodigally, in many parts of the world beside,
flourished with no meane commendations throughout all Barbarie,
which in those dayes was tributary to the King of Sicilie. Among other
persons, deserving most to be respected, the renowned vertues, and
affability of this gallant Prince Gerbino, was understood by the
beautious Daughter to the King of Tunis, who by such as bad seene her,
was reputed to be one of the rarest creatures, the best conditioned,
and of the truest noble spirit, that ever Nature framed in her very
choicest pride of Art.
  Of famous, vertuous, and worthy men, it was continually her cheefest
delight to heare, and the admired actions of valiant Gerbino, reported
to her by many singular discoursers: such as could best describe
him, with language answerable to his due deservings, won such
honourable entertainment in her understanding soule, that they were
most affectionately pleasing to her, and in recapitulating (over and
over againe) his manifold and heroycall perfections; meere speech made
her extreamely amorous of him, nor willingly would she lend an eare to
any other discourse, but that which tended to his honour and
advancement.
  On the other side, the fame of her incomparable beauty, with
addition of her other infinite singularities beside; as the World
had given eare to innumberlesse places, so Sicilie came at length
acquainted therewith, in such flowing manner, as was truly
answerable to her merit. Nor seemed this as a bare babling rumour,
in the Princely hearing of royall Gerbino; but was embraced with
such a reall apprehension, and the entire probation of a true
understanding: that he was no lesse enflamed with noble affection
towards her, then she expressed the like in vertuous opinion of him.
Wherefore, awaiting such convenient opportunity, when he might entreat
license of his Grand-father, for his owne going to Thunis, under
colour of some honourable occasion, for the earnest desire he had to
see her: he gave charge to some of his especiall friends (whose
affaires required their presence in those parts) to let the
Princesse understand, in such secret manner as best they could devise,
what noble affection he bare unto her, devoting himselfe onely to
her service.
  One of his chosen friends thus put in trust, being a jeweller, a man
of singular discretion, and often resorting to Ladies for sight of his
jewels, winning like admittance to the Princesse: related at large
unto her, the honourable affection of Gerbino, with full tender of his
person to her service, and that she onely was to dispose of him.
Both the message and the messenger, were most graciously welcome to
her, and flaming in the selfe-same affection towards him: as a
testimony thereof, one of the very choisest Jewels which she bought of
him, she sent by him to the Prince Gerbino, it being received by him
with such joy and contentment, as nothing in the world could be more
pleasing to him. So that afterward, by the trusty carriage of this
Jeweller, many Letters and Love-tokens passed betweene them, each
being as highly pleased with this poore, yet happy kind of
entercourse, as if they had seene and conversed with one another.
  Matters proceeding on in this manner, and continuing longer then
their love-sick passions easily could permit, yet neither being able
to finde out any other meanes of helpe; it fortuned that the King of
Thunis promised his daughter in marriage to the King of Granada,
whereat she grew exceedingly sorrowfull, perceiving, that not onely
she should be sent further off, by a large distance of way from her
friend, but also be deprived utterly, of all hope ever to enjoy him.
And if she could have devised any meanes, either by secret flight from
her Father, or any way else to further her intention, she would have
adventured it for the Princes sake. Gerbino in like maner bearing of
this purposed marriage, lived in a hell of torments, consulting
oftentimes with his soule, how he might be possessed of her by
power, when she should be sent by Sea to her husband, or private
stealing her away from her Fathers Court before: with these and
infinite other thoughts, was he incessantly afflicted, both day and
night.
  By some unhappy accident or other, the King of Thunis heard of
this their secret love, as also of Gerbinoes purposed policy to
surprize her, and how likely he was to effect it, in regard of his
manly valour, and store of stout friends to assist him. Hereupon, when
the time was come, that he would convey his daughter thence to her
marriage, and fearing to be prevented by Gerbino: he sent to the
King of Sicilie, to let him understand his determination, craving safe
conduct from him, without impeachment of Gerbino, or any one else,
untill such time as his intent was accomplished. King Gulielmo being
aged, and never acquainted with the affectiotiate proceedings of
Gerbino, nor any doubtfull reason to urge this security from him, in a
case convenient to be granted: yeelded the sooner thereto right
willingly, and as a signall of his honourable meaning, he sent him his
royall Glove, with a full confirmation for his safe conduct.
  No sooner were these Princely assurances received, but a goodly ship
was prepared in the Port of Carthagena, well furnished with all
thinges thereto belonging, for the sending his daughter to the King of
Granada, waiting for nothing else but best favouring windes. The young
Princesse, who understood and saw all this great preparation; secretly
sent a servant of hers to Palermo, giving him especiall charge, on her
behalfe, to salute the Prince Gerbino, and to tell him that (within
few dayes) she must be transported to Granada. And now opportunity
gave faire and free meanes, to let the world know, whether he were a
man of that magnanimous spirit, or no, as generall opinion had
formerly conceived of him, and whether he affected her so firmely,
as by many close messages he had assured her. He who had the charge of
this embassie, effectually performed it, and then returned backe to
Thunis.
  The Prince Gerbino, having heard this message from his divine
Mistresse, and knowing also, that the Kin his Grandfather, had past
his safe conduct to the King of Thunis, for peaceable passage
through his Seas: was at his wits end, in this urgent necessity,
what might best bee done. Notwithstanding, moved by the setled
constancy of his plighted Love, and the speeches delivered to him by
the messenger from the Princesse: to shew himselfe a man endued with
courage, he departed thence unto Messina, where he made ready two
speedy gallies, and fitting them with men of valiant disposition,
set away to Sardignia, as making full account, that the Ship which
carried the Princesse, must come along that Coast. Nor was his
expectation therein deceived: for, within few dayes after, the Ship
(not over-swiftly winded) come sailing neere to the place where they
attended for her arrivall; whereof Gerbino had no sooner gotten a
sight, but to animate the resolutes which were in his company, thus he
spake.
  Gentlemen, if you be those men of valour, as heretofore you have
bene reputed, I am perswaded, that there are some among you, who
either formerly have, or now instantly do feele, the all-commanding
power of Love, without which (as I thinke) there is not any mortall
man, that can have any goodnesse- or vertue dwelling in him.
Wherefore, if ever you have bene amorously affected, or presently have
any apprehension thereof, you shall the more easily Judge of what I
now aime at. True it is, that I do love, and love hath guided me to be
comforted, and manfully assisted by you, because in yonder Ship, which
you see commeth on so gently under saile (even as if she offered her
selfe to be our prize) not onely is the Jewell which I most esteeme,
but also mighty and unvalewable treasure, to be wonne without any
difficult labour, or hazard of a dangerous fight, you being men of
such undauntable courage. In the honour of which victory, I covet
not any part or parcell, but onely a Ladie, for whose sake I have
undertaken these Armes, and freely give you all the rest contained
in the Ship. Let us set on them, Gentlemen, and my deerest friends;
couragiously let us assaile the ship, you see how the wind favours us,
and (questionlesse) in so good an action, Fortune will not faile us.
  Gerbino needed not to have spoken so much, in perswading them to
seize so rich a booty, because the men of Messina were naturally
addicted to spoile and rapine: and before the Prince began his
Oration, they had concluded to make the ship their purchase.
Wherefore, giving a lowde shout, according to their Country manner,
and commanding their Trumpets to sound chearfully, they rowed on a
maine with their Oares, and (in meere despight) set upon the ship. But
before the Gallies could come neere her, they that had the charge
and managing of her, perceyving with what speede they made towards
them, and no likely meanes of escaping from them, resolvedly they
stood upon their best defence, for now it was no time to be slothfull.
The Prince being come neere to the Ship, commanded that the Patrones
should come to him, except they would adventure the fight. When the
Sarazines were thereof advertised, and understood also what he
demanded, they returned answer: That their motion and proceeding in
this manner, was both against Law and plighted faith, which was
promised by the King of Sicilie, for their safe passage through the
Sea by no meanes to be mollested or assailed. In testimony whereof,
they shewed his Glove, avouching moreover, that neither by force (or
otherwise) they would yeelde, or deliver him any thing which they
had aboorde their Ship.
  Gerbino espying his gracious Mistresse on the Ships decke, and she
appearing to be farre more beautifull then Fame had made relation of
her: being much more enflamed now, then formerly he had bin, replyed
thus when they shewed the Glove. We have (quoth he) no Faulcon here
now, to be humbled at the sight of your Glove: and therefore, if you
will not deliver the Lady, prepare your selves for fight, for we
must have her whether you will or no. Hereupon, they began to let flie
(on both sides) their Darts and arrowes, with stones sent in violent
sort from their slings, thus continuing the fight a long while, to
very great harme on either side. At the length, Gerbino perceiving,
that small benefit would redound to him, if he did not undertake
some other kinde of course: he tooke a small Pinnace, which
purposely he brought with him from Sardignia, and setting it on a
flaming fire, conveyed it (by the Gallies help) close to the ship. The
Sarazines much amazed thereat, and evidently perceiving, that either
they must yeeld or dye; brought their Kings daughter to the prow of
the ship, most greevously weeping and wringing her hands. Then calling
Gerbino, to let him behold their resolution, there they slew hir
before his face, and afterward, throwing her body into the Sea, saide:
Take her, there we give her to thee, according to our bounden duty,
and as thy perjury hath justly deserved.
  This sight was not a little greevous to the Prince Gerbino, who
madded now with this their monstrous cruelty, and not caring what
became of his owne life, having lost her for whom he onely desired
to live: not dreading their Darts, Arrowes, slinged stones, or what
violence els they could use against him; he leapt aboord their ship,
in despight of all that durst resist him, behaving himselfe there like
a hunger-starved Lyon, when he enters among a heard of beasts, tearing
their carkasses in pieces both with his teeth and pawes. Such was
the extreme fury of this poore Prince, not sparing the life of any
one, that durst appeare in his presence; so that what with the
bloody slaughter, and violence of the fires encreasing in the Ship;
the Mariners got such wealth as possibly they could save, and
suffering the Sea to swallow the rest, Gerbino returned unto his
Gallies againe, nothing proud of this so ill-gotten victory.
  Afterward, having recovered the Princesse dead body out of the
Sea, and enbalmed it with sighes and teares: he returned backe into
Sicilie, where he caused it to be most honourably buried, in a
little Island, named Ustica, face to face confronting Trapanum. The
King of Thunis hearing these disastrous Newes, sent his Ambassadors
(habited in sad mourning) to the aged King of Sicilie, complaining
of his faith broken with him, and how the accident had falne out.
Age being sodainly incited to anger, and the King extreamly offended
at this injury, seeing no way whereby to deny him justice, it being
urged so instantly by the Ambassadors: caused Gerbino to be
apprehended, and he himselfe (in regard that none of his Lords and
Barons would therein assist him, but laboured to divert him by their
earnest importunity) pronounced the sentence of death on the Prince,
and commanded to have him beheaded in his presence; affecting
rather, to dye without an heire, then to be thought a King voyde of
justice. So these two unfortunate Lovers, never enjoyed the very least
benefite of their long wished desires: ended both their lives in
violent manner.
                   THE FOURTH DAY, THE FIFT NOVELL

      WHEREIN IS PLAINLY PROVED, THAT LOVE CANNOT BE ROOTED UPPE,
         BY ANY HUMANE POWER OR PROVIDENCE; ASPECIALLY IN SUCH
              SOULE, WHERE IT HATH BENE REALLY APPREHENDED

  The three Brethren to Isabella, slew a Gentleman that secretly loved
her. His ghost appeared to her in her sleepe, and shewed her in what
place they had buried his body. She (in silent manner) brought away
his head, aid putting it into a pot of earth, such as Flowers, Basile,
or other sweete hearbes are usually set in; she watered it (a long
while) with her teares. Wherefore her Brethren having intelligence;
soone after she dyed, with meere conceite of sorrow.

  The Novell of Madame Eliza being finished, and some-what commended
by the King, in regard of the Tragicall conclusion; Philomena was
enjoyned to proceede next with her discourse. She being overcome
with much compassion, for the hard Fortunes of Noble Gerbino, and
his beautifull Princesse, after an extreame and vehement sighe, thus
she spake. My Tale (worthy Ladies) extendeth not to persons of so high
birth or quality, as they were of whom Madame Eliza gave you relation:
yet (peradventure) it may prove to be no lesse pittifull. And now I
remember my selfe, Messina so lately spoken of, is the place where
this accident also happened.
  In Messina there dwelt three young men, Brethren, and Merchants by
their common profession, who becomming very rich by the death of their
Father, lived in very good fame and repute. Their Father was of San
Gemignano, and they had a Sister named Isabella, young, beautifull,
and well conditioned; who upon some occasion, as yet remained
unmarried. A proper youth, being a Gentleman borne in Pisa, and
named Lorenzo, as a trusty factor or servant, had the managing of
the brethrens businesse and affaires. This Lorenzo being of comely
personage, affable, and excellent in his behaviour, grew so gracious
in the eyes of Isabella, that she affoorded him many very respective
lookes, yea, kindnesses of no common quality. Which Lorenzo taking
notice of, and observing by degrees from time to time, gave over all
other beauties in the City, which might allure any affection from him,
and onely fixed his heart on her, so that their love grew to a mutuall
embracing, both equally respecting one another, and entertaining
kindnesses, as occasion gave leave.
  Long time continued this amorous league: of love, yet not so
cunningly concealed, but at the length, the secret meeting of Lorenzo,
and Isabella, to ease their poore soul of Loves oppressions, was
discovered by the eldest of the Brethren, unknowne to them who were
thus betrayed. He being a man of great discretion, although this sight
was highly displeasing to him: yet notwithstanding, he kept it to
himselfe till the next morning, labouring his braine what might best
be done in so urgent a case. When day was come, he resorted to his
other Brethren, and told them what he had seene in the time past,
betweene their sister and Lorenzo.
  Many deliberations passed on in this case; but after all, thus
they concluded together, to let it proceede on with patient that no
scandall might ensue to them, or their Sister, no evill acte being (as
yet) committed. And seeming, as if they knew not of their love, had
a wary eye still upon her secret walkes, awaiting for some
convenient time, when without their owne prejudice, or Isabellaes
knowledge, they might safely breake off this their stolne love,
which was altogether against their liking. So, shewing no worse
countenance to Lorenzo, then formerly they had done, but imploying and
conversing with him in kinde manner; it fortuned, that riding (all
three) to recreate themselves out of the City, they tooke Lorenzo in
their company, and when they were come to a solitarie place, such as
best suited with their vile purpose: they ran sodainly upon Lorenzo,
slew him, and afterward enterred his body, where hardly it could be
discovered by any one. Then they returned backe to Messina, and gave
it forth (as a credible report) that they had sent him abroad about
their affaires, as formerly they were wont to do: which every one
verily beleeved, because they knew no reason why they should
conceite any otherwise.
  Isabella, living in expectation of his returne, and perceiving his
stay to her was so offensive long: made many demands to her
Brethren, into what parts they had sent him, that his tarrying was
so quite from all wonted course. Such was her importunate speeches
to them, that they taking it very discontentedly, one of them returned
her this frowning answer. What is your meaning Sister, by so many
questionings after Lorenzo? What urgent affaires have you with him,
that makes you so impatient upon his absence? If hereafter you make
any more demands for him, we shall shape you such a reply, as will
be but little to your liking. At these harsh words, Isabella fell into
abundance of teares, where-among she mingled many sighes and
groanes, such as were able to overthrow a farre stronger constitution:
so that, being full of feare and dismay, yet no way distrusting her
brethrens cruell deede; she durst not question any more after him.
  In the silence of darke night, as she lay afflicted in her bed,
oftentimes would she call for Lorenzo, entreating his speedy returning
to her: And then againe, as if he had bene present with her, she
checkt and reproved him for his so long absence. One night amongst the
rest, she being growen almost hopelesse, of ever seeing him againe,
having a long while wept and greevously lamented; her senses and
faculties utterly spent and tired, that she could not utter any more
complaints, she fell into a trance or sleepe; and dreamed, that the
ghost of Lorenzo appeared unto her, in torne and unbefitting garments,
his lookes pale, meager, and staring: and (as she thought) thus
spake to her. My deere love Isabella, thou dost nothing but torment
thy selfe, with calling on me, accusing me for overlong tarrying
from thee: I am come therefore to let thee know, that thou canst not
enjoy my company any more, because the very same day when last thou
sawest me, thy brethren most bloodily murthered me. And acquainting
her with the place where they had buried his mangled body: hee
strictly charged her, not to call him at any time afterward, and so
vanished away.
  The young Damosell awaking, and giving some credite to her Vision,
sighed and wept exceedingly; and after she was risen in the morning,
not daring to say any thing to her brethren, she resolutely
determined, to go see the place formerly appointed her, onely to
make triall, if that which she seemed to see in her sleepe, should
carry any likelyhood of truth. Having obtained favour of her brethren,
to ride a dayes journey ney the City, in company of her trusty
Nurse, who long time had attended on her in the house, and knew the
secret passages of her love: they rode directly to the designed place,
which being covered with some store of dried leaves, and more deeply
sunke then any other part of the ground therabout, they digged not
farre, but they found the body of murthered Lorenzo, as yet very
little corrupted or impaired, and then perceived the truth of her
vision.
  Wisedome and government so much prevailed with her, as to instruct
her soule, that her teares spent there, were meerley fruitelesse and
in vaine, neither did the time require any long tarrying there. Gladly
would she have carried the whole body with her, secretly to bestow
honourable enterment on it, but it exceeded the compasse of her
ability. Wherefore, in regard she could not have all, yet she would
be. possessed of a part, and having brought a keene razor with her, by
helpe of the Nurse, she divided the head from the body, and wrapped it
up in a Napkin, which the Nurse conveyed into her lap, and then
laide the body in the ground againe. Thus being undiscovered by any,
they departed thence, and arrived at home in convenient time, where
being alone by themselves in the Chamber: she washed the head over and
over with her teares, and bestowed infinite kisses thereon.
  Not long after, the Nurse having brought her a large earthen pot,
such as we use to set Basile, Marjerom, Flowers, or other sweet
hearbes in, and shrouding the head in a silken Scarfe, put it into the
pot, covering it with earth, and planting divers rootes of excellent
Basile therein, which she never watered, but either with her teares,
Rose water, or water distilled from the Flowers of Oranges. This pot
she used continually to sitte by, either in her chamber, or any
where else: for she carried it alwaies with her, sighing and breathing
foorth sad complaints thereto, even as if they had beene uttered to
her Lorenzo, and day by day this was her continuall exercise, to the
no meane admiration of her bretheren, and many other friends that
beheld her.
  So long she held on in this mourning manner, that, what by the
continuall watering of the Basile, and putrifaction of the head, so
buried in the pot of earth; it grew very flourishing, and most
odorifferous to such as scented it, that as no other Basile could
possibly yeeld so sweete a savour. The neighbours noting this
behaviour in her, observing the long continuance thereof, how much her
bright beauty was defaced, and the eyes sunke into her head by
incessant weeping, made many kinde and friendly motions, to understand
the reason of her so violent oppressions; but could not by any
meanes prevaile with her, or win any discovery by her Nurse, so
faithfull was she in secrecie to her. Her brethren also waxed wearie
of this carriage in her; and having very often reproved her for it,
without any other alteration in her: at length, they closely stole
away the potte of Basile from her, for which she made infinite
wofull lamentations, earnestly entreating to have it restored
againe, avouching that she could not live without it.
  Perceiving that she could not have the pot againe, she fell into
an extreame sicknesse, occasioned onely by her ceaselesse weeping: and
never urged she to have any thing, but the restoring of her Basile
pot. Her brethren grew greatly amazed thereat, because she never
called
for ought else beside; and thereupon were very desirous to ransacke
the pot to the very bottome. Having emptied out all the earth, they
found the Scarfe of silke, wherein the head of Lorenzo was wrapped;
which was (as yet) not so much consumed, but by the lockes of haire,
they knew it to be Lorenzoes head, whereat they became confounded with
amazement.
  Fearing least their offence might come to open publication, they
buried it very secretly; and, before any could take notice thereof,
they departed from Messina, and went to dwell in Naples, Isabella
crying and calling still for her pot of Basile, being unable to give
over mourning, dyed within a few dayes after. Thus have you heard
the hard fate of poore Lorenzo and his Isabella. Within no long
while after, when this accident came to be publikely knowne, an
excellent ditty was composed thereof beginning thus.

    Cruell and unkinde was the Christian,
    That robd me of my Basiles blisse, etc.
                    THE FOURTH DAY, THE SIXTH NOVELL

        DESCRIBING THE ADMIRABLE ACCIDENTS OF FORTUNE; AND THE
             MIGHTY PREVAILING, POWER OF LOVE POWER OF LOVE

  A beautifull young Virgine, named Andreana, became enamoured of a
young Gentleman called Gabriello. In conference together, she declared
a dreame of hers to him, and he another of his to her; whereupon
Gabriello fell downe sodainly dead in her armes. She, and her
Chamber-maide were apprehended, by the Officers belonging to the
Seigneury, as they were carrying Gabriello, to lay him before his owne
doore. The Potestate offering violence to the Virgin, and she
resisting him vertuously: it came to the understanding of her
Father, who approved the innocence of his daughter, and compassed
her deliverance. But she afterward, being weary of all worldly
felicities, entred into Religion, and became a Nun.

  The Novell which Madam Philomena had so graciously related, was
highly pleasing unto the other Ladies; because they had oftentimes
heard the Song, without knowing who made it or upon what occasion it
was composed. But when the King saw that the Tale was ended: he
commanded Pamphilus, that he should follow in his due course:
whereupon he spake thus.
  The dreame already recounted in the last Novell, doth minister
matter to me, to make report of another Tale, wherein mention is
made of two severall dreames; which divined as well what was to ensue,
as the other did what had hapned before. And no sooner were they
finished in the relation, by both the parties which had formerly
dreampt them, but the effects of both as soddainly followed.
  Worthy Ladies, I am sure it is not unknowne to you, that it is,
and hath bene a generall passion, to all men and women living, to
see divers and sundry things while they are sleeping. And although (to
the sleeper) they seeme most certaine, so that when he awaketh, he
judgeth the trueth of some, the likelyhood of others, and some
beyond all possibility of truth: yet notwithstanding, many dreames
have bene observed to happen; and very strangely have come to passe.
And this hath bene a grounded reason for some men, to give as great
credit to such things as they see sleeping, as they do to others
usually waking. So that, according unto their dreames, and as they
make construction of them, that are sadly distasted, or merrily
pleased, even as (by them) they either feare or hope. On the contrary,
there are some, who will not credit any dreame whatsoever, untill they
be falne into the very same danger which formerly they saw, and most
evidently in their sleepe.
  I meane not to commend either the one or other, because they do
not alwayes fall out to be true; neither are they at all times
lyars. Now, that they prove not all to be true, we can best testifie
to our selves. And that they are not alwayes lyars, hath already
sufficiently bene manifested, by the Discourse of Madame Philomena,
and as you shall perceive by mine owne, which next commeth in order to
salute you. Wherefore, I am of this opinion, that in matters of good
life, and performing honest actions; no dreame is to be feared
presaging the contrary, neither are good works any way to be hindred
by them. Likewise, in matters of bad and wicked quality, although
our dreames may appeare favourable to us, and our visions flatter us
with prosperous successe: yet let us give no credence unto the best,
nor addict our minds to them of contrary Nature. And now we wil.
proceed to our Novell.
  In the Citie of Brescia, there lived somtime a Gentleman, named
Messer Negro da Ponte Cararo, who (among many other children) had a
daughter called Andreana, yong, and beautifull, but as yet
unmarried. It fortuned, that shee fell in love with a Neighbour, named
Gabriello; a comely young Gentleman, of affable complexion, and
graciously conditioned. Which love was (with like kindenesse)
welcommed and entertained by him; and by the furtherance of her
Chamber-maide, it was so cunningly carried, that in the Garden
belonging to Andreanaes Father, she had many meetings with her
Gabriello. And solemne vowes being mutually passed betweene them, that
nothing but death could alter their affection: by such ceremonious
words as are used in marriage, they maried themselves secretly
together, and continued their stolne chaste pleasures with equall
contentment to them both.
  It came to passe, that Andreana sleeping in her bed, dreamed, that
shee met with Gabriello in the Garden, where they both embracing
lovingly together, she seemed to see a thing blacke and terrible,
which sodainely issued forth of his body, but the shape therof she
could not comprehend. It rudely seized upon Gabriello, and in despight
of her utmost strength, with incredible force snatched him out of
her armes, and sinking with him into the earth, they never after did
see one another. Whereupon, overcome with extremity of greefe and
sorrow, presently she awaked, being then not a little joyfull, that
she found no such matter as she feared, yet continued very doubtfull
of her dreame. In regard whereof, Gabriello being desirous to visite
her the night following: she laboured very diligently to hinder his
comming to her; yet knowing his loyall affection toward her, and
fearing least he should grow suspitious of some other matter, she
welcommed him into the Garden, where gathering both white and
Damaske Roses (according to the nature of the season) at length,
they sate downe by a very goodly Fountaine, which stoode in the
middest of the Garden.
  After some small familiar Discourse passing betweene them, Gabriello
demanded of her, upon what occasion shee denyed his comming thither
the night before, and by such a sodaine unexpected admonition?
Andreana told him, that it was in regard of a horrid Dreame, wherewith
her soule was perplexed the precedent night, and doubt what might
ensue thereon. Gabriello hearing this, began to smile, affirming to
her, that it was an especial note of folly, to give any credit to idle
dreames: because (oftentimes) they are caused by excesse of feeding,
and continually are observed to be meere lyes. For (quoth he) if I had
any superstitious beleefe of Dreames, I should not then have come
hither now: yet not so much as being dismayed by your dreame, but
for another of mine owne, which I am the more willing to acquaint
you withall.
  Me thought, I was in a goodly delightfull Forrest, in the Noble
exercise of sportfull hunting, and became there possessed of a young
Hinde, the verie loveliest and most pleasing beast that was ever
seene. It seemed to be as white as snow, and grew (in a short while)
so familiar with me, that by no meanes it would forsake mee. I could
not but accept this rare kindnes in the beast, and fearing least I
should loose it, I put a collar of Gold about the necke thereof, and
fastned it into a chaine of Gold also, which then I held strongly in
my hand. The blind afterward couched downe by me, laying his head
mildely in my lap; and on the sodaine, a black Grey-hound bitch came
rushing; on us (but whence, or how, I could not imagine) seeming halfe
hunger-starved, and very ugly to looke upon. At me she made her full
carreere, without any power in me of resistance, and putting her mouth
into the left side of my bosom, griped it so mainly with her teeth,
that (me thought) I felt my heart quite bitten through, and she tugged
on still, to take it wholly away from me; by which imagined paine
and anguish I felt, instantly I awaked. Laying then my hand upon my
side, to know whether any such harme had befalne me, or no, and
finding none, I smiled at mine owne folly, in making such a
frivolous and idle search. What can be said then in these or the
like cases?
  Divers times I have had as ill seeming dreames, yea, and much more
to be feared, yet never any thing hurtfull to me, followed thereon;
and therefore I have alwayes made the lesse account of them.
  The young Maiden, who was still dismayed by her owne Dreame,
became much more afflicted in her minde, when shee had heard this
other reported by Gabriello: but yet to give him no occasion of
distast, she bare it out in the best manner she could devise to doe.
And albeit they spent the time in much pleasing discourse,
maintained with infinite sweete kisses on either side: yet was she
still suspitious, but knew not whereof; fixing her eyes oftentimes
upon his face, and throwing strange lookes to all parts of the Garden,
to catch hold on any such blacke ugly sight, whereof he had formerly
made description to her. As thus she continued in these afflicting
feares, it fortuned, that Gabriello sodainly breathing forth a very
vehement sighe, and throwing his armes fast about her, said: O helpe
me dear Love, or else I dye; and, in speaking the words, fell downe
upon the ground. Which the yong Damosel perceiving, and drawing him
into her lappe, weeping saide: Alas sweete Friend, What paine doest
thou feele?
  Gabriello answered not one word, but being in an exceeding sweate,
without any ability of drawing breath, very soon after gave up the
ghost. How greevous this strange accident was to poore Andreana, who
loved him as deerely as her owne life: you that have felt loves
tormenting afflictions, can more easily conceive, then I relate.
Wringing her hands, and weeping incessantly, calling him, rubbing
his temples, and using all likely meanes to reduce life: she found all
her labour to be spent in vaine, because he was starke dead indeed,
and every part of his body as cold as ice: whereupon, she was in
such wofull extremity, that she knew not what to do, or say. All about
the Garden she went weeping, in infinite feares and distraction in
soule, calling for her Chamber maid, the only secret friend to their
stolne meetings, and told her the occasion of this sodaine sorrow.
After they had sighed and mourned awhile, over the dead body of
Gabriello, Andreana in this manner spake to her maide.
  Seeing Fortune hath thus bereft me of my Love, mine owne life must
needs be hatefull to me: but before I offer any violence to my
selfe, let us devise some convenient meanes, as may both preserve mine
honour from any touch or scandall, and conceale the secret love
passing betweene us: but yet in such honest sort, that this body
(whose blessed soule hath too soone forsaken it) may be honourably
enterred. Whereto her Mayde thus answered: Mistresse, never talke of
doing any violence to your selfe, because by such a blacke and dismall
deed, as you have lost his kind company here in this life, so shall
you never more see him in the other world: for immediately you sinke
downe to hell, which foule place cannot be a receptacle for his
faire soule, that was endued with so many singular vertues. Wherefore,
I hold it farre better for you, to comfort your selfe by all good
meanes, and with the power of fervent praier, to fight against all
desperate intruding passions, as a truly vertuous minde ought to
doe. Now, as concerning his enterrement, the meanes is readily
prepared for you here in this Garden, where never he hath bene seene
by any, or his resorting hither knowne, but onely to our selves. If
you will not consent to have it so, let you and I convey his body
hence, and leave it in such an apt place, where it may be found to
morrow morning: and being then carried to his owne house, his
friends and kindred will give it honest buriall.
  Andreana, although her soule was extraordinarily sorrowfull, and
teares flowed abundantly from her eyes; yet she listned attentively to
hir maids counsell; allowing her first advice against desperation,
to be truly good; but to the rest thus she replyed. God forbid
(quoth she) that I should suffer so deere a loving friend, as he
hath alwayes shewed himselfe to me; nay, which is much more, my
husband; by sacred and solemne vowes passed betweene us, to be put
into the ground basely, and like a dog, or else to be left in the open
street. He hath had the sacrifice of my virgin teares, and if I can
prevaile, he shall have some of his kindreds, as I have instantly
devised, what (in this hard case) is best to be done. Forthwith she
sent the maid to her Chamber, for divers elles of white Damaske
lying in her Chest, which when she had brought, they spread it
abroad on the grasse, even in the manner of a winding sheete, and
therein wrapped the body of Gabriello, with a faire wrought pillow
under his head, having first (with their teares) closed his mouth
and eyes, and placed a Chaplet of Flowers on his head, covering the
whole shrowd over in the same manner; which being done, thus she spake
to her Maid.
  The doore of his owne house is not farre hence, and thither
(betweene us two) he may be easily caried, even in this maner as we
have adorned him; where leaving him in his owne Porch, we may
returne back before it be day: and although it will be a sad sight
to his friends, yet because he dyed in mine armes, and we being so
well discharged of the body, it will be a little comfort to me. When
she had ended these words, which were not uttered without infinite
teares, the maid entreated her to make hast, because the night swiftly
passed on. At last, she remembred the Ring on her finger, wherewith
Gabriello had solemnly espoused her, and opening the shroud againe,
she put it on his finger, saying; My deere and loving husband, if
thy soule can see my teares, or any understanding do remaine in thy
body, being thus untimely taken from me: receive the latest guift thou
gavest me, as a pledge of our solemne and spotlesse marriage. So,
making up the shroud againe as it should be, and conveighing it
closely out of the Garden, they went on along with it, towardes his
dwelling house.
  As thus they passed along, it fortuned, that they were met and taken
by the Guard or Watch belonging to the Potestate, who had bin so
late abroad, about very earnest and important businesse. Andreana,
desiring more the dead mans company, then theirs whom she had thus met
withall, boldly spake thus to them. I know who and what you are, and
can tell my selfe, that to offer flight will nothing availe me:
wherfore, I am ready to go along with you before the Seigneury, and
there will tell the truth concerning this accident. But let not any
man among you, be so bold as to lay hand on me, or to touch me,
because I yeeld so obediently to you; neyther to take any thing from
this body, except hee intend that I shall accuse him. In which
respect, not any one daring to displease her, shee went with the
dead bodle to the Seigneurie, there to answere all Objections.
  When notice heereof was given to the Potestate, he arose; and shee
being brought foorth into the Hall before him, he questioned with her,
how and by what meanes this accident happened. Beside, he sent for
divers Physitians, to be informed by them, whether the Gentleman
were poysoned, or otherwise murthered? All of them affirmed the
contrarie, avouching rather, that some Impostumation had engendered
neere his heart, which sodainly breaking, occasioned his as sodaine
death. The Potestate hearing this, and perceiving that Andreana was
little or nothing at all faulty in the matter, her beauty and good
carriage, kindled a vitlanous and lustful desire in him towards her,
provoking him to the immodest motion, that upon granting his
request, he would release her. But when he saw, that all his
perswasions were to no purpose, hee sought to compasse his will by
violence; which like a vertuous and valiant Virago, shee worthily
withstood, defending her honour Nobly, and reprooving him with many
injurious speeches, such as a lustfull Letcher Justlie deserved.
  On the morrow morning, these newes being brought to her Father,
Messer Negro da Ponte Cararo, greeving thereat exceedingly, and
accompanied with many of his friends, he went to the Pallace. Being
there arrived, and informed of the matter by the Potestate: he
demaunded (in teares) of his daughter, how, and by what meanes shee
was brought thither? The Potestate would needs accuse her first, of
outrage and wrong offered to him by her, rather then to tarry her
accusing of him; yet, commending the yong Mayden, and her
constancie, proceeded to say, that onely to prove her, he had made
such a motion to her; but finding her so firme, his liking was now
so addicted to her, that- if her Father were so pleased to forget
the remembrance of her former secret husband, he willingly would
accept her in marriage.
  While thus they continued talking, Andreana comming before her
Father, the teares trickling mainly downe her cheekes, and falling
at his feete, she began in this manner. Deare Father, I shall not
neede to make an Historicall relation, either of my youthfull
boldnesse or misfortunes, because you have both seene and knowne them:
rather most humbly, I crave your pardon, for another errour by mee
committed, in that, both without your leave and liking, I accepted the
man as my troth-plighted husband, whom (above all other in the world I
most intirely affected. If my offence heerein doe challenge the
forfeite of my life, then (good Father) I free you from any such
pardon; because my onely desire is to dye your daughter, and in your
gracious favour: with which words, in signe of her humility, she
kissed his feete. Messer Negro da Ponte, being a man well in yeeres,
and of a gentle nature, observing what his daughter saide, could not
refraine from teares, and in his weeping, lovingly tooke her from
the ground, speaking thus to her.
  Daughter, I could have wisht, that thou hadst taken such an Husband,
as (in my judgement) had bene best fitting for thee: yet if thou
madest election of one answerable to thine owne good liking, I have no
just reason to be offended therewith. My greatest cause of complaint
is, thy too severe concealing it from me, and the small trust thou
didst repose in me, because thou hast lost him before I knew him.
Neverthelesse, seeing these occasions are thus come to passe, and
accidents already ended, cannot possibly be re-called, it is my
will, that as I would gladly have contented thee, by making him my Son
in Law if he had lived, so I wil expresse the like love to him now
he is dead. And so turning himselfe to his kindred and friends,
lovingly requested of them, that they would grace Gabriello with
most honourable obsequies.
  By this time, the kindred and friends to the dead man (uppon noise
of his death bruited abroad) were likewise come to the Pallace, yea,
most of the men and women dwelling in the Cittie, the bodie of
Gabriello being laide in the midst of the Court, upon the white
Damaske shrowd given by Andreana, with infinite Roses and other
sweet Flowers lying theron: and such was the peoples love to him, that
never was any mans death, more to be bemoaned and lamented. Being
delivered out of the Court, it was carried to buriall, not like a
Burgesse or ordinary Citizen, but with such pompe as beseemed a Lord
Baron, and on the shoulders of very noble Gentlemen, with great
honor and reverence.
  Within some few dayes after, the Potestate pursuing his former
motion of mariage, and the father mooving it to his daughter, she
would not by any meanes listen thereto. And he being desirous to
give her contentment, delivered her and her Chamber-maid into a
Religious Abbey, very famous for devotion and sanctity, where
afterwards they ended their lives.
                   THE FOURTH DAY, THE SEVENTH NOVELL

     WHEREBY IS GIVEN TO UNDERSTAND, THAT LOVE AND DEATH DO USE
       THEIR POWER EQUALLY ALIKE, AS WELL UPON POORE AND MEANE
               PERSONS, AS ON THEM THAT ARE RICH AND NOBLE

  Faire Simonida affecting Pasquino, and walking with him in a
pleasant garden, it fortuned, that Pasquino rubbed his teeth with a
leafe of Sage, and immediately fell downe dead. Simonida being brought
before the bench of Justice, and charged with the death of Pasquino,
she rubbed her teeth likewise with one of the leaves of the same Sage,
as declaring what shee saw him do, and thereon she dyed also in the
same manner.

  Pamphilus having ended his Tale, the King declaring an outward
shew of compassion, in regard of Andreanaes disastrous Fortune;
fixed his eye on Madam Aemilia, and gave her such an apparant signe,
as expressed his pleasure, for her next succeeding in discourse; which
being sufficient for her understanding, thus she began. Faire
assembly, the Novell so lately delivered by Pamphilus, maketh me
willing to report another to you, varying from it, in any kinde of
resemblance; onely this excepted: that as Andreana lost her lover in a
Garden, even so did she of whom I am now to speake. And being
brought before the seate of Justice, according as Andreana was,
freed her selfe from the power of the Law; yet neither by force, or
her owne vertue, but by her sodaine and inopinate death. And
although the nature of Love is such (according as we have oftentimes
heeretofore maintained) to make his abiding in the houses of the
Noblest persons; yet men and women of poore and farre inferiour
quality, do not alwayes sit out of his reach, though enclosed in their
meanest Cottages; declaring himselfe sometime as a powerfull
commaunder in those humble places, as he doth in the richest and
most imperious Palaces. As will plainly appeare unto you, either in
all, or a great part of my Novell, whereto our Citie pleadeth some
title; though, by the diversity of our discourses, talking of so
many severall accidents; we have wandred into many other parts of
the world, to make all answerable to our owne liking.
  It is not any long time since, when there lived in our City of
Florence, a young and beautifull Damosell, yet according to the nature
of her condition; because she was the Daughter of a poore Father,
and called by the name of Simonida. Now, albeit she was not supplied
by any better means, then to maintaine her selfe by her owne
painfull travell, and earne her bread before she could eate it, by
carding and spinning to such as employed her; yet was she not so
base or dejected a spirit, but had both courage and sufficient vertue,
to understand the secret soliciting of love, and to distinguish the
parts of well deserving both by private behaviour and outward
ceremony. As naturall instinct was her first tutor thereto, so
wanted she not a second maine and urging motion, a chip hewed out of
the like Timber, one no better in birth then her selfe, a proper young
springall, named Pasquino, whose generous behaviour, and gracefull
actions (in bringing her dayly wooll to spin, by reason his Master was
a Clothier) prevailed upon her liking and affection.
  Nor was he negligent in the observation of her amorous regards,
but the Tinder tooke, and his soule flamed with the selfe same fire;
making him as desirous of her loving acceptance, as possibly she could
be of his: so that the commanding power of love, could not easily be
distinguished in which of them it had the greater predominance. For
every day as he brought her fresh supply of woolles, and found her
seriously busied at her wheele: her soule would vent forth many
deepe sighes, and those sighes fetch floods of teares from her eyes,
thorough the singular good opinion she had conceyved of him, and
earnest desire to enjoy him. Pasquino on the other side, as leysure
gave him leave for the least conversing with her: his disease was
every way answerable to hers, for teares stood in his eyes, sighes
flew abroad, to ease the poore hearts afflicting oppressions, which
though he was unable to conceale; yet would he seeme to clowd them
cleanly, by entreating her that his Masters worke might be neatly
performed, and with such speed as time would permit her, intermixing
infinite praises of her artificiall spinning; and affirming withall,
that the Quilles of Yearne received from her, were the choisest beauty
of the whole peece; so that when other workewomen played, Simonida was
sure to want no employment.
  Hereupon, the one soliciting, and the other taking delight in
being solicited; it came to passe, that often accesse bred the
bolder courage, and over-much bashfulnesse became abandoned, yet no
immodesty passing betweene them: but affection grew the better
setled in them both, by interchangeable vowes of constant
perseverance, so that death onely, but no disaster else had power to
divide them. Their mutuall delight continuing on in this manner,
with more forcible encreasing of their Loves equall flame: it
fortuned, that Pasquino sitting by Simonida, told her of a goodly
Garden, whereto he was desirous to bring her, to the end, that they
might the more safely converse together, without the suspition of
envious eyes. Simonida gave answer of her wellliking the motion, and
acquainting her Father therewith, he gave her leave, on the Sunday
following after dinner, to go fetch the pardon of S. Gallo, and
afterwards to visit the Garden.
  A modest yong maiden named Lagina, following the same profession,
and being an intimate familiar friend, Simonida tooke along in her
company, and came to the Garden appointed by Pasquino; where she found
him readily expecting her comming, and another friend also with him,
called Puccino (albeit more usually tearmed Strambo) a secret
well-willer to Lagina, whose love became the more furthered by his
friendly meeting. Each Lover delighting in his hearts chosen
Mistresse, caused them to walke alone by themselves, as the
spaciousnesse of the Garden gave them ample liberty: Puccino with
his Lagina in one part, and Pasquino with his Simonida in another. The
walke which they had made choise of, was by a long and goodly bed of
Sage, turning and returning by the same bed their conference ministred
occasion, and as they pleased to recreate themselves, affecting rather
to continue still there, then in any part of the Garden.
  One while they would sit downe by the Sage bed, and afterward rise
to walke againe, as ease and wearinesse seemed to invite them. At
length, Pasquino chanced to crop a leafe of the Sage, wherewith he
both rubbed his teeth and gummes, and champing it betweene them
also, saying; that there was no better thing in the world to cleanse
the teeth withall, after feeding. Not long had he thus champed the
Sage in his teeth, returning to his former kinde of discoursing, but
his countenance began to change very pale, his sight failed, and
speech forsooke him; so that (in briefe) he fell downe dead. Which
when Simonida beheld, wringing her hands, she cryed out for helpe to
Strambo and Lagina, who immediately came running to her. They
finding Pasquino not onely to be dead, but his body swolne, and
strangely over-spred with foule black spots, both on his face,
hands, and all parts else beside: Strambo cried out, saying; Ah wicked
maide, what hast thou poisoned him?
  These words and their shrill out-cries also were heard by Neighbours
dwelling neere to the Garden, who comming in sodainly uppon them,
and seeing Pasquino lying dead, and hugely swoln, Strambo likewise
complaining, and accusing Simonida to have poysoned him; she making no
answer, but standing in a gastly amazement, all her senses meerely
confounded, at such a strange and uncouth accident, in loosing him
whom she so dearely loved: knew not how to excuse-her selfe, and
therefore every one verily beleeved, that Strambo had not unjustly
accused her. Poore wofull maide, thus was she instantly apprehended,
and drowned in her teares, they led her along to the Potes. tates
Palace, where her accusation was justified by Strambo, Lagina, and two
men more; the one named Atticciato, and the other Malagevole, fellowes
and companions with Pasquino, who came into the Garden also upon the
out-cry.
  The Judge, without any delay at all, gave eare to the busines, and
examined the case very strictly: but could by no meanes comprehend,
that any malice should appeare in her towards him, nor that she was
guiltie of the mans death. Wherefore, in the presence of Simonida,
he desired to see the dead body, and the place where he fell downe
dead, because there he intended to have her relate, how she saw the
accident to happen, that her owne speeches might the sooner condemne
her, whereas the case yet remained doubtfull, and farre beyond his
comprehension. So, without any further publication, and to avoid the
following of the turbulent multitude, they departed from the bench
of Justice, and came to the place, where Pasquinoes body lay swolne
like a Tunne. Demanding there questions, concerning his behaviour,
when they walked there in conference together, and, not a little
admiring the manner of his death, while he stood advisedly considering
thereon.
  She going to the bed of Sage, reporting the whole precedent history,
even from the originall to the ending: the better to make the case
understood, without the least colour of ill carriage towardes
Pasquino; according as she had seene him do, even so o she plucke
another leafe of the Sage, rubbing her teeth therewith, and champing
it as he formerly did. Strambo, and the other intimate friends of
Pasquino, having noted in what manner she used the Sage, and this
appearing as her utmost refuge, either to acquit or condemne her: in
presence of the Judge they smiled thereat, mocking and deriding
whatsoever she saide, or did, and desiring (the more earnestly) the
sentence of death against her, that her body might be consumed with
fire, as a just punishment for her abhominable transgression.
  Poore Simonida, sighing and sorrowing for her deere loves losse, and
(perhappes) not meanly terrified, with the strict infliction of
torment so severely urged and followed by Strambo and the rest
standing dumb still, without answering so much as one word; by tasting
of the same Sage, fell downe dead by the bed, even by the like
accident Pasquino formerly did, to the admirable astonishment of all
there present.
  Oh poore infortunate Lovers, whose Starres were so inauspicious to
you, as to finish both your mortall lives, and fervent love, in
lesse limitation then a dayes space. How to censure of your deaths,
and happines to ensue thereon, by an accident so strange and
inevitable: it is not within the compasse of my power, but to hope the
best, and so I leave you. But yet concerning Simonida her selfe, in
the common opinion of us that remaine living: her true vertue and
innocency (though Fortune was otherwise most cruell to her) would
not suffer her to sinke under the testimony of Strambo, Lagina,
Atticciato, and Malagevole, being but carders of wool, or perhaps of
meaner condition; a happier course was ordained for her, to passe
clearely from their infamous imputation, and follow her Pasquino, in
the very same manner of death, and with such a speedy expedition.
  The Judge standing amazed, and all there present in his company,
were silent for a long while together: but, uppon better
recollection of his spirits, thus he spake. This inconvenience which
thus hath hapned, and confounded our senses with no common admiration;
in mine opinion concerneth the bed of Sage, avouching it either to
be venomous, or dangerously infected, which (neverthelesse) is
seldom found in Sage. But to the end, that it may not be offensive
to any more hereafter, I will have it wholly digd up by the rootes,
and then to be burnt in the open Market place.
  Hereupon, the Gardiner was presently sent for, and before the
Judge would depart thence, he saw the bed of Sage digged up by the
roots, and found the true occasion, whereby these two poore Lovers
lost their lives. For, just in the middest of the bed, and at the
maine roote, which directed all the Sage in growth; lay an huge mighty
Toad, even weltring (as it were) in a hole full of poyson; by meanes
whereof, in conjecture of the judge, and all the rest, the whole bed
of Sage became envenomed, occasioning every leafe thereof to be deadly
in taste. None being so hardy, as to approach neere the Toade, they
made a pile of wood directly over it, and setting it on a flaming
fire, threw all the Sage thereinto, and so they were consumed
together. So ended all further suite in Law, concerning the deaths
of Pasquino and Simonida: whose bodies being carried to the Church
of Saint Paul, by their sad and sorrowfull accusers, Strambo,
Lagina, Atticciato and Malagevole, were buried together in one
goodly Monument, for a future memory of their hard Fortune.
                    THE FOURTH DAY, THE EIGHT NOVELL

   WHEREIN IS AGAINE DECLARED, THE GREAT INDISCRETION AND FOLLY OF
    THEM, THAT THINK TO CONSTRAINE LOVE, ACCORDING TO THEIR WILL,
          AFTER IT IS CONSTANTLY SETLED BEFORE: WITH OTHER
       INSTRUCTIONS, CONCERNING THE UNSPEAKEABLE POWER OF LOVE

  Jeronimo affecting a yong Maiden, named Silvestra, was constrained
(by the earnest importunity of his Mother) to take a journey to Paris.
At his return home from thence againe, he found his love Silvestra
married. By secret meanes, he got entrance into her house, and dyed
upon the bed lying by her. Afterward, his body being carried to
Church, to receive buriall, she likewise died there instantly upon his
coarse.

  Madam Aemilia no sooner concluded her Novell, but Madam Neiphila (by
the Kings command) began to speake in this manner. It seemeth to me
(Gracious Ladies) that there are some such people to be found, who
imagine themselves to know more, then all other else in the world
beside, and yet indeede do know nothing at all: presuming (thorough
this arrogant opinion of theirs) to imploy and oppose their senselesse
understanding, against infallible grounded reason, yea, and to attempt
courses, not only contrary to the counsell and judgement of men, but
also to crosse the nature of divine ordination. Out of which saucy and
ambitious presumption, many mighty harmes have already had
beginning, and more are like to ensue uppon such boldnesse, because it
is the ground of all evils.
  Now, in regard that among all other naturall things, no one is lesse
subject to take counsell, or can be wrought to contrariety, then Love,
whose nature is such, as rather to run upon his owne rash consumption,
then to be ruled by admonitions of the very wisest: my memory hath
inspired it selfe, with matter incident to this purpose, effectually
to approve, what I have already said. For I am now to speake of a
woman who would appeare to have more wit, then either she had
indeed, or appertained to her by any title. The matter also, wherein
she would needs shew her studious judgement and capacity, was of
much more consequence then she could deserve to meddle withall. Yet
such was the issue of her fond presuming; that (in one instant) she
expelled both love, and the soule of her owne sonne out of his body,
where (doubtlesse) it was planted by divine favour and appointment.
  In our owne City (according to true and ancient testimony) there
dwelt sometime a very worthy and wealthy Merchant, named Leonardo
Sighiero, who by his wife had one onely Sonne, called Jeronimo; and
within a short while after his birth, Leonardo being very sicke, and
having setled all his affaires in good order; departed out of this
wretched life to a better. The Tutors and Governours of the Childe,
thought it fittest to let him live with his Mother, where he had his
whole education, though schooled among many other worthy neighbours
children, according as in most Cities they use to do. Yong Jeronimo
growing on in yeares, and frequenting dayly the company of his
Schoole-fellowes and others: he would often sport (as the rest did)
with the neighbors children, and much pretty pastime they found
together.
  In the harmlesse recreations of youth, graver judgements have
often observed, that some especiall matter received then such
originall, as greater effect hath followed thereon. And many times,
parents and kindred have bene the occasion (although perhaps beyond
their expectation) of very strange and extraordinary accidents, by
names of familiarity passing betweene Boyes and Girles, as King and
Queene, sweet heart and sweet heart, friend and friend, husband and
wife, and divers other such like kind tearmes, prooving afterwards
to be true indeed. It fell out so with our yong Jeronimo; for, among a
number of pretty Damosels, daughters to men of especiall respect,
and others of farre inferiour quality: a Taylors daughter, excelling
the rest in favour and feature (albeit her Father was but poore)
Jeronimo most delighted to sport withall; and no other titles passed
betweene them, even in the hearing of their parents and friends, but
wife and husband: such was the beginning of their yong affection,
presaging (no doubt) effectually to follow.
  Nor grew this familiarity (as yet) any way distasted, till by
their daily conversing together, and enterchange of infinite pretty
speeches, Jeronimo felt a strange alteration in his soule, with such
enforcing and powerfull afflictions; as he was never well but in her
company, nor she enjoyed any rest if Jeronimo were absent. At the
length, this being noted by his Mother, she began to rebuke him, yea
many times gave him both threatnings and blowes, which proving to no
purpose, not hindering his accesse to her; she complained to his
Tutors, and like one that in regard of her riches, thought to plant an
Orange upon a blacke thorne, spake as followeth.
  This Sonne of mine Jeronimo, being as yet but foureteene years of
age, is so deeply enamoured of a yong Girle, named Silvestra, daughter
unto a poore Tailor, our neere dwelling neighbour: that if we do not
send him out of her company, one day (perhaps) he may make her his
wife, and yet without any knowledge of ours, which questionlesse would
be my death. Otherwise, he may pine and consume himselfe away, if he
see us procure her marriage to some other. Wherefore, hold it good,
that to avoid so great an inconvenience, we should send Jeronimo
some far distance hence, to remaine where some of our Factors are
employed: because, when he shall be out of her sight, and their
often meetings utterly disappointed; his affection to her will the
sooner cease, by frustrating his hope for ever enjoying her, and so we
shall have the better meanes, to match him with one of greater
quality. The Tutors did like well of her advice, not doubting but it
would take answerable effect: and therefore, calling Jeronimo into a
private Parlor, one of them began in this manner.
  Jeronimo, you are now growne to an indifferent stature, and (almost)
able to take government of your selfe. It cannot then seeme any way
inconvenient, to acquaint you with your deceased Fathers affaires, and
by what good courses he came to such wealth. You are his onely sonne
and heire, to whom he hath bequeathed his rich possessions (your
Mothers moity evermore remembred) and travaile would now seeme fitting
for you, as well to gaine experience in Trafficke and Merchandize,
as also to let you see the worlds occurrences. Your Mother therefore
(and we have thought it expedient) that you should journey from
hence to Paris, there to continue for some such fitting time, as may
grant you full and free opportunity, to survey what stocke of wealth
is there employed for you, and to make you understand, how your
Factors are furtherous to your affaires. Beside, this is the way to
make you a man of more solid apprehension, and perfect instruction
in civill courses of life; rather then by continuing here to see
none but Lords, Barons, and Gentlemen, whereof we have too great a
number. When you are sufficiently qualified there, and have learned
what belongeth to a worthy Marchant, such as was Leonardo Sighiero
your famous Father; you may returne home againe at your owne pleasure.
  The youth gave them attentive hearing, and (in few words) returned
them answer: That he would not give way to any such travaile,
because he knew how to dispose of himselfe in Florence, as well as
in any other place he should be sent too. Which when his Tutors heard,
they reproved him with many severe speeches: and seeing they could win
no other answer from him, they made returne thereof to his Mother. She
storming extreamly thereat, yet not so much for denying the journey to
Paris, as in regard of his violent affection to the Maide; gave him
very bitter and harsh language. All which availing nothing, she
began to speake in a more milde and gentle straine, entreating him
with flattering and affable words, to be governed in this case by
his Tutors good advice. And so farre (in the end) she prevailed with
him, that he yeelded to live at Paris for the space of a yeare, but
further time he would not grant, and so all was ended.
  Jeronimo being gone to remaine at Paris, his love daily increasing
more and more, by reason of his absence from Silvestra, under faire
and friendly promises, of this moneth, and the next moneth, sending
for him home; there they detained him two whole yeares together.
Whereuppon, his love was growne to stich an extremity, that he neither
would, or could abide any longer there, but home he returned, before
he was expected. His love Silvestra, by the cunning compacting of
his Mother and Tutors, he found married to a Tent-makers Sonne;
whereat he vexed and greeved beyond all measure. Neverthelesse, seeing
the case was now no way to be holpen; he strove to beare it with so
much patience, as so great a wrong, and his hearts tormenting
greefe, would give leave to doe.
  Having found out the place where she dwelt, he began (as it is the
custome of yong Lovers) to use divers daily walkes by her doore: as
thinking in his minde, that her remembrance of him was constantly
continued, as his was most intirely fixed on her. But the case was
very strangely altred, because she was now growne no more mindfull
of him, then if she had never seene him before. Or if she did any
way remember him, it appeared to be so little, that manifest signes
declared the contrary. Which Jeronimo very quickely perceived,
albeit not without many melancholly perturbations. Notwithstanding, he
laboured by all possible meanes, to recover her former kindnesse
againe: but finding all his paines frivolously employed; he resolved
to dye, and yet to compasse some speech with her before.
  By meanes of a neere dwelling neighbour (that was his very deare and
intimate friend) he came acquainted with every part of the house,
and prevailed so far, that one evening, when she and her husband
supt at a neighbours house; he compassed accesse into the same bed
chamber, where Silvestra used most to lodge. Finding the Curtaines
ready drawne, he hid himselfe behinde them on the further side of
the bed, and so tarried there untill Silvestra and her husband were
returned home, and laide downe in bed to take their rest. The husbands
sences were soone overcome with sleepe, by reason of his painefull
toyling all the day, and bodies that are exercised with much labour,
are the more desirous to have ease.
  She staying up last, to put out the light, and hearing her husband
sleepe so soundly, that his snoring gave good evidence thereof:
layed her selfe downe the more respectively, as being very loath any
way to disease him, but sweetly to let him enjoy his rest.
  Silvestra lay on the same side of the bed, where Jeronimo had hid
himselfe behinde the Curtaines; who stepping softly to her in the
darke, and laying his hand gently on her brest, saide: Deare Love,
forbeare a little while to sleepe, for heere is thy loyall friend
Jeronimo. The yong woman starting with amazement, would have cried
out, but that he entreated her to the contrary; protesting, that he
came for no ill intent to her, but onely to take his latest leave of
her. Alas Jeronimo (quoth she) those idle dayes are past and gone,
when it was no way unseemly for our youth, to entertaine equality of
those desires, which then well agreed with our young blood. Since
when, you have lived in forraine Countries, which appeared to me to
alter your former disposition: for, in the space of two whole
yeares, either you grew forgetfull of me (as change of ayre, may
change affection) or (at the best) made such account of me, as I never
heard the least salutation from you. Now you know me to be a married
wife, in regard whereof, my thoughts have embraced that chaste and
honourable resolution, not to minde any man but my husband; and
therefore, as you are come hither Without my love or license, so in
like manner I do desire you to be gone. Let this priviledge of my
Husbandes sound sleeping, be no colour to your longer continuing here,
or encourage you to finde any further favour at mine hand: for if mine
husband should awake, beside the danger that thereon may follow to
you, I cannot but loose the sweet happinesse of peacefull life,
which hitherto we have both mutually embraced.
  The yong man, hearing these wordes, and remembring what loving
kindnesse he had formerly found, what secret love Letters he had
sent from Paris, with other private intelligences and tokens, which
never came to her receite and knowledge, so cunningly his Mother and
Tutors had carried the matter: immediately felt his heart-strings to
breake, and lying downe upon the beds side by her, uttered these his
very last words. Silvestra farewell, thou hast kilde the kindest heart
that ever loved a woman: and speaking no more, gave up the ghost.
She hearing these words delivered with an entire sighe, and
deepe-fetcht groane, did not imagine the strange consequence following
thereon; yet was mooved to much compassion, in regard of her former
affection to him. Silent she lay an indifferent while, as being unable
to returne him any answer, and looking when he would be gone,
according as before she had earnestly entreated him. But when she
perceyved him to lye so still, as neither word or motion came from
him, she saide: Kinde Jeronimo, why doest thou not depart and get thee
gone? So putting forth her hand, it hapned to light upon his face,
which she felt to be as cold as yce: whereat marvailing not a
little, as also at his continued silence, she jogged him, and felt his
hands in like manner, which were stiffely extended forth, and all
his body cold, as not having any life remaining in him, which
greatly amazing her, and confounding her with sorrow beyond all
measure, she was in such perplexity, that she could not devise what to
do or say.
  In the end, she resolved to try how her husband would take it,
that so strange an accident should thus happen in his house, and
putting the case as if it did not concerne them, but any other of
the neighbours; awaking him first, demaunded of him what was best to
be done, if a man should steale into a neighbours house, unknowne to
him, or any of his family; and in his bed chamber to be found dead. He
presently replyed (as not thinking the case concerned himselfe)
that, the onely helpe in such an unexpected extremity, was to take the
dead body, and convey it to his owne house, if he had any; whereby
no scandall or reproach would follow to them, in whose house he had so
unfortunately dyed. Hereupon she immediately arose, and lighting a
candle, shewed him the dead body of Jeronimo, with protestation of
every particular, both of her innocency, either of knowledge of his
comming thither, or any other blame that could concerne her. Which
he both constantly knowing and beleeving, made no more ceremony, but
putting on his Garments, tooke the dead body upon his shoulders, and
carried it to the Mothers doore, where he left it, and afterward
returned to his owne house againe.
  When day light was come, and the dead body found lying in the Porch,
it moved very much greefe and amazement, considering, he had bin seene
the day before, in perfect health to outward appearance. Nor neede
we to urge any question of his Mothers sorrow upon this strange
accident, who, causing his body to be carefully searched, without
any blow, bruise, wound, or hurt uppon it, the Physitians could not
give any other opinion, but that some inward conceyte of greefe had
caused his death, as it did indeed, and no way otherwise. To the
cheefe Church was the dead body carried, to be generally seene of
all the people, his Mother and Friends weeping heavily by it, as
many more did the like beside, because he was beloved of every one. In
which time of universall mourning, the honest man (in whose house he
dyed) spake thus to his wife: Disguise thy selfe in some decent
manner, and go to the Church, where (as I heare) they have laide the
body of Jeronimo. Crowde in amongest the Women, as I will do the
like amongst the men, to heare what opinion passeth of his death,
and whether we shall be scandalized thereby, or no.
  Silvestra, who was now become full of pitty too late, quickely
condiscended, as desiring to see him dead, whom sometime she dearly
affected in life. And being come to the Church, it is a matter to be
admired, if advisedly we consider on the powerfull working of love;
for the heart of this woman, which the prosperous fortune of
Jeronimo could not pierce, now in his wofull death split in sunder;
and the ancient sparks of love so long concealed in the embers,
brake foorth into a furious flame; and being violently surprized
with extraordinary compassion, no sooner did she come neere to the
dead body, where many stood weeping round about it; but strangely
shrieking out aloud, she fell downe upon it: and even as extreamity of
greefe finished his life, so did it hers in the same manner. For she
moved neither hand nor foot, because her vitall powers had quite
forsaken her. The women labouring to comfort her by all best meanes
they could devise; did not take any knowledge of her, by reason of her
disguised garments: but finding her dead indeed, and knowing her
also to be Silvestra, being overcome with unspeakable compassion,
and danted with no meane admiration, they stood strangely gazing
each upon other.
  Wonderfull crowds of people were then in the Church; and this
accident being now noysed among the men, at length it came to her
Husbands understanding, whose greefe was so great, as it exceeded
all capacity of expression. Afterward he declared what had hapned in
his house the precedent night, according as his wife had truly related
to him, with all the speeches, which passed between Silvestra and
Jeronimo; by which discourse, they generally conceived, the certaine
occasion of both their sodaine deaths, which moved them to great
compassion. Then taking the yong womans body, and ordering it as a
coarse ought to be: they layed it on the same Biere by the yong man,
and when they had sufficiently sorrowed for their disastrous
fortune, they gave them honourable buriall both in. one grave. So,
this poore couple, whom love (in life) could not joyne together, death
did unite in an inseparable conjunction.
                   THE FOURTH DAY, THE NINTH NOVELL

      WHEREBY APPEARETH, WHAT ILL SUCCESSE ATTENDETH ON THEM,
     THAT LOVE CONTRARY TO REASON: IN OFFERING INJURIE BOTH TO
                    FRIENDSHIP AND MARRIAGE TOGETHER

  Messer Guiglielmo of Rossiglione having slaine Messer Guiglielmo
Guardastagno, whom hee imagined to love his wife, gave her his heart
to eate. Which she knowing afterward, threw her selfe out of an high
window to the ground; and being dead, was then buried with her friend.

  When the Novell of Madam Neiphila was ended, which occasioned much
compassion in the whole assembly; the King who wold not infringe the
priviledge granted to Dioneus, no more remaining to speake but they
two, began thus. I call to minde (gentle Ladies) a Novell, which
(seeing we are so farre entred into the lamentable accidents of
successelesse love), will urge you unto as much commisseration, as
that so lately reported to you. And so much the rather, because the
person of whom we are to speake, were of respective quality; which
approveth the accident to be more cruell, then those whereof we have
formerly discoursed.
  According as the people of Provence do report, there dwelt
sometime in that jurisdiction, two noble Knights, each well
possessed of Castles and followers; the one being named Messer
Guiglielmo de Rossiglione, and the other Messer Guiglielmo
Guardastagno. Now, in regard that they were both valiant Gentlemen,
and singularly expert in actions of Armes; they loved together the
more mutually, and held it as a kinde of custome to be seene in all
Tiltes and Tournaments, or any other exercises of Armes, going
commonly alike in their wearing garments. And although their Castles
stood about five miles distant each from other, yet were they dayly
conversant together, as very loving and intimate friends. The one of
them, I meane Messer Guiglielmo de Rossilione, had to wife a very
gallant beautifull Lady, of whom Messer Guardastagno (forgetting the
lawes of respect and loyall friendship) became overfondly enamoured,
expressing the same by such outward meanes, that the Lady her selfe
tooke knowledge thereof, and not with any dislike, as it seemed, but
rather lovingly entertained; yet she grew not so forgetfull of her
honour and estimation, as the other did of faith to his friend.
  With such indiscretion was this idle love carried, that whether it
sorted to effect, or no, I know not: but the husband perceived some
such maner of behaviour, as he could not easily digest, nor thought it
fitting to endure. Whereuppon, the league of friendly amity so long
continued, began to faile in very strange fashion, and became
converted into deadly hatred: which yet he very cunningly concealed,
bearing an outward shew of constant friendship still, but (in his
heart) he had vowed the death of Guardastagno. Nothing wanted, but
by what meanes it might best be effected, which fell out to be in this
manner. A publicke joust or Tourney, was proclaimed by sound of
Trumpet throughout all France, wherewith immediately, Messer
Guiglielmo Rossiglione acquainted Messer Guardastagno, entreating
him that they might further conferre theron together, and for that
purpose to come and visit him, if he intended to have any hand in
the businesse. Guardastagno being exceeding glad of this accident,
which gave him liberty to see his Mistresse, sent answer backe by
the messenger, that on the morrow at night, he would come and sup with
Rossiglione; who upon this reply, projected to himselfe in what
maner to kill him.
  On the morrow, after dinner, arming himselfe, and two more of his
servants with him, such as he had solemnly sworne to secrecy, he
mounted on horsebacke, and rode on about a mile from his owne
Castle, where he lay closely ambushed in a Wood, through which
Guardastagno must needs passe. After he had stayed there some two
houres space and more, he espyed him come riding with two of his
attendants, all of them being unarmed, as no way distrusting any
such intended treason. So soone as he was come to the place, where
he had resolved to do the deed; hee rushed forth of the ambush, and
having a sharpe Lance readily charged in his rest, ran mainly at
him, saying: False villaine, thou art dead. Guardastagno, having
nothing wherewith to defend himselfe, nor his servants able to give
him any succour; being pierced quite through the body with the
Lance, downe he fell dead to the ground, and his men (fearing the like
misfortune to befall them) gallopped mainely backe againe to their
Lords Castle, not knowing them who had thus murthered their Master, by
reason of their armed disguises, which in those martiall times were
usually worne.
  Messer Guiglielmo Rossiglione, alighting from his horse, and
having a keene knife ready drawne in his hand; opened therewith the
brest of dead Guardastagno, and taking foorth his heart with his
owne hands, wrapped it in the Bandelote belonging to his Lance,
commanding one of his men to the charge thereof, and never to disclose
the deed. So, mounting on horse-backe againe, and darke night
drawing on apace, he returned home to his Castle. The Lady, who had
heard before of Guardastagnoes intent, to suppe there that night,
and (perhaps) being earnestly desirous to see him; marvailing at his
so long tarrying, saide to her husband: Beleeve me Sir (quoth she)
me thinkes it is somewhat strange, that Messer Guiglielmo Guardastagno
delayes his comming so long, he never used to do so till now. I
received tidings from him wife (saide he) that he cannot be here
till to morrow. Whereat the Lady appearing to be displeased, concealed
it to herselfe, and used no more words.
  Rossiglione leaving his Lady, went into the Kitchin, where calling
for the Cooke, he delivered him the heart, saying: Take this heart
of a wilde Boare, which it was my good happe to kill this day, and
dresse it in the daintiest manner thou canst devise to do; which being
so done, when I am set at the Table, send it to me in a silver dish,
with sauce beseeming so dainty a morsell. The Cooke tooke the heart,
beleeving it to be no otherwise, then as his Lord had saide: and using
his utmost skill in dressing it, did divide it into artificiall
small slices, and made it most pleasing to be tasted. When supper time
was come, Rossiglione sate downe at the table with his Lady: but he
had little or no appetite at all to eate, the wicked deed which he had
done so perplexed his soule, and made him to sit very strangely
musing. At length, the Cooke brought in the dainty dish, which he
himselfe setting before his wife, began to finde fault with his owne
lacke of stomacke, yet provoked her with many faire speeches, to
tast the Cooks cunning in so rare a dish.
  The Lady having a good appetite indeede, when she had first tasted
it, fed afterward so heartily thereon, that she left very little, or
none at all remaining. When he perceived that all was eaten, he said
unto her: Tell me Madame, how you do like this delicate kinde of
meate? In good faith Sir (quoth she) in all my life I was never better
pleased. Now trust mee Madame, answered the Knight, I do verily
beleeve you, nor do I greatly wonder thereat, if you like that dead,
which you loved so dearly being alive. When she heard these words, a
long while she sate silert, but afterward saide. I pray you tell me
Sir; what meate was this which you have made me to eate? Muse no
longer (saide he) for therein I will quickly resolve thee. Thou hast
eaten the heart of Messer Guiglielmo Guardastagno, whose love was so
deare and precious to thee, thou false, perfidious, and disloyall
Lady: I pluckt it out of his vile body with mine owne hands, and
made my Cooke to dresse it for thy diet.
  Poore Lady, how strangely was her soule afflicted, hearing these
harsh and unpleasing speeches? Teares flowed aboundantly from her
faire eies, and like tempestuous windes embowelled in the earth, so
did vehement sighes breake mainly from her heart, and after a
tedious time of silence, she spake in this manner. My Lord and
husband, you have done a most disloyall and damnable deede,
misguided by your owne wicked jealous opinion, and not by any just
cause given you, to murther so worthy and Noble a Gentleman. I protest
unto you upon my soule, which I wish to be confounded in eternall
perdition, if ever I were unchaste to your bed, or allowed him any
other favour, but what might well become so honourable a friend. And
seeing my body hath bene made the receptacle for so precious a kinde
of foode, as the heart of so valiant and courteous a Knight, such as
was the Noble Guardastagno; never shall any other foode hereafter,
have entertainment there, or my selfe live the Wife to so bloody a
Husband.
  So starting up from the Table, and stepping unto a great gazing
Window, the Casement whereof standing wide open behinde her: violently
shee leaped out thereat, which beeing an huge height in distance
from the ground, the fall did not onely kill her, but also shivered
her body into many peeces. Which Rossiglione perceiving, hee stoode
like a body without a soule, confounded with the killing of so deare a
friend, losse of a chaste and honourable wife, and all through his
owne overcredulous conceit.
  Upon further conference with his private thoughts, and remorsefull
acknowledgement of his heinous offence, which repentance (too late)
gave him eyes now to see, though rashnesse before would not permit him
to consider; these two extreamities inlarged his dulled understanding.
First, he grew fearfull of the friends and followers to murthered
Guardastagno, as also the whole Country of Provence, in regard of
the peoples generall love unto him; which being two maine and
important motives, both to the detestation of so horrid an act, and
immediate severe revenge to succeede thereon: he made such provision
as best he could, and as so sodaine a warning would give leave, he Red
away secretly in the night season.
  These unpleasing newes were soone spread abroad the next morning,
not only of the unfortunate accidents, but also of Rossiglions flight;
in regard whereof, the dead bodyes being found, and brought
together, as well by the people belonging to Guardastagno, as them
that attended on the Lady: they were layed in the Chappell of
Rossigliones Castle; where, after so much lamentation for so great a
misfortune to befall them, they were honourably enterred in one
faire Tombe, with excellent Verses engraven thereon, expressing both
their noble degree, and by what unhappy meanes, they chanced to have
buriall in that very place.
                    THE FOURTH DAY, THE TENTH NOVELL

      WHEREIN IS DECLARED, THAT SOMETIME BY ADVENTUROUS ACCIDENT,
   RATHER THEN ANY REASONABLE COMPREHENSION, A MAN MAY ESCAPE OUT OF
      MANIFOLD PERILLES, BUT ESPECIALLY IN OCCURRENCES OF LOVE.

  A physitians wife laide a Lover of her Maides (supposing him to be
dead) in a Chest, by reason that he had drunke Water, which usually
was given to procure a sleepy entrancing. Two Lombard usurers,
stealing the Chest, in hope of a rich booty, carryed it into their
owne house, where afterward the man awaking, was apprehended for a
Theefe. The Chamber-maide to the Physitians wife, going before the
bench of Justice, accuseth her selfe for putting the imagined dead
body into the Chest, by which meanes he escapeth hanging. And the
theeves which stole away the Chest, were condemned to pay a great
summe of money.

  After that the King had concluded his Novell, there remained none
now but Dioneus to tell the last: which himselfe confessing, and the
King commaunding him to proceede, hee beganne in this manner. So
many miseries of unfortunate Love, as all of you have already related,
hath not onely swolne your eyes with weeping, but also made sicke
our hearts with sighing: yea (Gracious Ladies) I my selfe finde my
spirits not meanly afflicted thereby. Wherefore the whole day hath
bene very irkesome to me, and I am not a little glad, that it is so
neere ending. Now, for the better shutting it up altogether, I would
be very loath to make an addition, of any more such sad and
mournfull matter, good for nothing but onely to feede melancholly
humor, and from which (I hope) my faire Starres will defend me.
Tragicall discourse, thou art no fit companion for me, I will
therefore report a Novell which may minister a more joviall kinde of
argument, unto whose Tales that must be told to morrow, and with the
expiration of our present Kings reigne, to rid us of all
heart-greeving hereafter.
  Know then (most gracious assembly) that it is not many yeeres since,
when there lived in Salerne, a very famous Physitian, named Signieur
Mazzeo della Montagna, who being already well entred into yeeres,
would (neverthelesse) marrie with a beautifull young Mayden of the
City, bestowing rich garments, gaudie attyres, Ringes, and Jewelles on
her, such as few Women else could any way equall, because hee loved
her most deerely. Yet being an aged man, and never remembring, how
vaine and idle a thing it is, for age to make such an unfitting
Election, injurious to both; and therefore endangering that domesticke
agreement, which ought to be the sole and maine comfort of Marriage:
it maketh me therefore to misdoubt, that as in our former Tale of
Signiour Ricciardo de Cinzica, some dayes of the Calender did here
seeme as distastefull, as those that occasioned the other Womans
discontentment. In such unequall choyses, Parents commonly are more
blamewoorthy, then any imputation, to bee layde on the young Women,
who gladdely would enjoy such as in heart they have elected: but
that their Parents, looking through the glasse of greedie lucre, doe
overthrow both their owne hopes, and the faire fortunes of their
children together.
  Yet to speake uprightly of this young married Wife, she declared her
selfe to be of a wise and chearfull spirit, not discoraged with her
unequalitie of marriage: but bearing all with a contented browe, for
feare of urging the very least mislike in her Husband. And he, on
the other side, when occasions did not call him to visite his
Patients, or to be present at the Colledge among his fellow-Doctours,
would alwayes bee chearing and comforting his Wife, as one that could
hardly affoord to be out of her company. There is one especiall
fatall misfortune, which commonly awaiteth on olde Mens marriages;
when freezing December will match with flourishing May, and greene
desires appeare in age, beyond all possibility of performance. Nor
are there wanting good store of wanton Gallants, who hating to see
Beauty in this manner betrayed, and to the embraces of a loathed bed,
will make their folly seene in publike appearance, and by their daily
proffers of amorous services (seeming compassionate of the womans
disaster) are usually the cause of jealous suspitions, and very
heinous houshold discontentments.
  Among divers other, that faine would be nibling at this bayte of
beautie, there was one, named Ruggiero de Jeroly, of honourable
parentage, but yet of such a beboshed and disordered life, as
neither Kindred or Friends, were willing to take any knowledge of him,
but utterly gave him over to his dissolute courses: so that,
throughout all Salerne, his conditions caused his generall contempt,
and he accounted no better but even as a theeving and lewde company.
The Doctours Wife, had a Chamber-maide attending on her; who,
notwithstanding all the ugly deformities in Ruggiero, regarding more
his person then his imperfections (because he was a compleate and
well-featured youth) bestowed her affection most entirely on him,
and oftentimes did supplie his wants, with her owne best meanes.
  Ruggiero having this benefite of the Maides kinde love to him,
made it an hopefull mounting Ladder, whereby to derive some good
liking from the Mistresse, presuming rather on his outward comely
parts, then any other honest qualitie that might commend him. The
Mistresse knowing what choise her Maide had made, and unable by any
perswasions to remoove her, tooke knowledge of Ruggieroes private
resorting to her house, and in meere love to her Maide (who had very
many especiall deservings in her) oftentimes she would (in kinde
manner) rebuke him, and advise him to a more settled course of life;
which counsell, that it might take the better effect; she graced
with liberall gifts: one while with Golde, others with Silver, and
often with garments, for his comelier accesse thither; which bounty,
he (like a lewde mistaker) interpreted as assurances of her
affection to him, and that he was more gracefull in her eye, then
any man else could be.
  In the continuance of these proceedings, it came to passe, that
Master Doctor Mazzeo (being not onely a most expert Physitian, but
likewise as skilfull in Chirurgerie beside) had a Patient in cure, who
by great misfortune, had one of his legges broken all in pieces; which
some weaker judgement having formerly dealt withall, the bones and
sinewes were become so fowly putrified, as he tolde the parties
friends, that the legge must be quite cut off, or else the Patient
must needes dye: yet he intended so to order the matter, that the
perill should proceede no further, to prejudice any other part of
the body. The case beeing thus resolved on with the Pacient and his
Friends, the day and time was appointed when the deede should be done:
and the Doctor conceiving, that except the Patient were sleepily
entranced, he could not by any meanes endure the paine, but must
needes hinder what he meant to do: by distillation he made such an
artificiall Water, as (after the Patient hath received it) it will
procure a kinde of a dead sleepe, and endure so long a space, as
necessity requireth the use there of, in full performance of the
worke.
  After he had made this sleepy water, he put it into a glasse,
wherewith it was filled (almost) up to the brimme; and till the time
came when he should use it, hee set it in his owne Chamber-Window,
never acquainting any one, to what purpose he had provided the
water, nor what was his reason of setting it there; when it drew
towards the evening, and he was returned home from his pacients, a
Messenger brought him Letters from Malfy, concerning a great
conflict happening there betweene two Noble Families, wherein divers
were very dangerously wounded on either side, and without his speedy
repairing thither, it would prove to the losse of many lives.
Hereupon, the cure of the mans leg must needs be prolonged, untill
he was returned backe againe, in regard that many of the wounded
persons were his worthy friends, and liberall bounty was there to be
expected, which made him presently go aboord a small Barke, and
forthwith set away towards Malfy.
  This absence of Master Doctor Mazzeo, gave opportunity to
adventurous Ruggiero, to visite his house (he being gone) in hope to
get more Crownes, and curtisie from the Mistresse, under formall
colour of courting the Maide. And being closely admitted into the
house, when divers Neighbours were in conference with her Mistresse,
and held her with much pleasing discourse, as required longer time
then was expected: the Maide, had no other roome to conceale
Ruggiero in, but onely the bed Chamber of her Master, where she
lockt him in; because none of the houshold people should descry him,
and stayed attending on her Mistris, till all the Guests tooke their
leave, and were gone. Ruggiero thus remayning alone in the Chamber,
for the space of three long houres and more was visited neither by
Maide nor Mistris, but awaited when he should be set at liberty.
  Now, whether feeding on salt meates before his coming thither, or
customary use of drinking, which maketh men unable any long while to
abstaine as being never satisfied with excesse; which of these two
extreames they were, I know not: but drinke needs he must. And, having
no other meanes for quenching his thirst, espied the glasse of water
standing in the Window, and thinking it to be some soveraigne kinde of
water, reserved by the Doctor for his owne drinking, to make him lusty
in his old yeeres, he tooke the glasse; and finding the water pleasing
to his pallate, dranke it off every drop; then sitting downe on a
Coffer by the beds side, soone after he fell into a sound sleepe,
according to the powerfull working of the water.
  No sooner were all the Neighbours gone, and the Maide at liberty
from her Mistresse, but unlocking the doore, into the Chamber she
went; and finding Ruggiero sitting fast asleepe, she began to hunch
and punche him, entreating him (softly) to awake: but all was to no
purpose, for he neither moved, or answered one word; whereat her
patience being somewhat provoked, she punched him more rudely, and
angerly saide: Awake for shame thou drowsie dullard, and if thou be so
desirous of sleeping, get thee home to thine owne lodging, because
thou art not allowed to sleepe here. Ruggiero being thus rudely
punched, fell from off the Coffer flat on the ground, appearing no
other in all respects, then as if he were a dead body. Whereat the
Maide being fearfully amazed, plucking him by the nose and young
beard, and what else she could devise to do, yet all her labour
proving still in vaine: she was almost beside her wits, stamping and
raving all about the roome, as if sense and reason had forsaken her;
so violent was her extreame distraction.
  Upon the hearing of this noise, her Mistris came sodainely into
the Chamber, where being affrighted at so strange an accident, and
suspecting that Ruggiero was dead indeed: she pinched him strongly,
and burnt his finger with a candle, yet all was as fruitelesse as
before. Then sitting downe, she began to consider advisedly with her
selfe, how much her honour and reputation would be endangered
hereby, both with her Husband, and in vulgar opinion when this
should come to publike notice. For (quoth she to her Maide) it is
not thy fond love to this unruly fellow that can sway the censure of
the monster multitude, in beleeving his accesse hither onely to
thee: but my good name, and honest repute, as yet untoucht with the
very least taxation, will be rackt on the tenter of infamous
judgement, and (though never so cleare) branded with generall
condemnation. It is wisedome therefore, that we should make no noise
but (in silence) consider with our selves, how to cleare the house
of this dead body, by some such helpfull and witty device, as when
it shall be found in the morning, his being here may passe without
suspition, and the worlds rash opinion no way touch US.
  Weeping and lamenting is now laid aside, and all hope in them of his
lives restoring: onely to rid his body but of the house, that now
requires their care and cunning: whereupon the Maide thus began.
Mistresse (quoth she) this evening, although it was very late, at
our next Neighbours doore (who you know is a joyner by his trade) I
saw a great Chest stand; and, as it seemeth, for a publike sale,
because two or three nights together, it hath not bene thence removed:
and if the owner have not lockt it, all invention else cannot
furnish us with the like helpe. For therein will we lay his body,
whereon I will bestow two or three wounds with my Knife, and leaving
him so, our house can be no more suspected concerning his being
here, then any other in the streete beside; nay rather farre lesse, in
regard of your husbands credite and authority. Moreover, hereof I am
certaine, that he being of such bad and disordered qualities: it
will the more likely be imagined, that he was slaine by some of his
own loose companions, being with them about some pilfering busines,
and afterward hid his body in the chest, it standing so fitly for
the purpose, and darke night also favouring the deed.
  The Maids counsell past under the seale of allowance, only her
Mistris thought it not convenient, that (having affected hirn so
deerely) she should mangle his body with any wounds; but rather to let
it be gathered by more likely-hood, that villaines had strangled
him, and then conveyed his body into the Chest. Away she sends the
Maide, to see whether the Chest stood there still, or no; as indeede
it did, and unlockt, whereof they were not a little joyfull. By the
helpe of her Mistresse, the Maide tooke Ruggiero upon her shoulders,
and bringing him to the doore, with dilligent respect that no one
could discover them; in the Chest they laide him, and so there left
him, closing downe the lidde according as they found it.
  In the same streete, and not farre from the joyner, dwelt two yong
men who were Lombards, living upon the interest of their moneyes,
coveting to get much, and to spend little. They having observed
where the Chest stood, and wanting a necessary mooveable to
houshold, yet loath to lay out money for buying it: complotted
together this very night, to steale it thence, and carry it home to
their house, as accordingly they did; finding it somewhat heavy, and
therefore imagining, that matter of woorth was contained therein. In
the Chamber where their wives lay, they left it; and so without any
further search till the next morning, they laid them downe to rest
likewise.
  Ruggiero, who had now slept a long while, the drinke being digested,
and the vertue thereof fully consummated; began to awake before day.
And although his naturall sleepe was broken, and his senses had
recovered their former power, yet notwithstanding, there remained such
an astonishment in his braine, as not onely did afflict him all the
day following, but also divers dayes and nights afterward. Having
his eyes wide open, and yet not discerning any thing, he stretched
forth his armes every where about him, and finding himselfe to be
enclosed in the Chest, he grew more broad awake, and said to himselfe.
What is this? Where am I? Do I wake or steepe? Full well I remember,
that not long since I was in my sweet-hearts Chamber, and now (me
thinkes) I am mewed up in a Chest. What should I thinke hereof? Is
Master Doctor returned home, or hath some other inconvenience happned,
whereby finding me a sleepe, she was enforced to hide me thus?
Surely it is so, and otherwise it cannot be: wherefore, it is best for
me to lye still, and listen when I can heare any talking in the
Chamber.
  Continuing thus a longer while then otherwise he would have done,
because his lying in the bare Chest was somewhat uneasie and
painfull to him; turning divers times on the one side, and then as
often againe on the other, coveting still for ease, yet could not
finde any: at length, he thrust his backe so strongly against the
Chests side, that (it standing on an un-even ground) it began to
totter, and after fell downe. In which fall, it made so loud a
noise, as the women (lying in the beds standing by) awaked, and were
so overcome with feare, that they had not the power to speake one
word. Ruggiero also being affrighted with the Chests fall, and
perceiving how by that meanes it was become open, he thought it
better, least some other sinister fortune should befall him, to be
at open liberty, then inclosed up so strictly. And because he knew not
where he was, as also hoping to meete with his Mistresse; he went
all about groping in the darke, to find either some staires or
doore, whereby to get forth.
  When the Women (being then awake) heard his trampling, as also his
justling against the doores and windowes; they demaunded, Who was
there? Ruggiero, not knowing their voyces, made them no answer;
wherefore they called to their husbands, who lay very soundly sleeping
by them, by reason of their so late walking abroad, and therefore
heard not this noise in the house. This made the Women much more
timorous, and therefore rising out of their beddes, they opened the
Casement towards the streete, crying out aloude, Theeves, Theeves. The
neighbours arose upon this outcry, running up and downe from place
to place, some engirting the house, and others entering into it: by
means of which troublesome noise, the two Lombards awaked, and seizing
there upon poore Ruggiero (who was well-neere affrighted out of his
wittes, at so strange an accident, and his owne ignorance, how he
happened thither, and how to escape from them) he stood gazing on them
without any answer.
  By this time, the Sergeants and other Officers of the City,
ordinarily attending on the Magistrate, being raised by the tumult
of this uproare, were come into the house, and had poore Ruggiero
committed unto their charge: who bringing him before the Governor, was
forthwith called in question, and known to be of a most wicked life, a
shame to all his friends and kindred. He could say little for
himselfe, never denying his taking in the house, and therefore
desiring to finish all his fortunes together, desperately confessed,
that he came with a fellonious intent to rob them, and the Governor
gave him sentence to be hanged.
  Soone were the newes spread throughout Salerne; that Ruggiero was
apprehended, about robbing the house of the two usuring Lombardes:
which when Mistresse Doctor and her Chamber-maide heard, they were
confounded with most strange admiration, and scarsely credited what
they themselves had done the night before, but rather imagined all
matters past, to be no more than meerely a dreame, concerning
Ruggieroes dying in the house, and their putting him into the Chest,
so that by no likely or possible meanes, he could be the man in this
perillous extreamitie.
  In a short while after, Master Doctor Mazzeo was returned from
Malfy, to proceede in his cure of the poore mans legge; and calling
for his glasse of Water, which he left standing in his owne Chamber
window, it was found quite empty, and not a drop in it: whereat he
raged so extreamly, as never had the like impatience bene noted in
him. His wife, and her Maide, who had another kinde of businesse in
their braine, about a dead man so strangely come to life againe,
knew not well what to say; but at the last, his Wife thus replyed
somewhat angerly. Sir (quoth she) what a coyle is here about a
paltry glasse of Water, which perhaps hath bene spilt, yet neyther
of us faulty therein? Is there no more such water to be had in the
world? Alas deere Wife (saide he) you might repute it to be a common
kinde of Water, but indeed it was not so; for I did purposely compound
it, onely to procure a dead seeming sleepe: And so related the whole
matter at large, of the Pacients legge, and his Waters losse.
  When she had heard these words of her husband, presently she
conceived, that the water was drunke off by Ruggiero, which had so
sleepily entranced his sences, as they verily thought him to be
dead, wherefore she saide. Beleeve me Sir, you never acquainted us
with any such matter, which would have procured more carefull
respect of it: but seeing it is gone, your skill extendeth to make
more, for now there is no other remedy. While thus Master Doctor and
his Wife were conferring together, the Maide went speedily into the
City, to understand truly, whither the condemned man was Ruggiero, and
what would now become of him. Being returned home againe, and alone
with her Mistresse in the Chamber, thus she spake. Now trust me
Mistresse, not one in the City speaketh well of Ruggiero, who is the
man condemned to dye; and, for ought I can perceive, he hath neither
Kinsman nor Friend that will doe any thing for him; but he is left
with the Provost, and must be executed to morrow morning. Moreover
Mistresse, by such instructions as I have received, I can well-neere
informe you, by what meanes he came to the two Lombards house, if
all be true that I have heard.
  You know the joyner before whose doore the Chest stoode, wherein
we did put Ruggiero; there is now a contention betweene him and
another man, to whom (it seemeth) the Chest doth belong; in regard
whereof, they are ready to quarrell extreamly each with other. For the
one owing the Chest, and trusting the joyner to sell it for him, would
have him to pay him for the Chest. The joyner denieth any sale
thereof, avouching, that the last night it was stolne from his
doore. Which the other man contrarying, maintaineth that he solde
the Chest to the two Lombard usurers, as himselfe is able to
affirme, because he found it in the house, when he (being present at
the apprehension of Ruggiero) sawe it there in the same house.
Hereupon, the joyner gave him the lye, because he never sold it to any
man; but if it were there, they had robd him of it, as he would make
it manifest to their faces. Then falling into clamerous speeches
they went together to the Lombardes house, even as I returned home.
Wherefore Mistresse, as you may easily perceive, Ruggiero was
(questionlesse) carried thither in the Chest, and so there found;
but how he revived againe, I cannot comprehend.
  The Mistresse understanding now apparantly, the full effect of the
whole businesse, and in what manner it had bene carried, revealed to
the Maide her husbands speeches, concerning the glasse of sleepie
Water, which was the onely engine of all this trouble, clearly
acquitting Ruggiero of the robbery, howsoever (in desparate fury,
and to make an end of a life so contemptible) he had wrongfully
accused himselfe. And notwithstanding this his hard fortune, which
hath made him much more infamous then before, in all the dissolute
behaviour of his life: yet it could not quaile her affection towards
him; but being loath he should dye for some other mans offence, and
hoping his future reformation; she fell on her knees before her
Mistresse, and (drowned in her teares) most earnestly entreated her,
to advise her with some such happy course, as might be the safety of
poore Ruggieroes life. Mistresse Doctor, affecting her Maide
dearely, and plainely perceiving, that no disastrous fortune
whatsoever, could alter her love to condemned Ruggiero; hoping the
best hereafter, as the Maide her selfe did, and willing to save life
rather then suffer it to be lost without just cause, she directed
her in such discreet manner, as you will better conceive by the
successe.
  According as she was instructed by her Mistresse, she fell at the
feete of Master Doctor, desiring him to pardon a great error,
whereby she had over-much offended him. As how? said Master Doctor. In
this manner (quoth the Maide) and thus proceeded. You are not ignorant
Sir, what a lewde liver Ruggiero de Jeroly is, and notwithstanding all
his imperfections, how deerely I love him, as he protesteth the like
to me, and thus hath our love continued a yeere, and more. You being
gone to Malfy, and your absence granting me apt opportunity, for
conference with so kinde a friend; I made the bolder, and gave him
entrance into your house, yea even into mine owne Chamber, yet free
from any abuse, neither did he (bad though he be) offer any. Thirsty
he was before his comming thither, either by salt meat, or distempered
diet, and I being unable to fetch him wine or water, by reason my
Mistresse sat in the Hall, seriously talking with her Sisters;
remembred, that I saw a violl of Water standing in your Chamber
Window, which he drinking quite off, I set it empty in the place
againe. I have heard your discontentment for the said Water, and
confesse my fault to you therein: but who liveth so justly, without
offending at one time or other? And I am heartily sory for my
transgression; yet not so much for the water, as the hard fortune that
hath followed thereon; because thereby Ruggiero is in danger to lose
his life, and all my hopes are utterly lost. Let me entreat you
therefore (gentle Master) first to pardon me, and then to grant me
permission, to succour my poore condemned friend, by all the best
meanes I can devise.
  When the Doctor had heard all her discourse, angry though he were,
yet thus he answered with a smile. Much better had it bin, if thy
follies punishment had falne on thy selfe, that it might have paide
thee with deserved repentance, upon thy Mistresses finding thee
sleeping. But go and get his deliverance if thou canst, with this
caution, that if ever hereafter he be seene in my house, the perill
thereof shall light on thy selfe. Receiving this answer, for her first
entrance into the attempt, and as her Mistresse had advised her, in
all hast she went to the prison, where she prevailed so well with
the Jaylor, that hee granted her private conference with Ruggiero. She
having instructed him what he should say to the Provost, if he had any
purpose to escape with life; went thither before him to the Provost,
who admitting her into his presence, and knowing that shee was
Master Doctors Maid, a man especially respected of all the City, he
was the more willing to heare her message, he imagining that shee
was sent by her Master.
  Sir (quoth shee) you have apprehended Ruggiero de Jeroly, as a
theefe, and judgement of death is (as I heare) pronounced against him:
but hee is wrongfully accused, and is clearly innocent of such a
heinous detection. So entring into the History, she declared every
circumstance, from the originall to the end: relating truly, that
being her Lover, shee brought him into her Masters house, where he
dranke the compounded sleepy water, and reputed for dead, she laide
him in the Chest. Afterward, she rehearsed the speeches betweene the
Joyner, and him that laide claime to the Chest, giving him to
understand thereby, how Ruggiero was taken in the Lombards house.
  The Provost presently gathering, that the truth in this case was
easie to be knowne; sent first for Master Doctor Mazzeo, to know,
whether he compounded any such water, or no: which he affirmed to be
true, and upon what occasion he prepared it. Then the Joyner, the
owner of the Chest, and the two Lombards, being severally questioned
withall: it appeared evidently, that the Lombards did steale the Chest
in the night season, and carried it home to their owne house. In the
end, Ruggiero being brought from the prison, and demanded, where he
was lodged the night before, made answer, that he knew not where.
Onely he well remembred, that bearing affection to the Chamber-maide
of Master Doctor Mazzeo della Montagna, she brought him into a
Chamber, where a violl of water stoode in the Window, and he being
extreamly thirsty, dranke it off all. But what became of him afterward
(till being awake, he found himselfe enclosed in a Chest, and in the
house of the two Lombards) he could not say any thing.
  When the Provost had heard all their answers, which he caused them
to repeate over divers times, in regard they were very pleasing to
him: he cleared Ruggiero from the crime imposed on him, and
condemned the Lombards in three hundred Ducates, to be given to
Ruggiero in way of an amends, and to enable his marriage with the
Doctors Mayde, whose constancie was much commended, and wrought such a
miracle on penitent Ruggiero; that after his marriage, which was
graced with great and honourable pompe, he regained the intimate
love of all his kindred, and lived in most Noble condition, even as if
he had never bene any disordered man.
  If the former Novels had made all the Ladies sad and sighe, this
last of Dioneus as much delighted them, as restoring them to their
former jocond humor, and banishing Tragicall discourse for ever. The
King perceiving that the Sun was neere setting, and his government
as neere ending, with many kinde and courteous speeches, excused
himselfe to the Ladies, for being the motive of such an argument, as
expressed the infelicity of poore Lovers. And having finished his
excuse, up he rose, taking the Crown of Lawrell from off his owne
head, the Ladies awaiting on whose head he pleased next to set it,
which proved to be the gracious Lady Fiammetta, and thus he spake.
Here I place this Crowne on her head, that knoweth better then any
other, how to comfort this faire assembly to morrow, for the sorrow
which they have this day endured.
  Madame Fiammetta, whose lockes of haire were curled, long, and
like golden wiers, hanging somewhat downe over her white and
delicate shoulders, her visage round, wherein the Damaske Rose and
Lilly contended for priority, the eyes in her head, resembling those
of the Faulcon messenger, and a dainty mouth; her lippes looking
like two little Rubyes, with a commendable smile thus she replyed.
  Philostratus, gladly I do accept your gift; and to the end that ye
may the better remember your selfe, concerning what you have done
hitherto: I will and command, that generall preparation be made
against to morrow, for faire and happy fortunes hapning to Lovers,
after former cruell and unkinde accidents. Which proposition was
very pleasing to them all.
  Then calling for the Master of the Houshold, and taking order with
him, what was most needfull to be done; she gave leave unto the
whole company (who were all risen) to go recreate themselves untill
supper time. Some of them walked about the Garden, the beauty
whereof banished the least thought of wearinesse. Others walked by the
River to the Mill, which was not farre off, and the rest fell to
exercises, fitting their owne fancies, untill they heard the summons
for Supper. Hard by the goodly Fountaine (according to their wonted
manner) they supped altogether, and were served to their no meane
contentment: but being risen from the Table, they fell to their
delight of singing and dancing. While Philomena led the dance, the
Queene spake in this manner.
  Philostratus, I intend not to varie from those courses heretofore
observed by my predecessors, but even as they have already done, so it
is my authority, to command a Song. And because I am well assured,
that you are not unfurnished of Songs answerable to the quality of the
passed Novels: my desire is, in regard we would not be troubled
hereafter, with any more discourses of unfortunate Love, that you
shall sing a Song agreeing with your owne disposition. Philostratus
made answer, that hee was ready to accomplish her command, and without
all further ceremony, thus he began.

                  THE SONG

        Chorus. My teares do plainly prove,
  How justly that poore heart hath cause to greeve
  Which (under trust) findes Treason in his Love.

  When first I saw her, that now makes me sigh,
  Distrust did never enter in my thoughts.
  So many vertues clearly shin'd in her,
  That I esteem'd all martyrdome was light
  Which Love could lay on me. Nor did I greeve,
  Although I found my liberty was lost.
  But now mine error I do plainly see:
  Not without sorrow, thus betray'd to bee.
        My teares do, etc.

  For, being left by basest treachery
  Of her in whom I most reposed trust:
  I then could see apparant flatterie
  In all the fairest shewes that she did make.
  But when I strove to get forth of the snare,
  I found my selfe the further plunged in.
  For I beheld another in my place,
  And I cast off, with manifest disgrace.
        My, etc.

  Then felt my heart such hels of heavy woes,
  Not utterable. I curst the day and houre
  When first I saw her lovely countenance,
  Enricht with beautie, farre beyond all other:
  Which set my soule on fire, enflamde each part,
  Making a martyrdome of my poore hart.
  My faith and hope being basely thus betrayde;
  I durst not moove, to speake I was affrayde.
        My teares do, etc.

  Thou canst (thou powerfull God of Love) perceive,
  My ceasselesse sorrow, voyde of any comfort:
  I make my moane to thee, and do not fable,
  Desiring, that to end my misery,
  Death may come speedily, and with his Dart
  With one fierce stroke, quite passing through my heart:
  To cut off future fell contending strife,
  An happy end be made of Love and Life.
        My teares do, etc.

  No other meanes of comfort doth remaine,
  To ease me of such sharpe afflictions,
  But onely death. Grant then that I may die,
  To finish greefe and life in one blest houre.
  For, being bereft of any future joyes,
  Come, take me quickly from so false a friend.
  Yet in my death, let thy great power approve,
  That I died true, and constant in my Love.
        My teares do, etc.

  Happy shall I account this sighing Song,
  If some (beside my selfe) do learne to sing it,
  And so consider of my miseries,
  As may incite them to lament my wrongs.
  And to be warned by my wretched fate;
  Least (like my selfe) themselves do sigh too late.
  Learne Lovers, learne, what tis to be unjust,
  And be betrayed, where you repose best trust.

  The words contained in this Song, did manifestly declare, what
torturing afflictions poore Philostratus felt, and more (perhaps)
had beene perceived by the lookes of the Lady whom he spake of,
being then present in the dance; if the sodaine ensuing darknesse
had not hid the crimson blush, which mounted up into her face. But the
Song being ended, and divers other beside, lasting till the houre of
rest drew on; by command of the Queene, they all repaired to their
Chambers.
                    THE INDUCTION TO THE FIFT DAY

  WHEREON, ALL THE DISCOURSES DO PASSE UNDER THE GOVERNMENT OF THE
  MOST NOBLE LADY FIAMMETTA: CONCERNING SUCH PERSONS, AS HAVE BENE
            SUCCESSEFULL IN THEIR LOVE, AFTER MANY HARD AND
                      PERILLOUS MISFORTUNES

  Now began the Sunne to dart foorth his golden beames, when Madam
Fiammetta (incited by the sweete singing Birdes, which since the
breake of day, sat merrily chanting on the trees) arose from her
bed: as all the other Ladies likewise did, and the three young
Gentlemen descending downe into the fields, where they walked in a
gentle pace on the greene grasse, untill the Sunne were risen a little
higher. On many pleasant matters they conferred together, as they
walked in severall companies, till at the length the Queene, finding
the heate to enlarge it selfe strongly, returned backe to the
Castle; where when they were all arrived, she commanded, that after
this mornings walking, their stomackes should be refreshed with
wholsom Wines, as also divers sorts of banquetting stuffe.
Afterward, they all repaired into the Garden, not departing thence,
the houre of dinner was come: at which time, the Master of the
houshold, having prepared every thing in decent readinesse, after a
solemne song was sung, by order from the Queene, they were seated:
  When they had dined, to their own liking and contentment, they began
(in continuation of their former order) to exercise divers dances, and
afterward voyces to their instruments, and many pretty Madrigals and
Roundelayes. Upon the finishing of these delights, the Queene gave
them leave to take their rest, when such as were so minded, went to
sleep, others solaced themselves in the Garden. But after midday was
overpast, they met (according to their wonted manner) and as the
Queene had commanded, at the faire Fountaine; where she being placed
in her seate royall, and casting her eye upon Pamphilus, she bad him
begin the dayes discourses, of happy successe in love, after
disastrous and troublesome accidents; who yeelding thereto with humble
reverence, thus began.
  Many Novels (gracious Ladies) do offer themselves to my memory,
wherewith to beginne so pleasant a day, as it is her Highnesse
desire that this should be: among which plenty, I esteeme one above
all the rest, because you may comprehend thereby, not onely the
fortunate conclusion, wherewith we intend to begin our day; but
also, how mighty the forces of Love are, deserving to be both
admired and reverenced. Albeit there are many, who scarsely knowing
what they say, do condemne them with infinite grosse imputations:
which I purpose to disprove, and (I hope) to your no little pleasing.
                     THE FIFT DAY, THE FIRST NOVELL

       WHEREBY THAT LOVE (OFTENTIMES) MAKETH A MAN BOTH WISE AND
                                VALIANT

  Chynon, by falling in Love, became wise, and by force of Armes,
winning his faire Lady Iphigenia on the Seas, was afterward imprisoned
at Rhodes. Being delivered by anyone named Lysimachus, with him he
recovered his Iphigenia againe, and faire Cassandra, even in the
middest of their marriage. They fled with them into Candye, where
after they had married them, they were called home to their owne
dwelling.

  According to the ancient Annales of the Cypriots, there sometime
lived in Cyprus, a Noble Gentleman, who was commonly called
Aristippus, and exceeded all other of the Country in the goods of
Fortune. Divers children he had, but (amongst the rest) a Sonne, in
whose birth he was more infortunate then any of the rest; and
continually greeved, in regard, that having all the compleate
perfections of beauty, good forme, and manly parts, surpassing all
other youths of his age or stature, yet hee wanted the reall
ornament of the soule, reason and judgement; being (indeed a meere
Ideot or Foole,) and no better hope to be expected of him. His true
name, according as he received it by Baptisme, was Galesus, but
because neyther by the laborious paines of his Tutors indulgence,
and faire endevour of his parents, or ingenuity of any other, he could
not be brought to civility of life, understanding of Letters, or
common carriage of a reasonable creature: by his grosse and deformed
kinde of speech, his qualities also savouring rather of brutish
breeding, then any way derived from manly education; as an Epithite of
scorne and derision, generally, they gave him the name of Chynon,
which in their native Countrey language, and divers other beside,
signifieth a very Sot or Foole, and so was he termed by every one.
  This lost kinde of life in him, was no meane burthen of greefe
unto his Noble Father, and all hope being already spent, of any future
happy recovery, he gave command (because he would not alwaies have
such a sorrow in his sight) that he should live at a Farme of his owne
in a Country Village, among his Peazants and Plough-Swaines. Which was
not any way distastefull to Chynon, but well agreed with his owne
naturall disposition; for their rurall qualities, and grosse behaviour
pleased him beyond the Cities civility. Chynon living thus at his
Fathers Countrey Village, exercising nothing else but rurall
demeanour, such as then delighted him above all other: it chanced upon
a day about the houre of noone, as hee was walking over the fields,
with a long staffe on his necke, which commonly he used to carry; he
entred in to a small thicket, reputed the goodliest in all those
quarters, and by reason it was then the month of May, the Trees had
their leaves fairely shot forth.
  When he had walked through the thicket, it came to passe, that (even
as good Fortune guided him) hee came into a faire Meadow, on every
side engirt with and in one corner thereof stoode a goodly
Fountaine, whose current was both coole and cleare. Hard by it, upon
the greene grasse, he espied a very beautifull young Damosell, seeming
to be fast asleepe, attired in such fine loose garments, as hidde very
little of her white body: onely from the girdle downward, she ware a
kirtle made close unto her, of interwoven delicate silke; and at her
feete lay two other Damosels sleeping, and a servant in the same
manner. No sooner had Chynon fixed his eye upon her, but he stood
leaning upon his staffe; and viewed her very advisedly, without
speaking word, and in no meane admiration, as if he had never seene
the forme of a woman before. He began then to feele in his harsh
rurall understanding (whereinto never till now, either by painfull
instruction, or all other good meanes used to him, any honest civility
had power of impression) a strange kinde of humour to awake, which
informed his grosse and dull spirite, that this Damosell was the
very fairest, which ever any living man beheld.
  Then he began to distinguish her parts, commending the tresses of
her haire, which he imagined to be of gold; her forehead, nose, mouth,
necke, armes, but (above all) her brests, appearing (as yet) but onely
to shew themselves, like two little mountaines. So that, of a
fielden clownish lout, he would needs now become a Judge of beauty,
coveting earnestly in his soule, to see her eyes, which were veiled
over with sound sleepe, that kept them fast enclosed together, and
onely to looke on them, hee wished a thousand times, that she would
awake. For, in his judgement, she excelled all the women that ever
he had seene, and doubted, whether she were some Goddesse or no; so
strangely was he metamorphosed from folly, to a sensible apprehension,
more then common. And so farre did this sodaine knowledge in him
extend; that he could conceive of divine and celestiall things, and
that they were more to be admired and reverenced, then those of humane
or terrene consideration; wherefore the more gladly he contented
himselfe, to tarry till she awaked of her owne accord. And although
the time of stay seemed tedious to him, yet notwithstanding, he was
overcome with such extraordinary contentment, as he had no power to
depart thence, but stood as if he had bin glued fast to the ground.
  After some indifferent respite of time, it chanced that the young
Damosel (who was named Iphigenia) awaked before any of the other
with her, and lifted up her head, with her eyes wide open, she saw
Chynon standing before her, leaning still on his staffe; whereat
marvailing not a little, she saide unto him: Chynon, whither wanderest
thou, or what dost thou seeke for in this wood? Chynon, who not
onely by his countenance but likewise his folly, Nobility of birth,
and wealthy possessions of his father, was generally knowne throughout
the Countrey, made no answere at all to the demand of Iphigenia: but
so soone as he beheld her eyes open, he began to observe them with a
constant regard, and being perswaded in his soule, that from them
flowed such an unutterable singularity, as he had never felt till
then. Which the young Gentlewoman well noting, she began to wax
fearefull, least these stedfast lookes of his, should incite his
rusticity to some attempt, which might redound to her dishonour:
wherefore awaking her women and servants, and they all being risen,
she saide. Farewell Chynon, I leave thee to thine owne good Fortune;
whereto hee presently replyed, saying: I will go with you. Now,
although the Gentlewoman refused his company, as dreading some acte of
incivility from him: yet could she not devise any way to be rid of
him, till he had brought her to her owne dwelling, where taking
leave mannerly of her, he went directly home to his Fathers house,
saying: Nothing should compell him to live any longer in the muddy
Country. And albeit his Father was much offended hereat, and all the
rest of his kindred and friends: (yet not knowing how to helpe it)
they suffered him to continue there still, expecting the cause of this
his so sodaine alteration, from the course of life, which contented
him so highly before.
  Chynon being now wounded to the heart (where never any civill
instruction could before get entrance) with loves piercing dart, by
the bright beauty of Iphigenia, mooved much admiration (falling from
one change to another) in his Father, Kindred, and all else that
knew him. For first, he requested of his Father, that he might be
habited and respected like to his other Brethren, whereto right gladly
he condiscended. And frequenting the company of civill youths,
observing also the cariage of Gentlemen, especially such as were
amorously enclined: he grew to a beginning in short time (to the
wonder of every one) not onely to understand the first instruction
of letters, but also became most skilfull, even amongst them that were
best exercised in Philosophy. And afterward, love to Iphigenia being
the sole occasion of this happy alteration, not onely did his harsh
and clownish voyce convert it selfe more mildely, but also hee
became a singular Musitian, and could perfectly play on any
instrument. Beside, he tooke delight in the riding and managing of
great horses, and finding himselfe of a strong and able body, he
exercised all kinds of Military Disciplines, as well by Sea, as on the
land. And, to be breefe, because I would not seeme tedious in the
repetition of all his vertues, scarsly had he attained to the fourth
yeare, after he was thus falne in love, but hee became generally
knowne, to be the most civil, wise, and worthy Gentleman, aswell for
all vertues enriching the minde, as any whatsoever to beautifie the
body, that very hardly he could be equalled throughout the whole
kingdome of Cyprus.
 What shall we say then (vertuous Ladies) concerning this Chynon?
Surely nothing else, but that those high and divine vertues, infused
into his gentle soule, were by envious Fortune bound and shut up in
some small angle of his intellect, which being shaken and set at
liberty by love, (as having a farre more potent power then Fortune, in
quickning and reviving the dull drowsie spirits) declared his mighty
and soveraigne Authority, in setting free so many faire and precious
vertues unjustly detayned, to let the worlds eye behold them truly, by
manifest testimony from whence he can deliver those spirits
subjected to his power, and guid them (afterward) to the highest
degrees of honour. And although Chynon by affecting Iphigenia,
failed in some particular things; yet notwithstanding, his Father
Aristippus duely considering, that love had made him a man, whereas
(before) he was no better then a beast: not onely endured all
patiently, but also advised him therein, to take such courses as
best liked himselfe. Neverthelesse, Chynon (who refused to be called
Galesus, which was his naturall name indeed) remembring that Iphigenia
tearmed him Chynon, and coveting (under this title) to accomplish
the issue of his honest amorous desire: made many motions to
Ciphaeus the Father of Iphigenia, that he would be pleased to let
him enjoy her in marriage. But Ciphaeus told him, that he had
already passed his promise for her, to a Gentleman of Rhodes, named
Pasimondo, which promise he religiously intended to performe.
  The time being come, which was concluded on for Iphigeniaes
marriage, in regard that the affianced husband had sent for her:
Chynon thus communed with his owne thoughts. Now is the time (quoth
he) to let my divine Mistresse see, how truly and honourably I doe
affect her, because (by her) I am become a man. But if I could be
possessed of her, I should growe more glorious, then the common
condition of a mortall man, and have her I will, or loose my life in
the adventure. Being thus resolved, he prevailed with divers young
Gentlemen his friends, making them of his faction, and secretly
prepared a Shippe, furnished with all things for a Naval fight,
setting sodainly forth to Sea, and hulling abroad in those parts by
which the vessell should passe, that must convey Iphigenia to Rhodes
to her husband. After many honours done to them, who were to transport
her thence unto Rhodes, being imbarked, they set saile upon their
Bon viaggio.
  Chynon, who slept not in a businesse so earnestly importing him, set
on them (the day following) with his Ship, and standing aloft on the
decke, cryed out to them that had the charge of Iphigenia, saying.
Strike your sayles, or else determine to be sunke in the Sea. The
enemies to Chynon, being nothing danted with his words, prepared to
stand upon their owne defence; which made Chynon, after the former
speeches delivered, and no answer returned, to command the grapling
Irons to be cast forth, which tooke such fast hold on the Rhodians
shippe, that (whether they would or no) both the vessels joyned
close together. And he shewing himselfe fierce like a Lyon, not
tarrying to be seconded by any, stepped aboord the Rhodians ship, as
if he made no respect at all of them, and having his sword ready
drawne in his hand (incited by the vertue of unfaigned love) laied
about him on all sides very manfully. Which when the men of Rhodes
perceived, casting downe their weapons, and all of them (as it were)
with one voyce, yeelded themselves his prisoners: whereupon he said.
  Honest Friends, neither desire of booty, nor hatred to you, did
occasion my departure from Cyprus, thus to assaile you with drawne
weapons: but that which hereto hath most mooved me, is a matter highly
importing to me, and very easie for you to grant, and so enjoy your
present peace. I desire to have faire Iphigenia from you, whom I
love above all other Ladies living, because I could not obtaine her of
her father, to make her my lawfull wife in marriage. Love is the
ground of my instant Conquest, and I must use you as my mortall
enemies, if you stand upon any further tearmes with me, and do not
deliver her as mine owne: for your Pasimondo, must not enjoy what is
my right, first by vertue of my love, and now by Conquest: Deliver her
therefore, and depart hence at your pleasure.
  The men of Rhodes, being rather constrained thereto, then of any
free disposition in themselves, with teares in their eyes, delivered
Iphigenia to Chynon; who beholding her in like manner to weepe, thus
spake unto her. Noble Lady, do not any way discomfort your selfe,
for I am your Chynon, who have more right and true title to you, and
much better doe deserve to enjoy you, by my long continued affection
to you, then Pasimondo can any way plead; because you belong to him
but onely by promise. So, bringing her aboord his owne ship, where the
Gentlemen his companions gave her kinde welcome, without touching
any thing else belonging to the Rhodians, he gave them free liberty to
depart.
  Chynon being more joyfull, by the obtaining of his hearts desire,
then any other conquest else in the world could make him, after he had
spent some time in comforting Iphigenia, who as yet sate sadly
sighing; he consulted with his companions, who joyned with him in
opinion, that their safest course was, by no meanes to returne to
Cyprus; and therefore all (with one consent) resolved to set saile for
Candye, where every one made account, but especially Chynon, in regard
of ancient and new combined Kindred, as also very intimate friends, to
finde very worthy entertainement, and so to continue there safely with
Iphigenia. But Fortune, who was so favourable to Chynon, in granting
him so pleasing a Conquest, to shew her constancy, so sodainly changed
the inestimable joy of our jocond Lover, into as heavy sorrow and
disaster. For, foure houres were not fully compleated, since his
departure from the Rhodians, but darke night came upon them, and he
sitting conversing with his faire Mistresse, in the sweetest solace of
his soule; the winds began to blow roughly, the Seas swelled
angerly, and a tempest arose impetuously, that no man could see what
his duty was to do, in such a great unexpected distresse, nor how to
warrant themselves from perishing.
  If this accident were displeasing to poore Chynon, I thinke the
question were in vaine demanded: for now it seemeth to him, that the
Godds had granted his cheefe desire, to the end he should dye with the
greater anguish, in losing both his love and life together. His
friends likewise, felte the selfesame affliction, but especially
Iphigenia, who wept and greeved beyond all measure, to see the ship
beaten with such stormy billowes, as threatned her sinking every
minute. Impatiently she cursed the love of Chynon, greatly blaming his
desperate boldnesse, and maintaining, that so violent a tempest
could never happen, but onely by the Gods displeasure, who would not
permit him to have a wife against their will; and therefore thus
punished his proud presumption, not onely in his unavoidable death,
but also that her life must perish for company.
  She continuing in these wofull lamentations, and the Mariners
labouring all in vaine, because the violence of the tempest
encreased more and more, so that every moment they expected
wracking: they were carried (contrary to their owne knowledge) very
neere unto the Isle of Rhodes, which they being no way able to
avoyd, and utterly ignorant of the Coast; for safety of their lives,
they laboured to land there if possibly they might. Wherein Fortune
was somewhat furtherous to them, driving them into a small gulfe of
the Sea, whereinto (but a little while before) the Rhodians, from whom
Chynon had taken Iphigenia, were newly entred with their ship. Nor had
they any knowledge each of other, till the breake of day (which made
the heavens to looke more clearly) gave them discovery of being within
a flight shoote together. Chynon looking forth, and espying the same
ship which he had left the day before, hee grew exceeding
sorrowfull, as fearing that which after followed, and therefore hee
willed the Mariners, to get away from her by all their best endeavour,
and let fortune afterward dispose of them as she pleased; for into a
worse place they could not come, nor fall into the like danger.
  The Mariners employed their very utmost paines, and all proved but
losse of time: for the winde was so sterne, and the waves so
turbulent, that still they drove them the contrary way: so that
striving to get forth of the gulfe, whether they would or no, they
were driven on land, and instantly knowne to the Rhodians, whereof
they were not a little joyfull. The men of Rhodes being landed, ran
presently to the neere-neighbouring Villages, where dwelt divers
worthy Gentlemen, to whom they reported the arrivall of Chynon, what
fortune befell them at Sea, and that Iphigenia might now be
recovered againe with chastisement to Chynon for his bold insolence.
They being very joyfull of these good newes, took so many men as
they could of the same Village, and ran immediately to the Sea side,
where Chynon being newly Landed and his people, intending flight
into a neere adjoyning Forrest, for defence of himselfe and Iphigenia,
they were all taken, led thence to the Village, and afterwards to
the chiefe City of Rhodes.
  No sooner were they arrived, but Pasimondo, the intended Husband for
Iphigenia (who had already heard the tydings) went and complained to
the Senate, who appointed a Gentleman of Rhodes named Lysimachus,
and being that yeere soveraigne Magistrate over the Rhodians, to go
well provided for the apprehension of Chynon and his company,
committing them to prison, which accordingly was done. In this manner,
the poore unfortunate lover Chynon, lost his faire Iphigenia, having
won her in so short a while before, and scarsely requited with so much
as a kisse. But as for Iphigenia, she was royally welcommed by many
Lords and Ladies of Rhodes, who so kindely comforted her, that she
soone forgotte all her greefe and trouble on the Sea, remaining in
company of those Ladies and Gentlewomen, untill the day determined for
her marriage.
  At the earnest entreaty of divers Rhodian Gentlemen, who were in the
Ship with Iphigenia, and had their lives courteously saved by
Chynon: both he and his friends had their lives likewise spared,
although Pasimondo laboured importunately, to have them all put to
death; onely they were condemned to perpetuall imprisonment, which
(you must thinke) was most greevous to them, as being now hopelesse of
any deliverance. But in the meane time, while Pasimondo was ordering
his nuptiall preparation, Fortune seeming to repent the wrongs she had
done to Chynon, prepared a new accident, whereby to comfort him in
this deepe distresse, and in such manner as I will relate unto you.
  Pasimondo had a Brother, yonger then he in yeeres, but not a jot
inferiour to him in vertue, whose name was Hormisda, and long time the
case had bene in question, for his taking to wife a faire young
Gentlewoman of Rhodes, called Cassandra; whom Lysimachus the Governour
loved very dearly, and hindred her marriage with Hormisda, by divers
strange accidents. Now Pasimondo perceiving, that his owne Nuptials
required much cost and solemnity, hee thought it very convenient, that
one day might serve for both their Weddings, which else would lanch
into more lavish expences, and therefore concluded, that his brother
Hormisda should marry Cassandra, at the same time as he wedded
Iphigenia. Hereupon, he consulted with the Gentlewomans parents, who
liking the motion as well as he, the determination was set downe,
and one day to effect the duties of both.
  When this came to the hearing of Lysimachus, it was very greatly
displeasing to him, because now he saw himselfe utterly deprived of al
hope to attaine the issue of his desire, if Hormisda received
Cassandra in marriage. Yet being a very wise and worthy man, he
dissembled his distaste, and began to consider on some apt meanes,
whereby to disappoint the marriage once more, which he found
impossible to be done, except it were by way of rape or stealth. And
that did not appeare to him any difficult matter, in regard of his
Office and Authority: onely it would seeme dishonest in him, by giving
such an unfitting example. Neverthelesse, after long deliberation,
honour gave way to love, and resolutely he concluded to steale her
away, whatsoever became of it.
  Nothing wanted now, but a convenient company to assist him, and
the order how to have it done. Then he remembred Chynon and his
friends, whom he detained as his prisoners, and perswaded himselfe,
that he could not have a more faithfull friend in such a busines, then
Chynon was. Hereupon, the night following, he sent for him into his
Chamber, and being alone by themselves, thus he began. Chynon (quoth
he) as the Gods are very bountifull, in bestowing their blessings on
men, so do they therein most wisely make proofe of their vertues,
and such as they finde firme and constant, in all occurrences which
may happen, then they make worthy (as valiant spirits) of t very
best and highest merites. Now, they being willing to have more certain
experience of thy vertues, then those which heretofore thou hast
shewne, within the bounds and limits of thy fathers possessions, which
I know to be superabounding: perhaps do intend to present thee other
occasions, of more important weight and consequence.
  For first of all (as I have heard) by the piercing solicitudes of
love, of a senselesse creature, that made thee to become a man
endued with reason. Afterward, by adverse fortune, and now againe by
wearisome imprisonment, it seemeth that they are desirous to make
tryall, whether thy manly courage be changed, or no, from that which
heretofore it was, when thou enjoyedst a matchlesse beauty, and lost
her againe in so short a while. Wherefore, if thy vertue be such as it
hath bin, the Gods can never give thee any blessing more worthy
acceptance, then she whom they are now minded to bestow on thee: in
which respect, to the end that thou mayst re-assume thy wanted
heroicke spirit, and become more couragious than ever heretofore, I
will acquaint thee withall more at large.
  Understand then Noble Chynon, that Pasimondo, the onely glad man
of thy misfortune, and diligent sutor after thy death, maketh all hast
hee can possibly devise to do, to celebrate his marriage with thy
faire Mistresse: because he would plead possession of the prey,
which Fortune (when she smiled) did first bestow, and (afterward
frowning) tooke from thee againe. Now, that it must needs be very
irkesome to thee (at least if thy love bee such, as I am perswaded
it is) I partly can collect from my selfe, being intended to be
wronged by his brother Hormisda, even in the selfesame maner, and on
his marriage day, by taking faire Cassandra from me, the onely
Jewell of my love and life. For the prevention of two such notorious
injuries, I see that Fortune hath left us no other meanes, but onely
the vertue of our courages, and the helpe of our right hands, by
preparing our selves to Armes, opening a way to thee, by a second rape
or stealth; and to me the first, for absolute possession of our divine
Mistresses. Wherefore, if thou art desirous to recover thy losse, I
will not onely pronounce liberty to thee (which I thinke thou dost
little care for without her) but dare also assure thee to enjoy
Iphigenia, so thou wilt assist me in mine enterprize, and follow me in
my fortune, if the Gods do let them fall into our power.
  You may well imagine, that Chynons dismayed soule was not a little
cheared at these speeches; and therefore, without craving any long
respit of time for answer, thus he replyed. Lord Lysimachus, in such a
busines as this is, you cannot have a faster friend then my selfe,
at least, if such good hap may betide me, as you have more then
halfe promised: and therefore do no more but command what you would
have to be effected by mee, and make no doubt of my courage in the
execution: whereon Lysimachus made this answer. Know then Chynon
(quoth he) that three dayes hence, these marriages are to bee
celebrated in the houses of Pasimondo and Hormisda: upon which day,
thou, thy friends, and my selfe (with some others, in whom I repose
especiall trust) by the friendly favour of night, will enter into
their houses, while they are in the middest of their joviall feasting;
and (seizing on the two Brides) beare them thence to a Shippe, which I
will have lye in secret, waiting for our comming, and kill all such as
shall presume to impeach us. This direction gave great contentment
to Chynon, who remained still in prison, without revealing a word to
his owne friends, untill the limited time was come.
  Upon day, performed with great and magnificent Triumph, there was
not a corner in the Brethrens houses, but it sung joy in the highest
key. Lysimachus, after he had ordred all things as they ought to be,
and the houre for dispat approached neere; hee made a division in
three parts, of Chynon, his followers, and his owne friends, being all
well armed under their outward habites. Having first used some
encouraging speeches, for more resolute prosecution of the enterprize,
hee sent troope secretly to the Port, that they might not bee
hindred of going aboord the ship, when the urgent necessity should
require it. Passing with the other two traines of Pasimondo, he left
the one at the doore, that such as were in the house, might not shut
them up fast, and so impeach their passage forth. Then with Chynon,
and the third band of Confederates, he ascended the staires up into
the Hall, where he found the Brides with store of Ladies and
Gentlewomen, all sitting in comely order at Supper. Rushing in roughly
among the attendants, downe they threw the Tables, and each of them
laying hold of his Mistris, delivered them into the hands of their
followers, commanding that they should bee carried aboord the ship,
for avoiding of further inconveniences.
  This hurrie and amazement being in the house, the Brides weeping,
the Ladies lamenting, and all the servants confusedly wondering;
Chynon and Lysimachus (with their Friends) having their weapons
drawn in their hands, made all opposers to give them way, and so
gayned the stair head for their owne descending. There stood
Pasimonda, with an huge long Staffe in his hand, to hinder their
passage downe the stayres; but Chynon saluted him so soundly on the
head, that it being cleft in twaine, he fell dead before his feete.
His Brother Hormisda came to his rescue, and sped in the selfe-same
manner as he had done; so did divers other beside, whom the companions
to Lysimachus and Chynon, either slew out-right, or wounded.
  So they left the house, filled with blood, teares, and outcries,
going on together, without any hinderance, and so brought both the
Brides aboord the ship, which they rowed away instantly with their
Oares. For, now the shore was full of armed people, who came in rescue
of the stolne Ladies: but all in vaine, because they were lanched into
the main, and sayled on merrily towards Candye. Where being arrived,
they were worthily entertained by honourable Friends and Kinsmen,
who pacified all unkindnesses betweene them and their Mistresses: And,
having accepted them in lawfull marriage, there they lived in no meane
joy and contentment: albeit there was a long and troublesome
difference (about these rapes) betweene Rhodes and Cyprus.
  But yet in the end, by the meanes of Noble Friends and Kindred on
either side, labouring to have such discontentment appeased,
endangering warre betweene the Kingdomes: after a limited time of
banishment, Chynon returned joyfully with his Iphigenia home to
Cyprus, and Lysimachus with his beloved Cassandra unto Rhodes, each
living in their severall Countries, with much felicity.
                    THE FIFT DAY, THE SECOND NOVELL

   WHEREIN IS DECLARED, THE FIRME LOYALTIE OF A TRUE LOVER: AND HOW
           FORTUNE DOTH SOMETIME HUMBLE MEN, TO RAISE THEM
                   AFTERWARD TO A FARRE HIGHER DEGREE

  Faire Constance of Liparis, fell in love with Martuccio Gomito:
and hearing that he was dead, desperately she entred into a Barke,
which being transported by the windes to Susa in Barbary, from
thence she went to Thunis, where she found him to be living. There she
made her selfe knowne to him, and he being in great authority, as a
privy Counsellor to the King: he married the saide Constance, and
returned richly home with Air, to the Island of Liparis.

  When the Queene perceived, that the Novell recited by Pamphilus
was concluded, which she graced with especiall commendations: shee
commanded Madam Aemilia, to take her turne as next in order; whereupon
she thus began. Me thinkes it is a matter of equity, that every one
should take delight in those things, whereby the recompence may be
noted, answerable to their one affection. And because I rather
desire to walke along by the paths of pleasure, then dwell on any
ceremonious or scrupulous affectation, I shall the more gladly obey
our Queene to day, then yesterday I did our melancholly King.
  Understand then (Noble Ladies) that neere to Sicily, there is a
small Island, commonly called Liparis, wherein (not long since)
lived a yong Damosell, named Constance, born of very sufficient
parentage in the same Island. There dwelt also a yong man called
Martuccio Gomito, of comely feature, well conditioned, and not
unexpert in many vertuous qualities; affecting Constance in harty
manner: and she so answerable to him in the same kinde, that to be
in his company, was her onely felicity. Martuccio coveting to enjoy
her in marriage, made his intent knowne to her Father: who
upbraiding him with poverty, tolde him plainly that he should not have
her. Martuccio greeving to see himselfe thus despised, because he
was poore: made such good meanes, that he was provided of a small
Barke; and calling such friends (as he thought fit) to his
association, made a solemne vow, that he would never returne backe
to Liparis, untill he was rich, and in better condition.
  In the nature and course of a Rover or Pirate, so put thence to sea,
coasting all about Barbarie, robbing and spoyling such as he met with;
who were of no greater strength then himselfe: wherein Fortune was
so favourable to him, that he became wealthy in a very short while.
But as felicities are not alwayes permanent, so he and his
followers, not contenting themselves with sufficient riches: by greedy
seeking to get more, happened to be taken by certaine ships of the
Sarazins, and so were robbed themselves of all that they had gotten,
yet they resisted them stoutly a long while together, though it proved
to the losse of many lives among them. When the Sarazens had sunke his
ship in the Sea, they tooke him with them to Thunis, where he was
imprisoned, and lived in extreamest misery.
  Newes came to Liparis, not onely by one, but many more beside,
that all those which departed thence in the small Barke with
Martuccio, were drowned in the Sea, and not a man escaped. When
Constance, heard these unwelcome tydings (who was exceeding full of
greefe, for his so desperate departure) she wept and lamented
extraordinarily, desiring now rather to dye, then live any longer. Yet
she had not the heart, to lay any violent hand on her selfe, but
rather to end her dayes by some new kinde of necessity. And
departing privately from her Fathers house, she went to the Port or
Haven, where (by chance) she found a small Fisher-boate, lying distant
from the other vessels, the owners whereof being all gone on shore,
and it well furnished with Masts, Sailes, and Oares, she entred into
it; and putting forth the Oares, being somewhat skilfull in sayling,
(as generally all the Women of that Island are) she so well guided the
Sailes, Rudder, and Oares, that she was quickly farre off from the
Land, and soly remained at the mercy of the windes. For thus she had
resolved with her selfe, that the Boat being uncharged, and without
a guide, would either be overwhelmed by the windes, or split in peeces
against some Rocke; by which meanes she could [not] escape although
she would, but (as it was her desire) must needs be drowned.
  In this determination, wrapping a mantle about her head, and lying
downe weeping in the boats bottome, she hourely expected her finall
expiration: but it fell out otherwise, and contrary to her desperate
intention, because the wind turning to the North, and blowing very
gently, without disturbing the Seas a jot, they conducted the small
Boat in such sort, that after the night of her entering into it, and
the morrowes sailing untill the evening, it came within an hundre
leagues of Thunis and to a strond neere a Towne called Susa. The young
Damosell knew not whether she were on the sea or land; as one, who not
by any accident hapning, lifted up her head to looke about her,
neither intended ever to doe. Now it came to passe, that as the
boate was driven to the shore, a poore woman stood at the Sea side,
washing certaine Fishermens Nets; and seeing the boate comming towards
her under saile, without any person appearing in it, she wondred
thereat not a little. It being close at the shore, and she thinking
the Fishermen to be asleepe therein: stept boldly, and looked into the
boate, where she saw not any body, but onely the poore distressed
Damosell, whose sorrowes having brought her now into a sound sleepe,
the woman gave many cals before she could awake her, which at the
length she did, and looked very strangely about her.
  The poore woman perceyving by her habite that she was a Christian,
demanded of her (in speaking Latine) how it was possible for her,
being all alone in the boate, to arrive there in this manner? When
Constance, heard her speake the Latine tongue, she began to doubt,
least some contrary winde had turned her backe to Liparis againe,
and starting up sodainly, to looke with better advice about her,
shee saw her selfe at Land: and not knowing the Countrey, demanded
of the poore woman where she was? Daughter (quoth she) you are heere
hard by Susa in Barbarie. Which Constance hearing, and plainly
perceyving, that death had denied to end her miseries, fearing least
she should receive some dishonour, in such a barbarous unkinde
Country, and not knowing what should now become of her, shee sate
downe by the boates side, wringing her hands, and weeping bitterly.
  The good Woman did greatly compassionate her case, and prevailed
so well by gentle speeches, that she conducted her into her owne poore
habitation, where at length she understoode, by what meanes shee
hapned thither so strangely. And perceyving her to be fasting, she set
such homely bread as she had before her, a few small Fishes, and a
Crewse of Water, praying her for to accept of that poore
entertainment, which meere necessity compelled her to do, and shewed
her selfe very thankefull for it.
  Constance hearing that she spake the Latine language so well;
desired to know what she was. Whereto the old woman thus answered:
Gentlewoman (quoth she) I am of Trapanum, named Carapresa, and am a
servant in this Countrey to certaine Christian Fishermen. The young
Maiden (albeit she was very full of sorrow) hearing her name to be
Carapresa, conceived it as a good augury to her selfe, and that she
had heard the name before, although she knew not what occasion
should move her thus to do. Now began her hopes to quicken againe, and
yet she could not relie upon what ground; nor was she so desirous of
death as before, but made more precious estimation of her life, and
without any further declaration of her selfe or Countrey, she
entreated the good woman (even for charities sake) to take pitty on
her youth, and helpe her with such good advice, to prevent all
injuries which might happen to her, in such a solitary wofull
condition.
  Carapresa having heard her request, like a good woman as she was,
left Constance in her poore Cottage, and went hastily to leave her
nets in safety: which being done, she returned backe againe, and
covering Constance with her Mantle, led her on to Susa with her, where
being arrived, the good woman began in this manner. Constance, I
will bring thee to the house of a very worthy Sarazin Lady, to whom
I have done many honest services, according as she pleased to
command me. She is an ancient woman, full of charity, and to her I
will commend thee as best I may, for I am well assured, that she
will gladly entertaine thee, and use thee as if thou wert her own
daughter. Now, let it be thy part, during thy time of remaining with
her, to employ thy utmost diligence in pleasing her, by deserving
and gaining her grace, till heaven shall blesse thee with better
fortune: and as she promised, so she performed.
  The Sarazine Lady, being well stept into yeares, upon the
commendable speeches delivered by Carapresa, did the more seriously
fasten her eye on Constance, and compassion provoking her to teares,
she tooke her by the hand, and (in loving manner) kissed her
fore-head. So she led her further into her house, where dwelt divers
other women (but not one man) all exercising themselves in severall
labours, as working in all sorts of silke, with Imbroideries of Gold
and Silver, and sundry other excellent Arts beside, which in short
time were very familiar to Constance, and so pleasing grew her
behaviour to the old Lady, and all the rest beside; that they loved
and delighted in her wonderfully, and (by little and little) she
attained to the speaking of their language, although it were very
harsh and difficult.
  Constance continuing thus in the old Ladies service at Susa, and
thought to be dead or lost in her owne Fathers house; it fortuned,
that one reigning then as King of Thunis, who named himselfe
Mariabdela: there was a young Lord of great birth, and very powerfull,
who lived as then in Granada, and pleaded that the Kingdome of
Thunis belonged to him. In which respect, he mustred together a mighty
Army, and came to assault the King, as hoping to expell him. These
newes comming to the eare of Martuccio Gomito, who spake the Barbarian
Language perfectly; and hearing it reported, that the King of Thunis
made no meane preparation for his owne defence: he conferred with
one of his keepers, who had the custody of him, and the rest taken
with him, saying: If (quoth he) I could have meanes to speake with the
King, and he were pleased to allow of my counsell, I can enstruct
him in such a course, as shall assure him to win the honor of the
field. The Guard reported these speeches to his Master, who
presently acquainted the King therewith, and Martuccio being sent for;
he was commanded to speake his minde: Whereupon he began in this
manner.
  My gracious Lord, during the time that I have frequented your
countrey, I have heedfully observed, that the Militarie Discipline
used in your fights and battailes, dependeth more upon your Archers,
then any other men imployed in your war And therefore, if it could
be so ordered, that this kinde of Artillery may faile in your
enemies Campe, and yours be sufficiently furnished therewith, you
neede make no doubt of winning the battaile: whereto the King thus
replyed. Doubtlesse, if such an act were possible to be done, it would
give great hope of successefull prevalling. Sir, said Martuccio, if
you please it may be done, and I can quickly resolve you how. Let
the strings of your Archers Bowes be made more soft and gentle, then
those which heretofore they have formerly used; and next, let the
nockes of the Arrowes be so provided, as not to receive any other,
then those pliant gentle strings. But this must be done so secretly,
that your enemies may have no knowledge thereof, least they should
provide themselves in the same manner. Now the reason (Gracious
Lord) why thus I counsell you, is to this end. When the Archers on the
Enemies side have shot their Arrowes at your men, and yours in the
like maner at them: it followeth, that (upon meere constraint) they
must gather up your Arrowes, to shoote them backe againe at you, for
so long while as the battell endureth, as no doubt but your men wil do
the like to them. But your enemies finde themselves much deceived,
because they can make no use of your peoples Arrowes, in regard that
the nockes are too narrow to receive their boystrous strings. Which
will fall out contrary with your followers, for the pliant strings
belonging to your Bowes, are as apt for their enemies great nockt
Arrowes, as their owne, and so they shall have free use of both,
reserving them in plentifull store, when your adversaries must stand
unfurnished of any, but them that they cannot any way use.
  This counsell pleased the King very highly, and he being a Prince of
great understanding, gave order to have it accordingly followed, and
thereby valiantly vanquished his enemies. Heereupon, Martuccio came to
be great in his grace, as also consequently rich, and seated in no
meane place of authority. Now as worthy and commendable actions are
soone spread abroad, in honor of the man by whom they hapned: even
so the fame of this rare got victory, was quickly noysed throughout
the Countrey, and came to the hearing of poore Constance, that
Martuccio Gomito (whom she supposed so long since to be dead) was
living, and in honourable condition. The love which formerly she
bare unto him, being not altogether extinct in her heart; of a small
sparke, brake forth into a sodaine flame, and so encreased day by day,
that her hope (being before almost quite dead) revived againe in
chearfull manner.
  Having imparted all her fortunes to the good old Lady with whom
she dwelt; she told her beside, that she had an earnest desire to
see Thunis, to satisfie her eyes as well as her eares, concerning
the rumor blazed abroad. The good old Lady commended her desire, and
(even as if she had bene her Mother) tooke her with her aboord a
Barke, and so sayled thence to Thunis, where both she and Constance
found honourable welcome, in the house of a kinsman to the Sarazin
Lady. Carapresa also went along with them thither, and her they sent
abroad into the City, to understand the newes of Martuccio Gomito.
After they knew for a certainty that he was living, and in great
authority about the King, according as the former report went of
him. Then the good old Lady, being desirous to let Martuccio know,
that his faire friend Constance was come thither to see him; went
her selfe to the place of his abiding, and spake unto him in this
manner. Noble Martuccio, there is a servant of thine in my house,
which came from Liparis, and requireth to have a little private
conference with thee: but because I durst not trust any other with the
message, my selfe (at her entreaty) am come to acquaint thee
therewith. Martuccio gave her kinde and hearty thankes, and then
went along with her to the house.
  No sooner did Constance behold him, but she was ready to dye with
conceite of joy, and being unable to containe her passion: sodainely
she threw her armes about his necke, and in meere compassion of her
many misfortunes, as also the instant solace of her soule (not being
able to utter one word) the teares trickled abundantly downe her
cheekes. Martuccio also seeing his faire friend, was overcome with
exceeding admiration, and stood awhile, as not knowing what to say;
till venting forth a vehement sighe, thus he spake. My deerest love
Constance! Art thou yet living? It is a tedious long while since I
heard thou wast lost, and never any tydings knowne of thee in thine
owne Fathers house. With which words, the teares standing in his eyes,
most lovingly he embraced her, Constance recounted to him all her
fortunes, and what kindnesse she had receyved from the Sarazine
Lady, since her first houre of comming to her. And after much other
discourse passing betweene them, Martuccio departed from her, and
returning to the King his master, tolde him all the history of his
fortunes, and those beside of his Love Constance, being purposely
minded (with his gracious liking) to marry her according to the
Christian Law.
  The King was much amazed at so many strange accidents, and sending
for Constance to come before him; from her owne mouth he heard the
whole relation of her continued affection to Martuccio, whereupon
hee saide. Now trust me faire Damosell, thou hast dearely deserved him
to be thy husband. Then sending for very costly Jewels, and rich
presents, the one halfe of them he gave to her, and the other to
Martuccio, graunting them license withall, to marry according to their
owne mindes.
  Martuccio did many honors, and gave great gifts to the aged Sarazine
Lady, with whom Constance had lived so kindly respected: which
although she had no neede of, neither ever expected any such
rewarding; yet (conquered by their urgent importunity, especially
Constance, who could not be thankfull enough to her) she was
enforced to receive them, and taking her leave of them weeping, sayled
backe againe to Susa.
  Within a short while after, the King licensing their departure
thence, they entred into a small Barke, and Carapresa with them,
sailing on with prosperous gales of winde, untill they arrived at
Liparis, where they were entertained with generall rejoycing. And
because their marriage was not sufficiently performed at Thunis, in
regard of divers Christian ceremonies there wanting, their Nuptials
were againe most honourably solemnized, and they lived (many yeares
after) in health and much happinesse.
                     THE FIFT DAY, THE THIRD NOVELL

       WHEREIN, THE SEVERALL POWERS BOTH OF LOVE AND FORTUNE, IS
                         MORE AT LARGE APPROVED

  Pedro Bocamazzo, escaping away with a yong Damosell which he
loved, named Angelina, met with Theeves in his journey. The Damosell
flying fearfully into a Forrest, by chance arriveth at a Castle. Pedro
being taken by the Theeves, and happening afterward to escape from
them; commeth (accidentally) to the same Castle where Angelina was.
And marrying her, they then returned home to Rome.

  There was not any one in the whole company, but much commended the
Novell reported by Madam Aemilia, and when the Queene perceived it was
ended, she turned towards Madam Eliza, commanding her to continue on
their delightfull exercise: whereto she declaring her willing
obedience, began to speake thus. Courteous Ladies, I remember one
unfortunate night, which happened to two Lovers, that were not
indued with the greatest discretion. But because they had very many
faire and happy dayes afterwards, I am the more willing for to let you
heare it.
  In the City of Rome, which (in times past) was called the Lady and
Mistresse of the world, though now scarsely so good as the waiting,
maid: there dwelt sometime yong Gentleman, named Pedro Boccamazzo,
descended from one of the most honorable families in Rome, who was
much enamoured of a beautifull Gentlewoman, called Angelina,
Daughter to one named Gigliuozzo Saullo, whose fortunes were none of
the fairest, yet he greatly esteemed among the Romanes. The
entercourse of love betweene these twaine, had so equally enstructed
their hearts and soule, that it could hardly be judged which of them
was the more fervent in affection. But he, not being inured to such
oppressing passions, and therefore the lesse able to support them,
except he were sure to compasse his desire, plainly made the motion,
that he might enjoy her in honourable mariage. Which his parents and
friends hearing, they went to conferre with him, blaming him with
over-much basenesse, so farre to disgrace himselfe and his stocke.
Beside, they advised the Father to the Maid, neither to credit what
Pedro saide in this case, or to live in hope of any such match,
because they all did wholly despise it.
  Pedro perceiving, that the way was shut up, whereby (and none other)
he was to mount the Ladder of his hopes; began to wax weary of
longer living: and if he could have won her fathers consent, he
would have maried her in the despight of all his friends.
Neverthelesse, he had a conceit hammering in his head, which if the
maid would bee as forward as himselfe, should bring the matter to full
effect. Letters and secret intelligences passing still betweene, at
length he understood her ready resolution, to adventure with him
thorough all fortunes whatsoever, concluding on their sodaine and
secret flight from Rome. For which Pedro did so well provide, that
very early in a morning, and well mounted on horsebacke, they tooke
the way leading unto Alagna, where Pedro had some honest friends, in
whom he reposed especiall trust. Riding on thus thorow the countrey,
having no leysure to accomplish their marriage, because they stood
in feare of pursuite: they were ridden above foure leagues from
Rome, still shortning the way with their amorous discoursing.
  It fortuned, that Pedro having no certaine knowledge of the way, but
following a trackt guiding too farre on the left hand; rode quite
out of course, and came at last within sight of a small Castle, out of
which (before they were aware) yssued twelve Villaines, whom
Angelina sooner espyed, then Pedro could do; which made her cry out to
him, saying: Helpe deere Love to save us, or else we shall be
assayled. Pedro then turning his horse so expeditiously as he could,
and giving him the spurres as need required; mainly he gallopped
into a neere adjoyning Forrest, more minding the following of
Angelina, then any direction of way, or them that endeavoured to bee
his hindrance. So that by often winding and turning about, as the
passage appeared troublesome to him, when he thought him selfe free
and furthest from them, he was round engirt, and seized on by them.
When they had made him to dismount from his horse, questioning him
of whence and what he was, and he resolving them therein, they fell
into a secret consultation, saying thus among themselves. This man
is a friend to our deadly enemies, how can wee then otherwise
dispose of him, but dreame him of all he hath, and in despight of
the Orsini (men in nature hatefull to us) hang him up heere on one
of these Trees?
  All of them agreeing in this dismall resolution, they commanded
Pedro to put off his garments, which he yeelding to do (albeit
unwillingly) it so fell out, that five and twenty other theeves,
came sodainly rushing in upon them, crying, Kill, kill, and spare
not a man.
  They which before had surprized Pedro, desiring now to shift for
their owne safetie, left him standing quaking in his shirt, and so
ranne away mainely to defend themselves. Which the new crew
perceyving, and that their number farre exceeded the other: they
followed to robbe them of what they had gotten, accounting it as a
present purchase for them. Which when Pedro perceyved, and saw none
tarrying to prey uppon him; hee put on his cloathes againe, and
mounting on his owne Horse, gallopped that way, which Angelina
before had taken: yet could he not descry any tracke or path, or so
much as the footing of a Horse; but thought himselfe in sufficient
security, being rid of them that first seized on him, and also of
the rest, which followed in the pursuite of them.
  For the losse of his beloved Angelina, he was the most wofull man in
the world, wandering one while this way, and then againe another,
calling for her all about the Forrest, without any answere returning
to him. And not daring to ride backe againe, on he travailed still,
not knowing where to make his arrivall. And having formerly heard of
savage ravenous beasts, which commonly live in such unfrequented
Forrests: he not onely was in feare of loosing his owne life, but also
despayred much for his Angelina, least some Lyon or Woolfe, had
torne her body in peeces.
  Thus rode on poore unfortunate Pedro, untill the breake of day
appeared, not finding any meanes to get forth of the Forrest, still
crying and calling for his fayre friend, riding many times
backeward, when as hee thought hee rode forward, untill hee became
so weake and faint, what with extreame feare, lowd calling, and
continuing so long awhile without any sustenance, that the whole day
being thus spent in vaine, and darke night sodainly come uppon him, he
was not able to hold out any longer.
  Now was he in farre worse case then before, not knowing where, or
how to dispose of himselfe, or what might best be done in so great a
necessity. From his Horse he alighted, and tying him by the bridle
unto a great tree, uppe he climbed into the same Tree, fearing to be
devoured (in the night time) by some wilde beast, choosing rather to
let his Horse perish, then himselfe. Within a while after, the Moone
beganne to rise, and the skies appeared bright and cleare: yet durst
hee not nod, or take a nap, least he should fall out of the tree;
but sate still greeving, sighing, and mourning, desparing of ever
seeing his Angelina any more, for he could not be comforted by the
smallest hopefull perswasion, that any good Fortune might befall her
in such a desolate Forrest, where nothing but dismall feares was to be
expected, and no likelihood that she should escape with life.
  Now, concerning poore affrighted Angelina, who (as you heard before)
knew not any place of refuge to flye unto: but even as it pleased
the horse to carry her: she entred so farre into the Forrest, that she
could not devise where to seeke her owne safety. And therefore, even
as it fared with her friend Pedro, in the same manner did it fall
out with her, wandering the whole night, and all the day following,
one while taking one hopefull tracke, and then another, calling,
weeping, wringing her hands, and greevously complaining of her hard
fortune. At the length, perceiving that Pedro came not to her at
all, she found a little path (which she lighted on by great good
fortune) even when dark night was apace drawing, and followed it so
long, till it brought her within the sight of a small poore Cottage,
whereto she rode on so fast as she could; and found therin a very
old man, having a wife rather more aged then he, who seeing her to
be without company, the old man spake thus unto her.
  Faire Daughter (quoth he) whether wander you at such an unseasonable
houre, and all alone in a place so desolate? The Damosell weeping,
replied; that she had lost her company in the Forrest, and enquired
how neere shee was to Alagna. Daughter (answered the old man) this
is not the way to Alagna, for it is above six leagues hence. Then shee
desired to know, how farre off she was from such houses, where she
might have any reasonable lodging? There are none so neere, said the
old man, that day light will give you leave to reach. May it please
you then good Father (replied Angelina) seeing I cannot travalle any
whether else; for Gods sake, to et me remaine heere with you this
night. Daughter answered the good old man, we can gladly give you
entertainement here, for this night, in such poore manner as you
see: but let mee tell you withall, that up and downe these woods (as
well by night as day) walke companies of all conditions, and rather
enemies then friends, who do us many greevous displeasures and harmes.
Now if by misfortune, you being here, any such people should come, and
seeing you so lovely faire, as indeed you are, offer you any shame
or injurie: Alas you see, it lies not in our power to lend you any
help or succour. I thought it good (therefore) to acquaint you
heerewith, because if any such mischance do happen, you should not
afterward complaine of us.
  The yong Maiden, seeing the time to be so farre spent, albeit the
old mans words did much dismay her, yet she thus replyed. If it be the
will of heaven, both you and I shall be defended from any
misfortune: but if any such mischance do happen, I account the
meanes lesse deserving grief, if I fall into the mercy of men, then to
be devoured by wild beasts in this Forrest. So, being dismounted
from her horse, and entred into the homely house; shee supt poorely
with the old man and his wife, with such meane cates as their
provision affoorded: and after supper, lay downe in her garments on
the same poore pallet, where the aged couple tooke their rest, and was
very well contented therewith, albeit she could not refraine from
sighing and weeping, to be thus divided from her deare Pedro, of whose
life and welfare she greatly despaired.
  When it was almost day, she heard a great noise of people travailing
by, whereupon sodainly slie arose, and ranne into a Garden plot, which
was on the backside of the poore Cottage, espying in one of the
corners a great stacke of Hay, wherein she hid her selfe, to the
end, that travelling strangers might not readily finde her there in
the house. Scarsely was she fully hidden, but a great company of
Theeves and Villaines, finding the doore open, rushed into the
Cottage, where looking round about them for some booty, they saw the
Damosels horse stand ready sadled, which made them demand to whom it
belonged. The good old man, not seeing the Maiden present there, but
immagining that she had made some shift for her selfe, answered
thus. Gentlemen, there is no body here but my wife and my selfe: as
for this Horse, which seemeth to be escaped from the Owner; hee came
hither yesternight, and we gave him house-roome heere, rather then
to be devoured by Wolves abroad. Then said the principall of the
Theevish crew: This horse shall be ours, in regard he hath no other
Master, and let the owner come claime him of us.
  When they had searched every corner of the poore Cottage, and
found no such prey as they looked for, some of them went into the
backeside; where they had left their Javelins and Targets, wherwith
they used commonly to travaile. It fortuned, that one of them, being
more subtily suspitious then the rest, thrust his javelin into the
stacke of Hay, in the very same place where the Damosell lay hidden,
missing very little of killing her; for it entred so farre, that the
iron head pierced quite thorough her Garments, and touched her left
bare brest: whereupon, shee was ready to cry out, as fearing that
she was wounded: but considering the place where she was, she lay
still, and spake not a word. This disordered company, after they had
fed on some young Kids, and other flesh which they brought with them
thither, they went thence about their theeving exercise, taking the
Damosels horse along with them.
  After they were gone a good distance off, the good old man began
thus to question his Wife. What is become of (quoth hee) our young
Gentlewoman, which came so late to us yesternight? I have not seen her
to day since our arising. The old woman made answer, that she knew not
where she was, and sought all about to finde her. Angelinaes feares
being well over-blowne, and hearing none of the former noise, which
made her the better hope of their departure, came forth of the
Hay-stack; wherof the good old man was not a little joyfull, and
because she had so well escaped from them: so seeing it was now
broad day-light, he said unto her. Now that the morning is so
fairely begun, if you can be so well contented, we will bring you to a
Castle, which stands about two miles and an halfe hence, where you
will be sure to remaine in safety. But you must needs travaile thither
on foot, because the nightwalkers that happened hither, have taken
away your horse with them.
  Angelina making little or no account of such a losse, entreated them
for charities sake, to conduct her to that Castle, which accordingly
they did, and arrived there betweene seven and eight of the clock. The
Castle belonged to one of the Orsini, being called, Liello di Campo di
Fiore, and by great good fortune, his wife was then there, she being a
very vertuous and religious Lady. No sooner did she looke upon
Angelina, but she knew her immediately, and entertaining her very
willingly, requested, to know the reason of her thus arriving there:
which she at large related, and moved the Lady (who likewise knew
Pedro perfectly well) to much compassion, because he was a kinsman and
deare friend to her Husband; and understanding how the Theeves had
surprized him, she feared, that he was slaine among them, whereupon
she spake thus to Angelina. Seeing you know not what is become of my
kinsman Pedro, you shall remaine here with me, untill such time, as
(if we heare no other tidings of him) you may with safety be sent
backe to Rome.
  Pedro all this while sitting in the Tree, so full of griefe, as no
man could be more; about the houre of midnight (by the bright
splendour of the Moone) espied about some twenty Wolves, who, so soone
as they got a sight of the Horse, ran and engirt him round about.
The Horse when he perceived them so neere him, drew his head so
strongly back-ward, that breaking the reines of his bridle, he
laboured to escape from them. But being beset on every side, and
utterly unable to helpe himself, he contended with his teeth and feete
in his owne defence, till they haled him violently to the ground,
and tearing his body in pieces, left not a jot of him but the bare
bones, and afterward ran ranging thorow the Forest. At this sight,
poore Pedro was mightily dismaied, fearing to speed no better then his
Horse had done, and therefore could not devise what was best to be
done; for he saw no likelihood, of getting out of the Forest with
life. But day-light drawing on apace, and he almost dead with cold,
having stood quaking so long in the Tree; at length by continuall
looking every where about him, to discerne the least glimpse of any
comfort; he espied a great fire, which seemed to be about halfe a mile
off from him.
  By this time it was broad day, when he descended downe out of the
Tree, (yet not without much feare) and tooke his way towards the fire,
where being arrived, he found a company of Shepheards banquetting
about it, whom he curteously saluting, they tooke pity on his
distresse, and welcommed him kindly. After he had tasted of such
cheare as they had, and was indifferently refreshed by the good
fire; he discoursed his hard disasters to them, as also how he
happened thither, desiring to know, if any Village or Castle were
neere there about, where he might in better manner releeve himselfe.
The Shepheards told him, that about a mile and an halfe from thence,
was the Castle of Signior Liello di Campo di Fiore, and that his
Lady was residing there; which was no meane comfort to poore Pedro,
requesting that one of them would accompany him thither, as two of
them did in loving manner, to rid him of all further feares.
  When he was arrived at the Castle, and found there divers of his
familiar acquaintance: he laboured to procure some meanes, that the
Damosell might bee sought for in the Forrest. Then the Lady calling
for her, and bringing her to him; he ran and caught her in his
armes, being ready to swoune with conceite of joy, for never could any
man be more comforted, then he was at the sight of his Angelina, and
questionlesse, her joy was not a jot inferiour to his, such a simpathy
of firme love was settled betweene them. The Lady of the Castle, after
she had given them very gracious entertainment, and understood the
scope of their bold adventure; she reproved them both somewhat
sharpely, for presuming so farre without the consent of their Parents.
But perceiving (notwithstanding all her remonstrances) that they
continued still constant in their resolution, without any inequality
of either side; shee saide to her selfe. Why should this matter be any
way offensive to me? They love each other loyally; they are not
inferiour to one another in birth, but in fortune; they are equally
loved and allied to my Husband, and their desire is both honest and
honorable. Moreover, what know I, if it be the will of Heaven to
have it so? Theeves intended to hang him, in malice to his name and
kinred, from which hard fate he hath happily escaped. Her life was
endangered by a sharpe pointed Javeline, and yet her fairer starres
would not suffer her so to perish: beside, they have both escaped
the fury of ravenous wild beasts; and all these are apparant signes,
that future comforts should recompence former passed misfortunes;
farre be it therefore from me, to hinder the appointment of the
Heavens.
  Then turning her selfe to them, thus she proceeded. If your desire
be to joyne in honourable marriage, I am well contented therewith, and
your nuptials shall here be solemnized at my Husbands charges.
Afterward both he and I will endeavour, to make peace betweene you and
your discontented Parents. Pedro was not a little joyfull at her kinde
offer, and Angelina much more then he; so they were married together
in the Castle, and worthily feasted by the Lady, as Forrest
entertainment could permit, and there they enjoyed the first fruits of
their love. Within a short while after, the Lady and they (well
mounted on Horsebacke, and attended with an honourable traine)
returned to Rome; where her Lord Liello and she prevailed so well with
Pedroes angry Parents: that the variance ended in love and peace,
and afterward they lived lovingly together, till old age made them
as honourable, as their true and mutuall affection formerly had done.
                    THE FIFT DAY, THE FOURTH NOVELL

   DECLARING THE DISCREETE PROVIDENCE OF PARENTS, IN CARE OF THEIR
            CHILDRENS LOVE AND THEIR OWNE CREDIT, TO CUT OFF
           INCONVENIENCES, BEFORE THEY DO PROCEEDE TOO FARRE

  Ricciardo Manardy, was found by Messer Lizio da Valbonna, as he sate
fast asleepe at his Daughters Chamber window, having his hand fast
in hers, and she sleeping in the same manner. Whereupon, they are
joyned together in marriage, and their long loyall love mutually
recompenced.

  Madam Eliza having ended her Tale, and heard what commendations
the whole company gave thereof; the Queene commanded Philostratus,
to tell a Novell agreeing with his owne minde, smiling thereat, thus
replyed. Faire Ladies, I have bene so often checkt and snapt, for my
yesterdayes matter and argument of discoursing, which was both tedious
and offensive to you; that if I intended to make you any amends, I
should now undertake to tell such a Tale, as might put you into a
mirthfull humour. Which I am determined to do, in relating a briefe
and pleasant Novell, not any way offensive (as I trust) but
exemplary for some good notes of observation.
  Not long since, there lived in Romania, a Knight, a very honest
Gentleman, and well qualified, whose name was Messer Lizio da
Valbonna, to whom it fortuned, that (at his entrance into age) by
his Lady and wife, called Jaquemina, he had a Daughter, the very
choycest and goodliest gentlewoman in all those places. Now because
such a happy blessing (in their olde yeeres) was not a little
comfortable to them; they thought themselves the more bound in duty,
to be circumspect of her education, by keeping her out of
over-frequent companies, but onely such as agreed best with their
gravity, and might give the least ill example to their Daughter, who
was named Catharina; as making no doubt, but by this their provident
and wary respect, to match her in marriage answerable to their liking.
There was also a yong Gentleman, in the very flourishing estate of his
youthfull time, descended from the Family of the Manardy da
Brettinoro, named Messer Ricciardo, who oftentimes frequented the
House of Messer Lizio, and was a continuall welcome guest to his
Table, Messer Lizio and his wife making the like account of him,
even as if hee [had] bene their owne Sonne.
  This young Gallant, perceiving the Maiden to be very beautifull,
of singular behaviour, and of such yeeres as was fit for marriage,
became exceeding enamoured of her, yet concealed his affection so
closely as he could, which was not so covertly carried, but that she
perceived it, and grew into as good liking of him. Many times he had
an earnest desire to have conference with her, which yet still he
deferred, as fearing to displease her; at the length he lighted on
an apt opportunity, and boldly spake to her in this manner. Faire
Catharina, I hope thou wilt not let me die for thy love? Signior
Ricciardo (replyed she suddenly againe) I hope you will extend the
like mercy to me, as you desire that I should shew to you. This
answere was so pleasing to Messer Ricciardo, that presently he
saide. Alas deare Love, I have dedicated all my fairest fortunes onely
to thy service, so that it remaineth soly in thy power to dispose of
me as best shall please thee, and to appoint such times of private
conversation, as may yeeld more comfort to my poore afflicted soule.
  Catharina standing musing awhile, at last returned him this answere.
Signio Ricciardo, quoth she, you see what a restraint is set on my
liberty, how short I am kept from conversing with any one, that I hold
this our enterparlance now almost miraculous. But if you could
devise any convenient meanes, to admit us more familiar freedome,
without any prejudice to mine honour, or the least distaste to my
Parents; do but enstruct it, and I will adventure it. Ricciardo having
considered on many wayes and meanes, thought one to be the fittest
of all; and therefore thus replyed. Catharina (quoth he) the onely
place for our more private talking together, I conceive to be the
Gallery over your Fathers Garden. If you can winne your Mother to
let you lodge there, I will make meanes to climbe over the wall, and
at the goodly gazing window, we may discourse so long as we please.
Now trust me deare Love (answered Catharina) no place can be more
convenient for our purpose, there shall we heare the sweete Birds
sing, especially the Nightingale which I have heard singing there
all the night long; I will breake the matter to my Mother, and how I
speede, you shall heare further from me. So, with divers parting
kisses, they brake off conference, till their next meeting.
  On the day following, which was towards the ending of the moneth
of May, Catharina began to complaine to her Mother that the season was
over-hot and tedious, to be still lodged in her Mothers Chamber,
because it was an hinderance to her sleeping; and wanting rest, it
would be an empairing of her health. Why Daughter (quoth the Mother)
the weather (as yet) is not so hot, but (in my minde) you may very
well endure it. Alas Mother, saide she, aged people, as you and my
Father are, do not feele the heates of youthfull blood, by reason of
your farre colder complexion, which is not to be measured by younger
yeeres. I know that well Daughter, replyed the Mother; but is it in my
power, to make the weather warme or coole, as thou perhaps wouldst
have it? Seasons are to be suffered, according to their severall
qualities; and though the last night might seeme hot, this next
ensuing may be cooler, and then thy rest will be the better. No
Mother, quoth Catharina, that cannot be; for as Summer proceedeth
on, so the heate encreaseth, and no expectation can be of temperate
weather, untill it groweth to Winter againe. Why Daughter, saide the
Mother, what wouldest thou have me to do? Mother (quoth she) if it
might stand with my Fathers good liking and yours, I would be spared
from the Garden Gallery, which is a great deale more coole lodged.
There shall I heare the sweete Nightingale sing, as every night she
useth to do, and many other pretty Birdes beside, which I cannot do
lodging in your Chamber.
  The Mother loving her Daughter dearely, as being somewhat
over-fond of her, and very willing to give her contentment; promised
to impart her minde to her Father, not doubting but to compasse what
shee requested. When she had mooved the matter to Messer Lizio whose
age made him somewhat froward and teasty; angerly said to his wife.
Why how now woman? Cannot our Daughter sleepe, except she heare the
Nightingale sing? Let there be a bed made for her in the Oven, and
there let the Crickets make her melody. When Catharina heard this
answere from her Father, and saw her desire to be disappointed; not
onely could she take any rest the night following, but also complained
more of the heate then before, not suffering her Mother to take any
rest, which made her go angerly to her Husband in the morning, saying.
Why Husband, have we but one onely Daughter, whom you pretend to
love right dearly, and yet can you be so carelesse of her, as to denie
her a request, which is no more then reason? What matter is it to
you or me, to let her lodge in the Garden Gallery? Is her young
blood to be compared with ours? Can our weake and crazie bodies, feele
the frolicke temper of hers? Alas, she is hardly (as yet) out of her
childish yeeres, and Children have many desires farre differing from
ours: the singing of Birdes is rare musicke to them, and chiefly the
Nightingale; whose sweete notes will provoke them to rest, when
neither Art or Physicke can do it.
  Is it even so Wife? answered Messer Lizio. Must your will and mine
be governed by our Daughter? Well be it so then, let her bed be made
in the Garden Gallerie, but I will have the keeping of the key, both
to locke her in at night, and set her at liberty every morning. Woman,
woman, yong wenches are wily, many wanton crotchets are busie in their
braines, and to us that are aged, they sing like Lapwings, telling
us one thing, and intending another; talking of Nightingales, when
their mindes run on Cocke-Sparrowes. Seeing Wife, she must needes have
her minde, let yet your care and mine extend so farre, to keepe her
chastity uncorrupted, and our credulity from being abused. Catharina
having thus prevailed with her Mother, her bed made in the Garden
Gallerie, and secret intelligence given to Ricciardo, for preparing
his meanes of accesse to her window; old provident Lizio lockes the
doore to bed-ward, and gives her liberty to come forth in the morning,
for his owne lodging was neere to the same Gallery.
  In the dead and silent time of night, when all (but Lovers) take
their rest; Ricciardo having provided a Ladder of Ropes, with grapling
hookes to take hold above and below, according as he had occasion to
use it. By helpe thereof, first he mounted over the Garden wall, and
then climbde up to the Gallery window, before which (as is every where
in Italie) was a little round engirting Tarras, onely for a man to
stand upon, for making cleane the window, or otherwise repairing it.
Many nights (in this manner) enjoyed they their meetings,
entermixing their amorous conference with infinite kisses and kinde
embraces, as the window gave leave, he sitting in the Tarras, and
departing alwayes before breake of day, for feare of being
discovered by any.
  But, as excesse of delight is the Nurse to negligence, and begetteth
such an overpresuming boldnesse, as afterward proveth to be sauced
with repentance: so came it to passe with our over-fond Lovers, in
being taken tardy through their owne folly. After they had many
times met in this manner, the nights (according to the season) growing
shorter and shorter, which their stolne delight made them lesse
respective of, then was requisite in an adventure so dangerous: it
fortuned, that their amorous pleasure had so farre transported them,
and dulled their senses in such sort, by these their continuall
nightly watchings; that they both fell fast asleepe, he having his
hand closed in hers, and she one arme folded about his body, and
thus they slept till broade day light. Old Messer Lizio, who
continually was the morning Cocke to the whole House, going foorth
into his Garden, saw how his Daughter and Ricciardo were seated at the
window. In he went againe, and going to his wives Chamber, saide to
her. Rise quickly wife, and you shall see, what made your Daughter
so desirous to lodge in the Garden Gallery. I perceive that shee loved
to heare the Nightingale, for she hath caught one, and holds him
fast in her hand. Is it possible, saide the Mother, that our
Daughter should catch a live Nightingale in the darke? You shall see
that your selfe, answered Messer Lizio, if you will make hast, and
go with me.
 She, putting on her garments in great haste, followed her Husband,
and being come to the Gallery doore, he opened it very softly, and
going to the window, shewed her how they both sate fast asleepe, and
in such manner as hath bene before declared: whereupon, shee
perceiving how Ricciardo and Catharina had both deceived her, would
have made an outcry, but that Messer Lizio spake thus to her. Wife, as
you love me, speake not a word, neither make any noyse: for, seeing
shee hath loved Ricciardo without our knowledge, and they have had
their private meetings in this manner, yet free from any blamefu
imputation; he shall enjoy her, and she him. Ricciardo is a Gentleman,
well derived, and of rich possessions, it can be no disparagement to
us, that Catharina match with him in mariage, which he neither
shall, or dare deny to do, in regard of our Lawes severity; for
climbing up to my window with his Ladder of Ropes, whereby his life is
forfeited to the Law, except our Daughter please to spare it, as it
remaineth in her power to doe, by accepting him as her husband, or
yeelding his life up to the Law, which surely she will not suffer,
their love agreeing together in such mutuall manner, and he
adventuring so dangerously for her. Madam Jaquemina, perceiving that
her husband spake very reasonably, and was no more offended at the
matter; stept side with him behinde the drawne Curtaines, untill
they should awake of themselves. At the last, Ricciardo awaked, and
seeing it was so farre in the day, thought himselfe halfe dead, and
calling to Catharina, saide.
  Alas deare Love! what shall we doe? we have slept too long, and
shall be taken here.
  At which words, Messer Lizio stept forth from behind the
Curtaines, saying. Nay, Signior Ricciardo, seeing you have found
such an unbefitting way hither, we will provide you a better for
your backe returning.
  When Ricciardo saw the Father and Mother both there present, he
could not devise what to do or say, his senses became so strangely
confounded; yet knowing how hainously he had offended, if the
strictnesse of Law should bee challenged against him, falling on his
knees, he saide. Alas Messer Lizio, I humbly crave your mercy,
confessing my selfe well worthy of death, that knowing the sharpe
rigour of the Law, I would presume so audaciously to breake it. But
pardon me worthy Sir, my loyall and unfeigned love to your Daughter
Catharina, hath bene the only cause of my transgressing.
  Ricciardo (replied Messer Lizio) the love I beare thee, and the
honest confidence I do repose in thee, step up (in some measure) to
plead thine excuse, especially in the regard of my Daughter, whom I
blame thee not for loving, but for this unlawfull way of presuming
to her. Neverthelesse, perceiving how the case now standeth, and
considering withall, that youth and affection were the ground of thine
offence: to free thee from death, and my selfe from dishonour,
before thou departest hence, thou shalt espouse my Daughter Catharina,
to make her thy lawfull wife in marriage, and wipe off all scandall to
my House and me. All this while was poore Catharina on her knees
likewise to her Mother, who (notwithstanding this her bold
adventure) made earnest suite to her Husband to remit all, because
Ricciardo right gladly condiscended, as it being the maine issue of
his hope and desire; to accept his Catharina in marriage, whereto
she was as willing as he. Messer Lizio presently called for the
Confessour of his House, and borrowing one of his Wives Rings,
before they went out of the Gallery; Ricciardo and Catharina were
espoused together, to their no little joy and contentment.
  Now had they more leasure for further conference, with the Parents
and kindred to Ricciardo, who being no way discontented with this
sudden match, but applauding it in the highest degree; they were
publikely maried againe in the Cathedrall Church, and very
honourable triumphes performed at the nuptials, living long after in
happy prosperity.
                     THE FIFT DAY, THE FIFTH NOVELL

       WHEREIN MAY BE OBSERVED, WHAT QUARRELS AND CONTENTIONS ARE
         OCCASIONED BY LOVE; WITH SOME PARTICULAR DESCRIPTION,
              CONCERNING THE SINCERITY OF A LOYALL FRIEND

  Guidotto of Cremona, out of this mortall life, left a Daughter of
his, with Jacomino of Pavia. Giovanni di Severino, and Menghino da
Minghole, fell both in love with the young Maiden, and fought for her;
who being afterward knowne to be the Sister to Giovanni, she was given
in mariage to Menghino.

  All the Ladies laughing heartily, at the Novell of the
Nightingale, so pleasingly delivered by Philostratus, when they saw
the same to be fully ended, the Queene thus spake. Now trust me
Philostratus, though yesterday you did much oppresse mee with
melancholly, yet you have made me such an amends to day, as we have
little reason to complaine any more of you. So converting her speech
to Madam Neiphila, shee commanded her to succeede with her
discourse, which willingly she yeelded to, beginning in this manner.
Seing it pleased Philostratus, to produce his Novell out of Romania: I
meane to walke with him in the same jurisdiction, concerning what I am
to say.
  There dwelt sometime in the City of Fano, two Lombards, the one
being named Guidotto of Cremona, and the other Jacomino of Pavia,
men of sufficient entrance into yeares, having followed the warres (as
Souldiers) all their youthfull time. Guidotto feeling sicknesse to
over-master him, and having no sonne, kinsman, or friend, in whom he
might repose more trust, then he did in Jacomino: having long
conference with him about his worldly affaires, and setled his whole
estate in good order; he left a Daughter to his charge, about ten
yeeres of age, with all such goods as he enjoyed, and then departed
out of this life. It came to passe, that the City of Faenza, long time
being molested with tedious warres, and subjected to very servile
condition; beganne now to recover her former strength, with free
permission (for all such as pleased) to returne and possesse their
former dwellings. Whereupon, Jacomino (having sometime bene an
inhabitant there) was desirous to live in Faenza againe, convaying
thither all his goods, and taking with him also the young Girle, which
Guidotto had left him, whom hee loved, and respected as his owne
childe.
  As shee grew in stature, so she did in beauty and vertuous
qualities, as none was more commended throughout the whole City, for
faire, civill, and honest demeanour, which incited many amorously to
affect her. But (above all the rest) two very honest young men, of
good fame and repute, who were so equally in love addicted to her,
that being. jealous of each others fortune, in preventing of their
severall hopefull expectation; a deadly hatred grew suddenly
betweene them, the one being named Giovanni de Severino, and the other
Menghino de Minghole. Either of these two young men, before the
Maide was fifteene yeeres old, laboured to be possessed of her in
marriage, but her Guardian would give no consent thereto: wherefore,
perceiving their honest intended meaning to be frustrated, they now
began to busie their braines, how to forestall one another by craft
and circumvention.
  Jacomino had a Maide-servant belonging to his House, somewhat
aged, and a Manservant beside, named Grinello, of mirthfull
disposition, and very friendly, with whom Giovanni grew in great
familiarity, and when he found time fit for the purpose, he discovered
his love to him, requesting his furtherance and assistance, in
compassing the height of his desire, with bountifull promises of
rich rewarding; wheret Grinello returned this answere. I know not
how to sted you in this case, but when my Master shall sup foorth at
some Neighbours house, to admit your entrance where shee is:
because, if I offer to speake to her, she never will stay to heare
mee. Wherefore, if my service this way may doe you any good, I promise
to performe it; doe you beside, as you shall finde it most
convenient for you. So the bargaine was agreed on betweene them, and
nothing else now remained, but to what issue it should sort in the
end. Menghino, on the other side, having entred into the
Chamber-maides acquaintance, sped so well with her, that she delivered
so many messages from him, as had (already) halfe won the liking of
the Virgin; passing further promises to him beside, of bringing him to
have conference with her, whensoever her Master should be absent
from home. Thus Menghino being favoured (on the one side) by the by
Chamber-maide, and Giovanni (on the other) by trusty Grinello; their
amorous warre was now on foote, and diligently followed by both
their sollicitors. Within a short while after, by the procurement of
Grinello, Jacomino was invited by a Neighbour to supper, in company of
divers his familiar friends, whereof intelligence being given to
Giovanni; a conclusion passed betweene them, that (upon a certaine
signale given) he should come, and finde the doore standing ready
open, to give him all accesse unto the affected Mayden.
  The appointed night being come, and neither of these hot Lovers
knowing the others intent, but their suspition being alike, and
encreasing still more and more; they made choyce of certaine friends
and associates, well armed and provided, for eithers safer entrance
when need should require.
  Menghino stayed with his troope, in a neere neighbouring house to
the Mayden, attending when the signall would be given: but Giovanni
and his consorts, were ambushed somewhat further off from the house,
and both saw when Jacomino went foorth to supper. Now Grinello and the
Chambermaide began to vary, which should send the other out of the
way, till they had effected their severall invention; wherupon
Grinello said to her. What maketh thee to walke thus about the
house, and why doest thou not get thee to bed? And thou (quoth the
Maide) why doest thou not goe to attend on our Master, and tarry for
his returning home? I am sure thou hast supt long agoe, and I know
no businesse here in the house for thee to doe. Thus (by no meanes)
the one could send away the other, but either remained as the others
hinderance.
  But Grinello remembring himselfe, that the houre of his
appointment with Giovanni was come, he saide to himselfe. What care
I whether our olde Maide be present, or no? If she disclose any
thing that I doe, I can be revenged on her when I list. So, having
made the signall, he went to open the doore, even when Giovanni (and
two of his confederates) rushed into the House, and finding the
faire young Maiden sitting in the Hall, laide hands on her, to beare
her away. The Damosell began to resist them, crying out for helpe so
loude as she could, as the olde Chamber-maide did the like: which
Menghino hearing, he ranne thither presently with his friends, and
seeing the young Damosell brought well-neere out of the House; they
drew their Swords, crying out: Traytors, you are but dead men, here is
no violence to be offered, neither is this a booty for such base
groomes. So they layed about them lustily, and would not permit them
to passe any further. On the other side, upon this mutinous noyse
and outcry, the Neighbours came foorth of their houses, with lights,
staves, and clubbes, greatly reproving them for this out-rage, yet
assisting Menghino: by meanes whereof, after a long time of
contention, Menghino recovered the Mayden from Giovanni, and placed
her peaceably in Jacominoes House.
  No sooner was this hurly burly somewhat calmed, but the Serjeants to
the Captine of the City, came thither, and apprehended divers of the
mutiners: among whom were Menghino, Giovanni, and Grinello, committing
them immediately to prison. But after every thing was pacified, and
Jacomino returned home to his house from supper; he was not a little
offended at so grosse an injury. When he was fully informed, how the
matter happened, and apparantly perceived, that no blame at all
could be imposed on the Mayden: he grew the better contented,
resolving with himselfe (because no more such inconveniences should
happen) to have her married so soone as possibly he could.
  When morning was come the kindred and friends on either side,
understanding the truth of the errour committed, and knowing beside,
what punishment would be inflicted on the prisoners, if Jacomino
pressed the matter no further, then as with reason and equity well
he might; they repaired to him, and (in gentle speeches) entreated
him, not to regard a wrong offered by unruly and youthfull people,
meerely drawne into the action by perswasion of friends; submitting
both themselves, and the offendors, to such satisfaction as [he]
pleased to appoint them. Jacomino, who had seene and observed many
things in his time, and was a man of sound understanding, returned
them this answer.
  Gentlemen, if I were in mine owne Country, as now I am in yours, I
would as for wardly confesse my selfe your friend, as here I must
needes fall short of any such service, but even as you shall please to
command me. But plainely, and without all further ceremonious
complement, I must agree to whatsoever you can request; as thinking
you to be more injured by me, then any great wrong that I have
sustained. Concerning the young Damosell remaining in my House, she is
not (as many have imagined) either of Cremona, or Pavia, but borne a
Faentine, here in this Citie: albeit neither my selfe, she, or he of
whome I had her, did ever know it, or yet could learne whose
Daughter she was. Wherefore, the suite you make to me, should rather
(in duty) be mine to you: for shee is a native of your owne, doe right
to her, and then you can doe no wrong unto mee.
  When the Gentlemen understood, that the Mayden was borne in
Faenza, they marvelled thereat, and after they had thanked Jacomino
for his curteous answer; they desired him to let them know, by what
meanes the Damosell came into his custody, and how he knew her to be
borne in Faenza: when hee, perceiving them attentive to heare him,
began in this manner.
  Understand worthy Gentlemen, that Guidotto of Cremona, was my
companion and deare friend, who growing neere to his death, tolde me
that when this City was surprized by the Emperour Frederigo, and all
things committed to sacke and spoile; he and certaine of his
confederates entred into a House, which they found to bee well
furnished with goods, but utterly forsaken of the dwellers, onely this
poore Mayden excepted, being then aged but two yeeres, or
thereabout. As hee mounted up the steps, with intent to depart from
the House; she called him Father, which word moved him so
compassionately, that he went backe againe, brought her away with him,
and all things of worth which were in the House: going thence
afterward to Fano, and there deceasing, hee left her and all his goods
to my charge; conditionally, that I should see her married when due
time required, and bestow on her the wealth which he had left her.
Now, very true it is, although her yeeres are convenient for marriage,
yet I could never finde any one to bestow her on, at least that I
thought fitting for her: howbeit I will listen thereto much more
respectively, before any other such accident shall happen.
  It came to passe, that in the reporting of this discourse, there was
then a Gentleman in the company, named Guillemino da Medicina, who
at the surprizall of the City, was present with Guidotto of Cremona,
and knew well the House which he had ransacked, the owner whereof
was also present with him, wherefore taking him aside, he said to him.
Bernardino, hearest thou what Jacomino hath related? Yes very well,
replyed Bernardino, and remember withall, that in that dismall
bloody combustion, I lost a little Daughter, about the age as Jacomino
speaketh. Questionlesse then replyed Guillemino, she must needs be the
same young Mayden, for I was there at the same time, and in the House,
whence Guidotto did bring both the Girle and goods, and I do perfectly
remember, that it was thy House. I pray thee call to minde, if
everthou sawest any scarre or marke about her, which may revive thy
former knowledge of her, for my minde perswades me, that the Maide
is thy Daughter.
  Bernardino musing awhile with himselfe, remembred, that under her
left eare, she had a scarre, in the forme of a little crosse, which
happened by the byting of a Wolfe, and but a small while before the
spoyle was made. Wherefore, without deferring it to any further
time, he stept to Jacomino who as yet stayed there) and entreated
him to fetch the Mayden from his house, because shee might be knowne
to some in the company: whereto right willingly he condiscended, and
there presented the Maide before them. So soone as Bernardino beheld
her, he began to be much inwardly moved, for the perfect character
of her Mothers countenance, was really figured in her sweete face;
onely that her beauty was somewhat more excelling. Yet not herewith
satisfied, he desired Jacomino to bee so pleased, as to lift up a
little the lockes of haire, depending over her left eare. Jacomino did
it presently, albeit with a modest blushing in the Maide, and
Bernardino looking advisedly on it, knew it to be the selfe-same
crosse, which confirmed her constantly to be his Daughter.
  Overcome with excesse of joy, which made the teares to trickle downe
his cheekes, he proffered to embrace and kisse the Maide: but she
refusing his kindnesse, because (as yet) she knew no reason for it,
hee turned himselfe to Jacomino, saying. My deare brother and
friend, this Maide is my Daughter, and my House was the same which
Guidotto spoyled, in the generall havocke of our City, and thence he
carried this childe of mine, forgotten (in the fury) by my Wife her
Mother. But happy was the houre of his becomming her Father, and
carrying her away with him; for else she had perished in the fire,
because the House was instantly burnt downe to the ground. The
Mayden hearing his words, observing him also to be a man of yeeres and
gravity: she beleeved what he saide, and humbly submitted her selfe to
his kisses and embraces, even as instructed thereto by instinct of
nature. Bernardino instantly sent for his wife, her owne Mother, his
daughters, sonnes, and kindred, who being acquainted with this
admirable accident, gave her most gracious and kinde welcome, he
receiving her from Jacomino as his childe, and the legacies which
Guidotto had left her.
  When the Captaine of the City (being a very wise and worthy
Gentleman) heard these tydings, and knowing that Giovanni, then his
prisoner, was the Son to Bernardino, and naturall Brother to the newly
recovered Maide: he bethought himselfe, how best he might qualifie the
fault committed by him. And entring into the Hall among them,
handled the matter so discreetly, that a loving league of peace was
confirmed betweene Giovanni and Menghino, to whom (with free and
full consent on all sides) the faire Maide, named Agatha, was given in
marriage, with a more honourable enlargement of her dowry, and
Grinello, with the rest, delivered out of prison, which for their
tumultuous riot they had justly deserved. Menghino and Agatha had
their wedding worthily solemnized, with all due honours belonging
thereto; and long time after they had lived in Faenza, highly beloved,
and graciously esteemed.
                     THE FIFT DAY, THE SIXTH NOVELL

  WHEREIN IS MANIFESTED, THAT LOVE CAN LEADE A MAN INTO NUMBERLESSE
             PERILS: OUT OF WHICH HE ESCAPETH WITH NO MEANE
                               DIFFICULTY.

  Guion di Procida, being found familiarly conversing with a young
Damosell, which he loved; and had beene given (formerly) to Frederigo,
King of Sicilie: was bound to a stake, to be consumed with fire.
From which h dan ger (neverthelesse) he escaped, being knowne by Don
Rogiero de Oria, Lord Admirall of Sicilie, and afterward married the
Damosell.

  The Novell of Madame Neiphila being ended, which proved very
pleasing to the Ladies: the Queene commanded Madam Pampinea, that
she should prepare to take her turne next, whereto willingly
obeying, thus she began. Many and mighty (Gracious Ladies) are the
prevailing powers of love, conducting amorous soules into infinite
travels, with inconveniences no way avoidable, and not easily to be
foreseene, or prevented. As partly already hath bene observed, by
divers of our former Novels related, and some (no doubt) to ensue
hereafter; for one of them (comming now to my memory) I shall acquaint
you withall, in so good tearmes as I can.
  Ischia is an Iland very neere to Naples, wherein (not long since)
lived a faire and lovely Gentlewoman, named Restituta, Daughter to a
Gentleman of the same Isle, whose name was Marino Bolgaro. A proper
youth called Guion, dwelling also in a neere neighbouring Isle, called
Procida, did love her as dearly as his owne life, and she was as
intimately affected towards him. Now because the sight of her was
his onely comfort, as occasion gave him leave, he resorted to Ischia
very often in the day time, and as often also in the night season,
when any Barke passed from Procida to Ischia; if to see nothing
else, yet to behold the walles that enclosed his Mistresse thus.
  While this love continued in equall fervency, it chanced upon a
faire Summers day, that Restituta walked alone upon the Sea-shore,
going from Rocke to Rocke, having a naked knife in her hand, wherewith
she opened such Oysters as shee found among the stones, seeking for
small pearles enclosed in their shelles. Her walke was very solitary
and shady, with a faire Spring or Well adjoyning to it, and thither
(at that very instant time) certaine Sicilian young Gentlemen, which
came from Naples, had made their retreate. They perceiving the
Gentlewoman to be very beautifull (she as yet not having any sight
of them) and in such a silent place alone by her selfe: concluded
together, to make a purchase of her, and carry her thence away with
them; as indeed they did, notwithstanding all her out cryes and
exclaimes, bearing her perforce aboard their Barke.
  Setting sayle thence, they arrived in Calabria, and then there
grew a great contention betweene them, to which of them this booty
of beauty should belong, because each of them pleaded a title to
her. But when they could not grow to any agreement, but doubted
greater disasters would ensue thereon, by breaking their former league
of friendship: by an equall conformity in consent, they resolved, to
bestow her as a rich present, on Frederigo King of Sicille, who was
then young and joviall, and could not be pleased with a better gift;
wherefore, they were no sooner landed at Palermo, but they did
according as they had determined. The King did commend her beauty
extraordinarily, and liked her farre beyond all his other Loves:
but, being at that time empaired in his health, and his body much
distempered by ill dyet; he gave command, that untill he should be
in more able disposition, she must be kept in a goodly house of his
owne, erected in a beautifull Garden, called the Cube, where she was
attended in most pompous manner.
 Now grew the noyse and rumor great in Ischia, about this rape or
stealing away of Restituta; but the chiefest greevance of all, was,
that it could not be knowne how, by whom, or by what meanes. But Guion
di Procida, whom this injury concerned much more then any other: stood
not in expectation of better tydings from Ischia, but h earing what
course the Barke had taken, made ready another, to follow after with
all possible speede. Flying thus on the winged winds through the Seas,
even from Minerva, unto the Scalea in Calabria, searching for his lost
Love in every angle: at length it was told him at the Scalea, that
shee was carryed away by certaine Sicillian Marriners, to Palermo,
whither Guion set sayle immediately.
  After some diligent search made there, he understood, that she was
delivered to the King, and he had given strict command, for keeping
her in his place of pleasure, called the Cube: which newes were not
a little greevous to him, for now he was almost quite out of hope, not
onely of ever enjoying her, but also of seeing her. Neverthelesse,
Love would not let him utterly despaire, whereupon he sent away his
Barque, and perceiving himselfe to be unknowne of any; he continued
for some time in Palermo, walking many times by that goodly place of
pleasure. It chanced on a day, that keeping his walke as he used to
do, Fortune was so favourable to him, as to let him have a sight of
her at her window; from whence also she had a full view of him, to
their exceeding comfort and contentment. And Guion observing, that the
Cube was seated in a place of small resort; approached so neere as
possibly he durst, to have some conference with Restituta.
  As Love sets a keene edge on the dullest spirit, and (by a small
advantage) makes a man the more adventurous: so this little time of
unseene talke, inspired him with courage, and her with witty advice,
by what meanes his accesse might be much neerer to her, and their
communication concealed from any discovery, the scituation of the
place, and benefit of time duly considered. Night must be the cloud to
their amorous conclusion, and therefore, so much thereof being
spent, as was thought convenient, he returned thither againe, provided
of such grappling-yrons, as is required when men will clamber, made
fast unto his hands and knees; by their helpe hee attained to the
top of the wall, whence discending downe into the Garden, there he
found the maine yard of a ship, whereof before she had given him
instruction, and rearing it up against her Chamber window, made that
his meanes for ascending thereto, she having left it open for his
easier entrance.
  You cannot denie (faire Ladies) but here was a very hopefull
beginning, and likely to have as happy an ending, were it not true
Loves fatal misery, even in the very height of promised assurance,
to be thwarted by unkind prevention, and in such manner as I will tell
you. This night, intended for our Lovers meeting, proved disastrous
and dreadfull to them both: for the King, who at the first sight of
Restituta, was highly pleased with her excelling beauty; gave order to
his Eunuches and other women, that a costly bathe should be prepared
for her, and therein to let her weare away that night, because the
next day he intended to visit her. Restituta being royally conducted
from her Chamber to the Bathe, attended on with Torchlight, as if
she had bene a Queene: none remained there behind, but such women as
waited on her, and the Guards without, which watched the Chamber.
  No sooner was poore Guion aloft at the window, calling softly to his
Mistresse, as if she had bene there; but he was over-heard by the
women in the darke: and immediately apprehended by the Guard, who
forthwith brought him before the Lord Marshall, where being
examined, and he avouching, that Restituta was his elected wife, and
for her he had presumed in that manner; closely was he kept in
prison till the next morning. When he came into the Kings presence,
and there boldly justified the goodnesse of his cause: Restituta
likewise was sent for, who no sooner saw her deare Love Guion, but she
ran and caught him fast about the necke, kissing him in teares, and
greeving not a little at his hard fortune. Heereat the King grew
exceedingly enraged, loathing and hating her now, much more then
formerly hee did affect her, and having himselfe seene by what strange
meanes he did climbe over the wall, and then mounted to her Chamber
window; he was extreamely impatient, and could not otherwise bee
perswaded, but that their meetings thus had bene very many.
  Forthwith hee sentenced them both with death, commanding, that
they should be conveyed thence to Palermo, and there (being stript
starke naked) be bound to a stake backe to backe, and so to stand
the full space of nine houres, to see if any could take knowledge,
of whence, or what they were; then afterward, to be consumed with
fire. The sentence of death, did not so much daunt or dismay the poore
Lovers, as the uncivill and unsightly manner, which (in feare of the
Kings wrathfull displeasure) no man durst presume to contradict.
Wherefore, as he had commanded, so were they carryed thence to
Palermo, and bound naked to a stake in the open Market place, and
(before their eyes) the fire of wood brought, which was to consume
them, according to the houre as the King had appointed. You neede
not make any question, what an huge concourse of people were soone
assembled together, to behold such a sad and wofull spectacle, even
the whole City of Palermo, both men and women. The men were stricken
with admiration, beholding the unequalled beauty of faire Restituta,
and the selfe-same passion possessed the women, seeing Guion to be
such a goodly and compleat young man: but the poore infortunate Lovers
themselves, they stood with their lookes dejected to the ground, being
much pittied of all, but no way to be holpen or rescued by any,
awaiting when the happy houre would come, to finish both their shame
and lives together.
  During the time of this tragicall expectation, the fame of this
publike execution being noysed abroade, calling all people farre and
neere to behold it; it came to the eare of Don Rogiero de Oria, a
man of much admired valour, and then Lord high Admirall of Sicily, who
came himselfe in person, to the place appointed for their death.
First, he observed the Mayden, confessing her (in his soule) to be a
beauty beyond all compare. Then looking on the young man, thus he
saide within himselfe: If the inward endowments of the mind, doe
paralell the outward perfections of body; the World cannot yeeld a
more compleate man. Now, as good natures are quickly incited to
compassion (especially in cases almost commanding it) and compassion
knocking at the doore of the soule, doth quicken the memory with
many passed recordations: so this noble Admirall, advisedly, beholding
poore condemned Guion, conceived, that he had somewhat seene him
before this instant, and upon this perswasion (even as if divine
vertue had tutored his tongue) he saide: Is not thy name Guion di
Procida?
  Marke now, how quickly misery can receive comfort, upon so poore and
silly a question; for Guion began to elevate his dejected countenance,
and looking on the Admirall, returned him this answer. Sir, heretofore
I have bene the man which you speake of; but now, both that name and
man must die with me. What misfortune (said the Admirall) hath thus
unkindly crost thee? Love (answered Guion) and the Kings
displeasure. Then the Admirall would needs know the whole history at
large, which briefly was related to him, and having heard how all
had happened; as he was turning his Horse to ride away thence, Guion
called to him, saying, Good my Lord, entreat one favour for me, if
possibly it may be. What is that? replyed the Admirall. You see Sir
(quoth Guior) that I am very shortly to breathe my last; all the grace
which I do most humbly entreat, is, that as I am here with this chaste
Virgin, (whom I honour and love beyond my life) and miserably bound
backe to backe: our faces may be turned each to other, to the end,
that when the fire shall finish my life, by looking on her, my soule
may take her flight in full felicity. The Admirall smiling, said; I
will do for thee what I can, and (perhaps) thou mayest so long looke
on her, as thou wilt be weary, and desire to looke off her.
  At his departure, he commanded them that had the charge of this
execution, to proceede no further, untill they heard more from the
King, to whom he gallopped immediately, and although he beheld him
to bee very angerly moved; yet he spared not to speake in this
maner. Sir, wherin have those poore young couple offended you, that
are so shamefully to be burnt at Palermo? The King told him: whereto
the Admirall (pursuing still his purpose) thus replyed. Beleeve me
Sir, if true love be an offence, then theirs may be termed to be
one; and albeit it deserved death, yet farre be it from thee to
inflict it on them: for as faults doe justly require punishment, so
doe good turnes as equally merit grace and requitall. Knowest thou
what and who they are, whom thou hast so dishonourably condemned to
the fire? Not I, quoth the King. Why then I will tell thee, answered
the Admirall, that thou mayest take the better knowledge of them,
and forbeare hereafter, to be so over violently transported with
anger.
  The young Gentleman, is the Sonne to Landolfo di Procida, the
onely Brother to Lord John di Procida, by whose meanes thou becamest
Lord and King of this Countrey. The faire young Damosell, is the
Daughter to Marino Bulgaro, whose power extendeth so farre, as to
preserve thy prerogative in Ischia, which (but for him) had long since
bene out-rooted there. Beside, these two maine motives, to challenge
justly grace and favour from thee; they are in the floure and pride of
their youth, having long continued in loyall love together, and
compelled by fervency of endeared affection, not any will to displease
thy Majesty: they have offended (if it may be termed an offence to
love, and in such lovely young people as they are.) Canst thou then
finde in thine heart to let them die, whom thou rather ought to
honour, and recompence with no meane rewards?
 When the King had heard this, and beleeved for a certainty, that
the Admirall told him nothing but truth: he appointed not onely,
that they should proceede no further, but also was exceeding
sorrowfull for what he had done, sending presently to have them
released from the Stake, and honourably to be brought before him.
Being thus enstructed in their severall qualities, and standing in
duty obliged, to recompence the wrong which he had done, with
respective honours: he caused them to be cloathed in royall
garments, and knowing them to bee knit in unity of soule; the like
he did by marrying them solemnly together, and bestowing many rich
gifts and presents on them, sent them honourably attended home to
Ischia; where they were with much joy and comfort received, and
lived long after in great felicity.
                    THE FIFT DAY, THE SEVENTH NOVELL

  WHEREIN IS DECLARED, THE SUNDRY TRAVELS AND PERILLOUS ACCIDENTS,
   OCCASIONED BY THOSE TWO POWERFULL COMMANDERS, LOVE AND FORTUNE,
                 THE INSULTING TYRANTS OVER HUMANE LIFE.

  Theodoro falling in love with Violenta, the Daughter to his
Master, named Amarigo, and she conceiving with child by him; was
condemned to be hanged. As they were leading him to the Gallowes,
beating and misusing him all the way: he happened to be knowne of
his owne Father, whereupon he was released, and afterward enjoyed
Violenta in marriage.

  Greatly were the Ladies minds perplexed, when they heard, that the
two poore Lovers were in danger to be burned: but hearing afterward of
their happy deliverance, for which they were as joyfull againe; upon
the concluding of the Novell, the Queene looked on Madame Lauretta,
enjoyning her to tell the next Tale, which willingly she undertooke to
do, and thus began.
  Faire Ladies, at such time as the good King William reigned in
Sicily, there lived within the same Dominion, a young Gentleman, named
Signior Amarigo, Abbot of Trapani, who among his other worldly
blessings, (commonly termed the goods of Fortune) was not
unfurnished of children; and therefore having neede of servants, he
made his provision of them the best he might. At that time, certaine
Gallies of Geneway Pyrates comming from the Easterne parts, which
coasting along Armenia, had taken divers children; he bought some of
them, thinking that they were Turkes. They all resembling clownish
Peazants, yet there was one among them, who seemed to be of more
tractable and gentle nature, yea, and of a more affable countenance
than any of the rest, being named Theodoro: who growing on in
yeeres, (albeit he lived in the condition of a servant) was educated
among Amarigoes Children, and as enstructed rather by nature, then
accident, his conditions were very much commended, as also the feature
of his body, which proved so highly pleasing to his Master Amarigo,
that he made him a free man, and imagining him to be a Turke, caused
him to be baptized, and named Pedro, creating him superintendent of
all his affaires, and reposing his-chiefest trust in him.
  As the other Children of Signior Amarigo grew in yeeres and stature,
so did a Daughter of his, named Violenta, a very goodly and beautifull
Damosell, somewhat over-long kept from marriage by her Fathers
covetousnesse, and casting an eye of good liking on poore Pedro.
Now, albeit shee loved him very dearly, and all his behaviour was most
pleasing to her, yet maiden modesty forbad her to reveale it, till
Love (too long concealed) must needes disclose it selfe. Which Pedro
at the length tooke notice of, and grew so forward towards her in
equality of affection, as the very sight of her was his onely
happinesse. Yet very fearefull he was, least it should be noted,
either by any of the House, or the Mayden her selfe: who yet well
observed it, and to her no meane contentment, as it appeared no
lesse (on the other side) to honest Pedro.
  While thus they loved together meerely in dumbe shewes, not daring
to speake to each other, (though nothing more desired) to finde some
ease in this their oppressing passions: Fortune, even as if she
pittied their so long languishing, enstructed them how to finde out
a way, whereby they might both better releeve themselves. Signior
Amarigo, about some two or three miles distance from Trapani, had a
Countrey-House or Farme, whereto his Wife, with her Daughter and
some other women, used oftentimes to make their resort, as it were
in sportfull recreation; Pedro alwayes being diligent to man them
thither. One time among the rest, it came to passe, as often it
falleth out in the Summer season, that the faire Skie became
suddenly over-clouded, even as they were returning home towards
Trapani, threatning a storme of raine to overtake them, except they
made the speedier haste.
  Pedro, who was young, and likewise Violenta, went farre more lightly
then her Mother and her company, as much perhaps provoked by love,
as feare of the sudden raine falling, and paced on so fast before
them, that they were wholly out of sight. After many flashes of
lightning, and a few dreadfull clappes of thunder, there fell such a
tempestuous showre of hayle, as compelled the Mother and her traine to
shelter themselves in a poore Countrey-mans Cottage. Pedro and
Violenta, having no other refuge, ranne likewise into a poore
Sheepecoate, so over-ruined, as it was in danger to fall on their
heads; and no body dwelt in it, neither stood any other house neere
it, and it was scarsely any shelter for them, howbeit, necessity
enforceth to make shift with the meanest. The storme encreasing more
and more, and they coveting to avoyd it as well as they could;
sighes and drie hemmes were often inter-vented, as dumbly (before)
they were wont to doe, when willingly they could affoord another kinde
of speaking.
  At last Pedro tooke heart, and saide: I would this showre would
never cease, that I might be alwayes where I am. The like could I
wish, answered Violenta, so we were in a better place of safety. These
wishes drew on other gentle language, with modest kisses and embraces,
the onely ease to poore Lovers soules; so that the raine ceased not,
till they had taken order for their oftner conversing, and absolute
plighting of their faiths together. By this time the storme was
fairely over-blowne, and they attending on the way, till the Mother
and the rest were come, with whom they returned to Trapani, where by
wise and provident meanes, they often conferred in private together,
and enjoyed the benefit of their amorous desires, yet free from any
ill surmise or suspition.
  But, as Lovers felicities are sildome permanent, without one
encountring crosse or other: so these stolne pleasures of Pedro and
Violenta, met with as sowre a sauce in the farewell. For shee proved
to be conceived with childe, then which could befall them no heavier
affliction, and Pedro fearing to loose his life therefore,
determined immediate Right, and revealed his purpose to Violenta.
Which when she heard, she told him plainly, that if he fled,
forth-with she would kill her selfe. Alas deare Love (quoth Pedro)
with what reason can you wish my tarrying here? This conception of
yours, doth discover our offence, which a Fathers pity may easily
pardon in vou: but I being his servant and vassall, shall be
punished both for your sinne and mine, because he will have no mercy
on me. Content thy selfe Pedro, replyed Violenta, I will take such
order for mine owne offence, by the discreete counsell of my loving
Mother, that no blame shall any way be taide on thee, or so much as
a surmise, except thou wilt fondly betray thy selfe. If you can do so,
answered Pedro, and constantly maintaine your promise; I will not
depart, but see that you prove to bee so good as your word.
  Violenta, who had concealed her amisse so long as she could, and saw
no other remedy, but now at last it must needes be discovered; went
privately to her Mother, and (in teares) revealed her infirmity,
humbly craving her pardon, and furtherance in hiding it from her
Father. The Mother being extraordinarily displeased, chiding her
with many sharpe and angry speeches, would needes know with whom
shee had thus offended. The Daughter (to keepe Pedro from any
detection) forged a Tale of her owne braine, farre from any truth
indeede, which her Mother verily beleeving, and willing to preserve
her Daughter from shame, as also the fierce anger of her Husband, he
being a man of very implacable nature: conveyed her to the Countrey
Farme, whither Signior Amarigo sildome or never resorted, intending
(under the shadow of sicknesse) to let her lye in there, without the
least suspition of any in Trapani.
  Sinne and shame can never be so closely carryed, or clouded with the
greatest cunning; but truth hath a loop-light whereby to discover
it, even when it supposeth it selfe in the surest safety. For, on
the very day of her detiverance, at such time as the Mother, and
some few friends (sworne to secrecy) were about the businesse, Signior
Amarigo, having beene in company of other Gentlemen, to flye his Hawke
at the River, upon a sudden, (but very unfortunately, albeit hee was
alone by himselfe) stept into his Farm-house, even to the next roome
where the women were, and heard the newborne Babe to cry, whereat
marvelling not a little, he called for his Wife, to know what young
childe cryed in his House. The Mother, amazed at his strange comming
thither, which never before he had used to doe, and pittying the
wofull distresse of her Daughter, which now could bee no longer
covered, revealed what happened to Violenta. But he, being nothing
so rash in beliefe, as his Wife was, made answere, that it was
impossible for his Daughter to be conceived with childe, because he
never observed the least signe of love in her to any man whatsoever,
and therefore he would be satisfied in the truth, as shee expected any
favour from him, or else there was no other way but death.
  The Mother laboured by all meanes she could devise, to pacifie her
Husbands fury, which proved all in vaine; for being thus impatiently
incensed, he drew foorth his Sword, and stepping with it drawne into
the Chamber (where she had bene delivered of a goodly Sonne) he said
unto her. Either tell me who is the Father of this Bastard, or thou
and it shall perish both together. Poore Violenta, lesse respecting
her owne life, then she did the childes; forgot her solemne promise
made to Pedro, and discovered all. Which when Amarigo had heard, he
grew so desperately enraged, that hardly he could forbeare from
killing her. But after hee had spoken what his fury enstructed him,
hee mounted on Horsebacke againe, ryding backe to Trapani, where hee
disclosed the injury which Pedro had done him, to a noble Gentleman,
named Signior Conrado, who was Captaine for the King over the City.
  Before poore Pedro could have any intelligence, or so much as
suspected any treachery against him; he was suddenly apprehended,
and being called in question, stood not on any deniall, but
confessed truly what hee had done: whereupon, within some few dayes
after, he was condemned by the Captaine, to be whipt to the place of
execution, and afterward to be hanged by the necke. Signior Amarigo,
because he would cut off (at one and the same time) not onely the
lives of the two poore Lovers, but their childes also; as a
franticke man, violently carried from all sense of compassion, even
when Pedro was led and whipt to his death: he mingled strong poyson in
a Cup of wine, delivering it to a trusty servant of his owne, and a
naked Rapier withall, speaking to him in this manner. Goe carry
these two presents to my late Daughter Violenta, and tell her from me,
that in this instant houre, two severall kinds of death are offered
unto her, and one of them she must make choyce of, either to drinke
the poyson, and so dye, or to run her body on this Rapiers point,
which if she denie to doe, she shall be haled to the publike market
place, and presently be burned in the sight of her lewd companion,
according as shee hath worthily deserved. When thou hast delivered her
this message, take he- Bastard brat, so lately since borne, and dash
his braines out against the walles, and afterward throw him to my
Dogges to feede on.
  When the Father had given this cruell sentence, both against his
owne Daughter, and her young Sonne, the servant readier to do evill,
then any good, went to the place where his Daughter was kept. Poore
condemned Pedro, (as you have heard) was led whipt to the Gibbet,
and passing (as it pleased the Captaines Officers to guide him) by a
faire Inne: at the same time were lodged there three chiefe persons of
Arminia, whom the King of the Countrey had sent to Rome, as
Ambassadours to the Popes Holinesse, to negociate about an important
businesse neerely concerning the King and State. Reposing there for
some few dayes, as being much wearied with their journey., and
highly honoured by the Gentlemen of Trapani, especially Signior
Amarigo; these Ambassadours standing in their Chamber window, heard
the wofull lamentations of Pedro in his passage by.
  Pedro was naked from the middle upward, and his hands bound fast
behind him, but being well observed by one of the Ambassadours, a
man aged, and of great authority, named Phinio: hee espied a great red
spot upon his breast, not painted, or procured by his punishment,
but naturally imprinted in the flesh, which women (in these parts)
terme the Rose. Upon the sight hereof, he suddenly remembred a Sonne
of his owne, which was stolne from him about fifteene yeeres before,
by Pyrates on the Sea-coast of Laiazzo, never hearing any tydings of
him afterward. Upon further consideration, and comparing his Sonnes
age with the likelyhood of this poore wretched mans; thus he conferred
with his owne thoughts. If my Sonne (quoth he) be living, his age is
equall to this mans time, and by the red blemish on his breast, it
plainely speakes him for to bee my Sonne.
  Moreover, thus he conceived, that if it were he, he could not but
remember his owne name, his Fathers, and the Armenian Language;
wherefore, when he was just opposite before the window, hee called
aloud to him, saying: Theodoro. Pedro hearing the voyce, presently
lifted up his head, and Phinio speaking Armenian, saide: Of whence art
thou, and what is thy Fathers name? The Sergeants (in reverence to the
Lord Ambassador) stayed awhile, till Pedro had returned his answer,
who saide. I am an Armenian borne, Sonne to one Phineo, and was
brought hither I cannot tell by whom. Phineo hearing this, knew then
assuredly, that this was the same Sonne which he had lost;
wherefore, the teares standing in his eyes with conceite of joy, downe
he descended from the window, and the other Ambassadors with him,
running in among the Sergeants to embrace his Sonne, and casting his
owne rich Cloake about his whipt body, entreating them to forbeare and
proceed no further, till they heard what command he should returne
withall unto them; which very willingly they promised to do.
  Already, by the generall rumour dispersed abroad, Phineo had
understood the occasion, why Pedro was thus punished, and sentenced to
bee hanged: wherefore, accompanied with his fellow Ambassadors, and
all their attending traine, he went to Signior Conrado, and spake thus
to him. My Lord, he whom you have sent to death as a slave, is a
free Gentleman borne, and my Sonne, able to make her amends whom he
hath dishonoured, by taking her in marriage as his lawfull Wife. Let
me therefore entreat you, to make stay of the execution, ill it may be
knowne, whether she will accept him as her Husband, or no; least (if
she be so pleased) you offend directly against your owne Law. When
Signior Conrado heard, that Pedro was Sonne to the Lord Ambassador, he
wondred thereat not a little, and being somewhat ashamed of his
fortunes errour, confessed, that the claime of Phineo was
comformable to Law, and ought not to be denied him; going presently to
the Counsell Chamber, sending for Signior Amarigo immediately thither,
and acquainting him fully with the case.
  Amarigo, who beleeved that his Daughter and her Child were already
dead, was the wofullest man in the World, for his so rash
proceeding, knowing very well, that if she were not dead, the scandall
would easily be wipt away with credit. Wherefore he sent in all
poast haste, to the place where his Daughter lay, that if his
command were not already executed, by no meanes to have it done at
all. He who went on this speedy errand, found there Signior
Amarigoes servant standing before Violenta, with the Cup of poyson
in the one hand, and the drawne Rapier in the other, reproaching her
with very foule and injurious speeches, because she had delayed the
time so long, and would not accept the one or other, striving (by
violence) to make her take the one. But hearing his Masters command to
the contrary, he left her, and returned backe to him, certifying him
how the case stood.
  Most highly pleased was Amarigo with these glad newes, and going
to the Ambassadour Phineo, in teares excused himselfe (so well as he
could) for his severity, and craving pardon; assured him, that if
Theodoro would accept his Daughter in marriage, willingly he would
bestow her on him. Phineo allowed his excuses to be tollerable, and
saide beside; If my Son will not marry your Daughter, then let the
sentence of death be executed on him. Amarigo and Phineo being thus
accorded, they went to poore Theodoro, fearefully looking every minute
when he should dye, yet joyfull that he had found his Father, who
presently moved the question to him. Theodoro hearing that Violenta
should bee his Wife, if he would so accept her: was over come with
such exceeding joy, as if he had leapt out of hell into Paradise;
confessing, that no greater felicity could befall him, if Violenta her
selfe were so well pleased as he.
  The like motion was made to her, to understand her disposition in
this case, who hearing what good hap had befalne Theodoro, and now
in like manner must happen to her: whereas not long before, when two
such violent deathes were prepared for her, and one of them shee
must needs embrace, she accounted her misery beyond all other
womens, but she now thought her selfe above all in happinesse, if
she might be wife to her beloved Theodoro, submitting her selfe
wholy to her Fathers disposing. The marriage being agreed on
betweene them, it was celebrated with great pompe and solemnity, a
generall Feast being made for all the Citizens, and the young
married couple nourished up their sweete Son, which grew to be a
very comely childe.
  After that the Embassie was dispatched at Rome, and Phineo (with the
rest) was returned thither againe; Violenta did reverence him as her
owne naturall Father, and he was not a little proud of so lovely a
Daughter, beginning a fresh feasting againe, and continuing the same a
whole moneth together. Within some short while after, a Galley being
fairely furnished for the purpose, Phineo, his Sonne, Daughter, and
their young Sonne, went aboard, sayling away thence to Laiazzo,
where afterward they lived in much tranquility.
                    THE FIFT DAY, THE EIGHTH NOVELL

  DECLARING, THAT LOVE NOT ONELY MAKES A MAN PRODIGALL, BUT ALSO AN
   ENEMY TO HIMSELFE. MOREOVER, ADVENTURE OFTENTIMES BRINGETH SUCH
            MATTERS TO PASSE, AS WIT AND CUNNING IN MAN
                         CAN EVER COMPREHEND

  Anastasio, a Gentleman of the Family of the Honesti, by loving the
Daughter to Signior Paulo Traversario, lavishly wasted a great part of
his substance, without receiving any love from her againe. By
perswasion of some of his kindred and friends, he went to a Countrey
dwelling of his, called Chiasso, where he saw a Knight desperately
pursue a young Damosell; whom he slew, and afterward gave her to be
devoured by his Hounds. Anastasio invited his friends, and hers also
whom he so dearely loved, to take part of a dinner with him, who
likewise saw the same Damosell so torne in peeces: which his unkind
Love perceiving, and fearing least the like ill fortune should
happen to her; she accepted Anastasio to be her Husband.

  So soone as Madam Lauretta held her peace, Madam Pampinea (by the
Queenes command) began, and said. Lovely Ladies, as pitty is most
highly commended in our sexe, even so is cruelty in us as severely
revenged (oftentimes) by divine ordination. Which that you may the
better know, and learne likewise to shun, as a deadly evill; I purpose
to make apparant by a Novell, no lesse full of compassion, then
delectable.
  Ravenna being a very ancient City in Romania, there dwelt sometime a
great number of worthy Gentlemen, among whom I am to speake of one
more especially, named Anastasio, descended from the Family of the
Honesti, who by the death of his Father, and an Unckle of his, was
left extraordinarily abounding in riches, and growing to yeares
fitting for marriage, (as young Gallants are easily apt enough to
do) he became enamored of a very bountifull Gentlewoman, who was
Daughter to Signior Paulo Traversario, one of the most ancient and
noble Families in all the Countrey. Nor made he any doubt, but by
his meanes and industrious endeavour, to derive affection from her
againe; for he carried himselfe like a brave-minded Gentleman,
liberall in his expences, honest and affable in all his actions, which
commonly are the true notes of a good nature, and highly to be
commended in any man. But, howsoever Fortune became his enemy, these
laudable parts of manhood did not any way friend him, but rather
appeared hurtfull to himselfe: so cruell, unkind, and almost meerely
savage did she shew her selfe to him; perhaps in pride of her singular
beauty, or presuming on her nobility by birth, both which are rather
blemishes, then ornaments in a woman, especially when they be abused.
  The harsh and uncivill usage in her, grew very distastefull to
Anastasio, and so unsufferable, that after a long time of fruitlesse
service, requited still with nothing but coy disdaine; desperate
resolutions entred into his brain, and often he was minded to kill
himselfe. But better thoughts supplanting those furious passions, he
abstained from any such violent act; and governed by more manly
consideration, determined, that as shee hated him, he would requite
her with the like, if he could: wherein he became altogether deceived,
because as his hopes grew to a dayly decaying, yet his love enlarged
it selfe more and more.
  Thus Anastasio persevering still in his bootlesse affection, and his
expences not limited within any compasse; it appeared in the judgement
of his Kindred and Friends, that he was falne into a mighty
consumption, both of his body and meanes. In which respect, many times
they advised him to leave the City of Ravenna, and live in some
other place for such a while; as might set a more moderate stint
upon his spendings, and bridle the indiscreete course of his love, the
onely fuell which fed this furious fire.
  Anastasio held out thus a long time, without lending an eare to such
friendly counsell: but in the end, he was so neerely followed by them,
as being no longer able to deny them, he promised to accomplish
their request. Whereupon, making such extraordinary preparation, as if
he were to set thence for France or Spaine, or else into some
further distant countrey: he mounted on horsebacke, and accompanied
with some few of his familiar friends, departed from Ravenna, and rode
to a countrey dwelling house of his owne, about three or foure miles
distant from the Cittie which was called Chiasso, and there (upon a
very goodly greene) erecting divers Tents and Pavillions, such as
great persons make use of in the time of a Progresse: he said to his
friends, which came with him thither, that there he determined to make
his abiding, they all returning backe unto Ravenna, and might come
to visite him againe so often as they pleased.
  Now, it came to passe, that about the beginning of May, it being
then a very milde and serrene season, and he leading there a much more
magnificent life, then ever hee had done before, inviting divers to
dine with him this day, and as many to morrow, and not to leave him
till after supper: upon the sodaine, falling into remembrance of his
cruell Mistris, hee commanded all his servants to forbeare his
company, and suffer him to walke alone by himselfe awhile, because
he had occasion of private meditations, wherein he would not (by any
meanes) be troubled. It was then about the ninth houre of the day, and
he walking on solitary all alone, having gone some halfe miles
distance from his Tents, entred into a Grove of Pine-trees, never
minding dinner time, or any thing else, but onely the unkind requitall
of his love.
  Sodainly he heard the voice of a woman, seeming to make most
mournfull complaints, which breaking off his silent considerations,
made him to lift up his head, to know the reason of this noise. When
he saw himselfe so farre entred into the Grove, before he could
imagine where he was; hee looked amazedly round about him, and out
of a little thicket of bushes and briars round engirt with spreading
trees, hee espyed a young Damosell come running towards him, naked
from the middle upward, her haire dishevelled on her shoulders, and
her faire skinne rent and torne with the briars and brambles, so
that the blood ran trickling downe mainely; she weeping, wringing
her hands, and crying out for mercy so lowde as she could. Two
fierce Bloodhounds also followed swiftly after, and where their
teeth tooke hold, did most cruelly bite her. Last of all (mounted on a
lusty blacke Courser) came gallopping a Knight, with a very sterne and
angry countenance, holding a drawne short Sword in his hand, giving
her very vile and dreadfull speeches, and threatning every minute to
kill her.
  This strange and uncouth sight, bred in him no meane admiration,
as also kinde compassion to the unfortunate woman; out of which
compassion, sprung an earnest desire, to deliver her (if he could)
from a death so full of anguish and horror: but seeing himselfe to
be without Armes, he ran and pluckt up the plant of a Tree, which
handling as if it had bene a staffe, he opposed himselfe against the
Dogges and the Knight, who seeing him comming, cryed out in this
manner to him. Anastasio, put not thy selfe in any opposition, but
referre to my Hounds and me, to punish this wicked woman as she hath
justly deserved. And in speaking these words, the Hounds tooke fast
hold on her body, so staying her, untill the Knight was come neerer to
her, and alighted from his horse: when Anastasio (after some other
angry speeches) spake thus unto him: I cannot tell what or who thou
art, albeit thou takest such knowledge of me, yet I must say, that
it is meere cowardize in a Knight, being armed as thou art, to offer
to kill a naked woman, and make thy dogges thus to seize on her, as if
she were a savage beast; therefore beleeve me, I will defend her so
farre as I am able.
  Anastasio, answered the Knight, I am of the same City as thou art,
and do well remember, that thou wast a little Ladde, when I (who was
then named Guido Anastasio, and thine Unckle) became as intirely in
love with this woman, as now thou art of Paulo Traversarioes daughter.
But through her coy disdaine and cruelty, such was my heavy fate, that
desperately I slew my selfe with this short sword which thou beholdest
in mine hand: for which rash sinfull deede, I was, and am condemned to
eternall punishment. This wicked woman, rejoycing immeasurably in mine
unhappy death, remained no long time alive after me, and for her
mercilesse sinne of cruelty, and taking pleasure in my oppressing
torments; dying unrepentant, and in pride of her scorne, she had the
like sentence of condemnation pronounced on her, and sent to the
same place where I was tormented.
  There the three impartiall judges, imposed this further infliction
on us both; namely, that she should flye in this manner before me, and
I (who loved her so deerely while I lived) must pursue her as my
deadly enemy, not like a woman that had a taste of love in her. And so
often as I can overtake her, I am to kill her with this sword, the
same Weapon wherewith I slew my selfe. Then am I enjoyned, therewith
to open her accursed body, and teare out her hard and frozen heart,
with her other inwards, as now thou seest me doe, which I give unto my
Hounds to feede on. Afterward, such is the appointment of the supreame
powers, that she re-assumeth life againe, even as if she had not
bene dead at all, and falling to the same kinde of flight, I with my
Hounds am still to follow her; without any respite or intermission.
Every Friday, and just at this houre, our course is this way, where
she suffereth the just punishment inflicted on her. Nor do we rest any
of the other dayes, but are appointed unto other places, where she
cruelly executed her malice against me, being now (of her deare
affectionate friend) ordained to be her endlesse enemy, and to
pursue her in this manner for so many yeares, as she exercised moneths
of cruelty, towards me. Hinder me not then, in being the executioner
of divine justice; for all thy interposition is but in vaine, in
seeking to crosse the appointment of supreame powers.
  Anastasio having attentively heard all this discourse, his haire
stood upright like Porcupines quils, and his soule was so shaken
with the terror, that he stept backe to suffer the Knight to do what
he was enjoyned, looking yet with milde commisseration on the poore
woman. Who kneeling Most humbly before the Knight, and stearnely
seized on by the two blood-hounds, he opened her brest with his
weapon, drawing foorth her heart and bowels, which instantly he
threw to the dogges, and they devoured them very greedily. Soone
after, the Damosell (as if none of this punishment had bene
inflicted on her) started up sodainly, running amaine towards the
Sea shore, and the Hounds swiftly following her, as the Knight did the
like, after he had taken his sword, and was mounted on horsebacke;
so that Anastasio had soone lost all sight of them, and could not
gesse what was become of them.
  After he had heard and observed all these things, he stoode a
while as confounded with feare and pitty, like a simple silly man,
hoodwinkt with his owne passions, not knowing the subtle enemies
cunning illusions in offering false suggestions to the sight, to worke
his owne ends thereby, and encrease the number of his deceived
servants. Forthwith he perswaded himselfe, that he might make good use
of this womans tormenting, so justly imposed on the Knight to
prosecute, if thus it should continue still every Friday. Wherefore,
setting a good note or marke upon the place, he returned backe to
his owne people, and at such time as he thought convenient, sent for
divers of his kindred and friends from Ravenna, who being present with
him, thus he spake to them.
  Deare Kinsmen and Friends, ye have a long while importuned me, to
discontinue my over-doating love to her, whom you all thinke, and I
find to be my mortall enemy: as also, to give over my lavish expences,
wherein I confesse my selfe too prodigall; both which requests of
yours, I will condiscend to, provided, that you will performe one
gracious favour for me; Namely, that on Friday next, Signior Paulo
Traversario, his wife, daughter, with all other women linked in linage
to them, and such beside onely as you shall please to appoint, will
vouchsafe to accept a dinner heere with wi me; as for the reason
thereto mooving me, you shall then more at large be acquainted
withall. This appeared no difficult matter for them to accomplish:
wherefore, being returned to Ravenna, and as they found the time
answerable to their purpose, they invited such as Anastasio had
appointed them. And although they found it some-what an hard matter,
to gaine her company whom he so deerely affected; yet notwithstanding,
the other women won her along with them.
  A most magnificent dinner had Anastasio provided, and the tables
were covered under the Pine-trees, where he saw the cruell Lady so
pursued and slaine: directing the guests so in their seating, that the
yong Gentlewoman his unkinde Mistresse, sate with her face opposite
unto the place, where the dismall spectacle was to be seene. About the
closing up of dinner, they beganne to heare the noise of the poore
prosecuted Woman, which drove them all to much admiration; desiring to
know what it was, and no one resolving them, they arose from the
Tables, and looking directly as the noise came to them, they espyed
the wofull Woman, the Dogges eagerly pursuing her; and the armed
Knight on horsebacke, gallopping fiercely after them with his drawne
weapon, and came very nere unto the company, who cryed out with lowd
exclaimes against the dogs and the Knight, stepping forth in
assistance of the injured woman.
  The Knight spake unto them, as formerly he had done to Anastasio,
(which made them draw backe, possessed with feare and admiration)
acting the same cruelty as he did the Friday before, not differing
in the least degree. Most of the Gentlewomen there present, being
neere allyed to the unfortunate Woman, and likewise to the Knight,
remembring well both his love and death, did shed teares as
plentifully, as if it had bin to the very persons themselves, in
usuall performance of the action indeede. Which tragicall Sceene being
passed over, and the Woman and Knight gone out of their sight: all
that had seene this straunge accident, fell into diversity of confused
opinions, yet not daring to disclose them, as doubting some further
danger to ensue thereon.
  But beyond all the rest, none could compare in feare and
astonishment with the cruell yong Maide affected by Anastasio, who
both saw and observed all with a more inward apprehension, knowing
very well, that the morall of this dismall spectacle, carried a much
neerer application to her then any other in all the company. For now
she could call to mind, how unkinde and cruell she had shewne her
selfe to Anastasio, even as the other Gentlewoman formerly did to
her Lover, still flying from him in great contempt and scorne: for
which, she thought the Blood-hounds also pursued her at the heeles
already, and a sword of vengeance to mangle her body. This feare
grew so powerfull in her, that to prevent the like heavy doome from
falling on her, she studied (by all her best and commendable meanes,
and therein bestowed all the night season) how to change her hatred
into kinde love, which at the length she fully obtained, and then
purposed to prosecute in this manner.
  Secretly she sent a faithfull Chambermaide of her owne, to greete
Anastasio on her behalfe; humbly entreating him te come see her:
because now she was absolutely determined, to give him satisfaction in
all which (with honour) he could request of her. Whereto Anastasio
answered, that he accepted her message thankfully, and desired no
other favour at her hand, but that which stood with her owne offer,
namely, to be his Wife in honourable marriage, The Maide knowing
sufficiently, that he could not be more desirous of the match, then
her Mistresse shewed her selfe to be, made answer in her name, that
this motion would be most welcome to her.
  Heereupon, the Gentlewoman her selfe, became the solicitour to her
Father and Mother, telling them plainly, that slie was willing to be
the Wife of Anastasio: which newes did so highly content them, that
upon the Sunday next following, the marriage was very worthily
solemnized, and they lived and loved together very kindly. Thus the
divine bounty out of the malignant enemies secret machinations, can
cause good effects to arise and succeede. For, from this conceite of
fearfull imagination in her, not onely happened this long desired
conversion, of a Maide so obstinately scornfull and proud; but
likewise all the women of Ravenna (being admonished by her example)
grew afterward more kind and tractable to mens honest motions, then
ever they shewed themselves before. And let me make some use hereof
(faire Ladies) to you, not to stand over-nicely conceited of your
beauty and good parts, when men (growing enamored of you by them)
solicite you with their best and humblest services. Remember then this
disdainfull Gentlewoman, but more especially her, who being the
death of so kinde a Lover, was therefore condemned to perpetuall
punishment, and he made the minister thereof, whom she had cast off
with coy disdaine, from which I wish your minds to be as free, as mine
is ready to do you any acceptable service.
                     THE FIFT DAY, THE NINTH NOVELL

      WHEREIN IS FIGURED TO THE LIFE, THE NOTABLE KINDNESSE AND
        COURTESIE, OF A TRUE AND CONSTANT LOVER: AS ALSO THE
                   MAGNANIMOUS MINDE OF A FAMOUS LADY

  Frederigo, of the Alberighi Family, loved a Gentlewoman, and was not
requited with like love againe. By bountifull expences, and over
liberall invitations, he wasted and consumed all his lands and
goods, having nothing left him, but a Hawke or Faulcon. His unkinde
Mistresse happeneth to come visite him, and he not having any other
foode for her dinner; made a dainty dish of his Faulcone for her to
feede on. Being conquered by this exceeding kinde courtesie; she
changed her former hatred towardes him, accepting him as her Husband
in marriage, and made him a man of wealthy possessions.

  Madam Philomena having finished her discourse, the Queene
perceiving, that her turne was the next, in regard of the priviledge
granted to Dioneus; with a smiling countenance thus she spake. Now
or never am I to maintaine the order which was instituted when wee
began this commendable exercise, whereto I yeeld with all humble
obedience. And (worthy Ladies) I am to acquaint you with a Novell,
in some sort answerable to the precedent, not onely to let you know,
how powerfully your kindnesses do prevalle, in such as have a free and
gentle soule: but also to dvise you, in being bountifull, where vertue
doth justly challenge it. And evermore, let your favours shine on
worthy deservers, without the direction of chaunce or Fortune, who
never bestoweth any gift by discretion; but rashly without
consideration, even to the first she blindly meets withall.
  You are to understand then, that Coppo di Borghese Domenichi, who
was of our owne City, and perhaps (as yet) his name remaineth in great
and reverend authority, now in these dayes of ours, as well
deserving eternall memory; yet more for his vertues and commendable
qualities, then any boast of Nobility from his predecessors. This man,
being well entred into yeares, and drawing towards the finishing of
his dayes; it was his only delight and felicity, in conversation among
his neighbours, to talke of matters concerning antiquity, and some
other things within compasse of his owne knowledge: which he would
deliver in such singular order (having an absolute memory) and with
the best Language, as very few or none could do the like. Among the
multiplicity of his queint discourses, I remember he told us, that
sometime there lived in Florence a yong Gentleman, named Frederigo,
Sonne to Signior Phillippo Alberigo, who was held and reputed, both
for Armes, and all other actions beseeming a Gentleman, hardly to have
his equall through all Tuscany.
  This Frederigo (as it is no rare matter in yong Gentlemen) became
enamored of a Gentlewoman, named Madam Giana, who was esteemed (in her
time) to be the fairest and most gracious Lady in all Florence. In
which respect, and to reach the height of his desire, he made many
sumptuous Feasts and Banquets, joustes, Tilties, Tournaments, and
all other noble actions of Armes, beside, sending her infinite rich
and costly presents, making spare of nothing, but lashing all out in
lavish expence. Notwithstanding, she being no lesse honest then faire,
made no reckoning of whatsoever he did for her sake, or the least
respect of his owne person. So that Frederigo, spending thus daily
more, then his meanes and ability could maintaine, and no supplies any
way redounding to him, or his faculties (as very easily they might)
diminished in such sort, that became so poore; as he had nothing
left him, but a small poore Farme to live upon, the silly revenewes
whereof were so meane, as scarcely allowed him meat and drinke; yet
had he a faire Hawke or Faulcon, hardly any where to be fellowed, so
expeditious and sure she was of flight. His low ebbe and poverty, no
way quailing his love to the Lady, but rather setting a keener edge
thereon; he saw the City life could no longer containe him, where most
he coveted to abide: and therefore, betooke himselfe to his poore
Countrey Farme, to let his Faulcon get him his dinner and supper,
patiently supporting his penurious estate, without suite or meanes
making to one, for helpe or reliefe in any such necessity.
  While thus he continued in this extremity, it came to passe, that
the Husband to Madam Giana fell sicke, and his debility of body
being such, as little, or no hope of life remained: he made his last
will and testament, ordaining thereby, that his Sonne (already
growne to indifferent stature) should be heire to all his Lands and
riches, wherein he abounded very greatly. Next unto him, if he chanced
to die without a lawfull heire, he substituted his Wife, whom most
dearely he affected, and so departed out of this life. Madam Giana
being thus left a widdow; as commonly it is the custome of our City
Dames, during the Summer season, she went to a house of her owne in
the Countrey, which was somewhat neere to poore Frederigoes Farme, and
where he lived in such an honest kind of contented poverty.
  Hereupon, the young Gentleman her Sonne, taking great delight in
Hounds and Hawkes; grew into familiarity with poore Frederigo, and
having seene many faire flights of his Faulcon, they pleased him so
extraordinarily, that he earnestly desired to enjoy her as his owne;
yet durst not move the motion for her, because he saw how choycely
Frederigo esteemed her. Within a short while after, the young
Gentleman, became very sicke, whereat his Mother greeved
exceedingly, (as having no more but he, and therefore loved him the
more entirely) never parting from him night or day, comforting him
so kindly as she could, and demanding, if he had a desire to any
thing, willing him to reveale it, and assuring him withall, that (it
were within the compasse of possibility) he should have it. The
youth hearing how many times she had made him these offers, and with
such vehement protestations of performance, at last thus spake.
  Mother (quoth he) if you can do so much for me, as that I may have
Frederigoes Faulcon, I am perswaded, that my sicknesse soone will
cease. The Lady hearing this, sate some short while musing to her
selfe, and began to consider, what she might best doe to compasse
her Sonnes desire: for well she knew, how long a time Frederigo had
most lovingly kept it, not suffering it ever to be out of his sight.
Moreover, shee remembred, how earnest in affection he had bene to her,
never thinking himselfe happy, but onely when he was in her company;
wherefore, shee entred into this private consultation with her owne
thoughts. Shall I send, or goe my selfe in person, to request the
Faulcon of him, it being the best that ever flew? It is his onely
Jewell of delight, and that taken from him, no longer can he wish to
live in this World. How farre then voyde of understanding shall I shew
my selfe, to rob a Gentleman of his sole felicity, having no other joy
or comfort left him? These and the like considerations, wheeled
about her troubled braine, onely in tender care and love to her Sonne,
perswading her selfe assuredly, that the Faulcon were her owne, if she
would but request it: yet not knowing whereon it were best to resolve,
shee returned no answer to her Sonne, but sate still in her silent
meditations. At the length, love to the youth, so prevailed with
her, that she concluded on his contentation, and (come of it what
could) shee would not send for it; but go her selfe in person to
request it, and then returne home againe with it: whereupon thus she
spake. Sonne, comfort thy selfe, and let languishing thoughts no
longer offend thee: for here I promise thee, that the first thing I do
to morrow morning, shall bee my journey for the Faulcon, and assure
thy selfe, that I will bring it with me. Whereat the youth was so
joyed, that he imagined, his sicknesse began instantly a little to
leave him, and promised him a speedy recovery.
  Somewhat early the next morning, the Lady, in care of her sicke Sons
health, was up and ready betimes, and taking another Gentlewoman
with her; onely as a morning recreation, shee walked to Frederigoes
poore Countrey Farme, knowing that it would not a little glad him to
see her. At the time of her arrivall there, he was (by chance) in a
silly Garden, on the backe-side of the a si House, because (as yet) it
was no convenient time for flight: but when he heard, that Madam Glana
was come thither, and desired to have some conference with him; as one
almost confounded with admiration, in all hast he ran to her, and
saluted her with most humble reverence. She in all modest and gracious
manner, requited him with the like salutations, thus speaking to
him. Signior Frederigo, your owne best wishes befriend you, I am now
come hither, to recompence some part of your passed travailes, which
heretofore you pretended traval I to suffer for my sake, when your
love was more to me, then did well become you to offer, or my selfe to
accept. And such is the nature of my recompence, that I make my
selfe your guest, and meane this day to dine with as also this
Gentlewoman, making no doubt of our welcome: whereto, with lowly
reverence, thus he replyed.
  Madam, I doe not remember, that ever I sustained any losse or
hinderance by you, but rather so much good, as if I was worth any
thing, it proceeded from your great deservings, and by the service
in which I did stand engaged to you. But my present happinesse can
no way be equalled, derived from your super-abounding gracious favour,
and more then common course of kindnesse, vouchsafing (of your owne
liberall nature) to come and visit so poore a servant. Oh that I had
as much to spend againe, as heretofore riotously I have runne
thorow: what a welcome would your poore Host bestow upon you, for
gracing; this homely house with your divine presence? With these
wordes, he conducted her into his house, and then into his simple
Garden, where having no convenient company for her, he said. Madam,
the poverty of this place is such, that it affoordeth none fit for
your conversation: this poore woman, wife to an honest Husbandman will
attend on you, while I (with some speede) shall make ready dinner.
  Poore Frederigo, although his necessity was extreame, and his greefe
great, remembring his former inordinate expences, a moity whereof
would now have stood him in some stead; yet he had a heart as free and
forward as ever, not a jotte dejected in his minde, though utterly
overthrowne by Fortune. Alas! how was his good soule afflicted, that
he had nothing wherewith to honour his Lady? Up and downe he runnes,
one while this way, then againe another, exclaiming on his
disastrous Fate, like a man enraged, or bereft of senses: for he had
not one peny of mony neither pawne or pledge, wherewith to procure
any. The time hasted on, and he would gladly (though in meane measure)
expresse his honourable respect of the Lady. To begge of any, his
nature denied it, and to borrow he could not, because his neighbours
were all as needie as himselfe.
  At last, looking round about, and seeing his Faulcon standing on her
pearch, which he felt to be very plumpe and fat, being voyde of all
other helpes in his neede, and thinking her to be a Fowle meete for so
Noble a Lady to feede on: without any further demurring or delay, he
pluckt off her necke, and caused the poore woman presently to pull her
Feathers: which being done, he put her on the spit, and in short
time she was daintily roasted. Himselfe covered the Table, set bread
and salt on and laid the Napkins, whereof he had but a few left him.
Going then with chearfull lookes into the Garden, telling the Lady
that dinner was ready, and nothing now wanted, but her presence. Shee,
and the Gentlewoman went in, and being sated at the Table, not knowing
what they fed on, the Faulcon was all their foode; and Frederigo not a
little joyfull, that his credite was so well saved. When they were
risen from the table, and had spent some small time in familiar
conference: the Lady thought it fit, to acquaint him with the reason
of her comming thither, and therefore (in very kinde manner) thus
began.
  Frederigo, if you do yet remember your former carriage towards
mee, as also my many modest and chaste denials, which (perhaps) you
thought to savour of a harsh, cruell, and un-womanly nature, I make no
doubt, but you will wonder at my present presumption, when you
understand the occasion, which expressely mooved me to come hither.
But if you were possessed of children, or ever had any, whereby you
might comprehend what love (in nature) is due unto them: then I
durst assure my selfe, that you would partly hold me excused.
  Now, in regard that you never had any, and my selfe (for my part)
have but onely one, I stand not exempted from those Lawes, which are
in common to other mothers. And being compelled to obey the power of
those Lawes; contrary to mine owne will, and those duties which reason
owne wi ought to maintaine, I am to request such a gift of you,
which I am certaine, that you do make most precious account of, as
in manly equity you can do no lesse. For Fortune hath bin so extreamly
adverse to you, that she hath robbed you of all other pleasures,
allowing you no comfort or delight, but onely that poore one, which is
your faire Faulcone. Of which Bird, my Sonne is become so strangely
desirous, as, if I doe not bring it to him at my comming home; I feare
so much, the extreamity of his sicknesse, as nothing can ensue
thereon, but his losse of life. Wherefore I beseech you, not in regard
of the love you have borne me, for therby you stand no way obliged:
but in your owne true gentle nature (the which hath alwayes declared
it selfe ready in you, to do more kinde offices generally, then any
other Gentleman that I know) you will be pleased to give her me, or at
the least, let me buy her of you.
  Which if you do, I shall freely then confesse, that onely by your
meanes, my Sonnes life is saved, and we both shall for ever remaine
engaged to you.
  When Frederigo had heard the Ladies request, which was now quite out
of his power to graunt, because it had bene her service at dinner:
he stood like a man meerely dulled in his sences, the teares trickling
amaine downe his cheekes, and he not able to utter one word. Which she
perceiving, began to conjecture immediately, that these teares and
passions proceeded rather from greefe of minde, as being loather to
part with his Faulcon, then any other kinde of manner: which made
her ready to say, that she would not have it. Neverthelesse she did
not speake, but rather tarried to attend his answer. Which, after some
small respite and pause, he returned in this manner.
  Madame, since the houre, when first mine affection became soly
devoted to your service; Fortune hath bene crosse and contrary to
me, in many occasions, as justly, and in good reason I may complain of
her, yet all seemed light and easie to be indured, in comparison of
her present malicious contradiction, to my utter overthrow, and
perpetuall mollestation. Considering, that you are come hither to my
poore house, which (while I was rich and able) you would not so much
as vouchsafe to looke on. And now you have requested a small matter of
me, wherein she hath also most crookedly thwarted me, because she hath
disabled me, in bestowing so meane a gift, as your selfe will
confesse, when it shall be related to you in few words.
  So soone as I heard, that it was your gracious pleasure to dine with
me, having regard to your excellency, and what (by merit) is justly
due unto you: I thought it a part of my bounden duty, to entertaine
you with such exquisite viands, as my poore power could any way
compasse, and farre beyond respect or welcome, to other common and
ordinary persons. Whereupon, remembring my Faulcon, which now you aske
for; and her goodnesse, excelling all other of her kinde; I
supposed, that she would make a dainty dish for your dyet, and
having drest her, so well as I could devise to do: you have fed
heartily on her, and I am proud that I have so well bestowne her.
But perceiving now, that you would have her for your sicke Sonne; it
is no meane affliction to me, that I am disabled of yeelding you
contentment, which all my life time I have desired to doe.
  To approve his words, the feathers, feete, and beake were brought
in, which when she saw, she greatly blamed him for killing so rare a
Faulcon, to content the appetite of any woman whatsoever. Yet she
commended his height of spirit, which poverty had no power to abase.
Lastly, her hopes being frustrate for enjoying the Faulcon, and
fearing besides the health of her Sonne, she thanked Frederigo for his
honorable kindnesse, returning home againe sad and melancholly.
Shortly after, her sonne either greeving that he could not have the
Faulcon, or by extreamity of his disease, chanced to dye, leaving
his mother a most wofull Lady.
  After so much time was expired, as conveniently might agree with
sorrow, and mourning; her Brethren made many motions to her, to oyne
her selfe in marriage againe, because she was extraordinarily rich,
and as yet but yong in yeares. Now although she was well contented
never to be married any more; yet being continually importuned by
them, and remembring the honorable honesty of Frederigo, his last
poore, yet magnificent dinner, in killing his Faulcon for her sake,
she saide to her Brethren. This kind of widdowed estate doth like me
so well, as willingly I would never leave it: but seeing you are so
earnest for my second marriage, let me plainly tell you, that I will
never accept of any other husband, but onely Frederigo di Alberino.
  Her Brethren in scornefull manner reprooved her, telling her, that
he was a begger, and had nothing left to keepe him in the world. I
know it well (quoth she) and am heartily sorry for it. But give me a
man that hath neede of wealth, rather then wealth that hath neede of a
man. The Brethren hearing how she stood addicted, and knowing
Frederigo to be a worthy Gentleman, though poverty had disgraced him
in the World: consented thereto, so she bestowed her selfe and her
riches on him. He on the other side, having so noble a Lady to his
Wife, and the same whom he had so long and deerely loved, submitted
all his fairest Fortunes unto her, became a better husband (for the
world) then before, and they lived, and loved together in equall joy
and happinesse.
                     THE FIFT DAY, THE TENTH NOVELL

     REPREHENDING THE CUNNING OF IMMODEST WOMEN, WHO BY ABUSING
        THEMSELVES, DO THROW EVILL ASPERSIONS ON ALL THEIR SEXE

  Pedro di Vinciolo went to sup at a friends house in the City. His
wife (in the meane while) had a young man whom shee loved, at supper
with Pedro returning home on a sodaine, the young man was hidden under
a Coope for Hens. Pedro in excuse of his so soone comming home,
declareth, how in the house of Herculano (with whom he should have
supt) a friend of his Wives was found, which was the reason of the
Suppers breaking off. Pedroes Wife reproving the error of
Herculanoes wife, an Asse (by chance) treads on the yong mans
fingers that lay hidden under the Hen-coope. Upon his crying out Pedro
steppeth thither, sees him, knowes him, and findeth the fallacy of his
wife; with whom (nevertbelesse) he groweth to agreement, in regard
of some imperfections in himselfe.

  The Queenes Novell being ended, and all applauding the happy fortune
of Frederigo, as also the noble nature of Madam Giana; Dioneus
expecting no command, prepared to deliver his discourse in this maner.
I know not whether I should terme it a vice accidentall, and insuing
thorow the badnes of complexions on us mortals; or an error in Nature,
to rejoyce rather at lewd accidents, then at deeds that deserve
commendation, especially when they no way concern our selves. Now,
in regard that all the paines I have hitherto taken, and am also to
undergo at this present aymeth at no other end, but onely to purge
your minds of melancholly, and entertain the time with mirthful
matter: pardon me I pray you (faire Lacties) if my Tale trip in some
part, and savour a little of immodesty; yet in hearing it, you may
observe the same course, as you doe in pleasing and delightfull
Gardens, plucke a sweete Rose, and preserve your fingers from
pricking. Which very easily you may doe, winking at the
imperfections of a foolish man, and at the amourous subtilties of
his Wife, compassionating the misfortune of others, where urgent
necessity doth require it.
  There dwelt not long since in Perugia, a wealthy man named Pedro
di Vinciolo, who perhaps more to deceive some other, and restraine
an evill opinion which the Perugians had conceived of him, in matter
no way beseeming a man, then any beauty or good feature remaining in
the woman entred into the estate of marriage. And Fortune was so
conforme to him in his election, that the woman whom he had made his
wife, had a yong, lusty, and well enabled bodie, a red-haird Wench,
hot and fiery spirited, standing more in neede of three Husbands, then
he, who could not any way well content one Wife, because his minde ran
more on his mony, then those offices and duties belonging to
wedlock, which time acquainted his Wife withall, contrary to her
owne expectation, and those delights which the estate of marriage
afforded, knowing her selfe also to be of a sprightly disposition, and
not to be easily tamed by houshold cares and attendances, shee waxed
weary of her husbands unkind courses, upbraided him daily with harsh
speeches, making his owne home meerly as a hell to him.
  When she saw that this domesticke disquietnesse returned her no
benefit, but rather tended to her own consumption, then any
amendment in her miserable Husband, shee began thus to conferre with
her private thoughts. This Husband of mine liveth with me, as if he
were no Husband, or I his Wife; the marriage bed, which should be a
comfort to us both, seemeth hatefull to him, and as little pleasing to
mee, because his minde is on his money, his head busied with worldly
cogitations, and early and late in his counting-house, admitting no
familiar conversation with me. Why should not I be as respectlesse
of him, as he declares him selfe to be of me? I tooke him for an
Husband, brought him a good and sufficient Dowry, thinking him to be
man, and affected a woman as a man ought to doe, else he had never
beene any Husband of mine. If he be a Woman hater, why did he make
choice of me to be his Wife? If I had not intended to be of the World,
I could have coopt my selfe up in a Cloyster, and shorne my selfe a
Nunne, but that I was not born to such severity of life. My youth
shall be blasted with age before I can truly understand what youth is,
and I shall be branded with the disgraceful word barrennesse,
knowing my selfe meete and able to be a Mother, were my Husband but
wort the name of a Father, or expected issue and posterity, to leave
our memoriall to after times in our race, as all our predecessours
formerly have done, and for which mariage was chiefly instituted.
Castles long besieged, doe yeeld at the last, and women wronged by
their owne husbands, can hardly warrant their owne frailety,
especially living among so many temptations, which flesh and bloud are
not alwaies able to resist. Well, I meane to be advised in this
case, before I will hazard my honest reputation, either to suspition
or scandall, then which, no woman can have two heavier enemies, and
very few there are that can escape them.
  Having thus a long while consulted with her selfe, and (perhaps)
oftner then twice or thrice; she became secretly acquainted with an
aged woman, generally reputed to be more then halfe a Saint, walking
alwayes very demurely in the streetes, counting (over and over) her
Paters Nosters, and all the Cities holy pardons hanging at her
girdle never talking of any thing, but the lives of the holy
Fathers, or the woundes of Saint Frances, all the World admiring her
sanctity of life, even as if shee were divinely inspired: this shee
Saint must bee our distressed womans Counsellour, and having found out
a convenient season, at large she imparted all her minde to her, in
some such manner as formerly you have heard, whereto she returned this
answer.
  Now trust me Daughter, thy case is to be pittied, and so much the
rather, because thou art in the flowre and spring time of thy youth,
when not a minute of time is to bee left: for there is no greater an
errour in this life, then the losse of time, because it cannot bee
recovered againe; and when the fiends themselves affright us, yet if
wee keepe our embers still covered with warme ashes on the hearth,
they have not any power to hurt us. If any one can truly speake
thereof, then I am able to deliver true testimony; for I know, but not
without much perturbation of minde, and piercing afflictions in the
spirit; how much time I lost without any profit. And yet I lost not
all, for I would not have thee thinke me to bee so foolish, that I did
altogether neglect such an especiall benefit; which when I call to
mind, and consider now in what condition I am, thou must imagine, it
is no small hearts griefe to mee, that age should make me utterly
despised, and no fire affoorded to light my tinder.
  With men it is not so, they are borne apt for a thousand
occasions, as well for the present purpose wee talke of, as infinite
other beside; yea, and many of them are more esteemed being aged, then
when they were young. But women serve onely for mens contentation, and
to bring Children; and therefore are they generally beloved, which
if they faile of, either it is by unfortunate marriage, or some
imperfection depending on nature, not through want of good will in
themselves. Wee have nothing in this World but what is given us, in
which regard, wee are to make use of our time, and employ it the
better while wee have it. For, when wee grow to bee old, our Husbands,
yea, our very dearest and nearest Friends, will scarsely looke on
us. Wee are then fit for nothing, but to sit by the fire in the
Kitchin, telling tales to the Cat, or counting the Pots and Pannes
on the shelves. Nay, which is worse, Rimes and Songs is made of us,
even in meere contempt of our age, and commendation of such as are
young, the daintiest morsels are fittest for them, and wee referred to
feed on the scrappes from their Trenchers, or such reversion as they
can spare us. I tell thee Daughter, thou couldst not make choyce of
a meeter woman in all the City, to whom thou mightest safely open
thy minde, and knowes better to advise thee then I doe. But remember
withall, that I am poore, and it is your part not to suffer poverty to
bee unsupplyed. I will make thee partaker of all these blessed
pardons, at every Altar I will say a Pater Noster, and an Ave Maria,
that thou maist prosper in thy hearts desires, and be defended from
foule sinne and shame, and so she ended her Motherly counsell.
  Within a while after, it came to passe, that her Husband was invited
foorth to supper, with one named Herculano, a kinde Friend of his, but
his Wife refused to goe, because she had appointed a Friend to
Supper with her, to whom the old woman was employed as her
messenger, and was well recompenced for her labour. This friend was
a gallant proper youth, as any all Perugia yeelded, and scarcely was
hee seated at the Table, but her Husband was returned backe, and
called to bee let in at the doore. Which when shee perceived, she
was almost halfe dead with feare, and coveting to hide the young
man, that her Husband should not have any sight of him, shee had no
other meanes, but in an entry, hard by the Parlour where they purposed
to have supt, stood a Coope or Hen-pen, wherein shee used to keepe her
Pullen, under which hee crept, and then shee covered it with an olde
empty Sacke, and after ranne ranne to let her Husband come in. When
hee was entred into the House; as halfe offended at his so sudden
returne, angerly she saide: It seemes Sir you are a shaver at your
meate, that you have made so short a Supper. In troth Wife (quoth hee)
I have not supt at all, no not so much as eaten one bit. How hapned
that, said the woman? Marry Wife (quoth hee) I will tell you, and then
thus he began.
  As Herculano, his Wife, and I were sitting downe at the Table,
very neere unto us wee heard one sneeze, whereof at the first wee made
no reckoning, untill wee heard it againe the second time, yeal a
third, fourth, and fifth, and many more after, whereat wee were not
a little amazed. Now Wife I must tell you, before wee entred the roome
where we were to sup, Herculanoes Wife kept the doore fast shut
against us, and would not let us enter in an indifferent while;
which made him then somewhat offended, but now much more, when hee had
heard one to sneeze so often. Demaunded of her a reason for it, and
who it was that thus sneezed in his House: hee started from the Table,
and stepping to a little doore neere the staires head, necessarily
made, to set such things in, as otherwise would be troublesome to
the roome, (as in all Houses we commonly see the like) he perceived,
that the party was hidden there, which wee had heard so often to
sneeze before.
  No sooner had hee opened the doore, but stich a smell of brimstone
came foorth (whereof wee felt not the least savour before) as made
us likewise to cough and sneeze, being no way able to refraine it.
Shee seeing her Husband to bee much moved, excused the matter thus:
that (but a little while before) shee had whited certaine linnen
with the smoake of brimstone, as it is a usuall thing to doe, and then
set the Pan into that spare place, because it should not bee offensive
to us. By this time, Herculano had espied him that sneezed, who
being almost stifled with the smell, and closenesse of the small roome
wherein hee lay, had not any power to helpe himselfe, but still
continued coughing and sneezing, even as if his heart would have split
in twaine. Foorth hee pluckt him by the heeles, and perceiving how
matter had past, hee saide to her. I thanke you Wife now I see the
reason, why you kept us so long from comming into this roome: let
mee die, if I beare this wrong at your hands. When his Wife heard
these words, and saw the discovery of her shame; without returning
either excuse or answere, foorth of doores shee ranne, but whither,
wee know not. Herculano drew his Dagger, and would have slaine him
that still lay sneezing: but I disswaded him from it, as well in
respect of his, as also mine owne danger, when the Law should
censure on the deede. And after the young man was indifferently
recovered; by the perswasion of some Neighbours comming in: hee was
closely conveyed out of the House, and all the noyse quietly pacified.
Onely (by this meanes, and the flight of Herculanoes Wife) wee were
disappointed of our Supper, and now you know the reason of my so soone
returning.
  When shee had heard this whole discourse, then shee perceived,
that other Women were subject to the like infirmitie, and as wise
for themselves, as shee could be, though these the like sinister
accidents might sometime crosse them: and gladly shee wished, that
Herculanoes Wives excuse, might now serve to acquite her: but
because in blaming others errours, our owne may sometime chance to
escape discovery, and cleare us, albeit wee are as guilty; in a sharpe
reprehending manner, thus shee began. See Husband, heere is hansome
behaviour, of an holy faire-seeming, and Saint-like woman, to whom I
durst have confest my sinnes, I conceived such a religious
perswasion of her lives integrety, free from the least scruple of
taxation. A woman, so farre stept into yeeres, as shee is, to give
such an evill example to younger women, is it not a sinne beyond all
sufferance? Accursed be the houre, when she was borne into this World,
and her selfe likewise, to bee so lewdly and incontinently given; an
universall shame and slaunder, to all the good women of our City.
  Shall I tearme her a woman, or rather some savage monster in a
womans shape? Hath shee not made an open prostitution of her
honesty, broken her plighted faith to her Husband, and all the womanly
reputation shee had in this World? Her Husband, being an honourable
Citizen, entreating her alwayes, as few men else in the City doe their
wives; what an heart-breake must this needes bee to him, good man?
Neither I, nor any honest man else, ought to have any pity on her, but
(with our owne hands) teare her in peeces, or dragge her along to a
good fire in the Market place, wherein she and her minion should be
consumed together, and their base ashes dispersed abroad in the winde,
least the pure Aire should be infected with them.
  Then, remembring her owne case, and her poore affrighted friend, who
lay in such distresse under the Hen-coope; she began to advise her
Husband, that he would be pleased to go to bed, because the night
passed on apace. But Pedro, having a better will to eate, then to
sleepe, desired her to let him have some meate, else hee must goe to
bed with an empty bellie; whereto shee answered. Why Husband (quoth
shee) doe I make any large provision, when I am de. bard of your
company? I would I were the Wife of Herculano, seeing you cannot
content your selfe from one nights feeding, considering, it is now
over-late to make any thing ready.
  It fortuned; that certaine Husbandmen, which had the charge of
Pedroes Farmehouse in the Countrey, and there followed his affaires of
Husbandry, were returned home this instant night, having their Asses
laden with such provision, as was to bee used in his City-house.
When the Asses were unladen, and set up in a small Stable, without
watering; one off them being (belike) more thirsty then the rest,
brake loose, and wandering all about smelling to seeke water, happened
into the entry, where the young man lay hidden under the Hen pen. Now,
hee being constrained (like a Carpe) to lye flat on his belly, because
the Coope was over-weighty for him to carry, and one of his hands more
extended foorth, then was requisite for him in so urgent a shift: it
was his hap (or ill fortune rather) that the Asse set his foote on the
young mans fingers, treading so hard, and the paine being very
irkesome to him, as hee was enforced to cry out aloude: which Pedro
hearing, he wondered thereat not a little.
  Knowing that this cry was in his house, hee tooke the Candle in
his hand, and going foorth of the Parlour, heard the cry to be louder;
because the Asse removed not his foote, but rather trod the more
firmely on his hand. Comming to the Coope, driving the Asse, and
taking off the old sacke, he espyed the young man, who, beside the
painefull anguish he felt of his fingers, arose up trembling, as
fearing some outrage beside to bee offered him by Pedro, who knew
the youth perfectly, and demaunded of him, how he came thither. No
answere did hee make to that question, but humbly entreated (for
charities sake) that hee would not doe him any harme. Feare not (quoth
Pedro) I will not offer thee any violence: onely tell mee how thou
camest hither, and for what occasion; wherein the youth fully resolved
him.
  Pedro being no lesse joyfull for thus find. him, then his Wife was
sorrowfull, tooke him by the hand, and brought him into the Parlour,
where shee sate trembling and quaking, as not knowing what to say in
this distresse. Seating himselfe directly before her, and holding
the youth still fast by the hand, thus hee began. Oh Wife! What bitter
speeches did you use (even now) against the Wife of Herculano,
maintaining that shee had shamed all other women, and justly
deserved to be burned? Why did you not say as much of your selfe?
Or, if you had not the heart to speake, how could you bee so cruell
against her, knowing your offence as great as hers? Questionlesse,
nothing else urged you thereto, but that all women are of one and
the same condition, covering their owne grosse faults by farre
inferiour infirmities in others. You are a perverse generation,
meerely false in your fairest shewes.
  When she saw that he offered her no other violence, but gave her
such vaunting and reproachfull speeches, holding still the young man
before her face, meerely vexe and despight her: shee began to take
heart, and thus replied. Doest thou compare mee with the Wife of
Herculano, who is an old, dissembling hypocrite? Yet she can have of
him whatsoever shee desireth, and he useth her as a woman ought to be,
which favour I could never yet finde at thy hands. Put the case,
that thou keepest me in good garments; allowing mee to goe neatly
hosed and shod; yet well thou knowest, there are other meere matters
belonging to a woman, and every way as necessarily required, both
for the preservation of Houshold quietnesse, and those other rites
betweene a Husband and Wife. Let mee be worser garmented, courser
dieted, yea, debarred of all pleasure and delights; so I might once be
worthy the name of a Mother, and leave some remembrance of
woman-hood behinde me. I tell thee plainely Pedro, I am a woman as
others are, and subject to the same desires, as (by nature)
attendeth on flesh and blood: looke how thou failest in kindnesse
towards me, thinke it not amisse, if I doe the like to thee, and
endeavour thou to win the worthy title of a Father, because I was made
to be a Mother.
  When Pedro perceived, that his Wife had spoken nothing but reason,
in regard of his over-much neglect towards her, and not using such
Houshold kindnesse, as ought to be betweene Man and Wife, hee returned
her this answer. Well Wife (quoth he) I confesse my fault, and
hereafter will labour to amend it; conditionally, that this youth, nor
any other, may no more visite my House in my absence. Get me therefore
something to eate, for doubtlesse, this young man and thy selfe fell
short of your Supper, by reason of my so soone returning home. In
troth Husband, saide she, we did not eate one bit of any thing, and
I will be a true and loyall Wife to thee, so thou wilt be the like
to me. No more words then Wife, replyed Pedro, all is forgotten and
forgiven, let us to Supper, and we are all friends. She seeing his
anger was so well appeased, lovingly kissed him, and laying the cloth,
set on the supper, which she had provided for her selfe and the youth,
and so they supt together merrily, not one unkinde word passing
betweene them. After Supper, the youth was sent away in friendly
manner, and Pedro was alwayes afterward more loving to his Wife,
then formerly hee had beene, and no complaint passed on either side,
but mutuall joy and Houshold contentment, such as ought to bee
betweene Man and Wife.
  Dioneus having ended this his Tale, for which the Ladies returned
him no thankes, but rather angerly frowned on him: the Queene, knowing
that her government was now concluded, arose, and taking off her
Crowne of Lawrell, placed it graciously on the head of Madame Eliza,
saying. Now Madame, it is your turne to commaund. Eliza having
received the honour, did (in all respects) as others formerly had
done, and after shee had enstructed the Master of the Houshold,
concerning his charge during the time of her Regiment, for
contentation of all the company; thus shee spake.
  We have long since heard, that with witty words, ready answeres
and sudden jests or taunts, many have checkt and reproved great
folly in others, and to their no meane owne commendation. Now, because
it is a pleasing kinde of argument, ministring occasion of mirth and
wit: my desire is, that all our discourse to morrow shall tend
thereto. I meane of such persons, either Men or Women, who with some
sudden witty answere, have encountred a scorner in his owne intention,
and layed the blame where it justly belonged. Every one commended
the Queenes appointment, because it savoured of good wit and
judgement; and the Queene being risen, they were all discharged till
supper time, falling to such severall exercises as themselves best
fancyed.
  When Supper was ended, and the instruments layed before them; by the
Queenes consent, Madam Aemilia undertooke the daunce, and the Song was
appointed to Dioneus, who began many, but none that proved to any
liking, they were so palpably obsceene and idle, savouring
altogether of his owne wanton disposition. At the length, the Queene
looking stearnely on him, and commanding him to sing a good one, or
none at all; thus he began.

                     THE SONG

  Eyes, can ye not refraine your hourely weeping?
  Eares, how are you depriv'd of sweete attention?
  Thoughts, have you lost your quiet silent sleeping.
  Wit, who hath rob'd thee of thy rare invention?
    The lacke of these, being life and motion giving:
    Are senselesse shapes, and no true signes of living.

  Eyes, when you gaz'd upon her Angell beauty;
  Eares, while you heard her sweete delitious straines,
  Thoughts (sleeping then) did yet performe their duty,
  Wit, tooke sprightly pleasure in his paines.
    While shee did live, then none of these were scanting,
    But now (being dead) they all are gone, and wanting.

  After that Dioneus (by proceeding no further) declared the finishing
of his Song; many more were sung beside, and that of Dioneus highly
commended. Some part of the night being spent in other delightfull
exercises, and a fitting houre for rest drawing on: they betooke
themselves to their Chambers, where we will leave them till to
morrow morning.
                     THE INDUCTION TO THE SIXT DAY

      GOVERNED UNDER THE AUTHORITY OF MADAM ELIZA, AND THE ARGUMENT
    OF THE DISCOURSES OR NOVELLS THERE TO BE RECOUNTED, DOE CONCERNE
    SUDDEN, PERSONS; WHO BY SOME WITTY WORDS (WHEN ANY HAVE CHECKT OR
    RETORTING THEM) HAVE REVENGED THEMSELVES, IN A SUDDEN, UNEXPECTED
     AND DISCREET ANSWERE, THEREBY PREVENTING LOSSE, DANGER, SCORNE
       AND DISGRACE, RETORTING THEM ON THE BUSI-HEADED QUESTIONERS

  The Moone having past the heaven, lost her bright splendor, by the
arising of a more powerfull light, and every part of our world began
to looke cleare: when the Queene (being risen) caused all the
Company to be called, walking forth afterward upon the pearled dewe
(so farre as was supposed convenient) in faire and familiar conference
together, according as severally they were disposed, and repetition of
divers the passed Novels, especially those which were most pleasing,
and seemed so by their present commendations. But the Sunne beeing
somewhat higher mounted, gave such a sensible warmth to the ayre, as
caused their returne backe to the Pallace, where the Tables were
readily covered against their comming, strewed with sweete hearbes and
odoriferous flowers, seating themselves at the Tables (before the heat
grew more violent) according as the Queene commanded.
  After dinner, they sung divers excellent Canzonnets, and then some
went to sleepe, others played at the Chesse, and some at the Tables:
But Dioneus and Madam Lauretta, they sung the love-conflict betweene
Troylus and Cressida. Now was the houre come, of repairing to their
former Consistory or meeting place, the Queene having thereto
generally summoned them, and seating themselves (as they were wont
to doe) about the faire fountaine. As the Queene was commanding to
begin the first Novell, an accident suddenly happened, which never had
befalne before: to wit, they heard a great noyse and tumult, among the
houshold servants in the Kitchin. Whereupon, the Queene caused the
Master of the Houshold to be called, demaunding of him, what noyse
it was, and what might be the occasion thereof? He made answere,
that Lacisca and Tindaro were at some words of discontentment, but
what was the occasion thereof, he knew not. Whereupon, the Queene
commanded that they should be sent for, (their anger and violent
speeches still continuing) and being come into her presence, she
demaunded the reason of their discord; and Tindaro offering to make
answere, Lacisca (being somewhat more ancient then he, and of a
fiercer fiery spirit, even as if her heart would have leapt out of her
mouth) turned her selfe to him, and with a scornefull frowning
countenance, said. See how this bold, unmannerly and beastly fellow,
dare presume to speake in this place before me: Stand by (saucy
impudence) and give your better leave to answere; then turning to
the Queene, thus shee proceeded.
  Madam, this idle fellow would maintaine to me, that Signior
Sicophanto marrying with Madama della Grazza, had the victory of her
virginity the very first night; and I avouched the contrary, because
shee had been a mother twise before, in very faire adventuring of
her fortune. And he dared to affirme beside, that yong Maides are so
simple, as to loose the flourishing Aprill of their time, in meere
feare of their parents, and great prejudice of their friends.
  And then the Queene, somewhat offended at the folly of the former
controversie, commanded Madame Philomena, that she should give
beginning to the dayes Novels: which (in dutifull manner) shee
undertooke to doe, and seating her selfe in formall fashion, with
modest and very gracious gesture, thus she began.
                     THE SIXT DAY, THE FIRST NOVELL

    REPREHENDING THE FOLLY OF SUCH MEN, AS UNDERTAKE TO REPORT
     DISCOURSES, WHICH ARE BEYOND THEIR WIT AND CAPACITY, AND
                 GAINE NOTHING BUT BLAME FOR THEIR LABOUR

  A Knight requested Madam Oretta, to ride behinde him on horse-backe,
and promised, to tell her an excellent Tale by the way. But the Lady
perceiving, that his discourse was idle, and much worse delivered:
entreated him to let her walke on foote againe.

  Gracious Ladies, like as in our faire, cleere, and serene seasons,
the Starres are bright ornaments to the heavens, and the flowry fields
(so long as the spring time lasteth) weare their goodliest Liveries,
the Trees likewise bragging in their best adornings: Even so at
friendly meetings, short, sweet, and sententious words, are the beauty
and ornament of any discourse, savouring of wit and sound judgement,
worthily deserving to be commended. And so much the rather, because in
few and witty words, aptly suting with the time and occasion, more
is delivered then was expected, or sooner answered, then rashly
apprehended: which, as they become men verie highly, yet do they
shew more singular in women.
  True it is, what the occasion may be, I know not, either by the
badnesse of our wittes, or the especiall enmitie betweene our
complexions and the celestiall bodies: there are scarsely any, or very
few Women to be found among us, that well knowes how to deliver a
word, when it should and ought to be spoken; or, if a question bee
mooved, understands to suite it with an apt answere, such as
conveniently is required, which is no meane disgrace to us women.
But in regard, that Madame Pampinea hath already spoken sufficiently
of this matter, I meane not to presse it any further: but at this time
it shall satisfie mee, to let you know, how wittily a Ladie made due
observation of opportunitie, in answering of a Knight, whose talke
seemed tedious and offensive to her.
  No doubt there are some among you, who either do know, or (at the
least) have heard, that it is no long time since, when there dwelt a
Gentlewoman in our Citie, of excellent grace and good discourse,
with all other rich endowments of Nature remaining in her, as pitty it
were to conceale her name: and therefore let me tell ye, that shee was
called Madame Oretta, the Wife to Signior Geri Spina. She being upon
some occasion (as now we are) in the Countrey, and passing from
place to place (by way of neighbourly invitations) to visite her
loving Friends and Acquaintance, accompanied with divers Knights and
Gentlewomen, who on the day before had dined and supt at her house, as
now (belike) the selfe-same courtesie was intended to her: walking
along with her company upon the way; and the place for her welcome
beeing further off then she expected; a Knight chanced to overtake
this faire troop, who well knowing Madam Oretta, using a kinde and
courteous salutation, spake thus.
  Madam, this foot travell may bee offensive to you, and were you so
well pleased as my selfe, I would ease your journey behinde mee on
my Gelding, even so as you shall command me: and beside, wil shorten
your wearinesse with a Tale worth the hearing. Courteous Sir
(replyed the Lady) I embrace your kinde offer with such acceptation,
that I pray you to performe it; for therein you shall doe me an
especiall favour. The Knight, whose Sword (perhappes) was as
unsuteable to his side, as his wit out of fashion for any readie
discourse, having the Lady mounted behinde him rode on with a gentle
pace, and (according to his promise) began to tell a Tale, which
indeede (of it selfe) deserved attention, because it was a knowne
and commendable History, but yet delivered so abruptly, with idle
repetitions of some particulars three or foure severall times,
mistaking one thing for another, and wandering erroneously from the
essentiall subject, seeming neere an end, and then beginning againe:
that a poore Tale could not possibly be more mangled, or worse
tortured in telling, then this was; for the persons therein concerned,
were so abusively nicke-named, their actions and speeches so
monstrously mishapen, that nothing could appeare to be more ugly.
  Madame Oretta, being a Lady of unequalled ingenuitie, admirable in
judgement, and most delicate in her speech, was afflicted in soule,
beyond all measure; overcome with many colde sweates, and passionate
heart-aking qualmes, to see a Foole thus in a Pinne-fold, and unable
to get out, albeit the doore stood wide open to him, whereby shee
became so sicke; that, converting her distaste to a kinde of
pleasing acceptation, merrily thus she spake. Beleeve me Sir, your
horse trots so hard, and travels so uneasily; that I entreate you to
let me walke on foot againe.
  The Knight, being (perchance) a better understander, then a
Discourser; perceived by this witty taunt, that his Bowle had run a
contrarie bias, and he as farre out of Tune, as he was from the Towne.
So, lingering the time, untill her company was neerer arrived: hee
lefte her with them, and rode on as his Wisedome could best direct
him.
                    THE SIXT DAY, THE SECOND NOVELL

        APPROVING, THAT A REQUEST OUGHT TO BE CIVILL, BEFORE IT
                SHOULD BE GRANTED TO ANY ONE WHATSOEVER

  Cistio a Baker, by a wittie answer which he gave unto Messer Geri
Spina, caused him to acknowledge a very indiscreete motion, which he
had made to the said Cistio.

  The words of Madame Oretta, were much commended by the men and
women; and the discourse being ended, the Queene gave command to Madam
Pampinea, that shee should follow next in order, which made her to
begin in this manner.
  Worthy Ladies, it exceedeth the power of my capacitie, to censure in
the case whereof I am to speake, by saying, who sinned most, either
Nature, in seating a Noble soule in a vile body, or Fortune, in
bestowing on a body (beautified with a noble soule) a base or wretched
condition of life. As we may observe by Cistio, a Citizen of our owne,
and many more beside; for, this Cistio beeing endued with a singular
good spirit, Fortune hath made him no better then a Baker. And beleeve
me Ladies, I could (in this case) lay as much blame on Nature, as on
Fortune; if I did not know Nature to be most absolutely wise, and that
Fortune hath a thousand eyes, albeit fooles have figured her to bee
blinde. But, upon more mature and deliberate consideration, I finde,
that they both (being truly wise and judicious) have dealt justly,
in imitation of our best advised mortals, who being uncertaine of such
inconveniences, as may happen unto them, do bury (for their own
benefit) the very best and choicest things of esteeme, in the most
vile and abject places of their houses, as being subject to least
suspition, and where they may be sure to have them at all times, for
supply of any necessitie whatsoever, because so base a conveyance hath
better kept them, then the very best chamber in the house could have
done. Even so these two great commanders of the world, do many times
hide their most precious Jewels of worth, under the clouds of Arts
or professions of worst estimation, to the end, that fetching them
thence when neede requires, their splendor may appeare to be the
more glorious. Nor was any such matter noted in our homely Baker
Cistio, by the best observation of Messer Geri Spina, who was spoken
of in the late repeated Novell, as being the husband to Madame Oretta;
whereby this accident came to my remembrance, and which (in a short
Tale) I will relate unto you.
  Let me then tell ye, that Pope Boniface (with whom the fore-named
Messer Geri Spina was in great regard) having sent divers Gentlemen of
his Court to Florence as Ambassadors, about very serious and important
businesse: they were lodged in the house of Messer Geri Spina, and
he employed (with them) in the saide Popes negotiation. It chanced,
that as being the most convenient way for passage, every morning
they walked on foot by the Church of Saint Marie d'Ughi, where
Cistio the Baker dwelt, and exercised the trade belonging to him.
Now although Fortune had humbled him to so meane a condition, yet shee
added a blessing of wealth to that contemptible quality, and (as
smiling on him continually) no disasters at any time befell him, but
still he flourished in riches, lived like a jolly Citizen, with all
things fitting for honest entertainment about him, and plenty of the
best Wines (both White and Claret) as Florence, or any part thereabout
yeelded.
  Our frolicke Baker perceiving, that Messer Geri Spina and the
other Ambassadors, used every morning to passe by his doore, and
afterward to returne backe the same way: seeing the season to be
somewhat hot and soultry, he tooke it as an action of kindnesse and
courtesie, to make them an offer of tasting his white wine. But having
respect to his owne meane degree, and the condition of Messer Geri:
hee thought it farre unfitting for him, to be so forward in such
presumption; but rather entred into consideration of some such meanes,
whereby Messer Geri might bee the inviter of himselfe to taste his
Wine. And having put on him a trusse or thin doublet, of very white
and fine Linnen cloath, as also breeches, and an apron of the same,
and a white cap upon his head, so that he seemed rather to be a
Miller, then a Baker: at such times as Messer Geri and the Ambassadors
should daily passe by, hee set before his doore a new Bucket of
faire water, and another small vessell of Bologna earth (as new and
sightly as the other) full of his best and choisest white Wine, with
two small Glasses, looking like silver, they were so cleare. Downe
he sate, with all this provision before him, and emptying his stomacke
twice or thrice, of some clotted flegmes which seemed to offend it:
even as the Gentlemen were passing by, he dranke one or two rouses
of his Wine so heartily, and with such a pleasing appetite, as might
have moved a longing (almost) in a dead man.
  Messer Geri well noting his behaviour, and observing the verie
same course in him two mornings together; on the third day (as he
was drinking) he said unto him. Well done Cistio, what, is it good, or
no? Cistio starting up, forthwith replyed; Yes Sir, the wine is good
indeed, but how can I make you to beleeve me, except you taste of
it? Messer Geri, eyther in regard of the times quality, or by reason
of his paines taken, perhaps more then ordinary, or else, because
hee saw Cistio had drunke so sprightly, was very desirous to taste
of the Wine, and turning unto the Ambassadors, in merriment he
saide. My Lords, me thinks it were not much amisse, if we tooke a
taste of this honest mans Wine, perhaps it is so good, that we shall
not neede to repent our labour.
  Heereupon, he went with them to Cistio, who had caused an handsome
seate to be fetched forth of his house, whereon he requested them to
sit downe, and having commanded his men to wash cleane the Glasses, he
saide. Fellowes, now get you gone, and leave me to the performance
of this service; for I am no worse a skinker, then a Baker, and
tarry you never so long, you shall not drinke a drop. Having thus
spoken, himselfe washed foure or five small glasses, faire and new,
and causing a Viall of his best wine to be brought him: hee diligently
filled it out to Messer Geri and the Ambassadours, to whom it seemed
the very best Wine, that they had drunke of in a long while before.
And having given Cistio most hearty thankes for his kindnesse, and the
Wine his due commendation: many dayes afterwardes (so long as they
continued there) they found the like courteous entertainment, and with
the good liking of honest Cistio.
  But when the affayres were fully concluded, for which they wer
thus sent to Florence, and their parting preparation in due
readinesse: Messer Geri made a very sumptuous Feast for them, inviting
thereto the most part of the honourablest Citizens, and Cistio to be
one amongst them; who (by no meanes) would bee seene in an assembly of
such State and pompe, albeit he was thereto (by the saide Messer Geri)
most earnestly entreated.
  In regard of which deniall, Messer Geri commaunded one of his
servants, to take a small Bottle, and request Cistio to fill it with
his good Wine; then afterward, to serve it in such sparing manner to
the Table, that each Gentleman might be allowed halfe a glasse-full at
their down-sitting. The Serving-man, who had heard great report of the
Wine, and was halfe offended because he could never taste thereof:
tooke a great Flaggon Bottle, containing foure or five Gallons at
the least, and comming there-with unto Cistio, saide unto him. Cistio,
because my Master cannot have your companie among his friends, he
prayes you to fill this Bottle with your best Wine. Cistio looking
uppon the huge Flaggon, replyed thus. Honest Fellow, Messer Geri never
sent thee with such a Message to me: which although the Serving-man
very stoutly maintained, yet getting no other answer, he returned
backe therwith to his Master.
  Messer Geri returned the Servant backe againe unto Cistio, saying:
Goe, and assure Cistio, that I sent thee to him, and if hee make
thee any more such answeres, then demaund of him, to what place else I
should send thee? Being come againe to Cistio, hee avouched that his
Maister had sent him, but Cistio affirming, that hee did not: the
Servant asked, to what place else hee should send him? Marrie (quoth
Cistio) unto the River of Arno, which runneth by Florence, there
thou mayest be sure to fill thy Flaggon. When the Servant had reported
this answer to Messer Geri, the eyes of his understanding beganne to
open, and calling to see what Bottle hee had carried with him: no
sooner looked he on the huge Flaggon, but severely reproving the
sawcinesse of his Servant, hee sayde. Now trust mee, Cistio told
thee nothing but trueth, for neither did I send thee with any such
dishonest message, nor had the reason to yeeld or grant it.
  Then he sent him with a bottle of more reasonable competencie, which
so soone as Cistio saw: Yea mary my friend, quoth he, now I am sure
that thy Master sent thee to me, and he shall have his desire with all
my hart. So, commaunding the Bottle to be filled, he sent it away by
the Servant, and presently following after him, when he came unto
Messer Geri, he spake unto him after this maner. Sir, I would not have
you to imagine, that the huge flaggon (which first came) did any jotte
dismay mee; but rather I conceyved, that the small Viall whereof you
tasted every morning, yet filled many mannerly Glasses together, was
fallen quite out of your remembrance; in plainer tearmes, it beeing no
Wine for Groomes or Peazants, as your selfe affirmed yesterday. And
because I meane to bee a Skinker no longer, by keeping Wine to
please any other pallate but mine owne: I have sent you halfe my
store, and heereafter thinke of mee as you shall please. Messer Geri
tooke both his guifte and speeches in most thankefull manner,
accepting him alwayes after, as his intimate Friend, because he had so
graced him before the Ambassadours.
                      THE SIXT DAY, THE THIRD NOVELL

       WHEREIN IS DECLARED, THAT MOCKERS DO SOMETIMES MEETE WITH
           THEIR MATCHES IN MOCKERY, AND TO THEIR OWNE SHAME

  Madame Nonna de Pulci, by a sodaine answere, did put to silence a
Byshop of Florence, and the Lord Marshall: having moved a question
to the said Lady, which seemed to come short of honesty.

  When Madame Pampinea had ended her Discourse, and (by the whole
company) the answere and bounty of Cistio, had past with deserved
commendation: it pleased the Queene, that Madame Lauretta should
next succeed: whereupon verie chearefully thus she beganne.
  Faire assembly, Madame Pampinea (not long time since) gave
beginning, and Madam Philomena hath also seconded the same argument,
concerning the slender vertue remaining in our sexe, and likewise
the beautie of wittie words, delivered on apt occasion, and in
convenient meetings. Now, because it is needlesse to proceede any
further, then what hath beene already spoken: let mee onely tell you
(over and beside) and commit it to memorie, that the nature of
meetings and speeches are such, as they ought to nippe or touch the
hearer, like unto the Sheepes nibling on the tender grasse, and not as
the sullen Dogge byteth. For, if their biting be answereable to the
Dogges, they deserve not to be termed witty jests or quips, but
foule and offensive language: as plainly appeareth by the words of
Madame Oretta, and the mery, yet sensible answer of Cistio.
  True it is, that if it be spoken by way of answer, and the
answerer biteth doggedly, because himselfe was bitten in the same
manner before: he is the lesse to bee blamed, because hee maketh
payment but with coine of the same stampe. In which respect, an
especiall care is to bee had, how, when, with whom, and where we
jest or gibe, whereof very many proove too unmindfull, as appeared
(not long since) by a Prelate of ours, who met with a byting, no lesse
sharpe and bitter, then had first come from himselfe before, as
verie briefely I intend to tell you how.
  Messer Antonio d'Orso, being Byshoppe of Florence, a vertuous, wise,
and reverend Prelate; it fortuned that a Gentleman of Catalogna, named
Messer Diego de la Ratta, and Lord Marshall to King Robert of
Naples, came thither to visite him. Hee being a man of very comely
personage, and a great observer of the choysest beauties in Court:
among all the other Florentine Dames, one proved to bee most
pleasing in his eye, who was a verie faire Woman indeede, and Neece to
the Brother of the saide Messer Antonio.
  The Husband of this Gentlewoman (albeit descended of a worthie
Family) was, neverthelesse, immeasurably covetous, and a verie harsh
natured man. Which the Lord Marshall understanding, made such a
madde composition with him, as to give him five hundred Ducates of
Gold, on condition, that hee would let him lye one night with his
wife, not thinking him so base minded as to give consent. Which in a
greedy avaritious humour he did, and the bargaine being absolutely
agreed on; the Lord Marshall prepared to fit him with a payment,
such as it should be. He caused so many peeces of silver to be
cunningly guilded, as then went for currant mony in Florence, and
called Popolines, and after he had lyen with the Lady (contrary to her
will and knowledge, her husband had so closely carried the
businesse) the money was duely paid to the cornuted Coxcombe.
Afterwards, this impudent shame chanced to be generally knowne,
nothing remaining to the wilful Wittoll, but losse of his expected
gaine, and scorne in every place where he went. The Bishop likewise
(beeing a discreete and sober man) would seeme to take no knowledge
thereof; but bare out all scoffes with a well setled countenance.
  Within a short while after, the Bishop and the Lord Marshal (alwaies
conversing together) it came to passe, that upon Saint johns day, they
riding thorow the City, side by side, and viewing the brave
beauties, which of them might best deserve to win the prize: the
Byshop espied a yong married Lady (which our late greevous
pestilence bereaved us of) she being named Madame Nonna de Pulci,
and Cousine to Messer Alexio Rinucci, a Gentleman well knowne unto
us all. A very goodly beautifull yong woman she was, of delicate
language, and singular spirite, dwelling close by S. Peters gate. This
Lady did the Bishop shew to the Marshall, and when they were come to
her, laying his hand uppon her shoulder, he said. Madam Nonna, What
thinke you of this Gallant? Dare you adventure another wager with him?
  Such was the apprehension of this witty Lady, that these words
seemed to taxe her honour, or else to contaminate the hearers
understanding, whereof there were great plenty about her, whose
judgement might be as vile, as the speeches were scandalous.
Wherefore, never seeking for any further purgation of her cleare
conscience, but onely to retort taunt for taunt, presently thus she
replied. My Lord, if I should make such a vile adventure, I would
looke to bee payde with better money.
  These words being heard both by the Bishop and Marshall, they felt
themselves touched to the quicke, the one, as the Factor or Broker,
for so dishonest a businesse, to the Brother of the Bishop; and the
other, as receiving (in his owne person) the shame belonging to his
Brother. So, not so much as looking each on other, or speaking one
word together all the rest of that day, they rode away with blushing
cheekes. Whereby we may collect, that the yong Lady, being so
injuriously provoked, did no more then well became her, to bite
their basenesse neerely, that so abused her openly.
                    THE SIXT DAY, THE FOURTH NOVELL

   WHEREBY PLAINLY APPEARETH, THAT A SODAINE WITTY AND MERRY ANSWER,
         DOTH OFTENTIMES APPEASE THE FURIOUS CHOLLER OF AN
                                ANGRY MAN

  Chichibio, the Cooke to Messer Currado Gianfiliazzi, by a sodaine
pleasant answer which he made to his Master; converted his anger
into laughter, and thereby escaped the punishment, that Messer meant
to impose on him.

  Madam Lauretta sitting silent, and the answer of Lady Nonna having
past with generall applause: the Queene commanded Madame Neiphila to
follow next in order; who instantly thus began. Although a ready wit
(faire Ladies) doth many times affoord worthy and commendable
speeches, according to the accidents happening to the speaker: yet
notwithstanding, Fortune (being a ready helper divers wayes to the
timorous) doth often tippe the tongue with such a present reply, as
the partie to speake, had not so much leysure as to thinke on, nor yet
to invent; as I purpose to let you perceive, by a prety short Novell.
  Messer Currado Gianfiliazzi (as most of you have both seene and
knowen) living alwayes in our Citie, in the estate of a Noble Citizen,
beeing a man bountifull, magnificent, and within the degree of
Knighthoode: continually kept both Hawkes and Hounds, taking no
meane delight in such pleasures as they yeelded, neglecting (for them)
farre more serious imployments, wherewith our present subject
presumeth not to meddle. Upon a day, having kilde with his Faulcon a
Crane, neere to a Village called Peretola, and finding her to be
both young and fat, he sent it to his Cooke, a Venetian borne, and
named Chichibio, with command to have it prepared for his supper.
Chichibio, who resembled no other, then (as he was indeede) a
plaine, simple, honest mery fellow, having drest the Crane as it ought
to bee, put it on the spit, and laide it to the fire.
  When it was well neere fully roasted, and gave forth a very delicate
pleasing savour; it fortuned that a young Woman dwelling not far
off, named Brunetta, and of whom Chichibio was somewhat enamored,
entred into the Kitchin, and feeling the excellent smell of the Crane,
to please her beyond all savours, that ever she had felt before: she
entreated Chichibio verie earnestly, that hee would bestow a legge
thereof on her. Whereto Chichibio (like a pleasant companion, and
evermore delighting in singing) sung her this answer.

      My Brunetta, faire and feat a,
        Why should you say so?
      The meate of my Master,
      Allowes you for no Taster,
        Go from the Kitchin go.

  Many other speeches past betweene them in a short while, but in
the end, Chichibio, because hee would not have his Mistresse
Brunetta angrie with him; cut away one of the Cranes legges from the
spit, and gave it to her to eate. Afterward, when the Fowle was served
up to the Table before Messer Currado, who had invited certain
strangers his friends to sup with him, wondering not a little, he
called for Chichibio his Cook; demanding what was become of the Cranes
other legge? Whereto the Venetian (being a lyar by Nature) sodainely
answered: Sir, Cranes have no more but one legge each Bird. Messer
Currado, growing verie angry, replyed. Wilt thou tell me, that a Crane
hath no more but one legge? Did I never see a Crane before this?
Chichibio persisting resolutely in his deniall, saide. Beleeve me Sir,
I have told you nothing but the truth, and when you please, I wil make
good my wordes, by such Fowles as are living.
  Messer Currado, in kinde love to the strangers that hee had
invited to supper, gave over any further contestation; onely he
said. Seeing thou assurest me, to let me see thy affirmation for
truth, by other of the same Fowles living (a thing which as yet I
never saw, or heard of) I am content to make proofe thereof to
morrow morning, till then I shall rest satisfied: but, upon my word,
if I finde it otherwise, expect such a sound payment, as thy knavery
justly deserveth, to make thee remember it all thy life time. The
contention ceassing for the night season, Messer Currado, who though
he had slept well, remained still discontented in his minde: arose
in the morning by breake of day, and puffing and blowing angerly,
called for his horses, commanding Chichibio to mount on one of them;
so riding on towards the River, where (earely every morning) he had
seene plenty of Cranes, he sayde to his man; We shall see anon
Sirra, whether thou or I lyed yesternight.
  Chichibio perceiving, that his Masters anger was not (as yet)
asswaged, and now it stood him upon, to make good his lye; not knowing
how he should do it, rode after his Master, fearfully trembling all
the way. Gladly he would have made an escape, but hee could not by any
possible meanes, and on every side he looked about him, now before,
and after behinde, to espy any Cranes standing on both their legges,
which would have bin an ominous sight to him. But being come neere
to the River, he chanced to see (before any of the rest) upon the
banke thereof, about a dozen Cranes in number, each of them standing
but upon one legge, as they use to do when they are sleeping.
Whereupon, shewing them quickly to Messer Currado, he said. Now Sir
your selfe may see, whether I told you true yesternight, or no: I am
sure a Crane hath but one thigh, and one leg, as all here present
are apparant witnesses, and I have bin as good as my promise.
  Messer Currado looking on the Cranes, and well understanding the
knavery of his man, replyed: Stay but a little while sirra, and I will
shew thee, that a Crane hath two thighes, and two legges. Then
riding somwhat neerer to them, he cryed out aloud, Shough, shough,
which caused them to set downe their other legs, and all fled away,
after they had made a few paces against the winde for their
mounting. So going unto Chichibio, he said: How now you lying Knave,
hath a Crane two legs, or no? Chichibio being well-neere at his wits
end, not knowing now what answer hee should make; but even as it
came sodainly into his minde, said: Sir, I perceive you are in the
right, and if you would have done as much yesternight, and had cryed
Shough, as here you did: questionlesse, the Crane would then have
set down the other legge, as these heere did: but if (as they) she had
fled away too, by that meanes you might have lost your Supper.
  This sodaine and unexpected witty answere, comming from such a
logger-headed Lout, and so seasonably for his owne safety: was so
pleasing to Messer Currado, that he fell into a hearty laughter, and
forgetting all anger, saide. Chichibio, thou hast quit thy selfe well,
and to my contentment: albeit I advise thee, to teach mee no more such
trickes heereafter. Thus Chichibio, by his sodaine and merry answer,
escaped a sound beating, which (otherwise) his master had inflicted on
him.
                     THE SIXT DAY, THE FIFT NOVELL

  WHEREBY MAY BEE OBSERVED, THAT SUCH AS WILL SPEAKE CONTEMPTIBLY OF
                 OTHERS, OUGHT (FIRST OF ALL) TO LOOKE
               RESPECTIVELY ON THEIR OWNE IMPERFECTIONS

  Messer Forese da Rabatte, and Maister Giotto, a Painter by his
profession, comming together from Mugello, scornfully reprehended
one another for their deformity of body.

  So soone as Madame Neiphila sate silent (the Ladies having greatly
commended the pleasant answer of Chichibio) Pamphilus, by command from
the Queene, spake in this manner. Woorthy Ladies, it commeth to
passe oftentimes, that like as Fortune is observed divers wayes, to
hide under vile and contemptible Arts, the most great and
unvalewable treasures of vertue (as, not long since, was well
discoursed unto us by Madame Pampinea:) so in like manner hath
appeared; that Nature hath infused very singular spirits into most
mishapen and deformed bodies of men. As hath beene noted in two of our
owne Citizens, of whom I purpose to speake in fewe words. The one of
them was named Messer Forese de Rabatta, a man of little and low
person, but yet deformed in body, with a flat face, like a Terrier
or Beagle, as if no comparison (almost) could bee made more ugly.
But notwithstanding all this deformity, he was so singularly
experienced in the Lawes, that all men held him beyond any equall,
or rather reputed him as a Treasury of civill knowledge.
  The other man, being named Giotto, had a spirit of so great
excellency, as there was not any particular thing in Nature, the
Mother and Worke-mistresse of all, by continuall motion of the
heavens; but hee by his pen and pensell could perfectly portrait;
shaping them all so truly alike and resemblable, that they were
taken for the reall matters indeede; and, whether they were present or
no, there was hardly any possibility of their distinguishing. So
that many times it happened, that by the variable devises he made, the
visible sence of men became deceived, in crediting those things to
be naturall, which were but meerly painted. By which meanes, hee
reduced that singular Art to light, which long time before had lyen
buried, under the grosse error of some; who, in the mysterie of
painting, delighted more to content the ignorant, then to please the
judicious understanding of the wise, he justly deserving thereby, to
be tearmed one of the Florentines most glorious lights. And so much
the rather, because he performed all his actions, in the true and
lowly spirit of humility: for while he lived, and was a Master in
his Art, above all other Painters: yet he refused any such title,
which shined the more majestically- in him, as appeared by such, who
knew Much lesse then he, or his Schollers either: yet his knowledge
was extreamly coveted among them.
  Now, notwithstanding all this admirable excellency in him: he was
not (thereby) a jot the handsommer man (either in person or
countenance) then was our fore-named Lawyer Messer Forese, and
therefore my Novell concerneth them both. Understand then (faire
Assemblie) that the possessions and inheritances of Messer Forese
and Giotto, lay in Mugello; wherefore, when Holy-dayes were celebrated
by Order of Court, and in the Sommer time, upon the admittance of so
apt a vacation; Forese rode thither upon a very unsightly jade, such
as a man can sildome meet with worse. The like did Giotto the Painter,
as ill fitted every way as the other; and having dispatched their
busines there, they both returned backe towards Florence, neither of
them being able to boast, which was the best mounted.
  Riding on a faire and softly pace, because their Horses could goe no
faster: and they being well entred into yeeres, it fortuned (as
oftentimes the like befalleth in Sommer) that a sodaine showre of
raine overtooke them; for avoyding whereof, they made all possible
haste to a poore Countreymans Cottage, familiarly knowne to them both.
Having continued there an indifferent while, and raine unlikely to
cease: to prevent allfurther protraction of time, and to arriveat
Florence in due season; they borrowed two old cloakes of the poore
man, of over-worn and ragged Country gray, as also two hoodes of the
like Complexion, (because the poore man had no better) which did
more mishape them, then their owne ugly deformity, and made them
notoriously flouted and scorned, by all that met or over-tooke them.
  After they had ridden some distance of ground, much moyled and
bemyred with their shuffling jades, flinging the dirt every way
about them, that well they might be termed two filthy companions:
the raine gave over, and the evening looking somewhat cleare, they
began to confer familiarly together. Messer Forese, riding a lofty
French trot, everie step being ready to hoise him out of his saddle,
hearing Giottos discreete answers to every ydle question he made
(for indeede he was a very elegant speaker) began to peruse and
surveigh him, even from the foote to the head, as we use to say. And
perceiving him to be so greatly deformed, as no man could be worse, in
his opinion: without any consideration of his owne mishaping as bad,
or rather more unsightly then hee; in a scoffing laughing humour,
hee saide. Giotto, doest thou imagine, that a stranger, who had
never seene thee before, and should now happen into our companie,
would beleeve thee to bee the best Painter in the world, as indeede
thou art? Presently Giotto (without any further meditation) returned
him this answere. Signior Forese, I think he might then beleeve it,
when (beholding you) hee could imagine that you had learned your
A. B. C. Which when Forese heard, he knew his owne error, and saw his
payment returned in such Coine, as he sold his Wares for.
                   THE SIXT DAY, THE SIXTH NOVEL

  Michiele Scalza proves to some young men that the family of the
Baronchi was the most noble in the world, for which he gets a good
supper.

  Michiele Scalza, a young Florentine, had so facetious and productive
a genius that the principal youth of Florence took a great deal of
pleasure in and thought it an honour to enjoy his company. Being one
day at Mont Ughi with many gentlemen, the discussion happened to run
upon the antiquity and nobility of the Florentine families. Some
gave the preference to that of the Uberti, others to that of the
Lamberti, everyone speaking, as people ordinarily do, according to
their different humours and interests.
  When Scalza heard what they all had to say, he smiling cried: "You
are none of you in the right. I will maintain the family of the
Baronchi to be the most ancient and noble not only in Florence but
also in the whole world. All philosophers and such as can be
supposed to know that family,. I'm confident, are of my opinion; and
that you may not mistake my meaning I must tell you I mean the
Baronchi our neighbours, who dwell near Santa Maria Maggiore." They
all presently fell a-laughing, and asked him whether he took them
for people of the other world that they should not know the Baronchi
as well as he. "Gentlemen," says Scalza, "I am so far from taking
you for people of the other world that I will lay any one of you a
good supper enough for six on what I affirm, and be judged by whom you
please."
  The wager was laid, and they all agreed to leave the decision to
Pietro di Florentino, who was then present. Everyone expected Scalza
would lose, and began to laugh at him beforehand. He that was to
determine the matter, being very judicious, first heard the reasons of
the opposite party, and then asked Scalza how he could prove his
assertion.
  "I will prove it so sufficiently," says he, that you shall all be
thoroughly convinced. Gentlemen," says he, "by how much a family is
most ancient by so much it is most noble. The family of the Baronchi
is the most ancient in Florence, ergo it is the most noble. I have
nothing, then, to prove but the antiquity of the Baronchi. This will
appear in that Prometheus made them at the time that he first began to
learn to paint, and made others after he was master of his art. To
convince you of this, do but examine the figures of the one and the
other: you'll find art and proportion in the composition of the one,
whereas the others are but rough-drawn and imperfect. Among the
Baronchi you'll meet with one with a long narrow face, another with
a prodigiously broad one; one is flat-nosed, another has a nose that
measures an ell; one has a long chin and jaws like an ass, another has
his short and flat, and is monkey-faced. Nay, there are some of them
that have but one eye either larger or lower than the others have.
In a word, their faces for all the world resemble such as children
make when they first begin to draw. Prometheus, you will allow, must
be no great master when he made these figures, as I told you before;
and consequently they must be more noble as they are more ancient."
  So diverting an argument made them all to laugh heartily. The
representation he gave of the Baronchi was so ust and natural that
they all agreed he had won: and nothing was heard for a full quarter
of an hour but "Scalza has won!" and "The Baronchi are the most
ancient and noble family in all Florence!"
                    THE SIXT DAY, THE SEVENTH NOVELL

          WHEREIN IS DECLARED, OF WHAT WORTH IT IS TO CONFESSE
               TRUETH, WITH A FACETIOUS AND WITTY EXCUSE

  Madam Philippa, being accused by her Husband Rinaldo de Pugliese,
because he tooke her in Adulterie, with a yong Gentleman named
Lazarino de Guazzagliotri: caused her to bee cited before the Judge.
From whom she delivered her selfe, by a sodaine, witty, and pleasant
answer, and moderated a severe strict Statute, formerly made against
women.

  After that Madame Fiammetta had given over speaking, and all the
Auditory had sufficiently applauded the Schollers honest revenge,
the Queene enjoyned Philostratus, to proceede on next with his Novell,
which caused him to begin thus. Beleeve me Ladies, it is an
excellent and most commendable thing, to speak well, and to all
purposes: but I hold it a matter of much greater worth, to know how to
do it, and when necessity doth most require it. Which a Gentlewoman
(of whom I am now to speake) was so well enstructed in, as not onely
it yeelded the hearers mirthfull contentment, but likewise delivered
her from the danger of death, as (in few words) you shal heare
related.
  In the Citie of Pirato, there was an Edict or Statute, no lesse
blameworthy (to speake uprightly) then most severe and cruell, which
(without making any distinction) gave strict command; That everie
Woman should be burned with fire, who husband found her in the acte of
Adultery, with any secret or familiar friend, as one deserving to
bee thus abandoned, like such as prostituted their bodies to publike
sale or hire. During the continuance of this sharpe Edict, it fortuned
that a Gentlewoman, who was named Phillippa, was found in her
Chamber one night, in the armes of a yong Gentleman of the same
City, named Lazarino de Guazzagliotri, and by her owne husband,
called Rinaldo de Pugliese, shee loving the young Gallant, as her owne
life, because hee was most compleate in all perfections, and every way
as deerely addicted to her.
  This sight was so irkesome to Rinaldo, that, being overcom with
extreame rage, hee could hardly containe from running on them, with
a violent intent to kill them both: but feare of his owne life
caused his forbearance, meaning to be revenged by some better way.
Such was the heate of his spleene and fury, as, setting aside all
respect of his owne shame: he would needs prosecute the rigour of
the deadly Edict, which he held lawfull for him to do, although it
extended to the death of his Wife. Heereupon, having witnesses
sufficient, to approove the guiltinesse of her offence: a day being
appointed (without desiring any other counsell) he went in person to
accuse her, and required justice against her.
  The Gentlewoman, who was of an high and undauntable spirite, as
all such are, who have fixed their affection resolvedly, and love
uppon a grounded deliberation: concluded, quite against the counsell
and opinion of her Parents, Kindred, and Friends; to appeare in the
Court, as desiring rather to dye, by confessing the trueth with a
manly courage, then by denying it, and her love unto so worthy a
person as he was, in whose arms she chanced to be taken; to live
basely in exile with shame, as an eternall scandall to her race. So,
before the Potestate, shee made her apparance, worthily accompanied
both with men and women, all advising her to deny the acte: but she,
not minding them or their perswasions, looking on the Judge with a
constant countenance, and a voyce of setled resolve, craved to know of
him, what hee demaunded of her?
  The Potestate well noting her brave carriage, her singular beautie
and praiseworthy parts, her words apparantly witnessing the heighth of
her minde: beganne to take compassion on her, and doubted, least
shee would confesse some such matter, as should enforce him to
pronounce the sentence of death against her. But she boldly scorning
all delayes, or any further protraction of time; demanded again,
what was her accusation? Madame, answered the Potestate, I am sory
to tel you, what needs I must, your husband (whom you see present
heere) is the complainant against you, avouching, that he tooke you in
the act of adultery with another man: and therefore he requireth,
that, according to the rigour of the Statute heere in force with us, I
should pronounce sentence against you, and (consequently) the
infliction of death. Which I cannot do, if you confesse not the
fact, and therefore be well advised, how you answer me, and tell me
the truth, if it be as your Husband accuseth you, or no.
  The Lady, without any dismay or dread at all, pleasantly thus
replied. My Lord, true it is, that Rinaldo is my Husband, and that
he found me, on the night named, betweene the Armes of Lazarino, where
many times heeretofore he hath embraced mee, according to the
mutuall love re-plighted together, which I deny not, nor ever will.
But you know well enough, and I am certaine of it, that the Lawes
enacted in any Countrey, ought to be common, and made with consent
of them whom they concerne, whichin this Edict of yours is quite
contrarie. For it is rigorous against none, but poore women onely, who
are able to yeeld much better content and satisfaction generally, then
remaineth in the power of men to do. And moreover, when this Law was
made, there was not any woman that gave consent to it, neither were
they called to like or allow thoreof: in which respect, it may
deservedly be termed, an unjust Law. And if you will, in prejudice
of my bodie, and of your owne soule, be the executioner of so
unlawfull an Edict, it consisteth in your power to do as you please.
  But before you proceede to pronounce any sentence, may it please you
to favour me with one small request, namely, that you would demand
of my Husband, if at all times, and whensoever he tooke delight in
my company, I ever made any curiosity, or came to him unwillingly.
Whereto Rinaldo, without tarrying for the Potestate to moove the
question, sodainly answered; that (undoubtedly) his wife at all times,
and oftner then he could request it, was never sparing of her
kindnesse, or put him off with any deniall. Then the Lady,
continuing on her former speeches, thus replyed. Let me then demand of
you my Lord, being our Potestate and Judge, if it be so, by my
Husbands owne free confession, that he hath alwaies had his pleasure
of me, without the least refusall in me, or contradiction; what should
I doe with the over-plus remaining in mine owne power, and whereof
he had no need? Would you have mee cast it away to the Dogges? Was
it not more fitting for me, to pleasure therwith a worthy Gentleman,
who was even at deaths doore for my love, then (my husbands
surfetting, and having no neede of me) to let him lye languishing, and
dye?
  Never was heard such an examination before, and to come from a woman
of such worth, the most part of the honourable Pratosians (both
Lords and Ladies) being there present, who hearing her urge such a
necessary question, cryed out all loud together with one voice
(after they had laughed their fill) that the Lady had saide well,
and no more then she might. So that, before they departed thence, by
comfortable advice proceeding from the Potestate: the Edict (being
reputed overcruell) was modified, and interpreted to concerne them
onely, who offered injurie to their Husbands for money. By which
meanes Rinaldo standing as one confounded, for such a foolish and
unadvised enterprize, departed from the Auditorie: and the Ladie,
not a little joyfull to bee thus freed and delivered from the fire,
returned home with victorie to her owne house.
                    THE SIXT DAY, THE EIGHTH NOVELL

  IN JUST SCORNE OF SUCH UNSIGHTLY AND ILL-PLEASING SURLY SLUTS, WHO
             IMAGINE NONE TO BE FAIRE OR WELL-FAVOURED, BUT
                              THEMSELVES

  Fresco da Celatico, counselled and advised his Neece Cesca: That
if such as deserved to be looked on, were offensive to her eyes, as
she had often told him; she should forbeare to looke on any.

  All the while as Philostratus was recounting his Novell; it
seemed, that the Ladies (who heard it) found themselves much mooved
thereat, as by the wanton blood mounting up into their cheekes, it
plainly appeared.
  But in the end, looking on each other with strange behaviour, they
could not forbeare smiling: which the Queene interrupting by a command
of attention, turning to Madame Aemillia, willed her to follow next.
When she, puffing and blowing, as if she had bene newly awaked from
sleepe, began in this manner.
  Faire Beauties; My thoughts having wandred a great distance hence,
and further then I can easily collect them together againe; in
obedience yet to our Queene, I shall report a much shorter Novell,
then otherwise (perhappes) I should have done, if my minde had beene a
little neerer home. I shall tell you the grosse fault of a foolish
Damosell, well corrected by a witty reprehension of her Unckle; if
shee had bin endued but with so much sence, as to have understood it.
  An honest man, named Fresco da Celatico, had a good fulsom wench
to his Neece, who for her folly and squemishnes, was generally
called Cesta, or nice Francesca. And althogh she had stature
sufficient, yet none of the handsomest, and a good hard favourd
countenance, nothing nere such Angelical beauties as we have seen; yet
she was endued with such height of minde, and so proud an opinion of
her selfe, that it appeared as a custome bred in hir, or rather a gift
bestowed on hir by nature (thogh none of the best) to blame and
despise both men and women, yea whosoever she lookt on; without any
consideration of her self, she being as unsightly, ill shaped, and
ugly faced, as a worse was very hardly to be found.
  Nothing could be done at any time, to yeilde her liking or
content: moreover, she was so waspish, nice and squemish, that when
she cam into the royall Court of France, it was hatefull and
contemptible to hir. Whensoever she went through the streets, every
thing stunke and was noisome to her; so that she never did any thing
but stop her nose; as if all men or women she met withall; and
whatsoever else she lookt on, were stinking and offensive. But let
us leave all further relation of her ill conditions, being every way
(indeed) so bad, and hardly becomming any sensible body, that we
cannot condemne them so much as we should.
  It chanced upon a day, that shee comming home to the house where her
Unckle dwelt, declared her wonted scurvy and scornfull behaviour;
swelling, puffing, and pouting extreamly, in which humor she sat downe
by her Unckle, who desiring to know what had displeased her, said. Why
how now Francesca? what may the meaning of this bee? This being a
solemne festivall day, what is the reason of your so soone returning
home? She coily biting the lip, and brideling her head, as if she
had bene some mans best Gelding, sprucely thus replyed.
  Indeede you say true Unckle, I am come home verie earely, because,
since the day of my birth, I never saw a City so pestered with
unhandsome people, both men and women, and worse this high Holyday,
then ever I did observe before. I walked thorow some store of
streetes, and I could not see one proper man: and as for the women,
they are the most mishapen and ugly creatures, that, if God had made
me such an one, I should be sory that ever I was borne. And being no
longer able to endure such unpleasing sights; you wil not thinke
(Unckle) in what an anger I am come home. Fresco, to whome these
stinking qualities of his Neece seemed so unsufferable, that hee could
not (with patience) endure them any longer, thus short and quickely
answered. Francesca, if all people of our Citie (both men and women)
be so odious in thy eyes, and offensive to thy nose, as thou hast
often reported to me: bee advised then by my counsell. Stay stil at
home, and look upon none but thy selfe onely, and then thou shalt be
sure that they cannot displease thee. But shee, being as empty of
wit as a pith-lesse Cane, and yet thought her judgement to exceed
Salomons, could not understand the lest part of hir Unkles meaning,
but stood as senselesse as a sheepe. Onely she replyed, that she would
resort to some other parts of the country, which if shee found as
weakly furnished of handsome people, as heere shee did, shee would
conceive better of her selfe, then ever she had done before.
                     THE SIXT DAY, THE NINTH NOVELL

       NOTABLY DISCOVERING THE GREAT DIFFERENCE THAT IS BETWEENE
         LEARNING AND IGNORANCE, UPON JUDICIOUS APPREHENSION

  Signior Guido Cavalcante, with a sodaine and witty answer,
reprehended the rash folly of certaine Florentine Gentlemen, that
thought to scorne and flout him.

  When the Queene perceived, that Madame Aemillia was discharged of
her Novell, and none remained now to speake next, but onely her selfe,
his priviledge alwayes remembred, to whom it belonged to be the
last, she began in this manner.
  Faire Company, you have this day disappointed me of two Novells at
the least, whereof I had intended to make use. Neverthelesse, you
shall not imagine mee so unfurnished, but that I have left one in
store; the conclusion whereof, may minister such instruction, as
will not bee reputed for ydle and impertinent: but rather of such
materiall consequence, as better hath not this day past among us.
  Understand then (most faire Ladies) that in former times long
since past, our Cittie had many excellent and commendable customes
in it; whereof (in these unhappy dayes of ours) we cannot say that
poore one remaineth, such hath beene the too much encrease of Wealth
and Covetousnesse, the onely supplanters of all good qualities
whatsoever. Among which lawdable and friendly observations, there
was one well deserving note, namely, that in divers places of
Florence, men of the best houses in every quarter, had a sociable
and neighbourly assemblie together, creating their company to
consist of a certaine number, such as were able to supply their
expences; as this day one, and to morrow another: and thus in a
kinde of friendly course, each dally furnished the Table, for the rest
of the company. Oftentimes, they did honour to divers Gentlemen and
strangers, upon their arrivall in our Citty, by inviting them into
their assembly, and many of our worthiest Citizens beside; so that
it grew to a customary use, and one especially day in the yeare
appointed, in memory of this so loving a meeting, when they would ride
(triumphally as it were) on horsebacke thorow the Cittie, sometimes
performing Tilts, Tourneyes, and other Martiall exercises, but they
were reserved for Feastivall dayes.
  Among which company, there was one called, Signior Betto
Bruneleschi, who was earnestly desirous, to procure Signior Guido
Cavalcante de Cavalcanti, to make one in this their friendly
society. And not without great reason: for, over and beside his
being one of the best Logitians as those times could not yeeld a
better: He was also a most absolute naturall Philosopher (which worthy
qualities were little esteemed among these honest meeters) a very
friendly Gentleman, singularly well spoken, and whatsoever else was
commendable in any man, was no way wanting in him, being wealthy
withall, and able to returne equall honors, where he found them to
be duly deserved, as no man therin could go beyond him. But Signior
Betto, notwithstanding his long continued importunitie, could not draw
him into their assembly, which made him and the rest of his company
conceive, that the solitude of Guido, retiring himselfe alwaies from
familiar conversing with men: provoked him to many curious
speculations: and because he retained some part of the Epicurean
Opinion, their vulgare judgement passed on him, that his
speculations tended to no other end, but onely to finde out that which
was never done.
  It chanced upon a day, that Signior Guido departing from the
Church of Saint Michaell d'Horta, and passing along by the Adamari, so
farre as to Saint Johns Church, which evermore was his customarie
Walke: many goodly Marble Tombes were then about the saide Church,
as now adayes are at Saint Reparata, and divers more beside. He
entring among the Collumbes of Porphiry, and the other Sepulchers
being there, because the doore of the Church was shut: Signior Betto
and his companie, came riding from S. Reparata, and espying Signior
Guldo among the graves and tombes, said. Come, let us go make some
jests to anger him. So putting the spurs to their horses, they rode
apace towards him: and being upon him before he perceived them, one of
them said. Guido thou refusest to be one of our society, and seekest
for that which never was: when thou hast found it, tell us, what
wilt thou do with it?
  Guido seeing himselfe round engirt with them, sodainly thus replyed:
Gentlemen, you may use mee in your owne house as you please. And
setting his hand on one of the Tombes (which was some-what great) he
tooke his rising, and leapt quite over it on the further side, as
being of an agile and sprightly body, and being thus freed from
them, he went away to his owne lodging. They stoode all like men
amazed, strangely looking one upon another, and began afterward to
murmure among themselves: That Guido was a man without any
understanding, and the answer which he had made unto them, was to no
purpose, neither favoured of any discretion, but meerely came from
an empty brain because they had no more to do in the place where now
they were, then any of the other Citizens, and Signior Guido
(himselfe) as little as any of them; whereto Signior Betto thus
replyed.
  Alas Gentlemen, it is you your selves that are void of
understanding: for, if you had but observed the answer which he made
unto us: hee did honestly, and (in verie few words) not onely
notably expresse his owne wisedome, but also deservedly reprehend
us. Because, if wee observe things as we ought to doe, Graves and
Tombes are the houses of the dead, ordained and prepared to be their
latest dwellings. He tolde us moreover, that although we have heere
(in this life) other habitations and abidings; yet these (or the like)
must at last be our houses. To let us know, and all other foolish,
indiscreete, and unleartied men, that we are worse then dead men, in
comparison of him, and other men equall to him in skill and
learning. And therefore, while wee are heere among these Graves and
Monuments, it may well be said, that we are not farre from our owne
houses, or how soone we shall be possessors of them, in regard of
the frailty attending on us.
  Then every one could presently say, that Signior Guido had spoken
nothing but the truth, and were much ashamed of their owne folly,
and shallow estimation which they had made of Guido, desiring never
more after to meddle with him so grossely, and thanking Signior Betto,
for so well reforming their ignorance, by his much better
apprehension.
                     THE SIXT DAY, THE TENTH NOVELL

     WHEREIN MAY BE OBSERVED, WHAT PALPABLE ABUSES DO MANY TIMES
           PASSE, UNDER THE COUNTERFEIT CLOAKE OF RELIGION

  Fryer Onyon, promised certaine honest people of the Countrey, to
shew them a Feather of the same Phoenix, that was with Noah in his
Arke. In sted whereof, he found Coales, which he avouched to be
those very coals, wherewith the same Phoenix was roasted.

  When of them had delivered their Novels, Dioneus knowing, that it
remained in him to relate the last for this day: without attending for
any solemne command (after he had imposed silence on them, that
could not sufficiently commend the witty reprehension of Guido),
thus he began. Wise and worthy Ladies, although by the priviledge
you have granted, it is lawfull for me to speake any thing best
pleasing to my self: yet notwithstanding, it is not any part of my
meaning, to varrie from the matter and method, whereof you have spoken
to very good purpose. And therefore, following your footsteppes, I
entend to tell you, how craftily, and with a Rampiar sodainly raised
in his owne defence: a Religious Frier of Saint Anthonies Order,
shunned a shame, which two O wily companions had prepared for him. Nor
let it offend you, if I run into more large discourse, then this day
hath bene used by any, for the apter compleating of my Novell:
because, if you well observe it, the Sun is as yet in the middest of
heaven, and therefore you may the better forbeare me.
  Certaldo, as (perhaps) you know, or have heard, is a Village in
the Vale of Elsa, and under the authority and commaund of our
Florence, which although it be but small: yet (in former times) it
hath bin inhabited with Gentlemen, and people of especiall respect.
A religious Friar of S. Anthonies Order, named Friar Onyon, had long
time used to resort thither, to receive the benevolent almes, which
those charitably affected people in simplicity gave him, and chiefly
at divers daies of the year, when their bounty and devotion would
extend themselves more largely then at other seasons. And so much
the rather, because they thought him to be a good Pastor of holy
life in outward appearance, and carried a name of much greater matter,
then remained in the man indeed; beside, that part of the country
yeilded far more plentifull abundance of Onyons, then all other in
Tuscany elsewhere, a kinde of foode greatly affected by those
Friars, as men alwaies of hungry and good appetite. This Friar Onyon
was a man of litle stature red haire, a chearfull countenance, and the
world afforded not a more crafty companion, then he. Moreover,
albeit he had very little knowledge or learning, yet he was so prompt,
ready and voluble of speech, uttering often he knew not what himselfe:
that such as were not wel acquainted with his qualities, supposed
him to be a singular Rhetoritian, excelling Cicero or Quintilian
themselves; and he was a gossip, friend, or deerely affected, by every
one dwelling in those parts. According to his wonted custome, one time
he went thither in the month of August, and on a Sunday morning,
when all the dwellers thereabout, were present to heare Masse, and
in the chiefest Church above all the rest: when the Friar saw time
convenient for his purpose, he advanced himselfe, and began to
speake in this manner.
  Gentlemen and Gentlewomen, you know you have kept a commendable
custom, in sending yeerly to the poore brethren of our Lord Baron S.
Anthony, both of your Corne and other provision, some more, some
lesse, all according to their power, means, and devotion, to the end
that blessed S. Anthony should be the more carefull of your oxen,
sheep, asses, swine, pigs, and other cattle. Moreover, you have used
to pay (especially such as have their names registred in our
Fraternity) those duties which annually you send unto us. For the
collection whereof, I am sent by my Superior, namely our L. Abbot, and
therfore (with Gods blessing) you may come after noone hither, when
you shal heare the Bels of the Church ring: then wil I make a
predication to you; you shall kisse the Crosse, and beside, because
I know you al to be most devout servants to our Lord Baron S. Anthony,
in especiall grace and favor, I wil shew you a most holy and goodly
Relique, which I my selfe (long since) brought from the holy Land
beyond the seas. If you desire to know what it is, let me tell you,
that it is one of the Feathers of the same Phoenix, which was in the
Arke with the Patriarch Noah. And having thus spoken, he became
silent, returning backe to heare Masse. While hee delivered these
and the like speeches, among the other people then in the church,
there were two shrewde and crafty Companions; the one, named John de
Bragoniero, and the other, Biagio Pizzino. These subtile Fellowes,
after they had heard the report of Fryer Onyons Relique: althogh
they were his intimate friends, and came thither in his company; yet
they concluded betweene themselves, to shew him a tricke of
Legierdumaine, and to steale the Feather from him. When they had
intelligence of Friar Onyons dining that day at the Castle, with a
worthy Friend of his: no sooner was he set at the Table, but away went
they in all haste, to the Inne where the Fryar frequented, with this
determination, that Biagio should hold conference with the Friars boy,
while his fellow ransackt the Wallet, to finde the Feather, and
carry it away with him, for a future observation, what the Friar would
say unto the people, when he found the losse of the Feather, and could
not performe his promise to them.
  The Fryars Boy, whom some called Guccio Balena, some Guccio Imbrata,
and others Guccio Porco, was such a knavish Lad, and had so many bad
qualities, as Lippo Topo the cunning Painter, or the most curious
Poeticall wit, had not any ability to describe them. Friar Onyon
himself did often observe his behaviour, and would make this report
among his Friends. My Boy (quoth he) hath nine rare qualities in
him, and such they are, as if Salomon, Aristotle, or Seneca had
onely but one of them: it were sufficient to torment and trouble all
their vertue, all their senses, and all their sanctity. Consider then,
what manner of man he is like to be, having nine such rarities, yet
voide of all vertue, wit, or goodnes. And when it was demaunded of
Friar Onyon, what these nine rare conditions were: hee having them all
readie by heart, and in rime, thus answered.

    Boyes I have knowne, and seene,
      And heard of many:
          But,
    For Lying, Loytring, Lazinesse,
    For Facing, Filching, Filthinesse;
    For Carelesse, Gracelesse, all Unthriftinesse,
      My Boy excelleth any.

  Now, over and beside all these admirable qualities, hee hath manie
more such singularities, which (in favour towards him) I am faine to
conceale. But that which I smile most at in him, is, that he would
have a Wife in every place where he commeth, yea, and a good house
to boot too: for, in regard his beard beginneth to shew it selfe,
rising thicke in haire, blacke and amiable, he is verily perswaded,
that all Women will fall in love with him; and if they refuse to
follow him, he will in all hast run after them. But truly, he is a
notable servant to mee, for I cannot speake with any one, and in never
so great secrecy, but he will be sure to heare his part; and when
any question is demanded of me, he standes in such awe and feare of my
displeasure: that he will bee sure to make the first answer, yea or
no, according as he thinketh it most convenient.
  Now, to proceede where we left, Friar Onyon having left this
serviceable youth at his lodging, to see that no bodie should meddle
with his commodities, especially his Wallet, because of the sacred
things therein contained: Guccio Imbrata, who as earnestly affected to
be in the Kitchin, as Birds to hop from branch to branch,
especially, when anie of the Chamber-maides were there, espyed one
of the Hostesses Female attendants, a grosse fat Trugge, low of
stature, ill faced, and worse formed, with a paire of brests like
two bumbards, smelling loathsomely of grease and sweate; downe shee
descended into the Kitchin, like a Kite upon a peece of Carion. This
Boy, or Knave, chuse whither you will style him, having carelesly left
Fryar Onyons Chamber doore open, and all the holy things so much to be
neglected, although it was then the moneth of August, when heate is in
the highest predominance, yet hee would needs sit downe by the fire,
and began to conferre with this amiable creature, who was called by
the name of Nuta.
  Being set close by her, he told her, that he was a Gentleman by
Atturniship, and that he had more millions of Crownes, then all his
life time would serve him to spend; beside those which he payed away
dayly, as having no convenient im-ployment for them.
  Moreover, he knew how to speake, and do such things, as were
beyond wonder or admiration. And, never remembring his olde tatterd
Friars Cowle, which was so snottie and greazie, that good store of
kitchin stuffe might have beene boiled out of it; as also a foule
slovenly Trusse or halfe doublet, all baudied with bowsing, fat
greazie lubberly sweating, and other drudgeries in the Convent
Kitchin, where he was an Officer in the meanest credite. So that to
describe this sweet youth in his lively colours, both for naturall
perfections of body, and artificiall composure of his Garments;
never came the fowlest silks out of Tartaria or India, more ugly or
unsightly to bee lookt upon. And for a further addition to his neate
knavery, his breeches were so rent betweene his legges, his shooes and
stockings had bin at such a mercilesse massacre: that the gallantest
Commandador of Castile (though he had never so lately bin releast
out of slavery) could have wisht for better garments, then he; or make
larger promises, then he did to his Nuta. Protesting to entitle her as
his onely, to free her from the Inne and Chamber thraldomes, if she
would live with him, be his Love, partaker of his present possessions,
and so to succeed in his future Fortunes. All which bravadoes,
though they were belcht foorth with admirable insinuations: yet they
converted into smoke, as all such braggadochio behaviours do, and he
was as wise at the ending, as when he began.
  Our former named two craftie Companions, seeing Guccio Porco so
seriously employed about Nuta, was there-with not a little
contented, because their intended labour was now more then halfe
ended. And perceiving no contradiction to crosse their proceeding,
into Friar Onyons chamber entred they, finding it ready open for their
purpose: where the first thing that came into their hand in search,
was the wallet. When they had opened it, they found a small Cabinet,
wrapped in a great many foldings of rich Taffata; and having
unfolded it, a fine formall Key was hanging thereat: wherwith having
unlockt the Cabinet, they found a faire Feather of a Parrots taile,
which they supposed to bee the verie same, that he meant to shew the
people of Certaldo. And truly (in those dayes) it was no hard matter
to make them beleeve any thing, because the idle vanities of Aegypt
and those remoter parts, had not (as yet) bin seene in Tuscany, as
since then they have bin in great abundance, to the utter ruine
(almost) of Italy.
  And although they might then be knowne to very few, yet the
inhabitants of the Country generally, understoode little or nothing at
all of them. For there, the pure simplicitie of their ancient
predecessors still continuing; they had not seene any Parrots, or so
much as heard any speech of them. Wherefore the two crafty consorts,
not a little joyfull of finding the Feather, tooke it thence with
them, and beecause they would not leave the Cabinet empty, espying
Charcoales lying in a corner of the Chamber, they filled it with them,
wrapping it up againe in the Taffata, and in as demure manner as
they found it. So, away came they with the Feather, neither seene or
suspected by any one, intending now to heare what Friar Onyon would
say, uppon the losse of his precious Relique, and finding the Coales
there placed insted thereof.
  The simple men and women of the country, who had bin at morning
Masse in the Church, and heard what a wonderful Feather they should
see in the after noone, returned in all hast to their houses, where
one telling this newes to another, and gossip with gossip consulting
theron; they made the shorter dinner, and afterward flocked in maine
troopes to the Castle, contending who shold first get entrance, such
was their devotion to see the holy feather. Friar Onyon having
dined, and reposed a litle after his wine, he arose from the table
to the window, where beholding what multitudes came to see the
feather, he assured himselfe of good store of mony. Hereupon, he
sent to his Boy Guccio Imbrata, that uppon the Bels ringing, he should
come and bring the wallet to him. Which (with much ado) he did, so
soone as his quarrell was ended in the kitchin, with the amiable
Chamber-maid Nuta, away then he went with his holy commodities:
where he was no sooner arrived, but because his belly was readie to
burst with drinking water, he sent him to the Church to ring the bels,
which not onely would warme the cold water in his belly, but
likewise make him run as gaunt as a Grey-hound.
  When all the people were assembled in the Church together, Friar
Onyon (never distrusting any injurie offered him, or that his close
commodities had bin medled withal) began his predication, uttering a
thousand lies to fit his purpose. And when he came to shew the feather
of the Phoenix (having first in great devotion finisht the confession)
he caused two goodly torches to be lighted, and ducking downe his head
three severall times, before hee would so much as touch the Taffata,
he opened it with much reverence. So soone as the Cabinet came to be
seen, off went his Hood, lowly he bowed downe his body, and uttering
especial praises of the Phoenix, and sacred properties of the
wonderfull Relique, the Cover of the Cabinet being lifted uppe, he saw
the same to bee full of Coales. He could not suspect his Villaine
boy to do this deede, for he knew him not to be endued with so much
wit, onely hee curst him for keeping it no better, and curst
himselfe also, for reposing trust in such a careles knave, knowing him
to be slothfull, disobedient, negligent, and void of all honest
understanding or grace. Sodainly (without blushing) lest his losse
should be discerned, he lifted his lookes and hands to heaven,
speaking out so loude, as every one might easily heare him, thus: O
thou omnipotent providence, for ever let thy power be praised. Then
making fast the Cabinet againe, and turning himselfe to the people,
with lookes expressing admiration, he proceeded in this manner.
  Lords, Ladies, and you the rest of my worthy Auditors: You are to
understand, that I (being then very young) was sent by my Superiour,
into those parts, where the Sun appeareth at his first rising. And I
had received charge by expresse command, that I should seeke for (so
much as consisted in my power to do) the especiall vertues and
priviledges belonging to Porcellane, which although the boyling
thereof bee worth but little, yet it is very profitable to any but us.
In regard whereof, being upon my journey, and departing from Venice,
passing along the Borgo de Grecia, I proceeded thence (on horseback)
through the Realme of Garbo, so to Baldacca, till I came to Parione;
from whence, not without great extremity of thirst, I arrived in
Sardignia.
  But why do I trouble you with the repetition of so many countries? I
coasted on still, after I had past Saint Georges Arme, into Truffia,
and then into Buffia which are Countries much inhabited, and with
great people. From thence I went into the Land of Lying, where I found
store of the Brethren of our Religion, and many other beside, who
shunned all paine and labour, onely for the love of God, and cared
as little, for the paines and travailes which others tooke, except
some benefit arised thereby to them; nor spend they any money in
this Country, but such as is without stampe. Thence I went into the
Land of Abruzzi, where the men and women goe in Galoches over the
Mountaines, and make them garments of their Swines guts. Not farre
from thence, I found people, that carried bread in their staves, and
wine in Satchels, when parting from them, I arrived among the
Mountaines of Bacchus, where all the waters run downe with a deepe
fall, and in short time, I went on so far, that I found my selfe to be
in India Pastinaca; where I swear to you by the holy habit which I
weare on my body, that I saw Serpents Bye, things incredible, and such
as were never seene before.
 But because I would be loth to lye, so soone as I departed thence,
I met with Maso de Saggio, who was a great Merchant there, and whom
I found cracking Nuts, and selling Cockles by retale. Neverthelesse,
al this while I could not finde what I sought for, and therefore I was
to passe from hence by water, if I intended to travaile thither, and
so into the Holy Land, where coole fresh bread is sold for foure
pence, and the hot is given away for nothing. There I found the
venerable Father (blame me not I beseech you) the most woorthie
Patriarch of Jerusalem, who for the reverence due to the habite I
weare, and love to our Lord Baron Saint Anthony, would have me to
see al the holy Reliques, which he had there under his charge:
wherof there were so many, as if I should recount them all to you, I
never could come to a conclusion. But yet not to leave you
discomforted, I will relate some few of them to you. First of all,
he shewed me the finger of the holy Ghost, so whole and perfect, as
ever it was. Next, the nose of the Cherubin, which appeared to Saint
Frances; with the payring of the naile of a Seraphin; and one of the
ribbes of Verbum caro, fastened to one of the Windowes' covered with
the holy garments of the Catholique Faith. Then he tooke me into a
darke Chappel, where he shewed me divers beames of the Starre that
appeared to the three Kings in the East. Also a Violl of Saint
Michaels sweate, when he combatted with the divell: And the jaw-bone
of dead Lazarus, with many other precious things beside. And because I
was liberall to him, giving him two of the Plaines of Monte Morello,
in the Vulgare Edition, and some of the Chapters del Caprezio, which
he had long laboured in search of; he bestowed on me some of his
Reliques. First, he gave me one of the eye-teeth of Santa Crux; and
a litle Violl, filled with some part of the sound of those Belles,
which hung in the sumptuous Temple of Salomon. Next, he gave mee the
Feather of the Phoenix, which was with Noah in the Arke, as before I
told you. And one of the Woodden Pattens, which the good Saint Gerrard
de Magnavilla used to weare in his travailes, and which I gave (not
long since) to Gerrardo di Bousy at Florence, where it is respected
with much devotion. Moreover, he gave me a few of those Coales,
wherwith the Phoenix of Noah was roasted; all which things I brought
away thence with me. Now, most true it is, that my Superiour would
never suffer mee to shew them any where, untill he was faithfully
certified, whether they were the same precious Reliques, or no. But
perceyving by sundrie Myracles which they have wrought, and Letters of
sufficient credence receyved from the reverend Patriarch, that all
is true, he hath graunted me permission to them, and because I wold
not trust any one with matters of such moment, I my selfe brought them
hither with me. Now I must tell you, that the Feather of the same
Phoenix, I conveyed into a small Cabinet or Casket, because it
should not be bent or broken. And the Coales wherewith the said
Phoenix was roasted, I put into another Casket, in all respects so
like to the former, that many times I have taken one for another. As
now at this instant it hath bin my fortune: for, imagining that I
brought the Casket with the feather, I mistooke my self, and brought
the other with the coales. Wherein doubtles I have not offended,
because I am certaine, that we of our Order do not any thing, but it
is ordred by divine direction, and our blessed Patron the Lorde
Baron Saint Anthony. And so much the rather, because about a senight
hence, the Feast of Saint Anthony is to bee solemnized, against the
preparation whereof, and to kindle your zeale with the greater
fervencie: he put the Casket with the Coales into my hand, meaning,
let you see the Feather, at some more fitting season. And therefore my
blessed Sonnes and Daughters, put off your Bonnets, and come hither
with devotion to looke upon them. But first let me tell you, whosoever
is marked by any of these Coales, with the signe of the Crosse: he
or she shal live all this yeare happily, and no fire whatsoever
shall come neere to touch or hurt them. So, singing a solemne
Antheme in the praise of S. Anthony, he unveyled the Casket, and
shewed the Coales openly.
 The simple multitude, having (with great admiration and reverence)
a long while beheld them, they thronged in crouds to Fryar Onyon,
giving him farre greater offerings, then before they had, and
entreating him to marke them each after other. Whereupon, he taking
the coales in his hand, began to marke their garments of white, and
the veyles on the Womens heads, with Crosses of no meane extendure:
affirming to them, that the more the Coales wasted with making those
great crosses, the more they still encreased in the Casket, as often
before hee had made triall.
  In this manner, having crossed all the Certaldanes (to his great
benefit) and their abuse: he smiled at his sodaine and dexterious
devise, in mockery of them, who thought to have made a scorne of
him, by dispossessing him of the Feather. For Bragoniero and
Pizzino, being present at his Learned predication, and having heard
what a cunning shift he found, to come off cleanly, without the
least detection, and all delivered with such admirable
protestations: they were faine to forsake the Church, least they
should have burst with laughing.
  But when all the people were parted and gone, they met Friar Onyon
at his Inne, where closely they discovered to him, what they had done,
delivering him his Feather againe: which the yeare following, did
yeeld him as much money, as now the Coales had done.

  This Novell affoorded equall pleasing to the whole companie, Friar
Onyons Sermon being much commended, but especially his long
Pilgrimage, and the Reliques he had both seene, and brought home
with him. Afterward, the Queene perceiving, that her reigne had now
the full expiration, graciously she arose, and taking the Crowne
from off her owne head, placed [it] on the head of Dioneus, saying. It
is high time Dioneus, that you should taste part of the charge and
paine, which poore women have felt and undergone in their soveraigntie
and government: wherefore, be you our King, and rule us with such
awefull authority, that the ending of your dominion may yeelde us
all contentment. Dioneus being thus invested with the Crowne, returned
this answer.
  I make no doubt (bright Beauties) but you many times have seene as
good, or a better King among the Chessemen, then I am. But yet of a
certainty, if you would be obedient to me, as you ought in dutie
unto a true King: I should grant you a liberall freedome of that,
wherein you take the most delight, and without which, our choisest
desires can never be compleate. Neverthelesse, I meane, that my
government shal be according to mine owne minde. So, causing the
Master of the Houshold to be called for, as all the rest were wont
to do for conference with him: he gave him direction, for al things
fitting the time of his Regiment, and then turning to the Ladies, thus
he proceeded.
  Honest Ladies, we have alreadie discoursed of variable devises,
and so many severall manners of humane industry, concerning the
busines wherewith Lacisca came to acquaint us: that her very words,
have ministred me matter, sufficient for our morrowes conference, or
else I stand in doubt, that I could not have devised a more convenient
Theame for us to talke on. She (as you have all heard) saide, that
shee had not anie neighbour, who came a true Virgin to her Husband,
and added moreover, that she knew some others, who had beguiled
their Husbandes, in very cunning and crafty manner. But setting
aside the first part, concerning the proofe of children, I conceive
the second to bee more apte for our intended argument. In which
respect, my will is (seeing Lacisca hath given us so good an occasion)
that our discoursing to morow, may onely concerne such slye cunning
and deceits, as women have heeretofore used, for satisfying their owne
appetites, and beguiling their Husbands, without their knowledge, or
suspition, and cleanly escaping with them, or no.
  This argument seemed not very pleasing to the Ladies, and
therefore they urged an alteration thereof, to some matter better
suting with the day, and their discoursing: whereto thus he
answered. Ladies, I know as well as your selves, why you would have
this instant argument altered: but to change me from it you have no
power, considering the season is such, as shielding all (both men
and women) from medling with any dishonest action; it is lawfull for
us to speake of what wee please. And know you not, that through the
sad occasion of the time, which now overruleth us, the judges have
forsaken their venerable benches, the Lawes (both divine and humane)
ceasing, granting ample license to every one, to do what best
agreeth with the conservation of life? Therefore, if your honesties
doe straine themselves a little, both in thinking and speaking, not
for prosecution of any immodest deede, but onely for familiar and
blamelesse entercourse: I cannot devise a more convenient ground, at
least that carrieth apparant reason, for reproofe of perils, to
ensue by any of you. Moreover, your company, which hath bin most
honest, since the first day of our meeting, to this instant: appeareth
not any jot to be disgraced, by any thing either said or done, neither
shal be (I hope) in the meanest degree.
  And what is he, knowing your choise and vertuous dispositions, so
powerfull in their owne prevailing, that wanton words cannot
misguide your wayes, no nor the terror of death it selfe, that dare
insinuate a distempred thought? But admit, that some slight or shallow
judgements, hearing you (perhaps sometimes) talke of such amorous
follies, should therefore suspitiously imagine you to be faulty, or
else you would bee more sparing of speech? Their wit and censure are
both alike, savouring rather of their owne vile nature, who would
brand others with their basebred imperfections. Yet ther is another
consideration beside, of som great injury offered to mine honor, and
whereof I know not how you can acquit your selves.
  I that have bin obedient to you all, and borne the heavy load of
your businesse, having now (with full consent) created mee your
King, you would wrest the law out of my hands, and dispose of my
authoritie as you please. Forbeare (gentle Ladies) all frivolotis
suspitions, more fit for them that are full of bad thoughts, then you,
who have true Vertue shining in your eyes; and therefore, let every
one freely speake their minde, according as their humors best pleaseth
them.
  When the Ladies heard this, they made answer, that all should bee
answerable to his minde. Whereupon, the King gave them all leave to
dispose of themselves till supper time. And because the Sun was yet
very high, in regard all the re-counted Novels had bin so short:
Dioneus went to play at the Tables with another of the yong Gentlemen,
and Madame Eliza, having withdrawne the Ladies aside, thus spake
unto them. During the time of our being heere, I have often bene
desirous to let you see a place somwhat neere at hand, and which I
suppose you have never seene, it being called The Valley of Ladies.
Till now, I could not finde any convenient time to bring you
thither, the Sunne continuing still aloft, which fitteth you with
the apter leysure, and the sight (I am sure) can no way discontent
you.
  The Ladies replyed, that they were all ready to walk with her
thither: and calling one of their women to attend on them, they set
on, without speaking a word to any of the men. And within the distance
of halfe a mile, they arrived at the Valley of Ladies, wherinto they
entred by a strait passage at the one side, from whence there issued
forth a cleare running River. And they found the saide Valley to bee
so goodly and pleasant, especially in that season, which was the
hottest of all the yeare; as all the world was no where able to
yeeld the like. And, as one of the said Ladies (since then) related to
mee, there was a plaine in the Valley so directly round, as if it
had beene formed by a compasse, yet rather it resembled the
Workmanship of Nature, then to be made by the hand of man:
containing in circuite somewhat more then the quarter of a mile,
environed with sixe small hils, of no great height, and on each of
them stood a little Palace, shaped in the fashion of Castles.
  The ground-plot descending from those hils or mountaines, grew lesse
and lesse by variable degrees, as wee observe at entering into our
Theaters, from the highest part to the lowest, succinctly to narrow
the circle by order. Now, concerning these ground-plottes or little
Meadowes, those which the Sun Southward looked on, were full of Vines,
Olive-trees, Almond-trees, Cherry-trees, and Figge-trees, with
divers other Trees beside, so plentifully bearing fruites, as you
could not discerne a hands bredth of losse. The other Mountaines,
whereon the Northerne windes blow, were curiously covered with small
Thickets or Woods of Oakes, Ashes, and other Trees so greene and
straite, as it was impossible to behold fairer. The goodly plaine it
selfe, not having any other entrance, but where the Ladies came in,
was planted with Trees of Firre, Cipresse, Laurell, and Pines; so
singularly growing in formall order, as if some artificiall or cunning
hand had planted them, the Sun hardly piercing through their branches,
from the top to the bottome, even at his highest, or any part of his
course.
  All the whole field was richly spred with grasse, and such variety
of delicate Flowers, as Nature yeilded out of her plenteous
Store-house. But that which gave no lesse delight then any of the
rest, was a smal running Brooke, descending from one of the Vallies,
that divided two of the little hils, and fell through a Veine of the
intire Rocke it selfe, that the fall and murmure thereof was most
delightfull to heare, seeming all the way in the descent, like
Quickesilver, weaving it selfe into artificiall workes, and arriving
in the plaine beneath, it was there receyved into a small Channell,
swiftly running through the midst of the plaine, to a place where it
stayed, and shaped it selfe into a Lake or Pond, such as our
Citizens have in their Orchards or Gardens, when they please to make
use of such a commodity.
  This Pond was no deeper, then to reach the breast of a man, and
having no mud or soyle in it, the bottome thereof shewed like small
beaten gravell, with prety pibble stones intermixed, which some that
had nothing else to do, would sit downe and count them as they lay, as
very easily they might. And not onely was the bottome thus
apparantly seene, but also such plenty of Fishes swimming every way,
as the mind was never to be wearied in looking on them. Nor was this
water bounded in with any bankes, but onely the sides of the plain
Medow, which made it appeare the more sightly, as it arose in swelling
plenty. And alwayes as it superabounded in his course, least it should
overflow disorderly: it fell into another Channell, which conveying it
along the lower Valley, ran forth to water other needfull places.
  When the Ladies were arrived in this goodly valley, and upon advised
viewing it, had sufficiently commended it: in regard the heat of the
dry was great, the place tempting, and the Pond free from sight of
any, they resolved there to bathe themselves. Wherefore they sent
the waiting Gentlewoman to have a diligent eye on t way where they
entered, least any one should chance to steale upon them. All seven of
them being stript naked, into the water they went, which hid their
delicate white bodies, like as a cleare Glasse concealeth a Damask
Rose within it. So they being in the Pond, and the water nothing
troubled by their being there, they found much prety pastime together,
running after the Fishes, to catch them with their hands, but they
were overquicke and cunning for them. After they had delighted
themselves there to their owne contentment, and were cloathed with
their garments, as before: thinking it fit time for their returning
backe againe, least their over-long stay might give offence, they
departed thence in an easie pace, dooing nothing else all the way as
they went, but extolling the Valley of Ladies beyond all comparison.
  At the Palace they arrived in a due houre, finding the three
Gentlemen at play, as they left them, to whom Madame Pampinea
pleasantly thus spake. Now trust me Gallants, this day wee have very
cunningly beguiled you. How now? answered Dioneus, begin you first
to act, before you speake? Yes truly Sir, replyed Madame Pampinea:
  Relating to him at large, from whence they came, what they had
done there, the beautie of the place, and the distance thence. The
King (upon hir excellent report) being very desirous to see it;
sodainely commaunded Supper to be served in, which was no sooner
ended, but they and their three servants (leaving the Ladies) walked
on to the Valley, which when they had considered, no one of them
having ever bin there before; they thought it to be the Paradise of
the World.
  They bathed themselves there likewise, as the Ladies formerlie had
done, and being re-vested, returned backe to their Lodgings, because
darke night drew on apace: but they found the Ladies dauncing, to a
Song which Madame Fiammetta sung. When the dance was ended, they
entertained the time with no other discourse, but onely concerning the
Valley of Ladies, whereof they all spake liberally in commendations.
Whereupon, the King called the Master of the Houshold, giving him
command, that (on the morrow) dinner should be readie betimes, and
bedding to be thence carried, if any desired rest at mid-time of the
day.
  All this being done, variety of pleasing Wines were brought,
Banquetting stuffe, and other dainties; after which they fell to
Dauncing. And Pamphilus, having receyved command to begin an
especial dance, the King turned himselfe unto Madame Eliza, speaking
thus. Faire Lady, you have done me so much honour this day, as to
deliver mee the Crowne: in regard whereof, be you this night the
Mistresse of the song: and let it be such as best may please your
selfe. Whereunto Madam Eliza, with a modest blush arising in her face,
replyed; That his will should be fulfilled, and then (with a
deficate voyce) she beganne in this manner.

                 THE SONG
          The Chorus sung by all

  Love, if I can scape free from forth thy holde,
    Beleeve it for a truth,
  Never more shall thy falshoode me enfolde.
  When I was yong, I entred first thy fights,
  Supposing there to finde a solemne peace:
  I threw off all my Armes, and with delights
  Fed my poore hopes, as still they did encrease.
  But like a Tyrant, full of rancorous hate,
    Thou tookst advantage:
  And I sought refuge, but it was too late.
    Love, if I can scape free, etc.

  But being thus surprized in thy snares,
  To my misfortune, thou madst me her slave;
  Was onely borne to feede me with despaires,
  And keepe me dying in a living grave.
  For I saw nothing dayly fore mine eyes,
    But rackes and tortures:
  From which I could not get in any wise.
    Love, if I can scape free, etc.

  My sighes and teares I vented to the winde,
  For none would heare or pittie my complaints;
  My torments still encreased in this kinde,
  And more and more I felt these sharpe restraints.
  Release me now at last from forth his hell.
    Asswage thy rigour,
  Delight not thus in cruelty to dwell.
    Love, if I can scape free, etc.

  If this thou wilt not grant, be yet so kinde,
  Release me from those worse then servile bands,
  Which new vaine hopes have bred, wherein I finde;
  Such violent feares, as comfort quite withstands.
  Be now (at length) a little moov'd to pittie,
    Be it nere so little:
  Or in my death listen my Swan-like Dittie.

  Love, if I can scape free from forth thy holde,
    Beleeve it for a truth,
  Never more shall thy falshood me enfolde.

  After that Madame Eliza had made an end of her Song, which shee
sealed up with an heart-breaking sigh: they all sate amazedly
wondering at her moanes, not one among them being able to
conjecture, what should be the reason of her singing in this manner.
But the King being in a good and pleasing temper, calling Tindaro,
commaunded him to bring his Bagge-pipe, by the sound whereof they
danced divers daunces: And a great part of the night being spent in
this manner, they all gave over, and departed to their Chambers.
                    THE INDUCTION TO THE SEVENTH DAY

    WHEN THE ASSEMBLY BEING MET TOGETHER, AND UNDER THE REGIMENT OF
   DIONEUS: THE DISCOURSES ARE DIRECTED, FOR THE DISCOVERIE OF SUCH
   POLICIES AND DECEITES, AS WOMEN HAVE USED FOR BEGUILING OF THEIR
   HUSBANDES, EITHER IN RESPECT OF THEIR LOVE, OR FOR THE PREVENTION
    OF SOME BLAME OR SCANDALL, ESCAPING WITHOUT SIGHT, KNOWLEDGE,
                            OR OTHERWISE

  All the Starres were departed out of East, but onely that, which
commonly cal bright Lucifer, the Day-Star, gracing the morning very
gloriously: when the Master of the household, being risen, went with
all the provision, to the Valley of Ladies, to make everie thing in
due and decent readines, according as his Lord over-night had
commanded him. After which departure of his, it was not long before
the King arose, beeing awaked with the noise which the carriages made;
and when he was up, the other two Gentlemen and the Ladies were
quickly readie soone after.
  Such as were so disposed, were licensed by the King to take their
rest: and they that would not, he permitted them to their wonted
pastimes, each according to their minds. But when they were risen from
sleepe, and the rest from their other exercises, it seemed to be
more then high time, that they should prepare for talke and
conference. So, sitting downe on Turky Carpets, which were spred
abroad on the green grasse, and close by the place where they had
dined: the King gave command, that Madam Aemillia should first
begin, whereto she willingly yeelding obedience, and expecting such
silent attention, as formerly had bin, thus she began.
                   THE SEVENTH DAY, THE FIRST NOVELL

       REPREHENDING THE SIMPLICITY OF SOME SOTTISH HUSBANDS: AND
      DISCOVERING THE WANTON SUBTILTIES OF SOME WOMEN, TO COMPASSE
                        THEIR UNLAWFULL DESIRES

  John of Lorraine heard one knocke at his doore in the night time,
whereuppon he awaked his Wife Monna Tessa. She made him beleeve,
that it was a Spirit which knocked at the doore, and so they arose,
going both together to conjure the Spirit with a prayer; and
afterwardes, they heard no more knocking.

  My Gracious Lord (quoth Madame Aemillia) it had bene a matter highly
pleasing to mee, that any other (rather then my selfe) should have
begun to speake of this argument, which it hath pleased you to apoint.
But seeing it is your Highnesse pleasure, that I must make a passage
of assurance for all the rest; I will not be irregular, because
obedience is our cheefe Article. I shall therefore (Gracious Ladies)
strive, to speake something, which may bee advantageable to you
heereafter, in regard, that if other women bee as fearfull as we,
especially of Spirits, of which all our sexe have generally bin
timorous (although, upon my credite, I know not what they are, nor
ever could meete with any, to tell me what they be) you may, by the
diligent observation of my Novell: learne a wholsome and holy
prayer, very availeable, and of precious power, to conjure and drive
them away, whensoever they shall presume to assault you in any place.
  There dwelt sometime in Florence, and in the street of Saint
Brancazio, a woollen Weaver, named John of Lorrayne; a man more
happy in his Art, then wise in any thing else beside: because,
savouring somewhat of the Gregorie, and (in very deede)
  little lesse then an Ideot; Hee was many times made Captain of the
Woollen Weavers, in the quarters belonging to Santa Maria Novella, and
his house was the Schoole or receptacle, for all their meetings and
assemblies. He had divers other petty Offices beside, by the gnity and
authority whereof, hee supposed himselfe much exalted or elevated,
above the common pitch of other men. And this humour became the more
tractable to him, because he addicted himselfe oftentimes (as being
a man of an easie inclination) to be a benefactor to the holy
Fathers of Santa Maria Novella, giving (beside his other charitable
Almes) to some one a paire of Breeches, to another a Hood, and to
another a whole habit. In reward whereof, they taught him (by heart)
many wholsome prayers, as the Pater noster in the vulgar tongue; the
Song of Saint Alexis; the Lamentations of Saint Bernard, the Hymne
of Madame Matilda, and many other such like matters, which he kept
charily, and repeated usually, as tending to the salvation of his
soule.
  This man, had a very faire and lovely wife, named Monna Tessa, the
daughter of Manuccio della Cuculia, wise and well advised; who knowing
the simplicity of her Husband, and affecting Frederigo di Neri
Pegolotti, who was a comely yong Gentleman, fresh, and in the floure
of his time, even as she was, therefore they agreed the better
together. By meanes of her Chambermaid, Frederigo and shee met often
together, at a Countrie Farme of John of Lorraynes, which hee had
neere to Florence, and where she used to lodge all the Summer time,
called Camerata, whether John resorted somtimes to Supper, and lodge
for a night, returning home againe to his City house the next morning;
yet often he would stay there longer with his owne companions.
  Frederigo, who was no meane man in his Mistresses favor, and
therefore these private meetings the more welcome to him; received a
summons or assignation from her, to be there on such a night, when hir
husband had no intent of comming thither. There they supped merrily
together, and (no doubt) did other things, nothing appertaining to our
purpose, she both acquainting, and well instructing him, in a dozen
(at the least) of her Husbands devout prayers. Nor did shee make any
account, or Frederigo either, that this should be the last time of
their meeting, because (indeede) it was not the first: and therfore
they set downe an order and conclusion together (because the
Chambermaide must be no longer the messenger) in such manner as you
shall heare.
  Frederigo was to observe especially, that alwayes when hee went or
came from his owne house, which stood much higher then John of
Lorraynes did, to looke upon a Vine, closely adjoyning to her house,
where stood the scull of an Asses head, advanced upon an high pole;
and when the face thereof looked towards Florence, he might safely
come, it being an assured signe, that John kept at home. And if he
found the doore fast shut, he should softly knocke three severall
times, and thereon bee admitted entrance. But if the face stood
towards Fiesola; then he might not come, for it was the signe of Johns
being there, and then there might be no medling at all.
  Having thus agreed upon this conclusion, and had many merry meetings
together: one night above the rest, when Frederigo was appointed to
suppe with Monna Tessa, who had made ready two fat Capons, drest in
most dainty and delicate manner: it fell out so unfortunately, that
John (whose Kue was not to come that night) came thither very late,
yet before Frederigo, wherewith she being not a little offended,
gave John a slight supper, of Lard, Bacon, and such like coarse
provision, because the other was kept for a better guest. In the meane
time, and while John was at supper, the Maide (by her Mistresses
direction) had conveighed the two Capons, with boyled Eggs, Bread
and a Bottle of Wine (all folded up in a faire cleane table cloth)
into her Garden, that a passage to it, without entering into the
house, and where shee had divers times supt with Frederigo. She
further willed the Maide, to set all those things under a Peach
tree, which adjoyned to the fields side: but, so angry she was at
her husbands unexpected comming, that shee forgot to bid her tarrie
there, till Frederigoes comming, and to tell him of Johns being there:
as also, to take what he found prepared readie for his Supper.
  John and she being gone to bed together, and the Maide likewise,
it was not long after, before Frederigo came, and knocking once softly
at the doore, which was very neere to their lodging Chamber, John
heard the noise, and so did his wife. But to the end, that John
might not have the least scruple of suspition, she seemed to be fast
asleepe; and Frederigo pausing a while, according to the order
directed, knockt againe the second time. John wondering thereat very
much, jogd his wife a litle, and saide to her: Tessa, hearest thou
nothing? Methinkes one knocketh at our doore. Monna Tessa, who was
better acquainted with the knocke, then plaine honest meaning John
was, dissembling as if shee awaked out of a drowsie dreame, saide:
Alas Husband, dost thou know what this is? In the name of our
blessed Ladie, be not affraid, this is but the Spirit which haunts our
Countrey houses, whereof I have often told thee, and it hath many
times much dismayed me, living heere alone without thy comfort. Nay,
such hath bin my feare, that in divers nights past, so soone as I
heard the knockes: I was feigne to hide my selfe in the bedde
over-head and eares (as we usually say) never daring to be so bold, as
to looke out, untill it was broad open day. Arise good wife (quoth
John) and if it be such a Spirit of the Countrey, as thou talkest
of, never be affraid; for before we went to bed, I said the Telucis,
the Intemerata, with many other good prayers beside. Moreover, I
made the signe of the Crosse at every corner of our bed, in the name
of the Father, Son, and holy Ghost, so that no doubt at all needs to
be made, of any power it can have to hurt or touch us.
  Monna Tessa, because (perhaps) Frederigo might receive some other
suspition, and so enter into distaste of her by anger or offence:
determined to arise indeede, and to let him covertly understand,
that John was there, and therefore saide to her husband. Beleeve me
John, thy counsell is good, and every one of thy words hath wisedome
in it: but I hold it best for our owne safety, thou being heere;
that wee should conjure him quite away, to the end he may never more
haunt our house. Conjure him Wife? Quoth John, By what meanes? and
how? Bee patient good man (quoth Tessa) and I will enstruct thee, I
have learned an excellent kinde of conjuration; for, the last weeke,
when I went to procure the pardons at Fiesola, one of the holy recluse
Nuns, who (indeede John) is my indeered Sister and Friend, and the
most sanctimonius in life of them all; perceiving me to be troubled
and terrified by Spirits; taught me a wholsome and holy prayer, and
protested withall, that shee had often made experiment thereof, before
she became a Recluse, and found it (alwayes) a present helpe to her.
Yet never durst I adventure to essay it, living heere by my selfe
all alone: but honest John, seeing thou art heere with me, we will
go both together, and conjure this Spirit. John replyed, that he was
very willing; and being both up, they went fayre and softly to the
doore, where Frederigo stoode still without, and was growne somewhat
suspitious of his long attendance.
  When they were come to the doore, Monna Tessa said to John: Thou
must cough and spet, at such time as I shall bid thee. Well (quoth
John) I will not faile you. Immediately she beganne her prayer in this
manner.

  Spirit, that walkst thus in the night,
  Poore Countrey people to affright:
  Thou hast mistane thy marke and ayme,
  The head stood right, but John home came,
  And therefore thou must packe away,
  For I have nothing else to say:
  But to my Garden get the gone,
  Under the Peach-tree stands alone,
  There shalt thou finde two Capons drest,
  And Egges laide in mine owne Hennes nest,
  Bread, and a Bottle of good Wine,
  All wrapt up in a cloath most fine.
  Is not this good Goblins fare?
  Packe and say you have your share;
  Not doing harme to John or me,
  Who this night keepes me companie.

  No sooner had she ended her devoute conjuring prayer, but she
saide to her husband: Now John, cough and spet: which John accordingly
did. And Frederigo, being all this while without, hearing her witty
conjuration of a Spirit, which he himselfe was supposed to be, being
ridde of his former jealous suspition: in the middst of all his
melancholy, could very hardly refraine from laughing, the jest
appeared so pleasing to him: But when John cought and spet, softly
he said to himselfe: When next thou spetst, spet out all thy teeth.
  The woman having three severall times conjured the Spirite, in
such manner as you have already heard; returned to bed againe with her
husband: and Frederigo, who came as perswaded to sup with her, being
supperlesse all this while; directed by the words of Monna Tessa in
hir praier, went into the Garden. At the foot of the Peach-tree, there
he found the linnen cloth, with the two hot Capons, Bread, Egges,
and a Bottle of Wine in it, all which he carried away with him, and
went to Supper at better leysure. Oftentimes afterward, upon other
meetings of Frederigo and she together, they laughed heartily at her
enchantment, and the honest beleefe of silly John.
  I cannot deny, but that some do affirme, that the Woman had turned
the face of the Asses head towards Fiesola, and a Country Travailer
passing by the Vine, having a long piked staffe on his necke: the
staffe (by chance) touched the head, and made it turne divers times
about, and in the end faced Florence, which being the cal for
Frederigoes comming, by this meanes he was disappointed. In like
manner some say, that Monna Tessaes prayer for conjuring the Spirit,
was in this order.

  Spirit, Spirit, thy way,
  And come againe some other day.
  It was not I that turnd the head,
  But some other. In our Bed
  Are John and I: Go from our dore,
  And see thou trouble us no more.

  So that Frederigo departed thence, both with the losse of his labour
and supper. But a neighbour of mine, who is a woman of good yeares,
told me, that both the one and other were true, as she her selfe
heard, when she was a little Girle. And concerning the latter
accident, it was not to John of Lorrayne, but to another, named John
de Nello, that dwelt at S. Peters Gate, and of the same profession
as John of Lorrayne was. Wherefore (faire Ladies) it remaineth in your
owne choice, to entertain which of the two prayers you please, or both
together if you will: for they are of extraordinary vertue in such
strange occurrences, as you have heeretofore heard, and (upon doubt)
may prove by experience. It shall not therefore be amisse for you,
to learne them both by hart, for (peradventure) they may stand you
in good sted, if ever you chance to have the like occasion.
                   THE SEVENTH DAY, THE SECOND NOVELL

   WHEREIN IS DECLARED, WHAT HARD AND NARROW SHIFTS AND DISTRESSES,
   SUCH AS BEE SERIOUSLY LINKED IN LOVE, ARE MANY TIMES ENFORCED TO
      UNDERGO: ACCORDING AS THEIR OWNE WIT, AND CAPACITIE OF THEIR
                SURPRIZERS, DRIVE THEM TO IN EXTREMITIES

  Peronella hid a yong man her friend and Lover, under a great brewing
Fat, upon the sodaine returning home of her Husband; who told her,
that hee had solde the saide Fat and brought him that bought it, to
cary it away. Peronella replyed, that shee had formerly solde it
unto another, who was now underneath it, to see whether it were
whole and sound, or no. Whereupon, he being come forth from under
it; she caused her Husband to make it neate and cleane, and so the
last buyer carried it away.

  Not without much laughter and good liking, was the Tale of Madame
Aemillia listened unto, and both the prayers commended to be sound and
soveraigne: but it being ended, the King commaunded Philostratus, that
hee should follow next in order, whereupon thus he began.
  Deare Ladies, the deceites used by men towards your sexe, but
especially Husbands, have bene so great and many, as when it hath
sometime happened, or yet may, that husbands are requited in the
self-same kinde: you need not finde fault at any such accident, either
by knowledge thereof afterward, or hearing the same reported by any
one; but rather you should referre it to generall publication, to
the end, that immodest men may know, and finde it for trueth, that
if they have apprehension and capacity; women are therein not a jote
inferiour to them. Which cannot but redound to your great benefite,
because, when any one knoweth, that another is as cunning and
subtile as himselfe; he will not be so rashly adventurous in
deceite. And who maketh any doubt, that if those sleights and trickes,
whereof this dayes argument may give us occasion to speake, should
afterwardes be put in execution by men: would it not minister just
reason, of punishing themselves for beguiling you, knowing, that (if
you please) you have the like abilitie in your owne power? Mine intent
therefore is to tell you, what a woman (though but of meane
qualitie) did to her husband, upon a sodaine, and in a moment (as it
were) for her owne safety.
  Not long since, there lived in Naples, an honest meane man, who
did take to Wife, a fayre and lustie young Woman, being named
Peronella.-He professing the Trade of a Mason, and shee Carding and
Spinning, maintained themselves in a reasonable condition, abating and
abounding as their Fortunes served. It came to passe, that a
certayne young man, well observing the beauty and good parts of
Peronella, became much addicted in affection towardes her: and by
his often and secret sollicitations, which he found not to be
unkindely entertayned; his successe proved answerable to his hope,
no unindifferencie appearing in their purposes, but where her estate
seemed weakest, his supplies made an addition of more strength.
  Now, for their securer meeting, to stand cleare from all matter of
scandal or detection, they concluded in this order between themselves.
Lazaro, for so was Peronellaes Husband named, being an earely riser
every morning, either to seeke for worke, or to effect it being
undertaken: this amorous friend being therewith acquainted, and
standing in some such convenient place, where hee could see Lazaroes
departure from his house, and yet himselfe no way discerned; poore
Lazaro was no sooner gone, but presently he enters the house, which
stood in a verie solitarie street, called the Avorio. Many mornings
had they thus met together, to their no meane delight and
contentation, till one especial morning among the rest, when Lazaro
was gone forth to worke, and Striguario (so was the amorous young
man named) visiting Peronella in the house: upon a verie urgent
occasion, Lazaro returned backe againe, quite contrary to his former
wont, keeping foorth all day, and never comming home till night.
  Finding his doore to be fast lockt, and he having knockt softlie
once or twice, he spake in this manner to himselfe. Fortune I thanke
thee, for albeit thou hast made mee poore, yet thou hast bestowed a
better blessing on me, in matching me with so good, honest, and loving
a Wife. Behold, though I went early out of my house, her selfe hath
risen in the cold to shut the doore, to prevent the entrance of
theeves, or any other that might offend us. Peronella having heard
what her husband sayde, and knowing the manner of his knocke, said
fearfully to Striguario. Alas deare friend, what shall wee doe? I am
little lesse then a dead Woman: For, Lazaro my Husband is come backe
again, and I know not what to do or say. He never returned in this
order before now, doubtlesse, hee saw when you entred the doore; and
for the safety of your honour and mine: creepe under this brewing Fat,
till I have opened the doore, to know the reason of his so soone
returning.
  Striguario made no delaying of the matter, but got himselfe closelie
under the Fat, and Peronella opening the doore for her husbands
enterance, with a frowning countenance, spake thus unto him. What
meaneth this so early returning home againe this morning? It
seemeth, thou intendest to do nothing to day, having brought backe thy
tooles in thy hands? If such be thine intent, how shall we live? Where
shal we have bread to fill our bellies? Dooest thou thinke, that I
will suffer thee to pawne my gowne, and other poore garments, as
heeretofore thou hast done? I that card and spinne both night and day,
till I have worne the flesh from my fingers; yet all will hardly finde
oyle to maintaine our Lampe. Husband, husband, there is not one
neighbour dwelling by us, but makes a mockerie of me, and tels me
plainly, that I may be ashamed to drudge and moyle as I do;
wondering not a little, how I am able to endure it; and thou returnest
home with thy hands in thy hose, as if thou hadst no worke at all to
do this day.
  Having thus spoken, she fell to weeping, and then thus began
again. Poore wretched woman as I am, in an unfortunate houre was I
borne, and in a much worse, when I was made thy Wife. I could have had
a proper, handsome yong man; one, that would have maintained mee brave
and gallantly: but, beast as I was, to forgoe my good, and cast my
selfe away on such a beggar as thou art, and whom none wold have
had, but such an Asse as I. Other women live at hearts ease, and in
jollity, have their amorous friends and loving Paramours, yea, one,
two, three at once, making their husbands looke like a Moone cressent,
wheron they shine Sun-like, with amiable lookes, because they know not
how to helpe it: when I (poore foole) live heere at home a miserable
life, not daring once to dreame of such follies, an innocent soule,
heartlesse and harmelesse.
  Many times, sitting and sighing to my selfe: Lord, thinke I, of what
mettall am I made? Why should not I have a Friend in a corner,
aswell as others have? I am flesh and blood, as they are, not made
of brasse or iron, and therefore subject to womens frailty. would thou
shouldest know it husband, and I tell it thee in good earnest; That if
I would doe ill, I could quickely finde a friend at a neede.
Gallants there are good store, who (of my knowledge) love me
dearely, and have made me very large and liberall promises, of
Golde, Silver, jewels, and gay Garments, if I would extend them the
least favour. But my heart will not suffer me, I never was the
daughter of such a mother, as had so much as a thought of such
matters: no, I thanke our blessed Ladie, and S. Friswid for it: and
yet thou returnest home againe, when thou shouldst be at Worke.
  Lazaro, who stoode all this while like a well-beleeving Logger-head,
demurely thus answered. Alas good Wife! I pray you bee not so angry, I
never had so much as an ill thought of you, but know wel enough what
you are, and have made good proofe thereof this morning. Understand
therefore patiently (sweet Wife) that I went forth to my work as dayly
I use to do, little dreaming (as I thinke you doe not) that it had
bene Holyday. Wife, this is the Feast day of Saint Galeone; whereon we
may in no wise worke, and this is the reason of my so soone returning.
Neverthelesse (dear Wife) I was not carelesse of our Houshold
provision: For, though we worke not, yet we must have foode, which I
have provided for more then a moneth. Wife, I remembred the brewing
Fat, whereof we have little or no use at all, but rather it is a
trouble to the house, then otherwise. I met with an honest Friend, who
stayeth without at the doore, to him I have sold the Fat for ten
Gigliatoes, and he tarrieth to take it away with him.
  How Husband? replied Peronella, Why now I am worse offended then
before. Thou that art a man, walkest every where, and shouldst be
experienced in worldly affaires: wouldst thou bee so simple, as to
sell such a brewing Fat for ten Gigliatoes? Why, I that am a poore
ignorant woman, a house Dove, sildome going out of my doore: have sold
it already for twelve Gigliatoes, to a very honest man, who (even a
little before thy comming home) came to me, we agreed on the bargaine,
and he is now underneath the Fat, to see whether it be sound or no.
When credulous Lazaro heard this, he was better contented then ever,
and went to him that taried at the doore, saying. Good man, you may
goe your way, for, whereas you offered me but ten Gigliatoes for the
Fat, my loving wife hath sold it for twelve, and I must maintaine what
shee hath done: so the man departed, and the variance ended.
  Peronella then saide to her husband. Seeing thou art come home so
luckily, helpe me to lift up the Fat, that the man may come foorth,
and then you two end the bargaine together. Striguario, who thogh he
was mewed up under the tubbe, had his eares open enough; and hearing
the witty excuse of Peronella, tooke himselfe free from future
feare: and being come from under the Fat, pretending also, as if he
had herd nothing, nor saw Lazaro, looking round about him, said. Where
is this good woman? Lazaro stepping forth boldly like a man,
replyed: Heere am I, what would you have Sir? Thou? quoth
Striguario, what art thou? I ask for the good wife, with whom I made
my match for the Fat. Honest Gentleman (answered Lazaro) I am that
honest Womans Husband, for lacke of a better, and I will maintaine
whatsoever my Wife hath done.
  I crie you mercie Sir, replyed Striguario, I bargained with your
Wife for this brewing Fat, which I finde to be whole and sound: only
it is uncleane within, hard crusted with some dry soile upon it, which
I know not well how to get off, if you will be the meanes of making it
cleane, I have the money heere ready for it. For that Sir (quoth
Peronella) take you no care, although no match at all had beene
made, what serves my Husband for, but to make it cleane? Yes
forsooth Sir, answered sily Lazaro, you shall have it neate and cleane
before you pay the mony.
  So, stripping himselfe into his shirt lighting a Candle, and
taking tooles fit for the purpose; the Fat was whelmed over him, and
he being within it, wrought untill he sweated, with scraping and
scrubbing. So that these poore Lovers, what they could not
accomplish as they wold, necessity enforced them to performe as they
might. And Peronella, looking in at the vent-hole, where the Liquor
runneth forth for the meshing; seemed to instruct her husband in the
businesse, as espying those parts where the Fat was fowlest, saying:
There, there Lazaro, tickle it there, the Gentleman payes well for it,
and is worthy to have it: but see thou do thy selfe no harme good
Husband. I warrant thee Wife, answered Lazaro, hurt not your selfe
with leaning your stomacke on the Fat, and leave the cleansing of it
to me. To be breefe, the Brewing Fat was neatly cleansed, Peronella
and Striguario both well pleased, the money paide, and honest
meaning Lazaro not discontented.
                   THE SEVENTH DAY, THE THIRD NOVELL

   SERVING AS A FRIENDLY ADVERTISEMENT TO MARRIED WOMEN, THAT MONKS,
         FRIARS, AND PRIESTS MAY BE NONE OF THEIR GOSSIPS, IN
              REGARD OF UNAVOYDABLE PERILLES ENSUING THEREBY

  Friar Reynard, falling in love with a Gentlewoman, Wife to a man
of good account; found the meanes to become her Gossip. Afterward,
he being conferring closely with her in her Chamber, and her Husband
coming sodainly thither: she made him beleeve, that he came thither
for no other end; but to cure his God-sonne by a charme, of a
dangerous disease which he had by Wormes.

  Philostratus told not this Tale so covertly, concerning Lazaros
simplicity, and Peronellaes witty policy; but the Ladies found a
knot in the rush, and laughed not a little, at his queint manner of
discoursing it. But upon the conclusion, the King looking upon Madam
Eliza, willed her to succeede next, which as willingly she granted,
and thus began. Pleasant Ladies, the charme or conjuration wherwith
Madam Aemillia laid her night-walking Spirit, maketh me remember a
Novell of another enchantment; which although it carrieth not
commendation equall to the other, yet I intend to report it, because
it suteth with our present purpose, and I cannot sodainly be
furnisht with another, answerable thereto in nature.
  You are to understand then, that there lived in Siena, a proper yong
man, of good birth and well friended, being named Reynard. Earnestly
he affected his neere dwelling neighbour, a beautifull Gentlewoman,
and wife to a man of good esteeme: of whom hee grew halfe perswaded,
that if he could (without suspition) compasse private conference
with her, he should reach the height of his amorous desires. Yet
seeing no likely meanes wherewith to further his hope, and shee
being great with childe, he resolved to become a Godfather to the
childe, at such time as it should be brought to Christening. And being
inwardly acquainted with her Husband, who was named Credulano; such
familiar intercourses passed betweene them, both of Reynards kinde
offer, and Credulanoes as courteous acceptance, that hee was set downe
for a Gossippe.
  Reynard being thus embraced for Madam Agnesiaes Gossip, and this
proving the onely colourable meanes, for his safer permission of
speech with her, to let her now understand by word of mouth, what long
before she collected by his lookes and behaviour: it fell out no way
beneficiall to him, albeit Agnesia seemed not nice or scrupulous in
hearing, yet she had a more precious care of her honor. It came to
passe, within a while after (whether by seeing his labour vainly
spent, or some other urgent occasion moving him thereto, I know not)
Reynard would needs enter into Religion, and whatsoever strictnesse or
austeritie hee found to be in that kinde of life, yet he determined to
persevere therein, whether it were for his good or ill. And although
within a short space, after he was thus become a Religious Monke,
hee seemed to forget the former love which he bare to his gossip
Agnesia, and divers other enormous vanities beside: yet let me tell
you, successe of time tutord him in them again(!; and, without any
respect to his poore ho habite, but rather in contempt thereof (as
it were) he tooke an especiall delight, in wearing garments of much
richer esteeme, yet favoured by the same Monasticall profession,
appearing (in all respects) like a Court-Minion or Favourite, of a
sprightly and Poeticall disposition, for composing Verses, Sonnets,
and Canzons, singing them to sundry excellent instruments, and yet not
greatly curious of his company, so they were some of the best, and
Madame Agnesia one, his former Gossip.
  But why doe I trouble my selfe, in talking thus of our so lately
converted Friar, holy Father Reynard, when they of longer standing,
and reputed meerely for Saints in life, are rather much more vile then
hee? Such is the wretched condition of this world, that they shame not
(fat, foggie, and nastie Abbey-lubbers) to shew how full-fedde they
live in their Cloysters, with cherry cheekes, and smooth shining
lookes, gay and gaudy garments, far from the least expression of
humility, not walking in the streets like Doves: but high-crested like
Cockes, with well cramd gorges. Nay, which is worse, if you did but
see their Chambers furnished with Gally-pots of Electuaries,
precious Unguents, Apothecary Boxes, filled with various
Confections, Conserves, excellent Perfumes, and other goodly Glasses
of artificiall Oyles and Waters: beside Rundlets and small Barrels
full of Greeke Wine, Muscatella, Lachrime Christi, and other such like
most precious Wines, so that (to such as see them) they seeme not to
bee Chambers of Religious men; but rather Apothecaries Shoppes, or
appertaining to Druggists, Grocers, or Perfumers.
  It is no disgrace to them to be Gowty; because when other men know
it not, they alledge, that strict fasting, feeding on grosse Meates
(though never so little,) continuall studying, and such like
restraints from the bodies freer exercise, maketh them subject to many
infirmities. And yet, when any one of them chanceth to fall sicke, the
Physitian must minister no such counsell to them, as Chastity,
Abstinence from voluptuous meats, Discipline of the body, or any of
those matters appertaining to a modest religious life. For, concerning
the plaine, vulgar, and Plebeian people, these holy Fathers are
perswaded, that they know nothing really belonging to a
sanctimonious life; as long watching, praying, discipline and fasting,
which (in themselves) are not able, to make men look leane,
wretched, and pale. Because Saint Dominicke, Saint Fraunces, and
divers other holy Saints beside, observed the selfesame religious
orders and constitutions, as now their carefull successors do.
Moreover, in example of those fore-named Saints, who went wel
cloathed, though they had not three Garments for one, nor made of
the finest Woollen excellent cloath: but rather of the very coarsest
of all other, and of the common ordinary colour, to expell cold onely,
but not to appear brave or gallant, deceyving thereby infinite
simple credulous soules, whose purses (neverthelesse) are their best
pay-masters.
  But leave we this, and returne wee backe to vertuous Fryar
Reynard, who falling again& to his former appetites; became an often
visitant of his Gossip Agnesia, and now hee had learned such a
blushlesse kinde of boldnesse; that he durst be more instant with
her (concerning his privie sute) then ever formerly he had bin, yea
even to solicite the enjoying of his immodest desires. The good
Gentlewoman, seeing her selfe so importunately pursued, and Friar
Reynard appearing now (perhappes) of sweeter and more delicate
complexion, the at his entrance into Religion: at a set time of his
secret communing with her; she answered him in as apt tearmes, as they
use to do, who are not greatly sqeamish, in granting matters
demanded of them.
  Why how now Friar Reynard? quoth shee, Doe Godfathers use to move
such questions? Whereto the Friar thus replyed. Madam, when I have
laide off this holy habite (which is a matter very easie for mee to
do) I shall seeme in your eye, in all respects made like another
man, quite from the course of any Religious life. Agnesia, biting
the lip with a prety smile, said; O my faire Starres! You will never
bee so unfriendly to me. What? You being my Gossip, would you have
me consent unto such a sinne? Our blessed Lady shield mee, for my
ghostly Father hath often told me, that it is utterly unpardonable:
but if it were, I feare too much confiding on mine owne strength.
Gossip, the Friar, you speake like a Foole, and feare (in this case)
is wholly frivolous, especially, when the motions mooved by such an
one as my selfe, who (upon repentance) can grant you pardon and
indulgence presently. But I pray you let mee aske you one question,
Who is the neerest Kinsman to your Son; either I, that stood at the
Font for his Baptisme, or your Husband that begot him? The Lady made
answere, that it was her Husband. You say very true Gossip, replyed
the Friar, and yet notwithstanding, doth not your Husband (both at
boord and bed) enjoy the sweet benefit of your company? Yes, said
the Lady, why shold he not? Then Lady (quoth Reynard) I, who am not so
neere a Kinsman to your Sonne, as your Husband is, why may ye not
afford mee the like favour, as you do him? Agnesia, who was no
Logitian, and therefore could not stand on any curious answer,
especially being so cuningly moved; beleeved, or rather made shew of
beleeving, that the Godfather said nothing but truth, and thus
answered. What woman is she (Gossip) that knoweth how to answer your
strange speeches? And, how it came to passe, I know not, but such an
agreement passed betweene them, that, for once onely (so it might
not infrindge the league of Gossip-ship, but that title to countenance
their further intent) such a favour should be affoorded, so it might
stand cleare from suspition.
  An especiall time being appointed, when this amorous Combate
should be fought in loves field, Friar Reynard came to his Gossips
house, where none being present to hinder his purpose, but onely the
Nursse which attended on the child, who was an indifferent faire and
proper woman: his holy brother that came thither in his company
(because Friars were not allowed to walke alone) was sent aside with
her into the Pigeon loft, to enstruct her in a new kinde of Pater
noster, lately devised in their holy Convent. In the meane while, as
Friar Reynard and Agnesia were entring into hir chamber, she leading
her little son by the hand, and making fast the doore for their better
safety: the Friar laide by his holie habit, Cowle, Hood, Booke, and
Beads, to bee (in all respects) as other men were. No sooner were they
thus entred the Chamber, but her husband Credulano, being come into
the house, and unseen of any, staid not till he was at the Chamber
doore, where hee knockt, and called for his Wife.
  She hearing his voice: Alas Gossip (quoth she) what shall I do? My
Husband knocketh at the doore, and now he will perceive the occasion
of our so familiar acquaintance. Reynard being stript into his
Trusse and straite Strouses, began to tremble and quake exceedingly. I
heare your Husbands tongue Gossip, said he, and seeing no harme as yet
hath bin done, if I had but my garments on againe; wee would have
one excuse or other to serve the turne, but till then you may not open
the doore. As womens wits are sildome gadding abroad, when any
necessitie concerneth them at home: even so Agnesia, being sodainly
provided of an invention, both how to speake and carry her selfe in
this extreamitie, saide to the Friar. Get on your garments quickely,
and when you are cloathed, take your little God-son in your armes, and
listning wel what I shall say, shape your answeres according to my
words, and then refer the matter to me. Credulano had scarsely ended
his knocking, but Agnesia stepping to the doore said: Husband, I
come to you. So she opened the doore, and (going forth to him) with
a chearefull countenance thus spake. Beleeve me Husband, you could not
have come in a more happy time, for our yong Son was sudainly
extreamly sicke, and (as good Fortune would have it) our loving Gossip
Reynard chanced to come in; and questionlesse, but by his good prayers
and other religious paynes, we had utterly lost our childe, for he had
no life left in him.
  Credulano, being as credulous as his name imported, seemed ready
to swoune with sodaine conceit: Alas good wife (quoth he) how hapned
this? Sit downe sweet Husband said she, and I wil tell you al. Our
child was sodainly taken with a swouning, wherein I being unskilful,
did verily suppose him to be dead, not knowing what to doe, or say. By
good hap, our Gossip Reynard came in, and taking the childe up in
his armes, said to me. Gossip, this is nothing else but Wormes in
the bellie of the childe, which ascending to the heart, must needs
kill the child, without all question to the contrary. But be of good
comfort Gossip, and feare not, for I can charme them in such sort,
that they shall all die, and before I depart hence, you shall see your
Son as healthfull as ever. And because the maner of this charm is of
such nature, that it required prayer and exorcising in two places at
once: Nurse went up with his Holye Brother into our Pigeon loft, to
exercise their devotion there, while we did the like heere. For none
but the mother of the childe must bee present at such a mystery, nor
any enter to hinder the operation of the charme; which was the
reason of making fast the Chamber doore. You shall see Husband anon
the Childe, which is indifferently recovered in his armes, and if
Nurse and his holy Brother were returned from theyr meditations; he
saith, that the charme would then be fully effected: for the child
beginneth to looke chearefull and merry.
  So deerely did Credulano love the childe, that hee verily
beleeved, what his Wife had saide, never misdoubting any other
treachery: and, lifting up his eyes, with a vehement sigh, said. Wife,
may not I goe in and take the child into my armes? Oh no, not yet good
husband (quoth she) in any case, least you should overthrow all that
is done. Stay but a little while, I will go in againe, and if all
bee well, then will I call you. In went Agnesia againe, making the
doore fast after her, the Fryar having heard all the passed
speeches, by this time he was fitted with his habite, and taking the
childe in his armes, he said to Agnesia. Gossip methought I heard your
Husbands voice, is hee at your Chamber doore? Yes Gossip Reynard
(quoth Credulano without, while Agnesia opened the doore, and admitted
him entrance) indeede it is I. Come in Sir, I pray you, replyed the
Friar, and heere receive your childe of mee, who was in great
danger, of your ever seeing him any more alive. But you must take
order, to make an Image of waxe, agreeing with the stature of the
childe, to be placed on the Altar before the Image of S. Frances, by
whose merites the childe is thus restored to health.
  The childe, beholding his Father, made signes of comming to him,
rejoycing merrily, as yong infants use to do, and Credulano clasping
him in his armes, wept with conceite of joy, kissing him infinitely,
and heartily thanking his Gossip Reynard, for the recovery of his
God-son. The Friars brotherly Companion, who had given sufficient
enstructions to the Nurse, and a small purse full of Sisters white
thred, which a Nunne (after shrift) had bestowed on him, upon the
husbands admittance into the Chamber (which they easily heard) came in
also to them, and seeing all in very good tearmes, they holpe to
make a joyfull conclusion, the Brother saying to Friar Reynard:
Brother, I have finished all those foure jaculatory prayers, which you
commanded me.
  Brother, answered Reynard, you have a better breath then I, and your
successe hath prooved happier then mine, for before the arrivall of my
Gossip Credulano, I could accomplish but two jaculatory prayers onely.
But it appeareth, that we have both prevailed in our devout desire,
because the childe is perfectly cured. Credulano calling for Wine
and good cheare, feasted both the Friars very jocondly, and then
conducting them forth of his house, without any further
intermission, caused the childs Image of waxe to be made, and sent
it to be placed on the Altar of Saint Frances, among many other the
like oblations.
                   THE SEVENTH DAY, THE FOURTH NOVELL

         WHEREIN IS MANIFESTED, THAT THE MALICE AND SUBTILTY OF
               WOMAN, SURPASSETH ALL THE ART OR WIT IN MAN

  Tofano in the night season, did locke his wife out of his house, and
shee not prevailing to get entrance againe, by all the entreaties
she could possiblie use: made him beleeve that she had throwne her
selfe into a Well, by casting a great stone into the same Well. Tofano
hearing the fall of the stone into the Well, and being perswaded
that it was his Wife indeed; came forth of his house, and ran to the
Welles side. In the meane while, his wife gotte into the house, made
fast the doore against her Husband, and gave bim many reproachfull
speeches.

  So soone as the King perceyved, that the Novell reported by Madame
Eliza was finished: hee turned himselfe to Madame Lauretta, and told
her as his pleasure, that she should now begin the next, whereto she
yeelded in this manner. O Love: What, and how many are thy
prevailing forces? How straunge are thy foresights? And how
admirable thine attempts? Where is, or ever was the Philosopher or
Artist, that could enstruct the wiles, escapes, preventions, and
demonstrations, which sodainly thou teachest such, as are thy apt
and understanding Schollers indeede? Certaine it is, that the
documents and eruditions of all other whatsoever, are weak, or of no
worth, in respect of thine: as hath notably appeared, by the
remonstrances already past, and whereto (worthy Ladies) I wil adde
another of a simple woman, who taught her husband such a lesson, as
shee never learned of any, but Love himselfe.
  There dwelt sometime in Arezzo (which is a faire Village of Tuscany)
a rich man, named Tofano, who enjoyed in marriage a young beautifull
woman, called Cheta: of whom (without any occasion given, or reason
knowne to himselfe) he became exceeding- jealous. Which his wife
perceyving, she grew much offended thereat, and tooke it in great
scorne, that she should be servile to so vile and slavish a condition.
Oftentimes, she demanded of him, from whence this jealousie in him
received originall, he having never seene or heard of any; he could
make her no other answer, but who his owne bad humour suggested, and
drove him every day (almost) to deaths doore, by feare of that which
no way needed. But, whether as a just scourge for this his grosse
folly, or a secret decree, ordained to him by Fortune and the Fates, I
am not able to distinguish: It came so to passe, that a young
Gallant made meanes to enjoy her favour, and she was so discreetly
wise in judging of his worthinesse; that affection passed so farre
mutually betweene them, as nothing wanted, but effects to answere
words, suited with time and place convenient, for which order was
taken as best they might, yet to stand free from all suspition.
  Among many other evill conditions, very frequent and familiar in her
husband Tofano; he tooke a great delight in drinking, which not only
he held to be a commendable quality, but was alwaies so often
solicited thereto: that Cheta her selfe began to like and allow it
in him, feeding his humor so effectually, with quaffing and carowsing,
that (at any time when she listed) she could make him bowsie beyonde
all measure: and leaving him sleeping in this drunkennesse, would
alwayes get her selfe to bed. By helpe heereof, she compassed the
first familiarity with her friend, yea, divers times after, as
occasion served: and so confidently did she builde on her husbands
drunkennesse, that not onely shee adventured to bring her friend
home into her owne house; but also would as often go to his, which was
some-what neere at hand, and abide with him there, the most part of
the night season.
 While Cheta thus continued on these amorous courses, it fortuned,
that her slye suspitious husband, beganne to perceive, that though
shee drunke very much with him, yea, untill he was quite spent and
gone: yet she remained fresh and sober still, and therby imagined
strange matters, that he being fast asleepe, his wife then tooke
advantage of his drowsinesse, and mightand so forth. Beeing desirous
to make experience of this his distrust, hee returned home at night
(not having drunke any thing all the whole day) dissembling both by
his words and behaviour, as if he were notoriously drunke indeede.
Which his Wife constantly beleeving, saide to her selfe: That hee
had now more neede of sleepe, then drinke; getting him immediately
into his warme bed; and then going downe the staires againe, softly
went out of doores unto her Friends house, as formerly she had used to
do, and there shee remained untill midnight.
  Tofano perceiving that his Wife came not to bed, and imagining to
have heard his doore both open and shut: arose out of his bed, and
calling his Wife Cheta divers times, without any answere returned: hee
went downe the staires, and finding the doore but closed too, made
it fast and sure on the inside, and then got him up to the window,
to watch the returning home of his wife, from whence shee came, and
then to make her conditions apparantly knowne. So long there he
stayed, till at the last she returned indeede, and finding the doore
so surely shut, shee was exceeding sorrowful, essaying how she might
get it open by strength: which when Tofano had long suffered her in
vaine to approove, thus hee spake to her. Cheta, all thy labour is
meerely lost, because heere is no entrance allowed for thee; therefore
return to the place from whence thou camest, that all thy friends
may Judge of thy behaviour, and know what a night-walker thou art
become.
  The woman hearing this unpleasing language, began to use all
humble entreaties, desiring him (for charities sake) to open the doore
and admit her entrance, because she had not bin in any such place,
as his jelous suspition might suggest to him: but onely to visit a
weak and sickly neighbour, the nights being long, she not (as yet)
capeable of sleepe, nor willing to sit alone in the house. But all her
perswasions served to no purpose, he was so setled in his owne
opinion, that all the Town should now see her nightly gading, which
before was not so much as suspected. Cheta seeing, that faire meanes
would not prevalle, shee entred into roughe speeches and
threatnings, saying: If thou wilt not open the doore and let me come
in, I will so shame thee, as never base man was. As how I pray thee?
answered Tofano, what canst thou do to me?
  The woman, whom love had inspired with sprightly counsell,
ingeniously enstructing her what to do in this distresse, stearnly
thus replyed. Before I will suffer any such shame as thou intendest
towards mee, I will drowne my selfe heere in this Well before our
doore, where being found dead, and thy villanous jealousie so
apparantly knowne, beside thy more then beastly drunkennesse: all
the neighbours will constantly beleeve, that thou didst first strangle
me in the house, and afterwardes threw me into this Well. So either
thou must flie upon the supposed offence, or lose all thy goodes by
banishment, or (which is much more fitting for thee) have thy head
smitten off, as a wilfull murtherer of thy wife; for all will Judge it
to be no otherwise. All which wordes, mooved not Tofano a jot from his
obstinat determination: but he still persisting therin, thus she
spake. I neither can nor will longer endure this base Villanie of
thine: to the mercy of heaven I commit my soul, and stand there my
wheele, a witnesse against so hard-hearted a murtherer.
  No sooner had she thus spoke, but the night being so extreamly dark,
as they could not discerne one another; Cheta went to the Well,
where finding a verie great stone, which lay loose upon the brim of
the Well, even as if it had beene layde there on purpose, shee cried
out aloud, saying. Forgive me faire heavens, and so threw the stone
downe into the Well. The night being very still and silent, the fal of
the great stone made such a dreadfull noise in the Well; that he
hearing it at the Windowe, thought verily she had drowned her selfe
indeede. Whereupon, running downe hastily, and taking a Bucket
fastened to a strong Cord: he left the doore wide open, intending
speedily to helpe her. But she standing close at the doores
entrance, before he could get to the Wels side; she was within the
house, softly made the doore fast on the inside, and then went up to
the Window, where Tofano before had stood talking to her.
  While he was thus dragging with his Bucket in the Well, crying and
calling Cheta, take hold good Cheta, and save thy life: she stood
laughing in the Window, saying. Water should bee put into Wine
before a man drinkes it, and not when he hath drunke too much already.
Tofano hearing his Wife thus to flout him out of his Window, went back
to the doore, and finding it made fast against him: he willed hir to
grant him entrance. But she, forgetting all gentle Language, which
formerly she had used to him: in meere mockery and derision (yet
intermixed with some sighes and teares, which women are saide to
have at command) out aloud (because the Neighbours should heare her)
thus she replyed.
  Beastly drunken Knave as thou art, this night thou shalt not come
within these doores, I am no longer able to endure thy base behaviour,
it is more then high time, that thy course of life should bee
publiquely known, and at what drunken houres thou returnest home to
thy house. Tofano, being a man of very impatient Nature, was as bitter
unto her in words on the other which the Neighbours about them (both
men and Women) hearing; looked forth of their Windowes, and demaunding
a reason for this their disquietnesse, Cheta (seeming as if she
wept) sayde.
  Alas my good Neighbours, you see at what unfitting houres, this
bad man comes home to his house, after hee hath lyen in a Taverne
all day drunke, sleeping and snorting like a Swine. You are my
honest witnesses, how long I have suffered this beastlinesse in him,
yet neyther your good counsell, nor my too often loving
adrionitions, can worke that good which wee have expected.
Wherefore, to try if shame can procure any amendment, I have shut
him out of doores, until his drunken fit be over-past, and so he shall
stand to coole his feet.
  Tofano (but in very uncivill maner) told her being abroad that
night, and how she had used him: But the Neighbours seeing her to be
within the house, and beleeving her, rather then him, in regard of his
too well knowne ill qualities; very sharpely reproved him, gave him
grosse speeches, pittying that any honest Woman should be so
continually abused. Now my good Neighbours (quoth she) you see what
manner of man he is. What would you thinke of me, if I should walk the
streets thus in the night time, or be so late out of mine owne
house, as this dayly Drunkard is? I was affraid least you would have
given credit to his dissembling speeches, when he told you, that I was
at the Welles side, and threw something into the Well: but that I know
your better opinion of me, and how sildome I am to be seene out of
doores, although he would induce your sharper judgement of me, and lay
that shame upon me, wherein he hath sinned himselfe.
  The Neighbours, both men and Women, were all very severely
incensed against Tofano, condemning him for his great fault that night
committed, and avouching his wife to be vertuous and honest. Within
a little while, the noise passing from Neighbour to Neighbour, at
the length it came to the eares of her Kindred, who forthwith resorted
thither, and hearing how sharpely the Neighbours reprehended Tofano:
they tooke him, soundly bastanadoed him, and hardly left any bone of
him unbruised. Afterward, they went into the house, tooke all such
things thence as belonged to hir, taking hir also with them to their
dwelling, and threatning Tofano with further infliction of punishment,
both for his drunkennesse, and causlesse jealousie.
  Tofano perceyving how curstly they had handled him, and what crooked
meanes might further be used against him, in regard her Kindred and
Friends were very mightie: thought it much better, patiently to suffer
the wrong alreadie done him, then by obstinate contending to proceed
further, and fare worse. He became a suter to her Kindred, that al
might be forgotten and forgiven, in recompence whereof; he would not
onely refraine from drunkennesse, but also, never more be jelous of
his wife. This being faithfully promised, and Cheta reconciled to
her Husband, all strife was ended, she enjoyed her friends favour,
as occasion served, but yet with such discretion, as it was not noted.
Thus the Coxcombe foole, was faine to purchase his peace, after a
notorious wrong sustained, and further injuries to bee offered.
                     THE SEVENTH DAY, THE FIFT NOVELL

  IN JUST SCORNE AND MOCKERY OF SUCH JEALOUS HUSBANDS, THAT WILL BE
   SO IDLE HEADED UPON NO OCCASION. YET WHEN THEY HAVE GOOD REASON
           FOR IT, DO LEAST OF ALL SUSPECT ANY SUCH INJURY

  A jealous man, clouded with the habite of a Priest, became the
Confessour to his owne Wife; who made him beleeve, that she was
deepely in love with a Priest, which came every night, and lay with
her. By meanes of which confession, while her jealous Husband
watched the doore of his house; to surprize the Priest when he came:
she that never meant to do amisse, had the company of a secret Friend,
who came over the toppe of the house to visite her, while her
foolish Husband kept the doore.

  Madam Lauretta having ended her Novell, and every one commended
the Woman, for fitting Tofano in his kinde; and, as his jealousie
and drunkennesse justly deserved: the King (to prevent all losse of
time) turned to Madame Fiammetta, commaunding her to follow next:
whereuppon, very graciously, shee beganne in this manner.
  Noble Ladies, the precedent Novell delivered by Madame Lauretta,
maketh me willing to speake of another jealous man; as being halfe
perswaded, that whatsoever is done to them by their Wives, and
especially upon no occasion given, they doe no more then well
becommeth them. And if those grave heads, which were the first
instituters of lawes, had diligently observed all things; I am of
the minde, that they would have ordained no other penalty for Women,
then they appointed against such, as (in their owne defence) do offend
any other. For jealous husbands, are meere insidiators of their
Wives lives, and most diligent pursuers of their deaths, being lockt
up in their houses all the Weeke long, imployed in nothing but
domesticke drudging affayres: which makes them desirous of high
Festivall dayes, to receive some litle comfort abroad, by an honest
recreation or pastime, as Husbandmen in the fields, Artizans in our
Citie, or Governours in our judiciall Courtes; yea, or as our Lord
himselfe, who rested the seaventh day from all his travailes. In
like manner, it is so willed and ordained by the Lawes, as well divine
as humane, which have regard to the glory of God, and for the common
good of every one; making distinction betweene those dayes appointed
for labour, and the other determined for rest. Whereto jealous persons
(in no case) will give consent, but all those dayes (which for other
women are pleasing and delightfull) unto such, over whom they command,
are most irksome, sadde and sorrowful, because then they are lockt up,
and very strictly restrained. And if question wer urged, how many good
women do live and consume away in this torturing het of affliction:
I can make no other answere, but such as feele it, are best able to
discover it. Wherefore to conclude the proheme to my present
purpose, let none be over rash in condemning women: for what they do
to their husbands, being jealous without occasion; but rather
commend their wit and providence.
  Somtime (faire Ladies) there lived in Arimino, a Merchant, very rich
in wealth and worldly possessions, who having a beautifull Gentlewoman
to his wife, he became extreamly jelous of her. And he had no other
reason for this foolish conceit; but, like as he loved hir dearly, and
found her to be very absolutely faire: even so he imagined, that
althogh she devised by her best meanes to give him content; yet others
would grow enamored of her, because she appeared so amiable to al.
In which respect, time might tutor her to affect some other beside
himselfe: the onely common argument of every bad minded man, being
weake and shallow in his owne understanding. This jelous humor
increasing in him more and more, he kept her in such narrow restraint:
that many persons condemned to death, have enoyed larger libertie in
their imprisonment. For, she might not bee present at Feasts,
Weddings, nor goe to Church, or so much as to be seen at her doore:
Nay, she durst not stand in her Window, nor looke out of her house,
for any occasion whatsoever. By means whereof, life seemed most
tedious and offensive to her, and she supported it the more
impatiently, because shee knew her selfe not any way faulty.
  Seeing her husband still persist in this shamefull course towards
her; she studied, how she might best comfort her selfe in this
desolate case: by devising some one meane or other (if any at all were
to bee founde) wherby he might be requited in his kind, and wear
that badge of shame whereof he was now but onely affraid. And
because she could not gain so small a permission, as to be seene at
any window, where (happily) she might have observed some one passing
by in the street, discerning a litle parcell of her love: she
remembred at length, that, in the next house to her Husbands (they
both joyning close together) there dwelt a comely yong proper
Gentleman, whose perfections carried correspondencie with her desires.
She also considered with her selfe, that if there were any partition
wall; such a chinke or cranny might easily be made therein, by which
(at one time or other) she should gaine a sight of the young
Gentleman, and finde an houre so fitting, as to conferre with him, and
bestow her lovely favour on him, if he pleased to accept it. If
successe (in this case) proved answerable to her hope, then thus she
resolved to outrun the rest of her wearisome dayes, except the frensie
of jealousie did finish her husbands loathed life before.
  Walking from one roome to another, thorough every part of the house;
and no wall escaping without diligent surveying; on a day, when her
Husband was absent from home, she espyed in a corner very secret, an
indifferent cleft in the Wall; which though it yeelded no full view on
the other side, yet she plainly perceived it to be an handsome
Chamber, and grew more then halfe perswaded, that either it might be
the Chamber of Philippo (for so was the neighbouring yong Gentleman
named) or else a passage guiding thereto. A Chambermaid of hers, who
compassioned her case very much; made such observance, by her
Mistresses direction, that she found it to be Philippoes bed
Chamber, and where alwayes he used to lodge alone. By often visiting
this rift or chinke in the Wall, especially when the Gentleman was
there; and by throwing in little stones, flowers, and such like
things, which fell still in his way as he walked: so farre she
prevailed, that he stepping to the chinke, to know from whence they
came; shee called softly to him, who knowing her voyce, there they had
such private conference together, as was not any way displeasing to
either. So that the chinke being made a little larger; yet so, as it
could not be easily discerned: their mouthes might meete with kisses
together, and their hands folded each in other; but nothing else to be
performed, for continuall feare of her jelous husband.
  Now the Feast of Christmasse drawing neere, the Gentlewoman said
to her Husband; that, if it stood with his liking: she would do such
duty as fitted with so solemne a time, by going earely in a morning
unto Church, there to be confessed, and receive her Saviour, as
other Christians did. How now? replied the jealous Asse, what sinnes
have you committed, that should neede confession? How Husband? quoth
she, what do you thinke me to be a Saint? Who knoweth not, I pray you,
that I am as subject to sinne, as any other Woman living in the world?
But my sins are not to be revealed to you, because you are no
Priest. These words enflamed his jealousie more violently then before,
and needes must he know what sinnes she had committed, and having
resolved what to do in this case, made her answer: That hee was
contented with her motion, alwaies provided, that she went to no other
Church, then unto their owne Chappel, betimes in a morning; and
their own Chaplaine to confesse her, or some other Priest by him
appointed, but not any other: and then she to returne home presently
againe. She being a woman of acute apprehension, presently collected
his whole intention: but seeming to take no knowledge thereof,
replyed, that she would not swerve from his direction.
  When the appointed day was come, she arose very earely, and being
prepared answerable to her owne liking, to the Chappell shee went as
her Husband had appointed, where her jealous Husband (being much
earlier risen then she) attended for her comming: having so ordred the
matter with his Chaplaine, that he was cloathed in his Cowle, with a
large Hood hanging over his eyes, that she should not know him, and so
he went and sate downe in the Confessors place. Shee being entred into
the Chappell, and calling for the Priest to heare her confession, he
made her answer: that he could not intend it, but would bring her to
another holy Brother, who was at better leysure then hee. So to her
Husband he brought her, that seemed (in all respects) like the
Confessor himselfe: save onely his Hood was not so closely veyled, but
shee knew his beard, and said to her selfe. What a mad world is this
when jealousie can metamorphose an ordinary man into a Priest? But,
let me alone with him, I meane to fit him with that which he lookes
for.
  So, appearing to have no knowledge at all of him, downe she fell
at his feete, and he had conveyed a few Cherry stones into his
mouth, to trouble his speech from her knowledge; for, in all things
els, he thoght himselfe to be sufficiently fitted for her. In the
course of her confession, she declared, that she was married to a most
wicked jealous Husband, and with whom she lead a very hatefull life.
Neverthelesse (quoth she) I am indifferently even with him, for I am
beloved of an Holie Fryar, that every night commeth and lyeth with me.
When the jealous Husband heard this, it stabbed him like a dagger to
the heart, and, but for his greedy covetous desire to know more; he
would faine have broke off confession, and got him gone. But,
perceiving that it was his wisest course, he questioned further with
his wife, saying: Why good Woman, doth not your husband lodge with
you? Yes Sir, quoth she. How is it possible then (replyed the Husband)
that the Friar can lodge there with you too?
  She, dissembling a farre fetcht sigh, thus answered. Reverend Sir, I
know not what skilfull Art the Fryar useth, but this I am sure,
every doore in our house will flye open to him, so soone as he doth
but touch it. Moreover, he told me, that when he commeth unto my
Chamber doore, he speaketh certaine words to himselfe, which
immediately casteth my Husband into a dead sleepe, and,
understanding him to bee thus sleepily entranced: he openeth the
doore, entreth in, lieth downe by me, and this every night he
faileth not to do. The jealous Coxcomb angerly scratching his head,
and wishing his wife halfe hangd, said: Mistresse, this is very
badly done, for you should keepe your selfe from all men, but your
husband onely. That shall I never doe, answered shee, because (indeed)
I love him dearely. Why then (quoth our supposed Confessor) I cannot
give you any absolution. I am the more sory Sir, said she, I came
not hither to tell you any leasings, for if I could, yet I would
not, because it is not good to fable with such Saint-like men as you
are. You do therein (quoth hee) the better, and surely I am very
sory for you, because in this dangerous condition, it will bee the
utter losse of your soule: neverthelesse, both for your husbands
sake and your owne, I will take some paines, and use such especiall
prayers in your name, which may (perchance) greatly avayle you. And
I purpose now and then, to send you a Novice or young Clearke of mine,
whom you may safely acquaint with your minde, and signifie to me, by
him, whether they have done you good, or no: and if they prove
helpefull, then will we further proceed therein. Alas Sir, said she,
never trouble your selfe, in sending any body to our house; because,
if my Husband should know it, he is so extreamly jealous, as all the
world cannot otherwise perswade him, but that he commeth thither for
no honest intent, and so I shall live worse then now I do. Fear not
that, good woman, quoth he, but beleeve it certainly, that I will have
such a care in this case, as your Husband shall never speake thereof
to you. If you can doe so Sir, sayde she, proceed I pray you, and I am
well contented.
  Confession being thus ended, and she receiving such pennance as
hee appointed, she arose on her feete, and went to heare Masse;
while our jealous Woodcocke (testily puffing and blowing) put off
his Religious habite, returning home presently to his house, beating
his braines al the way as he went, what meanes he might best devise,
for the taking of his wife and the Friar together, whereby to have
them both severely punished. His wife being come home from the
Chappell, discerned by her Husbands lookes, that he was like to
keepe but a sory Christmasse: yet he used his utmost industry, to
conceale what he had done, and which she knew as well as himself.
And he having fully resolved, to watch his own street doore the next
night ensuing in person, in expectation of the Friars comming, saide
to his Wife. I have occasion both to suppe and lodge out of my house
this night, wherefore see you the streete doore to be surely made fast
on the inside, and the doore at the middest of the staires, as also
your own Chamber doore, and then (in Gods name) get you to bed.
Whereto she answered, that all should be done as hee had appointed.
  Afterward, when she saw convenient time, she went to the chink in
the Wall, and making such a signe as shee was woont to doe:
Phillippo came thither, to whom she declared all her mornings
affayres, and what directions her husband had given her. Furthermore
she saide, certaine I am, that he will not depart from the house,
but sit and watch the doore without, to take one that comes not heere.
If therefore, you can climbe over the house top, and get in at our
gutter Window, you and I may conferre more familiarly together. The
young Gentleman being no dullard, had his lesson quickly taught him;
and when night was come, Geloso (for so must wee tearme the
Cocke-braind husband) armes himselfe at all points, with a browne Bill
in his hand, and so he sits to watch his owne doore. His Wife had made
fast all the doores, especially that on the midst of the stayres,
because he should not (by any means) come to her Chamber; and so, when
the houre served, the Gentleman adventured over the house top, found
the gutter Window, and the way conducting him to her Chamber, where
I leave them to their further amorous conference.
  Geloso, more than halfe mad with anger, first, because hee had
lost his supper: next, having sitten almost all the night (which was
extreamely cold and windle) his Armor much mollesting him, and yet
he could see no Friar come: when day drew neere, and hee ashamed to
watch there any longer; conveighed himselfe to some more convenient
place, where putting off his Armes, and seeming to come from the place
of his Lodging; about the ninth houre, he found his doore open, entred
in, and went up the stayres, going to dinner with his Wife. Within a
while after, according as Geloso had ordred the businesse, a youth
came thither, seeming to be the Novice sent from the Confessor, and he
being admitted to speake with her, demanded, whether shee were
troubled or mollested that night passed, as formerly she had bin,
and whether the partie came or no? The Woman, who knew well enough the
Messenger (notwithstanding all his formall disguise) made answer: That
the party expected, came not: but if hee had come, it was to no
purpose; because her minde was now otherwise altred, albeit she
changed not a jote from her amorous conclusion.
  What should I now further say unto you? Geloso continued his watch
many nights afterward, as hoping to surprize the Friar at his
entrance, and his wife kept still her contented quarter, according
as opportunitie served. In the conclusion, Geloso beeing no longer
able to endire his bootlesse watching, nor some (more then ordinary)
pleasing countenance in his wife: one day demaunded of her (with a
very stearne and frowning brow) what secret sinnes shee had revealed
to the ghostly Father, upon the day of her shrift? The Woman
replyed, that she would not tell him, neyther was it a matter
reasonable, or lawfull for her to doe. Wicked Woman, answered
Geloso: I knowe them all well enough, even in despight of thee, and
every word that thou spakest unto him. But Huswife, now I must further
know, what the Fryar is, with whom you are so farre in love, and (by
meanes of his enchantments) lyeth with you every night; tell me what
and who he is, or else I meane to cut your throate.
  The Woman immediately made answer, it was not true, that she was
in love with any Fryar. How? quoth Geloso, didst not thou confesse
so much to the Ghostly Father, the other day when thou wast at shrift?
No Sir, sayde she, but if I did, I am sure he would not disclose it to
you, except hee suffered you to bee there present, which is an Article
beyonde his dutie. But if it were so, then I confesse freely, that I
did say so unto him. Make an end then quickely Wife (quoth Geloso) and
tell mee who the Friar is. The Woman fell into a hearty laughter,
saying. It liketh me singularly well, when a wise man will suffer
himselfe to be ledde by a simple Woman, even as a Sheepe is to the
slaughter, and by the hornes. If once thou wast wise, that wisedome
became utterly lost, when thou felst into that divellish frensie of
jealousie, without knowing anie reason for it: for, by this
beastlike and no manly humor, thou hast eclipsed no meane part of my
glory, and womanly reputation.
  Doest thou imagine Husband, that if I were so blinded in the eyes of
my head, as thou art in them which should informe thine understanding;
I could have found out the Priest, that would needs bee my
Confessor? I knew thee Husband to be the man, and therefore I prepared
my wit accordingly, to fit thee with the foolish imagination which
thou soughtest for, and (indeed) gave it thee. For, if thou hadst
beene wise, as thou makest the world to beleeve by outward
apparance, thou wouldest never have expressed such a basenesse of
minde, to borrow the coulour of a sanctified cloake, thereby to
undermine the secrets of thine honest meaning Wife. Wherefore, to
feede thee in thy fond suspition, I was the more free in my
Confession, and tolde thee truely, with whom, and how heinously I
had transgressed. Did I not tell thee, that I loved a Fryar? And art
not thou he whom love, being a Fryar, and my ghostly Father, though
(to thine owne shame) thou madst thy selfe so? I said moreover, that
there is not any doore in our house, that can keepe it selfe shut
against him, but (when he pleaseth) he comes and lies with me. Now
tell me Husband, What doore in our house hath (at any time) bin shut
against thee, but they are freely thine owne, and grant thee entrance?
Thou art the same Friar that confest me, and lieth every night with
me, and so often as thou sentst thy yong Novice or Clearke to me, as
often did I truly returne thee word, when the same Fryar lay with
me. But (by jealousie) thou hast so lost thine understanding, that
thou wilt hardly beleeve all this.
  Alas good man, like an armed Watchman, thou satst at thine owne
doore all a cold Winters night, perswading mee (poorelly credulous
woman) that, upon urgent occasions, thou must needs suppe and lodge
from home. Remember thy selfe therefore better heereafter, become a
true understanding man, as thou shouldst bee, and make not thy selfe a
mocking stocke to them, who knoweth thy jealous qualities, as well
as I do, and be not so watchfull over me, as thou art. For I sweare by
my true honesty, that if I were but as willing, as thou art
suspitious: I could deceive thee, if thou hadst an hundred eyes, as
Nature affords thee but two, and have my pleasures freely, yet thou be
not a jot the wiser, or my credit any way impaired.
  Our wonderfull wise Geloso, who (very advisedly) considred that he
had wholly heard his wives secret confession, and dreamed now on no
other doubt beside, but (perceiving by her speeches) how hee was
become a scorne to al men: without returning other answer, confirmed
his wife to be both wise and honest, and now when he hadde just
occasion to be jealous indeede, hee utterly forsware it, and counted
them all Coxcombes that would be so misguided. Wherefore, she having
thus wisely wonne the way to her owne desires, and he reduced into a
more humane temper: I hope there was no more neede, of clambring
over houses in the night time like Cats, nor walking in at gutter
Windowes; but all abuses were honestly reformed.
                   THE SEVENTH DAY, THE SIXTH NOVELL

  WHEREIN IS MANIFESTLY DISCERNED, THAT IF LOVE BE DRIVEN TO A NARROW
               STRAITE IN ANY OF HIS ATTEMPTS; YET HEE CAN
              ACCOMPLISH HIS PURPOSE BY SOME OTHER SUPPLY

  Madame Isabella, delighting in the company of her affected Friend,
named Lionello, and she being likewise beloved by Signior
Lambertuccio: At the same time as shee had entertained Lionello,
shee was also visited by Lambertuccio. Her Husband returning home in
the very instant; shee caused Lambertuccio to run forth with a
drawne sword in his hand, and (by that meanes) made an excuse
sufficient for Lionello to her husband.

  Wondrously pleasing to all the company, was the reported Novell of
Madame Fiammetta, every one applauding the Womans wisedome, and that
she had done no more, then as the jealous foole her husband justly
deserved. But shee having ended, the King gave order unto Madame
Pampinea, that now it was her turne to speake, whereupon, thus she
began. There are no meane store of people who say (though very false
and foolishly,) that Love maketh many to be out of their wits, and
that such as fall in Love, do utterly loose their understanding. To
mee this appeareth a very ydle opinion, as already hath beene approved
by the related discourses, and shall also bee made manifest by another
of mine owne.
  In our City of Florence, famous for some good, though as many bad
qualities, there dwelt (not long since) a Gentlewoman, endued with
choice beauty and admirable perfections, being wife to Signior
Beltramo, a very valiant Knight, and a man of great possessions. As
oftentimes it commeth to passe, that a man cannot alwayes feede on one
kind of bread, but his appetite will be longing after change: so fared
it with this Lady, named Isabella, she being not satisfied with the
delights of her Husband; grew enamoured of a young Gentleman, called
Lionello, compleate of person and commendable qualities, albeit not of
the fairest fortunes, yet his affection every way sutable to hers. And
full well you know (faire Ladies) that where the mindes irreciprocally
accorded, no dilligence wanteth for the desires execution: so this
amorous couple, made many solemne protestations, untill they should
bee friended by opportunity.
  It fortuned in the time of their hopefull expectation a Knight,
named Signior Lambertuccio, fell likewise in love with Isabella: but
because he was somewhat unsightly of person, and utterly unpleasing in
the eye, she grew regardlesse of his frequent solicitings, and would
not accept either tokens, or letters. Which when hee saw, (being
very rich and of great power) hee sought to compasse his intent by a
contrary course, threatning her with scandall and disgrace to her
reputation, and with his associates to bandie against her best
friends. She knowing what manner of man he was, and how able to
abuse any with infamous imputations, wisely returned him hopefull
promises, though never meaning to performe any, but onely
(Lady-like) to flatter and foole him therewith.
  Some few miles distant from Florence, Beltramo had a Castle of
pleasure, and there his Lady Isabella used to live all Summer, as
all other doe the like, being so possessed. On a day, Beltramo being
ridden from home, and she having sent for Lionello, to take the
advantage of her Husbands absence; accordingly he went, not doubting
but to winne what he had long expected. Signior Lambertuccio on the
other side, meeting Beltramo riding from his Castle, and Isabella
now fit to enjoy his company: gallops thither with all possible
speede, because hee would bee no longer delayed. Scarcely was Lionello
entred the Castle, and receiving directions by the waiting woman, to
her Ladies Chamber: but Lambertuccio gallopped in at the Gate, which
the woman perceiving, ranne presently and acquainted her Lady with the
comming of Lambertuccio.
  Now was shee the onely sorrowfull woman of the world; for nothing
was now to bee feared, but stormes and tempests, because Lambertuccio,
spake no other then Lightning and Thunder, and Lionello, (being no
lesse affraide then shee) by her perswasion crept behind the bed,
where he hid himselfe very contentedly. By this time Lambertuccio
was dismounted from his Courser, which he fastened (by the bridle)
to a ring in the wall, and then the waiting woman came to him, to
guide him to her Lady and Mistresse: who stood ready at the staires
head, graced him with a very acceptable welcome, yet marvelling much
at his so sodaine comming. Lady (quoth he) I met your Husband upon the
way, which granting mine accesse to see you; I come to claime your
long delayed promise, the time being now so favourable for it.
  Before he had uttered halfe these words, Beltramo, having forgot
an especiall evidence in his Study, which was the onely occasion of
his journey, came gallopping backe againe into the Castell Court,
and seeing such a goodly Gelding stand fastened there, could not
redily imagine who was the owner thereof. The waiting woman, upon
the sight of her Masters entring into the Court, came to her Lady,
saying: My Master Beltramo is returned back?, newly alighted, and
(questionlesse) comming up the staires. Now was our Lady Isabella, ten
times worse affrighted then before, (having two severall amourous
suters in her house, both hoping, neither speeding, yet her credite
lying at the stake for either) by this unexpected returne of her
Husband. Moreover, there was no possible meanes, for the concealing of
Signior Lambertuccio, because his Gelding stood in the open Court, and
therefore made a shrewde presumption against her, upon the least
doubtfull question urged.
  Neverthelesse, as womens wits are alwayes best upon sudden
constraints, looking forth of her window, and espying her Husband
preparing to come up: she threw her selfe on her day Couch, speaking
thus (earnestly) to Lambertuccio. Sir, if ever you loved mee, and
would have me faithfully to beleeve it, by the instant safety both
of your owne honour, and my life, doe but as I advise you. Forth
draw your Sword, and, with a stearne countenance, threatning death and
destruction: run downe the staires, and when you are beneath, say. I
sweare by my best fortunes, although I misse of thee now heere, yet
I will be sure to finde thee some where else. And if my Husband
offer to stay you, or moove any question to you: make no other
answere, but what you formerly spake in fury. Beside, so soone as
you are mounted on horsebacke, have no further conference with him,
upon any occasion whatsoever; to prevent all suspition in him, of
our future intendments.
  Lambertuccio sware many terrible oathes, to observe her directions
in every part, and having drawne forth his Sword, grasping it naked in
his hand, and setting worse lookes on the businesse, then ever
nature gave him, because he had spent so much labour in vaine; he
failed not in a jot of the Ladies injunction. Beltramo having
commanded his horse to safe custody, and meeting Lambertuccio
discending downe the staires, so armed, swearing, and most
extreamely storming, wondring extraordinarily at his threatning words,
made offer to imbrace him., and understand the reason of his
distemper. Lambertuccio repulsing him rudely, and setting foote in the
stirrup, mounted on his Gelding, and spake nothing else but this. I
sweare by the fairest of all my fortunes, although I misse of thee
heere: yet I will be sure to find thee some where else, and so he
gallopped mainely away.
  When Beltramo was come up into his wives Chamber, hee found her cast
downe upon her Couch, weeping, full of feare, and greatly
discomforted; wherefore he said unto her, What is hee that Signior
Lambertuccio is so extreamely offended withall, and threatneth in such
implacable manner? The Lady arising from her Couch, and going neere to
the Bed, because Lionello might the better heare her; returned her
Husband this answere. Husband (quoth she) never was I so dreadfully
affrighted till now; for, a young Gentleman, of whence, or what he is,
I know not, came running into our Castle for rescue, being pursued
by Signior Lambertuccio, a weapon ready drawne in his hand.
Ascending up our stayres, by what fortune, I know not, he found my
Chamber doore standing open, finding me also working on my Sampler,
and in wonderfull feare and trembling.
  Good Madame (quoth hee) for Gods sake helpe to save my life, or else
I shall be slaine heere in your Chamber. Hearing his pittious cry, and
compassionating his desperate case; I arose from my worke, and in my
demaunding of whence, and what he was, that durst presume so boldly
into my bed-chamber: presently came up Signior Lambertuccio also, in
the same uncivill sorte, as before I tolde you, swaggering and
swearing; where is this traiterous villaine? Heereupon, I stept
(somewhat stoutly) to my Chamber doore, and as hee offered to enter,
with a womans courage I resisted him, which made him so much enraged
against mee, that when hee saw mee to debarre his entrance; after many
terrible and vile oathes and vowes, hee ranne downe the stayres
againe, in such like manner as you chaunced to meete him.
  Now trust mee deare wife (said Beltramo) you behaved your selfe very
well and worthily: for, it would have beene a most notorious
scandall to us, if a man should bee slaine in your bed-chamber: and
Signior Lambertuccio carryed himselfe most dishonestly, to pursue
any man so outragiously, having taken my Castle as his Sanctuary.
But alas wife, what is become of the poore affrighted Gentleman?
Introth Sir (quoth she) I know not, but (somewhere or other)
heereabout hee is hidden. Where art you honest friend" said plaine
meaning Beltramo; Come forth and feare not, for thine enemy is gone.
  Lionello, who had heard all the forepassed discourse, which shee had
delivered to her Husband Beltramo, came creeping forth amazedly (as
one now very fearefully affrighted indeede) from under the further
side of the bedde, and Beltramo saide to him, What a quarrell was
this, between thee and furious Lambertuccio? Not any at all Sir,
replyed Lionello, to my knowledge, which verily perswadeth me; that
either he is not well in his wits, or else he mistaketh me for some
other; because, so soone as he saw me on the way, somewhat neere to
this your Castle, he drew forth hi Sword, and swearing an horrible
oath, said. Traitor thou art a dead man. Upon these rough words, I
stayed not to question the occasion of mine offending him: but fied
from him so fast as possibly I could; but confesse my selfe
(indeede) over-bold, by presuming into your Ladies bed chamber,
which yet (equalled with her mercie) hath bin the onely meanes at this
time, of saving my life She hath done like a good Lady, answered
Beltramo, and I do verie much commend her for it. But, recollect thy
dismayed spirits together, for I will see thee safely secured
lience, afterward, looke to thy selfe so well as thou canst. Dinner
being immediately made ready, and they having merrily feasted
together: he bestowed a good Gelding on Lionello, and rode along
with him to Florence, where he left him quietly in his owne lodging.
The selfe-same Evening (according as Isabella had given enstruction)
Lionello conferred with Lambertuccio: and such an agreement passed
betweene them, that though some rough speeches were noised abroad,
to set the better colour on the businesse; yet al matters were so
cleanly carried, that Beltramo never knew this queint deceitfull
policy of his Wife.
                   THE SEVENTH DAY, THE SEVENTH NOVELL

      WHEREBY IS DECLARED, THAT SUCH AS KEEPE MANY HONEST SEEMING
        SERVANTS, MAY SOMETIME FINDE A KNAVE AMONG THEM, AND ONE
               THAT PROVES TO BE OVERSAWCY WITH HIS MASTER

  Losovico discovered to his Mistresse Madame Beatrix, how amorously
he was affected to her. She cunningly sent Egano her Husband into
his garden, in all respects disguised like her selfe, while (friendly)
Lodovico conferred with her in the meane while. Afterward, Lodovico
pretending a lascivious allurement of his Mistresse, thereby to
wrong his honest Master, insted of her, beateth Egano soundly in the
Garden.

  This so sodaine dexterity of wit in Isabella, related in verie
modest manner by Madame Pampinea, was not onely admired by all the
company; but likewise passed with as generall approbation. But yet
Madam Philomena (whom the King had commanded next to succeede)
peremptorily sayde. Worthy Ladies, if I am not deceived; I intend to
tell you another Tale presently; as much to be commended as the last.
  You are to understand then, that it is no long while since, when
there dwelt in Paris a Florentine Gentleman, who falling into decay of
his estate, by over-bountifull expences; undertooke the degree of a
Merchant, and thrived so well by his trading, that he grew to great
wealth, having one onely sonne by his wife, named Lodovico. This
Sonne, partaking somewhat in his Fathers former height of minde, and
no way inclineable to deale in Merchandize, had no meaning to be a
Shopman, and therefore accompanied the Gentlemen of France, in
sundry services for the King; among whom, by his singular good
carriage and qualites, he happened to be not meanly esteemed. While
thus he continued in the Court, it chanced, that certaine Knights,
returning from Jerusalem, having there visited the holy Sepulcher, and
comming into company where Lodovico was: much familiar discourse
passed amongst them, concerning the faire women of France, England,
and other parts of the world where they had bin, and what delicate
beauties they had seene.
  One in the company constantly avouched, that of all the Women by
them so generally observed, there was not any comparable to the Wife
of Egano de Galluzzi, dwelling in Bologna, and her name Madam Beatrix,
reputed to be the onely faire woman of the world. Many of the rest
maintained as much, having bin at Bologna, and likewise seene her.
Lodovico hearing the woman to be so highly commended, and never (as
yet) feeling any thought of amorous inclination; became sodainely
toucht with an earnest desire of seeing her, and his minde could
entertaine no other matter, but onely of travailing thither to see
her, yea, and to continue there, if occasion so served. The reason for
his journey urged to his Father, was to visit Jerusalem, and the
holy Sepulcher, which with much difficulty, at length he obtained
his leave.
  Being on his journey towards Bologna, by the name of Anichino, and
not of Lodovico, and being there arrived; upon the day following,
and having understood the place of her abiding: it was his good happe,
to see the Lady at her Window; she appearing in his eye farre more
faire, then all reports had made her to be. Heereupon, his affection
became so enflamed to her, as he vowed, never to depart from
Bologna, untill he had obtained her love. And devising by what
meanes he might effect his hopes, he grew perswaded (setting all other
attempts aside) that if he could be entertained into her Husbands
service, and undergo some businesse in the house, time might tutor him
to obtaine his desire. Having given his attendants sufficient
allowance, to spare his company, and take no knowledge of him, selling
his Horses also, and other notices which might discover him: he grew
into acquaintance with the Hoste of the house where he lay,
revealing an earnest desire in himselfe, to serve som Lord or worthy
Gentleman, if any were willing to give him entertainment.
  Now beleeve me Sir (answered the Hoste) you seeme worthy to have a
good service indeede, and I know a Noble Gentleman of this Cittie, who
is named Egano: he will (without all question) accept your offer,
for hee keepeth many men of verie good deserving, and you shall have
my furtherance therein so much as may be. As he promised, so he
performed, and taking Anichino with him unto Egano: so farre he
prevailed by his friendly protestations, and good opinion of the young
Gentleman; that Anichino was (without more ado) accepted in Eganoes
service, then which, nothing could be more pleasing to him. Now had he
the benefit of dayly beholding his hearts Mistresse, and so acceptable
proved his service to Egano, that he grew very farre in love with him:
not undertaking any affayres whatsoever, without the advice and
direction of Anichino, so that he reposed his most especiall trust
in him, as a man altogether governed by him.
  It fortuned upon a day, that Egano being ridden to flye his Hawke at
the River, and Anichino remaining behinde at home, Madame Beatrix, who
(as yet) had taken no notice of Anichinoes love to her (albeit her
selfe, observing his faire carriage and commendable qualities, was
highly pleased to have so seeming a servant) called him to play at the
Chesse with her: and Anichino, coveting nothing more then to content
her, carried himselfe so dexteriously in the game, that he permitted
hir still to win, which was no little joy to her. When all the
Gentlewomen, and other friends there present, as spectators to
behold their play, had taken their farewell, and were departed,
leaving them all alone, yet gaming still: Anichino breathing forth
an intire sigh, Madame Beatrix looking merrily on him, said. Tell me
Anichino, art not thou angrie, to see me win? It should appeare so
by that solemne sigh. No truly Madame, answered Anichino, a matter
of farre greater moment, then losse of infinite games at the Chesse,
was the occasion why I sighed. I pray thee (replyed the Lady) by the
love thou bearest me, as being my Servant (if any love at all remain
in thee towards me) give me a reason for that harty sigh.
  When he heard himselfe so severely conjured, by the love he bare
to her, and loved none else in the world beside: he gave a farre
more hart-sicke sigh, then before. Then his Lady and Mistresse
entreated him seriously, to let her know the cause of those two
deepe sighes: whereto Anichino thus replyed. Madam, if I should tell
you, I stand greatly in feare of offending you: and when I have told
you, I doubt your discovery thereof to some other. Beleeve me Anichino
(quoth she) therein thou neither canst, or shalt offend me.
Moreover, assure thy selfe, that I will never disclose it to any
other, except I may do it with thy consent. Madame (saide hee)
seeing you have protested such a solemne promise to mee, I will
reveale no meane secret unto you.
  So, with teares standing in his eyes, he told her what he was; where
he heard the first report of her singular perfections, and instantly
becam enamored of her, as the maine motive of his entring into her
service. Then, most humbly he entreated her, that if it might agree
with her good liking, she would be pleased to commisserate his case,
and grace him with her private favours. Or, if shee might not be so
mercifull to him; that yet she would vouchsafe, to let him live in the
lowly condition as he did, and thinke it a thankefull duty in him,
onely to love her. O singular sweetnesse, naturally living in faire
feminine blood! How justly art thou worthy of praise in the like
occasions? Thou couldst never be wonne by sighes and teares; but
hearty imprecations have alwayes prevailed with thee, making thee
apt and easie to amorous desires. If I had praises answerable to thy
great and glorious deservings, my voice should never faint, nor my pen
waxe weary, in the due and obsequious performance of them.
  Madam Beatrix, well observing Anichino when he spake, and giving
credit to his so solemne protestations; they were so powerfull in
prevailing with her, that her senses (in the same manner) were
enchanted; and sighes flew as violently from her, as before he had
vented them: which stormy tempest being a little over-blowne, thus she
spake. Anichino, my hearts deere affected Friend, live in hope, for
I tell thee truly, never could gifts, promises, nor any Courtings used
to me by Lords, Knights, Gentlemen, or other (although I have bin
solicited by many) winne the lest grace or favour at my hand, no,
nor move me to any affection. But thou, in a minute of time
(compared with their long and tedious suing) hast expressed such a
soveraigne potency in thy sweet words, that thou hast made me more
thine, then mine owne: and beleeve it unfeinedly, I hold thee to be
worthy of my love. Wherefore, with this kisse I freely give it thee,
and make thee a further promise, that before this night shall be fully
past, thou shalt in better manner perceive it. Adventure into my
Chamber about the houre of midnight, I will leave the doore open: thou
knowest on which side of the bed I use to rest, come thither and feare
not: if I sleep, the least gentle touch of thy hand will wake me,
and then thou shalt see how much I love thee. So, with a kinde kisse
or two, the bargaine was concluded, she licensing his departure for
that rime, and he staying in hope of his hearts happinesse, till when,
he thought every houre a yeare.
  In the meane while; Egano returned home from Hawking, and so soone
as he had supt (being very weary) he went to bed, and his Ladie
likewise with him, leaving her Chamber doore open, according as she
had promised. At the houre appointed, Anichino came, finding the doore
but easily put too, which (being entred) softly he closed againe, in
the same manner as he found it. Going to the beds side where the
Lady lay, and gently touching her brest with his hand, he found her to
be awake, and perceiving he was come according unto promise, shee
caught his hand fast with hers, and held him very strongly. Then,
turning (as she could) towards Egano, she made such meanes, as hee
awaked, whereupon she spake unto him as followeth.
  Sir, yesternight I would have had a fewe speeches with you: but,
in regard of your wearinesse and early going to bed, I could not
have any opportunity. Now, this time and place being most
convenient, I desire to bee resolved by you: Among all the men
retained into your service; which of them do you thinke to be the
best, most loyall, and worthiest to enjoy your love? Egano answered
thus: Wife, why should you move such a question to me? Do not you
know, that I never had any servant heeretofore, or ever shall have
heereafter, in whom I reposed the like trust as I have done, and do in
Anichino? But to what end is this motion of yours? I will tell you Sir
(quoth she) and then be Judge your self, whether I have reason to move
this question, or no. Mine opinion every way equalled yours,
concerning Anichino, and that he was more just and faithfull to you,
then any could be amongest all the rest: But Husband, like as where
the water runneth stillest, the Foord is deepest, even so, his
smooth lookes have beguiled both you and me. For, no longer agoe, then
this verie day, no sooner were you ridden foorth on Hauking, but he
(belike purposely) tarrying at home, watching such a leysure as best
fitted his intent: was not ashamed to solicite mee, both to abuse your
bed, and mine owne spotlesse honor.
  Moreover, he prosecuted his impious purpose with such alluring
perswasions: that being a weake woman, and not willing to endure
over many Amorous proofes (onely to acquaint you with his most
sawcie immodestie, and to revenge your selfe uppon him as best you
may; your selfe beeing best able to pronounce him guiltie) I made
him promise, to meete him in our Garden, presently after
midde-night, and to finde mee sitting under the Pine-Tree; never
meaning (as I am vertuous) to be there. But, that you may know the
deceite and falshoode of your Servant, I would have you to put on my
Night-gowne, my head Attire, and Chinne-cloath, and sitting but a
short while there underneath the Pine-Tree: such is his insatiate
desire, as he will not faile to come, and then you may proceede, as
you finde occasion.
  When Egano heard these Words, sodainely hee started out of Bed,
saying. Doe I foster such a Snake in mine owne bosome? Gramercie
Wife for this politicke promise of thine, and beleeve mee, I meane
to follow it effectually. So, on he put his Ladies Night-gown, her
formall head Attire and Chin-cloth, going presently downe into the
Garden, to expect Anichinoes comming to the Pine-Tree. But before
the matter grew to this issue, let me demand of you faire Ladies, in
what a lamentable condition (as you may imagine) was poore Anichino;
to bee so strongly detained by her, heare all his amorous suite
discovered, and likely to draw very heavy afflictions on him?
Undoubtedly, he looked for immediate apprehension by Egano,
imprisonment and publike punishment for his so malapert presumption:
and had it proved so, she had much renowned her selfe, and dealt
with him but as he had justlie deserved.
  But frailtie in our feminine sex is too much prevalent, and makes us
wander from vertuous courses, when we are wel onward in the way to
them. Madam Beatrix, whatsoever passed betweene her and Anichino, I
know not, but, either to continue this new begunne league for
further time, or, to be revenged on her husbands implicity, in
over-rashlie giving credit to so smooth a ly; this was her advise to
him. Anichino, quoth she, Take a good Cudgell in thy hand, then go
into the Garden so farre as the Pine; and there, as if formerly thou
hadst solicited mee unto this secret meeting, only but by way of
approving my honestie: in my name, revile thy master so bitterly as
thou canst, bestowing manie sound blowes on him with thy cudgel; yet
urge the shame stil (as it were) to mee, and never leave him, til thou
hast beaten him out of the garden, to teach him keepe his bed
another time Such an apt Scholler as Anichino was in this kind,
needs no tutoring, but a word is enough to a ready Wit. To the
Garden goes he, with a good willow cudgell in his hand, and comming
neere to the Pine-tree, there he found Egano disguised like to his
Lady, who arising from the place where he sate, went with chearefull
gesture to welcome him; but Anichino (in rough and stearne manner)
thus spake unto him. Wicked shamelesse, and most immodest Woman, Art
thou come, according to thine unchaste and lascivious promise?
Couldest thou so easily credite, (though I tempted thee, to trie the
vertue of thy continencie) I would offer such a damnable wrong to my
worthy Master, that so deerely loves me, and reposeth his especiall
confidence in me? Thou art much deceived in me, and shalt finde,
that I hate to be false to him.
  So lifting up the Cudgell, he gave him therewith halfe a score
good bastinadoes, laying them on soundly, both on his armes and
shoulders: and Egano feeling the smart of them, durst not speake one
Worde, but fled away from him so fast as hee could, Anichino still
following, and multiplying many other injurious speeches against
him, with the Epithites of Strumpet, lustfull and insatiate Woman.
Go thou lewde beast (quoth he) most unworthy the title of a Lady, or
to be Wife unto so good a natured man, as my Mayster is, to whom I
will reveale thy most ungracious incivility to Morrow, that he may
punish thee a little better then I have done.
  Egano being thus well beaten for his Garden walke, got within the
doore, and so went up to his Chamber againe: his Lady there
demanding of him, whether Anichino came according to his promise, or
no? Come?
  quoth Egano, Yes Wife, he came, but deerely to my cost: for hee
verily taking me for thee, hath beaten me most extreamly, calling me
an hundred Whores and Strumpets, reputing thee to bee the wickedst
Woman living. In good sadnesse Beatrix, I wondred not a little at him,
that he would give thee any such vile speeches, with intent to wrong
mee in mine honour. Questionlesse, because hee saw thee to be
joviall spirited, gracious and affable towardes all men; therefore hee
intended to make triall of thine honest carriage. Well Sir (sayde
shee) twas happy that hee tempted mee with words, and let you taste
the proofe of them by deeds: and let him thinke, that I brooke those
words as distastably, as you do or can, his ill deeds. But seeing he
is so just, faithfull, and loyall to you, you may love him the better,
and respect him as you finde occasion.
  Whereto Egano thus replyed. Now trust me thou hast said very well:
And me wi drawing hence the argument of his setled perswasion; that he
had the chastest Woman living to his wife, and so just a Servant, as
could not be fellowed: there never was any further discoverie of
this Garden-night accident. Perhaps, Madame Beatrix and Anichino might
subtilly smile thereat in secret, in regard that they knew more then
any other else beside did. But, as for honest meaning Egano, hee never
had so much as the verie least mistrust of ill dealing, either in
his Lady, or Anichino; whom hee loved and esteemed farre more
respectively uppon this proofe of his honestie towards him, then hee
would or could possibly have done, without a triall so playne and
pregnant.
                   THE SEVENTH DAY, THE EIGHT NOVELL

   WHEREBY APPEARETH, THAT AN HUSBAND OUGHT TO BE VERY WELL ADVISED,
    WHEN HE MEANETH TO DISCOVER ANY WRONG OFFERED HIS WIFE; EXCEPT
      HEE HIM-SELFE DO RASHLY RUN INTO ALL THE SHAME AND REPROACH

  Arriguccio Berlinghieri, became immeasurably jelous of his Wife
Simonida, who fastened a thred about her great toe, for to serve as
a small, when her amorous friend should come to visite her. Arriguccio
findeth the fallacie, and while he pursueth the amorous friend, shee
causeth her Maide to lye in her bed against his returne: whom he
beateth extreamly, cutting away the lockes of her haire (thinking he
had doone all this violence to his wife Simonida:) and afterward
fetcheth her Mother and Brethren, to shame her before them, and so
be rid of her. But they finding all his speeches to be utterly
false; and reputing him to bee a drunken jealous foole; all the
blame and disgrace falleth on himselfe.

  It seemed to the whole assembly, that Madam Beatrix, dealte somewhat
strangely, in the manner of beguiling her husband; and affirmed
also, that Anichino had great cause of fear, when she held him so
strongly by her beds side, and related all his amorous temptation. But
when the King perceyved, that Madame Philomena sate silent, he
turned to Madam Neiphila, willing her to supply the next place; who
modestly smiling, thus began.
  Faire Ladies, it were an heavy burthen imposed on me, and a matter
much surmounting my capacity, if I should vainely imagine, to
content you with so pleasing a Novell, as those have already done,
by you so singularly reported: neverthelesse, I must discharge my
dutie, and take my fortune as it fals, albeit I hope to finde you
mercifull.
  You are to know then, that sometime there lived in our Citie, a very
welthy Merchant, named Arriguccio Berlinghieri, who (as many Merchants
have done) fondly imagined, to make himselfe a Gentleman by
marriage. Which that he might the more assuredly do, he took to wife a
Gentlewoman, one much above his degree or element, she being named
Simonida. Now, in regard that he delighted (as it is the usuall life
of a Merchant) to be often abroad, and little at home, whereby shee
had small benefit of his company; shee grew very forward in
affection with a young Gentleman, called Signior Roberto, who had
solicited hir by many amorous meanes, and (at length) prevailed to win
her favor. Which favour being once obtained; affection gaddes so farre
beyond al discretion, and makes Lovers so heedelesse of their
private conversations: that either they are taken tardy in their
folly, or else subjected to scandalous suspition.
  It came to passe, that Arriguccio, either by rumour, or some other
more sensible apprehension, had received such intelligence
concerning his Wife Simonida, as he grew into extraordinarie jealousie
of her, refraining travaile abroad, as formerly he was wont to doe,
and ceassing from his verie ordinary affayres, addicting all his
care and endeavour, onely to be watchfull of his Wife; so that he
never durst sleepe, untill she were by him in the bed, which was no
meane mollestation to her, being thus curbd from her familiar meetings
with Roberto. Neverthelesse, having a long while consulted with her
wittes, to find some apte meanes for conversing with him, being
thereto also very earnestlie still solicited by him; you shall heare
what course she undertooke.
  Her Chamber being on the streete side, and somewhat juttying over
it, she observed the disposition of her Husband, that every night it
was long before he fell asleepe: but beeing once falne into it, no
noyse whatsoever, could easily wake him. This his solemne and sound
sleeping, emboldned her so farre, as to meete with Roberto at the
streete doore, which (while her Husband slept) softly she would open
to him, and therein private converse with him.
  But, because shee would know the certaine houre of his comming,
without the least suspition of any: she hung a thred forth of her
Chamber Window, descending downe, within the compasse of Robertoes
reach in the street, and the other end thereof, guided from the Window
to the bed, being conveyed under the Cloathes, and shee being in
bed, she fastned it about her left great Toe, wherewith Roberto was
sufficiently acquainted, and thus enstructed withall; that at his
comming, he should plucke the thred, and if her husband was in his
dead sleep, she would let go the thred, and come downe to him: but
if he slept not, she would hold it strongly, and then his tarrying
would prove but in vaine, there could be no meeting that night.
  This devise was highly pleasing both to Roberto and Simonida,
being the intelligencer of their often meeting, and many times also
advising the contrary. But in the end, as the quaintest cunning may
faile at one time or other; so it fortuned one night, that Simonida
being in a sound sleepe, and Arriguccio waking, because his drowsie
houre was not yet come: as he extendeth forth his legge in the bed, he
found the thred, which feeling in his hand, and perceiving it was tyed
to his wives great toe; it prooved apt tinder to kindle further
jealousie, and now hee suspected some treachery indeede, and so much
the rather because the thred guided (under the cloathes) from the
bed to the window, and there hanging downe into the streete, as a
warning to some further businesse.
  Now was Arriguccio so furiously enflamed, that hee must needes bee
further resolved in this apparant doubt: and because therein hee would
not be deceived, softly he cut the thred from his wives toe, and
made it fast about his owne; to trye what successe would ensue
thereon. It was not long before Roberto came, and according as hee
used to doe, hee pluckt the thred, which Arriguccio felt, but
because hee had not tyed it fast, and Roberto pulling it
over-hardly, it fell downe from the window into his hand, which he
understood as his lesson, to attend her comming, and so hee did.
Arriguccio stealing softly out of bed from his wife, and taking his
Sword under his arme, went downe to the doore, to see who it was, with
full intent of further revenge. Now, albeit he was a Merchant, yet
he wanted not courage, and boldnesse of spirit, and opening the
doore without any noyse, onely as his wife was wont to doe: Roberto,
there waiting his entrance, perceived by the doores unfashionable
opening, that it was not Simonida, but her Husband, whereupon he
betooke himselfe to flight and Arriguccio fiercely followed him. At
the length, Roberto perceiving that flight avayled him not, because
his enemy still pursued him: being armed also with a Sword, as
Arriguccio was; he returned backe upon him, the one offering to
offend, as the other stood upon his defence, and so in the darke
they fought together.
  Simonida awaking, even when her Husband went foorth of the
Chamber, and finding the thred to be cut from her toe; conjectured
immediately, that her subtle cunning was discovered, and supposing her
Husband in pursuite of Roberto, presently she arose; and,
considering what was likely to ensue thereon, called her Chamber-maide
(who was not ignorant of the businesse) and by perswasions prevailed
so with her, that she lay downe in her place in the bed, upon
solemne protestations and liberall promises, not to make her selfe
knowne, but to suffer all patiently, either blowes, or other ill usage
of her Husband, which shee would recompence in such bountifull sort,
as she should have no occasion to complaine. So, putting out the
watchlight, which every night burned in the Chamber, she departed
thence, and sate downe in a close corner of the house, to see what
would be the end of all this stirre, after her Husbands comming home.
  The fight (as you have formerly heard) continuing betweene Roberto
and Arriguccio, the neighbours hearing of the clashing of their Swords
in the streets; arose out of their beds, and reproved them in very
harsh manner. In which respect Arriguccio, fearing to be knowne, and
ignorant also what his adversary was (no harme being as yet done on
either side) permitted him to depart; and extreamely full of anger,
returned backe againe to his house. Being come up into his
bed-chamber, thus he began; Where is this lewde and wicked woman?
what? hast thou put out the light, because I should not finde thee?
that shall not avayle thee, for I can well enough finde a drab in
the darke. So, groping on to the beds side, and thinking hee had taken
holde on his wife, he grasped the Chamber-maide, so beating her with
his fists, and spurning her with his feet, that al her face was bloody
and bruised. Next, with his knife he cut off a great deal of her
haire, giving her the most villanous speeches as could be devised:
swearing, that he would make her a shame to all the world.
  You need make no doubt, but the poore maide wept exceedingly, as she
had good occasion to doe: and albeit many times she desired mercy, and
that hee would not bee so cruell to her: yet notwithstanding, her
voyce was so broken with crying, and his impacience so extreame,
that rage hindered all power of distinguishing, or knowing his wives
tongue from a strangers. Having thus madly beaten her, and cut the
lockes off from her head, thus he spake to her. Wicked woman, and no
wife of mine, be sure I have not done with thee yet; for, although I
meane not now to beate thee any longer: I will goe to thy brethren,
and they shall understand thy dishonest behaviour. Then will I bring
them home with me, and they perceiving how much thou hast abused
both their honour and thine owne; let them deale with thee as they
finde occasion, for thou art no more a companion for me. No sooner had
he uttered these angry words, but hee went forth of the Chamber,
bolting it fast on the outward side, as meaning to keepe her safely
inclosed, and out of the house he went alone by himselfe.
  Simonida, who had heard all this tempestuous conflict, perceiving
that her Husband had lockt the streete doore after him, and was gone
whether he pleased: unbolted the Chamber doore, lighted a waxe candle,
and went in to see her poore maide, whom she found to be most
pittifully misused. She comforted her as well as she could, brought
her into her owne lodging Chamber, where washing her face and hurts in
very soveraigne waters, and rewarding her liberally with
Arriguccioes owne Gold; she held her selfe to be sufficiently
satisfyed. So, leaving the maide in her lodging, and returning again
to her owne Chamber: she made up the bed in such former manner, as
if no body had lodged therein that night. Then hanging up her Lampe
fresh fild with oyle, and clearly lighted, she deckt her selfe in so
decent sort, as if she had bin in no bed all that night.
  Then taking sowing worke in her hand, either shirts or bands of
her Husbands; hanging the Lampe by her, and sitting downe at the
stayres head, she fell to worke in very serious manner, as if shee had
undertaken some imposed taske.
  On the other side, Arriguccio had travelled so farre from his house,
till he came at last to the dwelling of Simonidaes brethren: where hee
knockt so soundly, that he was quickely heard, and (almost as
speedily) let in. Simonidaes brethren, and her mother also, hearing of
Arriguccioes comming thither so late. Rose from their beds, and each
of them having a Waxe Candle lighted, came presently to him, to
understand the cause of this his so unseasonable visitation.
Arriguccio, beginning at the originall of the matter, the thred
found tyed about his wives great toe, the fight and houshold
conflict after following: related every circumstance to them. And
for the better proofe of his words, he shewed them the thred it selfe,
the lockes supposed of his wives haire, and adding withall; that
they might now dispose of Simonida as themselves pleased, because
she should remaine no longer in his house.
  The brethren to Simonida were exceedingly offended at this relation,
in regard they beleeved it for truth, and in this fury, commanded
Torches to be lighted, preparing to part thence with Arriguccio home
to his house, for the more sharpe reprehension of their Sister.
Which when their mother saw, she followed them weeping, first
entreating one, and then the other, not to be over rash in crediting
such a slander, but rather to consider the truth thereof advisedly:
because the Husband might be angry with his Wife upon some other
occasion, and having outraged her, made this the meanes in excuse of
himselfe. Moreover she said, that she could not chuse but wonder
greatly, how this matter should thus come to passe: because she had
good knowledge of her daughter, during the whole course of her
education, faultlesse and blamelesse in every degree; with many
other good words of her beside, as proceeding from naturall
affection of a mother.
  Being come to the house of Arriguccio, entring in, and ascending
up the stayres: they heard Simonida sweetly singing at her working;
but pausing, upon hearing their rude trampling, shee demaunded, who
was there. One of the angry brethren presently answered: Lewde woman
as thou art, thou shalt know soone enough who is heere: Our blessed
Lady be with us (quoth Simonida) and sweet Saint Frances helpe to
defend me, who dare use such unseemely speeches? Starting up and
meeting them on the staire head: Kinde brethren, (said she) is it you?
What, and my loving mother too? For sweet Saint Charities sake, what
may be the reason of your comming hither in this manner. Shee being
set downe againe to her worke, so neatly apparelled, without any signe
of outrage offered her, her face unblemished, her haire comely
ordered, and differing wholly from the former speeches of her Husband:
the Brethren marvelled thereat not a little; and asswaging somewhat
the impetuous torrent of their rage, began to demaund in coole
blood, (as it were) from what ground her Husbands complaints
proceeded, and threatning her roughly, if she would not confesse the
truth intirely to them.
  Ave Maria (quoth Simonida, crossing her selfe) Alas deare
Brethren, I know not what you say, or meane, nor wherein my Husband
should bee offended, or make any complaint at all of me. Arriguccio
hearing this looked on her like a man that had lost his Senses: for
well he remembred, how many cruell blowes he had given her on the
face, beside scratches of his nailes, and spurnes of his feet, as also
the cutting of her haire, the least shew of all which misusage, was
not now to be seene. Her brethren likewise briefly told her, the whole
effect of her Husbands speeches, shewing her the thred, and in what
cruell manner he sware hee did beate her. Simonida, turning then to
her Husband, and seeming as confounded with amazement, said. How is
this Husband? what doe I heare? would you have me supposed (to your
owne shame and disgrace) to be a bad woman, and your selfe a cruell
curst man, when (on either side) there is no such matter? When were
you this night heere in the house with mee? Or when should you beate
mee, and I not feele nor know it? Beleeve me (sweete heart) all
these are meerely miracles to me.
  Now was Arriguccio ten times more mad in his minde, then before,
saying. Divell, and no woman, did wee not this night goe both together
to bed? Did not I cut this thred from thy great toe, tyed it to
mine, and found the craftie compact betweene thee and thy Minnion? Did
not I follow and fight with him in the streets? Came I not backe
againe, and beate thee as a Strumpet should be? And are not these
the locks of haire, which I my selfe did cut from thy bead?
  Alas Sir (quoth she) where have you been? doe you know what you say?
you did not lodge in this house this night, neither did I see you
all the whole day and night, till now.
  But leaving this, and come to the matter now in question, because
I have no other testimony then mine owne words. You say, that you
did beate me, and cut those lockes of haire from my head. Alas Sir,
why should you slander your selfe? In all your life time you did never
strike me. And to approve the truth of my speeches, doe you your
selfe, and all else heere present, looke on me advisedly, if any signe
of blow or beating is to be seene on me. Nor were it an easie matter
for you to doe either to smite, or so much as lay your hand (in anger)
on me, it would cost dearer then you thinke for. And whereas you
say, that you did cut those lockes of haire from my head; it is more
then either I know, or felt, nor are they in colour like to mine: but,
because my Mother and brethren shall be my witnesses therein, and
whether you did it without my knowledge; you shall all see, if they be
cut, or no. So, taking off her head attyre, she displayed her hayre
over her shoulders, which had suffered no violence, neither seemed
to bee so much as uncivilly or rudely handled.
  When the mother and brethren saw this, they began to murmure against
Arriguccio, saying. What thinke you of this Sir? you tell us of
strange matters which you have done, and all proving false, we
wonder how you can make good the rest. Arriguccio looked wilde, and
confusedly, striving still to maintaine his accusation: but seeing
every thing to bee flatly against him, he durst not attempt to
speake one word. Simonida tooke advantage of this distraction in
him, and turning to her brethren, saide. I see now the marke whereat
he aymeth, to make me doe what I never meante: Namely, that I should
acquaint you with his vile qualities, and what a wretched life I leade
with him, which seeing hee will needes have me to reveale; beare
with me if I doe it upon compulsion.
  Mother and Brethren, I am verily perswaded, that those accidents
which he disclosed to you, hath doubtlesse (in the same manner)
happened to him, and you shall heare how. Very true it is, that this
seeming honest man, to whom (in a lucklesse houre) you married me,
stileth himselfe by the name of a Merchant, coveting to be so
accounted and credited, as holy in outward appearance, as a
Religious Monke, and as demure in lookes, as the modestest Maide: like
a notorious common drunkard, is a Taverne hunter, where making his
luxurius matches, one while with one Whore, then againe with
another; hee causeth mee every night to sit tarrying for him, even
in the same sort as you found me: sometimes till midnight, and
otherwhiles till broad day light in the morning.
  And questionlesse, being in his wounted drunken humour, hee hath
lyen with one of his sweet Consorts, about whose toe he found the
thred, and finding her as false to him, as he hath alwayes been to me:
Did not onely beat her, but also cut the haire from her head. And
having not yet recovered his sences, is verily perswaded, and cannot
be altered from it; but that hee performed all this villany to me. And
if you doe but advisedly observe his countenance, he appeareth yet
to be more then halfe drunke.
  But whatsoever he hath said concerning me, I make no account at
all thereof, because he spake it in his drunkennesse, and as freely as
I forgive him, even so (good Mother and kinde Brethren,) let mee
entreate you to do the like.
  When the Mother had heard these words, and confidently beleeved
her Daughter: she began to torment her selfe with anger, saying. By
the faith of my body Daughter, this unkindnesse is not [to] be
endured, but rather let the dogge be hanged, that his qualities may be
knowne, he being utterly unworthy, to have so good a woman to his
wife, as thou art. What could he have done if he had taken thee in the
open more, and in company of some wanton Gallants? In an unfortunate
houre wast thou married to him, base jealous Coxecombe as he is, and
it is quite against sense, or reason, that thou shouldest be subject
to his fooleries. What was hee, but a Merchant of Eale-skinnes or
Orenges, bred in some paltry countrey village; taken from
Hogge-rubbing; clothed in Sheepes-Sattin, with Clownish Startops,
Leather stockings, and Caddies garters: His whole habite not worth
three shillings: And yet he must have a faire Gentlewoman to his Wife,
of honest fame, riches and reputation; when, comparing his pedegree
with hers, hee is farre unfit to wipe her shooes.
  Oh my deare sonnes, I would you had followed my counsell, and
permitted her to mate in the honourable family of Count Guido, which
was much mooved, and seriously pursued. But you would needs bestow her
on this goodly jewell; who, although shee is one of the choysest
beauties in Florence, chaste, honest and truely vertuous: Is not
ashamed at midnight, to proclaime her for a common whore, as if we had
no better knowledge of her. But by the blessed mother of Saint John,
if you would be ruled by mine advise; our law should make him
dearely smart for it.
  Alas my sonnes, did I not tell you at home in our owne house, that
his words were no way likely to prove true? Have not your eyes
observed his unmannerly behaviour to your Sister? If I were as you
are, hearing what he hath said, and noting his drunken carriage
beside; I should never give over, as long as he had any life left in
him. And were I a man, as I am a woman, none other then my selfe
should revenge her wrongs, making him a publike spectacle to all
drabbing drunkards.
  When the brethren had heard and observed all these occurrences; in
most bitter manner they railed on Arriguccio, bestowing some good
bastinadoes on him beside, concluding thus with him in the end.
Quoth one of them, Wee will pardon this shamefull abusing of our
Sister, because thou art a notorious drunkard: but looke to it (on
perill of thy life) that we have no more such newes hereafter; for,
beleeve it unfainedly, if any such impudent rumours happen to our
eares, or so much as a flying fame thereof; thou shalt surely be paide
for both faults together.
  So home againe went they, and Arriguccio stood like one that had
neither life or motion, not knowing (whether what he had done) was
true, or no, or if he dreamed all this while, and so (without uttering
any word) he left his Wife, and went quietly to bed. Thus by her
wisdome, she did not onely prevent an imminent perill: but also made a
free and open passage, to further contentment with her amourous
friend, yet dreadlesse of any distaste or suspition in her Husband.
                   THE SEVENTH DAY, THE NINTH NOVELL

   WHEREIN IS DECLARED, THAT GREAT LORDS MAY SOMETIME BE DECEIVED BY
             THEIR WIVES, AS WELL AS MEN OF MEANER CONDITION

  Lydia, a Lady of great beauty, birth, and honor, being Wife to
Nicostratus, Governour of Argos, falling in love with a Gentleman,
named Pyrrhus; was requested by him (as a true testimony of her
unfeigned affection) to performe three severall actions of her
selfe. She did accomplish them all, and imbraced and kissed Pyrrhus in
the presence of Nicostratus; by perswading him, that whatsoever he
saw, was meerely false.

  The Novell delivered, by Madame Neiphila, seemed so pleasing to
all the Ladies; as they could not refraine from hearty laughter,
beside much liberality of speech. Albeit the King did oftentimes
urge silence, and commanded Pamphilus to follow next. So, when
attention was admitted, Pamphilus began in this order. I am of
opinion, faire Ladies, that there is not any matter, how uneasie or
doubtfull soever it may seeme to be; but the man or woman that
affecteth fervently, dare boldly attempt, and effectually
accomplish. And this perswasion of mine, although it hath beene
sufficiently approved, by many of our passed Novels: Yet
notwithstanding, I shall make it much apparent to you, by a present
discourse of mine owne. Wherein I have occasion to speake of a Lady,
to whom Fortune was more favourable, then either reason or
judgement, could give direction. In which regard, I would not advise
any of you, to entertaine so high an imagination of minde, as to
tracke her footsteps of whom I am now to speake: because Fortune
containeth not alwayes one and the same disposition, neither can all
mens eyes be blinded after one manner. And so proceed we to our Tale.
  In Argos, a most ancient Citie of Achaya, much more renowned by
her precedent Kings, then wealth, or any other great matter of
worth: there lived as Lieutenant or Governour thereof, a Noble Lord,
named Nicostratus, on whom (albeit hee was well stept into yeares)
Fortune bestowed in marriage a great Lady, no lesse bold of spirit,
then choisely beautifull. Nicostratus, abounding in treasure and
wealthy possessions, kept a goodly traine of Servants, Horses,
Houndes, Hawkes, and what else not, as having an extraordinary
felicity in all kinds of game, as singular exercises to maintaine
his health.
  Among his other Servants and Followers, there was a yong
Gentleman, gracefull of person, excellent in speech, and every way
as active as no man could be more: his name Pyrrhus, highly affected
of Nicostratus, and more intimately trusted then all the rest. Such
seemed the perfections of this Pyrrhus, that Lydia (for so was the
Lady named) began to affect him very earnestly, and in such sort, as
day or night shee could take no rest, but devised all meanes to
compasse her harts desire. Now, whether he observed this inclination
of her towards him, or else would take no notice thereof, it could not
be discerned by any outward apprehension: which moved the more
impatiency in her, and drove her hopes to dispairing passions. Wherein
to finde some comfort and ease, she called an ancient Gentlewoman of
her Chamber, in whom shee reposed especiall confidence, and thus she
spake to her.
  Lesca, The good turnes and favours thou hast received from me,
should make thee faithfull and obedient to me: and therefore set a
locke uppon thy lippes, for revealing to any one whatsoever, such
matters as now I shall impart to thee; except it be to him that I
command thee. Thou perceivest Lesca, how youthfull I am, apt to all
sprightly recreations, rich, and abounding in all that a woman can
wish to have, in regard of Fortunes common and ordinary favours: yet I
have one especiall cause of complaint: namely, the inequality of my
Mariage, my Husband being over-ancient for me; in which regard, my
youth finds it selfe too highly wronged, being defeated of those
duties and delights, which Women (farre inferiour to me) are
continuallie cloyed withall, and I am utterly deprived of. I am
subject to the same desires they are, and deserve to taste the benefit
of them, in as ample manner, as they do or can.
  Hitherto I have lived with the losse of time, which yet (in some
measure) may be releeved and recompenced: For, though Fortune were
mine enemy in Mariage, by such a disproportion of our conditions:
yet she may befriend in another nature, and kindely redeeme the injury
done me. Wherefore Lesca, to be as compleate in this case, as I am
in all the rest beside; I have resolved upon a private Friend, and one
more worthy then any other, Namely, my Servant Pyrrhus, whose youth
carieth some correspondency with mine; and so constantly have I setled
my love to him, as I am not well, but when I thinke on him, or see
him: and (indeede) shall dye, except the sooner I may enjoy him. And
therefore, if my life and well-fare be respected by thee, let him
understand the integrity of mine affection, by such good means as thou
findest it most expedient to be done: entreating him from me, that I
may have some conference with him, when he shall thereto be
solicited by me.
  The Chamber-Gentlewoman Lesca, willingly undertooke the Ladies
Embassie; and so soone as opportunity did favor her: having withdrawne
Pyrrhus into an apt and commodious place, shee delivered the Message
to him, in the best manner she could devise. Which Pyrrhus hearing,
did not a little wonder thereat, never having noted any such matter;
and therefore sodainly conceyved, that the Lady did this onely to
try him; whereupon, somewhat roundly and roughly, hee returned this
answere. Lesca, I am not so simple, as to credite any such Message
to be sent from my Lady, and therefore be better advised of thy words.
But admit that it should come from her, yet I cannot be perswaded,
that her soule consented to such harsh Language, far differing from
a forme so full of beuty. And yet admit againe, that her hart and
tongue herein were relatives: My Lord and Master hath so farre
honoured mee, and so much beyond the least part of merite in mee: as I
will rather dye, then any way offer to disgrace him: And therefore I
charge thee, never more to move mee in this matter.
  Lesca, not a jot danted at his stearne words, presently she saide.
Pyrrhus, Both in this and all other Messages my Lady shall command me,
I wil speake to thee whensoever shee pleaseth, receive what discontent
thou canst thereby; or make presumption of what doubts thou maist
devise. But as I found thee a senselesse fellow, dull, and not
shaped to any understanding, so I leave thee: And in that anger parted
from him, carrying backe the same answer to her Lady. She no sooner
heard it, but instantly shee wished her selfe to be dead; and within
some few dayes after, she conferred againe with her Chamber-woman,
saying. Lesca, thou knowest well enough, that the Oxe falleth not at
the first blow of the Axel neither is the victory won, upon a silly
and shallow adventure: Wherefore, I thinke it convenient, that once
more thou shouldst make another tryall of him, who (in prejudice to
me) standeth so strictly on his loyalty, and choosing such an houre as
seemeth most commodious, soundly possesse him with my tormenting
passions. Bestirre thy Wittes, and tippe thy tongue with a Womans
eloquence, to effect what I so earnestly desire: because, by
languishing in this lovesicke affliction, it will bee the danger of my
death, and some severe detriment to him, to be the occasion of so
great a losse.
  Lesca, comforted her Lady, so much as lay in her power to doe, and
having sought for Pyrrhus, whom she found at good leysure; and, in a
pleasing humor, thus she beganne. Pyrrhus, some few dayes since I
tolde thee, in what extreame Agonies thy Lady and mine was, onely in
regarde of her love to thee: and now againe I come once more, to
give thee further assurance thereof: Wherefore, beleeve it
unfeignedly, that if thy obstinacie continue still, in like manner
as the other day it did, expect very shortly to heare the tydings of
her death.
  It is my part therefore, to entreat thee, to comfort her long
languishing desires: but if thou persist in thy harsh opinion, in
stead of reputing thee a wise and fortunate yong man, I shall confesse
thee to bee an ignoraunt Asse. What a glorie is it to thee, to be
affected of so faire and worthy a Lady, beyond all men else
whatsoever? Next to this, tell me, how highly maist thou confesse
thy self beholding to Fortune, if thou but duly consider, how shee
hath elected thee as sole soveraigne of her hopes, which is a crowne
of honour to thy youth and a sufficient refuge against all wants and
necessities? Where is any to thy knowledge like thy selfe, that can
make such advantage of his time, as thou maist do, if thou wert
wise? Where canst thou find any one to go beyond thee in Armes,
Horses, sumptuous garments, and Gold, as will be heaped on thee, if
Lydia may be the Lady of thy love? Open then thine understanding to my
words, returne into thine owne souie, and bee wise for thy selfe.
  Remember (Pyrrhus) that Fortune presents her selfe but once before
any one, with cheerefull lookes, and her lappe wide open of richest
favours, where if choice be not quickely made, before she folde it up,
not quic and turn her backe; let no complaint afterward be made of
her, if the Fellow that had so faire an offer, proove to be miserable,
wretched, and a Begger, only thorow his owne negligence. Beside,
what else hath formerly bin saide, there is now no such neede of
loyaltie in servants to their Ladies, as should be among deare Friends
and Kindred: but servants ought rather (as best they may) be such to
their Masters, as they are to them. Doest thou imagine, that if thou
hadst a faire Wife, Mother, Daughter, or Sister, pleasing in the eye
of our Nicostratus; he would stand on such nice tearmes of duty or
Loyaltie, as now thou doest to his Ladie? Thou wert a verie foole to
rest so perswaded. Assure thy selfe, that if entreaties and faire
means might not prevalle, force, and compulsion (whatsoever ensued
thereon) woulde winne the masterie. Let us then use them, and the
commodities unto them belonging, as they would us and ours. Use the
benefit of thy Fortune, and beware of abusing her favour. She yet
smiles on thee; but take heede least she turne her backe, it will then
be over-late to repent thy folly. And if my Ladie die through thy
disdaine, be assured, that thou canst not escape with life, beside
open shame and disgrace for ever.
  Pyrrhus, who had often considered on Lescaes first message,
concluded with himselfe; that if any more she moved the same matter:
hee would returne her another kinde of answere, wholly yeelding to
content his Lady; provided, that he might remaine assured,
concerning the intyre truth of the motion, and that it was not urged
onely to trie him, wherefore, thus he replyed. Lesca, do not imagine
mee so ignorant, as not to know the certaintie of all thy former
allegations, confessing them as freely as thou doest, or canst. But
yet let mee tell thee withall, that I knowe my Lord to be wise and
judicious, and having committed all his affaires to my care and trust:
never blame mee to misdoubt, least my Ladie (by his counsell and
advice) make thee the messenger of this motion, therby to call my
Fidelitie in question.
  To cleare which doubt, and for my further assurance of her well
meanning toward me; if she wil undertake the performance of three such
things as I must needes require in this case: I am afterward her owne,
in any service she can command me. The first of them, is; that in
the presence of my Lord and Master, she kill his faire Faulcon,
which so dearly hee affecteth. The second, to send me a locke or
tuft of his beard, being puld away with her owne hand. The third and
last, with the same hand also, to pluck out one of his best and
soundest teeth, and send it mee as her loves true token. When I
finde all these three effectually performed, I am wholly hers, and not
before.
  These three strict impositions, seemed to Lesca, and her Ladie
likewise, almost beyond the compasse of all possibility. Nevertheles
Love, being a powerfull Oratour in perswading, as also adventurous
even on the most difficult dangers; gave her courage to undertake them
all: sending Lesca backe againe to him, with full assurance, of
these more then Herculean labours. Moreover, her selfe did intend to
adde a fourth taske, in regard of his strong opinion concerning the
great Wisedome of his Lord and Maister. After she had effected all the
other three, she would not permit him to kisse her, but before his
Lords face: which yet should be accomplished in such sort, as
Nicostratus himselfe should not beleeve it, although apparantly he saw
it. Well, (quoth Pyrrhus) when all these wonders are performed, assure
my Ladie. that I am truelie hers.
  Within a short while after, Nicostratus made a solemne Feastival
(accorling as yearely he used to doe) in honour of his birth day,
inviting many Lords and Ladies thereto. On which rejoycing day, so
soone as dinner was ended, and the Tables withdrawne: Lydia came
into the great Hall, where the Feast was solemnly kept; very rich
and costly apparrelled; and there, in presence of Pyrrhus, and the
whole assemblie, going to the Perch whereon the Faulcone sate, wherein
her Husband tooke no little delight, and having untyed her, as if shee
meant to beare her on her Fist: tooke her by the jesses, and beating
her against the wal, killed her. Nicostratus beholding this, called
out aloud unto her, saying. Alas Madame! What have you done? She
making him no answere, but turning to the Lords and Ladies, which
had dined there, spake in this manner.
  Ill should I take revenge on a King, that had offended me, if I
had not so much heart, as to wreake my spleene on a paltry Hawke.
Understand then, worthy Lords and Ladies, that this Faulcone hath long
time robbed me of those delights, which men (in meere equitie) ought
to have with their wives: because continually, so as breake of day
hath appeared, my Husband, starting out of bed, makes him selfe
readie, presently to Horsse, and with this Faulcon on his Fist,
rides abroad to his recreation in the Fields. And I, in such
forsaken sort as you see, am left all alone in my bed, discontented
and despised: often vowing to my selfe, to bee thus revenged as now
I am, being with-held from it by no other occasion, but onely want
of a fit and apt time, to do it in the presence of such persons, as
might bee just judges of my wrongs, and as I conceive you all to be.
  The Lords and Ladies hearing these words, and beleeving this deed of
hers to be done no otherwise, but out of her entire affection to
Nicostratus, according as her speeches sounded: compassionately
turning towards him (who was exceedingly displeased) and all
smiling, said. Now in good sadnesse Sir; Madame Lydia hath done well
in acting her just revenge upon the Hawke, that bereft her of her
Husbands kinde companie; then which nothing is more precious to a
loving wife, and a hell it is to live without it. And Lydia, being
sodainly with. into her chamber; with much other friendly and familiar
talke, they converted the anger of Nicostratus into mirth and smiling.
  Pyrrhus, who had diligently observed the whole cariage of this
businesse, saide to himselfe. My Ladie hath begun well, and proceeding
on with no worse successe, will (no doubt) bring her love to an
happy conclusion. As for the Lady her selfe, she having thus kild
the Hawke, it was no long while after, but being in the Chamber with
her husband, and they conversing familiarly together; she began to
jest with him, and hee in the like manner with her, tickling and
toying each the other, till at the length she played with his beard,
and now she found occasion aptly serving, to effect the second taske
imposed by Pyrrhus. So, taking fast hold on a small tuft of his beard,
she gave a sodaine snatch, and plucked it away quite from his chin.
Whereat Nicostratus beeing angerly moved, she (to appease his
distaste) pleasantly thus spake. How now my Lord? Why do you looke
so frowningly? What? Are you angry for a few loose haires of your
beard? How then should I take it, when you plucke mee by the haire
of my head, and yet I am not a jot discontented, because I know you do
it but in jesting manner? These friendly speeches cut off all
further contention, and she kepte charily the tuft of er Husbands
beard, which (the verie selfe-same day) shee sent to Pyrrhus her
hearts chosen friend.
  But now concerning the third matter to be adventured, it drove her
to a much more serious consideration, then those two which shee had
already so well and exactly performed. Notwithstanding, like a Ladie
of unconquerable spirit, and (in whom) Love enlarged his power more
and more: she sodainly conceited, what course was best to bee kept
in this case, forming her attempt in this manner. Upon Nicostratus
wayted two young Gentlemen, as Pages of his Chamber, whose Fathers had
given them to his service, to learne the manners of honourable
Courtship, and those qualities necessarily required in Gentlemen.
One of them, when Nicostratus sate downe to dinner or supper, stood in
Office of his Carver, delivering him all the meats whereon he fed. The
other (as Taster) attended on his Cup, and he dranke no other
drinke, but what hee brought him, and they both were highly pleasing
unto him.
  On a day, Lydia called these two youths aside; and, among some other
speeches, which served but as an induction to her intended policy; she
perswaded them, that their mouths yeelded an unsavoury and
ilpleasing smell, whereof their Lord seemed to take dislike. Wherefore
she advised them, that at such times as they attended on him in
their severall places: they should (so much as possibly they could)
withdraw their heads aside from him, because their breath might not be
noyous unto him. But withall, to have an especiall care, of not
disclosing to any one, what she had told them; because (out of meere
love) she had acquainted them therewith: which very coistantly they
beleeved, and followed the same direction as she had advised, being
loath to displease, where service bound them to obey. Choosing a
time fitting for her purpose, when Nicostratus was in private
conference with her, thus she began. Sir, you observe not the
behaviour of your two Pages, when they wait on you at the Table? Yes
but I do wife (quoth he) how squemishly they turn their heads aside
from me, and it hath often bin in my minde, to understand a reason why
they do so.
  Seating her selfe by him, as if shee had some weighty matter to tell
him; she proceeded in this manner. Alas my Lord, you shall not need to
question them, because I can sufficiently resolve you therein: which
(neverthelesse) I have long concealed, because I would not be
offensive to you. But in regard, it is now manifestly apparant, that
others have tasted, what (I immagined) none but my selfe did, I will
no longer hide it from you. Assuredly Sir, there is a most strange and
unwonted ill-savour, continually issuing from your mouth, smelling
most noysomely, and I wonder what should be the occasion. In former
times, I never felt any such foule breathing to come from you: and
you, who do dally converse with so many worthy persons, should seeke
meanes to be rid of so great an annoyance. You say verie true wife
(answered Nicostratus) and I protest to you on my Credite, I feele
no such ill smell, neither know what should cause it, except I have
som corrupted tooth in my mouth. Perhaps Sir (quoth she) it may be so,
and yet you feele not the savour which others do, yea, very
offensively.
  So, walking with her to a Window, he opened wide his mouth, the
which nicely shee surveyed on either side, and, turning her head
from him, as seeming unable to endure the savour: starting, and
shrieking out alowd, she said. Santa Maria! What a sight is this? Alas
my good Lord, How could you abide this, and for so long a while? Heere
is a tooth on this side, which (so farre as I can perceive) is not
onely hollow and corrupted: but also wholly putrified and rotten,
and if it continue still in your head, beleeve it for a truth, that it
will infect and spoile all the rest neere it. I would therefore
counsell you, to let it be pluckt out, before it breede your further
danger. I like your counsell well Lydia, replyed Nicostratus, and
presently intend to follow it; Let therefore my Barber be sent for,
and, without any longer delay, he shall plucke it forth instantly.
  How sir? (quoth she,) your Barber? Uppon mine Honour, there shall
come no Barber heere. Why Sir, it is such a rotten Tooth, and standeth
so fairely for my hand: that, without helpe or advice of any Barber,
let mee alone for plucking it forth without putting you to any paine
at all. Moreover, let me tell you Sir, those Tooth-drawers are so rude
and cruell, in performing such Offices, as my heart cannot endure,
that you should come within compasse of their currish courtesie,
neither shall you Sir, if you will be ruled by me. If I should faile
in the manner of their facilitie, yet love and duty hath enstructed
me, to forbeare your least paining, which no unmannerly Barber will
do.
  Having thus spoken, and he well contented with her kinde offer,
the instruments were brought, which are used in such occasions, all
being commanded forth of the Chamber, but onely Lesca, who evermore
kept still in her company. So, locking fast the doore, and Nicostratus
being seated, as she thought fittest for her purpose, she put the
Tanacles into his mouth, catching fast hold on one of his soundest
teeth: which, notwithstanding his loud crying, Lesca held him so
strongly, that forth she pluckt it, and hid it, having another tooth
readie made hot, and bloody, very much corrupted and rotten, which she
helde in the Tanacles, and shewed to him, who was well-neere halfe
dead with anguish. See Sir (quoth she) was this Tooth to be suffered
in your head, and to yeeld so foule a smell as it did? He verily
beleeving what she said, albeit hee had endured extreame paine, and
still complained on her harsh and violent pulling it out: rejoyced
yet, that he was now ridde of it, and she comforting him on the one
side, and the anguish asswaging him on the other, he departed forth of
the Chamber.
  In the mean while, by Lesca she sent the sound tooth to Pyrrhus, who
(wondering not a little at her so many strange attempts, which hee
urged so much the rather, as thinking their performance impossible,
and in meere loyall duty to his Lord) seeing them all three to be
notably effected; he made no further doubt of her intire love towardes
him, but sent her assurance likewise, of his readinesse and
serviceable diligence, whensoever she would command him.
  Now, after the passage of all these adventures, hardly to bee
undertaken by any other Woman: yet she held them insufficient for
his security, in the grounded perswasion of her love to him, except
shee performed another of her owne, and according as shee had boldly
promised. Houres do now seeme dayes, and dayes multiplicitie of
yeeres, till the kisse may be given, and receyved in the presence of
Nicostratus, yet hee himselfe to avouch the contrary.
  Madam Lydia (upon a pretended sicknesse) keepeth her chamber, and as
women can hardly be exceeded in dissimulation: so, shee wanted no wit,
to seeme exquisitely cunning, in all the outwarde apparances of
sicknesse. One day after dinner, shee being visited by Nicostratus,
and none attending on him but Pyrrhus onely: she earnestly
entreated, that as a mitigation, to some inward afflictions which
she felt, they would helpe to guide her into the Garden.
  Most gladly was her motion graunted, and Nicostratus gently taking
her by one arme, and Pyrrhus by the other, so they conducted her
into the Garden, seating her in a faire floury Grasse-plot, with her
backe leaning to a Peare-tree. Having sitten there an indifferent
while, and Pyrrhus, being formerly enstructed, in the directions which
she had given him, thus shee spake, some-what faintly. Pyrrhus, I have
a kinde of longing desire upon a sodaine, to taste of these Peares:
Wherefore, climbe up into the Tree, and cast me downe one or two;
which instantly hee did. Being aloft in the Tree, and throwing downe
some of the best and ripest Peares; at length (according to his
premeditated Lesson) looking downe, he said.
  Forbeare my Lord, Do you not see, in how weake and feeble
condition my Ladie is, being shaken with so violent a sicknesse? And
you Madam, how kinde and loving soever you are to my Lord, Are you
so little carefull of your health, being but now come forth of your
sicke Chamber, to be ruffled and tumbled in such rough manner?
Though such dalliances are not amisse in you both; being fitter for
the private Chamber, then an open garden, and in the presence of a
servant: yet time and place should alwaies bee respectively
considered, for the avoiding of ill example, and better testimonie
of your owne Wisedomes, which ever should be like your selves. But
if so soone, and even in the heate of a yet turbulent sicknesse,
your equall love can admit these kisses and embraces: your private
Lodginges were much more convenient, where no Servants eye can see
such Wantonnesse, nor you be reproved of indiscretion, for being too
publique in your Familiaritie. Madame Lydia, sodainely starting, and
turning unto her Husband, sayde. What doth Pyrrhus prate? Is he well
in his wittes? Or is he franticke? No Madame, replyed Pyrrhus, I am
not franticke. Are you so fond as to thinke that I do not see your
folly? Nicostratus wondering at his Words, presently answered. Now
trust me Pyrrhus, I think thou dreamest. No my Lord, replyed
Pyrrhus, I dreame not a jot, neither do you, or my Ladie: but if
this Tree could affoord the like kindnesse to me, as you do to her,
there would not a Peare bee left uppon it. How now Pyrrhus? (quoth
Lydia) this language goeth beyond our understanding, it seemeth thou
knowest not what thou saist. Beleeve me husband, if I were as well
as ever I have bin, I would climb this tree, to see those idle wonders
which hee talketh of: for, while he continueth thus above, it
appeareth, hee can finde no other prattle, albeit he taketh his
marke amisse.
  Heereupon, he commanded Pyrrhus to come downe, and being on the
ground: Now Pyrrhus (quoth he) tell me what thou saydst. Pyrrhus,
pretending an alteration into much amazement, straungely looking about
him, saide; I know not verie well (my Lord) what answere I should make
you, fearing least my sight hath bin abused by error: for when I was
aloft in that Tree, it seemed manifestly to me: that you embraced my
Lady (though somewhat rudely, in regard of her perillous sicknesse,
yet lovingly) and as youthfully as in your yonger dales, with infinite
kisses, and wanton dalliances, such as (indeede) deserved a far more
private place in my poore opinion. But in my descending downe, mee
thought you gave over that amorous familiaritie, and I found you
seated as I left you. Now trust mee Pyrrhus, answered Nicostratus, Thy
tongue and wit have very strangely wandred, both from reason and all
reall apprehension: because we never stirred from hence, since thou
didst climbe up into the Tree, neither mooved otherwise, then as now
thou seest us. Alas my Lord (saide Pyrrhus) I humbly crave pardon
for my presumption, in reprooving you for medling with your owne:
which shal make me hereafter better advised, in any thing what
soever I heare or see.
  Mervaile and amazement, encreased in Nicostratus far greater then
before, hearing him to avouch still so constantly what he had seene,
no contradiction being able to alter him, which made him rashly sweare
and say. I will see my selfe, whether this Peare-tree bee enchanted,
or no: and such wonders to be seene when a man is up in it, as thou
wouldst have us to beleeve. And being mounted up so hy, that they were
safe from his sodaine comming on them, Lydia had soone forgotten her
sicknes, and the promised kisse cost her above twenty more, beside
verie kinde and hearty embraces, as lovingly respected and entertained
by Pyrrhus. Which Nicostratus beholding aloft in the tree; cryed out
to her, saying. Wicked woman, What doest thou meane? And thou
villain Pyrrhus, Darst thou abuse thy Lord, who hath reposed so much
trust in thee? So, descending in haste downe againe, yet crying so
to them still: Lydia replyed, Alas my Lord, Why do you raile and
rave in such sort? So, he( found her seated as before, and Pyrrhus
waiting with dutiful reverence, even as when he climbed up the Tree:
but yet he thought his sight not deceyved, for all their demure and
formall behaviour, which made him walke up and downe, extreamely
fuming and fretting unto himselfe, and which in some milder manner
to qualifie, Pyrrhus spake thus to him.
  I deny not (my good Lord) but freely confesse, that even as your
selfe, so I, being above in the Tree, had my sight most falsely
deluded: which is so apparantly confirmed by you, and in the same
sort, as there needeth no doubt of both our beguiling; in one and
the same suspitious nature. In which case to be the more assuredly
resolved, nothing can be questioned, but whether your beleefe do so
farre misleade you, as to thinke, that my Ladie (who hath alwayes bene
most wise, loyall, and vertuous,) would so shamefullie wrong you: yea,
and to performe it before your face, wherein I dare gadge my life to
the contrary. Concerning my selfe, it is not fit for mee, to argue
or contest in mine owne commendation: you that have ever knowne the
sincerity of my service, are best able to speake in my behalfe: and
rather wold I be drawne in peeces with foure wilde horses, then bee
such an injurious slave to my Lord and Master.
  Now then, it can be no otherwise, but we must needs rest
certainely perswaded, that the guile and offence of this false
appearance, was occasioned by thee onely. For all the world could
not make me otherwise beleeve, but that I saw you kisse and most
kindely imbrace my Lady: if your owne eyes had not credited the like
behaviour in me to her, of which sinne, I never conceived so much as a
thought. The Lady (on the other side) seeming to be very angerly
incensed, starting faintly up on her feet, yet supporting her selfe by
the tree, said. It appeareth Sir, that you have entertained a goodly
opinion of me, as, if I were so lewde and lasciviously disposed, or
addicted to the very least desire of wantonnesse: that I would bee
so forgetfull of mine owne honour, as to adventure it in your sight,
and with a servant of my house? Oh Sir, such women as are so
familiarly affected, need learne no wit of men in amourous matters;
their private Chambers shall be better trusted, then an open blabing
and tell-tale Garden.
  Nicostratus, who verily beleeved what they had both said, and that
neither of them would adventure such familiarity before his face:
would talke no more of the matter, but rather studyed of the rarity of
such a miracle, not seene, but in the height of the tree, and changing
againe up on the descent. But Lydia, containing still her
collourable kinde of impatience, and angerly frowning upon
Nicostratus, stearnely saide. If I may have my will, this villanous
and deceiving tree, shall never more shame me, or any other woman: and
therefore Pyrrhus, runne for an Axe, and by felling it to the
ground, in an instant, revenge both thy wrong and mine. Doest not thou
serve a worthy Lord? And have not I a wise Husband, who, without any
consideration, will suffer the eye of his understanding to be so
dazeled, with a foolish imagination beyond all possibility? For,
although his eyes did apprehend such a folly, and it seemed to be a
truth indeed: yet, in the depth of setled judgement, all the world
should not perswade him, that it was so.
  Pyrrhus had quickely brought the Axe, and hewing downe the tree,
so soone as the Lady saw it fall; turning her selfe to Nicostratus,
she said. Now that I have seene mine honour and honesties enemy laid
along; mine anger is past, and Husband, I freely pardon you:
intreating you heartily henceforward, not to presume or imagine,
that my love eyther is, or can bee altred from you.
  Thus the mocked and derided Nicostratus, returned in againe with his
Lady and Pyrrhus; where perhaps (although the Peare-tree was cut
downe) they could find as cunning meanes to over-reach him.
                   THE SEVENTH DAY, THE TENTH NOVELL
     WHEREIN SUCH MEN ARE COVERTLY REPREHENDED, WHO MAKE NO CARE OR
          CONSCIENCE AT ALL OF THOSE THINGS THAT SHOULD PRESERVE
                             THEM FROM SINNE

  Two Citizens of Siena, the one named Tingoccio Mini, and the other
Meucio di Tura, affected both one woman, called Monna Mita, to whom
the one of them was a Gossip. The Gossip dyed, and appeared
afterward to his companion, according as he had formerly promised
him to doe, and tolde him what strange wonders he had seene in the
other world.

  Now there remained none but the King himselfe, last of all to
recount his Novell; who, after hee heard the Ladies complaints
indifferently pacified, for the rash felling downe of such a
precious Peare-tree; thus he began. Faire Ladies, it is a case more
then manifest, that every King, who will be accounted just and
upright: should first of all, and rather then any other, observe those
Lawes which he himselfe hath made; otherwise he ought to be reputed as
a servant, worthy of punishment, and no King. Into which fault and
reprehension, I your King, shall well neere be constrained to fall;
for yesterday I enacted a Law, upon the forme of our discoursing, with
full intent, that this day I would not use any part of my
priviledge; but being subject (as you all are) to the same Law, I
should speake of that argument, which already you have done.
  Wherein, you have not onely performed more then I could wish, upon a
subject so sutable to my minde: but in every Novell, such variety of
excellent matter, such singular illustrations, and delicate
eloquence hath flowne from you all; as I am utterly unable to invent
any thing (notwithstanding the most curious search of my braine) apt
or fit for the purpose, to paragon the meanest of them already
related. And therefore seeing I must needs sinne in the Law
established by my selfe; I tender my submission, as worthy of
punishment, or what amends else you please to enjoyne mee. Now, as
returned to my wonted priviledge, I say, that the Novell recounted
by Madame Eliza, of the Fryar Godfather and his Gossip Agnesia, as
also the sottishnesse of the Senese her Husband, hath wrought in me
(worthy Ladies) to such effect; as, forbearing to speake any more of
these wily prancks, which witty wives exercise on their simple
Husbands; I am to tell you a pretty short Tale; which, though there is
matter enough in it, not worthy the crediting, yet partly it will
bee pleasing to heare.
  Sometime there lived in Sienna two popular men; the one being
named Tingoccio Mini, and the other Meucio de Tura; Men simple, and of
no understanding, both of them dwelling in Porta Salaia. These two men
lived in such familiar conversation together, and expressed such
cordiall affection each to other, as they seldome walked asunder;
but (as honest men use to doe) frequented Churches and Sermons,
oftentimes hearing, both what miseries and beatitudes were in the
world to come, according to the merits of their soules that were
departed out of this life, and found their equall repaiment in the
other. The manifold repetition of these matters, made them very
earnestly desirous to know, by what meanes they might have tydings
from thence, for their further confirmation. And finding all their
endeavours utterly frustrated, they made a solemne vow and promise
(each to other under oath) that hee which first dyed of them two,
should returne backe againe (so soone as possibly he could) to the
other remaining alive, and tell him such tydings as hee desired to
heare.
  After the promise was thus faithfully made, and they still keeping
company, as they were wont to doe: It fortuned, that Tingoccio
became Gossip to one, named Ambrosio Anselmino, dwelling in
Camporegglo, who by his wife, called Monna Mita, had a sweet and
lovely Sonne. Tingoccio often resorting thither, and consorted with
his companion Meucio; the she-Gossip, being a woman worthy the loving,
faire and comely of her person. Tingoccio, notwithstanding the
Gossipship betweene them, had more then a moneths minde to his
Godchilds Mother. Meucio also fell sicke of the same disease,
because shee seemed Fleasing in his eye, and Tingoccio gave he no
meane commendations; yet, carefully hey concealed their love to
themselves, but not for one and the same occasion. Because Tingoccio
kept it closely from Meucio, lest he should hold it disgracefull in
him, to beare amourous affection to his Gossip, and thought it
unfitting to bee knowne. But Meucio had no such meaning, for hee
knew well enough that Tingoccio loved her, and therefore conceived
in his minde, that if he discovered any such matter to him: He will
(quoth he) be jealous of me, and being her Gossip (which admitteth his
conference with her when himselfe pleaseth;) he may easily make her to
distaste me, and therefore I must rest contented as I am.
  Their love continuing on still in this kinde, Tingoccio prooved so
fortunate in the businesse, that having better meanes then his
companion, and more prevayring courses, when, where, and how to
Court his Mistresse, which seemed to forward him effectually. All
which Meucio plainely perceived, and though it was tedious and
wearisome to him, yet hoping to finde some successe at length: he
would not take notice of any thing, as fearing to infringe the amity
betweene him and Tingoccio, and so his hope to be quite supplanted.
Thus the one triumphing in his loves happinesse, and the other
hoping for his felicity to come; a lingering sickenesse seazed on
Tingoccio, which brought him to so low a condition, as at the length
he dyed.
  About some three or foure nights after, Meucio being fast asleepe in
his bed, the ghoste of Tingoccio appeared to him, and called so
loude that Meucio awaking, demanded who called him? I am thy friend
Tingoccio, replied the ghoste, who according to my former promise
made, am come again in vision to thee, to tell thee tidings out of the
nether world. Meucio was a while somewhat amazed: but, recollecting
his more manly spirits together, boldly he said. My brother and
friend, thou art heartily welcome: but I thought thou hadst beene
utterly lost. Those things (quoth Tingoccio) are lost, which cannot be
recovered againe, and if I were lost, how could I then be heere with
thee? Alas Tingoccio, replyed Meucio, my meaning is not so: but I
would be resolved, whether thou art among the damned soules, in the
painefull fire of hell torments, or no? No (quoth Tingoccio) I am
not sent thither, but for divers sinnes by mee committed I am to
suffer very great and grievous paines. Then Meucio demaunded
particularly, the punishments inflicted there, for the severall sinnes
committed heere: Wherein Tingoccio fully resolved him. And upon
further question, what hee would have to be done for him here, made
answere, That Meucio should cause Masses, Prayers and Almes-deeds to
be performed for him, which (he said) were very helpefull to the
soules abiding there, and Meucio promised to see them done.
  As the ghost was offering to depart, Meucio remembred Tingoccioes
Gossip Monna Mita, and raysing himselfe higher upon his pillowe, said.
My memorie informeth me friend Tingoccio, your kinde Gossip Monna
Mita, with whom (when you remained in this life) I knew you to be very
familiar: let me intreat you then to tell me, what punishment is
inflicted on you there, for that wanton sinne committed heere? Oh
Brother Meucio, answered Tingoccio, so soone as my soule was landed
there, one came immediately to me, who seemed to know all mine
offences readily by heart, and forthwith commanded, that I should
depart thence into a certaine place, where I must weepe for my
sinnes in very grievous paines. There I found more of my companions,
condemned to the same punishment as I was, and being among them, I
called to minde some wanton dalliances, which had passed betweene my
Gossip and me, and expecting therefore farre greater afflictions, then
as yet I felt (although I was in a huge fire, and exceedingly hot) yet
with conceite of feare, I quaked and trembled wondrously.
  One of my other Consorts being by me, and perceiving in what an
extreame agony I was; presently said unto me. My friend, what hast
thou done more, then any of us here condemned with thee, that thou
tremblest and quakest, being in so hot a fire? Oh my friend (quoth
I) I am in feare of a greater judgement then this, for a grievous
offence by mee heretofore committed while I lived. Then hee
demaunded of mee what offence it was, whereto thus I answered. It
was my chance in the other world, to be Godfather at a childs
Christning, and afterward I grew so affectionate to the childs mother,
as (indeed) I kissed her twice or thrise. My companyon laughing at
me in mocking manner, replyed thus. Goe like an Asse as thou art,
and be no more afraid hereafter, for here is no punishment
inflicted, in any kinde whatsoever, for such offences of frailty
committed, especially with Gossips, as I my selfe can witnesse.
  Now day drew on, and the Cockes began to crow, a dreadfull hearing
to walking spirits, when Tingoccio said to Meucio. Farewell my
friendly companion, for I may tarry no longer with thee, and instantly
hee vanished away. Meucio having heard this confession of his
friend, and verily beleeving it for a truth, that no punishment was to
be inflicted in the future world, for offences of frailty in this
life, and chiefly with Gossips: began to condemne his owne folly,
having bin a Gossip to many wives, yet modesty restrained him from
such familiar offending. And therefore being sorry for this grosse
ignorance, hee made a vowe to be wiser hereafter. And if Fryar Reynard
had been acquainted with this kind of shrift (as doubtlesse he was,
though his Gossip Agnesia knew it not) he needed no such
Syllogismes, as he put in practise, when he converted her to his
lustfull knavery, in the comparison of kinred by him moved, concerning
her husband, the childe and himselfe. But, these are the best fruits
of such Fryerly Confessions, to compasse the issue of their inordinate
appetites; yet clouded with the cloake of Religion, which hath beene
the overthrow of too many.
  By this time the gentle blast of Zephirus began to blow, because the
Sunne grew neere his setting, wherewith the King concluded his Novell,
and none remaining more to be thus imployed: taking the Crowne from
off his owne head, he placed it on Madame Laurettaes, saying,
Madame, I Crowne you with your owne Crowne, as Queene of our
Company. You shall henceforth command as Lady and Mistresse, in such
occasions as shall be to your liking, and for the contentment of us
all; With which words he set him downe. And Madame Lauretta being
now created Queene, shee caused the Master of the houshold to bee
called, to whom she gave command, that the Tables should be prepared n
the pleasant vally, but at a more convenient houre, then formerly
had beene, because they might (with better ease) returne backe to
the Pallace. Then shee tooke order likewise, for all such other
necessary matters, as should bee required in the time of f Regiment:
and then turning her selfe to the whole Company, she began in this
manner.
  It was the Will of Dioneus yesternight, that our discourses for this
day, should concerne the deceits of wives to their Husbands. And
were it not to avoyde taxation, of a spleenitive desire to be
revenged, like the dog being bitten, biteth againe: I could command
our to morrows conference, to touch mens treacheries towards their
wives. But because I am free from any such fiery humor, let it be your
generall consideration, to speake of such queint beguylings, as have
heretofore past, either of the woman to the man, the man to the woman,
or of one man to another: and I am of opinion, that they will yeeld us
no lesse delight, then those related (this day) have done. When she
had thus spoken, she rose; granting them all liberty, to goe
recreate themselves untill Supper time.
  The Ladies being thus at their owne disposing, some of them bared
their legges and feete, to wash them in the coole current. Others, not
so minded, walked on the greene grasse, and under the goodly spread:
trees. Dioneus and Madame Fiammetta, they sate singing together, the
love-warre between Arcit and Palemon. And thus with diversity of
disports, in choice delight and much contentment, all were imployed,
till Supper drew neere. When the houre re come, and the Tables covered
by the Ponds side: we need not question their dyet and dainties,
infinite Birds sweetly singing about them, as no musicke in the
world could be more pleasing; beside calme windes, fanning their faces
from the neighbouring hilles (free from flyes, or the least annoyance)
made a delicate addition to their pleasure.
  No sooner were the Tables withdrawne, and all risen: but they fetcht
a few turnings about the vally, because the Sunne was not (as yet)
quite set. Then in the coole evening, according to the Queenes
appointment: in a soft and gentle pace, they walked homeward: devising
on a thousand occasions, as well those which the dayes discourses
had yeelded, as others of their owne inventing beside. It was almost
darke night, before they arrived at the Pallace; where, with variety
of choice Wines, and abounding plenty of rare Banquetting, they out
wore the little toile and wearinesse, which the long walke had charged
them withall. Afterward, according to their wonted order, the
Instruments being brought and played on, they fell to dancing about
the faire Fountaine; Tindaro intruding (now and then) the sound of his
Bagpipe, to make the musicke seeme more melodious. But in the end, the
Queene commanded Madame Philomena to sing; whereupon the Instruments
being tuned fit for the purpose, thus she began.

                   THE SONG
    THE CHORUS SUNG BY THE WHOLE COMPANY

    Wearisome is my life to me,
  Because I cannot once againe returne;
  Unto the place which made me first to mourne.

  Nothing I know, yet feele a powerfull fire,
    Burning within my brest,
    Through deepe desire;
  To be once more where first I felt unrest,
    Which cannot be exprest.
  O my sole good! O my best happinesse!
    Why am I thus restrainde?
  Is there no comfort in this wretchednesse?
  Then let me live content, to be thus painde.
    Wearisome is my life to me, etc,

  I cannot tell what was that rare delight,
    Which first enflamde my soule,
    And gave command in spight,
  That I should find no ease by day or night,
    But still live in controule.
  I see, I heare, and feele a kinde of blisse,
    Yet find no forme at all:
  Other in their desire, feele blessednesse,
  But I have none, nor thinke I ever shall.
    Wearisome is my life to me, etc.

  Tell me, if I may hope in following dayes,
    To have but one poore sight,
    Of those bright Sunny rayes,
  Dazeling my sence, did overecome me quite,
    Bequeath'd to wandring wayes.
  If I be poasted off, and may not prove,
    To have the smallest grace:
  Or but to know, that this proceeds from love,
  Why should I live despisde in every place?
    Wearisome is my life to me, etc.

  Me thinkes milde favour whispers in mine eare,
    And bids me not despaire;
    There will a time appeare
  To quell and quite confound consuming care,
    And joy surmount proud feare.
  In hope that gracious time will come at length,
    To cheare my long dismay:
  My spirits reassume your former strength,
  And never dread to see that joyfull day.
    Wearisome is my life to me,
    Because I cannot once againe returne;
    Unto the place, which made me first to mourne.

  This Song gave occasion to the whole Company, to imagine, that
some new and pleasing apprehension of Love, constrained Madame
Philomena to sing in this manner. And because (by the discourse
thereof) it plainely appeared, that shee had felt more then shee
saw, shee was so much the more happy, and the like was wished by all
the rest. Wherefore, after the Song was ended; the Queene
remembring, that the next day following was Friday, turning her
selfe graciously to them all, thus she spake.
  You know noble Ladies, and you likewise most noble Gentlemen, that
to morrow is the day consecrated to the Passion of our blessed Lord
and Saviour, which (if you have not forgotten it, as easily you
cannot) we devoutly celebrated, Madame Neiphila being then Queene,
ceasing from all our pleasant discoursing, as we did the like on the
Saturday following, sanctifiing the sacred Sabboth, in due regard of
it selfe. Wherefore, being desirous to imitate precedent good example,
which in worthy manner shee began to us all: I hold it very decent and
necessary, that we should abstaine to morrow, and the day ensuing,
from recounting any of our pleasant Novels, reducing to our
memories, what was done (as on those dayes) for the salvation of our
soules. This holy and Religious motion made by the Queene, was
commendably allowed by all the assembly, and therefore, humbly
taking their leave of her, and an indifferent part of the night
being already spent; severally they betooke themselves to their
Chambers.
                       THE INDUCTION TO THE EIGHT DAY

            WHEREON ALL THE DISCOURSES, PASSE UNDER THE RULE AND
                GOVERNMENT, OF THE HONOURABLE LADIE LAURETTA

  Earely on the Sonday Morning, Aurora shewing her selfe bright and
lovely; the Sunnes Golden beames beganne to appeare, on the toppes
of the neere adjoyning Mountaines; so, that Hearbes, Plants, Trees,
and all things else, were verie evidently to be discerned.
  When midday, and the heate thereof was well over-past, so that the
aire seemed mild and temperate: according as the Queene had commanded;
they were all seated againe about the Fountaine, with intent to
prosecute their former pastime. And then Madame Neiphila, by the
charge imposed on her, as first speaker for this day, beganne as
followeth.
                     THE EIGHT DAY, THE FIRST NOVELL

    WHEREIN IS DECLARED, THAT SUCH WOMEN AS WILL MAKE SALE OF THEIR
          HONESTIE, ARE SOMETIMES OVER-REACHED IN THEIR PAYMENT,
                   AND JUSTLY SERVED AS THEY SHOULD BE

  Gulfardo made a match or wager, with the Wife of Gasparuolo, for the
obtaining of her amorous favour, in regard of a summe of money first
to be given her. The money hee borrowed of her Husband, and gave it in
payment to her, as in case of discharging him from her Husbands
debt. After his returne home from Geneway, hee told him in the
presence of his wife, how he had payde the whole summe to her, with
charge of delivering it to her Husband, which she confessed to be
true, albeit greatly against her will.

  Seeing is my fortune, Gracious ladies, that I must give beginning to
this dayes discoursing, by some such Novel which I thinke expedient;
as duty bindeth me, I am therewith well contented. And because the
deceits of Women to men, have beene at large and liberally related;
I will tell you a subtile tricke of a man to a Woman. Not that I blame
him for the deede, or thinke the deceyte not well fitted to the woman:
but I speake it in a contrarie nature, as commending the man, and
condemning the woman very justly, as also to shew, how men can as well
beguile those crafty companions, which least beleeve any such
cunning in them, as they that stand most on their artificiall skill.
  Howbeit, to speake more properly, the matter by me to be reported,
deserveth not the reproachfull title of deceite, but rather of a
recompence duly returned: because women ought to be chaste and honest,
and to preserve their honour as their lives, without yeelding to the
contamination thereof, for any occasion whatsoever. And yet
neverthelesse (in regard of our frailty) many times we proove not so
constant as we should be: yet I am of opinion, that she which
selleth her honestie for money, deserveth justly to be burned. Whereas
on the contrary, she that falleth into the offence, onely through
intire affection (the powerfull lawes of Love beeing above all
resistance) in equity meriteth pardon, especially of a Judge not
over-rigorous: as not long since wee heard from Philostratus, in
revealing what hapned to Madam Phillippa de Prato, upon the
dangerous Edict.
  Understand then, my most worthy Auditors, that there lived
sometime in Millaine an Almaigne Soldiour, named Gulfardo, of
commendable carriage in his person, and very faithfull to such as he
served, a matter not common among the Almaignes. And because he made
just repayment, to every one which lent him monies; he grew to such
especiall credit, and was so familiar with the very best Marchants; as
(manie times) he could not be so ready to borrow, as they were willing
alwaies to lend him. He thus continuing in the Cittie of Millaine,
fastened his affection on a verie beautifull Gentlewoman, named
Mistresse Ambrosia, Wife unto a rich Merchant, who was called
Signior Gasparuolo Sagastraccio, who had good knowledge of him, and
respectively used him. Loving this Gentlewoman with great
discretion, without the least apprehension of her husband: he sent
upon a day to entreate conference with her, for enjoying the
fruition of her love, and she should find him ready to fulfill
whatsoever she pleased to command him, as, at any time he would make
good his promise.
  The Gentlewoman, after divers of these private solicitings,
resolutely answered, that she was as ready to fulfill the request of
Gulfardo, provided, that two especiall considerations might ensue
thereon. First, the faithfull concealing thereof from any person
living. Next, because she knew him to be rich, and she had occasion to
use two hundred Crowns, about businesse of important consequence: he
should freely bestow so many on her, and (ever after) she was to be
commanded by him. Gulfardo perceiving the covetousnesse of this woman,
who (notwithstanding his doting affection) he thought to be intirely
honest to her Husband: became so deepely offended at her vile answere,
that his fervent love converted into as earnest loathing her;
determining constantlie to deceive her, and to make her avaritious
motion, the only means wherby to effect it.
  He sent her word, that he was willing to performe her request, or
any farre greater matter for her: in which respect, he onely desired
for to know, when she would be pleased to have him come see her, and
to receive the money of him? No creature hee acquainted with his
setled purpose, but onely a deere friend and kinde companion, who
alwayes used to keepe him company, in the neerest occasions that
concerned him. The Gentlewoman, or rather most disloyall wife, uppon
this answer sent her, was extraordinarily jocond and contented,
returning him a secret Letter, wherein she signified: that
Gasparuolo her husband, had important affaires which called him to
Geneway: but he should understand of his departure, and then (with
safety) he might come see her, as also his bringing of the Crownes.
  In the meane while, Gulfardo having determined what he would do,
watched a convenient time, when he went unto Gasparuolo, and sayde:
Sir, I have some businesse of maine importance, and shall neede to use
but two hundred Crownes onely: I desire you to lend me so many
Crownes, upon such profite as you were wont to take of mee, at other
times when I have made use of you, and I shall not faile you at my
day.
  Gasparuolo was well contented with the motion, and made no more
adoe, but counted downe the Crownes: departing thence (within a few
dayes after) for Geneway, according to his Wives former message; she
giving Gulfardo also intelligence of his absence, that now (with
safety) hee might come see her, and bring the two hundred Crownes with
him.
  Gulfardo, taking his friend in his company, went to visit
Mistresse Ambrosia, whom he found in expectation of his arrivall,
and the first thing he did, he counted downe the two hundred
Crownes; and delivering them to her in the presence of his friend,
saide: Mistresse Ambrosia, receive these two hundred Crownes, which
I desire you to pay unto your Husband on my behalfe, when he is
returned from Geneway. Ambrosia, receyved the two hundred Crownes, not
regarding wherefore Gulfardo used these words: because shee verily
beleeved, that hee spake in such manner, because his friend should
take no notice, of his giving them to her, upon any covenant passed
betweene them; whereuppon, she sayde. Sir, I will pay them to my
Husband for you; and cause him to give you a sufficient discharge: but
first I will count them over my selfe, to see whether the summe be
just, or no. And having drawne them over upon the Table, the summe
containing truly two hundred Crownes (wherewith she was most highly
contented) she lockt them safe uppe in her Cuppeboord, and
Gulfardoes Friend being gone (as formerly it was compacted betweene
them) shee came to converse more familiarly with him, having
provided a banquet for him. What passed between them afterward, both
then, and oftentimes beside, before her Husbande returned home, is a
matter out of y element, and rather requires my ignoance then
knowledge.
  When Gasparuolo was come from Genway, Gulfardo observing a
convenient time, when he was sitting at the doore with his Wife; tooke
his Friend with him, and comming to Gasparuolo, said. Worthy Sir,
the two hundred Crownes which you lent me before your journy to
Geneway, in regard they could not serve my turne, to compasse the
businesse for which I borrowed them: within a day or two after, in the
presence of this Gentle man my friend, I made repayment of them to
your Wife, and therefore I pray you crosse me out of your booke.
  Gasparuolo turning to his Wife, demanded; Whether it was so, or
no? She beholding the witnesse standing by, who was also present at
her receyving them: durst not make deniall, but thus answered. Indeede
Husband, I received two hundred Crownes of the Gentleman, and never
remembred, to acquaint you therewith since your comming home: but
hereafter I will be made no more your receiver, except I carried a
quicker memory. Then saide Gasparuolo: Signior Gulfardo, I finde you
alwaies a most honest Gentleman, and will be readie at any time, to
doe you the like, or a farre greater kindnesse; depart at your
pleasure, and feare not the crossing of my Booke. So Gulfardo went
away merily contented, and Ambrosia was served as she justly
merited; she paying the price of her owne leudnesse to her Husband,
which she had a more covetous intent to keepe, questionlesse, not
caring how many like lustfull matches shee coulde make, to be so
liberally rewarded, if this had succeeded to her minde: whereas he
shewed himselfe wise and discreete, in paying nothing for his
pleasure, and requiting a covetous queane in her kinde.
                    THE EIGHT DAY, THE SECOND NOVELL

   APPROVING, THAT NO PROMISE IS TO BE KEPT WITH SUCH WOMEN AS WILL
     MAKE SALE OF THEIR HONESTY FOR COYNE. A WARNING ALSO FOR MEN,
            NOT TO SUFFER PRIESTS TO BE OVER FAMILIAR WITH
                                THEIR WIVES

  A lustie youthfull Priest of Varlungo, fell in love with a pretty
woman, named Monna Belcolore. To compasse his amorous desire, hee
lefte his Cloake (as a pledge of further payment) with her. By a
subtile sleight afterward, he made meanes to borrow a Morter of her,
which when hee sent home againe in the presence of her Husband; he
demaunded to have his Cloake sent him, as having left it in pawne
for the Morter. To pacifie her Husband, offended that shee did not
lend the Priest the Morter without a pawne: she sent him backe his
Cloake againe, albeit greatly against her will.

  Both the Gentlemen and Ladies gave equall commendations, of
Gulfardoes queint beguiling the Millaine Gentle-woman Ambrosia,and
wishing all other (of her minde) might alwaies be so served. Then
the Queene, smiling on Pamphilus, commaunded him to follow next:
whereupon, thus he began.
  I can tell you (faire Ladies) a short Novell, against such as are
continually offensive to us, yet we being no way able to offend him;
at least, in the same manner as they do injurie us. And for your
better understanding what and who they be, they are our lusty Priests,
who advance their Standard, and make their publike predications
against our wives, winning such advantage over them, that they can
pardon them both of the sinne and punnishment, whensoever they are
once subjected unto theyr perswasions, even as if they brought the
Soldane bound and captived, from Alexandria to Avignon. Which
imperious power, we (poore soules) cannot exercise on them,
considering, we have neither heart nor courage, to do our devoire in
just revenge on their Mothers, Sisters, Daughters, and Friends, with
the like spirit as they rise in armes against our wives. And
therefore, I meane to tell you a tale of a Country mans wife, more
to make you laugh at the conclusion thereof; then for any
singularity of words or matter: yet this benefite you may gaine
thereby, of an apparant proofe, that such Sinamon, amorous and
perswading Priests, are not alwayes to be credited on their words or
promises.
  Let me then tell you, that at Varlungo, which you know to bee not
farre distant hence, there dwelt an youthfull Priest, lustie, gallant,
and proper of person (especially for Womens service) commonly called
by the name of sweet Sir Simon. Now, albeit he was a man of slender
reading, yet notwithstanding, he had store of Latine sentences by
heart; some true, but twice so many maimed and false, Saint-like
shewes, holy speeches, and ghostly admonitions, which hee would preach
under an Oake in the fields, when he had congregated his
Parishioners together. When women lay in childebed, hee was their
daily comfortable visitant, and would man them from their houses, when
they had any occasion to walke abroad: carrying alwaies a bottle of
holy water about him, wherewith he would sprinkle them by the way,
peeces of halowed Candles, and Chrisome Cakes, which pleased women
extraordinarily, and all the Country affoorded not such another
frolicke Priest, as this our nimble and active sweet Sir Simon.
  Among many other of his feminine Parishioners, all of them being
hansome and comely Women: yet there was one more pleasing in his
wanton eye, then any of the rest, named Monna Belcolore, and wife to a
plaine mecanicke man, called Bentivegna del Mazzo. And, to speake
uprightly, few Countrey Villages yeelded a Woman, more fresh and
lovely of complexion, although not admirable for beauty, yet sweete
Sir Simon thoght her a Saint, and faine would be offering at her
shrine. Divers prety pleasing qualities she had, as sounding the
Cymball, playing artificially on the Timbrill, and singing thereto
as it had beene a Nightingale, dancing also so dexteriously, as
happy was the man that could dance in her company. All which so
enflamed sweet Sir Simon, that he lost his wonted sprightly behaviour,
walked sullen, sad and melancholly, as if he had melted all his
mettall, because hee could hardly have a sight of her. But on the
Sonday morning, when hee heard or knew that she was in the Church, hee
would tickle it with a Kyrie and a Sancsingular skill in singing, when
it had beene as good to heare an Asse bray. Whereas on the contrary,
when she came not to Church Masse, and all else were quicklie shaken
uppe, as if his devotion waited onely on her presence. Yet he was so
cunning in the carriage of his amorous businesse, both for her credite
and his owne; as Bentivegna her husband could not perceive it, or
any neighbor so much as suspect it.
  But, to compaise more familiar acquaintance with Belcolore, hee sent
her sundry gifts and presents, day by day, as sometime a bunch of
dainty greene Garlicke, whereof he had plenty growing in his Garden,
which he manured with his owne hands, and better then all the countrey
yeelded; otherwhiles a small basket of Pease or Benes, and Onyons or
Scallions, as the season served. But when he could come in place where
she was; then he darted amourous wincks and glances at her, with
becks, nods, and blushes, Loves private Ambassadours, which shee
(being but countrey-bred) seeming by outward appearance, not to see,
retorted disdainefully, and forthwith would absent her selfe, so
that sweet Sir Simon laboured still in vaine, and could not compasse
what he coveted.
  It came to passe within a while after, that on a time, (about high
noone) Sir Simon being walking abroad, chanced to meete with
Bentivegna, driving an Asse before him, laden with divers commodities,
and demaunding of him, whither he went, Bentivegna, thus answered.
In troth Sir Simon, I am going to the City, about some especiall
businesse of mine owne, and I carry these things to Signior
Bonacorci da Ginestreto, because he should helpe me before the
Judge, when I shall be called in question concerning my patrimony. Sir
Simon looking merily on him, said. Thou doest well Bentivegna, to make
a friend sure before thou need him; goe, take my blessing with thee,
and returne againe with good successe. But if thou meet with Laguccio,
or Naldino, forget not to tell them, that they must bring me my
shooe-tyes before Sunday. Bentivegna said, hee would discharge his
errand, and so parted from him, driving his Asse on towards Florence.
  Now began Sir Simon to shrug, and scratch his head, thinking this to
be a fit convenient time, for him to goe visite Belcolore, and to make
triall of his fortune: wherefore, setting aside all other businesse,
he stayed no where till he came to the house, whereinto being
entred, he saide: All happinesse be to them that dwell heere.
Belcolore being then above in the Chamber, when she heard his
tongue, replyed. Sweet Sir Simon! you are heartely welcome, whether
are you walking, if the question may bee demaunded? Beleeve me
dainty Ducke, answered Sir Simon, I am come to sit a while with
thee, because I met thy Husband going to the Citie. By this time,
Belcolore was descended downe the stayres, and having once againe
given welcome to Sir Simon, she sate downe by him, cleansing of
Colewort seeds from such other course chaffe, which her Husband had
prepared before his departure.
  Sir Simon hugging her in his armes, and fetching a vehement sigh,
said. My Belcolore, how long shall I pine and languish for thy love?
How now Sir Simon? answered she, is this behaviour fitting for an holy
man? Holy-men Belcolore, (quoth Sir Simon) are made of the same matter
as others be, they have the same affections, and therefore subject
to their infirmities. Santa Maria, answered Belcolore, Dare Priests
doe such things as you talke of? Yes Belcolore (quoth he) and much
better then other men can, because they are made for the very best
businesse, in which regard they are restrained from marriage. True
(quoth Belcolore) but much more from medling with other mens wives.
Touch not that Text Belcolore, replyed Sir Simon, it is somewhat above
your capacity: talke of that I come for, namely thy love, my Ducke,
and my Dove, Sir Simon is thine, I pray thee be mine.
  Belcolore observing his smirking behaviour, his proper person,
pretty talke, and queint insinuating; felt a motion to female frailty,
which yet she would withstand so long as she could, and not be
over-hasty in her yeelding. Sir Simon promiseth her a new paire of
shoes, garters, ribbands, girdles, or what else she would request. Sir
Simon (quoth she) all these things which you talke of, are fit for
women: but if your love to mee be such as you make choice of,
fulfill what I will motion to you, and then (perhaps) I shall tell you
more. Sir Simons heate made him hasty to promise whatsoever she
would desire; whereupon, thus shee replyed. On Saturday, said she, I
must goe to Florence, to carry home such yarne as was sent me to
spinne, and to amend my spinning wheele: if you will lend mee ten
Florines, wherewith I know you are alwayes furnished, I shall
redeeme from the Usurer my best peticote, and my wedding gowne (both
well neere lost for lacke of repaiment) without which I cannot be
seene at Church, or in any other good place else, and then afterward
other matters may be accomplished.
  Alas sweete Belcolore answered Sir Simon, I never beare any such sum
about me, for men of our profession, doe seldome carry any money at
all: but beleeve me on my word, before Saturday come, I will not faile
to bring them hither. Oh Sir (quoth Belcolore) you men are quicke
promisers, but slow performers. Doe you thinke to use me, as poore
Billezza was, who trusted to as faire words, and found her selfe
deceived? Now Sir Simon, her example in being made scandall to the
world, is a sufficient warning for me: if you be not so provided,
goe and make use of your friend, for I am not otherwise to be moved.
Nay Belcolore (quoth he) I hope you will not serve me so, but my
word shall be of better worth with you. Consider the conveniency of
time, wee being so privately here alone: whereas at my returning
hither againe, some hinderance may thwart me, and the like opportunity
be never obtained. Sir, she) you have heard my resolution; if you will
fetche the Florines, doe; otherwise, walke about your businesse, for I
am a woman of my word.
  Sir Simon perceiving, that she would not trust him upon bare
words, nor any thing was to be done, without Salvum me fac, whereas
his meaning was Sine custodia; thus answered. Well Belcolove, seeing
you dare not credit my bringing the tenne Florines, according to my
promised day: I will leave you a good pawne, my very best Cloake,
lyned quite thorough with rich Silke, and made up in the choysest
manner.
  Belcolore looking on the Cloake, said. How much may this Cloake
bee worth? How much? quoth Sir Simon, upon my word Belcolore, it is of
a right fine Flanders Serdge, and not above eight dayes since, I
bought it thus (ready made) of Lotto the Fripperer, and payed for it
sixe and twenty Florines, a pledge then sufficient for your ten. Is it
possible, said shee, that it should cost so much? Well, Sir Simon,
deliver it me first, I will lay it up safe for you against Saturday,
when if you fetch it not; I will redeeme mine owne things with it, and
leave you to release it your selfe.
  The Cloake is laid up by Belcolore, and Sir Simon so forward in
his affection; that (in briefe) he enjoyed what hee came for; and
departed afterward in his light tripping Cassocke, but yet thorow
by-Lanes, and no much frequented places, smelling on a Nosegay, as
if hee had beene at some wedding in the Countrey, and went thus
lightly without his Cloake, for his better ease. As commonly after
actions of evill, Repentance knocketh at the doore of Conscience,
and urgeth a guilty remembrance, with some sence of sorrow: so was
it now with sweet Sir Simon, who survayin over all his vailes of
offering Candles, the validity of his yearely benefits, and all
comming nothing neere the summe of (scarce halfe) sixe and twenty
Florines; he began to repent his deed of darkenesse, although it was
acted in the day-time, and considered with himselfe, by what honest
(yet unsuspected meanes) hee might recover his Cloake againe, before
it went to the Broaker, in redemption of Belcolores pawned
apparrell, and yet to send her no Florines neither.
  Having a cunning reaching wit, especially in matters for his owne
advantage, and pretending to have a dinner at his lodging, for a few
of some invited friends: he made use of a neighbours Boy, sending
him to the house of Belcolore, with request of lending him her Stone
Morter, to make Greenesawce in for his guests, because hee had meate
required such sawce. Belcolore suspecting no treachery, sent him the
Stone Morter with the Pestell, and about dinner time, when he knew
Bentivegna to bee at home with his wife, by a spye which was set for
the purpose; hee called the Clearke (usually attending on him) and
said. Take this Morter and Pestell, beare them home to Belcolore,
and tell her: Sir Simon sends them home with thankes, they having
sufficiently served his turne, and desire her likewise, to send me
my Cloake, which the Boy left as a pledge for better remembrance,
and because she would not lend it without a pawne.
  The Clearke comming to the house of Belcolore, found her sitting
at dinner with her Husband, and delivering her the Pestell and Morter,
performed the rest of Sir Simons message. Belcolore hearing the Cloake
demaunded, stept up to make answere: But Bentivegna, seeming (by his
lookes) to be much offended, roughly replyed. Why how now wife? Is not
Sir Simon our especiall friend, and cannot he be pleasured without a
pawne? I protest upon my word, I could find in my heart to smite
thee for it. Rise quickely thou wert best, and send him backe his
Cloake; with this warning hereafter, that whatsoever he will have,
be it your poore Asse, or any thing else being ours, let him have
it: and tell him (Master Clearke) he may command it. Belcolore rose
grumbling from the Table, and fetching the Cloake forth of the
Chest, which stood neere at hand in the same roome; shee delivered
it to the Clearke, saying. Tell Sir Simon from me, and boldly say
you heard me speake it: that I make a vow to my selfe, he shall
never make use of my Morter hereafter, to beat any more of his
sawcinesse in, let my Husband say whatsoever he will, I speake the
word, and will performe it.
  Away went the Clearke home with the Cloake, and told Sir Simon
what she had said, whereto he replyed. If I must make use of her
Morter no more; I will not trust her with the keeping of my Cloake,
for feare it goe to gage indeed.
  Bentivegna was a little displeased at his wives words, because hee
thought she spake but in jest; albeit Belcolore was so angry with
Sir Simon, that she would not speake to him till vintage time
following. But then Sir Simon, what by sharpe threatenings, of her
soule to be in danger of hell fire, continuing so long in hatred of
a holy Priest, which words did not a little terrifie her; besides
daily presents to her, of sweet new Wines, roasted Chesse-nuts, Figges
and Almonds: all unkindnesse became converted to former familiarity;
the garments were redeemed: he gave her Sonnets which she would
sweetly sing to her Cimbale, and further friendship increased betweene
her and sweet Sir Simon.
                    THE EIGHT DAY, THE THIRD NOVELL

   JUSTLY REPREHENDING THE SIMPLICITY OF SUCH MEN, AS ARE TOO MUCH
         ADDICTED TO CREDULITIE, AND WILL GIVE CREDIT TO EVERY
                            THING THEY HEARE

  Calandrino, Bruno, and Buffalmaco, all of them being Painters by
profession, travelled to the Plaine of Mugnone, to finde the
precious Stone called Helitropium. Calandrino no perswaded himselfe to
have found it; returned home to his house heavily loaden with
stones. His Wife rebuking him for his absence, hee groweth into anger,
and shrewdly beateth her. Afterward, when the case is debated among
his other friends Bruno and Buffalmaco, all is found to be meere
foolery.

  Pamphilus having ended his Novell, whereat the Ladies laughed
exceedingly, so that very hardly they could give over. The Queene gave
charge to Madame Eliza, that shee should next succeed in order;
when, being scarcely able to refraine from smyling, thus she began.
  I know not (Gracious Ladies) whether I can move you to as hearty
laughter, with a briefe Novell of mine owne, as Pamphilus lately did
with his: yet I dare assure you, that it is both true and pleasant,
and I will relate it in the best manner I can.
  In our owne Citie, which evermore hath contained all sorts of
people, not long since there dwelt, a Painter, named Calandrino, a
simple man; yet as much adicted to matters of novelty, as any man
whatsoever could be. The most part of his time, he spent in the
company of two other Painters, the one called Bruno, and the other
Buffalmaco, men of very recreative spirits, and of indifferent good
capacity, often resorting to the said Calandrino, because they tooke
delight in his honest simplicity, and pleasant order of behaviour.
At the same time likewise, there dwelt in Florence, a yong Gentleman
of singular disposition, to every generous and witty conceite, as
the world did not yeeld a more pleasant companion, he being named Maso
del Saggio, who having heard somwhat of Calandrinos sillinesse:
determined to jest with him in merry manner, and to suggest his
longing humors after Novelties, with some conceit of extraordinary
nature.
  He happening (on a day) to meete him in the Church of Saint John,
and seeing him seriously busied, in beholding the rare pictures, and
the curious carved Tabernacle, which (not long before) was placed on
the. high Altar in the said Church: considered with himselfe, that
he had now fit place and opportunity, to effect what hee had long time
desired. And having imparted his minde to a very intimate friend,
how he intended to deale with simple Calandrino: they went both very
neere him, where he sate all alone, and making shew as if they saw him
not; began to consult between themselves, concerning the rare
properties of precious stones; whereof Maso discoursed as exactly,
as he had beene a most skilfull Lapidarie; to which conference of
theirs, Calandrino lent an attentive eare, in regard it was matter
of singular rarity.
  Soone after, Calandrino started up, and perceiving by their loude
speaking, that they talked of nothing which required secret
Counsell: he went into their company (the onely thing which Maso
desired) and holding on still the former Argument; Calandrino would
needs request to know, in what place these precious stones were to
be found, which had such excellent vertues in them? Maso made answere,
that the most of them were to be had in Berlinzona, neere to the
City of Bascha, which was in the Territory of a Countrey, called
Bengodi, where the Vines were bound about with Sawcidges, a Goose
was sold for a penny, and the Goslings freely given in to boote. There
was also an high mountaine wholly made of Parmezane, grated Cheese,
whereon dwelt people, who did nothing else but make Mocharones and
Ravivolies, boyling them with broth of Capons, and afterward hurled
them all about, to whosoever can or will catch them. Neere to this
mountaine runneth a faire River, the whole streame being pure white
Bastard, none such was ever sold for any money, and without one drop
of water in it.
  Now trust me Sir, (said Calandrino) that is an excellent Countrey to
dwell in: but I pray you tell me Sir, what do they with the Capons
after they have boyld them? The Baschanes (quoth Maso) eate them
all. Have you Sir, said Calandrino, at any time beene in that
Countrey? How? answered Maso, doe you demaund if have beene there? Yes
man, above a thousand times, at the least. How farre Sir, I pray you
(quoth Calandrino) is that worthy Countrey, from this our City? In
troth, replyed Maso, the miles are hardly to be numbred, for the
most part of them, we travell when we are nightly in our beddes, and
if a man dreame right; he may be there upon a sudden.
  Surely Sir, said Calandrino, it is further hence, then to Abruzzi?
Yes questionlesse, replyed Maso; but, to a willing minde, no travell
seemeth tedious.
  Calandrino well noting, that Maso delivered all these speeches, with
a stedfast countenance, no signe of smyling, or any gesture to urge
the least mislike: he gave such credit to them, as to any matter of
apparent and manifest truth, and upon this assured confidence, he
said.
  Beleeve me Sir, the journey is over-farre for mee to undertake,
but if it were neerer; I could affoord to goe in your Company; onely
to see how they make these Macherones, and to fill my belly with them.
  But now wee are in talke Sir, I pray you pardon mee to aske, whether
any such precious stones, as you spake off, are to be found in that
Countrey, or no? Yes indeed, replyed Maso, there are two kinds of them
to be found in those Territories, both being of very great vertue. One
kind, are gritty stones, of Settignano, and of Montisca, by vertue
of which places, when any Mill-stones or Grind-stones are to bee made,
they knede the sand as they use to doe meale, and so make them of what
bignesse they please. In which respect, they have a common saying
there: that Nature maketh common stones, but Montisca Mill-stones.
Such plenty are there of these Mill-stones, so slenderly here esteemed
among us, as Emeralds are with them, whereof they have whole
mountaines, farre greater then our Montemorello, which shine most
gloriously at midnight. And how meanly soever we account of their
Mill-stones; yet there they drill them, and enchase them in Rings,
which afterward they send to the great Soldane, and have whatsoever
they will demaund for them.
  The other kinde is a most precious Stone indeede, which our best
Lapidaries call the Helitropium, the vertue whereof is so admirable;
as whosoever beareth it about him, so long as he keepeth it, it is
impossible for any eye to discerne him, because he walketh meerely
invisible. O Lord Sir (quoth Calandrino) those stones are of rare
vertue indeede: but where else may a man finde that Helitropium?
Whereto Maso thus answered: That Countrey onely doth not containe
the Helitropium; for they be many times found upon our plaine of
Mugnone. Of what bignesse Sir (quoth Calandrino) is the Stone, and
what coulour? The Helitropium, answered Maso, is not alwayes of one
quality, because some are bigge, and others lesse; but all are of
one coulour, namely blacke.
  Calandrino committing all these things to respective memory, and
pretending to be called thence by some other especiall affaires;
departed from Maso, concluding resolvedly with himselfe, to finde this
precious stone, if possibly hee could: yet intending to doe nothing,
untill hee had acquainted Bruno and Buffalmaco therewith, whom he
loved dearly: he went in all hast to seeke them; because, (without any
longer trifling the time) they three might bee the first men, that
should find out this precious stone, spending almost the whole morning
before they were all three met together. For they were painting at the
Monastery of the Sisters of Faenza, where they had very serious
imployment, and followed their businesse diligently: where having
found them, and saluting them in such kinde manner, as continually
he used to doe, thus he began.
  Loving friends, if you were pleased to follow mine advise, wee three
will quickely be the richest men in Florence; because, by
information from a Gentleman (well deserving to be credited) on the
Plaine of Mugnone: there is a precious stone to be found, which
whosoever carrieth it about him, walketh invisible, and is not to be
seene by any one. Let us three be the first men to goe and finde it,
before any other heare thereof, and goe about it, and assure our
selves that we shall finde it, for I know it (by discription) so soone
as I see it. And when wee have it, who can hinder us from bearing it
about us? Then will we goe to the Tables of our Bankers, or money
Changers, which we see daily charged with plenty of gold and silver,
where we may take so much as wee list, for they (nor any) are able
to descrie us. So, (in short time) shall wee all be wealthy, never
needing to drudge any more, or paint muddy walles, as hitherto we have
done; and, as many of our poore profession are forced to doe.
  Bruno and Buffalmaco hearing this, began to smile, and looking
merily each on other, they seemed to wonder thereat, and greatly
commended the counsell of Calandrino. Buffalmaco demaunding how the
stone was named. Now it fortuned, that Calandrino (who had but a
grosse and blockish memory) had quite forgot the name of the stone,
and therefore said. What neede have wee of the name, when we know, and
are assured of the stones vertue? Let us make no more adoe, but
(setting aside all other businesse) goe seeke where it is to be found.
Well my friend (answered Bruno) you say wee may finde it, but how, and
by what meanes?
  There are two sorts of them (quoth Calandrino) some bigge, others
smaller, but all carry a blacke colour: therefore (in mine opinion)
let us gather all such stones as are blacke, so shall we be sure to
finde it among them, without any further losse of time.
  Buffalmaco and Bruno, liked and allowed the counsell of
Calandrino, which when they had (by severall commendations) given
him assurance of, Bruno saide. I doe not thinke it a convenient time
now, for us to go about so weighty a businesse: for the Sun is yet
in the highest degree, and striketh such a heate on the plaine of
Mugnone, as all the stones are extreamly dryed, and the very
blackest will nowe seeme whitest. But in the morning, after the dew is
falne, and before the Sunne shineth forth, every stone retaineth his
true colour. Moreover, there be many Labourers now working on the
plaine, about such businesse as they are severally assigned, who
seeing us in so serious a serch: may imagine what we seeke for, and
partake with us in the same inquisition, by which meanes they may
chance to speed before us, and so wee may lose both our trot and
amble. Wherefore, by my consent, if your opinion jumpe with mine, this
is an enterprize onely to be perfourmed in an early morning, when
the blacke stones are to be distinguisht from the white, and a
Festivall day were the best of all other, for then there will be
none to discover us.
  Buffalmaco applauded the advice of Bruno, and Calandrino did no
lesse, concluding all together; that Sunday morning (next ensuing)
should be the time, and then they all three would go see the Stone.
But Calandrino was verie earnest with them, that they shold not
reveale it to any living body, because it was tolde him as an
especiall secret: disclosing further to them, what hee had heard
concerning the Countrey of Bengodi, maintaining (with solemn oaths and
protestations) that every part thereof was true. Uppon this agreement,
they parted from Calandrino who hardly enjoyed anie rest at all,
either by night or day, so greedie he was to bee possessed of the
stone. On the Sonday morning, hee called up his Companions before
breake of day, and going forth at S. Galls Port, they stayed not, till
they came to the plaine of Mugnone, where they searched all about to
finde this strange stone.
  Calandrino went stealing before the other two, and verilie perswaded
himselfe, that he was borne to finde the Helitropium, and looking on
every side about him, hee rejected all other Stones but the blacke,
whereof first he filled his bosome, and afterwards, both his
Pockets. Then he tooke off his large painting Apron, which he fastened
with his girdle in the manner of a sacke, and that he filled full of
stones likewise. Yet not so satisfied, he spred abroad his Cloake,
which being also full of stones, hee bound it up carefully, for
feare of loosing the very least of them. All which Buffalmaco and
Bruno well observing (the day growing on, and hardly they could
reach home by dinner time) according as merrily they had concluded,
and pretending not to see Calandrino, albeit he was not farre from
them: What is become of Calandrino? saide Buffalmaco. Bruno gazing
strangely every where about him, as if hee were desirous to finde him,
replyed. I saw him not long since, for then he was hard by before
us; questionlesse, he hath given us the slippe, is privilie gone
home to dinner, and making starke fooles of us, hath lefte us to picke
up blacke stones, upon the parching plaines of Mugnone. Well (quoth
Buffalmaco) this is but the tricke of an hollow-hearted friend, and
not such as he protested himselfe to be, to us. Could any but wee have
bin so sottish, to credit his frivolous perswasions, hoping to finde
any stones of such vertue, and here on the fruitlesse plains of
Mugnone? No, no, none but we would have beleeved him.
  Calandrino (who was close by them) hearing these wordes, and
seeing the whole manner of their wondering behaviour: became
constantly perswaded, that hee had not onely found the precious stone;
but also had some store of them about him, by reason he was so neere
to them, and yet they could not see him, therefore he walked before
them. Now was his joy beyond all compasse of expression, and being
exceedingly proud of so happy an adventure: did not meane to speake
one word to them, but (heavily laden as hee was) to steale home
faire and softly before them, which indeede he did, leaving them to
follow after, if they would. Bruno perceiving his intent, said to
Buffalmaco: What remaineth now for us to doe? Why should not we go
home, as well as hee? And reason too, replyed Bruno. It is in vaine to
tarry any longer heere: but I solemnly protest, Calandrino shall no
more make an Asse of me: and were I now as neere him, as not long
since I was, I would give him such a remembrance on the heele with
this Flint stone, as should sticke by him this moneth, to teach him
a lesson for abusing his friends.
  Hee threw the stone, and hit him shrewdly on the heele therewith;
but all was one to Calandrino, whatsoever they saide, or did, as
thus they still followed after him. And although the blow of the stone
was painfull to him; yet he mended his pace so wel as he was able,
in regard of beeing over-loaden with stones, and gave them not one
word all the way, because he tooke himselfe to bee invisible, and
utterly unseene of them. Buffalmaco taking uppe another Flintstone,
which was indifferent heavie and sharp, said to Bruno. Seest thou this
Flint? Casting it from him, he smote Calandrino just in the backe
therewith, saying that Calandrino had bin so neere as I might have hit
him on the backe with the stone. And thus all the way on the plaine of
Mugnone, they did nothing else but pelt him with stones, even so farre
as the Port of S. Gall, where they threwe downe what other stones they
had gathered, meaning not to molest him any more, because they had
done enough already.
  There they stept before him unto the Port, and acquainted the
Warders with the whole matter, who laughing heartily at the jest,
the better to upholde it; would seeme not to see Calandrino in his
passage by them, but suffered him to go on, sore wearied with his
burthen, and sweating extreamly. Without resting himselfe in any
place, he came home to his house, which was neere to the corner of the
Milles, Fortune being so favourable to him in the course of this
mockery, that as he passed along the Rivers side, and afterward
through part of the City; he was neither met nor seen by any, in
regard they were all in their houses at dinner.
  Calandrino, every minute ready to sinke under his weightie
burthen, entred into his owne house, where (by great ill luck) his
wife, being a comely and very honest woman, and named Monna Trista,
was standing aloft on the stayres head. She being somewhat angry for
his so long absence, and seeing him come in grunting and groaning,
frowningly said. I thought that the divell would never let thee come
home, all the whole Citie have dined, and yet wee must remaine without
our dinner. When Calandrino heard this, and perceived that he was
not invisible to his Wife: full of rage and wroth, hee began to raile,
saying. Ah thou wicked woman, where art thou? Thou hast utterly undone
me: but (as I live) I will pay thee soundly for it. Up the staires
he ascended into a small Parlour, where when he hadde spred all his
burthen of stones on the floore: he ran to his wife, catching frer
by the haire of the head, and throwing her at his feete; giving her so
many spurns and cruel blowes, as shee was not able to moove either
armes or legges, notwithstanding all her teares, and humble
submission.
  Now Buffalmaco and Bruno, after they had spent an indifferent while,
with the Warders at the Port in laughter; in a faire and gentle
pace, they followed Calandrino home to his house, and being come to
the doore, they heard the harsh bickering betweene him and his Wife,
and seeming as if they were but newly arrived, they called out alowd
to him. Calandrino being in a sweate, stamping and raving still at his
Wife: looking forth of the window, entreated them to ascend up to him,
which they did, counterfetting greevous displeasure against him. Being
come into the roome, which they saw all covered over with stones,
his Wife sitting in a corner, all the haire (well-neere) torne off her
head, her face broken and bleeding, and all her body cruelly beaten;
on the other side, Calandrino standing unbraced and ungirded,
strugling and wallowing, like a man quite out of breath: after a
little pausing, Bruno thus spake.
  Why how now Calandrino? What may the meaning of this matter be?
What, art thou preparing for building, that thou hast provided such
plenty of stones? How sitteth thy poore wife? How hast thou misused
her? Are these the behaviours of a wise or honest man? Calandrino,
over-spent with travalle, and carrying such an huge burthen of stones,
as also the toylesome beating of his Wife, (but much more impatient
and offended, for that high good Fortune, which he imagined to have
lost:) could not collect his spirits together, to answer them one
ready word, wherefore hee sate fretting like a mad man. Whereupon,
Buffalmaco thus began to him. Calandrino, if thou be angry with any
other, yet thou shouldest not have made such a mockery of us, as
thou hast done: in leaving us (like a couple of coxcombes) to the
plaine of Mugnone, whether thou leddest us with thee, to seeke a
precious stone called Helitropium. And couldst thou steale home, never
bidding us so much as farewell? How can we but take it in very evill
part, that thou shouldest so abuse two honest neighbours? Well, assure
thy selfe, this is the last time that ever thou shalt serve us so.
  Calandrino (by this time) being somewhat better come to himselfe,
with an humble protestation of courtesie, returned them this answer.
Alas my good friends, be not you offended, the case is farre otherwise
then you immagine. Poore unfortunate man that I am, I found the rare
precious stone that you speake of: and marke me well, if I do not tell
you the truth of all. When you asked one another (the first time) what
was become of me; I was hard by you: at the most, within the
distance of two yards length; and perceiving that you saw mee not,
(being still so neere, and alwaies before you:) I went on, smiling
to my selfe, to heare you brabble and rage against me.
  So, proceeding on in his discourse, he recounted every accident as
it hapned, both what they had saide and did unto him, concerning the
severall blowes, with the two Flint-stones, the one hurting him
greevously in the heele, and the other paining him as extreamly in the
backe, with their speeches used then, and his laughter,
notwithstanding hee felt the harme of them both, yet beeing proud that
he did so invisibly beguile them. Nay more (quoth he) I cannot
forbeare to tell you, that when I passed thorow the Port, I saw you
standing with the Warders; yet, by vertue of that excellent Stone,
undiscovered of you all. Beside, going along the streets, I met many
of my Gossips, friends, and familiar acquaintance, such as used daylie
to converse with me, and drinking together in every Tavern: yet not
one of them spake to me, neyther used any courtesie or salutation;
which (indeede) I did the more freely forgive them, because they
were not able to see me.
  In the end of all when I was come home into mine owne house, this
divellish and accursed woman, being aloft uppon my stayres head, by
much misfortune chanced to see me; in regard (as it is not unknowne to
you) that women cause all things to lose their vertue. In which
respect, I that could have stild my selfe the onely happy man in
Florence, am now made most miserable. And therefore did I justly beate
her, so long as she was able to stand against mee, and I know no
reason to the contrary, why I should not yet teare her in a thousand
peeces: for I may well curse the day of our mariage, to hinder and
bereave me of such an invisible blessednesse.
  Buffalmaco and Bruno hearing this, made shew of verie much
mervailing thereat, and many times maintained what Calandrino had
said; being well neere ready to burst with laughter; considering,
how confidently he stood upon it, that he had found the wonderful
stone, and lost it by his wives speaking onely to him. But when they
saw him rise in fury once more, with intent to beat her againe: then
they stept betweene them; affirming, That the woman had no way
offended in this case, but rather he himself: who knowing that women
cause all things to lose their vertue, had not therefore expresly
commanded her, not to be seene in his presence all that day, untill he
had made full proofe of the stones vertue. And questionles, the
consideration of a matter so availeable and important, was quite taken
from him, because such an especiall happinesse, should not belong to
him only; but (in part) to his friends, whom he had acquainted
therewith, drew them to the plaine with him in companie, where they
tooke as much paines in serch of the stone, as possibly he did, or
could; and yet (dishonestly) he would deceive them, and beare it
away covetously, for his owne private benefit.
  After many other, as wise and wholesome perswasions, which he
constantly credited, because they spake them, they reconciled him to
his wife, and she to him: but not without some difficulty in him;
who falling into wonderfull greefe and melancholy, for losse of such
an admirable precious stone, was in danger to have dyed, within
lesse then a month after.
                    THE EIGHT DAY, THE FOURTH NOVELL

  WHEREIN IS DECLARED, HOW LOVE OFTENTIMES IS SO POWERFULL IN AGED
             MEN, AND DRIVETH THEM TO SUCH DOATING, THAT IT
           REDOUNDETH TO THEIR GREAT DISGRACE AND PUNISHMENT

  The Provost belonging to the Cathedrall Church of Fiesola, fell in
love with a Gentlewoman, being a widdow, and named Piccarda, who hated
him as much as he loved her. He imagining, that he lay with her: by
the Gentlewomans Bretheren, and the Byshop under whom he served, was
taken in bed with her Mayde, an ugly, foule, deformed Slut.

  Ladie Eliza having concluded her Novell, not without infinite
commendations of the whole company: the Queen turning her lookes to
Madame Aimillia, gave her such an expresse signe, as she must needs
follow next after Madame Eliza, whereupon she began in this manner.
  Vertuous Ladies, I very well remember (by divers Novels formerly
related) that sufficient hath beene sayde, concerning Priests and
Religious persons, and all other carrying shaven Crownes, in their
luxurious appetites and desires. But because no one can at any time
say so much, as thereto no more may be added: beside them alreadie
spoken of, I wil tel you another concerning the Provost of a Cathedral
Church, who would needes (in despight of all the world) love a
Gentlewoman whether she would or no: and therefore, in due
chastisement both unto his age and folly, she gave him such
entertainment as he justly deserved.
  It is not unknowne unto you all, that the Cittie of Fieosola, the
mountaine whereof we may very easily hither discerne, hath bene (in
times past) a very great and most ancient City: although at this day
it is wellneere all ruined: yet neverthelesse, it alwaies was, and yet
is a Byshops See, albeit not of the wealthiest. In the same Citie, and
no long while since, neere unto the Cathedrall Church, there dwelt a
Gentlewoman, being a Widdow, and commonlie there stiled by the name of
Madame Piccarda, whose house and inheritance was but small,
wherewith yet she lived very contentedly (having no wandering eye,
or wanton desires) and no company but her two Brethren, Gentlemen of
especiall honest and gracious disposition.
  This Gentlewoman, being yet in the flourishing condition of her
time, did ordinarily resort to the Cathedrall Church in holie zeale,
and religious devotion; where the Provost of the place, became so
enamored of her, as nothing (but the sight of her) yeelded him any
contentment. Which fond affection of his, was forwarded with such an
audacious and bold carriage, as hee dared to acquaint her with his
love, requiring her enterchange of affection, and the like opinion
of him, as he had of her. True it is, that he was very farre entred
into yeares, but yong and lustie in his own proud conceite,
presuming strangely beyond his capacity, and thinking as well of his
abilitie, as the youthfullest gallant in the World could doe.
Whereas (in verie deede) his person was utterly displeasing, his
behaviour immodest and scandaious, and his usuall Language,
savouring of such sensualitie, as, very fewe or none cared for his
company. And if any Woman seemed respective of him, it was in regard
of his outside and profession, and more for feare, then the least
affection, and alwayes as welcome to them, as the head-ake.
  His fond and foolish carriage stil continuing to this Gentlewoman;
she being wise and vertuously advised, spake thus unto him. Holy
Sir, if you love me according as you protest, and manifest by your
outward behaviour: I am the more to thanke you for it, being bound
in dutie to love you likewise. But if your Love have any harshe or
unsavourie taste, which mine is no way able to endure, neyther dare
entertaine in anie kinde whatsoever: you must and shall hold mee
excused, because I am made of no such temper. You are my ghostly and
spirituall Father, an Holy Priest. Moreover, yeares have made you
honorably aged; all which severall weighty considerations, ought to
confirme you in continency and chastity. Remember withall (good sir)
that I am but a child to you in years, and were I bent to any wanton
appetites, you shold justly correct me by fatherly counsell, such as
most beautifieth your sacred profession. Beside, I am a Widdow, and
you are not ignorant, how requisite a thing honestie is in widdowes.
Wherefore, pardon mee (Holy Father:) for, in such manner as you make
the motion: I desire you not to love mee, because I neither can or
will at any time so affect you.
  The Provoste gaining no other grace at this time, would not so
give over for this first repulse, but pursuing her still with
unbeseeming importunity; many private meanes he used to her by
Letters, tokens, and insinuating ambassages; yea, whensoever shee came
to the Church, he never ceased his wearisome solicitings. Whereat
she growing greatly offended, and perceyving no likelyhood of his
desisting; became so tyred with his tedious suite, that she considered
with her selfe, how she might dispatch him as he deserved, because she
saw no other remedy. Yet shee would not attempte anie thing in this
case, without acquainting her Bretheren first therwith. And having
tolde them, how much shee was importuned by the Provost, and also what
course she meant to take (wherin they both counselled and encouraged
her:) within a few daies after, shee went to Church as she was wont to
do; where so soone as the Provost espyed her: forthwith he came to
her, and according to his continued course, he fell into his amorous
courting. She looking upon him with a smiling countenance, and walking
aside with him out of any hearing: after he had spent many impertinent
speeches, shee (venting foorth manie a vehement sighe) at length
returned him this answer.
  Reverend Father, I have often heard it saide: That there is not
any Fort or Castle, how strongly munited soever it bee; but by
continuall assayling, at length (of necessity) it must and will be
surprized. Which comparison, I may full well allude to my selfe.
For, you having so long time solicited me, one while with affable
language, then againe with tokens and entisements, of such
prevailing power: as have broken the verie barricado of my former
deliberation, and yeelded mee uppe as your prisoner, to be commanded
at your pleasure for now I am onely devoted yours.
  Well may you (Gentle Ladies) imagine, that this answere was not a
little welcome to the Provost; who, shrugging with conceyte of joy,
presently thus replyed. I thanke you Madame Piccarda, and to tell
you true, I held it almost as that you could stand upon such long
resistance, considering, it never so fortuned to mee with anie
other. And I have many times saide to my selfe, that if women were
made of silver, they hardly could be worth a pennie, because there can
scarsely one be found of so good allay, as to endure the test and
essay. But let us breake off this frivolous conference, and resolve
upon a conclusion; How, when and where we may safely meete together.
Worthy Sir, answered Piccarda, your selfe may appoint the time
whensoever you please, because I have no Husband, to whom I should
render any account of my absence, or presence: but I am not provided
of any place.
  A pretty while the Provoste stood musing, and at last saide. A place
Madame? where can be more privacie, then in your owne house? Alas
Sir (quoth she) you know that I have two Gentlemen my brethren, who
continually are with me, and other of their friends beside: My house
also is not great, wherefore it is impossible to be there, except
you could be like a dumbe man, without speaking one word, or making
the very least noyse; beside, to remaine in darkenesse, as if you were
blinde, and who can be able to endure all these? And yet (without
these) there is no adventuring, albeit they never come into my
Chamber: but their lodging is so close to mine, as there cannot any
word be spoken, be it never so low or in whispering manner, but they
heare it very easily. Madame said the Provoste, for one or two nights,
I can make hard shift. Why Sir (quoth she) the matter onely
remaineth in you, for if you be silent and suffering, as already you
have heard, there is no feare at all of safty. Let me alone Madame,
replyed the Provoste, I will be governed by your directions: but, in
any case, let us begin this night. With all my heart, saide shee. So
appointing him how, and when hee should come; hee parted from her, and
shee returned home to her house.
  Heere I am to tell you, that this Gentlewoman had a servant, in
the nature of an old maide, not indued with any well featured face,
but instead thereof, she had the ugliest and most counterfeit
countenance, as hardly could be seene a worse. She had a wrie mouth,
huge great lippes, foule teeth, great and blacke, a monstrous stinking
breath, her eyes bleared, and alwayes running, the complexion of her
face betweene greene and yellow, as if shee had not spent the Summer
season in the Citie, but in the parching Countrey under a hedge; and
beside all these excellent parts, shee was crooke backt, poult footed,
and went like a lame Mare in Fetters. Her name was Ciuta, but in
regard of her flat nose, lying as low as a Beagles, shee was called
Ciutazza. Now, notwithstanding all this deformity in her, yet she
had a singuler opinion of her selfe, as commonly all such foule
Sluts have: in regard whereof, Madame Piccarda calling her aside, thus
began.
  Ciutazza, if thou wilt doe for me one nights service, I shall bestow
on thee a faire new Smocke. When Ciutazza heard her speake of a new
Smocke, instantly she answered. Madame, if you please to bestow a
new Smocke on me, were it to runne thorow the fire for you, or any
businesse of farre greater danger, you onely have the power to command
me, and I will doe it. I will not (said Piccarda) urge thee to any
dangerous action, but onely to lodge in my bed this night with a
man, and give him courteous entertainement, who shall reward thee
liberally for it. But have an especiall care that thou speake not
one word, for feare thou shouldst be heard by my Brethren, who (as
thou knowest) lodge so neere by; doe this, and then demaund thy Smocke
of me. Madame (quoth Ciutazza) if it were to lye with sixe men, rather
then one; if you say the word, it shall be done.
  When night was come, the Provoste also came according to
appointment, even when two brethren were in their lodging, they easily
heard his entrance, as Piccarda (being present with them) had informed
them. In went the Provoste without any candle, or making the least
noise to be heard, and being in Piccardaes Chamber, went to bed:
Ciutazza tarrying not long from him, but (as her Mistresse had
instructed her) she went to bed likewise, not speaking any word at
all, and the Provoste, imagining to have her there, whom he so
highly affected, fell to imbracing and kissing Ciutazza, who was as
forward in the same manner to him, and there for a while I intend to
leave them.
  When Piccarda had performed this hot piece of businesse, she
referred the effecting of the remainder to her Brethren, in such
sort as it was compacted betweene them. Faire and softly went the
two brethren forth of their Chamber, and going to the Market place,
Fortune was more favourable to them then they could wish, in
accomplishing the issue of their intent. For the heat being somwhat
tedious, the Lord Bishop was walking abroad very late, with purpose to
visit the Brethren at the Widdowes house, because he tooke great
delight in their company, as being good Schollers, and endued with
other singular parts beside. Meeting with them in the open Market
place, he acquainted them with his determination; whereof they were
not a little joyfull, it jumping so justly with their intent.
  Being come to the Widdowes house, they passed through a smal
nether Court, where lights stood ready to welcome him thither; and
entring into a goodly Hall, there was store of good wine and
banquetting, which the Bishop accepted in very thankefull manner:
and courteous complement being overpassed, one of the Brethren, thus
spake. My good Lord, seeing it hath pleased you to honour our poore
Widdowed Sisters house with your presence, for which wee shall
thanke you while we live: We would intreate one favour more of you,
onely but to see a sight which we will shew you. The Lord Bishop was
well contented with the motion: so the Brethren conducting him by
the hand, brought him into their Sisters Chamber, where the Provoste
was in bed with Ciutazza, both soundly sleeping, but enfolded in his
armes, as wearied (belike) with their former wantonning, and whereof
his age had but little need.
  The Courtaines being close drawne about the bed, although the season
was exceeding hot, they having lighted Torches in their hands; drew
open the Curtaines, and shewed the Bishop his Provoste, close snugging
betweene the armes of Ciutazza. Upon a sudden the Provoste awaked, and
seeing so great a light, as also so many people about him: shame and
feare so daunted him, that hee shrunke downe in the bed, and hid his
head. But the Bishop being displeased at a sight so unseemely, made
him to discover his head againe, to see whom he was in bed withall.
Now the poore Provoste perceiving the Gentlewomans deceite, and the
proper hansome person so sweetly embracing him: it made him so
confounded with shame, as he had not the power to utter one word:
but having put on his cloathes by the Bishops command, hee sent him
(under sufficient guard) to his Pallace, to suffer due chastisement
for his sinne committed; and afterward he desired to know, by what
meanes hee became so favoured of Ciutazza, the whole Historie whereof,
the two brethren related at large to him.
  When the Bishop had heard all the discourse, highly he commended the
wisedome of the Gentlewoman, and worthy assistance of her brethren,
who contemning to soile their hands in the blood of a Priest, rather
sought to shame him as hee deserved. The Bishop enjoyned him a
pennance of repentance for forty dayes after, but love and disdaine
made him weepe nine and forty: Moreover, it was a long while after,
before he durst be seene abroad. But when he came to walke the
streets, the Boyes would point their fingers at him, saying. Behold
the Provoste that lay with Ciutazza: Which was such a wearisome life
to him, that he became (well neere) distracted in his wits. In this
manner the honest Gentlewoman discharged her dutie, and rid her
selfe of the Provosts importunity: Ciutazza had a merry night of it,
and a new Smocke also for her labour.
                     THE EIGHT DAY, THE FIFT NOVELL

  GIVING ADMONITION, THAT FOR THE MANAGING OF PUBLIQUE AFFAIRES, NO
  OTHER PERSONS ARE OR OUGHT TO BE APPOINTED, BUT SUCH AS BE HONEST,
               AND MEET TO SIT ON THE SEATE OF AUTHORITY

  Three pleasant Companions, plaide a merry pranke with a Judge
(belonging to the Marquesate of Ancona) at Florence, at such time as
he sate on the Bench, and hearing criminall causes.

  No sooner had Madam Aemillia finished her Novell, wherin, the
excellent wisdome of Piccarda, for so worthily punishing the luxurious
old Provoste, had generall commendations of the whole Assembly: but
the Queene, looking on Philostratus, said. I command you next to
supply the place: whereto he made answere, that hee was both ready and
willing, and then thus began. Honourable Ladies, the merry
Gentleman, so lately remembred by Madame Eliza, being named Maso del
Saggio; causeth me to passe over an intended Tale, which I had
resolved on when it came to my turne: to report another concerning
him, and two men more, his friendly Companions. Which although it
may appeare to you somewhat unpleasing, in regard of a little grosse
and unmannerly behaviour: yet it will move merriment without any
offence, and that is the maine reason why I relate it.
  It is not unknowne to you, partly by intelligence from our
reverend predecessours, as also some understanding of your owne,
that many time have resorted to our City of Florence, Potestates and
Officers, belonging to the Marquesate of Anconia; who commonly were
men of lowe spirit, and their lives so wretched and penurious, as they
rather deserved to be tearmed Misers, then men. And in regard of
this their naturall covetousnesse and misery, the Judges would bring
also in their company, such Scribes or Notaries, as being paralelde
with their Masters: they all seemed like Swaines come from the Plough,
or bred up in some Coblers quality, rather then Schollers, or Students
of Law.
  At one time (above all the rest) among other Potestates and
Judges, there came an especiall man, as pickt out of purpose, who
was named Messer Niccolao da San Lepidio, who (at the first beholding)
looked rather like a Tinker, then any Officer in authority. This
hansome man (among the rest) was deputed to heare criminall causes.
And, as often it happeneth, that Citizens, although no businesse
inviteth them to Judiciall Courts, yet they still resort thither,
sometimes accidentally: So it fortuned, that Maso times del Saggio,
being one morning in search of an especiall friend, went to the
Court-house, and being there, observed in what manner Messer
Niccolao was seated; who looking like some strange Fowle, lately
come forth of a farre Countrey; he began to survay him the more
seriously, even from the head to the foot, as we use to say.
 And albeit he saw his Gowne furred with Miniver, as also the hood
about his necke, a Penne and Inkehorne hanging at his girdle, and
one skirt of his Garment longer then the other, with more misshapen
sights about him, farre unfitting for a man of so civill profession:
yet he spyed one errour extraordinary, the most notable (in his
opinion) that ever he had seene before. Namely, a paultry paire of
Breeches, wickedly made, and worse worne, hanging downe lowe as
halfe his legge, even as he sate upon the Bench, yet cut so
sparingly of the Cloath, that they gaped wide open before, as a
wheele-barrow might have full entrance allowed it. This strange
sight was so pleasing to him; as leaving off further search of his
friend, and scorning to have such a spectacle alone by himselfe: hee
went upon another Inquisition; Namely, for two other merry Lads like
hirnselfe, the one being called Ribi, and the other Matteuzzo, men
of the same mirth-full disposition as he was, and therefore the fitter
for his Company.
  After he had met with them, these were his salutations: My honest
Boyes, if ever you did me any kindnesse, declare it more effectually
now, in accompanying me to the Court-house, where you shall behold
such a singular spectacle, as (I am sure) you never yet saw the
like. Forthwith they went along altogether, and being come to the
Courthouse, he shewed them the Judges hansome paire of Breeches,
hanging down in such base and beastly manner; that (being as yet farre
off from the Bench) their hearts did ake with extreamity of
laughter. But when they came neere to the seat whereon Messer Niccolao
sate, they plainely perceived, that it was very easie to be crept
under, and withall, that the board whereon he set his feet, was rotten
and broken, so that it was no difficult matter, to reach it, and
pull it downe as a man pleased, and let him fall bare Breecht to the
ground. Cheare up your spirits (my hearts) quoth Maso, and if your
longing be like to mine; we will have yonder Breeches a good deale
lower, for I see how it may be easily done.
 Laying their heads together, plotting and contriving severall
wayes, which might be the likelyest to, compasse their intent: each of
them had his peculiar appointment, to undertake the businesse
without fayling and it was to be performed the next morning. At the
houre assigned, they met there againe, and finding the Court well
filled with people, the Plaintiffes and Defendants earnestly pleading:
Matteuzzo (before any body could descry him) was cunningly crept under
the Bench, and lay close by the board whereon the Judge placed his
feete. Then stept in Maso on the right hand of Messer Niccolao, and
tooke fast hold on his Gowne before; the like did Ribi on the left
hand, in all respects answerable to the other. Oh my Lord Judge (cryed
Maso out aloud) I humbly intreat you for charities sake, before this
pilfering knave escape away from hence; that I may have justice
against him, for stealing my drawing-over stockeings, which he stoutly
denyeth, yet mine owne eyes beheld the deed, it being now not above
fifteene dayes since, when first I bought them for mine owne use.
  Worthy Lord Judge (cryed Ribi, on the other side) doe not beleeve
what he saith, for he is a paltry lying fellow, and because hee knew I
came hither to make my complaint for a Male or Cloakebag which he
stole from me: hee urgeth this occasion for a paire of drawing
Stockeings, which he delivered me with his owne hands. If your
Lordship will not credit me, I can produce as witnesses, Trecco the
Shoemaker, with Monna Grassa the Souse-seller, and he that sweepes the
Church of Santa Maria a Verzaia, who saw him when he came posting
hither. Maso haling and tugging the Judge by the sleeve, would not
suffer him to heare Ribi, but cryed out still for justice against him,
as he did the like on the contrary side.
  During the time of this their clamourous contending, the Judge being
very willy willing to heare either party: Matteuzzo, upon a signe
received from the other, which was a word in Masoes pleading, laide
holde on the broken boord, as also on the Judges low-hanging Breech,
plucking at them both so strongly, that they fell downe immediately,
the Breeches being onely tyed but with one Poynt before. He hearing
the boards breaking underneath him, and such maine pulling at his
Breeches; strove (as he sate) to make them fast before, but the
Poynt being broken, and Maso crying in his eare on the one side, as
Ribi did the like in the other; hee was at his wits end to defend
himselfe. My Lord (quoth Maso) you may bee ashamed that you doe me not
justice, why will you not heare mee, but wholly lend your eare to mine
Adversary? My Lord (said Ribi) never was Libell preferd into this
Court, of such a paltry trifling matter, and therefore I must, and
will have Justice.
  By this time the Judge was dismounted from the Bench, and stood on
the ground, with his slovenly Breeches hanging about his heeles:
Matteuzzo being cunningly stolne away, and undiscovered by any body.
Ribi, thinking he had shamed the Judge sufficiently, went away,
protesting, that he would declare his cause in the hearing of a
wiser Judge. And Maso forbearing to tugge his Gowne any longer, in his
departing, said. Fare you well Sir, you are not worthy to be a
Magistrate, if you have no more regard of your honour and honesty, but
will put off poore mens suites at your pleasure. So both went severall
wayes, and soone were gone out of publike view.
  The worshipfull Judge Messer Niccolao stood all this while on the
ground; and, in presence of all the beholders, trussed up his
Breeches, as if-hee were new risen out of his bed: when better
bethinking himselfe on the matters indifference, he called for the two
men, who contended for the drawing stockings and the Cloake-bag; but
no one could tell what was become of them. Whereupon, he rapt out a
kinde of Judges oath, saying: I will know whether it be Law or no
heere in Florence, to make a Judge sit bare Breecht on the Bench of
Justice, and in the hearing of criminall Causes; whereat the chiefe
Potestate, and all the standers by laughed heartily.
  Within fewe dayes after, he was informed by some of his especiall
Friends, that this had never happened to him, but onely to testifie,
how understanding the Florentines are, in their ancient
constitutions and customes, to embrace, love and honour, honest,
discreet worthy Judges and Magistrates; Whereas on the contrary,
they as much condemne miserable knaves, fooles, and dolts, who never
merit to have any better entertainment. Wherefore, it would be best
for him, to make no more enquiry after the parties; lest a worse
inconvenience should happen to him.
                     THE EIGHT DAY, THE SIXT NOVELL

    WHEREIN IS DECLARED, HOW EASILY A PLAINE AND SIMPLE MAN MAY BE
         MADE A FOOLE, WHEN HE DEALETH WITH CRAFTY COMPANIONS.

  Bruno and Buffalmaco, did steale a young Brawne from Calandrino, and
for his recovery thereof, they used a kinde of pretended
conjuration, with Pilles made of Ginger and strong Malmesey. But
instead of this application, they on, they gave him two Pilles of a
Dogges Dates, or Dowsets, confected in Alloes, which he received
each after the other by meanes whereof they made him beleeve, that hee
had robde himselfe. And for feare they should report this theft to his
Wife; they made him to goe buy another Brawne.

  Philostratus had no sooner concluded his Novell, and the whole
Assembly laughed Madame thereat: but the Queen gave command to
Madame Philomena, that shee should follow next in order; whereupon
thus shee began. Worthy Ladies, as Philostratus, by calling to memorie
the name of Maso del Saggio, hath contented you with another merry
Novell concerning him: In the same manner must I intreat you, to
remember once againe Calandrino and his subtle by a pretty tale
which I meane to tell ow, and in what manner they were revenged on
him, for going to seeke the invisible Stone.
  Needlesse were any fresh relation to you, what manner of people
those three men were, Calandrino, Bruno, and Buffalmaco, because
already you have had sufficient understanding of them. And
therefore, as an induction to my discourse, I must tell you, that
Calandrino had a small Country-house, in a Village some-what neere
to Florence, which came to him by the marriage of his Wife. Amon other
Cattle and Poultry, which he kept there in store, hee had a young
Boare readie fatted for Brawne, whereof yearly he used to kill one for
his owne provision; and alwaies in the month of December, he and his
wife resorted to their village house, to have a Brawne both killed and
salted.
  It came to passe at this time concerning my Tale, that the Woman
being somewhat crazie and sickly, by her Husbands unkinde usage,
whereof you heard so lately; Calandrino went alone to the killing of
his Boare, which comming to the hearing of Bruno and Buffalmaco and
that the Woman could by no meanes be there: to passe away the time a
little in merriment, they went to a friendlie Companion of theirs,
an honest joviall Priest, dwelling not farre off from Calandrinoes
Countrey house.
  The same morning as the Boare was kilde, they all three went
thither, and Calandrino seeing them in the Priests companie: bad
them all heartily welcome; and to acquaint them with his good
Husbandry, hee shewed them his house, and the Boare where it hung.
They perceyving it to be faire and fat, knowing also, that
Calandrino intended to salt it for his owne store, Bruno saide unto
him: Thou art an Asse Calandrino, sell thy Brawne, and let us make
merrie with the money: then let thy wife know no otherwise, but that
it was stolne from thee, by those theeves which continually haunt
country houses, especially in such scattering Villages.
  Oh mine honest friends, answered Calandrino, your counsell is not to
be followed, neither is my wife so easie to be perswaded: this wer the
readiest way to make your house a hell, and she to become the Master
Divell: therefore talke no further, for flatly I will not doe it.
Albeit they laboured him very earnestly, yet all proved not to anie
purpose: onely he desired them to suppe with him, but in so colde a
manner, as they denyed him, and parted thence from him. As they walked
on the way, Bruno saide to Buffalmaco. Shall we three (this night) rob
him of his Brawne? Yea marry (quoth Buffalmaco) how is it to be
done? I have (saide Bruno) alreadie found the meanes to effect it,
if he take it not from the place where last we saw it. Let us doe it
then (answered Buffalmaco) why should we not do it? Sir Domine heere
and we, will make good cheare with it among our selves. The nimble
Priest was as forward as the best; and the match being fully agreed
on, Bruno thus spake. My delicate Sir Domine, Art and cunning must
be our maine helps: for thou knowest Buffalmaco, what a covetous
wretch Calandrino is, glad and readie to drink alwaies on other mens
expences: let us go take him with us to the Tavern, where the Priest
(for his owne honour and reputation) shall offer to make paiment of
the whole reckoning, without receiving a farthing of his, whereof he
will not be a little joyfull, so shall we bring to passe the rest of
the businesse, because there is no body in the house, but onely
himselfe: for he is best at ease without company.
  As Bruno had propounded, so was it accordingly performed, and when
Calandrino perceyved, that the Priest would suffer none to pay, but
himselfe, he dranke the more freely; and when there was no neede at
all, tooke his Cuppes couragiously one after another. Two or three
houres of the night were spent, before they parted from the Taverne,
Calandrino going directly home to his house, and instantly to bed,
without any other supper, imagining that he had made fast his doore,
which (indeede) he left wide open: sleeping soundly, without suspition
of any harme intended unto him. Buffalmaco and Bruno went and supt
with the Priest, and so soone as supper was ended, they tooke certaine
Engines, for their better entering into Calandrinoes house, and so
went on to effect theyr purpose. Finding the doore standing readie
open, they entered in, tooke the Brawne, carried it with them to the
Priests house, and afterward went all to bed.
  When Calandrino had well slept after his Wine, he arose in the
morning, and being descended downe the staires; finding the street
doore wide open, he looked for the Brawne, but it was gone.
Enquiring of the neighbours dwelling neere about him, hee could
heare no tydings of his Brawne, but became the wofullest man in the
world, telling every one that his Brawne was stolne. Bruno and
Buffalmaco being risen in the morning, they went to visite
Calandrino to heare how he tooke the losse of his Brawne: and hee no
sooner had a sight of them, but he called them to him; and with the
teares running downe his cheekes, sayde: Ah my deare friendes, I am
robde of my Brawne. Bruno stepping closely to him, sayde in his
eare: It is wonderfull, that once in thy life time thou canst bee
wise. How? answered Calandrino, I speake to you in good earnest.
Speake so still in earnest (replied Bruno) and cry it out so loud as
thou canst, then let who list beleeve it to be true.
  Calandrino stampt and fretted exceedingly, saying: As I am a true
man to God, my Prince, and Countrey, I tell thee truly, that my Brawne
is stolne. Say so still I bid thee (answered Bruno) and let all the
world beleeve thee, if they list to do so, for I will not. Wouldst
thou (quoth Calandrino) have me damne my selfe to the divell? I see
thou dost not credit what I say: but would I were hanged by the necke,
if it be not true, that my Brawne is stolne. How can it possible be,
replyed Bruno? Did not I see it in thy house yesternight? Wouldst thou
have me beleeve, that it is flowne away? Although it is not flowne
away (quoth Calandrino) yet I am certain, that it is stolne away:
for which I am weary of my life, because I dare not go home to mine
owne house, in regard my wife will never beleeve it; and yet if she
should credite it, we are sure to have no peace for a twelve months
space.
  Bruno, seeming as if he were more then halfe sorrowfull, yet
supporting still his former jesting humor, saide: Now trust mee
Calandrino, if it be so; they that did it are much too blame. If it be
so? answered Calandrino, Belike thou wouldst have mee blaspheme
Heaven, and all the Saints therein: I tell thee once againe Bruno,
that this last night my Brawne was stolne. Be patient good Calandrino,
replyed Buffalmaco, and if thy Brawne be stolne from thee, there are
means enow to get it againe. Meanes enow to get it againe? said
Calandrino, I would faine heare one likely one, and let all the rest
go by. I am sure Calandrino, answered Buffalmaco, thou art verily
perswaded, that no Theefe came from India, to steale thy Brawne from
thee: in which respect, it must needes then be some of thy Neighbours:
whom if thou couldst lovingly assemble together, I knowe an experiment
to be made with Bread and Cheese, whereby the party that hath it, will
quickly be discovered.
  I have heard (quoth Bruno) of such an experiment, and helde it to be
infallible; but it extendeth onely unto persons of Gentilitie, whereof
there are but few dwelling heere about, and in the case of stealing
a Brawne, it is doubtfull to invite them, neither can there be any
certainty of their comming. I confesse what you say, aunswered
Buffalmaco, to be very true: but then in this matter, so nerely
concerning us to be done, and for a deare Friend, what is your advice?
I would have Pilles made of Ginger, compounded with your best and
strongest Malmsey, then let the ordinary sort of people be invited
(for such onely are most to be mistrusted) and they will not faile
to come, because they are utterly ignorant of our intention.
Besides, the Pilles may as well bee hallowed and consecrated, as bread
and cheese on the like occasion. Indeede you say true (replyed
Buffalmaco) but what is the opinion of Calandrino? Is he willing to
have this tryall made, or no? Yes, by all meanes, answered Calandrino,
for gladly I would know who hath stolne my Brawne; and your good words
have (more then halfe) comforted me already in this case.
  Well then (quoth Bruno) I will take the paines to go to Florence, to
provide all things necessarie for this secret service; but I must
bee furnished with money to effect it. Calandrino had some forty
shillings then about him, which he delivered to Bruno, who presently
went to Florence, to a frend of his an Apothecarie, of whom he
bought a pound of white Ginger, which hee caused him to make uppe in
small Pilles: and two other beside of a Dogges-dates or Dowsets,
confected all over with strong Aloes, yet well moulded in Sugare, as
all the rest were: and because they should the more easily bee
knowne from the other, they were spotted with Gold, in verie formall
and Physicall manner. He bought moreover, a big Flaggon of the best
Malmesey, returning backe with all these things to Calandrino, and
directing him in this order.
  You must put some friend in trust, to invite your Neighbors
(especially such as you suspect) to a breakfast in the morning: and
because it is done as a feast in kindnesse, they will come to you
the more willingly. This night will I and Buffalmaco take such
order, that the Pilles shall have the charge imposed on them, and then
wee will bring them hither againe in the morning: and I, my selfe (for
your sake) will deliver them to your guests, and performe whatsoever
is to bee sayde or done. On the next morning, a goodly company being
assembled, under a faire Elme before the Church; as well young
Florentynes (who purposely came to make themselves merry) as
neighbouring Husbandmen of the Village: Bruno was to begin the
service, with the Pils in a faire Cup, and Buffalmaco followed him
with another Cup, to deliver the wine out of the Flaggon, all the
company beeing set round, as in a circle; and Bruno with Buffalmaco
being in the midst of them, Bruno thus spake.
 Honest friends, it is fit that I should acquaint you with the
occasion, why we are thus met together, and in this place: because
if anie thing may seeme offensive to you; afterward you shall make
no complaint of me. From Calandrino (our loving friend heere
present) yesternight there was a new-kild fat Brawne taken, but who
hath done the deede, as yet he knoweth not; and because none other,
but some one (or more) heere among us, must needs offend in this case:
he, desiring to understand who they be, would have each man to receive
one of these Pilles, and afterward to drinke of this Wine; assuring
you all, that whosoever stole the Brawne hence, cannot be able to
swallow the Pill: for it wil be so extreme bitter in his mouth, as
it will enforce him to Coughe and spet extraordinarily. In which
respect, before such a notorious shame be received, and in so goodly
an assembly, as now are heere present: it were much better for him
or them that have the Brawne, to confesse it in private to this honest
Priest, and I will abstaine from urging anie such publike proofe.
  Every one there present answered, that they were well contented both
to eate and drinke, and let the shame fall where it deserved;
whereupon, Bruno appointing them how they should sit, and placing
Calandrino as one among them: he began his counterfeite exorcisme,
giving each man a Pill, and Buffalmaco a Cup of Wine after it. But
when he came to Calandrino, hee tooke one of them which was made of
the Dogges dates or Dowsets, and delivering it into his hand,
presently hee put it into his mouth and chewed it. So soone as his
tongue tasted the bitter Aloes, he began to coughe and spet extreamly,
as being utterly unable, to endure the bitternesse and noysome
smell. The other men that had receyved the Pils, beganne to gaze one
upon another, to see whose behaviour should discover him; and Bruno
having not (as yet) delivered Pils to them all, proceeded on still
in his businesse, as seeming not to heare any coughing, till one
behinde him, saide. What meaneth Calandrino by this spetting and
coughing?
  Bruno sodainely turning him about, and seeing Calandrino to cough
and spet in such sort, saide to the rest. Be not too rash (honest
Friends) in judging of any man, some other matter (then the Pille) may
procure this Coughing, wherfore he shall receive another, the better
to cleare your beleefe concerning him. He having put the second
prepared Pill into his mouth, while Bruno went to serve the rest of
the Guests: if the first was exceeding bitter to his taste, this other
made it a great deale worse, for teares streamed forth of his eyes
as bigge as Cherry-stones, and champing and chewing the Pill, as
hoping it would overcome his coughing; he coughed and spette the
more violently, and in grosser manner then he did before, nor did they
give him any wine to helpe it.
  Buffalmaco, Bruno, and the whole company, perceiving how he
continued still his coughing and spetting, saide all with one voyce,
That Calandrino was the Theefe to him selfe: and gave him manie grosse
speeches beside, all departing home unto their houses, very much
displeased and angry with him. After they were gone, none remained
with him but the Priest, Bruno and Buffalmaco, who thus spake to
Calandrino. I did ever thinke, that thou wast the theefe thy selfe,
yet thou imputedst thy robbery to some other, for feare we should once
drinke freely of thy purse, as thou hast done many times of ours.
Calandrino, who had not yet ended his coughing and spetting, sware
many bitter Oathes, that his Brawne was stolne from him. Talke so long
as thou wilt, quoth Buffalmaco, thy knavery is both knowne and
seene, and well thou mayst be ashamed of thy selfe. Calandrino hearing
this, grew desperately angry; and to incense him more, Bruno thus
pursued the matter.
  Heare me Calandrino, for I speake to thee in honest earnest, there
was a man in the company, who did eate and drinke heere among thy
neighbours, and plainly told me, that thou keptst a young Lad heere to
do thee service, feeding him with such victuals as thou couldst spare,
by him thou didst send away thy Brawne, to one that bought it of
thee for foure Crownes, onely to cousen thy poore wife and us. Canst
thou not yet learne to leave thy mocking and scorning? Thou hast
forgotte, how thou broughtst us to the plaine of Mugnone, to seeke for
black invisible stones: which having found, thou concealedst them to
thy selfe, stealing home invisibly before us, and making us follow
like fooles after thee.
  Now likewise, by horrible lying Oathes, and perjured
protestations, thou wouldst make us beleeve, that the Brawne (which
thou hast cunningly sold for ready money) was stolne from thee out
of thy house, when thou art onely the Theefe to thy selfe, as by
that excellent rule of Art (which never faileth) hath plainly, to
thy shame, appeared. Wee being so well acquainted with thy
delusions, and knowing them perfectly; now do plainly tell thee,
that we mean not to be foold any more. Nor is it unknowne to thee,
what paines wee have taken, in making this singular peece of proofe.
Wherefore we inflict this punishment on thee, that thou shalt bestow
on this honest Priest and us, two couple of Capons, and a Flaggon of
Wine, or else we will discover this knavery of thine to thy Wife.
  Calandrino perceiving, that all his protestations could winne no
credit with them, who had now the Law remaining in their owne hands,
and purposed to deale with him as they pleased: apparantly saw, that
sighing and sorrow did nothing availe him. Moreover, to fall into
his wives tempestuous stormes of chiding, would bee worse to him
then racking or torturing: he gladly therefore gave them money, to buy
the two couple of Capons and Wine, being heartily contented
likewise, that hee was so well delivered from them. So the merry
Priest, Bruno, and Buffalmaco, having taken good order for salting the
Brawne; closely carried it with them to Florence, leaving Calandrino
to complaine of his losse, and well requited, for mocking them with
the invisible stones.
                   THE EIGHT DAY, THE SEVENTH NOVELL

    SERVING AS AN ADMONITION TO ALL LADIES AND GENTLEWOMEN, NOT TO
     MOCK OR SCORNE GENTLEMEN-SCHOLLERS, WHEN THEY MAKE MEANES OF
         LOVE TO THEM:  EXCEPT THEY INTEND TO SEEKE THEIR OWNE
                        SHAME, BY DISGRACING THEM

  A young Gentleman being a Scholler, fell in love with a Ladie, named
Helena, she being a Widdow, and addicted in affection to another
Gentleman. One whole night in cold Winter, she caused the Scholler
to expect her comming, in an extreame frost and snow. In revenge
whereof, by his imagined Art and skill, he made her to stand naked
on the top of a Tower, the space of a whole day, and in the hot moneth
of July, to be Sunburnt and bitten with Waspes and Flies.

  Greatly did the Ladies commend Madame Philomenaes Novell, laughing
heartily at poore Calandrino, yet grieving withall, that he should
be so knavishly cheated, not onely of his Brawne, but two couple of
Capons, and a Flaggon of Wine beside. But the whole discourse being
ended; the Queene commanded Madame Pampinea, to follow next with her
Novell, and presently she thus began. It hapneth oftentimes (bright
beauties) that mockery falleth on him, that intended the same unto
another: And there. fore I am of opinion, that there is very litle
wisedom declared on him or her, who taketh delight in mocking any
person. must needs confesse, that we have smiled at many mockeries and
deceits, related in those excellent Novels, which we have already
heard: without any due revenge returned, but onely in this last of
silly Calandrino. Wherefore, it is now my determination, to urge a
kind of compassionate apprehension, upon a very just retribution,
happening to a Gentlewoman of our Citie, because her scorne fell
deservedly upon her selfe, remaining mocked, and to the perill of
her life. Let Me then assure you, that your diligent attention may
redound to your benefit, because if you keepe your selves
(henceforward) from being scorned by others: you shall expresse the
greater wisedome, and be the better warned by their mishaps.
  As yet there are not many yeares overpast, since there dwelt in
Florence, a yong Lady, descended of Noble parentage, very
beautifull, of sprightly courage, and sufficiently abounding in the
goods of Fortune, she being named Madame Helena. Her delight was to
live in the estate of Widdowhood, desiring to match her selfe no
more in marriage, because she bare affection to a gallant young
Gentleman, whom she had made her private election of, and with whom
(having excluded all other amorous cares and cogitations) by meanes of
her Waitingwoman, she had divers meetings, and kinde conferences.
  It chanced at the verie same time, another young Gentleman of our
Citie, called Reniero, having long studied in the Schooles at Paris,
returned home to Florence, not to make sale of his Learning and
experience, as many doe: but to understand the reason of things, as
also the causes and effects of them, which is mervailously fitting for
any Gentleman. Being greatly honoured and esteemed of every one, as
well for his courteous carriage towards all in generall, as for his
knowledge and excellent parts: he lived more like a familiar
Citizen, then in the nature of a Courtly Gentleman, albeit he was
choisely respected in either estate.
  But, as oftentimes it commeth to passe, that such as are endued with
the best judgement and understanding in naturall occasions, are
soonest caught and intangled in the snares of Love: so fel it out with
our Scholler Reniero, who being invited to a solemne Feast, in company
of other his especiall Friends; this Lady Helena, attyred in her
blacke Garments (as Widowes commonly use to wear) was likewise there a
Guest. His eye observing her beauty and gracious demeanour, she seemed
in his judgement, to be a Woman so compleate and perfect, as he had
never seene her equall before: and therefore, he accounted the man
more then fortunate, that was worthy to embrace her in his armes.
Continuing this amorous observation of her from time to time, and
knowing withall, that rare and excellent things are not easily
obtained, but by painefull study, labour, and endeavour: hee
resolved with himselfe constantly, to put in practise all his best
parts of industry, onely to honour and please her, and attaining to
her contentation, it would be the means to winne her love, and
compasse thereby his hearts desire.
  The yong Lady, who fixed not her eyes on inferiour subjects (but
esteemed her selfe above ordinary reach or capacity) could moove
them artificially, as curious women well know how to doe, looking on
every side about her, yet not in a gadding or grosse manner: for
she was not ignorant in such darting glaunces, as proceeded from an
enflamed affection, which appearing plainely in Reniero; with a pretty
smile, shee said to her selfe. I am not come hither this day in vaine;
for, if my judgement faile me not, I thinke I have caught a
Woodcocke by the Bill. And lending him a cunning looke or two,
queintly caried with the corner of her eye; she gave him a kinde of
perswading apprehension, that her heart was the guide to her eye.
And in this artificial Schoole-tricke of hers, shee carryed
therewith another consideration, to wit, that the more other eyes
fedde themselves on her perfections, and were (well-neere) lost in
them beyond recovery: so much the greater reason had he to account his
fortune beyond comparison, that was the sole master of her heart,
and had her love at his command.
  Our witty Scholler having set aside his Philosophicall
considerations, strove how he might best understand her carriage
toward him, and beleeving that she beheld him with pleasing regards;
hee learned to know the house where shee dwelt, passing daily by the
doore divers times, under colour of some more serious occasions:
wherein the Lady very proudly gloried, in regard of the reasons before
alleadged, and seemed to affoord him lookes of goode liking. Being led
thus with a hopefull perswasion, bee found the meanes to gaine
acquaintance with her waiting-woman, revealing to her his intire
affection, desiring her to worke for him in such sort with her Lady,
that his service might be gracious in her acceptance. The
Gentlewoman made him a very willing promise, and immediately did his
errand to her Lady; who heard her with no small pride and
squemishnesse, and breaking forth into a scornefull laughter, thus she
spake.
  Ancilla (for so she was named) dost thou not observe, how this
Scholler is come to lose all the wit heere, which he studyed so long
for in the University of Paris? Let us make him our onely Table
argument, and seeing his folly soareth so high, we will feed him
with such a dyet as hee deserveth. Yet when thou speakest next with
him, tell him, that I affect him more then he can doe me; but it
becommeth me to be carefull of mine honour, and to walke with an
untainted brow, as other Ladies and Gentlewomen doe: which he is not
to mislike, if he be so wise as he maketh shew of, but rather will the
more commend me. Alas good Lady lack-wit, little did she understand
(faire assembly) how dangerous a case it is [to] deale with Schollers.
  At his next meeting with the waiting woman, shee delivered the
message, as her Lady had commanded her, whereof poore Reniero was so
joyfull: that hee pursued his love-suite the more earnestly, and began
to write letters, send gifts, and tokens, all which were still
received, yet without any other answere to give hope, but onely in
generall, and thus shee dallied with him a long while. In the end, she
discovered this matter to her secret chosen friend, who fell
suddenly sicke of the head-ake, onely through meere conceit of
jealousie: which she perceiving, and grieving to be suspected
without any cause, especially by him whom shee esteemed above all
other; shee intended to rid him quickely of that Idle disease. And
being more and more solicited by the Scholler, she sent him word by
her maide Ancilla, that (as yet) she could find no convenient
opportunity, to yeeld him such assurance, as hee should not any way be
distrustfull of her love.
  But the Feast of Christmas was now neere at hand, which afforded
leisures much more hopefull, then any other formerly passed. And
therefore, the next night after the first Feasting day, if he
pleased to walke in the open Court of her house: she would soone
send for him, into a place much better beseeming, and where they might
freely converse together.
  Now was our Scholler the onely jocond man of the world, and failed
not the time assigned him, but went unto the Ladies house, where
Ancilla was ready to give him entertainment, conducting him into the
base Court, where she lockt him up fast, untill her Lady should send
for him. This night shee had privately sent for her friend also, and
sitting merrily at supper with him, told him, what welcome she had
given the Scholler, and how she further meant to use him, saying.
Now Sir, consider with your selfe, what hot affection I beare to
him, of whom you became so fondly jealous. The which words were very
welcome to him, and made him extraordinarily joyful; desiring to see
them as effectually performed, as they appeared to him by her
protestations.
  Heere you are to understand (Gracious Ladies) that according to
the season of the yeare, a great snow had falne the day before, so
as the whole Court was covered therewith, and being an extreame
frost upon it, our Scholler could not boast of any warme walking, when
the teeth quivered in his head with cold, as a Dog could not be more
discourteously used: yet hope of enjoying Loves recompence at
length, made him to support all this injury with admirable patience.
  Within a while after, Madame Helena said to her friend. Walke with
me (deare sal heart) into my Chamber, and there at a secret little
window, I shall shew thee what he doth, that drove thee to such a
suspition of me, and we shall heare beside, what answere he will
give my maide Ancilla, whom I will send to comfort him in his
coldnesse.
  When she had so said, they went to the appointed chamber window,
where they could easily see him, but he not them: and then they
heard Ancilla also, calling to him forth of another windowe, saying.
Signior Reniero, my Lady is the wofullest woman in the world,
because (as yet) she cannot come to you, in regard that one of her
brethren came this evening to visite her, and held her with much
longer discourse then she expected: whereby she was constrained to
invite him to sup with her, and yet he is not gone; but shortly I hope
hee will, and then expect her comming presently; till when, she
entreateth your gentle sufferance.
  Poore Renicro, our over-credulous Scholler, whose vehement affection
to Madame Helena, so hood-winkt the sight of his understanding, as
he could not be distrustfull of any guilt; returned this answere to
Ancilla. Say to your Lady that I am bound in duty, to attend the
good houre of her leisure, without so much as the very least
prejudicate conceite in me: Neverthelesse, entreat her, to let it
bee so soone as she possibly may, because here is miserable walking,
and it beginneth againe to snow extreamely. Ancilla making fast the
Casement, went presently to bed; when Helena spake thus to her amorous
friend. What saist thou now? Doest thou thinke that I loved him, as
thou wast afraid of? If I did, he should never walke thus in the frost
and snow. So, away went they likewise from their close gazing
window, and spent wanton dalliances together, laughing, and deriding
(with many bitter taunts and jests) the lamentable condition of
poore Reniero.
  About the Court walked hee numberlesse times, finding such exercises
as he could best devise, to compasse warmth in any manner: no seate or
shelter had he any where, either to ease himselfe by sitting downe a
while, or keepe him from the snow, falling continually on him, which
made him bestow many curses on the Ladies Brother, for his so long
tarrying with her, as beleeving him verily to be in the house, or else
she would (long before) have admitted his entrance, but therein his
hope was meerely deceived. It grew now to be about the houre of
midnight, and Helena had delighted her selfe with her friend
extraordinarily, til at last, thus she spake to him. What is thine
opinion of my amourous Scholler? Which dost thou imagine to be the
greatest, either his sense and judgement, or the affection I beare
to him? Is not this cold sufferance of his, able to quench the violent
heat of his loves extremitie, and having so much snow broth to helpe
it? Beleeve me (sweet Lady) quoth her friend, as hee is a man, and a
learned Scholler, I pitty that he should bee thus ungently dealt
withall: but as he is my rivall and loves enemy, I cannot allow him
the least compassion, resting the more confidently assured of your
love to me, which I will alwayes esteeme most precious.
  When they had spent a long while in this or the like conference,
with infinite sweet kisses and embraces intermixed; then she began
againe in this manner. Deare love (quoth she) cast thy Cloake about
thee, as I intend to doe with my night mantle, and let us step to
the little window once more, to see whether the flaming fire, which
burned in the Schollers brest (as daily avouched to me in his love
letters) be as yet extinct or no. So going to the window againe, and
looking downe into the Court; there they saw the Scholler dancing in
the snow, to the cold tune of his teeths quivering and chattering, and
clapping his armes about his body, which was no pleasing melody to
him. How thinkest thou now sweet heart (saide cannot I make a man
daunce without the sound of a Taber, or of a Bagpipe? yes beleeve me
Lady (quoth he) I plaine pereive you can, and would be very lothe,
that at should exercise your cunning on me.
  Nay, said shee, we will yet delight our selves a little more; let us
softly descend downe the stayres, even so farre as to the Court doore:
thou shalt not speake a word, but I will talke to him, and heare
some part of his quivering language, which cannot choose but bee
passing pleasing for us to heare.
  Out of the Chamber went they, and descended downe the stayres to the
Court doore; where, without opening it, she laide her mouth to a small
cranny, and in a low soft kinde of voyce, called him by his name:
which the Scholler hearing, was exceeding joyful, as beleeving verily,
that the houre of his deliverance was come, and entrance now should be
admitted him. Upon the hearing of her voyce, hee stept close to the
doore, saying. For charities sake, good Lady, let me come in,
because I am almost dead with cold; whereto thus she answered in
mocking manner. I make no doubt (my deare friend Reniero) but the
night is indifferent colde, and yet somewhat the warmer by the
Snowes falling: and I have heard that such weather as this, is
tenne-times more extreame at Paris, then heere in our warmer Countrey.
And trust me, I am exceeding sorrowfull, that I may not (as yet)
open the doore, because mine unhappy brother, who came (unexpected)
yester-night to suppe with mee, is not yet gone, as within a short
while (I hope) he will, and then shall I gladly set open the doore
to you, for I made an excuse to steale a little from him, onely to
cheare you with this small kind of comfort, that his so long
tarrying might be the lesse offensive to you.
  Alas sweet Madame, answered quaking and quivering Reniero, bee then
so favourable to me, as to free me from forth this open Court, where
there is no shelter or helpe for me, the snow falling still so
exceedingly, as a man might easily be more then halfe buried in it:
let me but within your doore, and there I will wait your own good
leisure. Alas deare Reniero (answered Helena) I dare not doe it,
because the doore maketh such a noyse in the opening, as it will be
too easily heard by my Brother: but I will goe and use such meanes, as
shortly hee shall get him gone, and then I dare boldly give you
entrance. Doe so good Madame, replyed Reniero, and let there be a
faire fire made ready, that when I am within, I may the sooner warme
my selfe; for I am so strangely benummed with colde, as well-neere I
am past all sence of feeling.
  Can it be possible (quoth Helena) that you should be so benummed
with colde? Then I plainely perceive, that men can lye in their love
letters, which I can shew under your own hand, how you fryed in
flames, and all for my love, and so have you written to me in every
letter. Poore credulous women are often thus deluded, in beleeving
what men write and speake out of passion: but I will returne backe
to my Brother, and make no doubt of dispatch, because I would gladly
have your Company.
  The amourous Friend to Helena, who stood by all this while, laughing
at the Schollers hard usage, returned up againe with her to her
Chamber, where they could not take a jote of rest, for flouting and
scorning the betrayed Scholler, As for him poore man, hee was become
like the Swanne, coldly chattering his teeth together, in a strange
new kinde of harmony to him. And perceiving himselfe to be meerely
mocked, he attempted to get open the doore, or how he might passe
forth at any other place; but being no way able to compasse it, he
walked up and downe like an angry Lyon, cursing the hard quality of
the time, the discourtesie of the Lady, the over-tedious length of the
night; but (most of all) his owne folly and simplicity, in being so
basely abused and gulde. Now began the heat of his former affection to
Helena, altered into as violent a detestation of her; Yea, extremity
of hatred in the highest degree; beating his braines, and ransacking
every corner of in. vention, by what meanes he might best be
revenged on her, which now he more earnestly desired to effect, then
to enjoy the benefit of her love, or to be embraced betweene her
armes.
  After that the sad and discomfortable night had spent it selfe,
and the break of day was beginning to appeare; Ancilla the
waiting-woman, according as she was instructed by her Lady, went downe
and opened the Court doore, and seeming exceedingly to compassionate
the Schollers unfortunate night of sufferance, saide unto him.
  Alas courteous Gentleman, in an unblessed houre came my Ladyes
brother hither yesternight, inflicting too much trouble upon us, and a
grievous time of affliction to you. But I am not ignorant, that you
being vertuous, and a judicious Scholler, have an invincible spirit of
pacience, and sufficient understanding withall; that what this night
could not affoord, another may make a sound amends for. This I can and
dare sufficiently assure you, that nothing could be more displeasing
to my Lady, neither can she well be quieted in her mind: untill she
have made a double and treble requitall, for such a strange unexpected
inconvenience, whereof she had not the very least suspition.
  Reniero swelling with discontentment, yet wisely clouding it from
open apprehension, and knowing well enough, that such golden
speeches and promises, did alwaies savour of what intemperate
spleene would more lavishly have vented foorth, and therefore in a
modest dissembling manner; without the least shew of any anger, thus
he answered.
  In good sadnesse Ancilla, I have endured the most miserablest
night of cold, frost and snow, that ever any poore Gentleman suffered;
but I know well enough, your Lady was not in any fault thereof,
neither meriteth to be blamed, for in her owne person (as being truely
compassionate of my distresse) she came so farre as the doore of
this Court, to excuse her selfe, and comfort mee. But as you saide,
and very well too, what hath failed this night, another hereafter
may more fortunately performe: in hope whereof, commend my love and
duteous service to her, and (what else remaineth mine) to your
gentle selfe.
  So our halfe frozen Scholler, scarcely able to walke upon his
legges, returned home, (so well as hee could) to his owne lodging;
where, his spirits being grievously out of order, and his eyes staring
gastly through lacke of sleepe: he lay downe on h bed, and after a
little rest, he found himselfe in much worse condition then before, as
meerely taken lame in his armes and his legges. Whereupon he was
inforced to send for Phisitions, to be advised by their councell, in
such an extremity of cold received. Immediately, they made provision
for his healthes remedie (albeit his nerves and sinewes could very
hardly extend themselves) yet in regard he was yong, and Summer
swiftly drawing on; they had the better hope of affecting his safty,
out of so great and dangerous a cold.
  But after he was become almost well and lusty againe, hee used to be
seldome seene abroad for an indifferent while; concealing his intended
revenge secret to himselfe, yet appearing more affectionate to
Madame Helena, then formerly he had beene.
  Now, it came to passe (within no long while after) that Fortune
being favourable to our injured Scholler, prepared a new accident,
wherby he might fully effect his harts desire. For the lusty yong
Gallant, who was Madame Helenaes deare darling and delight, and (for
whose sake) she dealt so inhumanely with poore Reniero: became weary
of her amourous service, and was falne in liking of another Lady,
scorning and disdaining his former Mistresse; whereat shee grew
exceedingly displeased, and began to languish in sighes and teares.
  But Ancilla her waiting-woman, compassionating the perilous
condition of her Lady, and knowing no likely meanes whereby to conquer
this oppressing melancholly, which shee suffered for the losse of
her hearts chosen friend: at length she began to consider, that the
Scholler still walked daily by the doore, as formerly hee was wont
to doe, and (by him) there might some good be done.
  A fond and foolish opinion overswayed her, that the Scholler was
extraordinarily skilfull in the Art of Nigromancy, and could thereby
so over-rule the heart of her lost friend, as hee should bee compelled
to love her againe, in as effectuall manner as before; herewith
immediately she acquainted her Lady, who being as rashly credulous, as
her maide was opinionative (never considring, that if the Scholler had
any experience in Negromancy, hee would thereby have procured his owne
successe) gave releefe to her surmise, in very joviall and comfortable
manner, and entreated her in all kindnes, to know of him, whether he
could worke such a businesse, or no, and (upon his undertaking to
effect it) shee would give absolute assurance, that (in recompence
thereof) he should unfainedly obtaine his hearts desire. Ancilla was
quicke and expeditious, in delivering this message to discontented
Reniero, whose soule being ready to mount out of his body, onely by
conceit of joy; chearefully thus he said within himselfe. Gracious
Fortune! how highly am I obliged to thee for this so great favour? Now
thou hast blest me with a happy time, to be justly revenged on so
wicked a woman, who sought the utter ruine of my life, in recompence
of the unfaigned affection I bare her. Returne to thy Lady (quoth
he) and saluting her first on my behalfe, bid her to abandon all
care in this businesse; for, if her amourous Friend were in India, I
would make him come (in meere despight of his heart) and crave mercy
of her for his base transgression. But concerning the meanes how,
and in what manner it is to bee done, especially on her owne
behalfe: I will impart it to her so soone as she pleaseth: faile not
to tell her so constantly from me, with all my utmost paines at her
service.
  Ancilla came jocondly home with her answere, and a conclusion was
set downe for their meeting together at Santa Lucia del prato, which
accordingly was performed, in very solemne conference between them.
Her fond affection had such power over her, that shee had forgot, into
what peril she brought his life, by such an unnatural nightwalke:
but disclosed all her other intention to him, how loth she was to lose
so deare a friend, and desiring him to exercise his utmost height of
skil, with large promises of her manifold favours to him, whereto
our Scholler thus replyed.
  Very true it is Madam, that among other studies at Paris, I
learned the Art of Negromancy, the depth whereof I am as skilfull
in, as anie other Scholler whatsoever. But, because it is greatly
displeasing unto God, I made a vow never to use it, either for my
selfe, or anie other. Neverthelesse, the love I beare you is of such
power, as I know not well how to denie, whatsoever you please to
command me: in which respect, if in doing you my very best service,
I were sure to bee seized on by all the divels: I will not faile to
accomplish your desire, you onely having the power to command me.
But let me tell you Madame, it is a matter not so easie to be
performed, as you perhaps may rashly imagine, especially, when a Woman
would repeale a man to love her, or a man a woman: because, it is
not to be done, but by the person whom it properly concerneth. And
therefore it behoveth, that such as would have this businesse
effected, must be of a constant minde, without the least scruple of
feare: because it is to be accomplished in the darke night season,
in which difficulties I doe not know, how you are able to warrant your
selfe, or whether you have such courage of spirit, as (with boldnes)
to adventure.
  Madame Helena, more hot in pursuite of her amorous contentment, then
any way governed by temperate discretion, presently thus answered.
Sir, Love hath set such a keene edge on my unconquerable affection, as
there is not any daunger so difficult, but I dare resolutely undertake
it, for the recovery of him, who hath so shamefullie refused my
kindnesse: wherefore (if you please) shew mee, wherein I must be so
constant and dreadlesse. The Scholler, who had (more then halfe)
caught a right Ninnyhammer by the beake, thus replyed. Madame, of
necessity I must make an image of Tin, in the name of him whom you
desire to recall. Which when I have sent you, the Moone being then
in her full, and your selfe stript starke naked: immediately after
your first sleepe, seaven times you must bathe your selfe with it in a
swift running River. Afterward, naked as you are, you must climbe up
upon some tree, or else upon an uninhabited house top, where
standing dreadlesse of any perill, and turning your face to the North,
with the Image in your hand, seaven times you must speake such wordes,
as I will deliver to you in writing.
  After you have so often spoken them, two goodly Ladies (the very
fairest that ever you beheld) wil appeare unto you, very graciously
saluting you, and demanding what you would have them to performe for
you. Safely you may speake unto them, and orderly tel them what you
desire: but be very careful, that you name not one man insted of
another. When you have uttered your mind, they wil depart from you,
and then you may descend againe, to the place where you did leave your
garments, which having putte on, then returne to your house. And
undoubtedly, before the midst of the next night following, your friend
wil come in teares to you, and humbly crave your pardon on his
knees; beeing never able afterward to be false to you, or leave your
Love for any other whatsoever.
  The Lady hearing these words, gave very setled beleefe to them,
imagining unfainedly, that shee had (more then halfe) recovered her
friend already, and held him embraced between her armes: in which
jocond perswasion, the chearful blood mounted up into hir cheekes, and
thus she replyed.
  Never make you any doubt Sir, but that I can sufficiently performe
whatsoever you have said, and am provided of the onely place in the
world, where such a weighty businesse is to be effected. For I have
a Farme or dairy house, neere adjoyning to the vale of Arno, and
closely bordering upon the same River. It beeing now the moneth of
july, the most convenientest time of all the yeare to bathe in; I
can bee the easier induced thereunto.
  Moreover, there is hard by the Rivers side a smal Tower or Turret
uninhabited; whereinto few people do sildome enter, but onely
Heardsmen or Flocke-keepers, who ascend uppe (by the helpe of a wodden
Ladder) to a Tarrasse on the top of the saide Tower, to looke all
about for their beasts, when they are wandred astray: it standing in a
solitary place, and out of the common way or resort. There dare I
boldly adventure to mount up, and with the invincible courage of a
wronged Lady (not fearing to looke death himself in the face) do al
that you have prescribed, yea, and much more, to recover my deare lost
Lover againe, whom I value equal with my owne Life.
  Reniero, who perfectly knew both the Dairy Farme, and the old smal
Turret, not a little joyful, to heare how forward shee was to shame
her selfe, answered in this manner. Madame, I was never in those parts
of the Country, albeit they are so neere to our City, and therfore I
must needs be ignorant, not onely of your Farme, but the Turret
also. But if they stand in such convenient manner as you have
described, all the world could not yeelde the like elsewhere, so apt
and sutable to your purpose: wherefore, with such expedition as
possibly can use, I will make the Image, and send it you, as also
the charme, verie fairely written. But let me entreate you, that
when you have obtayned your hearts desire, and are able to Judge
truely of my love and service: not to be unmindfull of me, but (at
your best leysure) to performe what you have with such protestations
promised; which shee gave him her hand and faith to do, without any
impeach or hinderance: and so parting, she returned home to her house.
  Our over-joyed Scholler, applauding his happy Starres, for
furthering him with faire a way to his revenge; immagining that it was
already halfe executed, made the Image in due forme, and wrote an
old Fable, insted of a Charme; both which he sent to the Lady, so
soone as he thought the time to be fitting: and this admonition
withall, that the Moone being entering into the full, without any
longer delay, she might venter on the businesse the next night
following; and remaine assured to repossesse her friend. Afterward for
the better pleasing of himselfe, he went secretly attended, onely by
his servant, to the house of a trusty frend of his, who dwelt
somwhat neere to the Turret, there to expect the issue of this
Lady-like enterprize. And Madam Helena accompanied with none but
Ancilla walked on to her dairy Farme, where the night ensuing,
pretending to take her rest sooner then formerly she used to doe,
she commanded Ancilla to bed, referring her selfe to her best liking.
  After she had to her first sleepe (according to the Schollers
direction) departing softly out of her chamber, she went on towards
the ancient Tower, standing hard by the river of Arno, looking every
way heedfully about hir, least she should be spied by any person.
But perceiving hir selfe to be so secure as she could desire;
putting off all her garments, she hid them in a small brake of bushes:
afterward, holding the Image in hir hand, seven times she bathd hir
body in the river, and then returned with it to the Tower. The
Scholler, who at the nights closing up of day, had hid himselfe
among the willowes and other trees, which grew very thick about the
Tower, saw both hir going and returning from the River, and as she
passed thus naked by him, he plainly perceyved, that the nights
obscurity could not cloud the delicate whitenes of hir body, but
made the Starres themselves to gaze amorously on her, even as if
they were proud to behold her bathing, and (like so many twinkling
Tapers) shewed hir in emulation of another Diana. Now, what
conflicts this sight caused in the mind of our Scholler, one while,
quenching his hatefull spleen towards hir, al coveting to imbrace a
piece of such perfection: another while, thinking it a purchase fit
for one of Cupids soldiers, to seize and surprize hir uppon so faire
an advantage, none being to yeild her rescue: in the fiery triall of
such temptations, I am not able to Judge, or to say, what resistance
flesh and blood could make, being opposed with such a sweet enemy.
  But he well considering what she was, the greatnes of his injury, as
also how, and for whom: he forgot all wanton allurements of Love,
scorning to entertaine a thought of compassion, continuing constant in
his resolution, to let her suffer, as he himselfe had done. So, Helena
being mounted up on the Turret, and turning her face towards the
North; she repeated those idle frivolous words (composed in the nature
of a charme) which shee had received from the Scholler. Afterward,
by soft and stealing steps, hee went into the old Tower, and tooke
away the Ladder, whereby she ascended to the Tarras, staying and
listening, how shee proceeded in her amorous exorcisme.
  Seven times she rehearsed the charme to the Image, looking still
when the two Ladies would appeare in their likenesse, and so long
she held on her imprecations (feeling greater cold, then willinglie
she would have done) that breake of day began to shew it selfe, and
halfe despairing of the Ladies comming, according as the Scholler
bad promised, she said to her selfe: I much misdoubt, that Reniero
hath quitted me with such another peece of night-service, as it was my
lucke to bestow on him: but if he have done it in that respect, hee
was but ill advised in his revenge, because the night wants now
three parts of the length, as then it had: and the cold which he
suffered, was far superior in quality to mine, albeit it is more sharp
now in the morning, then all the time of night it hath bin.
  And, because day-light should not discover her on the Tarrasse,
she went to make her descent downe againe: but finding the Ladder to
be taken away, and thinking how her publike shame was now
inevitable, her heart dismayed, and shee fell downe in a swoune on the
Tarras: yet recovering her senses afterward, her greefe and sorrow ex.
ceeded all capacity of utterance. For, now she became fully perswaded,
that this proceeded from the Schollers malice, repenting for her
unkinde usage towards him, but much more condemning her selfe, for
reposing any trust in him, who stood bound (by good reason) to be
her enemy.
  Continuing long in this extreame affliction, and surveighing all
likely meanes about her, whereby she might descend from the Tarras,
whereof she was wholly disappointed: she began to sighe and weepe
exceedingly, and in this heavy perplexity of spirit, thus shee
complained to her selfe. Miserable and unfortunate Helena, what will
be saide by thy Bretheren, Kindred, Neighbours, and generallie
throughout all Florence, when they shall know, that thou wast founde
heere on this Turret, starke naked? Thine honourable carriage, and
honesty of life, heeretofore free from a thought of suspition, shall
now be branded with detestation; and if thou wouldst cloud this
mishappe of thine, by such lies and excuses, as are not rare amongst
women: yet Reniero that wicked Scholler, who knoweth all thy privy
compacting, will stand as a thousand witnesses against thee, and shame
thee before the whole City, so both thine honor and loved friend are
lost for ever.
  Having thus consulted with her selfe, many desperate motions
entred her minde, to throw her selfe headlong from off the Tarras;
till better thoughts wone possession of her soule. And the Sunne being
risen, shee went to every corner of the Tarras, to espye any Lad
come abroad with his beasts, by whom she might send for her
waitingwoman. About this instant, the Scholler who lay sleeping (all
this while) under a bush, suddenly awaking; saw her looke over the
wall, and she likewise espyed him; whereupon hee said unto her. Good
morrow Madame Helena, What? are the Ladies come yet or no? Helena
bearing his scorning question, and grieving that hee should so
delude her: in teares and lamentations, she intreated him to come
neere the Tower, because she desired to speake with him. Which
courtesie he did not deny her, and she lying groveling upon her
brest on the Tarras, to hide her body that no part thereof might be
seene, but her head; weeping, she spake thus to him.
  Reniero, upon my credit, if I gave thee an ill nights rest, thou
hast well revenged that wrong on me; for, although wee are now in
the moneth of july, I have beene plagued with extremity of colde (in
regard of my nakednesse) even almost frozen to death: beside my
continuall teares and lamenting, that folly perswaded me to beleeve
thy protestations, wherein I account it well-neere miraculous, that
mine eyes should be capable of any sight. And therefore I pray thee,
lot in respect of any love which thou canst pretend to beare me; but
for regard of thine owne selfe, being a Gentleman and a Scholler, that
this punishment which thou hast already inflicted upon me, may suffice
for or my former injuries towards thee, and to hold selfe revenged
fully, as also permit my garments to be brought me, that I may descend
from hence, without taking th it from me, which afterward (although
thou wouldst) thou canst never restore me, I meane mine honour. And
consider with thy selfe, that albeit thou didst not injoy my company
that unhappy night, yet thou hast power to command me at any time
when soever, with making many diversities of amends, for one nights
offence only committed. Content thy selfe then good Reniero, and as
thou art an honest gentleman, say thou art sufficiently revenged on
me, in making me dearely confesse mine owne errour.
  Never exercise thy malice upon a poore weake woman, for the Eagle
disdaineth to pray on the yeelding Dove: and therefore in meere pitty,
and for manhoods sake, be my release from open shame and reproch.
  The Scholler, whose envious spleene was swolne very great, in
remembring such a malicious cruelty exercised on him, beholding to
weepe and make such lamentations; found a fierce conflict in his
thoughts, betweene content and pitty. It did not a little joy and
content him, that the revenge which he so earnestly desired to
compasse, was now by him so effectually inflicted. And yet (in meere
humanity) pitty provoked him, to commisserate the Ladies distressed
condition: but clemency being over-weake to withstand his rigor,
thus he replied. Madam Helena, if mine entreaties (which, to speake
truly, I never knew how to steepe in tears, nor wrap up my words in
sugar Candie, so cuningly as you women know how to do) could have
prevailed, that miserable night, when I was well-neere frozen to death
with cold, and meerly buried with snow in your Court, not having
anie place of rescue or shelter; your complaints would now the more
easily over-rule me. But if your honor in estimation, bee now more
precious to you then heretofore, and it seemeth so offensive to
stand there naked: convert your perswasions and prayers to him, in
whose armes you were that night imbraced, both of your triumphing in
my misery, when poor I, trotted about your Court, with the teeth
quivering in my head, and beating mine armes about my body, finding no
compassion in him, or you. Let him bring thee thy Garments, let him
come helpe thee down with the Ladder, and let him have the care of
thine honour, on whom thou hast bene so prodigall heretofore in
bestowing it, and now hast unwomanly throwne thy selfe in perill,
onely for the maintenance of thine immodest desires.
  Why dost thou not call on him to come helpe thee? To whom doeth it
more belong, then to him? For thou art his and he thine. Why then
shold any other but he help thee in this distresse? Call him (foole as
thou art) and try, if the love he beareth thee, and thy best
understanding joyned with his, can deliver thee out of my sottish
detaining thee. I have not forgot, that when you both made a pastime
of my misery, thou didst demand of him, which seemed greatest in his
opinion, either my sottish simplicity, or the love thou barest him.
I am not now so liberall or courteous, to desire that of thee, which
thou wouldst not grant, if I did request it: No, no, reserve those
night favours for thy amorous friend, if thou dost escape hence
alive to see him againe. As for my selfe, I leave thee freely to his
use and service: because I have sufficiently payde for a womans
falshood, and wisemen take such warning, that they scorne to bee twice
deceived, and by one woman. Proceed on stil in thy flattering
perswasions, terming me to be a Gentleman and a Scholler, thereby to
win such favor from me, that I should think thy villany toward me,
to be already sufficiently punished. No, treacherous Helena, thy
blandishments cannot now hoodwink the eies of my understanding, as
when thou didst out-reach me with thy disloyall promises and
protestations. And let me now tell thee plainely, that all the while I
continued in the Universitie of Paris, I never attained unto so
perfect an understanding of my selfe, as in that one miserable night
thou diddest enstruct mee. But admit, that I were enclined unto a
mercifull and compassionate minde, yet thou art none of them, on whome
milde and gracious mercy should any way declare her effects. For,
the end of pennance among savage beasts, such as thou art, and
likewise of due vengeance, ought to be death: whereas among men, it
should suffice according to thine owne saying. Wherefore, in regard
that I am neither an Eagle, nor thou a Dove, but rather a most
venomous Serpent: I purpose with my utmost hatred, and as an ancient
enemy to all such as thou art, to make my revenge famous on thee.
  I am not ignorant, that whatsoever I have already done unto thee,
cannot properly be termed revenge, but rather chastisement; because
revenge ought alwayes to exceede the offence, which (as yet) I am
farre enough from. For, if I did intend to revenge my wrongs, and
remembred thy monstrous cruelty to me: thy life, if I tooke it from
thee, and an hundred more such as thy selfe, were farre
insufficient, because in killing thee, I should kill but a vile
inhumane beast, yea, one that deserved not the name of a Woman. And,
to speake truely, Art thou any more, or better (setting aside thy
borrowed haire, and painted beauty, which in few yeares will leave
thee wrinkled and deformed) then the basest beggarly Chamber-stuffe
that can bee? Yet thou soughtest the death of a Gentleman and Scholler
as (in scorne) not long since, thou didst terme me: whose life may
hereafter be more beneficiall unto the world, then millions of such as
thou art, to live in the like multiplicity of ages. Therefore, if this
anguish be sensible to thee, learne what it is to mocke men of
apprehension, and (amongst them especially) such as are Schollers:
to prevent thy falling hereafter into the like extremity, if it be thy
good lucke to escape out of this.
  It appeareth to me, that thou art verie desirous to come downe
hither on the ground; the best counsell that I can give thee, is to
leape downe headlong, that by breaking thy necke (if thy fortune be so
faire) thy life and lothsome qualities ending together, I may sit
and smile at thy deserved destruction. I have no other comfort to give
thee, but only to boast my happinesse, in teaching thee the way to
ascend that Tower, and in thy descending downe (even by what means thy
wit can best devise) make a mockery of me, and say thou hast learned
more, then all my Schollership could instruct thee.
  All the while as Reniero uttered these speeches, the miserable
Lady sighed and wept very grievously, the time running on, and the
Sunne ascending higher and higher; but when she heard him silent, thus
she answered. Unkinde and cruell man, if that wretched night was so
greevous to thee, and mine offence appeared so great, as neither my
youth, beautie, teares, and humble intercessions, are able to derive
any mercy from thee; yet let the last consideration moove thee to some
remorse: namely that I reposed new confidence in thee (when I had
little or no reason at all to trust thee) and discovered the
integritie of my soule unto thee, whereby thou didst compasse the
meanes, to punish me thus deservedly for my sinne. For, if I had not
reposed confidence in thee, thou couldst not (in this maner) have
wrought revenge on me, which although thou didst earnestly covet,
yet my rash credulitie was thy onely helpe. Asswage then thine
anger, and graciously pardon me, wherein if thou wilt be so
mercifull to me, and free me from this fatall Tower: I do heere
faithfully promise thee, to forsake my most false and disloyall
friend, electing thee as my Lord and constant Love for ever.
  Moreover, although thou condemnest my beauty greatly, esteeming it
as a trifle, momentary, and of slender continuance; yet, such as it is
(being comparable with any other womans whatsoever) I am not so
ignorant, that were there no other reason to induce liking thereof:
yet men in the vigour of their youth (as I am sure you think your
selfe not aged) do hold it for an especiall delight, ordained by
nature for them to admire and honour. And notwithstanding all thy
cruelty extended to mee, yet I cannot be perswaded, that thou art so
flinty or Ironhearted, as to desire my miserable death, by casting
my selfe headlong downe (like a desperate madde woman) before thy
face, so to destroy that beuty, which (if thy Letters lyed not) was
once so highly pleasing in thine eyes. Take pitty then on mee for
charities sake, because the Sunne beginneth to heate extreamely: and
as over-much colde (that unhappy night) was mine offence, so let not
over-violent warmth be now my utter ruine and death.
  The Scholler, who (onely to delight himselfe) maintained this long
discoursing with her, returned her this answere. Madame, you did not
repose such confidence in me, for any good will or afrection in you
towards me, but in hope of recovering him whom you had lost; wherein
you merit not a jot of favour, but rather the more sharpe and severe
infliction. And whereas you inferre, that your over-rash credulity,
gave the onely meanes to my revenge: Alas! therein you deceive your
selfe; for I have a thousand crochets working continually in my brain,
whereby to entrap a wiser creature then a woman, yet veiled all
under the cunning cloake of love, but sauced with the bitter Wormewood
of hate. So that, had not this hapned as now it doth, of necessity you
must have falne into another: but, as it hath pleased my happy stars
to favour mee therein, none could proove more to your eternall
scandall and disgrace, then this of your owne devising; which I made
choise of, not in regard of any ease to you, but onely to content my
selfe.
  But if all other devises els had failed, my pen was and is my
prevayling Champion, where-with I would have written such and so
many strange matters, concerning you in your very dearest
reputation; that you should have curst the houre of your conception,
and wisht your birth had bin abortive. The powers of the pen are too
many and mighty, wherof such weake wits as have made no experience,
are the lesse able to use any relation. I sweare to you Lady, by my
best hopes, that this revenge which (perhappes) you esteeme great
and dishonourable, is no way compareable to the wounding Lines of a
Penne, which can carracter downe so infinite infamies (yet none but
guilty and true taxations) as will make your owne hands immediate
instruments, to teare the eyes from forth your head, and so bequeath
your after dayes unto perpetuall darkenesse.
  Now, concerning your lost lover, for whose sake you suffer this
unexpected pennance; although your choise hath proved but bad, yet
still continue your affection to him: in regard that I have another
Ladie and Mistresse, of higher and greater desert then you, and to
whome I will continue for ever constant. And whereas you thinke, the
warme beames of the Sunne, will be too hot and scorching for your nice
bodie to endure: remember the extreame cold which you caused mee to
feele, and if you can intermixe some part of that cold with the
present heat, I dare assure you, the Sun (in his highest heate) will
be far more temperate for your feeling.
  The disconsolate Lady perceiving, that the Schollers wordes savoured
of no mercy, but rather as coveting her desperate ending; with the
teares streaming downe her cheekes, thus she replied. Wel Sir,
seeing there is no matter of worth in me, whereby to derive any
compassion from you: yet for that Ladies sake, whom you have elected
worthy to enjoy your love, and so farre excelleth mee in Wisedome;
vouchsafe to pardon mee, and suffer my garments to be brought me,
wherewith to cover my nakednesse, and so to descend downe from this
Tower, if it may stand with your gentle Nature to admit it.
  Now beganne Reniero to laughe very heartily, and perceiving how
swiftly the day ran on in his course, he saide unto her. Beleeve me
Madame Helena, you have so conjured me by mine endeered Ladie and
Mistresse, that I am no longer able to deny you; wherefore, tell me
where your garments are, and I will bring them to you, that you may
come downe from the Turret. She beleeving his promise, tolde him where
she had hid them, and Reniero departing from the Tower, commanded
his servant, not to stirre thence: but to abide still so neere it,
as none might get entrance there till his returning. Which charge
was no sooner given to his man, but hee went to the house of a neere
neighboring friend, where he dined well, and afterward laid him
downe to sleepe.
  In the meane while, Madame Helena remaining still on the Tower,
began to comfort her selfe with a little vaine hope, yet sighing and
weeping incessantly, seating her selfe so well as shee could, where
any small shelter might yeelde the least shade, in expectation of
the Schollers returning: one while weeping, then againe hoping, but
most of all despairing, by his so long tarrying away with her
Garments; so that beeing over-wearied with anguish and long
watching, she fell into a little slumbering. But the Sunne was so
extreamly hot, the houre of noone being already past, that it meerly
parched her delicate body, and burnt her bare head so violently: as
not onely it seared all the flesh it touched; but also cleft and
chinkt it strangely, beside blisters and other painfull scorchings
in the flesh which hindred her sleeping, to help her self (by all
possible means) waking. And the Turret being covered with Lead, gave
the greater addition to her torment; for, as she removed from one
place to another, it yeelded no mitigation to the burning heate, but
parched and wrinkled the flesh extraordinarily, even as when a piece
of parchment is throwne into the fire, and recovered out againe, can
never be extended to his former forme.
  Moreover, she was so grievously payned with the head-ake, as it
seemed to split in a thousand pieces, whereat there needed no great
the Lead of the Turret being so exceedingly hot, that it affoorded not
the least defence against it, or any repose to qualifie the torment:
but drove her still from one place to another, in hope of ease, but
none was there to be found.
  Nor was there any winde at all stirring, whereby to asswage the
Sunnes violent scalding, or keepe away huge swarmes of Waspes,
Hornets, and terrible byting Flyes, which vexed her extreamely,
feeding on those parts of her body, that were rifte and chinkt, like
crannies in a mortered wall, and pained her like so many points of
pricking Needles, labouring still with her hands to beate them away,
but yet they fastned on one place or other, and afflicted her in
grievous manner, causing her to curse her owne life, hir amorous
friend, but (most of all) the Scholler, that promised to bring her
Garments, and as yet returned not. Now began she to gaze upon every
side about her, to espy some labouring Husbandmen in the fields, to
whom she might call or cry out for helpe, not fearing to discover
her desperate condition: but Fortune therein also was adverse to
her, because the heats extreamity, had driven all the village out of
the fields, causing them to feede their Cattle about theyr owne
houses, or in remote and shadie Valleyes: so that shee could see no
other creatures to comfort her, but Swannes swimming in the River of
Arno, and wishing her selfe there a thousand times with them, for to
coole the extreamity of her thirst, which so much the more
encreased, onely by the sight thereof, and utterly disabled of
having any.
  She saw beside in many places about her, goodly Woods, fayre coole
shades, and Country houses here and there dispersed; which added the
greater violence to hir affliction, that her desires (in all these)
could no way be accomplished. What shall I say more concerning this
disastrous Lady? The parching beames of the Sunne above her, the
scalding heat of the Lead beneath her, the Hornets and Flyes everie
way stinging her, had made such an alteration of her beautifull bodie:
that, as it checkt and controlled the precedent nights darkenesse,
it was now so metamorphosed with rednesse, yea, and blood issuing
forth in infinite places, as she seemed (almost) loathsome to looke
on, continuing still in this agonie of torment, quite voyde of all
hope, and rather expecting death, then any other comfort.
  Reniero, when some three houres of the afternoone were overpast,
awaked from sleeping: and remembring Madame Helena, he went to see
in what estate she was; as also to send his servant unto dinner,
because he had fasted all that day. She perceyving his arrivall, being
altogether weake, faint, and wonderously over-wearied, she crept on
her knees to a corner of the Turret, and calling to him, spake in this
manner. Reniero, thy revenge exceedeth al manhoode and respect: For,
if thou wast almost frozen in my Court, thou hast roasted me all day
long on this Tower, yea, meerly broyled my poore naked bodie, beside
starving mee thorough want of Food and drinke. Be now then so
mercifull (for manhoods sake) as to come uppe hither, and inflict that
on me, which mine owne hands are not strong enough to do, I meane
the ending of my loathed and wearisome life, for I desire it beyond
all comfort else, and I shall honour thee in the performance of it. If
thou deny me this gracious favour; at least send me uppe a glasse of
Water, onely to moisten my mouth, which my teares (being all meerly
dried up) are not able to doe, so extreame is the violence of the
Sunnes burning heate.
  Well perceived the Scholler, by the weaknesse of her voyce, and
scorching of her body by the Suns parching beames, that shee was
brought now to great extremity: which sight, as also her humble
intercession, began to touch him with some compassion, nevertheles,
thus he replied. Wicked woman, my hands shal be no means of thy death,
but make use of thine owne, if thou be so desirous to have it: and
as much water shalt thou get of me to asswage thy thirst, as thou
gavest me fire to comfort my freezing, when thou wast in the luxurious
heat of thy immodest desires, and I wel-neere frozen to death with
extremity of cold. Pray that the Evening may raine downe Rosewater
on thee, because that in the River of Arno is not good enough for
thee: for as little pitty doe I take on thee now, as thou didst extend
compassion to me then.
  Miserable Woman that I am, answered Helena; Why did the heavens
bestow beautie on mee, which others have admired and honoured, and yet
(by thee) is utterly despised? More cruell art thou then any savage
Beast; thus to vexe and torment mee in such mercilesse manner. What
greater extreamity couldst thou inflict on me, if I had bin the
destruction of all thy Kindred, and lefte no one man living of thy
race? I am verily perswaded, that more cruelty cannot be used
against a Traitor, who was the subversion of an whole Cittie, then
this tyranny of thine, roasting me thus in the beames of the Sun,
and suffering my body to be devoured with Flies, without so small a
mercie, as to give mee a little coole water, which murtherers are
permitted to have, being condemned by justice, and led to execution:
yea Wine also, if they request it.
  But, seeing thou art so constant in thy pernitious resolve, as
neither thine owne good Nature, nor this lamentable sufferance in
me, are able to alter thee: I will prepare my self for death
patiently, to the end, that Heaven may be mercifull to my soul, and
reward thee justly, according to thy cruelty. Which words being ended,
she withdrew her selfe towards the middest of the Tarras, despairing
of escaping (with life)
  from the heates violence; and not once onely, but infinite times
beside (among her other grievous extreamities) she was ready to dye
with drought, bemoaning incessantly her dolorous condition.
  By this time the day was well neere spent, and night beganne to
hasten on apace: when the Scholler (immagining that he afflicted her
sufficiently) tooke her Garments, and wrapping them up in his mans
Cloake, went thence to the Ladies house, where he found Ancilla the
Waiting-woman sitting at the doore, sad and disconsolate for her
Ladies long absence, to whom thus he spake. How now Ancilla? Where
is thy Lady and Mistris? Alas Sir (quoth she) I know not. I thought
this morning to have found her in her bed, as usually I was wont to
do, and where I left her yesternight at our parting: but there she was
not, nor in any place else of my knowledge, neyther can I imagine what
is become of her, which is to me no meane discomfort.
  But can you (Sir) say any thing of her? Ancilla, said he, I would
thou hadst bin in her company, and at the same place where now she is,
that some punishment for thy fault might have falne uppon thee, as
already it hath done on her. But beleeve it assuredly, that thou shalt
not freely escape from my fingers, till I have justly paide thee for
thy paines, to teach thee to abuse any Gentleman, as thou didst me.
  Having thus spoken, hee called to his servant, saying. Give her
the Garments, and bid her go looke her Lady, if she will. The
Servingman fulfilled his Masters command, and Ancilla having
receyved her Ladies cloaths, knowing them perfectly, and remembring
(withall) what had bin said: she waxed very doubtfull, least they
had slaine her, hardly refraining from exclaiming on them, but that
greefe and heavie weeping overcame her; so that uppon the Schollers
departing, she ranne in all hast with the garments towardes the Tower.
  Upon this fatall and unfortunate day to Madame Helena, it chanced,
that a Clowne or Countrey Peazant belonging to her Farme or Dairy
house, having two of his young Heyfers wandred astray, and he
labouring in diligent search to finde them: within a while after the
Schollers departure, came to seeke them in Woods about the Tower, and,
notwithstanding all his crying and calling for his beasts, yet he
heard the Ladies greevous moanes and lamentations. Wherefore, he cryed
out so lowd as he could, saying: Who is it that mourneth so aloft on
the Tower? Full well she knew the voyce of her peazant, and
therefore called unto him, and sayd in this maner.
  Go (quoth she) I pray thee for my Waiting-woman Ancilla, and bid her
make some meanes to come up hither to me. The Clowne knowing his Lady,
sayde. How now Madame? Who hath carried you up there so high? Your
Woman Ancilla hath sought for you all this day, yet no one could
ever have immagined you to bee there. So looking about him, he
espyed the two sides of the Ladder, which the Scholler had pulled in
sunder; as also the steppes, which he had scattered thereabout;
placing them in due order againe as they should bee, and binding
them fast with Withies and Willowes.
  By this time Ancilla was come thither, who so soone as shee was
entred into the Tower, could not refrain from teares and complaints,
beating her hands each against other, and crying out. Madam, deare
Lady and Mistresse! Alas, Wher are you? So soone as she heard the
tongue of Ancilla, she replyed (so well as she could) saying: Ah my
sweet Woman, I am heere aloft uppon the Tarras; weepe not, neyther
make any noyse, but quickely bring me some of my Garments. When shee
heard her answer in such comfortable maner, she mounted up the Ladder,
which the peazant had made very firme and strong, holding it fast
for her safer ascending; by which meanes she went up on the Tarras.
Beholding her Ladie in so strange a condition, resembling no humane
body, but rather the trunke of a Tree halfe burned, lying flat on
her face, naked, scorched and strangely deformed: shee beganne to
teare the lockes of her owne hayre, raving and raging in as
pittifull manner, as if her Ladie had beene quite dead. Which storming
tempest, Madame Helena soone pacified, entreating her to use
silence, and helpe to put on her garments.
  Having understood by her, that no one knew of her being there, but
such as brought her cloathes, and the poore peazant, attending there
still to do her any service: shee became the better comforted,
entreating them by all meanes, that it might bee concealed from any
further discovery, which was on eyther side, most faithfullie
protested.
  The poore Clowne holpe to beare downe his Lady uppon his backe,
because the Ladder stood not conveniently enough for her descending,
neither were her limbes plyable for her owne use, by reason of their
rifts and smarting. Ancilla following after, and being more respective
of her Lady, then her owne security in descending, missing the step in
the midst of the Ladder, fell downe to the ground, and quite brake her
legge in the fall, the paine whereof was so greevous to her, that
she cried and roared extraordinarily, even like a Lyon in the desert.
  When the Clowne had set his Lady safe on a faire green banke, he
returned to see what the waiting woman ayled, and finding her leg to
be quite broken: he caried her also to the same banke, and there
seated her by her Lady: who perceiving what a mischance had hapned,
and she (from whom she expected her onely best helpe) to bee now in
far greater necessity her selfe: shee lamented exceedingly,
complaining on Fortunes cruel malice toward her, in thus heaping one
misery upon another, and never ceasing to torment her, especially
now in the conclusion of all, and when shee thought all future
perils to be past.
  Now was the Sun upon his setting, when the poore honest country-man,
because darke night should not overtake them, conducted the Lady
home to his owne house: and gaining the assistance of his two brethren
and wife, setting the waiting-woman in a Chaire, thither they
brought her in like manner. And questionles, there wanted no diligence
and comfortable language, to pacifie the Ladyes continuall
lamentations. The good wife, led the Lady into hir own poore
lodging, where (such cates as they had to feede on) lovingly she set
before her: conveying her afterward into her owne bed, and taking such
good order, that Ancilla was carried in the night time to Florence, to
prevent all further ensuing danger, by reason of her legs breaking.
  Madame Helena, to colour this misfortune of her owne: as also the
great mishap of her woman: forged an artificiall and cunning tale,
to give some formall apparance of hir being in the Tower, perswading
the poore simple Country people, that in a straunge accident of
thunder and lightning, and by the illusions of wicked spirits, all
this adventure hapned to her. Then Physitians were sent for; who,
not without much anguish and affliction to the Ladie (by reason of her
fleshes flaying off, with the Medicines and Emplaysters applyed to the
body) was glad to suffer whatsoever- they did, beside falling into a
very dangerous Feaver; out of which she was not recovered in a long
while after, but continued in daily dispayre of her life; beside other
accidents hapning in her time of Physicke, utterly unavoydable in such
extreamities: and hardly had Ancilla her legge cured.
  By this unexpected pennance imposed on Madame Helena, she utterly
forgot her amorous friend; and (from thence forward) carefully kept
her selfe from fond loves allurements, and such scornfull behaviour,
wherein she was most disorderly faulty. And Reniero the Scholler,
understanding that Ancilla had broken her leg, r , which he reputed as
a punishment sufficient for her, held himselfe satisfyed, because
neither the Mistresse nor her Maide, could now make any great boast,
of his nights hard entertainment, and so concealed all matters else.
  Thus a wanton-headed Lady, could finde no other subject to worke her
mocking folly on, but a learned Scholler, of whom shee made no more
respect, then any other ordinary man. Never remembring, that such
men are expert (I cannot say all, but the greater part of them) to
helpe the frenzie of foolish Ladies, that must injoy their loose
desires, by Negromancy, and the Divelles meanes. Let it therefore
(faire Ladies) be my loving admonition to you, to detest all unwomanly
mocking and scorning, but more especiallie to Schollers.
                    THE EIGHT DAY, THE EIGHT NOVELL

  WHEREIN IS APPROVED, THAT HE WHICH OFFERETH SHAME AND DISGRACE TO
             HIS NEIGHBOUR; MAY RECEIVE THE LIKE INJURY (IF
                  NOT IN WORSE MANNER) BY THE SAME MAN

  Two neere dwelling Neighbours, the one beeing named Spineloccio
Tavena, and the other Zeppa di Mino, frequenting each others company
daily. together; Spinelloccio Cuckolded his Friend and Neighbour.
Which happening to the knowledge of Zeppa, he prevailed so well with
the Wife of Spinelloccio, that he being lockt up in a Chest, he
revenged his wrong at that instant, so that neyther of them complained
of his misfortune.

  Greevous, and full of compassion, appeared the hard Fortunes of
Madame Helena to be, having much descontented, and (well-neere)
wearied all the Ladies in hearing them recounted. But because they
were very justly inflicted upon her, and according as (in equity) shee
had deserved, they were the more moderate in their commisseration:
howbeit, they reputed the Scholler not onely over-obstinate, but
also too strict, rigorous and severe. Wherefore, when Madame
Pampinea had finished hir Novell, the Queene gave command to Madame
Fiammetta, that she should follow next with her discourse; whereto
shee shewing obedience, thus beganne.
  Because it appeareth in my judgement (faire Ladyes) that the
Schollers cruelty hath much displeased you, making you more
melancholly then this time requireth: I holde it therefore very
convenient, that your contristed spirits should be chearfully revived,
with matter more pleasing and delightfull. And therefore, I mean to
report a Novell of a certaine man, who too an injury done him, in much
milder manner, and revenged his wrong more moderately, then the
furious incensed Scholler did. Whereby you may comprehend, that it
is sufficient for any man, and so he ought to esteeme it, to serve
another with the same sawce, which the offending party caused him
first to taste of: without coveting any stricter revenge, then agreeth
with the quality of the injury received.
  Know then (Gracious assembly) that, as have heretofore heard,
there lived not long since in Sienna, two young men, of honest
parentage and equall condition, neither of the best, nor yet the
meanest calling in the City: the one being named Spinelloccio
Tavena, and the other tearmed Zeppa di Mino, their houses Neighbouring
together in the streete Camollia. Seldome the one walked abroade
without the others Company, and their houses allowed equall welcome to
them both; so that by outward demonstrations, and inward mutuall
affection, as far as humane capacity had power to extend, they lived
and loved like two Brethren, they both beeing wealthy, and married
unto two beautifull women.
  It came to passe, that Spinelloccio, by often resorting to the house
of Zeppa, as well in his absence, as when he abode at home; beganne to
glance amorous looks on Zeppaes wife, and pursued his unneighbourly
purpose in such sort: that hee being the stronger perswader, and she
(belike) too credulous in beleeving, or else overfeeble in
resisting; from private imparlance, they fell to action; and continued
their close fight a long while together, unseene and without
suspition, no doubt to their equall joy and contentment.
 But, whether as a just punishment, for breaking so loving a league of
friendship and neighbour-hood, or rather a fatall infliction, evermore
attending on the closest Cuckoldry, their felicity still continuing in
this kinde: it fortuned on a day, Zeppa abiding within doors, contrary
to the knowledge of his wife, Spinelloccio came to enquire for him,
and she answering (as she verily supposed) that he was gon abroad:
uppe they went both together into the Hall, and no bodie being there
to hinder what they intended, they fell to their wonted recreation
without any feare, kissing and embracing as Lovers use to do.
  Zeppa seeing all this, spake not one word, neither made any noise at
all; but kept himselfe closely hidden, to observe the yssue of this
amorous conflict. To be briefe, he saw Spinelloccio goe with his
wife into the Chamber, and make the doore fast after them, whereat
he could have beene angry, which he held to be no part of true
wisedome. For he knew well enough, that to make an out crie in this
case, or otherwise to reveale this kinde of injury, it could no way
make it lesse, but rather give a greater addition of shame and
scandall: he thought this no course for him to take; wiser
considerations entred his braine, to have this wrong fully revenged,
yet with such a discreete and orderly carriage, as no neighbours
knowledge should by any meanes apprehend it, or the least sig of
discontent in himselfe blabbe it, because they were two dangerous
evils.
  Many notable courses whee.ed about his conceit, every one
promising fairely, and ministring meanes of formall apparance, yet one
(above the rest) wonne his absolute allowance, which he intended to
prosecute as best he might. In which resolution, he kept still very
close, so long as Spinelloccio was with his Wife; but hee being
gone, he went into the Chamber, where he found his wife, amending
the forme of her head attyre, which Spinelloccio had put into a
disordred fashion. Wife (quoth be) what art thou doing? Why? Do you
not see Husband? answered she. Yes that I do wife, replied Zeppa,
and something else happened to my sight, which I could wish that I had
not seene. Rougher Language growing betweene them, of his avouching,
and her as stout denying, with defending her cause over-weakely,
against the manifest proofes both of eye and eare: at last she fell on
her knees before him, weeping incessantly, and no excuses now
availing, she confest her long acquaintance with Spinelloccio, and
most humbly entreated him to forgive her. Uppon the which penitent
confession and submission, Zeppa thus answered.
  Wife, if inward contrition be answerable to thy outward seeming
sorrow, then I make no doubt, but faithfully thou dost acknowledge
thine owne evill dooing: for which, if thou expectest pardon of me;
determine then to fulfill effectually, such a busines as I must
enjoyne, and thou performe. I command thee to tell Spinelloccio,
that to morrow morning, about nine of the clocke, we being both abroad
walking, he must finde some apt occasion to leave my company, and then
come hither to visit thee. When he is here, sodainly will I returne
home, and upon thy hearing of my entraunce: to save his owne
credite, and thee from detection, thou shalt require him to enter this
Chest, untill such time as I am gone forth againe; which he doing, for
both your safeties, so soon as he is in the chest, take the key and
locke him up fast. When thou hast effected this, then shall I acquaint
thee with the rest remaining, which also must be done by thee, without
dread of the least harme to him or thee, because there is no malicious
meaning in me, but such as (I am perswaded) thou canst not justly
mislike. The wife, to make some satisfaction for her offence committed
promised that she would performe it, and so she did.
  On the morrow morning, the houre of nine being come, when Zeppa
and Spinelloccio were walking abroad together, Spinelloccio remembring
his promise unto his Mistresse, and the clocke telling him the
appointed houre, hee saide to Zeppa. I am to dine this day with an
especiall friend of mine, who I would be loath should tarry for my
comming; and therefore holde my departure excused. How now? answered
Zeppa, the time for dinner is yet farre enough off, wherefore then
should we part so soone? Yea but Zeppa, replied Spinelloccio, wee have
weighty matters to confer on before dinner, which will require three
houres space at the least, and therefore it behoveth me to respect due
time.
  Spinelloccio being departed from Zeppa (who followed faire and
softly after him)
  being come to the house, and kindly welcommed by the wife: they were
no sooner gone up the staires, and entering in at the Chamber doore;
but the Woman heard her Husband cough, and also his comming up the
staires. Alas deare Spinelloccio (quoth she) what shall we do? My
Husband is comming uppe, and we shall be both taken tardie, step
into this Chest, lye downe there and stirre not, till I have sent
him forth againe, which shall be within a very short while.
Spinelloccio was not a little joyfull for her good advice; downe in
the Chest lay he, and she lockt him in: by which time Zeppa was entred
the Chamber. Where are you Wife? said he, (speaking so loud, as hee in
the Chest might heare him) What, is it time to go to dinner? It will
be anon Sir, answered she, as yet it is overearly but seeing you are
come, the more hast shall be made, and every thing will be ready
quickly.
  Zeppa, sitting downe upon the Chest, wherein Spinelloccio lay not
a little affrighted, speaking stil aloud, as formerly he did: Come
hither Wife (quoth he) how shall we do for some good companie to
dine with us? Mine honest kinde neighbour Spinelloccio is not at home,
because he dineth forth to day with a deare friend of his, by which
meanes, his wife is left at home alone: give her a call out at our
Window, and desire her to come dine with us: for we two can make no
merry Musicke, except some more come to make up the consort.
  His Wife being very timorous, yet diligent to doe whatsoever he
commanded, so prevailed with the Wife of Spinelloccio: that she came
to them quickely, and so much the rather, because her Husband dined
abroad. Shee being come up into the Chamber, Zeppa gave her most kinde
entertainment, taking her gently by the hand, and winking on his Wife,
that she should betake her selfe to the kitchin, to see dinner
speedily prepared, while he sat conversing with his neighbour in the
Chamber.
  His wife being gone, he shut the doore after her; which the new-come
Neighbour perceyving, she sayde. Our blessed Lady defend me. Zeppa,
What is your meaning in this? Have you caused me to come hither to
this intent? Is this the love you beare to Spinelloccio, and your
professed loyalty in friendshippe? Zeppa, seating her downe on the
Chest, wherein her Husband was inclosed, entreating her patience, thus
began. Kinde and loving Neighbor, before you adventure too farre in
anger, vouchsafe to heare what I shall tell you.
  I have loved, and still doe love, Spinelloccio as my brother, but
yesterday (albeit he knoweth it not) I found, the honest trust I
reposed in him, deserved no other, or better recompence, but even to
be bold with my wife, in the selfesame manner as I am, and as hee
ought to do with none but you. Now, in regard of the love which I
beare him, I intend to be no otherwise revenged on him, but in the
same kinde as the offence was committed. He hath bin more then
familiar with my wife. I must borrow the selfe-same courtesie of
you, which in equity you cannot deny mee, weighing the wrong you
have sustained by my wife. Our injuries are alike, in your Husband
to me, and in my wife to you: let then their punishment and ours be
alike also; as they, so we; for in this case there can be no juster
revenge.
 The Woman hearing this, and perceiving the manifolde confirmations
thereof, protested (on solemne oath) by Zeppa; hir beliefe grew
setled, and thus she answered. My loving neighbor Zeppa, seeing this
kinde of revenge is (in meere justice) imposed on mee, and ordained as
a due scourge, as well to the breach of friendship and
neighbourhood, as abuse of his true and loyall wife: I am the more
willing to consent: alwaies provided, that it be no imbarrement of
love betweene your wife and mee, albeit I have good reason to alledge,
that she began the quarrell first: and what I do is but to right my
wrong, as any other woman of spirit would do: Afterwards, we may the
more pardon one another. For breach more easi of peace (answered
Zeppa) between my wife and you, take my honest word for your
warrant. Moreover, in requitall of this favour to mee, I will
bestowe a deare and precious jewell on you, excelling all the rest
which you have beside.
  In delivering these words, he sweetly kissed and embraced her, as
she sat on the Chest wherein her husband lay: now, what they did
else beside, in recompence of the wrong received, I leave to your
imagination, as rather deserving silence, then immodest blabbing.
Spinelloccio, being all this while in the Chest, hearing easily all
the words which Zeppa had uttered, the answer of his wife, as also
what Musicke they made over his head: you may guesse in what a case he
was, his heart being ready to split with rage, and, but that hee stood
in feare of Zeppa, he would have railde and exclaimed on his wife,
as thus hee lay shut up in the Chest. But entering into better
consideration, that so great al injury was first begun by himselfe,
and Zeppa did no more, then in reason and equity he might well do
(having evermore carried himselfe like a kinde neighbour and frend
towards him, without the least offer of distaste) he faithfully
resolved, to be a firmer friend to Zeppa then formerly hee had bin, if
it might be embraced and accepted.
  Delights and pleasures, be they never so long in contenting and
continuance, yet they come to a period and conclusion at last: So
Zeppa, having ended his amorous combate, and over the head of his
perfidious friend, thought himselfe sufficiently revenged. But now, in
consideration of a further promise made on the bargaine;
Spinelloccioes wife challengeth the jewel, then which kind of
recompence, nothing can be more welcom to women. Heereupon, Zeppa
calling for his owne wife, commanded her to open the Chest; which shee
did, and he merrily smiling, saide. Well wife, you have given mee a
Cake insted of bread, and you shal lose nothing for your labour. So
Spinelloccio comming forth of the Chest, it requireth a better witte
then mine, to tell you, which of them stood most confounded with
shame, either Spinelloccio seeing Zeppa, and knowing well enough
what he had done: or the woman beholding her husband, who easily heard
all their familiar conference, and the action thereupon so
deservedly performed.
  See neighbour, is not this your dearest Jewell? Having kept it
awhile in my wives custody; according to my promise, here I deliver it
you. Spinellcccio being glad of his deliverance out of the Chest,
albeit not a little ashamed of himselfe; without using many
impertinent words saide. Zeppa, our wrongs are equally requited on
each other, and therefore I allow thy former speeches to my Wife, that
thou wast my friend, as I am the like to thee, and so I pray thee
let us still continue. For nothing else is now to bee divided betweene
us, seeing we have shared alike in our wives, which none knowing but
our selves, let it be as closely kept to our selves. Zeppa was wel
pleased with the motion, and so all foure dined lovingly together,
without any variance or discontentment. And thence forward, each of
the Women had two Husbands, as either Husband enjoyed two Wives,
without further contention or debate.
                    THE EIGHT DAY, THE NINTH NOVELL

       WHEREIN IS APPROVED, THAT TITLES OF HONOUR, LEARNING, AND
          DIGNITY, ARE NOT ALWAYES BESTOWNE ON THE WISEST MEN

  Maestro Simone, an ydle-headed Doctor of Physicke, was throwne by
Bruno and Buffalmaco, into a common Leystall of Filth: The Physitian
fondly beleeving, that (in the night time) he should bee made one of a
new created Company, who usually went to see wonders at Corsica; and
there in the Leystall they left him.

  After that the Ladies had a while considered, on the communication
betweene the two Wives of Sienna, and the falshood in friendship of
their Husbands: the Queene, who was the last to recount her Novell,
without offering injurie to Dioneus, began to speake thus.
  The reward for a precedent wrong committed, which Zeppa retorted
upon Spinelloccio, was answerable to his desert, and no more then
equity required, in which respect, I am of opinion, that such men
ought not to be over-sharpely reproved, as do injurie to him, who
seeketh for it, and justly should have it, althogh Madam Pampinea (not
long since) avouched the contrary.
  Now, it evidently appeareth, that Spinelloccio well deserved what
was done to him, and I purpose to speake of another, who needs would
seeke after his owne disgrace.
  The rather to confirme my former speeches, that they which beguile
such wilfull foolish men; are not to bee blamed, but rather commended.
And he unto whom the shame was done, was a Physitian, which came
from Bologna to Florence; and returned thither againe like unto a
Beast, notoriously baffulled and disgraced.
  It is a matter well knowne- to us, and (almost) observed day by day,
that divers of our Citizens, when they returne from their studying
at Bologna: one becommeth an Advocate, another a Physitian, and a
third a Notarie, with long and large gowns, some of Scarlet, and hoods
furred with Minever, beside divers other great apparances,
succeeding effectually daily in their severall kinds. Among whom,
there returned (not long since) thence, one Master. Simon da Villa,
more rich in possessions left him by his parents, then anie
knowledge thereto obtained: yet cloathed in Scarlet, with his
Miniver hood, and styled a Doctor of Physicke, which title hee onely
bestowed on himselfe, and tooke a goodly house for his dwelling, in
the street which wee commonly call La via del Cocomero. This Master
Doctor Simon, being thus newly come thither, among other notable
qualities in him, had one more especial then any of the rest,
namely, to know the names and conditions of such persons, as daily
passed by his doore, and what professions they were of, wherby any
likelyhood might be gathered of needing his helpe, and being his
patients, observing them all with very vigilant care.
  But, among all the rest by him thus warily noted, he most observed
two Painters, of whom we have heeretofore twice discoursed, Bruno
and Buffalmaco, who walked continually together, and were his neere
dwelling neighbors. The matter which most of al he noted in them, was;
that they lived merrily, and with much lesse care, then any else in
the Cittie beside, and verily they did so in deede. Wherefore, he
demanded of divers persons, who had good understanding of them both,
of what estate and condition they were. And hearing by every one, that
they were but poore men and Painters: he greatly mervailed, how it
could be possible for them, that they should live so jocondly, and
in such poverty. It was related to him further beside, that they
were men of a quicke and ingenious apprehension, whereby hee
politikely imagined, that theyr poore condition could not so well
maintaine them; without some courses else, albeit not publiquely
knowne unto men, yet redounding to their great commoditie and profite.
In which regard, he grew exceeding desirous, by what meanes he might
become acquainted, and grow into familiarity with them both, or any of
them, at the least: wherein (at the length) he prevailed, and Bruno
proved to be the man.
  Now Bruno plainly perceiving (within a short while of this new begun
acquaintance) that the Physitian was a Loggerhead, and meerely no
better then a Gregorian Animall: he beganne to have much good
pastime with him, by telling him strange and incredible Tales, such as
none but a Coxcombe would give credit too; yet they delighted Doctor
Dunce extraordinarily, and Brunoes familiarity was so highly
pleasing to him, that he was a daily guest at dinner and supper with
him, and hee was not meanly proud of enjoying his company. One day, as
they sate in familiar conference together, he told Bruno that he
wondred not a little at him and Buffalmaco, they being both so poore
people, yet lived far more jovially then Lords, and therefore
desired to understand, by what secret meanes they compassed such
mirthful maintenance. Bruno, hearing the Doctors demaund, and
perceiving that it savoured more of the foole, then any the very least
taste of wisedome: smiled unto himselfe, and determined to returne him
such an answere, as might be fitting for his folly, whereupon, thus he
replied.
  Beleeve me Master Doctor, I would not impart to many people, what
private helpes we have for our maintenance: but yet I dare boldly
acquaint you therewith, in regard you are one of our most intimate
friends, and of such secrecie, as (I know) you will not reveale it
to any. True it is, that mine honest neighbor and my selfe, do leade
our lives in such merry manner as you see, and better then all the
world is aware of, for I cannot imagine you to bee so ignorant, but
are certainly perswaded: that if we had no better means, then our
poore manuall trade and profession; we might sit at home with bread
and water, and be nothing so lively spirited as wee are. Yet Sir, I
would not have you to conceive, that wee do eyther rob or steale, or
use any other unlawfull courses: onely we travayle to Corsica, from
whence we bring (without the least prejudice to anie other) all things
we stand in need of, or whatsoever wee can desire. Thus do we
maintaine our selves well and honestly, and live in this mirthfull
disposition.
  Master Doctor hearing this Discourse, and beleeving it constantly,
without any further instruction or intelligence: became possessed with
verie much admiration, and had the most earnest desire in the world,
to know what this Travailing to Corsica might meane: entreating
Bruno with very great instances, to tell him what it was, and made
many protestations never to disclose it to anie one. How now Master
Doctor? answered Bruno, What a strange motion do you make to mee? It
is too great a secret, which you desire to know, yea, a matter of mine
owne ruine, and an utter expulsion out of this Worlde, with
condemnation into the mouth of Lucifer da San Gallo, if any man
whatsoever should know it from me, wherefore I pray you to urge it
no more. O my deer and honest neighbour Bruno (quoth the Doctor)
assure thy selfe upon my soul, that whatsoever thou revealest to me,
shall be under seale from all, but onely our selves. Fie, fie Master
Doctor, answered Bruno, you are too pressing and importunate. So
sitting smiling to himselfe, shaking his head, and beating his breast,
as if hee were in some straunge distraction of minde, stamping with
his feete, and beating his Fiste oftentimes on the Table, at ast he
started uppe, and spake in this manner.
  Ah Master Doctor, the love I be to your capricious and rarely
circumcised experience, and likewise the confidence I repose in your
scrutinous taciturnitie, are both of such mighty and prevailing
power as I cannot conceale any thing from you, which you covet to
know. And therefore, if you wil sweare unto me by the crosse of
Monteson, that never (as you have already faithfully promised) you
will disclose a secret so admirable; I will relate it unto you, and
not otherwise. The Doctor sware, and sware againe, and then Bruno thus
began.
  Know then my learned and judicious Doctor, that it is not long
time since, when there lived in this Citie of ours, a man very
excellent in the Art of Nigromancie, who named himselfe Michale Scoto,
because he was a Scottishman borne, of many woorthy Gentlemen (very
few of them being now living) hee was much honoured and respected.
When he grew desirous to depart from hence, upon their earnest
motion and entreaty; he left here two of his Schollers behinde him,
men of absolute skill and experience: giving them especial charge
and command, to do all possible services they could devise, for
those Gentlemen who had so highly honoured him. The two famous
Schollers, were very helpefull to those Gentlemen, in divers of
their amorous occasions, and verie many other matters besides.
  Not long after, they finding the Citie, and behaviour of the
people sufficiently pleasing to them; they resolved on their
continuance heere, entering into a league of love and friendshippe
with divers, never regarding, whether they were Gentlemen, or no, or
distinguishing the poore from the rich: but only in being conforme
to their complexions, sociable and fit for friendship.
  They created a kinde Society, consisting of about five and twenty
men, who should meete together twice in a moneth, and in a place
reputed convenient for them: where being so assembled, every man
uttered his minde to those two Schollers, in such cases as they most
desired, to have wherwith they were all satisfied the self-same night.
It came so to passe, that Buffalmaco and I, grew into acquaintance
with those two worthy Schollers, and our private familiarity
together proved so prosperous, that we were admitted into the same
Society, and so have ever since continued. Now Sir, I am to tell you
matter deserving admiration, and which (in very good judgements) would
seeme to exceed all beleefe.
  For, at every time when we were assembled together: you are not able
to imagine, what sumptuous hangings of Tapistrie, did adorne the
Hall where we sate at meate, the Tables covered in such Royall manner,
waited on by numberless Noble and goodly attendants, both Women and
Men, serving readily, at each mans command of the company. The Basins,
Ewers, Pots, Flaggons, and all the vessels else which stood before,
and for the service of our diet, being composed onely of Gold and
Silver, and out of no worse did we both eate and drinke: the viands
being very rare and dainty, abounding in plenty and variety, according
to the appetite of everie person, as nothing could be wished for,
but it was instantly obtained.
  In good sadnesse Sir, I am not able to remember and tell you (within
the compasse of a thousand yeares) what, and how manie severall kindes
of Musicall Instruments, were continually played on before us; what
multiplicity of Waxe lights burned in all partes of the roomes;
neither the excessive store of rich Drugs, Marchpanes, Comfites, and
rare Banquetting stuffe, consumed there at one Feasting, wherein there
wanted no bounty of the best and purest wines. Nor do I (Master
Doctor) repute you so weakly witted, as to think, that in the time
of our being thus assembled there, any of us al were cloathed in
such simple and meane Garments, as ordinarily are worne in the streets
on mens bodies, or any so silly as the verie best you have: No Sir,
not any one man among us, but appeared by his apparrell, equall to the
greatest Emperour on the earth, his robe most sumptuously
imbroidered with precious stones, Pearles, and Carbuncles, as the
world affoordeth not the like. But above all the rest, the delights
and pleasures there, are beyond my capacity to expresse, or
(indeede) any comparison: as namely, store of goodly and beautifull
women, brought thither from all parts of the world; alwayes
provided, if men bee desirous of their company: but for your easier
comprehension, I will make some briefe relation of them to you,
according as I heard them there named.
  There is the great Lady of Barbanicchia; the Queene of Baschia;
the Wife to the great Soldane, the Empresse of Osbeccho; the
Ciancianfera of Norniera; the Semistante of Berlinzona; and the
Scalpedra of Narsia. But why do I breake my braine, in numbering up so
many to you? All the Queenes of the world are there, even so farre
as to the Schinchimurra of Prester John, that hath a horne in the
midst of her posteriores, albeit not visible to every eye.
  Now I am further that after we have tasted a Cup of precious Wine,
fed on a few delicate Comfits, and danced a dance or two to the rare
Musicke: every one taketh a Lady by the hand, of whom he pleaseth to
make his election, and she conducteth him to her Chamber, in very
grave and gracious manner. Concerning the Chambers there, each of them
resembleth a Paradise to looke on, they are so faire and goodly; and
no lesse odorifferous in smell, then the sweetest perfumes in your
Apothecaries shoppes, or the rare compounds of Spices, when they are
beaten in an open Morter. And as for the Beds, they are infinitely
richer, then the verie costliest belonging to the Duke of Venice:
yet (in such) each man is appointed to take his rest, the Musicke of
rare Cymbals lasting all night long, much better to be by you
considered, then in my rude eloquence expressed.
  But of all those rich and sumptuous Beds (if pride of mine owne
opinion do not deceive me) them two provided for Buffalmaco and me,
had hardly any equall: he having the Queene of France as his Lady
and Mistresse, and I, the renowned Queene of England, the onely two
choise beauties of the whole World, and wee appeared so pleasing in
their eyes, as they would have refused the greatest Monarkes on the
earth, rather then to bee rejected by us. Now therefore, you may
easily consider with your selfe, what great reason we have to live
more merrily, then any other men can doe: in regard we enjoy the
gracious favour of two such Royall Queenes, receyving also from them
(whensoever wee please to commaund them) a thousand or two thousand
Florines at the least, which are both truly and duly sent us. Enjoying
thus the benefit of this high happinesse, we that are companions of
this Society, do tearme it in our vulgar Language, The Pyrats voyage
to Corsica. Because, as Rovers or Pyrats robbe and take away the
goodes of such as they meete withall, even so do we: only there
remaineth this difference betweene us, that they never restore what
they have taken: which we do immediately afterward, whether it be
required or no. And thus Master Doctor, as to my most endeered friend,
I have now revealed the meaning of sayling to Corsica, after the
manner of our private Pyracie, and how important the close retention
of the voiage is, you are best able your selfe to judge: In which
regarde, remember your Oathes and faithfull promises, or else I am
undone for ever.
  Our worthy wise Doctor, whose best skill scarsely extended so farre,
as to cure the itch in Children; gave such sound beleefe to the
relation of Bruno, as any man could doe, to the most certaine truth of
ife or death: having his desire immeasurably enflamed, to bee made a
member of this straunge Societie, which hee more coveted, then any
thing in the world beside, accounting it a felicity farre beyond all
other.
  Whereupon he answered Bruno, that it was no great matter of
mervaile, if he lived so merily as he did, having such a singular
supply, to avoide all necessities whatsoever: and very hardly could he
refraine from immediate request, to be accepted into the company.
But yet he thought fit to deferre it further, untill he had made Bruno
more beholding to him, by friendly entertainments and other
courtesies, when he might (with better hope) be bold to move the
motion.
  Well may you conceive, that nothing more hammerd in the Doctors
head, then this rare voyage to Corsica, and Bruno was his daily
guest at dinner and supper, with such extraordinary apparances of
kindnesse and courtesie, as if the Physitian could not live, except he
had the company of Bruno. Who seeing himselfe to bee so lovingly
respected, and hating ingratitude, for favours so abundantly heaped on
him: hee painted the whole story of Lent about his Hall, and an
Agnus Dei fairely gilt, on the portall of his Chamber, as also a
goodly Urinall on his street doore, to the end, that such as had neede
of his counsell, might know where so judicious a Doctour dwelt. In a
Gallery likewise by his Garden, he painted the furious Battaile
betweene the Rats and Cats, which did (not a little) delight Master
Doctor.
  Moreover, at such times as Bruno had not supt with our Physitian, he
would bee sure to tell him on the morrow, that the night passed, he
had bin with the Company which he did wot of. And there (quoth he) the
Queene of England having somewhat offended mee, I commanded, that
the Gomedra, belonging to the Grand Cham of Tartaria, should be
brought me, and instantly shee was. What may be the meaning of
Gomedrabe? said the Doctor, I understand not those difficult names.
I beleeve you Sir, answered Bruno, nor do I need to marvalle
thereat: and yet I have heard Porcograsso speake, and also Vannacenna,
and both unexperienced in our Language. You would say (replyed the
Doctor) Hippocrates and Avicenna, who were two admirable Physitians.
It may be so (said Bruno) and as hardly do I understand your names, as
you mine: but Gomedra, in the Grand Chams language, signifies Empresse
in ours. But had you once seene her Sir, she would make you forget all
Physicall observations, your arguments, receits, and medicines,
onely to be in her heavenly presence, which words he used
(perceiving his forward longing) to enflame him the more. Not long
after, as the doctor was holding the candle to Bruno, at the
perfecting the bloody Battayle of the Cattes and Rattes, because he
could never bee wearied in his Companie, and therefore was the more
willing, to undergoe the office of the Candle-holder: he resolved to
acquaint him with his minde, and being all alone by themselves, thus
he began.
  Bruno, as heaven knoweth, there is not this day any creature living,
for whom I would gladly do more, then for thee, and the very least
word of thy mouth, hath power to commaund mee to goe bare-footed, even
from hence so farre as to Peretola, and account my labour well
employed for thy sake: wherefore, never wonder at my continuall
kindnesse towards thee, using thee as my Domesticke companion, and
embracing thee as my bosome friend, and therefore I am the bolder in
mooving one request unto thee. As thou well knowest, it is no long
while since, when thou diddest acquaint me with the behaviour of the
Corsicane Roving Company, to be one in so rare and excellent a
Society, such hath bin my earnest longing ever since, as day nor night
have I enjoyed anie rest, but should thinke my felicity beyond all
compare, if I could be entertained in fellowship among you.
  Nor is this desire of mine but upon great occasion, as thou thy
selfe shalt perceive, if I prove accepted into your Societie, and
let me then be made a mocking stocke for ever, if I cause not to
come thither one of the most delicate young women, that ever anie
eye beheld, and which I my selfe saw (not above a yeare since) at
Cacavinciglia, on whom I bestowed my intirest affection, and (by the
best Urinall that ever I gazed on) would have given her tenne faire
Bologninaes, to yeeld the matter I moved to her, which yet I could not
(by any meanes) compasse. Therefore, with all the flowing faculties of
my soule I entreate thee, and all the very uttermost of my all
indeede; to instruct me in those wayes and meanes, whereby I may
hope to be a member of you. Which if thou dooest accomplish for me,
and I may finde it effectually performed: I shall not onely be thy
true and loyall friend for ever, but will honour thee beside, beyond
all men living.
  I know thee to bee a man of judgement, deepely informed in all
well-grounded experience: thou seest what a propper, portly, and
comely man I am, how fitly my legges are answerable to my body, my
lookes amiable, lovely, and of Rosie colour: beside I am a Doctor of
Physicke, of which profession (being only most expedient) I thinke you
have not one in your Society. I have many commendable qualities in me,
as, playing on divers instruments, exquisite in singing, and composing
rare ditties, whereof I will instantly sing thee one. And so he
began to sing.
  Bruno was swolne so bigge with desire of laughter, that hee had
scarsely any power to refraine from it: neverthelesse, he made the
best meanes he could devise: and the Song being ended, the Physition
saide. How now Bruno? What is thine opinion of my singing? Beleeve
me Sir, replyed Bruno, the Vialles of Sagginali, will loose their very
best times, in contending against you, so mirilifficially are the
sweet accents of your voice heard. I tell thee truly Bruno (answered
Master Doctor) thou couldst not by any possibility have beleeved it,
if thou hadst not heard it. In good sadnes Sir (said Bruno) you speake
most truly. I could (quoth the Doctor) sing thee infinite more beside,
but at this time I must forbeare them. Let mee then further informe
thee Bruno, that beside the compleat perfections thou seest in me,
my father was a Gentleman, althogh he dwelt in a poore Country
village, and by my mothers side, I am derived from them of Vallecchio.
Moreover, as I have formerly shewn thee, I have a goodly Library of
Bookes, yea, and so faire and costly garments, as few Physitians in
Florence have the like. I protest to thee upon my faith, I have one
gowne, which cost me (in readie money) almost an hundred poundes in
Bagattinoes, and it is not yet above ten yeares old. Wherefore let
me prevaile with thee, good Bruno, to worke so with the rest of thy
friends, that I may bee one of your singular Society; and, by the
honest trust thou reposest in mee, bee boldly sick whensoever thou
wilt, my paines and Physicke shall be freely thine, without the
payment of one single peny. Bruno hearing his importunate words, and
knowing him (as all men else did beside) to be a man of more words
then wit, saide. Master Doctor, snuffe the candle I pray you, and lend
me a little more light with it hitherward, until I have finished the
tailes of these Rats, and then I wil answer you.
  When the Rats tailes were fully finished, Bruno declaring by outward
behaviour, that he greatly distasted the matter mooved, thus answered.
Worthy Master Doctor, the courtesies you have already extended towards
me, and the bountifull favours promised beside, I know to be exceeding
great, and farre beyond the compasse of any merit in me. But
concerning your request, albeit in respect of your admired braine
and Wisedome, it is of little or no moment at all; yet it appeareth
over-mighty to mee, and there is not any man now living in the
world, that hath the like Authoritie over me, and can more commaund
me, then you (with one poore syllable) easily may doe: as well in
regarde of my Love and Dutie, as also your singular and sententious
speeches, able not onelie to make me breake a sound and setled
resolution, but (almost) to move Mountaines out of their places, and
the more I am in your Learned company, so much the faster am I lincked
unto you, in immooveable affection, so farre am I in love with your
admirable qualities. And had I no other reason, to affect you in
such endeared manner, as I doe; yet because you are enamoured of so
rare a beauty, as you have already related to me, it onely were a
motive sufficient to compell me. But indeed I must need tell you, that
I have not so much power in this case, as you (perhaps) do imagine,
which barreth me from such forward readines, as otherwise needed not
to be urged. Neverthelesse, having so solemnly ingaged your faith to
me, and no way misdoubting your faithfull secrecy, I shall instruct
you in some meanes to be observed; and it appeareth plainly to me,
that being furnished with such plenty of Bookes, as you are, and other
rich endowments, as you have before rehersed, you cannot but attaine
to the full period of your longing desire.
  Speake boldly thy minde Bruno, answered the Doctour: for, I perceive
thou hast no perfect knowledge of me as yet, neither what an especiall
gift I have of secrecy. Messer Gasparino da Salicete, when he was
Judge and Potestat over the people of Forlini, made choise of mee
(among infinite of his dearest friends) to acquaint with a secret of
no meane moment. And such a faithfull Secretary he found me, as I
was the onely man, that knew his mariage with Bergamino; why then
should any distrust be made of me? If it be so as you say Sir
(answered Bruno) your credit is the sounder, and I dare the better
adventure on your fidelity: the meanes then which you are to worke by,
I shall now direct you in.
  We have alwayes in this noble Society of ours, a Captaine, and two
Counsellors, which are changed at every six months end. And now at
Christmas next (so neere drawing on) Buffalmaco shal be elected
Captaine, and my selfe one of the Counsellers, for so it is already
agreed on, and orderly set downe. Now, he that is Captain, may doe
much more then any other can, and appoint matters as himselfe
pleaseth. Wherefore I thinke it very expedient, that so soone as
possibly you may, you procure acquaintance with Buffalmaco, entreating
him with all respective courtesie. Hee is a man, who when he
perceyveth you to be so wonderfully Wise and discreete, he will be
immediatly in love with you: so, when you have your best senses
about you, and your richest wearing Garments on (alwayes remembred,
that your acquaintance first be fully confirmed) then never feare to
urge your request, for he can have no power at all to denie you;
because I have already spoken of you to him, and find him to stand
affected unto you verie intirely: thus when you have begunne the
businesse, leave me to deale with him in the rest.
  Now trust me kinde friend Bruno, replyed the Physitian, I like
your advice exceeding well. For, if hee be a man, that taketh
delight to converse with men of skill and judgement, and you have made
the way for his knowing me: he wil him thirst, and long to follow
after mee, to understand the incredible eloquence flowing from me, and
the rare composition of my Musicall Ditties, out of which he may
learne no meane wisedome. When the matter was thus agreed on
betweene them, Bruno departed thence, and acquainted Buffalmaco with
everie circumstance: which made him thinke everie day a yeare,
untill he might in the fooling of Mayster Doctoar, according to his
owne fancie. Who beeing also as desirous on the other side, to make
one in the Corsicane Voyage; could take no manner of rest either by
day or night, till he was linked in friendship with Buffalmaco,
which very quickely after hee compassed.
  For now there wanted no costly dinners and suppers, with al
delicates could be devised, for the entertainement of Buffalmaco and
Bruno; who, like Guests very easie to be invited, where rich wines and
good cheare are never wanting, needed little sending for, because
his house was as familiar to them, as their owne. In the end, when the
Physitian espyed an opportunitie apt for the purpose, he made the same
request to Buffalmaco, as formerly hee had done to Bruno. Whereat
Buffalmaco, sodainly starting, and looking frowningly on Bruno, as
if he were extraordinarily incensed against him: clapping his hand
furiously on the Table, he sayde. I sweare by the great God of
Pasignano, that I can hardly refrayne from giving thee such a blow
on the face, as should make thy Nose to fall at thy heeles: vile
Traitor as thou art: for none beside thy selfe, could discover so rare
and excellent a secret unto this famous Physitian. The Doctour, with
very plausible and pleasing tearmes, excused the matter verie
artificially; protesting, that another had revealed it unto him: and
after many wise circumstantiall Allegations, at length hee prevailed
so farre, that Buffalmaco was pacified; who afterwardes turning in
kinde manner, thus hee beganne.
  Master Doctour, you have lived both at Bologna, and heere in these
partes with us, having (no doubt) sufficiently understoode, what it is
to carry a close mouth, I meane the true Charracter of taciturnitie.
Questionlesse, you never learned the A. B. C. as now foolish Ideots
do, blabbing their lessons all about the towne, which is much better
apprehended by rumination; and surely (if I be not much deceyved) your
Nativity happened on a Sonday morning, Sol being at that time, Lord of
the ascendent, joyned with Mercurie in a fierie Triplicitie. By such
conference as I have had with Bruno, I conceyved (as he himselfe
also did) that you were verie singular in Physicke onely: but it
seemeth, your Studies reached a higher straine, for you have
learned, and know verie skilfullie, how to steale mens hearts from
them, yea, to bereave them of their verie soules, which I perceyve
that you can farre better doe, then any man else living to my
knowledge, only by your wise, witty, judicious, and more then meere
Mercurian eloquence, such as I never heard before.
  The Physitian interrupting him bashfully, turned himselfe unto
Bruno, saying. Did not I tell thee this before? Observe what a notable
thing it is, to speake well, and to frequent the company of the
Wise. A thousand other, meerely blockes and dullardes by Nature, could
never so soone comprehend all the particularities of my knowledge,
as this honest and apprehensive man hath done. Thou didst not search
into it halfe so soone, nor (indeed) did I expresse a quarter of my
ingenuity to thee, as (since his comming) hath prodigally flowne
from me.
  Well do I remember thy words, that Buffalmaco delighted to be
among men of Wisedome: and have I not now fitted him unto his owne
desire? How thinkest thou Bruno? The best (quoth Bruno) that any man
living in the World could do. Ah worthy Buffalmaco, answered the
Physitian: What wouldst thou then have sayde, if thou hadst seene me
at Bologna, where there was neyther great nor small, Doctor nor
Scholler, but thought themselves happy by being in my company? If I
ought any debts, I discharged them with my very wittie words: and
whensoever I spake, I could set them al on a hearty laughter, so
much pleasure they tooke in hearing mee. And when I departed thence,
no men in the world could bee more sorrowfull then they, as desiring
nothing more then my remayning among them; which they expressed so
apparantly, that they made humble suite and intercession to me, to bee
cheefe Reader of the Physicke-Lecture, to all the Schollers studying
our profession. But I could not be so perswaded, because my minde
was wholly addicted hither, to enjoy those Goods, Landes, and
Inheritances, belonging lineally to them of our house, and accordingly
I did performe it.
  How now Buffalmaco (quoth Bruno) what is thine opinion now? Thou
wouldst not beleeve me when I told thee, that there is not a Doctor in
all these parts, more skilfull in distinguishing the Urine of an Asse,
from any other, then this most expert and singular man: and I dare
boldly maintaine it, that his fellow is not to bee found, from hence
to the very gates of Paris. Go then, and doe the uttermost endeavour
that thou canst, to grant the request which he hath made.
  Beleeve me Buffalmaco, saide the Doctor, Bruno hath spoken nothing
but truth, for I am scarsely knowne heere in this City, where (for the
most part) they are all grosse-witted people, rather then any jot
judicious: but I would thou hadst seene me among the Doctors, in
manner as I was wont to be. In troth Sir, replyed Buffalmaco, you
are much more Learned then ever I imagined, in which respect, speak
unto you as it becommeth me, to a man so excellent in wit and
understanding: I dare assure you, that (without any faile) I wit
procure you to be one of our Company.
  After this promise thus made, the good cheare, favors and kindnesses
done by the Doctor to them, was beyond the compasse of all relation:
whereof they made no more then a meere mockery, flouting him to his
face, and yet his Wisedome could not discerne it. Moreover, they
promised, that they would give him to Wife, the faire Countesse di
Civillari, who was the onely goodliest creature to be found in the
whole Culattario of humane generation. The Doctor demanded, what
Countesse that was? Oh Sir, answered Buffalmaco, she is a great
Lady, one worthy to have issue by; and few houses are there in the
world, where she hath not some jurisdiction and command: so that not
meane people onely, but even the greatest Lords, at the sound of her
Trumpets, do very gladlie pay her tribute. And I dare boldly
affirme, that whensoever shee walketh to any place, she yeeldeth a hot
and sensible savour, albeit she keepeth most of all close. Yet once
every night, shee duely observeth it (as a Custome) to passe from
her owne house, to bathe her feete in the River of Arno, and take a
little of the sweeter Ayre: albeit her continuall residencie, is
within the Kingdome of Laterino.
  She seldome walketh abroad, but goeth with her attending Officers
about her, who (for more demonstration of her greatnesse) do carry the
Rod and plummet of Lead. Store of her Lords and Barons are every where
to be seene; as the Tamagnino della porta, Don Meta di Sirropa; Manico
di Scopa; Signior Squacchera, and others beside, who are (as I
suppose) oftentimes your visitants, when of necessity they must be
remembred. All our care and courtesie shall extend so farre (if we doe
not falle in our enterprize) to leave you in the armes of so Majestick
a Ladie, quite forgetting hir of Cacavinciglia.
  The Physitian, who was borne and brought up at Bologna, and
therefore understoode not these Florentine tearmes: became fully
contented to enjoy the Ladie; and, within some few dayes following,
the Painters brought him tydings, that they had prepared the way for
his entertainment into the Societie of Rovers. The day being come,
when the supposed assembly was to be made the night following: the
Physitian invited them both to dinner; when he demanding, what
provision he shold make for his entrance into their company,
Buffalmaco returned him this answer, whereto hee gave very heedfull
attention.
  Master Doctor, you must be first of all, strongly armed with
resolution and confidence: for, if you be not, you may not only
receyve hindrance, but also do us great harme beside: and now you
shall heare, in what manner, and how you are to be bold and
constant. You must procure the meanes, this instant night, when all
the people are in their soundest sleepe, to stand upon one of those
high exalted Tombs or Monuments, which are in the churchyard of
Santa Maria Novella, with the very fairest gowne you have about you,
because you may appeare in the more honorable condition, before the
assembly seated together, and likewise to make good our speeches
already delivered of you, concerning your qualitie and profession:
that the Countesse, perceyving you to bee a woorthie Gentleman, may
have you first honoured with the Bathe, and afterward Knighted at
her owne cost and charge. But you must continue stil upon the Tombe
(dreadlesse of nightly apparitions and visions) untill such time as we
send for you.
  And for your better information in every particulare; a Beaste,
blacke and horned, but of no great stature, will come to fetch you:
perhaps he will use some gastly noises, straunge leapes, and loftie
trickes, onely to terrifie and affright you: but when he perceiveth
that he cannot daunt you, hee will gently come neere you, which when
he hath done, you may descend from off the Tombe; and, without
naming or thinking on God, or any of his Saintes, mount boldly on
his backe, for he will stand ready to receive you. Being so seated,
crosse your armes over your brest, without presuming to touch or
handle the Beast, for he will carry you thence softly, and so bring
you along to the company. But if in all this time of your travaile,
you call on heaven, any Saint, or bee possessed with the least thought
of feare: I must plainely tell you, that either hee will cast you
dangerously, or throw you into some noysom place. And therefore, if
you know your selfe, not to be of a constant courage, and sprightly
bold, to undertake such an adventure as this: never presume any
further, because you may doe us a great deale of injurie, without
any gaine or benefite to your selfe, but rather such wrong, as we
would be very sorry should happen unto so deere a Friend.
  Alas honest Buffalmaco, answered the Physitian, thou art not halfe
acquainted with me as yet: because I walke with gloves upon my
hands, and in a long Gowne, thou perhappes doest imagine mee a
faint-hearted fellow. If thou didst know, what I have heeretofore done
at Bologna in the night time, when I and my Consorts went to visite
pretty wenches, thou wouldst wonder at my couragious attempts. As I am
a Gentleman, one night, we met with a young Bona Roba, a paltry
greene-sicknesse baggage, scarsely above a Cubite in height, and
because she refused to go with us willingly, I gave her a kicke on the
bum, and spurnde her more then a Crosse-bowe shoote in distance from
me, and made her walke with us whether she would, or no. Another
time I remember, when having no other company but my boy, I went
thorow the Churchyard of the Fryars Minors, after the sounding of
Ave Maria: a woman hadde beene buried there the very same day, and yet
I was not a jotte affraid.
  Wherefore, never be distrustfull of mee, but resolvedly builde
upon my courage. And in regard of my more honourable entertainment,
I will then weare my Scarlet Gowne and Hood, wherein I receyved my
graduation; and then do both of you observe, what a rejoycing will
be among the whole company, at the entertaining of such a man as I am,
enough to create me Captaine immediatly. You shall perceive also how
the case will go, after I have beene there but a while, in regard that
the Countesse (having as yet never seene me) is so deepely enamored of
mee: she cannot choose but bestow the Bathe and Knighthood on me,
which shee shall have the more honour of, in regard I am well able
to maintaine it, therefore referre all the rest to mee, and never
misdoubt your injurie or mine.
  Spoken like a Gallant, replyed Buffalmaco, and I feare not now,
but we shall winne credite by your company. But be carefull I pray
you, that you make not a mockery of us, and come not at all, or
fayle to be there, when the Beast shall be sent for you; I speake it
the rather, because it is cold weather, and you Gentlemen Physitians
can hardly endure it. You are carefull of mee (quoth the Doctor) and I
thanke you for it, but I applaud my faire Starres, I am none of your
nice or easie-frozen fellowes, because cold weather is very familiar
to me. I dare assure you, when I arise in the night time for that
naturall office whereto all men are subject, I weare no warmer
defence, then my thin wastcoat over my shirt, and finde it
sufficient for the coldest weather at any time. When Bruno and
Buffalmaco had taken their leave, the Physitian, so soone as night
drew neere, used many apt excuses to his wife, stealing forth his
Scarlet Gowne and Hood unseene of any, wherewith being clothed: at the
time appointed, he got upon one of the Marble Tombes, staying there
(quaking with cold) awaiting when the Beast should come. Buffalmaco,
being a lusty tall man of person, had got an ugly masking suite,
such as are made use of in Tragedies and Playes, the out-side being of
black shagged haire, wherwith being cloathed, he seemed like a strange
deformed Beare, and a Divels vizard over his face, with two gastly
horrible hornes, and thus disguised, Bruno following him, they went to
behold the issue of the businesse, so farre as the new Market place,
closely adjoining to Santa Maria Novella.
  Having espyed Master Doctor uppon the Tombe, Buffalmaco in his
mishapen habite, began to bound, leape, and carriere, snuffling and
blowing in mad and raging manner: which when the Physitian saw, his
haire stood on end, he quaked and trembled, as being more fearfull
then a Woman, wishing himselfe at home againe in his house, rather
then to behold a sight so dreadfull. But because he was come forth,
and had such an earnest desire, to see the wonders related to him;
he made himselfe so coragious as possibly he could, and bare all out
in formall manner. After that Buiffalmaco had (an indifferent while)
plaide his horsetrickes, ramping and stamping somewhat strangely:
seeming as become of much milder temper, he went neere to the Tomb
whereon the Physitian stood, and there appeared to stay contentedly.
  Master Doctor, trembling and quaking still extreamely, was so
farre dismayed, as he knew not what was best to be done, either to
mount on the beasts backe, or not to mount at all. In the end,
thinking no harme could happen to him, if he were once mounted, with
the second feare, hee expelled the former, and descending downe softly
from the Tombe, mounted on the beast, saying out alowde: God, Saint
Dominicke, and my good Angell helpe to defend mee. Seating himselfe so
well as he could, but trembling still exceedingly; he crossed his
armes over his stomacke, according to the Lesson given him.
  Then did Buffalmaco shape his course in milde manner, toward Santa
Maria della Scala, and groping to finde his way in the darke, went
on so farre as the Sisters of Ripole, commonly called the Virgin
Sanctuary. Not farre off from thence, were divers trenches and
ditches, wherein such men as are imployed in necessary
nightservices, used to empty the Countesse di Cimillari, and afterward
imployed it for manuring Husbandmens grounds. Buffalmaco, being come
neere one of them, he stayed to breath himselfe awhile, and then
catching fast hold on one of the Doctours feete, raysed him somewhat
higher on his back, for the easier discharging of his burthen, and
so pitched him (with his head forwardes) into the Laystall.
  Then began he to make a dreadful kinde of noise, stamping and
trampling with his feete, passing backe againe to Santa Maria della
Scala, and to Prato d'Ognissanti, where hee met with Bruno, who was
constrained to forsake him, because he could not refraine from lowde
Laughter, then both together went backe once more, to see how the
Physitian would behave himselfe, being so sweetely embrued.
  Master Doctor, seeing himselfe to bee in such an abhominable
stinking place, laboured with all his utmost endevour, to get
himself released thence: but the more he contended and strove for
getting forth, he plunged himselfe the further in, being most
pitifully myred from head to foot, sighing and sorrowing
extraordinarily, because much of the foule water entred in at his
mouth. In the end, being forced to leave his hood behinde him,
scrambling both with his hands and feet, he got landing out of his
stinking Labyrinth, and having no other means, home he returned to his
own house, where knocking at the door he was at length admitted
entrance. The doore being scarse made fast againe after his letting
in, Buffalmaco and Bruno were there arrived, listning how M. Doctor
should bee welcomd home by his angry wife: who scolding and railing at
him with wonderfull impatience, gave him most hard and bitter
speeches, terming him the vilest man living.
  Where have you bin Sir? quoth she. Are you becom a night-walker
after other Women? And could no worse garments serve your turne, but
your Doctors gown of Scarlet? Am I to suffer this behaviour? Or am not
I sufficient to content you, but you must be longing after change? I
would thou hadst bin stifled in that foule filth, where thy fouler
life did justly cast thee. Behold goodly Master Doctor of the
Leystall, who being maried to an honest woman must yet go abroad in
the night time, insatiatly lusting after whores and harlots. With
these and the like intemperate speeches, she ceased not to afflict and
torment him, till the night was almost spent, and the Doctor brought
into a sweeter savour.
  The next morning, Bruno and Buffalmaco, colourd their bodyes with
a strange kinde of painting, resembling blisters, swellings, and
bruises, as if they had bin extreamly beaten; came to the Physitians
house, finding him to be newly up, al the house yet smelling of his
foule savour (although it had bin very well perfumed) and being
admitted to him in the Garden, hee welcommed them with the mornings
salutations. But Bruno and Buffalmaco (being otherwise provided for
him) delivering stearne and angry lookes, stamping and chafing,
Bruno thus replyed.
  Never speake so faire and flattering to us, for we are moved
beyond all compasse of patience. All misfortunes in the worlde fall
upon you, and an evill death may you dye, like the most false and
perfidious Traitor living on the earth. We must beate our braines, and
move all our most endeared friends, onely for your honor and
advancement: while wee were well neere starved to death in the cold
like Dogs, and, by your breach of promise, have bin this night so
extreamly beaten, as if (like Asses) we should have beene driven to
Rome.
  But that which is most greevous of all, is danger of excluding out
of the Society, where wee tooke good order for your admittance, and
for your most honourable entertainment. If you wi not credit us,
behold our bodies, and let your owne eyes be witnesses, in what cruell
manner we have bin beaten. So taking him aside under the Gallery,
where they might not be discovered by overmuch light, they opened
their bosomes, shewing him their painted bodies, and sodainly closed
them up againe.
  The Physitian laboured to excuse himselfe, declaring his misfortunes
at large, and into what a filthy place he was throwne. It maketh no
matter (answered Buffalmaco) I would you had bin throwen from off
the Bridge into Arno, where you might have beene recommended to the
Divell and all his Saints. Did not I tell you so much before. In
good sadnesse (quoth the Doctor) I neyther commended my selfe to
God, nor any of his Saints. How? sayde Buffalmaco, I am sure you
will not maintaine an untruth, you used a kind of recommendation:
for our messenger told us, that you talked of God, S. Dominicke, and
your good Angell, whom you desired to assist you, being so
affrighted with feare, that you trembled like a leafe upon a tree, not
knowing indeede where you were. Thus have you unfaithfully dealt
with us, as never any man shall doe the like againe, in seeking
honour, and losing it through your own negligence.
  Master Doctor humbly entreated pardon, and that they would not
revile him any more, labouring to appease them by the best words he
could use, as fearing least they should publish this great disgrace of
him. And whereas (before) he gave them gracious welcomes; now he
redoubled them with farre greater courtesies, feasting them daily at
his own table, and evermore delighting in their company. Thus (as
you have heard) two poore Painters of Florence, taught Master Doctor
better Wit, then all the Learned at Bologna.
                    THE EIGHT DAY, THE TENTH NOVELL

    WHEREBY APPEARETH, THAT SUCH AS MEET WITH CUNNING HARLOTS, AND
  SUFFER THEMSELVES TO BE DECEIVED BY THEM: MUST SHARPEN THEIR WITS,
           TO MAKE THEM REQUITALL IN THE SELFESAME KINDE

  A Cicilian Courtezane, named Madame Biancafiore, by her craftie
wit and policie, deceived a young Merchant, called Salabetto, of all
the money he had taken for his Wares at Palermo. Afterward, he
making shew of comming hither againe, with farre richer Merchandises
then hee brought before: made the meanes to borrow a great summe of
Money of her, leaving her so base a pawne, as well requited her for
her former cozenage.

  Needlesse it were to question, whether the Novell related by the
Queene, in divers passages thereof, mooved the Ladies to hearty
laughter, and likewise to compassionate sighes and teares; as pittying
Madame Helena in her hard misfortune, and yet applauding the
Scholler for his just revenge. But the discourse being ended, Dioneus,
who knew it was his Office to be the last speaker every day, after
silence was commanded, he began in this manner.
  Worthy Ladies, it is a matter very manifest, that deceits do appeare
so much the more pleasing, when (by the selfesame meanes) the subtle
deceyver is artificially deceived. In which respect, though you all
have reported very singular deceits: yet I meane to tel you one,
that may prove as pleasing to you, as any of your owne. And so much
the rather, because the woman deceived, was a great and cunning
Mistris in beguiling others; equalling (if not excelling) any of
your former beguilers.
  It hath bene observed heretofore, and (happily) at this very day
it is as frequent, that in all Cities and Townes upon the Seacoasts,
having Ports for the benefit and venting Merchandises; Merchants use
to bring their wealthy laden Vessels thither. And when they unlade any
Ship of great fraught, there are prepared Store-houses, which in
many places are called Magazines or Doganaes, at the charge of the
Communalty, or Lord of the Towne or City, for the use whereof, they
receive yearly gain and benefit. Into those warehouses, they deliver
(under writing, and to the owners of them in especiall charge) all
their goods and merchandises, of what price or valew soever they are.
  Such as be the Owners of these Magazines, when the Wares are thus
stored uppe in them, doe safely locke them up there with their
keyes, having first registred downe truly all the goods, in the
Register belonging to the Custome-house, that the Merchant may have
a just account rendred him, and the rights payed to the
Customehouse, according to the Register, and as they are either in
part, or in all made sale of.
  Brokers are continually there attending, being informed in the
quality of the Merchandises stored, and likewise to what Merchants
they appertaine: by meanes of these men, and according as the goods
come to their hands, they devise to have them exchaunged, trucked,
vented, and such other kinds of dispatches, answerable to the mens
minds, and worth of the Commodities. As in many other Kingdomes and
Countries, so was this custome observed at Palermo in Sicily, where
likewise then were, and (no doubt) now adayes are, store of Women,
faire and comely of person, but yet vowed enemies to honesty.
  Neverthelesse, by such as know them not, they are held and reputed
to be blamelesse Women, and by yeilding their bodyes unto generall
use, are the occasion of infinite misfortunes to men. For so soone
as they espy a Merchant-stranger there arrived, they win information
from the Booke belonging to the Magazin, what wares are therein
stored, of what valew they bee, and who is the Owner of them.
Afterwards, by amorous actions, and affable speeches, they allure yong
Merchants to take knowledge of them, to bee familiar in their company,
till from some they get most part of their wealth, from others all.
Nay, divers have gone so farre, as to make Port-sale of Ship, Goods,
and Person, so cunningly they have bene shaven by these Barbers, and
yet without any Razor.
  It came to passe, and no long time since, that a young Florentine of
ours, named Niccolo de Cignano, but more usually called Salabetto,
imployed as Factor for his Maister, arrived at Palermo; his Ship
stored with many Woollen Cloathes, a remainder of such as had bin sold
at the Mart of Salerno; amounting in valew to above five hundred
Florines of Gold. When he had given in his packet to the
Custome-house, and made them up safe in his Warehouse; without
making shew of desiring any speedy dispatch, he delighted to view
all parts of the City, as mens minds are continuallie addicted to
Novelties. He being a very faire and affable yong man, easie to kindle
affection in a very modest eie: it fortuned, that a Courtezane, one of
our before remembred shavers, who termed hir selfe Madame Biancafiore,
having heard somewhat concerning his affairs, beganne to dart
amorous glances at him. Which the indiscreete youth perceyving, and
thinking her to be some great Lady: began also to grow halfe
perswaded, that his comely person was pleasing to her and therefore he
would carrie this good fortune of his somewhat cautelously.
  Without imparting his mind unto any one, he would daily passe too
and fro before her doore; which she observing, and having
indifferently wounded him with her wanton piercing lookes: she began
to use the first tricke of her Trade, by pretending her enflamed
affection towards him, which made her pine and consume away in care,
except he might be moved to pitty her. Whereupon, she sent one of
her Pandoraes unto him, perfectly instructed in the Art of a
Maquerella, who (after many cunning counterfetted sighes, and
teares, which she had alwayes ready at command) told him that his
comely person and compleate perfections, had so wounded the very soule
of her Mistresse, as she could enjoy no rest in any place, either by
day or night. In regard whereof, she desired (above all things else)
to meete with him privately in a Bathe: with which Wordes, she
straightway tooke a Ring forth of her pursse, and in most humble
manner, delivered it unto him, as a token from her Mistresse.
  Salabetto having heard this Message, was the onely joyfull man
that could be: and having receyved the Ring, looking on it
advisedly; first kissed it, and then put it upon his finger. Then in
answer to the Messenger, he sayd: That if her Mistresse Biancafiore
affected him, she sustained no losse thereby, in regard he loved her
as fervently, and was ready to be commanded by her, at any time
whensoever she pleased.
  She having delivered this message to her Mistresse, was presently
returned backe againe to him, to let him understand, in which of the
Bathes she meant to meet him, on the next morrow in the evening.
This being counsell for himselfe onely to keepe, he imparted it not to
any friend whatsoever; but when the houre for their meeting was
come, he went unto the place where he was appointed, a Bathe
(belike) best agreeing with such businesse.
  Not long had he taried there, but two Women slaves came laden to
him, the one bearing a Mattresse of fine Fustian on hir head, and
the other a great Basket filled with many things. Having spred the
Mattresse in a faire Chamber on a Couch-bed, they covered it with
delicate white Linnen sheets, all about embroidred with faire
Fringes of gold, then laid they on costly quilts of rich Silkes,
artificially wrought with gold and silver knots, having pearles and
precious stones interwoven among them, and two such rich pillowes,
as sildome before had the like bin seene. Salabetto putting off his
garments, entred the Bath prepared for him, where the two Slaves
washed his body very neatly. Soone after came Biancafiore hirselfe,
attended on by two other women slaves, and seeing Salabetto in the
Bathe; making him a lowly reverence, breathing forth infinite
dissembled sighes, and teares trickling downe her cheekes, kissing and
embracing him, thus she spake.
  I know not what man else in the worlde, beside thy selfe, could have
the power to bring me hither: the fire flew from thy faire eies (O
thou incompareable lovely Tuscane) that melted my soule, and makes
me onely live at thy command. Then hurling off her light wearing
garment (because she came prepared for the purpose) shee stept into
the bathe to him, and, not permitting the Slaves a-while to come
neere, none but her selfe must now lave his body, with Muske
compounded Sope and Gilly-floures. Afterward, the slaves washed both
him and her, bringing two goodly sheetes, softe and white, yeelding
such a delicate smell of Roses, even as if they had bene made of
Rose-leaves. In the one, they folded Salabetto, and her in the
other, and so conveyed them on their shoulders unto the prepared
Bed-Couch, where because they should not sweate any longer, they tooke
the sheets from about them, and laid them gently in the bed.
  Then they opened the Basket, wherein were divers goodly Silver
bottles, some filled with Rosewaters, others with flowers of
Orenges, and Waters distilled of Gelsomine, Muske, and Amber-Greece,
wherewith (againe) the slaves bathed their bodyes in the bed, and
afterward presented them with variety of Comfites, as also very
precious Wines, serving them in stead of a little Collation. Salabetto
supposed himself to be in Paradise: for this appeared to be no earthly
joy, bestowing a thousand gladsome gazes on her, who (questionlesse)
was a most beautifull creature, and the tarrying of the Slaves, seemed
millions of yeares to him, that hee might more freely embrace his
Biancafiore. Leaving a Waxe Taper lighted in the Chamber, the slaves
departed, and then shee sweetly embracing Salabetto, bestowed those
further favours on him, which hee came for, and she was not
squeamish in the affoording; wherof he was exceedingly joyfull,
because he imagined, that they proceeded from the integrity of her
affection towards him.
  When she thought it convenient time to depart thence, the slaves
returned; they cloathed themselves, and had a Banquet standing ready
prepared for them; wherewith they cheared their wearyed spirits, after
they had first washed in odorifferous waters. At parting: Salabetto
(quoth she) whensoever thy leysures shal best serve thee, I will
repute it as my cheefest happinesse, that thou wilt accept a Supper
and Lodging in my house, which let it be this instant night, if thou
canst. He being absolutely caught, both by hir beauty and flattering
behaviour: beleeved faithfully, that he was as intirely beloved of
her, as the heart is of the body: whereuppon hee thus answered.
Madame, whatsoever pleaseth you, must needes be much more acceptable
unto mee: and therefore, not onely may command my service this
night, but likewise the whole employment of my life, to be onely yours
in my very best studies and endeavours.
  No sooner did she heare this answer, but she returned home to her
owne house, which she decked in most sumptuous maner, and also made
ready a costly Supper, expecting the arrivall of Salabetto: who when
the darke night was indifferently well entred, went thither, and was
welcommed with wonderfull kindnesse, wanting no costly Wines and
Delicates all the Supper while. Being afterward conducted into a
goodly Chamber, he smelt there admirable sweete senting savours,
such as might well beseeme a Princes Pallace. He beheld a most
costly Bed, and very rich furniture round about the roome: which
when he had duly considered to himself, he was constantly perswaded,
that she was a Lady of infinit wealth. And although he had heard
divers flying reports concerning her life, yet hee would not credite
any thing amisse of her, for albeit she might (perhappes) beguile some
other; yet shee affected him (he thought) in better manner, and no
such misfortune could happen to him.
  Having spent all the night with her in wanton dalliances, and
being risen in the morning; to enflame his affection more and more
towards her, and to prevent any ill opinion he might conceyve of
her, she bestowed a rich and costly Girdle on him, as also a pursse
most curiously wrought, saying to him. My sweet Salabetto, with
these testimonies of my true affection to thee, I give thee faithfully
to understand, that as my person is onely subjected thine; so this
house and all the riches in it, remaineth absolutely at thy
disposition, or whatsoever hereafter shal happen within the compasse
of my power.
  He being not a little proud of this her bountifull offer (having
never bestowed any gift on her, because by no meanes shee would
admit it) after many sweet kisses and embraces; departed thence, to
the place where the Merchants usually frequented: resorting to her
(from time to time) as occasion served, and paying not one single peny
for all his wanton pleasure, by which cunning baytes (at length) she
caught him.
  It came to passe, that having made sale of all his Clothes,
whereby hee had great gaines, and the moneyes justly payed him at
the times appointed: Biancafiore got intelligence thereof; yet not
by him, but from one of the Brokers. Salabetto comming one night to
sup with her, she embraced and kissed him as she was wont to doe,
and seemed so wonderfully addicted in love to him, even as if shee
would have dyed with delight in his armes. Instantly, shee would needs
bestow two goodly gilt standing Cuppes on him, which Salabetto by no
meanes would receive, because she had formerly bin very bountifull
to him, to above the value of an hundred Crowns, and yet she would not
take of him so much as a mite. At length, pressing still more tokens
of her love and bounty on him, which he as courteously denied, as
she kindly offered: one of her Women-slaves (as shee had before
cunningly appointed) sodainely calling her, forthwith she departed out
of her Chamber. And when she had continued a pretty while absent,
she returned againe weeping, and throwing her selfe downe upon her
Pallet, breathed forth such sighes and wofull lamentations, as no
Woman could possibly doe the like.
  Salabetto amazedly wondering thereat, tooke her in his Armes, and
weeping also with her, said. Alas my deare Love, what sodain
accident hath befalne you, to urge this lamentable alteration? If
you love me, hide it not from me. After he had of entreated her in
this manner, casting her armes about his necke, and sighing as if
her heart would breake, thus she replyed. Ah Salabetto, the onely
jewell of my joy on earth, I knowe not what to do, or say, for (even
now) I received Letters from Messina, wherein my Brother writes to me,
that although it cost the sale of all my goods, or whatsoever else I
have beside, I must (within eight dayes space) not faile to send him a
thousand Florins of gold, or else he must have his head smitten off,
and I know not by what meanes to procure them so soone. For, if the
limitation of fifteene dayes might serve the turne, I could borrow
them in a place, where I can command a farre greater summe, or else
I would sell some part of our Lands. But beeing no way able to
furnish him so soone, I would I had died before I heard these
dismall tydings. And in the uttering of these words, she graced them
with such cunning dissembled sorrow, as if she had meant truly indeed.
Salabetto, in whom the fury of his amorous flames, had consumed a
great part of his necessary understanding, beleeving these
counterfetted tears and complaints of hers, to proceed from an
honest meaning soule; rashly and foolishly thus replied. Deare
Biancafiore, I cannot furnish you with a thousand golden Florines, but
am able to lend you five hundred if I were sure of their repayment
at fifteene dayes, wherein you are highly beholding to Fortune, that I
have made sale of all my Cloathes; which if they had lyen still on
my hand, my power could not stretch to lend you five Florines. Alas
deare heart (quoth she) would you be in such want of money, and hide
it from her that loves you so loyally? Why did you not make your
need knowne to me? Although I am not furnished of a thousand Florines;
yet I have alwaies ready three or foure hundred by me, to do any kinde
office for my friend. In thus wronging me, you have robd me of all
boldnes, to presume upon your offer made me. Salabetto, far faster
inveigled by these words then before, said. Let not my folly (bright
Biancafiore) cause you to refuse my friendly offer, in such a case
of extreme necessity: I have them ready pre. pared for you, and am
heartily sory, that my power cannot furnish you with the whole summe.
  Then catching him fast in her armes, thus she answered. Now I
plainly perceive, my dearest Salabetto, that the love thou bearest
me is true and perfect; when, without expectation of being
requested, thou art readie to succour me in such an urgent neede,
and with so faire a summe of Florines. Sufficiently was I thine owne
before, but now am much more ingaged by so high deserving; with this
particular acknowledgement for ever, that my Brothers head was
redeemed by thy goodnesse onely. Heaven beareth me record, how
unwilling I am to be beholding in this kind, considring that you are a
Merchant, and Merchants furnish al their affairs with ready monis: but
seeing necessity constraineth me, and I make no doubt of repaiment
at the time appointed: I . p shall the more boldly accept your
kindnes, with this absolute promise beside, that I wil rather sell all
the houses I have, then breake my honest word with you.
  Counterfeit teares still drayning downe her cheeks, and Salabetto
kindly comforting her; he continued there with hir all that night,
to expresse him selfe her most liberall servant. And, without
expecting any more requesting, the next morning he brought her the
five hundred Florines, which she received with a laughing heart, but
outward dissembled weeping eies; Salabetto never demanding any other
security, but onely her single promise.
  Biancafiore, having thus received the five hundred Florines, the
indiction of the Almanacke began to alter: and whereas (before)
Salabetto could come see her whensoever he pleased, many occasions now
happened, whereby he came seven times for once, and yet his entrance
was scarsely admitted, neither was his entertainment so affable, or
his cheare so bountifull, as in his former accesses thither. Moreover,
when the time for repaiment was come, yea a moneth or two over-past,
and he demanded to have his money; hee could have nothing but words
for paiment. Now he began to consider on the craft and cunning of this
wicked Woman, as also his owne shallow understanding, knowing he could
make no proofe of his debt, but what her selfe listed to say, having
neither witnes, specialty, bill or bond to shew: which made his
folly so shamefull to him, that he durst not complaine to any
person, because he had received some advertisements before, whereto he
wold by no means listen, and now should have no other amends, but
publike infamie, scorne and disgrace, which made him almost weary of
his life, and much to bemoane his owne unhappinesse. He received
also divers Letters from his Master, to make returne of the 500
Florines over by way of banke, according as he had used to do: but
nowe could performe no such matter.
  Hereupon, because his error should not be discovered, he departed in
a small vessell thence, not making for Pisa, as he should have done,
but directly for Naples hee shaped his course. At that instant
lodged there, Don Pietro della Canigiano, Treasurer of the Empresse of
Constantinople, a man of great wisedome and understanding, as also
very ingenious and politike, he being an especiall Favourer of
Salabetto and all his friendes, which made him presume the more boldly
(being urged thereto by meere necessity, the best corrector of
wandering wits) to acquaint him with his lamentable misfortune, in
every particular as it had hapned, requesting his aid and advice,
how he might best weare out the rest of his dayes, because hee never
meant to visit Florence any more.
  Canigiano being much displeased at the repetition of his Follie,
sharply reproved him, saying. Thou hast done leudly, in carying thy
selfe so loosely, and spending thy Masters goods so carelesly, which
though I cannot truly tearme spent, but rather art meerely cousened
and cheated of them, yet thou seest at what a deere rate thou hast
purchased pleasure, which yet is not utterly helplesse, but may by one
meanes or other be recovered. And being a man of woonderfull
apprehension, advised him instantly what was to bee done, furnishing
him also with a summe of money, wherewith to adventure a second losse,
in hope of recovering the first againe: he caused divers Packes to
be well bound up, with the Merchants markes orderly made on them,
and bought about twenty Buttes or Barrelles, all filled (as it were)
with Oyle, and these pretended commodities being shipt, Salabetto
returned with them to Palermo. Where having given in his packets to
the Customehouse, and entred them all under his owne name, as being
both owner and factor: all his Wares were lockt up in his Magizine,
with open publication, that he would not vent any of them, before
other merchandises (which he daily expected) were there also arrived.
  Biancafiore having heard thereof, and understanding withall, that he
had brought Merchandises now with him, amounting to above two thousand
Florins, staying also in expectation of other commodities, valewing
better then three thousand more, she beganne to consider with her
selfe, that she had not yet gotten money enough from him, and
therefore would cast a figure for a farre bigger booty. Which that she
might the more fairely effect, without so much as an imagination of
the least mistrust: she would repay him backe his five hundred
Florines, to winne from him a larger portion of two or three
thousand at the least, and having thus setled her determination, she
sent to have him come speake with her. Salabetto, having bene
soundly bitten before, and therefore the better warranted from the
like ranckling teeth, willingly went to her, not shewing any signe
of former discontent: and she, seeming as if she knew nothing of the
wealth he brought with him, gracing him in as loving manner as ever
she had done, thus she spake.
  I am sure Salabetto, you are angry with mee, because I restored
not your Florines at my promised day. Salabetto smiling, presently
answered. Beleeve me Lady (quoth he) it did a little distast me,
even as I could have bin offended with him, that should plucke out
my heart to bestow it on you, if it would yeelde you any
contentment. But to let you know unfainedly, how much I am incensed
with anger against you: such and so great is the affection I beare
you, that I have solde the better part of my whole estate,
converting the same into Wealthy Merchandises, which I have alreadie
brought hither with mee, and valewing above two thousand Florines, all
which are stored up in my Magazine. There must they remaine, till
another Ship come forth of the Westerne parts, wherein I have a much
greater adventure, amounting unto more then three thousand Florines.
And my purpose is, to make my aboade heere in this City, which hath
won the sole possession of my heart, onely in regard of my
Biancafiore, to whom I am so intirely devoted, as both my selfe, and
whatsoever else is mine (now or hereafter) is dedicated onely to her
service; whereto thus she replyed.
  Now trust me Salabetto, whatsoever redoundeth to thy good and
benefite, is the cheefest comfort of my soule, in regard I prize thy
love dearer then mine owne life, and am most joyfull of thy returne
hither againe; but much more of thy still abiding heere, because I
intend to live onely with thee, so soone as I have taken order for
some businesse of import. In the meane while, let me entreate thee
to hold me excused, because before thy departure hence, thou camest
sometimes to see me, without thy entrance admitted; and other-whiles
againe, found not such entertainement, as formerly had bene affoorded.
But indeede, and above all the rest, in not re-paying thy money
according to my promise. But consider good Salabetto, in what great
trouble and affliction of minde I then was, both in regard of my
Brothers danger, and other important occurrences beside, which
mollestations do much distract the senses, and hinder kinde
courtesies, which otherwise would bee extended liberally.
  Last of all consider also, how difficult a thing it is for a
woman, so sodainly to raise the summe of a thousand golden Florines,
when one friend promiseth, and performeth not; another protesteth, yet
hath no such meaning; a third sweareth, and yet proveth a false
Lyar: so that by being thus ungently used, a breach is made betweene
the best frends living. From hence it proceeded, and no other defect
else, that I made not due returne of your five hundred Florins. No
sooner were you departed her but I had them readie, and as many
more, and could I have knowne whither to send them, they had bene with
you long time since, which because I could not (by any meanes)
compasse, I kept them still for you in continuall readinesse, as
hoping of your comming hither againe. So causing a purse to be
brought, wherein the same Florines were, which hee had delivered
her; she gave it into his hand, and prayed him to count them over,
whether there were so many, or no.
  Never was Salabettoes heart halfe so joyfull before; and having
counted them, found them to be his owne five hundred Florines: then,
putting them up into his pocket, he saide. Comfort of my life, Full
well I know that whatsoever you have saide, is most certaine; but
let us talke no more of falshood in friendship, or casuall accidents
happening unexpected: you have dealt with mee like a most loyall
Mistresse, and heere I protest unfainedly to you, that as well in
respect of this kinde courtesie, as also the constancy of mine
affection to you, you cannot request hereafter a far greater summe
of me, to supply any necessarie occasion of yours; but (if my power
can performe it) you shall assuredly finde it certaine: make proofe
thereof whensoever you please, after my other goods are Landed, and
I have established my estate here in your City.
  Having in this manner renewed his wonted amity with her, and with
words farre enough off from all further meaning: Salabetto began
againe to frequent her company, she expressing all former familiarity,
shewing her selfe as lavishly bountifull to him, in all respects as
before she had done, nay, many times in more magnificent manner.
  But he intending to punish her notorious trechery towards him,
when she left him as an open scorne to the World, wounded with
disgrace, and quite out of credit with all his friends: she having (on
a day) solemnly invited him, to suppe and lodge in her house all
night; he went, both with sad and melancholly lookes, seeming as
overcome with extreamity of sorrow. Biancafiore mervayling at this
strange alteration in him, sweetly kissing and embracing him: would
needs know the reason of his passionate affliction, and he
permitting her to urge the question oftentimes together, without
returning any direct answere; to quit her in her kind, and with
coine of her owne stampe, after a few dissembled sighes, he began in
this manner.
  Ah my dearest Love, I am utterly undone, because the Shippe
containing the rest of mine expected Merchandises, is taken by the
Pyrates of Monago, and put to the ransome of tenne thousand Florines
of Gold, and my part particularly, is to pay one thousand. At this
instant I am utterly destitute of money, because the five hundred
Florines which I received of you, I sent hence the next daie following
to Naples, to buy more cloathes, which likewise are to be sent hither.
And if I should now make sale of the Merchandizes in my Magazine
(the time of generall utterance being not yet come) I shall not make a
pennyworth for a penny. And my misfortune is the greater, because I am
not so well knowne heere in your City, as to find some succour in such
an important distresse; wherfore I know not what to do or say.
Moreover, if the money be not speedily sent, our goods will be carried
into Monago, and then they are past all redemption utterly.
  Biancafiore appearing greatly discontented, as one verily perswaded,
that this pretended losse was rather hers, then his, because she aymed
at the mainest part of all his wealth: began to consider with her
selfe, which was the likeliest course to bee taken, for saving the
goods from carriage to Monago: wherupon thus she replied. Heaven
knoweth (my dearest Salabetto) how thy love maketh me sorrowfull for
this misfortune, and it greeveth me to see thee any way distressed:
for if I had mony lying by mee (as many times I have) thou shouldst
finde succour from my selfe onely, but indeede I am not able to
helpe thee. True it is, there is a friend of mine, who did lend me
five hundred Florines in my need, to make uppe the other summe which I
borrowed of thee: but he demandeth extreme interest, because he will
not abate any thing of thirty in the hundred, and if you should bee
forced to use him, you must give him some good security. Now for my
part, the most of my goods here I will pawne for thee: but what pledge
can you deliver in to make up the rest? Wel did Salabetto conceive the
occasion why she urged this motion, and was so diligent in doing him
such a pleasure: for it appeared evidently to him, that her selfe
was to lend the mony, wherof he was not a litle joyful, seeming very
thankful to hir. Then he told her, that being driven to such
extremity, how unreasonable soever the usury was, yet he would
gladly pay for it. And for her Friends further security, hee would
pawne him all the goods in his Magazine, entering them downe in the
name of the party, who lent the money. Onely he desired to keepe the
Keyes of the Ware-house, as well to shew his Merchandises, when any
Merchant shot bee so desirous: as also to preserve them from ill
using, transporting or changing, before his redemption of them.
  She found no fault with his honest offer, but sayde, hee shewed
himselfe a well-meaning man, and the next morning shee sent for a
Broker, in whom she reposed especiall trust; and after they had
privately consulted together, shee delivered him a thousand Golden
Florines, which were caried by him presently to Salabetto, and the
Bond made in the Brokers name, of all the goods remaining in
Salabettoes ware-house, with composition and absolute agreement, for
the prefixed time of the monies repaiment. No sooner was this tricke
fully accomplished, but Salabetto seeming as if he went to redeeme his
taken goods: set saile for Naples towards Pietro della Canigiano, with
fifteene hundred Florines of Gold: from whence also he sent
contentment to his Master at Florence (who imployd him as his Factor
at Palermo) beside his owne packes of Cloathes. He made repayment
likewise to Canigiano, for the monies which furnished him in this last
voyage, and any other to whom hee was indebted. So there he stayed
awhile with Canigiano, whose counsel thus holpe him to out-reach the
Sicillian Courtezane: and meaning to deale in Merchandise no more,
afterward he returned to Florence and there lived in good reputation.
  Now as concerning Biancafiore, when she saw that Salabetto
returned not againe to Palermo, she beganne to grow somewhat
abashed, as halfe suspecting that which followed. After she had
tarried for him above two moneths space, and perceived hee came not,
nor any tydings heard of him: shee caused the Broker to breake open
the Magazine, casting forth the Buttes or Barrels, which shee beleeved
to bee full of good Oyles. But they were all filled with Seawater,
each of them having a small quantity of Oyle floating on the toppe,
onely to serve when a tryall should bee made. And then unbinding the
Packes, made up in formall and Merchantable manner: there was
nothing else in them, but Logges and stumpes of Trees, wrapt
handsomely in hurdles of Hempe and Tow; onely two had Cloathes in
them. So that (to bee briefe) the whole did not value two hundred
Crownes: which when she saw, and observed how cunningly she was
deceived: a long while after shee sorrowed, for repaying backe the
five hundred Florines, and folly in lending a thousand more, using
it as a Proverbe alwaies after to hit selfe: That whosoever dealt with
a Tuscane, had neede to have sound sight and judgement. So remaining
contented (whither she would or no) with her losse: she plainly
perceyved, that although she lived by cheating others, yet now at
the length she had mette with her match.
  So soone as Dioneus had ended his Novell, Madame Lauretta also knew,
that the conclusion of her Regiment was come; whereupon, when the
counsell of Canigiano had past with generall commendation, and the wit
of Salabetto no lesse applauded, for fitting it with such an
effectuall prosecution; shee tooke the Crowne of Laurell from her owne
head, and set it upon Madame Aimilliaes, speaking graciously in this
manner. Madam, I am not able to say, how pleasant a Queene we shall
have of you, but sure I am, that we shall enjoy a faire one: let
matters therefore be so honourably ca.rried; that your government
may be answerable to your beautifull perfections; which words were
no sooner delivered, but she sate downe in her mounted seate.
  Madame Aemillia being somewhat bashfull, not so much of hir being
created Queene, as to heare her selfe thus publikely praysed, with
that which Women do most of all desire: her face then appearing,
like the opening of the Damaske Rose, in the goodlyest morning. But
after she had a while dejected her lookes, and the Vermillion blush
was vanished away: having taken order with the Master of the houshold,
for all needefull occasions befitting the assembly, thus she began.
  Gracious Ladies, wee behold it daily, that those Oxen which have
laboured in the yoake most part of the day, for their more
convenient feeding, are let forth at liberty, and permitted to
wander abroad in the Woods. We see moreover, that Gardens and
Orchards, being planted with variety of the fairest fruit Trees, are
equalled in beauty by Woods and Forrests, in the plentifull enjoying
of as goodly spreading branches. In consideration whereof,
remembring how many dayes wee have already spent (under the
severitie of Lawes imposed) shaping all our discourses to a forme of
observation: I am of opinion, that it will not onely well become us,
but also prove beneficiall for us, to live no longer under such
restraint, and like enthralled people, desirous of liberty, wee should
no more be subjected to the yoke, but recover our former strength in
walking freely.
  Wherefore, concerning our pastime purposed for to morrow, I am not
minded to use any restriction, or tye you unto any particular
ordination: but rather do liberally graunt, that every one shall
devise and speake of arguments agreeing with your owne dispositions.
  Besides, I am verily perswaded, that variety of matter uttered so
freely, will be much more delightfull, then restraint to one kinde
of purpose onely. Which being thus granted by me, whosoever shal
succeede me in the government, may (as being of more power and
preheminence) restraine all backe againe to the accustomed lawes.
And having thus spoken, she dispensed with their any longer
attendance, untill it should be Supper time.
  Every one commended the Queenes appointment, allowing it to
rellish of good wit and judgement: and being all risen, fell to such
exercises as they pleased. The Ladies made Nosegaies and Chaplets of
Flowers, the men played on their Instruments, singing divers sweete
Ditties to them, and thus were busied untill Supper time. Which beeing
come, and they supping about the beautifull Fountaine: after Supper,
they fell to singing and dauncing. In the end, the Queene, to
imitate the order of her predecessors, commanded Pamphilus, that
notwithstanding all the excellent songs formerly sung: he should now
sing one, whereunto dutifully obeying, thus he began.

                 THE SONG
          THE CHORUS SUNG BY ALL

    Love, I found such felicitie,
    And joy, in thy captivitie:
    As I before did never prove,
    And thought me happy, being in Love.

  Comfort abounding in my hart,
    Joy and Delight
    In soule and spright
  I did possesse in every part;
  O Soveraigne Love by thee.
    Thy Sacred fires,
    Fed my desires,
    And still aspires,
  Thy happy thrall to bee.
    Love, I found such felicity, etc.

  My Song wants power to relate,
    The sweets of minde
    Which I did finde
  In that most blissefull state,
  O Soveraigne Love by thee.
    No sad despaire,
    Or killing care
    Could me prepare;
  Still thou didst comfort me.
    Love, I found such felicity, etc.

  I hate all such as do complaine,
    Blaspheming thee
    With Cruelty,
  And sleights of coy disdaine.
  O So raigne Love, to mee
    Thou has bene kinde:
    If others finde
    Thee worse inclinde,
  Yet I will honour thee.

    Love, I found such felicitie,
    And joy in thy Captivitie:
    As I before did never prove,
    But thought me happie, being in Love.

  Thus the Song of Pamphilus ended, whereto all the rest (as a Chorus)
answered with their Voyces, yet every one particularly (according as
they felt their Love-sicke passions) made a curious construction
thereof, perhaps more then they needed, yet not Divining what
Pamphilus intended. And although they were transported with variety of
imaginations; yet none of them could arive at his true meaning indeed.
Wherefore the Queene, perceiving the Song to be fully ended, and the
Ladies, as also the young Gentlemen, willing to go take their rest:
she commaunded them severally to their Chambers.
                    THE INDUCTION TO THE NINTH DAY

    WHEREON, UNDER THE GOVERNMENT OF MADAME AIMILIA, THE ARGUMENT OF
      EACH SEVERALL DESCOURSE, IS NOT LIMITTED TO ANY ONE PECULIAR
             SUBJECT: BUT EVERY ONE REMAINETH AT LIBERTY, TO
              SPEAK OF WHATSOEVER THEMSELVES BEST PLEASETH

  Faire Aurora, from whose bright and chearefull lookes, the duskie
darke night flyeth as an utter enemy, had already reached so high as
the eight Heaven, converting it all into an Azure colour, and the
pretty Flowrets beganne to spred open their Leaves: when Madame
Aemillia, beeing risen, caused all her female attendants, and the yong
Gentlemen likewise, to be summoned for. their personall appearance.
Who being all come, the Queen leading the way, and they following
her Majesticke pace, walked into a little Wood, not farre off
distant from the Palace.
  Where the Queen, looking on Madam Philomena, gave her the honor of
beginning the first Novell for that day: whereto shee dutifully
condiscending, began as followeth.
                    THE NINTH DAY, THE FIRST NOVELL

      APPROVING, THAT CHASTE AND HONEST WOMEN, OUGHT RATHER TO DENY
         IMPORTUNATE SUITERS, BY SUBTILE AND INGENIOUS MEANES,
                    THEN FALL OF SCANDALL AND SLANDER

  Madame Francesca, a Widdow of Pistoya, being affected by two
Florentine Gentlemen, the one named Rinuccio Palermini, and the
other Alessandro Chiarmontesi, and she bearing no good will to
eyther of them; ingeniously freed her selfe from both their
importunate suites. One of them she caused to lye as dead in a
grave, and the other to fetch him from thence: so neither of them
accomplishing what they were enjoyned, fayled of obtaining his hoped
expectation.

  Madame, it can no way discontent mee (seeing it is your most
gracious pleasure) that I should have the honour, to breake the
first staffe of freedome in this faire company (according to the
injunction of your Majesty) for liberty of our own best liking
arguments: wherein I dismay not (if I can speake well enough) but to
please you all as well, as any other that is to follow me. Nor am I so
oblivious (worthy Ladies) but full well I remember, that many times
hath bene related in our passed demonstrations, how mighty and
variable the powers of love are: and yet I cannot be perswaded, that
they have all bene so sufficiently spoken of, but something may bee
further added, and the bottome of them never dived into, although we
should sit arguing a whole yeare together. And because it hath beene
alreadie approved, that Lovers have bene led into divers accidents,
not onely inevitable dangers of death, but also have entred into the
verie houses of the dead, thence to convey their amorous friends: I
purpose to acquaint you with a Novell, beside them which have bene
discoursed; whereby you may not onely comprehend the power of Love,
but also the wisedome used by an honest Gentlewoman, to rid her
selfe of two importunate suiters, who loved her against her owne
liking, yet neither of them knowing the others affection.
  In the City of Pistoya, there dwelt sometime a beautifull
Gentlewoman, being a Widdow, whom two of our Florentines (the one
named Rinuccio Palermini, and the other Alessandro Chiarmontesi,
having withdrawne themselves to Pistoya) desperately affected, the one
ignorant of the others intention, but each carrying his case
closely, as hoping to be possessed of her. This Gentlewoman, named
Madame Francesca de Lazzari, being often solicited by their
messages, and troublesomely pestered with their importunities: at last
(lesse advisedly then she intended) shee granted admittance to heare
either of them speake. Which she repenting, and coveting to be rid
of them both, a matter not easie to be done: she wittily devised the
onely meanes, namely, to move such a motion to them, as neither
would willingly undertake, yet within the compasse of possibility; but
they failing in the performance, shee might have the more honest
occasion, to bee free from all further mollestation by them, and her
politike intention was thus projected.
  On the same day, when she devised this peece of service, a man was
buried in Pistoya, and in the Church-yard belonging unto the gray
Friars, who being descended of good and worthie parentage: yet
himselfe was very infamous, and reputed to be the vilest man living,
not onely there in Pistoya, but throughout the whole World beside.
Moreover, while he lived, he had such a strange mishapen body, and his
face so ugly deformed, that such as knew him not, would stand gastly
affrighted at the first sight of him. In regarde whereof, shee
considered with her selfe, that the foule deformitie of this loathed
fellow, would greatly avayle in her determination, and consulting with
her Chamber-maid, thus she spake.
  Thou knowest (my most true and faithfull servant) what trouble and
affliction of minde I suffer dayly, by the messages and Letters of the
two Florentines, Rinuccio and Alessandro, how hatefull their
importunity is to me, as being utterly unwilling to hear them
speake, or yeeld to any thing which they desire. Wherefore, to free my
selfe from them both together, I have devised (in regard of their
great and liberall offers) to make trial of them in such a matter,
as I am assured they will never performe.
  It is not unknowne to thee, that in the Church-yard of the Gray
Friars, and this instant morning, Scannadio (for so was the ugly
fellow named) was buried; of whom, when he was living, as also now
being dead, both men, women, and children, doe yet stand in feare,
so gastly and dreadfull alwayes was his personall appearance to them.
  Wherefore, first of all go thou to Alessandro, and say to him
thus. My Mistris Francesca hath sent me to you, to tell you, that
now the time is come, wherein you may deserve to enjoy her love, and
gaine the possession of her person, if you will accomplish such a
motion as she maketh to you. For some especiall occasion, wherewith
hereafter you shall bee better acquainted, a neere Kinsman of hers,
must needs have the body of Scannadio (who was buried this morning)
brought to her house. And she, being as much affraid of him now he
is dead, as when he was living, by no meanes would have his body
brought thither.
  In which respect, as a Token of your unfeigned love to her, and
the latest service you shall ever do for her: shee earnestly
entreateth you, that this night, in the very deadest time thereof, you
would go to the grave, where Scannadio lyeth yet uncovered with
earth untill to morrow, and attyring your selfe in his garments,
even as if you were the man himselfe, so to remaine there untill her
kinsman doe come.
  Then, without speaking any one word, let him take you foorth of
the grave, and bring you thence (insted of Scannadio) to hir house:
where she will give you gentle welcome, and disappoint her Kinsman
in his hope, by making you Lord of her, and all that is hers, as
afterward shall plainly appeare. If he say he wit do it, it is as much
as I desire: but if hee trifle and make deniall, then boldly tell him,
that he must refraine all places wheresoever I am, and forbeare to
send me any more Letters, or messages.
  Having done so, then repaire to Rinuccio Palermini, and say. My
Mistresse Francesca is ready to make acceptance of your love;
provided, that you will do one thing for her sake. Namely, this
ensuing night, in the midst and stillest season thereof, to go to
the grave where Scannadio was this morning buried, and (without making
any noise) or speaking one word, whatsoever you shall heare or see: to
take him forth of the grave, and bring him home to her house, wher you
shal know the reason of this strange businesse, and enjoy her freely
as your owne for ever. But if he refuse to do it, then I commaund him,
never hereafter to see me, or move further suite unto mee, by any
meanes whatsoever.
  The Chamber-maide went to them both, and delivered the severall
messages from her Mistresse, according as she had given her in charge;
whereunto each of them answered, that they woulde (for her sake) not
onely descend into a Grave, but also into hell, if it were her
pleasure.
  She returning with this answer unto her Mistresse, Francesca
remained in expectation, what the issue of these fond attemptes in
them, would sort unto. When night was come, and the middle houre
thereof already past, Alessandro Chiarmontesi, having put off all
other garments to his doublet and hose; departed secretly from his
lodging, walking towards the Church-yard, where Scannadio lay in his
grave: but by the way as he went, hee became surprized with divers
dreadfull conceites and imaginations, and questioned with himselfe
thus.
  What a beast am I? What a businesse have I undertaken? And whither
am I going? What do I know, but that the Kinsman unto this Woman,
perhappes understanding mine affection to her, and crediting some such
matter, as is nothing so: hath laide this politicke traine for me,
that he may murther me in the grave? Which (if it should so happen) my
life is lost, and yet the occasion never knowne whereby it was done.
Or what know I, whether some secret enemy of mine (affecting her in
like manner, as I do) have devised this stratagem (out of malice)
against mee, to draw my life in danger, and further his owne good
Fortune? Then, contrary motions, overswaying these suspitions, he
questioned his thoughts in another nature.
  Let me (quoth he) admit the case, that none of these surmises are
intended, but her Kinsman (by and in this manner devised) must bring
me into her house: I am not therefore perswaded, that he or they do
covet, to have the body of Scannadio, either to carry it thither, or
present it to her, but rather do aime at some other end. May not I
conjecture, that my close murthering is purposed, and this way
acted, as on him that (in his life time) had offended them? The Maid
hath straitly charged me, that whatsoever is said or done unto me, I
am not to speake a word. What if they pul out mine eies, teare out
my teeth, cut off my hands, or do me any other mischiefe: Where am I
then? Shall all these extremities barre me of speaking? On the other
side, if I speake, then I shall be knowne, and so much the sooner
(perhaps) be abused. But admit that I sustaine no injurie at all, as
being guilty of no transgression: yet (perchance) I shall not be
carried to her house, but to some other baser place, and afterward she
shall reprove me, that I did not accomplish what shee commanded, and
so all my labour is utterly lost.
  Perplexed with these various contradicting opinions, he was
willing divers times to turne home backe againe: yet such was the
violence of his love, and the power thereof prevailing against all
sinister arguments; as he went to the grave, and removing the
boordes covering it, whereinto he entred; and having despoiled
Scannadio of his garments, cloathed himselfe with them, and so laid
him down, having first covered the grave againe. Not long had hee
tarryed there, but he began to bethinke him, what manner of man
Scannadio was, and what strange reports had bene noised of him, not
onely for ransacking dead mens graves in the night season, but many
other abhominable Villanies committed by him, which so fearfully
assaulted him; that his haire stoode on end, every member of him
quaked, and every minute he imagined Scannadio rising, with intent
to strangle him in the grave. But his fervent affection overcoming all
these idle feares, and lying stone still, as if he had beene the
dead man indeede; he remained to see the end of his hope.
  On the contrary side, after midnight was past, Rinuccio Palermini
departed from his lodging, to do what hee was enjoyned by his hearts
Mistresse, and as hee went along, divers considerations also ran in
his minde, concerning occasions possible to happen. As, falling into
the hands of Justice, with the body of Scannadio upon his backe, and
being condemned for sacriledge, in robbing graves of the dead;
either to be burned, or otherwise so punished, as might make him
hatefull to his best friends, and meerely a shame to himselfe.
  Many other the like conceits mollested him, sufficient to alter
his determination: but affection was much more prevayling in him,
and made him use this consultation. How now Rinuccio? Wilt dare to
deny the first request, being mooved to thee by a Gentlewoman, whom
thou dearly lovest, and is the onely meanes, whereby to gaine
assurance of her gracious favour? Undoubtedly, were I sure to die in
the attempt, yet I will accomplish my promise. And so he went on
with courage to the grave.
  Alessandro hearing his arrivall, and also the removall of the bords,
although he was exceedingly affraid; yet he lay quietly stil, and
stirred not, and Rinuccio beeing in the grave, tooke Alessandro by the
feete, haling him forth, and (mounting him uppon his backe) went on
thus loden, towards the house of Madam Francesca. As he passed along
the streets, unseene or unmet by any, Alessandro suffered many
shrewd rushings and punches, by turnings at the streets corners, and
jolting against bulkes, poasts, and stalles, which Rinuccio could
not avoyd, in regard the night was so wonderfully darke, as hee
could not see which way he went.
  Being come somewhat neere to the Gentlewomans house, and she
standing readie in the Window with her Maide, to see when Rinuccio
should arrive there with Alessandro, provided also of an apt excuse,
to send them thence like a couple of Coxcombes; it fortuned, that
the Watchmen, attending there in the same streete, for the
apprehension of a banished man, stolne into the City contrarie to
order; hearing the trampling of Rinuccioes feete, directed their
course as they heard the noise, having their Lanthorne and light
closely covered, to see who it should be, and what he intended, and
beating their weapons against the ground, demanded, Who goes there?
Rinuccio knowing their voyces, and that now was no time for any long
deliberation: let fall Alessandro, and ran away as fast as his legs
could carry him.
  Alessandro being risen againe (although he was cloathed in
Scannadioes Garments, which were long and too bigge for him) fledde
away also as Rinuccio did. All which Madame Francesca easily discerned
by helpe of the Watchmens Lanthorne, and how Rinuccio carried
Alessandro on his backe, beeing attired in the Garments of
Scannadio: whereat she mervailed not a litle, as also the great
boldnesse of them both. But in the midst of her mervailing, she
laughed very heartily, when she saw the one let the other fall, and
both to runne away so manfully. Which accident pleasing her beyond all
comparison, and applauding her good Fortune, to bee so happily
delivered from their daily mollestation: she betooke her selfe to
hir Chamber with the Maide, avouching solemnly to her, that
(questionlesse) they both affected her dearely, having undertaken such
a straunge imposition, and verie neere brought it to a finall
conclusion.
  Rinuccio, being sadly discontented, and curssing his hard fortune,
would not yet returne home to his Lodging: but, when the watch was
gone forth of that streete, came backe to the place where he let
fall Alessandro, purposing to accomplish the rest of his enterprize.
But not finding the body, and remaining fully perswaded, that the
Watchmen were possessed thereof; hee went away, greeving extreamly.
And Alessandro, not knowing now what should become of him:
confounded with the like griefe and sorrow, that all his hope was thus
utterly overthrowne, retired thence unto his owne house, not knowing
who was the Porter which carried him.
  The next morning, the grave of Scannadio being found open, and the
body not in it, because Alessandro had thrown it into a deep ditch
neere adjoyning: all the people of Pistoya were possessed with
sundry opinions, some of the more foolish sort verily beleeving,
that the divell had caried away the dead body. Neverthelesse, each
of the Lovers severally made knowne to Madam Francesca, what he had
done, and how disappointed, either excusing himselfe, that though
her command had not bin fully accomplished, yet to continue her favour
towards him. But she, like a wise and discreet Gentlewoman, seeming
not to credit either the one or other: discharged her selfe honestly
of them both, with a cutting answere, That shee would never
(afterward) expect any other service from them, because they had
fayled in their first injunction.
                    THE NINTH DAY, THE SECOND NOVELL

     WHEREBY IS DECLARED, THAT WHOSOEVER IS DESIROUS TO REPREHEND
      SINNE IN OTHER MEN, SHOULD FIRST EXAMINE HIMSELFE, THAT HE
                   BE NOT GUILTIE OF THE SAME CRIME

  Madame Usimbalda, Lady Abbesse of a Monastery of Nuns in
Lombardie, arising hastily in the night time without a Candle, to take
one of her Daughter Nunnes in bed with a yong Gentleman, whereof she
was enviously accused, by certaine of her other Sisters: The Abbesse
her selfe (being at the same time in bed with a Priest) imagining to
have put on her head her plaited vayle, put on the Priests breeches.
Which when the poore Nunne perceyved; by causing the Abbesse to see
her owne error, she got her selfe to be absolved, and had the freer
liberty afterward, to be more familiar with her frend, then formerly
she had bin.

  By this time, Madame Philomena sate silent, and the wit of
Francesca, in freeing her selfe from them whom she could not fancie,
was generally commended: as also on the contrary, the bold presumption
of the two amorous suiters, was reputed not to be love, but meerely
folly. And then the Queene, with a gracious admonition, gave way for
Madam Eliza to follow next; who presently thus began.
  Worthy Ladies, Madame Francesca delivered her selfe discreetly
from trouble, as already hath bin related: but a yong Nun, by the
helpe and favour of Fortune, did also free her selfe (in speaking
advisedly) from an inconvenience sodainly falling on her. And as you
well know, there wants none of them, who (like bold Bayards) will be
very forward in checking other mens misdemeanors, when themselves,
as my Novell will approve, deserve more justly to bee corrected. As
hapned to a Lady Abbesse, under whose governement the same young Nunne
was, of whom I am now to speake.
  You are then to understand (Gracious Auditors) that in Lombardie
there was a goodly Monastery, very famous for Holinesse and
Religion, where, among other sanctified Sisters, there was a yong
Gentlewoman, endued with very singular beautie, being named
Isabella, who on a day, when a Kinsman of hers came to see her at
the grate, became enamored of a young Gentleman, being then in his
company.
  He likewise, beholding her to be so admirably beautifull, and
conceyving by the pretty glances of her eye, that they appeared to bee
silent intelligencers of the hearts meaning, grew also as
affectionately inclined towards her, and this mutuall love continued
thus concealed a long while, but not without great affliction unto
them both. In the end, either of them being circumspect and
provident enough, the Gentleman contrived a meanes, whereby he might
secretly visite his Nunne, wherewith she seemed no way discontented:
and this visitation was not for once or twice, but verie often, and
closely concealed to themselves.
  At length it came to passe, that either through their owne
indiscreete carriage, or jelous suspition in some others: it was
espied by one of the Sisters, both the Gentlemans comming and
departing, yet unknowne to him or Isabella. The saide Sister,
disclosing the same to two or three more: they agreed together, to
reveale it to the Lady Abbesse, who was named Madame Usimbalda, a holy
and devout Lady, in common opinion of all the Nunnes, and whosoever
else knew her.
  They further concluded (because Isabella should not deny theyr
accusation) to contrive the businesse so cunningly: that the Ladle
Abbesse should come her selfe in person, and take the yong Gentleman
in bed with the Nun. And uppon this determination, they agreed to
watch nightly by turnes, because by no meanes they wold be
prevented: so to surprise poore Isabella, who beeing ignorant of their
treachery, suspected nothing. Presuming thus still on this secret
felicitie, and fearing no disaster to befall her: it chaunced (on a
night) that the yong Gentleman being entred into the Nuns Dorter,
the Scowts had descried him, and intended to be revenged on her.
  After some part of the night was overpast, they divided themselves
into two bands, one to guard Isabellaes Dorter doore, the other to
carry newes to the Abbesse, and knocking at her Closet doore, saide.
Rise quickely Madame, and use all the hast you may, for we have
seene a man enter our Sister Isabellaes Dorter, and you may take her
in bed with him. The Lady Abbesse, who (the very same night) had the
company of a lusty Priest in bed with her selfe, as oftentimes
before she had, and he being alwayes brought thither in a Chest:
hearing these tidings, and fearing also, lest the Nunnes hastie
knocking at her doore, might cause it to fly open, and so (by their
entrance) have her owne shame discovered: arose very hastily, and
thinking she had put on her plaited vaile, which alwayes she walked
with in the night season, and used to tearme her Psalter; she put
the Priests breeches upon her head, and so went away in all hast
with them, supposing them verily to be her Psalter: but making fast
the Closet doore with her keye, because the Priest should not be
discovered.
  Away shee went in all haste with the Sisters, who were so forward in
the detection of poore Isabella, as they never regarded what manner of
vaile the Lady Abbesse wore on her head. And being come to the
Dorter doore, quickly they lifted it off from the hookes, and being
entred, found the two Lovers sweetly imbracing: but yet so amazed at
this sudden surprisall, as they durst not stirre, nor speake one word.
The young Nunne Isabella, was raised forthwith by the other Sisters,
and according as the Abbesse had comanded, was brought by them into
the Chapter-house: the yong Gentleman remaining still in the
Chamber, where he put on his garments, awaiting to see the issue of
this businesse, and verily intending to act severe revenge on his
betrayers, if any harme were done to Isabella, and afterward to take
her thence away with him, as meaning to make her amends by marriage.
  The Abbesse being seated in the Chapter house, and all the other
Nunnes then called before her, who minded nothing else but the poore
offending Sister: she began to give her very harsh and vile
speeches, as never any transgressor suffered the like, and as to her
who had (if it should be openly knowne abroad) contaminated by her
lewde life and actions, the sanctity and good renowne of the whole
Monastery, and threatned her with very severe chastisement. Poore
Isabella, confounded with feare and shame, as being no way able to
excuse her fault, knew not what answer to make, but standing silent,
made her case compassionable to all the rest, even those
hard-hearted Sisters which betrayed her.
  And the Abbesse still continuing her harsh speeches, it fortuned,
that Isabella raising her head, which before she dejected into hir
bosome, espied the breeches on her head, with the stockings hanging on
either side of her; the sight whereof did so much encourage her,
that boldly she said. Madam, let a poore offender advise you for to
mend your veile, and afterward say to me what you will.
  The Abbesse being very angry; and not understanding what she
meant, frowningly answered. Why how now saucy companion? What vaile
are you prating of? Are you so malapert, to bee chatting already? Is
the deed you have done, to be answered in such immodest manner?
Isabella not a jot danted by her sterne behaviour, once againe said.
Good Madam let me perswade you to sette your vaile right, and then
chide me as long as you will. At these words, all the rest of the
Nunnes exalted their lookes, to behold what vaile the Abbesse wore
on her head, wherewith Isabella should finde such fault, and she her
selfe lift up her hand to feele it: and then they all perceyved
plainly, the reason of Isabellas speeches, and the Abbesse saw her
owne error.
  Hereupon, when the rest observed, that she had no help to cloud this
palpable shame withall, the tide began to turne, and hir tongue
found another manner of Language, then her former fury to poore
Isabella, growing to this conclusion, that it is impossible to
resist against the temptations of the flesh. And therefore she
saide: Let all of you take occasion, according as it offereth it
selfe, as both we and our predecessors have done: to be provident
for your selves, take time while you may, having this sentence alwaies
in remembrance, Si non caste, tamen caute.
  So, having granted the yong Nunne Isabella free absolution: the Lady
Abbesse returned backe againe to bed to the Priest, and Isabella to
the Gentleman. As for the other Sisters, who (as yet) were without the
benefit of friends; they intended to provide themselves so soone as
they could, being enduced thereto by so good example.
                     THE NINTH DAY, THE THIRD NOVELL

     DISCOVERING THE SIMPLICITY OF SOME SILLY WITTED MEN, AND HOW
             EASIE A MATTER IT IS TO ABUSE AND BEGUILE THEM

  Master Simon the Physitian, by the perswasions of Bruno, Buffalmaco,
and a third Companion, named Nello, made Calandrino to beleeve, that
he was conceived great with childe. And having Physicke ministred to
him for the disease: they got both good fatte Capons and money of him,
and so cured him, without any other man of deliverance.

  After that Madame Eliza had concluded her Novell, and every one of
the company given thankes to Fortune, for delivering poore Isabella
the faire young Nunne, from the bitter reprehensions of the as
faulty Abbesse, as also the malice of her envious Sisters; the
Queene gave command unto Philostratus, that he should be the next in
order, and hee (without expecting anie other warning) began in this
manner.
  Faire Ladies, the paltry Judge of the Marquisate, whereof
yesterday I made relation to you; hindred mee then of another
Novell, concerning silly Calandrino, wherewith I purpose now to
acquaint you. And because whatsoever hath already bin spoken of him,
tended to no other end but matter of meriment, hee and his
companions duly considered; the Novel which I shal now report, keepeth
within the selfesame compasse, and aimeth also at your contentment,
according to the scope of imposed variety.
  You have already heard what manner of man Calandrino was, and
likewise the rest of his pleasant Companions, who likewise are now
againe to be remembred, because they are actors in our present
discourse. It came so to passe, that an Aunt of Calandrinoes dying,
left him a legacy of two hundred Florines, wherewith he purposed to
purchase some small Farme-house in the countrey, or else to enlarge
the other, whereof he was possessed already. And, as if bee were to
disburse some ten thousand Florines, there was not a Broker in all
Florence, but understood what he intended to doe: and all the worst
was, that the strings of his purse could stretch no higher. Bruno, and
Buffalmaco (his auncient Confederates) who heard of this good
Fortune befalne him, advised him in such manner as they were wont to
do; allowing it much better for him, to make merrie with the money
in good cheare among them, then to lay it out in paltry Land,
whereto he would not by any meanes listen, but ridde himselfe of
them with a dinners cost, as loath to bee at anie further charge
with them.
  These merry Laddes meant not to leave him so; but sitting one day in
serious consultation, and a third man in their companie, named
Nello; they all three layde their braines in steep, by what means to
wash their mouths well, and Calandrino to bee at the cost thereof.
  And having resolved what was to bee done, they met togither the next
morning, even as Calandrino was comming foorth of his house, and
sundering themselves, to avoyd all suspition, yet beeing not farre
distant each from other; Nello first met him, and saide unto him, Good
Morrow Calandrino: which he requited backe agayne with the same
salutation. But then Nello standing still, looked him stedfastly in
the face: whereat Calandrino mervailing, sayd. Nello.
  Why dost thou behold me so advisedly? Whereunto Nello answered,
saying Hast thou felt any paine this last night past? Thou lookest
nothing so well, as thou didst yesterday. Calandrino began instantly
to wax doubtfull, and replyed thus. Dost thou see any alteration in my
face, whereby to imagine, I should feele some paine? In good faith
Calandrino (quoth Nello) me thinks thy countenance is strangely
changed, and surely it proceedeth from some great cause, and so he
departed away from him.
  Calandrino being very mistrustfull, scratched his head, yet felte he
no grievance at all; and going still on; Buffalmaco sodainely
encountred him, upon his departure from Nello, and after salutations
passing betweene them; in a manner of admiration, demanded what he
ayled?
  Truly (quoth Calandrino) well enough to mine owne thinking, yet
notwithstanding, I met with Nello but even now; and he told me, that
my countenance was very much altred; Is it possible that I should
bee sicke, and feele no paine or distaste in any part of me?
Buffalmaco answered; I am not so skilfull in judgement, as to argue on
the Nature of distemper in the body: but sure I am, that thou hast
some daungerous inward impediment, because thou lookst (almost) like a
man more then halfe dead.
  Calandrino began presently to shake, as if hee had had a Feaver
hanging on him, and then came Bruno looking fearefully on him, and
before he would utter any words, seemed greatly to bemoane him, saying
at length. Calandrino? Art thou the same man, or no? How wonderfuly
art thou changed since last I saw thee, which is no longer then yester
day? I pray thee tell mee, How dooest thou feele thy health?
  Calandrino hearing, that they all agreed in one opinion of him; he
beganne verily to perswade himselfe, that some sodaine sicknes, had
seised upon him, which they could discerne, although hee felt no
anguish at all: and therefore, like a man much perplexed in minde,
demanded of them, What he should do? Beleeve me Calandrino (answered
Bruno) if I were worthy to give thee counsell, thou shouldst returne
home presently to thy house, and lay thee downe in thy warme Bedde,
covered with so many cloathes as thou canst well endure. Then to
Morrow morning, send thy Water unto Learned Mayster Doctor the
Physitian, who (as thou knowest) is a man of most singular skill and
experience: he will instruct thee presently what is the best course to
be taken, and we that have ever beene thy loving friends, will not
faile thee in any thing that lieth in our power.
  By this time, Nello being come againe unto them, they all returned
home with Calandrino unto his owne house, whereinto he entering very
faintly, hee saide to his Wife: Woman, make my Bed presently ready,
for I feele my selfe to be growne extreamely sicke, and see that
thou layest cloathes enow upon me. Being thus laide in his Bedde, they
left him for that night, and returned to visite him againe the verie
next morning, by which time, he had made a reservation of his Water,
and sent it by a young Damosell unto Maister Doctor, who dwelt then in
the olde market place, at the signe of the Muske Mellone. Then saide
Bruno unto his Companions; Abide you heere to keepe him company, and I
will walke along to the Physitian, to understand what he will say: and
if neede be, I can procure him to come hither with me. Calandrino very
kindely accepted his offer, saying withall. Well Bruno, thou shewst
thy selfe a friend in the time of necessity, I pray thee know of
him, how the case stands with me, for I feele a very strange
alteration within mee, far beyond all compasse of my conceite.
  Bruno being gone to the Physitian, he made such expedition, that
he arrived there before the Damosell, who carried the Water, and
informed Master Simon with the whole tricke intended: wherefore,
when the Damosell was come, and hee had passed his judgement
concerning the water, he said to her.
  Maide, go home againe, and tell Calandrino, that he must keep
himselfe very warme: and I my selfe will instantly be with him, to
enstruct him further in the quality of his sicknesse.
  The Damosell delivered her message accordingly, and it was not
long before Mayster Doctor Simon came, with Bruno also in his company,
and sitting downe on the beds side by Calandrino, hee began to taste
his pulse, and within a small while after, his Wife being come into
the Chamber, he said. Observe me well Calandrino, for I speake to thee
in the nature of a true friend; thou hast no other disease, but only
thou art great with child.
  So soone as Calandrino heard these words, in dispairing manner he
beganne to rage, and cry out aloud, saying to his wife Ah thou
wicked woman, this is long of thee, and thou hast done me this
mischeefe for alwayes thou wilt be upon me, ever railing at mee, and
fighting, untill thou hast gotten me under thee. Say thou divellish
creature, do I not tell thee true? The Woman, being of verie honest
and civill conversation, hearing her husband speake so foolishly:
blushing with shame, and hanging downe her head in bashfull manner;
without returning any answer, went forth of her Chamber.
  Calandrino continuing still in his angry humour, wringing his hands,
and beating them upon his breast, said: Wretched man that I am, What
shall I do? How shal I be delivered of this child? Which way can it
come from me into the world? I plainly perceyve, that I am none
other then a dead man, and all through the wickednesse of my Wife:
heaven plague her with as many mischiefes, as I am desirous to finde
ease. Were I now in as good health, as heere-tofore I have beene, I
would rise out of my bed, and never cease beating her, untill I had
broken her in a thousand peeces. But if Fortune will be so
favourable to me, as to helpe mee out of this dangerous agony: hang
me, if ever she get me under her againe, or make me such an Asse, in
having the mastery over mee, as diuers times she hath done.
  Bruno, Buffalmaco and Nello, hearing these raving speeches of
Calandrino, were swolne so bigge with laughter, as if their ribbes
would have burst in sunder; neverthelesse, they abstained so well as
they were able; but Doctor Simon gaped so wide with laughing as one
might easily have pluckt out all his teeth. In the end, because he
could tarry there no longer, but was preparing to depart: Calandrino
thanked him for his paines, requesting that hee would be carefull of
him, in aiding him with his best advise and counsell, and he would not
be unmindfull of him. Honest neighbour Calandrino, answered the
Phisition, I would not have you to torment your selfe, in such an
impatient and tempestuous manner, because I perceive the time so to
hasten on, as we shall soone perceive (and that within very few
dayes space) your health well restored, and without the sense of
much paine; but indeed it wil cost expences. Alas Sir, said
Calandrino, mak not any spare of my purse, to procure that I may
have safe deliverance. I have two hundred Florines, lately falne to me
by the death of mine Aunt, wherewith I intended to purchase a Farme in
the Countrey: take them all if need be, onely reserving some few for
my lying in Childbed. And then Master Doctor, Alas, I know not how
to behave my selfe, for I have heard the grievous complaint of women
in that case, oppressed with bitter pangs and throwes; as
questionlesse they will bee my death, except you have the greater care
of me.
  Be of good cheere neighbour Calandrino, replyed Doctor Simon, I will
provide an excellent distilled drinke for you, marveilously pleasing
in taste, and of soveraigne vertue, which will resolve all in three
mornings, making you as whole and as sound as a Fish newly spawned.
But you must have an especiall care afterward, being providently wise,
least you fall into the like follies againe. Concerning the
preparation of this precious drinke, halfe a dozen of Capons, the very
fairest and fattest, I must make use of in the distillation: what
other things shall bee imployed beside, you may deliver forty Florines
to one of these your honest friends, to see all the necessaries bought
and sent me home to my house. Concerning my businesse, make you no
doubt thereof, for I will have all distilled against to morrow, and
then doe you drinke a great Glasse full every morning, fresh and
fasting next your heart. Calandrino was highly pleased with his words,
returning master Doctor infinite thankes, and referring all to his
disposing. And having given forty Florines to Bruno, with other
money beside, to buy the halfe dozen of Capons: he thought himselfe
greatly beholding to them all, and protested to requite their
kindenesse.
  Master Doctor being gone home to his house, made ready a bottel of
very excellent Hypocrasse, which he sent the next day according to his
promise: and Bruno having bought the Capons, with other junkets, fit
for the turne, the Phisitian and his merry Companions, fed on them
hartely for the givers sake. As for Calandrino, he liked his dyet
drinke excellently well, quaffing a large Glassefull off three
mornings together: afterward Master Doctor and the rest came to see
him, and having felt his pulse, the Phisition said. Calandrino, thou
art now as sound in health, as any man in all Florence can be: thou
needest not to keepe within doores any longer, but walke abroad
boldly, for all is well and the childe gone.
  Calandrino arose like a joyfull man, and walked daily through the
streets, in the performance of such affaires as belonged to him: and
every acquaintance he met withall, he told the condition of his sudden
sickenesse; and what a rare cure Master Doctor Simon had wrought on
him, delivering him (in three dayes space) of a childe, and without
the feeling of any paine. Bruno, Buffalmaco, and Nello, were not a
little jocond, for meeting so well with covetous Calandrino: but how
the Wife liked the folly of her Husband, I leave to the judgement of
all good Women.
                    THE NINTH DAY, THE FOURTH NOVELL

       SERVING AS AN ADMONITION TO ALL MEN, FOR TAKING GAMESTERS
                    AND DRUNKARDS INTO THEIR SERVICE

  Francesco Fortarigo, played away all that he had at Buonconvento,
and likewise the money of Francesco Aniolliero, being his Master. Then
running after him in his shirt, and avouching that hee had robbed him:
he caused him to be taken by Pezants of the Country, clothed
himselfe in his Masters wearing garments, and (mounted on his horse)
rode thence to Sienna, leaving Aniolliero in his shirt, and walked
barefooted.

  The ridiculous words given by Calandrino to his Wife, all the
whole company hartily laughed at: but a Philostratus ceassing,
Madame Neiphila (as it pleased the Queene to appoint) began to
speake thus. Vertuous Ladies, if it were not more hard and uneasie for
men, to make good their understanding and vertue, then apparant
publication of their disgrace and folly; many would not labour in
vaine, to curbe in their idle speeches with a bridle, as you have
manifestly observed by the weake wit of Calandrino. Who needed no such
fantastick circumstance, to cure the strange disease, which he
imagined (by sottish perswasions) to have: had hee not been so
lavish of his tongue, and accused his Wife of overmastering him. Which
maketh me remember a Novell, quite contrary to this last related,
namely, how one man may strive to surmount another in malice; yet he
to sustaine the greater harme, that had (at the first) the most
advantage of his enemy, as I will presently declare unto you.
  There dwelt in Sienna, and not many yeeres since, two young men of
equall age, both of them bearing the name of Francesco: but the one
was descended of the Aniollieri, and the other likewise of the
Fortarigi; so that they were commonly called Aniolliero, and
Fortarigo, both Gentlemen, and well derived. Now, although in many
other matters, their complexions did differ very much: Yet
notwithstanding, they varied not in one bad qualitie, namely too great
neglect of their Fathers, which caused their more frequent
conversation, as very familiar and respective friends. But
Aniolliero (being a very goodly and faire conditioned young Gentleman)
apparently perceiving, that he could not maintaine himselfe at Sienna,
in such estate as he liked, and upon the pension allowed him by his
Father, hearing also, that at the Marquisate of Ancona, there lived
the Popes Legate, a worthy Cardinall, his much indeared good Lord
and friend: he intended to goe visite him, as hoping to advance his
fortunes by him.
  Having acquainted his Father with this determination, he concluded
with him, to have that from him in a moment which might supply his
wants because he would be clothed gallantly, and mounted honourably.
And seeking for a servant necessary to attend on him, it chanced
that Fortarigo hearing thereof, came presently to Aniolliero,
intreating him in the best manner he could, to let him waite on him as
his serving man, promising both dutiful and diligent attendance: yet
not to deaund any other wages, but onely payment of his ordinary
expences. Aniolliero made him answere, that he durst not give him
entertainment, not in regard of his insufficiency, and unaptnesse
for service: but because he was a great Gamester, and divers times
would be beastly drunke? whereto Fortarigo replyed that hee would
refraine from both those foule vices, and addict all his endeavor
wholly to please him, without just taxation of any grosse errour;
making such solemne vowes and protestations beside, as conquered
Aniolliero, and won his consent.
  Being entred upon his journey, and arriving in a morning at
Buonconvento, there Aniolliero determined to dine, and afterward,
finding the heate to be unfit for travaile; he caused a bed to be
prepared, wherein being laid to rest by the helpe of Fortarigo, he
gave him charge, that after the heates violence was overpast, hee
should not faile to call and awake him. While Aniolliero slept thus in
his bed, Fortarigo, never remembring his solemne vowes and promises:
went to the Taverne, where having drunke indifferently, and finding
company fit for the purpose, he fell to play at the dice with them. In
a very short while, he had not onely lost his money, but all the
cloathes on his backe likewise, and coveting to recover his losses
againe; naked in his shirt, he went to Aniollieroes Chamber, where
finding him yet soundly sleeping, he tooke all the money he had in his
purse, and then returned backe to play, speeding in the same manner as
hee did before, not having one poore penny left him.
  Aniolliero chancing to awake, arose and made him ready, without
any servant to helpe him; then calling for Fortarigo, and not
hearing any tydings of him: he began immediately to imagine, that he
was become drunke, and so had falne asleepe in one place or other,
as very often he was wont to doe. Wherefore, determining so to leave
him, he caused the male and Saddle to be set on his horse, and so to
furnish himselfe with a more honest servant at Corsignano.
  But when hee came to pay his hoste, hee found not any penny left
him: whereupon (as well he might) he grew greatly offended, and raised
much trouble in the house, charged the hoasts people to have robde
him, and threatening to have them sent as prisoners to Sienna.
Suddenly entred Fortarigo in his shirt, with intent to have stolne
Aniollieroes garments, as formerly hee did the money out of his purse,
and seeing him ready to mount on horsebacke, hee saide.
  How now Aniolliero? What shall we goe away so soone? I pray you
Sir tarry a little while, for an honest man is comming hither, who
hath my Doublet engaged for eight and thirty shillings; and I am
sure that he will restore it me back for five and thirty, if I could
presently pay him downe the money.
  During the speeches, an other entred among them, who assured
Aniolliero, that Fortarigo was the Thiefe which robde him of his
money, shewing him also how much hee had lost at the Dice: Wherewith
Aniolliero being much mooved, very angerly reprooved Fortarigo, and,
but for feare of the Law, would have offered him outrage, thretning to
have him hangd by the neck, or else condemned to the Gallies belonging
to Florence, and so mounted on his horse. Fortarigo making shew to the
standers by, as if Aniolliero menaced some other body, and not him,
said. Come Aniolliero, I pray thee let us leave this frivilous
prating, for (indeede) it is not worth a Button, and minde a matter of
more importance: my Doublet will bee had againe for five and thirty
shillings, if the money may bee tendered downe at this very instant,
whereas if we deferre it till to morrow, perhaps hee will then have
the whole eight and thirty which he lent me, and he doth me this
pleasure, because I am ready (at another time) to affoord him the like
courtesie; why then should we loose three shillings, when they may
so easily be saved.
  Aniolliero hearing him speake in such confused manner, and
perceiving also, that they which stood gazing by, beleeved (as by
their lookes appeared) that Fortarigo had not played away his
Masters mony at the Dice, but rather that he had some stocke of
Fortarigoes in his custody; angerly answered; Thou sawcy companion,
what have I to doe with thy Doublet? I would thou wert hangd, not only
for playing away my money, but also by delaying thus my journey, and
yet boldly thou standest out-facing mee, as if I were no better then
thy fellow. Fortarigo held on still his former behaviour, without
using any respect or reverence to Aniolliero, as if all the
accusations did not concerne him, but saying, Why should wee not
take the advantage of three shillings profit? Thinkest thou, that I am
not able to doe as much for thee? why, lay out so much money for my
sake, and make no more haste then needs we must, because we have
day-light enough to bring us (before night) to Torreniero. Come,
draw thy purse, and pay the money, for upon mine honest word, I may
enquire throughout all Sienna, and yet not find such another Doublet
as this of mine is. To say then, that I should leave it, where it
now lyeth pawned, and for eight and thirty shillings, when it is
richly more worth then fifty, I am sure to suffer a double
endammagement thereby.
  You may well imagine, that Aniolliero was now enraged beyond all
patience, to see himselfe both robde of his money, and overborne
with presumptuous language: wherefore, without making any more
replications, he gave the spurre to his horse, and rode away towards
Torreniero. Now fell Fortarigo into a more knavish intention against
Aniolliero, and being very speedy in running, followed apace after him
in his shirt, crying out still aloude to him all the way, to let him
have his Doublet againe. Aniolliero riding on very fast, to free his
eares from this idle importunity, it fortuned that Fortarigo espied
divers countrey Pezants, laboring in the fields about their businesse,
and by whom Aniolliero (of necessity) must passe: To them he cryed out
so loude as he could; Stay the thiefe, Stop the Thiefe, he rides
away so fast, having robde me.
  They being provided, some with Prongges, Pitchforkes and Spades, and
others with the like weapons fit for Husbandry, stept into the way
before Aniolliero: and beleeving undoubtedly, that he had robde the
man which pursued him in his shirt, stayed and apprehended him.
Whatsoever Aniolliero could doe or say, prevailed not any thing with
the unmannerly Clownes, but when Fortarigo was arrived among them,
he braved Aniolliero most impudently, saying.
  What reason have I to spoyle thy life (thou traiterous Villaine)
to rob and spoyle thy Master thus on the high way? Then turning to the
Countrey Boores: How much deare friends (quoth he) am I beholding to
you for this unexpected kindnesse? You behold in what manner he left
me in my Lodging, having first playd away all my money at the Dice,
and then deceiving me of my horse and garments also: but had not you
(by great good lucke) thus holpe mee to stay him; a poore Gentleman
had bin undone for ever, and I should never have found him againe.
  Aniolliero avouched the truth of his wrong received, but the base
peazants, giving credite onely to Fortarigoes lying exclamations:
tooke him from his horse, despoyled him of all his wearing
apparrell, even to the very Bootes from off his Legges: suffered him
to ride away from him in that manner, and Aniolliero left so in his
shirt, to dance a bare foote Galliard after him either towards Sienna,
or any place else.
  Thus Aniolliero, purposing to visite his Cousin the Cardinal like
a Gallant, and at the Marquisate of Ancona, returned backe poorly in
his shirt unto Buonconvento, and durst not (for shame) repaire to
Sienna. In the end, he borrowed money on the other horse which
Fortarigo rode on, and remained there in the Inne, whence riding to
Corsignano, where he had divers Kinsmen and Friends, he continued
there so long with them, till he was better furnished from his Father.
  Thus you may perceive, that the cunning Villanies of Fortarigo,
hindred the honest intended enterprise of Aniolliero howbeit in fit
time and place, nothing afterward was left unpunished.
                     THE NINTH DAY, THE FIFT NOVELL

       IN JUST REPREHENSION OF THOSE VAINEHEADED FOOLES, THAT ARE
                  LED AND GOVERNED BY IDLE PERSWASIONS

  Calandrino became extraordinarily enamoured of a young Damosell,
named Nicholetta. Bruno prepared a Charme or writing for him,
avouching constantly to him, that so soone as he touched the
Damosell therewith, she should follow him whithersoever hee would have
her. She being gone to an appointed place with him, hee was found
there by his wife, and dealt withall according to his deserving.

  Because the Novell reported by Madame Neiphila was so soone
concluded, without much laughter, or commendation of the whole
Company: the Queene turned hir selfe towards Madam Fiammetta,
enjoyning her to succeed in apt order; and she being as ready as
sodainly commanded, began as followeth. Most gentle Ladies, I am
perswaded of your opinion in judgement with mine, that there is not
any thing, which can bee spoken pleasingly, except it be
conveniently suited with apt time and place: in which respect, when
Ladies and Gentlewomen are bent to discoursing, the due election of
them both are necessarily required. And therefore I am not unmindfull,
that our meeting heere (ayming at nothing more, then to outweare the
time with our generall contentment) should tye us to the course of our
pleasure and recreation, to the same conveniency of time and place;
not sparing, though some have bin nominated oftentimes in our passed
arguments; yet, if occasion serve, and the nature of variety be well
considered, wee may speake of the selfesame persons againe.
  Now, notwithstanding the actions of Calandrino have beene
indifferently canvazed among us; yet, remembring what Philostratus not
long since saide, That they intended to nothing more then matter of
mirth: I presume the boldlier, to report another Novell of him, beside
them already past. And, were I willing to conceale the truth, and
cloath it in more circumstantiall maner: I could make use of
contrary names, and paint it in a poeticall fiction, perhaps more
probable, though not so pleasing. But because wandring from the
truth of things, doth much diminish (in relatic the delight of the
hearers: I will build boldly on my fore-alledged reason, and tel you
truly how it hapned.
  Niccholao Cornacchini was once a Citizen of ours, and a man of great
wealth; who, among other his rich possessions in Camerata, builded
there a very goodly house, which being perfected ready for painting:
he compounded with Bruno and Buffalmaco who bicause their worke
required more helpe then their owne, they drew Nello and Calandrino
into their association, and began to proceed in their businesse. And
because there was a Chamber or two, having olde moveables in them,
as Bedding, Tables, and other Houshold stuffe beside, which were in
the custody of an old Woman that kepte the house, without the helpe of
any other servants else, a Son unto the saide Niccholao, beeing
named Phillippo, resorted thither divers times, with one or other
prety Damosell in his company (in regard he was unmarried) where he
would abide a day or two with her, and then convey her home againe.
  At one time among the rest, it chanced that he brought a Damosell
thither named Nicholetta, who was maintained by a wily companion,
called Magione, in a dwelling which hee had at Camaldoli, and (indeed)
no honester then she should be. She was a very beautifull young woman,
wearing garments of great value, and (according to her quality) well
spoken, and of commendable carriage. Comming forth of her Chamber
one day, covered with a White veyle, because her haire hung loose
about her, which shee went to wash at a Well in the middle Court,
bathing there also her face and hands: Calandrino going (by chance) to
the same Well for water, gave her a secret salutation. She kindly
returning the like courtesie to him, began to observe him advisedly:
more, because he looked like a man newly come thither, then any
handsomnesse she perceyved in him.
  Calandrino threw wanton glances at her, and seeing she was both
faire and lovely, began to finde some occasion of tarrying, so that he
returned not with water to his other associates, yet neither knowing
her, or daring to deliver one word. She, who was not to learn her
lesson in alluring, noting what affectionate regards (with
bashfulnesse) he gave her: answered him more boldly with the like; but
meerly in scorning manner, breathing forth divers dissembled sighs
among them: so that Calandrino became foolishly inveigled with her
love, and would not depart out of the Court, until Phillippo, standing
above in his Chamber window called her thence.
  When Calandrino was returned backe to his businesse, he could do
nothing else, but shake the head, sigh, puffe, and blowe, which
being observed by Bruno (who alwayes fitted him according to his
folly, as making a meer mockery of his very best behaviour) sodainly
he said. Why how now Calandrino? Sigh, puffe, and blow man? What may
be the reason of these unwonted qualities? Calandrino immediately
answered, saying: My friendly Companion Bruno, if I had one to lend me
a little helpe, I should very quickely become well enough. How? quoth
Bruno, doth any thing offend thee, and wilt thou not reveale it to thy
friend Deare Bruno, said Calandrino, there is a proper handsome
woman here in the house, the goodliest creature that ever any eye
beheld, much fairer then the Queen of Fairies her selfe, who is so
deeply falne in love with mee, as thou wouldst thinke it no lesse then
a wonder; and yet I never sawe her before, till yer while when I was
sent to fetch water. A very strange case, answered Bruno, take heede
Calandrino, that shee bee not the lovely friend to Phillippo, our yong
Master, for then it may prove a dangerous matter.
  Calandrino stood scratching his head an indifferent while, and
then sodainly replyed thus. Now trust me Bruno, it is to bee
doubted, because he called her at his Window, and she immediatly
went up to his Chamber. But what doe I care if it be so? Have not
the Gods themselves bene beguiled of their Wenches, who were better
men then ever Phillippo can be, and shall I stand in feare of him?
Bruno replied: Be patient Calandrino, I will enquire what Woman she
is, and if she be not the wife or friend to our young master
Phillippo, with faire perswasions I can over-rule the matter,
because shee is a familiar acquaintance of mine. But how shall wee
doe, that Buffalmaco may not know heereof? I can never speake to
her, if hee be in my company. For Buffalmaco (quoth Calandrino) I have
no feare at all, but rather of Nello, because he is a neer Kinsman
to my wife, and he is able to undo me quite, if once it should come to
his hearing. Thou saist well, replyed Bruno, therefore the matter hath
neede to be very cleanly carried.
  Now let me tell you, the Woman was well enough knowne to Bruno, as
also her quality of life, which Phillippo had acquainted him
withall, and the reason of her resorting thither. Wherefore,
Calandrino going forth of the roome where they wrought, onely to gaine
another sight of Nicholetta, Bruno revealed the whole history to
Buffalmaco and Nello; they all concluding together, how this amorous
fit of the foole was to be followed. And when Calandrino was
returned backe againe; in whispering maner Bruno said to him. Hast
thou once more seene her? Yes, yes Bruno, answered Calandrino: Alas,
she hath slaine me with her very eye, and I am no better then a dead
man. Be patient said Bruno, I will goe and see whether she be the same
woman which I take her for, or no: and if it prove so, then never
feare, but refer the businesse unto me.
  Bruno descending downe the staires, found Phillippo and Nicholetta
in conference together, and stepping unto them, discoursed at large,
what manner of man Calandrino was, and how farre he was falne in
love with her: so that they made a merry conclusion, what should be
performed in this case, onely to make a pastime of his hot begun love.
And being come backe againe to Calandrino, he saide. It is the same
woman whereof I told thee, and therefore wee must worke wisely in
the businesse: for if Phillippo perceive any thing, all the water in
Arno will hardly serve to quench his fury. But what wouldst thou
have me say to her on thy behalfe, if I compasse the meanes to
speake with her? First of all (quoth Calandrino) and in the prime
place, tell her, that I wish infinite bushels of those blessings,
which makes Maides Mothers, and begetteth children. Next, that I am
onely hers, in any service she wil command me. Dooest thou
understand me what I say? Sufficiently answered Bruno, leave all to
me.
  When supper time was come, that they gave over working, and were
descended downe into the Court: there they found Phillippo and
Nicholetta readily attending to expect some beginning of amorous
behaviour, and Calandrino glanced such leering lookes at her, coughing
and spetting with hummes and haes, yea in such close and secret
manner, that a starke blinde sight might verie easily have perceyved
it.
  She also on the other side, returned him such queint and cunning
carriage, as enflamed him farre more furiously, even as if hee were
ready to leape out of himselfe. In the meane while, Phillippo,
Buffalmaco and the rest that were there present, seeming as if they
were seriouslie consulting together, and perceived nothing of his
fantastick behavior, according as Bruno had appointed, could scarse
refraine from extremity of laughter, they noted such antick trickes in
Calandrino.
 Having spent an indifferent space in this foppish folly, the houre of
parting came, but not without wonderful affliction to Calandrino;
and as they were going towards Florence, Bruno saide closely to
Calandrino. I dare assure thee, that thou hast made her to consume and
melt, even like ice against the warme Sunne. On my word, if thou
wouldst bring thy Gitterne, and sit downe by us, singing some few
amorous songs of thine owne making, when we are beneath about our
businesse in the Court: shee would presently leape out of the
Window, as being unable to tarry from thee.
  I like thy counsell well Bruno, answered Calandrino; but shall I
bring my Gitterne thither indeed? Yes, in any case, replied Bruno, for
Musicke is a matter of mighty prevailing. Ah Bruno (quoth
Calandrino) thou wouldst not credit me in the morning, when I tolde
thee, how the very sight of my person had wounded her: I perceived
it at the very first looke of her owne, for shee had no power to
conceale it. Who but my selfe could so soone have enflamed her
affection, and being a woman of such worth and beauty as shee is?
There are infinite proper handsome fellowes, that daily haunt the
company of dainty Damosels, yet are so shallow in the affayres of
love, as they are not able to win one wench of a thousand, no, not
with all the wit they have, such is their extreame follie and ill
fortune.
  Then pausing a while, and sodainely rapping out a Lovers Oath or
two, thus he proceeded. My dearest Bruno, thou shalt see how I can
tickle my Gitterne, and what good sport will ensue thereon. If thou
dost observe me with judgement, why man, I am not so old as I seeme to
be, and she could perceive it at the very first view; yea, and she
shall finde it so too, when we have leysure to consult upon further
occasions: I finde my selfe in such a free and frolicke jocunditie
of spirit, that I will make her to follow me, even as a fond woman
doth after her child.
  But beware, saide Bruno, that thou do not gripe her over-hard, and
in kissing, bee carefull of biting, because the teeth stand in thy
head like the pegges of a Lute, yet make a comely shew in thy faire
wide mouth, thy cheekes looking like two of our artificiall Roses,
swelling amiably, when thy jawes are well fild with meat. Calandrino
hearing these hansome comnendations, thought himselfe a man of
action already, going, singing, and frisking before his companie so
lively, as if he had not bin in his skin.
  On the morrow, carrying his Gitterne thither with him, to the no
little delight of his companions, hee both played and sung a whole
Bed-role of himselfe to any worke all the day: but loitering
fantastically, one while he gazed out at the window, then ran to the
gate, and oftentimes downe into the Court onely to have a sight of his
Mistresse. She also (as cunningly) encountred all his ollies, by
such directions as Bruno gave her, and many more beside of her owne
devising, to quicken him still with new occasions: Bruno plaid the
Ambassador betweene them, in delivering the messages from
Calandrino, and then returning her answers to him. Sometimes when
she was absent thence (which often hapned as occasions called her)
then he would write letters in her name, and bring them, as if they
were sent by her, to give him hope of what hee desired, but because
she was then among her kindred, yet she could not be unmindfull of
him.
  In this manner, Bruno and Buffalmaco (who had the managing of this
amorous businesse) made a meere Gregory of poore Calandrino, causing
him somtimes to send her, one while a pretty peece of Ivory, then a
faire wrought purse, and a costly paire of knives, with other such
like friendly tokens: bringing him backe againe, as in requital of
them, counterfetted Rings of no valew, Bugles and bables, which he
esteemed as matters of great moment. Moreover, at divers close and
sodain meetings, they made him pay for many dinners and suppers,
amounting to indifferent charges, onely to be careful in the
furtherance of his lovesuit, and to conceale it from his wife.
 Having worne out three or foure months space in this fond and
frivolous manner, without any other successe then as hath bene
declared; and Calandrino perceiving, that the worke undertaken by
him and his fellowes, grew very neere uppon the finishing, which would
barre him of any longer resorting thither: hee began to solicite Bruno
more importunately, then all the while before he hadde done. In regard
whereof Nicholetta being one day come thither, and Bruno having
conferred both with her and Phillippo, with ful determination what was
to be done, he began with Calandrino, saying. My honest Neighbour
and Friend, this Woman hath made a thousand promises, to graunt what
thou art so desirous to have, and I plainly perceive that she hath
no such meaning, but meerely plaies with both our noses. In which
respect, seeing she is so perfidious, and will not perfourme one of
all her faithfull-made promises: if thou wilt consent to have it so,
she shall be compelled to do it whether she will or no. Yea marry
Bruno, answered Calandrino, that were an excellent course indeede,
if it could be done, and with expedition.
  Bruno stood musing awhile to himselfe, as if he had some strange
stratagem in his braine, and afterward said. Hast thou so much
corage Calandrino, as but to handle a peece of written parchment,
which I will give thee? Yes, that I have answered Calandrino, I hope
that needed not to be doubted. then, saide Bruno, procure that I may
have a piece of Virgin Parchment brought mee, with a living Bat or
Reremouse; three graines of Incense, and an hallowed Candle, then
leave me to effect what shal content thee. Calandrino watched all
the next night following, with such preparation as he could make,
onely to catch a Bat; which being taken at the last, he broght it
alive to Bruno (with all the other materials appointed) who taking him
alone into a backer Chamber, there hee wrote divers follies on the
Parchment, in the shape of strange and unusuall Charracters, which
he delivered to Calandrino, saying: Be bold Calandrino, and build
constantly uppon my wordes, that if thou canst but touch her with this
sacred Charractred charme, she will immediately follow thee, and
fulfil whatsoever thou pleasest to command hir. Wherefore, if
Phillippo do this day walke any whither abroad from this house,
presume to salute her, in any manner whatsoever it be, and touching
her with the written lines, go presently to the barn of hay, which
thou perceivest so neere adjoyning, the onely convenient place that
can be, because few or none resort thither. She shall (in despight
of her blood) follow thee; and when thou hast her there, I leave
thee then to thy valiant victory. Calandrino stood on tiptoe, like a
man newly molded by Fortune, and warranted Bruno to fulfil all
effectually.
  Nello, whom Calandrino most of all feared and mistrusted, had a hand
as deepe as any of the rest in this deceite, and was as forward also
to have it performed, by Brunoes direction, hee went unto Florence,
where being in company with Calandrinoes Wife, thus hee began.
  Cousine, thine unkinde usage by thine husband, is not unknown to me,
how he did beate thee (beyond the compasse of all reason) when he
brought home stones from the plain of Mugnone; in which regard, I am
very desirous to have thee revenged on him: which if thou wilt not do,
never repute me heereafter for thy Kinsman and Friend. He is falne
in love with a Woman of the common gender, one that is to be hired for
money: he hath his private meetings with her, and the place is
partly knowne to me, as by a secret appointment (made very lately) I
am credibly given to understand; wherefore walke presently along
with me, and thou shalt take him in the heat of his knavery.
  All the while as these words were uttering to her, shee could not
dissemble her inward impatience, but starting up as halfe franticke
with fury. she said. O notorious villaine! Darest thou abuse thine
honest wife so basely? I sweare by blessed Saint Bridget, thou shalt
be paid with coyne of thine owne stampe. So casting a light wearing
Cloake about her, and taking a yong woman in her company; shee went
away with Nello in no meane haste. Bruno seeing her comming a farre
off, said to Phillippo: You Sir, you know what is to be done, act your
part according to your appointment. Phillippo went immediately into
the roome, where Calandrino and his other Consorts were at worke,
and said to them. Honest friends, I have certaine occasions which
command mine instant being at Florence: worke hard while I am
absent, and I will not be unthankefull for it. Away hee departed
from them, and hid himselfe in a convenient place, where he could
not be descryed, yet see whatsoever Calandrino did: who when he
imagined Phillippo to be farre enough off, descended downe into the
Court, where he found Nicholetta sitting alone, and going towards her,
began to enter into discoursing with her.
  She knowing what remained to bee done on her behalfe, drew
somewhat neere him, and shewed her selfe more familiar then formerly
she had done: by which favourable meanes, he touched her with the
charmed Parchment, which was no sooner done; but with out using any
other kinde of language, hee went to the hay-Barne, whither
Nicholletta followed him, and both being entred, he closed the Barne
doore, and then stood gazing on her, as if hee had never seene her
before. Standing stil as in a study, or bethinking himselfe what he
should say: she began to use affable gesture to him, and taking him by
the hand, made shew as if shee meant to kisse him, which yet she
refrained, though he (rather then his life) would gladly have had
it. Why how now deare Calandrino (quoth she) jewell of my joy, comfort
of my heart, how many times have I longed for thy sweet Company? And
enjoying it now, according to mine owne desire, dost thou stand like a
Statue, or man alla morte? The rare tunes of the Gitterne, but (much
more) the melodious accents of thy voyce, excelling Orpheus or
Amphion, so ravished my soule, as I know not how to expresse the depth
of mine affection; and yet hast thou brought me hither, onely to looke
babies in mine eyes, and not so much as speake one kinde word to me?
  Bruno and Buffalmaco, having hid themselves close behinde
Philippo, they both heard and saw all this amourous conflict, and as
Calandrino was quickning his courage, and wiping his mouth, with
intent to kisse her: his wife and Nello entred into the Barne, which
caused Nicholetta to get her gone presently, sheltring her self
where Philippo lay scouting. But the enraged woman ranne furiously
upon poore daunted Calandrino, making such a pitiful massacre with her
nailes, and tearing the baire from his head, as hee meerely looked
like an infected Anatomy. Fowle loathsome dog (quoth she) must you
be at your minions, and leave mee hunger-starved at home? An olde
knave with (almost) never a good tooth in thy head, and yet art thou
neighing after young wenches? hast thou not worke enough at home,
but must bee gadding in to other mens grounds? Are these the fruites
of wandring abroad?
 Calandrino being in this pittifull perplexity, stood like one neither
alive nor dead, nor daring to use any resistance against her; but fell
on his knees before his Wife, holding up his hands for mercy, and
entreating her (for charities sake) not to torment him any more: for
he had committed no harme at all, and the Gentlewoman was his
Masters Wife, who came with no such intent thither, as shee fondly
imagined. Wife, or wife not (quoth she) I would have none to meddle
with my I but I that have the most right to him.
  Bruno and Buffalmaco, who had laughed all this while heartily at
this pastime, with Phillippo and Nicholetta; came running in haste
to know the reason of this loude noise, and after they had pacified
the woman with gentle perswasions: they advised Calandrino, to walke
with his Wife to Florence, and returne no more to worke there
againe, least Phillippo hearing what had hapned, should be revenged on
him with some outrage. Thus poore Calandrino miserably misused and
beaten, went home to Florence with his Wife, scoulded and raild at all
the way, beside his other molestations (day and night) afterward:
his Companions, Phillippo and Nicholetta, making themselves merry at
his mis-fortune.
                     THE NINTH DAY, THE SIXT NOVELL

      WHEREIN IS MANIFESTED, THAT AN OFFENCE COMMITTED IGNORANTLY,
       AND BY MISTAKING; OUGHT TO BE COVERED WITH GOOD ADVISE, AND
                           CIVILL DISCRETION

  Two yong Gentlemen, the one named Panuccio, and the other Adriano,
lodged one night in a poore Inne, where one of them went to bed to the
Hostes Daughter, and the other (by mistaking his way in the darke)
to the Hostes Wife. He which lay with the daughter, happened afterward
to the Hostes bed and told him what he had done, as thinking he
spake to his own companyon. Discontentment growing betweene them,
the Mother perceiving her errour, went to bed to her daughter, and
with discreete language, made a generall pacification.

  Calandrino, whose mishaps had so many times made the whole
assembly merry, and this last passing among them with indifferent
commendations: upon a generall silence commanded, the Queene gave
order to Pamphilus, that hee should follow next, as indeed he did,
beginning thus. Praiseworthy Ladies, the name of Nicoletta, so
fondly affected by Calandrino, putteth mee in minde of a Novell,
concerning another Nicoletta, of whom I purpose to speake: to the ende
you may observe how by a sudden wary fore-sight, a discreet woman
compassed the meanes to avoyde a notorious scandall.
  On the plaine of Mugnone, neere to Florence, dwelt (not long
since) an honest meane man, who kept a poore Inne or Ostery for
travellers, where they might have some slender entertainement for
their money. As he was but a poore man, so his house affoorded but
very small receit of guests, not lodging any but on necessity, and
such as he had some knowledge of. This honest poore hoste had a
woman (sufficiently faire) to his wife, by whom hee had also two
children, the one a comely young maiden, aged about fifteene yeares,
and the other a sonne, not fully (as yet) a yeare old, and sucking
on the mothers brest.
  A comely youthfull Gentleman of our City, became amorously
affected to the Damosell, resorting thither divers times as hee
travelled on the way, to expresse how much he did respect her. And she
accounting her fortune none of the meanest, to bee beloved by so
youthfull a Gallant, declared such vertuous and modest demeanour, as
might deserve his best opinion of her: so that their love grew to an
equall simpathy, and mutuall contentment of them both, in
expectation of further effects; he being named Panuccio, and she
Nicholletta.
  The heate of affection thus encreasing day by day, Panuccio grew
exceedingly desirous to enjoy the fruits of hi; long continued liking,
and divers devises mustred in his braine, how he might compasse one
nights lodging in her fathers house, whereof hee knew every part and
parcell, as not doubting to effect what hee desired, yet
undiscovered by any, but the maide her selfe.
  According as his intention aymed, so he longed to put it in
execution, and having imparted his mind to an honest loyall friend,
named Adriano, who was acquainted with the course of his love:
hyring two horses, and having Portmantues behind them, filled with
matters of no moment, they departed from Florence, as if they had some
great journey to ride. Having spent the day time where themselves best
pleased, darke night being entred, they arrived on the plaine of
Mugnone, where, as if they were come from the parts of Romanio, they
rode directly to this poore Inne, and knocking at the doore, the
honest Hoste (being familiar and friendly to all commers) opened the
doore, when Panuccio spake in this manner to him. Good man, we must
request one nights lodging with you, for we thought to have reached so
farre as Florence, but dark night preventing us, you see at what a
late houre wee are come hither. Signior Panuccio, answered the
hoste, it is not unknowne to you, how unfiting my poore house is,
for entertaining such guests as you are: Neverthelesse, seeing you are
overtaken by so unseasonable an houre, and no other place is neere for
your receite; I will gladly lodge you so well as I can.
  When they were dismounted from their horses, and entred into the
simple Inne: having taken order for feeding their horses, they
accepted such provision, as the place and time afforded, requesting
the Hoste to suppe with them. Now I am to tell you, that there was but
one small Chamsber in the house, wherin stood three beds, as best
the Hoste had devised to place them, two of them standing by the
walles side, and the third fronting them both, but with such close and
narrow passage, as very hardly could one step betweene them. The
best of these three beds was appointed for the Gentlemen, and
therein they layd them down to rest, but sleepe they could not, albeit
they dissembled it very formally. In the second Bed was Nicholetta the
daughter, lodged by her selfe, and the father and mother in the third,
and because she was to give the child sucke in the night time, the
radle (wherein it lay) stood close by their beds side, because the
childes crying or any other occasion concerning it, should not
disquiet the Gentlemen.
  Panuccio having subtily observed all this, and in what manner they
went to bed; after such a space of time, as he imagined them to be all
fast asleepe, he arose very softly, and stealing to the bed of
Nicholetta, lay downe gently by her. And albeit she seemed somewhat
afraid at the first, yet wheri she perceived who it was, shee rather
bad him welcome, then shewed her selfe any way discontented. Now while
Panuccio continued thus with the maide, it fortuned that a Cat threw
down somewhat in the house, the noise wherof awaked the wife, and
fearing greater harme, then (indeed) had hapned, she arose without a
Candle, and went groping in the darke, towards the place where shee
heard the noyse. Adriano, who had no other meaning but well, found
occasion also to rise, about some naturall necessity, and making his
passage in the darke, stumbled on the childes Cradle (in the way)
where the woman had set it, and being unable to passe by, without
removing it from the place: tooke and set it by his owne beds side,
and having done the businesse for which he rose, returned to his bed
againe, never remembring to set the Cradle where first he found it.
  The Wife having found the thing throwne downe being of no value or
moment, cared not for lighting any candle; but rating the Cat,
returned backe, feeling for the bed where her Husband lay, but finding
not the Cradle there, she said to her selfe. What a foolish woman am
I, that cannot well tell my selfe what I doe? Instead of my Husbands
bed, I am going to both my guests.
  So, stepping on a little further, she found the childes Cradle,
and laid her selfe downe by Adriano, thinking shee had gone right to
her Husband. Adriano being not yet falne asleepe, feeling the hostesse
in bed with him: tooke advantage of so faire an occasion offered,
and what he did, is no businesse of mine, (as I heard) neither found
the woman any fault. Matters comming to passe in this strange
manner, and Panuccio fearing, lest sleepe seazing on him, he might
disgrace the maides reputation: taking his kinde farewell of her, with
many kisses and sweet imbraces: returned againe to his owne Bed, but
meeting with the Cradle in his way, and thinking it stood by the
hostes Bed, (as truely it did so at the first) went backe from the
Cradle, and stept into the hostes Bed indeed, who awaked upon his very
entrance, albeit he slept very soundly before.
  Panuccio supposing that he was laid downe by his loving friend
Adriano, merrily said to the Hoste. I protest to thee, as I am a
Gentleman, Nicholetta is a dainty delicate wench, and worthy to be a
very good mans wife: this night shee hath given mee the sweetest
entertainement, as the best Prince in the world can wish no better,
and I have kist her most kindly for it. The Hoste hearing these newes,
which seemed very unwelcome to him, said first to himself: What make
such a devill heere in my Bedde? Afterward being more rashly angry,
then well advised, hee said to Panuccio. Canst thou make vaunt of such
a mounstrous villany? Or thinkest thou, that heaven hath not due
vengeance in store, to requite all wicked deeds of darkenesse? If
all should sleepe, yet I have courage sufficient to right my wrong,
and yet as olde as I am to rig thou shalt be sure to finde it.
  Our amorous Panuccio being none of the wisest young men in the
world, perceiving his errour; sought not to amend it, (as well he
might have done) with some queint straine of wit, carried in quick and
cleanly manner, but angerly answered. What shall I find that thou
darst doe to me? am I any way afraid of thy threatnings? The Hostes
imagining she was in bed with her Husband, said to Adriano: Harke
Husband, I thinke our Guests are quarrelling together, I hope they
will doe no harme to one another. Adriano laughing outright, answered.
Let them alone, and become friends againe as they fell out: perhaps
they dranke too much yesternight.
  The woman perceiving that it was her husband that quarrelled, and
distinguishing the voyce of Adriano from his: knew presently where
shee was, and with whom; wherefore having wit at will, and desirous to
cloude an error unadvisedly committed, and with no willing consent
of her selfe: without returning any more words, presently she rose,
and taking the Cradle with the child in it, removed it the to her
daughters bed side, although shee had no light to helpe her, and
afterward went to bed to her, where (as if she were but newly
awaked) she called her Husband, to understand what angry speeches
had past betweene him and Panuccio. The Hoste replyed, saying. Didst
thou not heare him wife, brag and boast, how he hath lyen this night
with our daughter Nicholetta? Husband (quoth she) he is no honest
Gentleman; if hee should say so, and beleeve me it is a manifest
lye, for I am in bed with her my selfe, and never yet closed mine eyes
together, since the first houre I laid me downe: it is unmannerly done
of him to speake it, and you are little lesse then a logger-head, if
you doe beleeve it. This proceedeth from your bibbing and swilling
yesternight, which (as it seemeth) maketh you to walke about the roome
in your sleepe, dreaming of wonders in the night season: it were no
great sinne if you brake your neck, to teach you keepe a fairer
quarter; and how commeth it to passe, that Signior Panuccio could
not keepe himselfe in his owne bed?
  Adriano (on the other side) perceiving how wisely the woman
excused her owne shame and her daughters; to backe her in a
businesse so cunningly begun, he called to Panuccio, saying. Have
not I tolde thee an hundred times, that thou art not fit to lye any
where, out of thine owne lodging? What a shame is this base
imperfection to thee, by rising and walking thus in the night-time,
according as thy dreames doe wantonly delude thee, and cause thee to
forsake thy bed, telling nothing but lies and fables, yet avouching
them for manifest truthes? Assuredly this will procure no meane perill
unto thee: Come hither, and keepe in thine owne bedde for meere shame.
  When the honest meaning Host heard, what his own Wife and Adriano
had confirmed: he was verily perswaded, that Panuccio spake in a
dreame all this while: And to make it the more constantly apparant,
Panuccio (being now growne wiser by others example) lay talking and
blundring to himselfe, even as if dreames or perturbations of the
minde did much molest him, with strange distractions in franticke
manner. Which the Hoste perceiving, and compassionating his case, as
one man should do anothers: he tooke him by the shoulders, jogging and
hunching him, saying. Awake Signior Panuccio, and get you gone hence
to your owne bed.
  Panuccio, yawning and stretching out his limbes, with unusuall
groanes and respirations, such as (better) could bee hardly
dissembled: seemed to wake as out of a traunce, and calling his friend
Adriano, said.
  Adriano, is it day, that thou dost waken me? It may be day or
night replyed Adriano, for both (in these fits) are alike to thee.
Arise man for shame, and come to thine lodging. Then faining to be
much troubled and sleepie, he arose from the hoast, and went to
Adrianoes bed.
  When it was day, and all in the house risen, the hoast began to
smile at Panuccio, mocking him with his idle dreaming and talking in
the night.
  So, falling from one merry matter to another, yet without any
mislike at all: the Gentlemen, having their horses prepared, and their
Portmantues fastened behind, drinking to their hoast, mounted on
horsebacke, and they roade away towards Florence, no lesse contented
with the manner of occasions happened, then the effects they sorted
to. Afterward, other courses were taken, for the continuance of this
begun pleasure with Nicholetta, who made her mother beleeve, that
Panuccio did nothing else but dreame. And the mother her selfe
remembring how kindely Adriano had used her (a fortune not expected by
her before:) was more then halfe of the minde, that she did then
dreame also, while she was waking.
                   THE NINTH DAY, THE SEVENTH NOVELL

      WHEREBY (WITH SOME INDIFFERENT REASON) IT IS CONCLUDED, THAT
             DREAMES DO NOT ALWAYES FALL OUT TO BE LEASINGS

  Talano de Molese dreamed, That a Wolfe rent and tore his wives
face and throate. Which dreame he told to her, with advise to keepe
her selfe out of danger; which she refusing to doe, received what
followed.

  By the conclusion of Pamphilus his Novel, wherein the womans ready
wit, at a time of such necessity, carried deserved commendations:
the Queen gave command to Madam Pampinea, that she should next begin
with hers, and so she did, in this manner. In some discourses
(gracious Ladies) already past among us, the truth of apparitions in
dreames hath partly bin approved, whereof very many have made a
mockery. Neverthelesse, whatsoever hath heeretofore bin sayde, I
purpose to acquaint you with a very short Novell, of a strange
accident happening unto a neighbour of mine, in not crediting a Dreame
which her Husband told her.
  I cannot tell, whether you knew Talano de Molese, or no, a man of
much honour, who tooke to wife a yong Gentlewoman, named Margarita, as
beautifull as the best: but yet so peevish, scornefull, and
fantasticall, that she disdained any good advice given her; neyther
could any thing be done, to cause her contentment; which absurd humors
were highly displeasing to her husband: but in regard he knew not
how to helpe it, constrainedly he did endure it. It came to passe,
that Talano being with his wife, at a summer-house of his owne in
the country, he dreamed one night, that he saw his Wife walking in a
faire wood, which adjoyned neere unto his house, and while she thus
continued there, he seemed to see issue foorth from a corner of the
said Wood, a great and furious Wolfe, which on her, caught her by
the face and throate, drawing her downe to the earth, and offering
to drag her thence. But he crying out for helpe, recovered her from
the Wolfe, yet having her face and throat very pitifully rent and
torne.
  In regard of this terrifying dreame, when Talano was risen in the
morning, and sate conversing with his wife, he spake thus unto hir.
Woman, although thy froward wilfull Nature be such, as hath not
permitted me one pleasing day with thee, since first we becam man
and wife, but rather my life hath bene most tedious to me, as
fearing still some mischeefe should happen to thee: yet let mee now in
loving manner advise thee, to follow my counsell, and (this day) not
to walke abroad out of this house. She demanded a reason for this
advice of his. He related to her every particular of his dreame,
adding with all these speeches.
  True it is Wife (quoth he) that little credit should bee given to
dreames: neverthelesse, when they deliver advertisement of harmes to
ensue, there is nothing lost by shunning and avoiding them. She
fleering in his face, and shaking her head at him, replyed. Such
harmes as thou wishest, such thou dreamest of. Thou pretendest much
pittie and care of me, but all to no other end: but what mischeefes
thou dreamest happening unto mee, so wouldest thou see them effected
on me. Wherefore, I will well enough looke to my selfe, both this day,
and at all times else: because thou shalt never make thy selfe
merry, with any such misfortune as thou wishest unto me.
  Well Wife, answered Talano, I knew well enough before, what thou
wouldst say: An unsound head is soone scratcht with the very
gentlest Combe: but beleeve as thou pleasest. As for my selfe, I
speake with a true and honest meaning soule, and once againe I do
advise thee, to keepe within our doores all this day: at least wise
beware, that thou walke not into our wood, bee it but in regard of
my dreame. Well sir (quoth she scoffingly) once you shall say, I
followed your counsell: but within her selfe she fell to this
murmuring. Now I perceive my husbands cunning colouring, and why I
must not walke this day into our wood: he hath made a compact with
some common Queane, closely to have her company there, and is
afraide least I should take them tardy. Belike he would have me feed
among blinde folke, and I were worthy to bee thought a starke foole,
if I should not prevent a manifest trechery, being intended against
me. Go thither therefore I will, and tarry there all the whole day
long; but I will meet with him in his merchandize, and see the Pink
wherin he adventures.
  After this her secret consultation, her husband was no sooner gone
forth at one doore, but shee did the like at another, yet so
secretly as possibly she could devise to doe, and (without any
delaying) she went to the Wood, wherein she hid her selfe very
closely, among the thickest of the bushes, yet could discerne every
way about her, if any body should offer to passe by her. While shee
kept her selfe in this concealment, suspecting other mysterious
matters, as her idle imagination had tutord her, rather then the
danger of any Wolfe: out of a brakie thicket by her, sodainly rushed a
huge and dreadfull Wolfe, as having found her by the sent, mounting
uppe, and grasping her throat in his mouth, before she saw him, or
could call to heaven for mercy.
  Being thus seised of her, he carried her as lightly away, as if shee
had bin no heavier then a Lambe, she being (by no meanes) able to cry,
because he held her so fast by the throate, and hindred any helping of
her selfe. As the Wolfe carried her thus from thence, he had quite
strangled her, if certaine Shepheards had not met him, who with
their outcries and exclaimes at the Wolfe, caused him to let her fall,
and hast away to save his owne life. Notwithstanding the harme done to
her throat and face, the shepheards knew her, and caried her home to
her house, where she remained a long while after, carefully attended
by Physitians and Chirurgians.
  Now, although they were very expert and cunning men all, yet could
they not so perfectly cure her, but both her throate, and part of
her face were so blemished that whereas she seemed a rare creature
before, she was now deformed and much unsightly. In regard of which
strange alteration, being ashamed to shew her selfe in any place,
where formerly she had bene seene she spent her time in sorrow and
mourning, repenting her insolent and scornfull carriage, as also her
rash running forth into danger, upon a foolish and jealous surmise,
beleeving her husbands dreames the better for ever after.
                    THE NINTH DAY, THE EIGHT NOVELL

     WHEREBY PLAINLY APPEARETH, THAT THEY WHICH TAKE DELIGHT IN
     DECEIVING OTHERS, DO WELL DESERVE TO BE DECEIVED THEMSELVES

  Blondello (in a merry maner) caused Guiotto to beguile himselfe of a
good dinner: for which deceit, Guiotto became cunningly revenged, by
procurng Blondello to be unreasonably beaten and misused.

  It was a generall opinion in the whole Joviall Companie, that
whatsoever Talano saw in his sleepe, was not anie dreame, but rather a
vision: considring, every part thereof fell out so directly, without
the lest failing. But when silence was enjoyned, then the Queene
gave forth by evident demonstration, that Madam Lauretta was next to
succeed, whereupon she thus began. As all they (judicious hearers)
which have this day spoken before me, derived the ground or project of
their Novels, from some other argument spoken of before: even so,
the cruell revendge of the Scholler, yesterday discoursed at large
by Madame Pampinea, maketh me to remember another Tale of like nature,
some-what greevous to the sufferer, yet not in such cruell measure
inflicted, as that on Madam Helena.
  There dwelt sometime in Florence, one who was generally called by
the name of Guiotto, a man being the greatest Gourmand, and grossest
feeder, as ever was seene in any Countrey, all his meanes and
procurements meerly unable to maintaine expences for filling his
belly. But otherwise he was of sufficient and commendable carriage,
fairely demeaned, and well- discoursing on any argument: yet, not as a
curious and spruce Courtier, but rather a frequenter of rich mens
Tables, where choice of good cheere is sildome wanting, and such
should have his company, albeit not invited, yet (like a bold
intruder) he had the courage to bid himselfe welcome.
  At the same time, and in our City of Florence also, there was
another man, named Blondello, very low of stature, yet comly formed,
quicke witted, more neat and brisk then a Butterflye, alwaies
wearing a wrought silke cap on his head, and not a haire staring out
of order, but the tuft flourishing above the forehead, and he such
another trencher-fly for the table, as our forenamed Guiotto was. It
so fel out on a morning in the Lent time, that hee went into the
Fishmarket, where he bought two goodly Lampreyes, for Messer Viero
de Cherchi, and was espied by Guiotto, who to Blondello) said. What is
the meaning of this cost, and for whom is it? Whereto Blondello thus
answered. Yesternight, three other Lampries, far fairer and fatter
then these, and a whole Sturgeon, were sent unto Messer Corso
Donati, and being not sufficient to feede divers Gentlemen, whom hee
hath invited this day to dine with him, hee caused me to buy these two
beside: Doest not thou intend to make one among them? Yes I warrant
thee, replied Guiotto, thou knowst I can invite my selfe thither,
without any other bidding.
  So parting; about the houre of dinner time, Guiotto went to the
house of the saide Messer Corso, whom he found sitting and talking
with certain of his neighbors, but dinner was not (as yet) ready,
neither were they come thither to dinner. Messer Corso demaunded of
Guiotto, what newes with him, and whither he went? Why Sir (said
Guiotto) I come to dine with you, and your good company. Wherto Messer
Corso answered, That he was welcom, and his other friends being
gone, dinner was served in, none els therat present but Messer Corso
and Guiotto: al the diet being a poore dish of Pease, a litle piece of
Tunny, and a few smal fishes fried, without any other dishes to follow
after. Guiotto seeing no better fare, but being disapointed of his
expectation, as longing to feed on the Lampries and Sturgeon, and so
to have made a ful dinner indeed: was of a quick apprehension, and
apparantly perceived, that Blondello had meerly guld him in a knavery,
which did not a litle vex him, and made him vow to be revenged on
Blondello, as he could compasse occasion afterward.
  Before many dales were past, it was his fortune to meete with
Blondello, who having told this jest to divers of his friends, and
much good merriment made thereat: he saluted Guiotto in ceremonious
manner, saying. How didst thou like the fat Lampreyes and Sturgeon,
which thou fedst on at the house of Messer Corso Donati? Wel Sir
(answered Guiotto) perhaps before eight dayes passe over my head, thou
shalt meet with as pleasing a dinner as I did. So, parting away from
Blondello, he met with a Porter or burthen-bearer, such as are usually
sent on errands; and hyring him to deliver a message for him, gave him
a glasse bottle, and bringing him neere to the Hal-house of
Cavicciuli, shewed him there a knight, called Signior Phillipo
Argenti, a man of huge stature, stout, strong, vain-glorious, fierce
and sooner mooved to anger then any other man. To him (quoth
Guiotto) thou must go with this bottle in thy hand, and say thus to
him. Sir, Blondello sent me to you, and courteously entreateth you,
that you would enrubinate this glasse bottle with your best Claret
Wine; because he would make merry with a few friends of his. But
beware he lay no hand on thee, because he may bee easi induced to
misuse thee, and so my businesse be disappointed. Well Sir replied the
Porter, shal I say any thing else unto him? No (quoth Guiotto) only go
and deliver this message, and when thou art returned, Ile pay thee for
thy paines.
  The Porter being gone to the house, delivered his message to the
knight, who being a man of no great civill breeding, but furious,
rash, and inconsiderate: presently conceived, that Blondello (whom
he knew well enough) sent this message in meere mockage of him, and
starting up with fiery lookes, said: What enrubination of Claret
should I send him? and what have I to do with him, or his drunken
friends? Let him and thee go hang your selves together. So he stept to
catch hold on the Porter, but he (being well warnd before) was
quicke and nimble, and escaping from him, returned backe to Guiotto
(who observed all) and told him the answer of Signior Phillippo.
Guiotto not a little contented, paied the Porter, and taried not in
any place til he met with Blondello, to whom he said. When wast thou
at the Hall of Cavicciuli? Not a long while, answerd Blondello, but
why dost thou demand such a question? Because (quoth Guiotto)
Signior Phillippo hath sought about for thee, yet knowe not I what
he would have with thee. Is it so? replied Blondello, then I wil walke
thither presently, to understand his pleasure.
  When Blondello was thus parted from him, Guiotto folowed not farre
off behind him, to behold the issue of this angry businesse; and
Signior Phillippo, because he could not catch the Porter, continued
much distempred, fretting and fuming, in regard he could not
comprehend the meaning of the Porters message: but onely surmized,
that Blondello (by the procurement of some body else) had done this in
scorne of him.
  While he remained thus deeply discontented, he espied Blondello
comming towards him, and meeting him by the way, he stept close to
him, and gave him a cruell blow on the face, causing his nose to
fall out a bleeding. Alas Sir, said Blondello, wherefore do you strike
me? Signior Phillippo, catching him by the haire of the head, trampled
his wrought night-cap in the dirt, and his cloke also; when, laying
many violent blowes on him, he said. Villanous Traitor as thou art,
Ile teach thee what it is to enrubinate with Claret, either thy selfe,
or any of thy cupping companions: . ons: Am I a child, to be jested
withall?
  Nor was he more furious in words, then in strokes also, beating
him about the face, hardly leaving any haire on his head, and dragging
him along in the mire, spoyling all his garments, and he not able
(from the first blow given) to speake a word in defence of himselfe.
In the end, Signior Phillippo having extreamly beaten him, and many
people gathering about them, to succour a man so much misused, the
matter was at large related, and manner of the message sending. For
which, they all present, did greatly reprehend Blondello,
considering he knew what kinde of man Philippo was, not any way to
be jested with Blondello in teares constantly maintained, that he
never sent any such message for wine, or intended it in the least
degree: so, when the tempest was more mildly calmed, and Blondello
(thus cruelly beaten and durtied) had gotten home to his owne house,
he could then remember, that (questionles) this was occasioned by
Guiotto.
  After some few dayes were passed over, and the hurts in his face
indifferently cured; Blondello beginning to walke abroade againe,
chanced to meet with Guiotto: who laughing heartily at him, sayde.
Tell me Blondello, how doost thou like the enrubinating Clarret of
Signior Phillippo? As well (quoth Blondello) as thou didst the
Sturgeon and Lampreyes at Messer Corso Donaties. Why then (sayde
Guiotto) let these two tokens continue familiar betweene thee and
me, when thou wouldst bestow such another dinner on mee, then wil I
enrubinate thy nose with a bottle of the same Claret. But Blondello
perceived (to his cost) that hee had met with the worser bargaine, and
Guiotto got cheare, without any blowes: and therefore desired a
peacefull attonement, each of them (alwayes after) abstaining from
flouting one another.
                    THE NINTH DAY, THE NINTH NOVELL

     CONTAINING AN EXCELLENT ADMONITION, THAT SUCH AS COVET TO HAVE
    THE LOVE OF OTHER MEN, MUST FIRST LEARNE THEMSELVES, HOW TO LOVE:
    ALSO, BY WHAT MEANES SUCH WOMEN AS ARE CURST AND SELF-WILLED, MAY
                     BE REDUCED TO CIVILL OBEDIENCE

  Two yong Gentlemen, the one named Melisso, borne in the City of
Laiazzo: and the other Giose of Antioche, travalled together unto
Salomon, the famous King of Great Britaine. The one desiring to learne
what he should do, whereby to compasse and winne the love of men.
The other craved to be enstructed by what meanes hee might reclaime an
headstrong and unruly wife. And what answeres the wise King gave
unto them both, before they departed away from him.

  Upon the conclusion of Madame urettaes Novell, none now ained to
succeede next in er, but onely the Queene r viledge reserved,
granted to Dioneus; wherefore, after they had all smiled at the
folly of Blondello, with a chearfull countenance thus the Queene
began.
  Honourable Ladies, if with advised judgement, we do duly consider
the order of all things, we shall very easily perceyve, That the whole
universall multiplicitie of Women, by Nature, custome, and lawes,
are and ought to be subject to men, yea, and to be governd by their
discretion. Because every one desiring to enjoy peace, repose and
comfort with them, under whose charge they are; ought to be humble,
patient and obedient, over and beside her spotlesse honesty, which
is the crowne and honour of every good woman. And although those
lawes, which respect the common good of all things, or rather use
and custome (as our wonted saying is) the powers wherof are very
great, and worthy to be reverenced, should not make us wise in this
case. Yet Nature hath given us a sufficient demonstration, in creating
our bodies more soft and delicate, yea, and our hearts timorous,
fearefull, benigne and compassionable, our strength feeble, our voyces
pleasing, and the motion of our members sweetly plyant: all which
are apparant testimonies, that wee have neede of others government.
  Now, it is not to be denyed, that whosoever hath need of helpe,
and is to bee governed: meerely reason commandeth, that they should
bee subject and obedient to their governour. Who then should we have
for our helps and governours, if not men? Wherfore, we should be
intirely subject to them, in giving them due honour and reverence, and
such a one as shall depart from this rule: she (in mine opinion) is
not onely worthy of grievous reprehension, but also severe
chastisement beside. And to this exact consideration (over and above
divers other important reasons) I am the rather induced, by the
Novel which Madame Pampinea so lately reported, concerning the froward
and wilfull wife of Talano, who had a heavier punishment inflicted
on her, then her Husband could devise to doe. And therefore it is my
peremptory sentence, that all such women as will not be gracious,
benigne and pleasing: doe justly deserve (as I have already said)
rude, rough and harsh handling, as both nature, custome and lawes have
commanded.
  To make good what I have said, I wil declare unto you the counsell
and advise, given by Salomon, the wise and famous King of Great
Britaine, as a most wholesome and soveraigne medicine for the cure
of such a dangerous disease, in any woman so fouly infected. Which
counsel (notwithstanding) all such women as have no need of this
Phisicke, I would not have them to imagine, that it was meant for
them, albeit men have a common Proverbe, to wit.

  As the good horse and bad horse, doe both need the spurre.
  So a good wife and bad wife, a wand will make stirre.

  Which saying, whosoever doth interpret it in such pleasing manner as
they ought, shal find it (as you al wil affirm no lesse) to be very
true: especially in the morall meaning, it is beyond all
contradiction. Women are naturally all unstable, and easily
enclining to misgovernment; wherefore to correct the iniquity of
such a distemperature in them that out-step the tearmes and bounds
of womanhood, a wand hath been allowed for especiall phisicke. As in
the like manner, for support of vertue, in those of contrary
condition, shaming to be sullyed with so grosse a sinne: the
correcting Wand may serve as a walking staffe, to protect them from
all other feares. But, forbearing to teach any longer; let mee proceed
to my purpose, and tell you my Novell.
  In those ancient and reverend dayes, wherof I am now to speake,
the high renowne and admirable wisedome of Salomon, King of Great
Brittain, was most famous throughout all parts of the world; for
answering all doubtfull questions and demaunds whatsoever, that
possibly could be propounded to him. So that many resorted to him,
from the most remote and furthest off countreyes, to heare his
miraculous knowledge and experience, yea, and to crave his counsell,
in matters of greatest importance. Among the rest of them which
repaired thither, was a rich yong Gentleman, honourably descended,
named Melisso, who came from the City of Laiazzo, where he was both
borne, and dwelt.
  In his riding towards France, as he passed by Naples, hee
overtooke another yong Gentleman, a native of Antioch, and named
Giosefo, whose journey lay the same way as the others did. Having
ridden in company some few dayes together, as it is a custome commonly
observed among Travellers, to understand one anothers Countrey and
condition, as also to what part his occasions call him: so happened it
with them, Giosefo directly telling him, that he journyed, towards the
wise King Salomon, to desire his advise what meanes he should
observe in the reclaiming of a wilfull wife, the most froward and
selfe-willed woman that ever lived; whom neither faire perswasions,
nor gentle courtesies could in any manner prevaile withall.
Afterward he demaunded of Melisso, to know the occasion of his
travell, and whither.
  Now trust me Sir, answered Melisso, I am a native of Laiazzo, and as
you are vexed with one great mis-fortune, even so am I offended with
another. I am young, wealthy, well derived by birth, and allow
liberall expences, for maintaining a worthy table in my house, without
distinguishing persons by their rancke and quality, but make it free
for all commers, both of the city, and all places els. Notwithstanding
all which bounty and honourable entertainement, I cannot meet with any
man that loveth me. In which respect, I journey to the same place as
you doe, to crave the counsell of so wise a King, what I should doe,
whereby I might procure men to love me. Thus like two well-met
friendly companions, they rode on together, untill they arrived in
Great Britaine, where, by meanes of the Noble Barons attending on
the King, they were brought before him. Melisso delivered his minde in
very few words, whereto the King made no other answere, but this:
Learne to love. Which was no sooner spoken, but Melisso was
dismissed from the Kings presence.
  Giosefo also relating, wherefore he came thither; the King
replying onely thus: Goe to the Goose Bridge: and presently Giosefo
had also his dismission from the King. Comming forth, he found Melisso
attending for him, and revealed in what manner the King had answered
him: whereupon, they consulted together, concerning both their
answeres, which seemed either to exceed their comprehension, or else
was delivered them in meere mockery, and therefore (more then halfe
discontented) they returned homeward againe.
  After they had ridden on a few dayes together, they came to a River,
over which was a goodly Bridge, and because a great company of
Horses and Mules (heavily laden, and after the manner of a Caravan
of Camels in Egypt) were first to passe over the saide Bridge; they
gladly stayed to permit their passe. The greater number of them
being already past over, there was one shie and skittish Mule
(belike subject to fearefull starting, as oftentimes we see horses
have the like ill quality) that would not passe over the Bridge by any
meanes, wherefore one of the Muletters tooke a good Cudgell, and smote
her at the first gently, as hoping so to procure her passage.
Notwithstanding, starting one while backeward, then againe forward,
side-wayes, and every way indeed, but the direct Roadway she would not
goe.
  Now grew the Muletter extreamely angry, giving her many cruell
stroakes, on the head, sides, flancks and all parts else, but yet they
proved to no purpose, which Melisso and Giosefo seeing, and being
(by this meanes) hindred of their passage, they called to the
Muletter, saying. Foolish fellow, what doest thou? Intendest thou to
kill the Mule? why dost thou not leade her gently, which is the
likelier course to prevaile by, then beating and misusing her as
thou dost? Content your selves Gentlemen (answered the Muletter) you
know your horses qualities, as I doe my Mules, let mee deale with
her as I please. Having thus spoken, he gave her so many violent
strokes, on head, sides, hippes, and every where else, as made her
at last passe over the Bridge quietly, so that the Muletter wonne
the Mastery of his Mule.
  When Melisso and Giosefo had passed over the Bridge, where they
intended to part each from other; a sudden motion happened into the
minde of Melisso, which caused him to demaund of an aged man (who sate
craving almes of Passengers at the Bridge foot) how the Bridge was
called: Sir, answered the old man, this is called, The Goose Bridge.
Which words when Giosefo heard, hee called to minde the saying of King
Salomon, and therefore immediately saide to Melisso. Worthy friend,
and partner in my travell, I dare now assure sure that the counsell
given me by King Salomon, may fall out most effectall and true: For
I plainely perceive, that I knew not how to handle my selfe-will'd
wife, untill the Muletter did instruct me. So, requesting still to
enjoy the others Company, they journeyed on, till at the length they
came to Laiazzo, where Giosefo retained Melisso still with him, for
some repose after so long a journey, and entertained him with very
honourable respect and courtesie.
  One day Giosefo said to his Wife: Woman, this Gentleman is my
intimate friend, and hath borne me company in all my travell: such
dyet therfore as thou wilt welcome him withall, I would have it
ordered (in dressing) according to his direction. Melisso perceiving
that Giosefo would needs have it to be so; in few words directed her
such a course, as (for ever) might be to her Husbands contentment. But
she, not altring a jote from her former disposition, but rather
farre more froward and tempestuous: delighted to vexe and crosse
him, doing every thing quite contrary to the order appointed. Which
Giosefo observing, angerly he said unto her. Was it not tolde you by
my friend, in what manner he would have our Supper drest? She
turning fiercely to him, replyed. Am I to be directed by him or
thee? Supper must and shall bee drest as I will have it: if it
pleaseth mee, I care not who doth dislike it; if thou wouldst have
it otherwise, goe seeke both your Suppers where you may have it.
  Melisso marvelling at her froward answere, rebuked her for it in
very kind manner: whereupon, Giosefo spake thus to her. I perceive
wife, you are the same woman as you were wount to be: but beleeve me
on my word, I shal quite alter you from this curst complexion. So
turning to Melisso, thus he proceeded. Noble friend, we shall try
anone, whether the counsell of King Salomon bee effectuall, or no; and
I pray you, let it not be offensive to you to see it; but rather
hold all to be done in merriment. And because I would not be
hindered by you, doe but remember the answere which the Muletter
gave us, when we tooke compassion on his Mule. Worthy friend,
replyed Melisso, I am in your owne house, where I purpose not to
impeach whatsoever you doe.
  Giosefo, having provided a good Hollywand, went into the Chamber,
where his wife sate railing, and despitefully grumbling, where
taking her by the haire of her head, he threw her at his feete,
beating her extreamely with the wand. She crying, then cursing, next
railing, lastly fighting, biting and scratching, when she felt the
cruell smart of the blowes, and that all her resistance served to no
end: then she fell on her knees before him, and desired mercy for
charities sake. Giosefo fought still more and more on head, armes,
shoulders, sides, and all parts else, pretending as if he heard not
her complaints, but wearied himselfe wel neere out of breath: so
that (to be briefe) she that never felt his fingers before,
perceived and confessed, it was now too soone. This being done, hee
returned to Melisso, and said: Tomorrow we shall see a miracle, and
how availeable the counsell is of going to the Goose Bridge. So
sitting a while together, after they had washed their hands, and supt,
they withdrew to their lodgings.
  The poore beaten woman, could hardly raise her selfe from the
ground, which yet (with much adoe) she did, and threw her selfe upon
the bed, where she tooke such rest as she could: but arising early the
next morning, she came to her Husband, and making him a very low
courtesie, demaunded what hee pleased to have for his dinner; he
smiling heartely thereat, with Melisso, tolde her his mind. And when
dinner time came, every thing was ready according to the direction
given: in which regard, they highly commended the counsell, whereof
they made such an harsh construction at the first.
  Within a while after, Melisso being gone from Giosefo, and
returned home to his owne house: hee acquainted a wise and reverend
man, with the answere which king Salomon gave him, whereto hee
received this reply. No better or truer advise could possibly be given
you, for well you know, that you love not any man; but the bountiful
banquets you bestow on them, is more in respect of your owne
vaine-glory, then any kind affection you beare to them: Learne then to
love men, as Salomon advised, and you shall be beloved of them againe.
Thus our unruly Wife became mildely reclaimed, and the yong Gentleman,
by loving others, found the fruits of reciporall affection.
                    THE NINTH DAY, THE TENTH NOVELL

     IN JUST REPROOFE OF SUCH FOOLISH MEN, AS WILL BE GOVERNED BY
                           OVER-LIGHT BELEEFE

  John de Barolo, at the instance and request of his Gossip Pietro
da Tresanti, made an enchantment, to have his wife become a Mule.
And when it came to the fastening on of the taile; Gossip Pietro by
saying she should have no taile at all, spoyled the whole enchantment.

  This Novell reported by the Queene, caused a little murmuring
among the Ladies, albeit the men laughed heartely thereat: but after
they were all growne silent, Dioneus began in this manner. Gracious
Beauties, among many white Doves, one blacke Crow will seeme more
sightly, then the very whitest Swanne can doe. In like manner, among a
multitude of wise men, sometimes one of much lesse wisedome and
discretion, shall not onely increase the splendour and Majestie of
their maturity, but also give an addition of delight and solace.
  In which regard, you all being modest and discreet Ladies, and my
selfe more, much defective in braine, then otherwise able: in making
your vertues shine gloriously, through the evident apparance of mine
owne weakenesse, you should esteeme the better of mee, by how much I
seeme the more cloudy and obscure. And consequently, I ought to have
the larger scope of liberty, by plainely expressing what I am, and
be the more patiently endured by you all, in saying what absurdly I
shall; then I should be if my speeches savoured of absolute wisdome. I
will therfore tell you a Tale, which shall not be of any great length,
whereby you may comprehend, how carefully such things should be
observed, which are commanded by them, as can effect matters by the
power of enchantment, and how little delayance also ought to be in
such, as would not have an enchantment to be hindered.
  About a yeare already past since, there dwelt at Barletta, an honest
man, called John de Barolo, who because he was of poore condition; for
maintenance in his contented estate, provided himselfe of a Mule, to
carry commodities from place to place, where Faires and Markets were
in request, but most especially to Apuglia, buying and selling in
the nature of a petty Chapman. Travelling thus thorow the
Countreyes, he grew into great and familiar acquaintance, with one who
named himselfe Pietro da Tresanti, following the same Trade of life as
he did, carrying his commodities upon an Asse. In signe of amitie,
according to the Countreyes custome, he never tearmed him otherwise
then by the name of Gossip Pietro and alwayes when he came to
Barletta, he brought him to his own house, taking it as his Inne,
entreating him very friendly, and in the best manner he could devise
to doe. On the other side, Gossip Pietro being very poore, having
but one simple habitation in the village of Tresanti, hardly sufecient
for him, and an handsome young woman which he had to his wife, as also
his Asse: evermore when John de Barolo came to Tresanti, he would
bring him to his poore abiding, with all his uttermost abilitie of
entertainement, in due acknowledgement of the courtesie he afforded to
him at Barletta. But when he came to take repose in the night
season, Gossip Pietro could not lodge him as gladly he would:
because he had but one silly bed, wherein himselfe and his wife lay;
so that John de Barolo was faigne to lie on a little straw, in a small
stable, close adjoyning by his owne Mule and the Asse.
  The woman understanding, what good and honest welcome, Gossip John
afforded her husband, when he came to Barletta, was often very willing
to goe lodge with an honest neighbour of hers, called Carapresa di
Gludice Leo, because the two Gossips might both lie together in one
bed; wherewith divers times she acquainted her Husband, but by no
meanes he would admit it.
  At one time among the rest, as she was making the same motion againe
to her Husband, that his friend might be lodged in better manner:
Gossip John thus spake to her. Good Zita Carapresa, never molest
your selfe for me, because I lodge to mine owne contentment, and so
much the rather, in regard that whensoever I list: I can convert my
Mule into a faire young woman, to give mee much delight in the
night-season, and afterward make her a Mule againe: thus am I never
without her company.
  The young woman wondring at these words, and beleeving he did not
fable in them: she told them to her Husband, with this addition
beside, Pietro (quoth she) if he be such a deare friend to thee, as
thou hast often avouched to me; wish him to instruct thee in so rare a
cunning, that thou maist make a Mule of me; then shalt thou have
both an Asse and a Mule to travell withall about thy businesse,
whereby thy benefit will be double: and when we returne home to our
house, then thou maist make mee thy wife againe, in the same condition
as I was before. Gossip Pietro, who was (indeed) but a very Coxecombe;
beleeved also the words to be true, yeelding therefore the more gladly
to her advise; and moving the matter to his Gossip John, to teach
him such a wonderfull secret, which would redound so greatly to his
benefit: but John began to disswade him from it, as having spoken it
in merriment, yet perceiving, that no contradiction would serve to
Frevaile, thus he began.
  Seeing you will needs have it so, let us rise to morrow morning
before day, as in our travell we use to doe, and then I will shew
you how it is to be done: onely I must and doe confesse, that the most
difficult thing of all the rest, is, to fasten on the taile, as thou
shalt see.
  Gossip Pietro and his wife, could hardly take any rest all the night
long, so desirous they were to have the deed done; and therefore
when it drew towards day, up they arose, and calling Gossip John, he
came presently to them in his shirt, and being in the Chamber with
them, he said. I know not any man in the world, to whom I would
disclose this secret, but to you, and therefore because you so
earnestly desire it, I am the more willing to doe it. Onely you must
consent, to doe whatsoever I say, if you are desirous to have it done.
Faithfully they ey ,h promised to performe all, whereupon John
delivering a lighted Candle to Gossip Petro, to hold in his hand,
said. Marke well what I doe, and remember all the words I say: but
be very carefull, that whatsoever thou hearest or seest, thou doe
not speake one word, for then the enchantment will be utterly
overthrowne, onely wish that the taile may be well set on, for therein
consisteth all the cunning.
  Gossip Pietro holding the Candle, and the woman being prepared as
John had appointed her, she bowed her selfe forwardes with her hands
set to the ground, even as if she stood upon foure feete. First with
his hands he touched her head and face, saying, Heere is the goodly
head of a Mule: then handling her disheveld haire, termed them the
goodly mane of a Mule. Afterwardes, touching the body, armes, legs,
and feete, gave them all the apt names (for those parts) belonging
to a Mule, nothing else remaining, but onely the forming of the taile,
which when Pietro perceived, how John was preparing to fasten it on
(having no way misliked all his former proceeding:) he called to
him, saying: Forbeare Gossippe John, my Mule shal have no taile at
all, I am contented to have her without a taile.
  How now Gossip Pietro? answered John, What hast thou done? Thou hast
mard all by this unadvised speaking, even when the worke was almost
fully finished. It is no matter Gossip (answered Pietro) I can like my
Mule better without a taile, then to see it set on in such manner.
  The fond yong woman, more covetously addicted to gayne and
commodity, then looking into the knavish intention of her Gossip John;
began to grow greatly offended.
  Beast as thou art (quoth she to her Husband) why hast thou
overthrowne both thine owne good Fortune and mine? Diddest thou ever
see a Mule without a taile? Wouldst thou have had him make me a
monster? Thou art wretchedly poore, and when we might have bin
enriched for ever, by a secret knowne to none but our selves, thou art
the Asse that hast defeated all, and made thy friend to become thine
enemy. Gossippe John began to pacifie the woman, with solemne
protestations of his still continuing friendship, albeit
(afterwards) there was no further desiring of any more Mulemaking: but
Gossip Pietro fel to his former Trading onely with his Asse, as he was
no lesse himselfe, and hee went no more with Gossip John to the Faires
in Apuglia, neyther did he ever request, to have the like peece of
service done for him.
  Although there was much laughing at this Novell, the Ladies
understanding it better, then Dioneus intended that they should have
done, yet himselfe scarsely smiled. But the Novels being all ended,
and the Sunne beginning to loose his heate; the Queene also knowing,
that the full period of her government was come: dispossessing her
selfe of the Crowne, shee placed it on the head of Pamphilus, who
was the last of all to be honoured with this dignity; wherefore
(with a gracious smile) thus she spake to him.
  Sir, it is no meane charge which you are to undergo, in making
amends (perhaps) for all the faults committed by my selfe and the
rest, who have gone before you in the same authority; and, may it
prove as prosperous unto you, as I was willing to create you our King.
Pamphilus having received the Honor with a chearfull mind, thus
answered. Madam, your sacred vertues, and those (beside) remaining
in my other Subjects, will (no doubt) worke so effectually for me,
that (as the rest have done) I shall deserve your generall good
opinion. And having given order to the Master of the Houshold (as
all his predecessors had formerly done, for every necessary
occasion; he turned to the Ladies, who expected his gracious favour,
and said.
  Bright Beauties, it was the discretion of your late Soveraigne and
Queene, in regard of ease and recreation unto your tyred spirits, to
grant you free liberty, for discoursing on whatsoever your selves best
pleased: wherefore, having enjoyed such a time of rest, I am of
opinion, that it is best to returne once more to our wonted Law, in
which respect, I would have every one to speake in this manner to
morrow. Namety, of those men or women, who have done any thing
bountifully or magnificently, either in matter of amity, or otherwise.
The relation of such worthy arguments, wil (doubtlesse) give an
addition to our very best desires, for a free and forward
inclination to good actions, whereby our lives (how short soever
they bee) may perpetuate an ever-living renowne and fame, after our
mortall bodies are converted into dust, which (otherwise)
  are no better then those of bruite beasts, reason onely
distinguishing this difference, that as they live to perish utterly,
so we respire to reigne in eternity. Theame was exceedingly pleasing
to the whole Company; who being all risen, by permission of the new
King, every one fel to their wonted recreations, as best agreed with
their owne disposition; untill the houre for Supper came, wherein they
were served very sumptuously. But being risen from the Table, they
began their dances, among which, many sweet Sonnets were enterlaced,
with such delicate Tunes as moved admiration. Then the King
commanded Madam Neiphila, to sing a song in his name, or how her selfe
stood best affected. And immediatly with a cleare and rare voice, thus
she began.

                     THE SONG
      THE CHORUS SUNG BY ALL THE COMPANIE

    In the Spring season,
    Maides have best reason,
        To dance and sing;
    With Chaplets of Flowers,
    To decke up their Bowers,
        And all in honour of the Spring.

  I heard a Nimph that sate alone,
      By a fountaines side:
  Much her hard Fortune to bemone,
      For still she cride:
  Ah! Who will pitty her distresse,
  That findes no foe like ficklenesse?
    For truth lives not in men:
    Poore soule, why live I then?
        In the Spring season, etc.

  Oh, How can mighty Love permit,
      Such a faithlesse deed,
  And not in justice punish it
      As treasons meed?
  I am undone through perjury,
  Although I loved constantly:
    But truth lives not in men,
    Poore soule, why live I then?
        In the Spring season, etc.

  When I did follow Dyans traine,
      As a loyall Maide,
  I never felt oppressing paine,
      Nor was dismaide.
  But when I listened Loves alluring,
  Then I wandred from assuring.
    For truth lives not in men:
    Poore soule, why live I then?
        In the Spring season, etc.

  Adiew to all my former joyes,
      When I lived at ease,
  And welcome now those sad annoies
      Which do most displease.
  And let none pitty her distresse,
  That fell not, but by ficklenesse,
    For truth lives not in men,
    Alas! why live I then?

    In the Spring season,
    Maides have best reason,
        To dance and sing;
    With Chaplets of Flowers,
    To decke up their Bowers,
        And all in honour of the Spring.

This Song, most sweetly sung by Madame Neiphila, was especially
commended, both by the King, and all the rest of the Ladies. Which
being fully finished, the King gave oder, that everie one should
repaire to their Chambers, because a great part of the night was
already spent.
                THE INDUCTION TO THE TENTH AND LAST DAY

       WHEREON, UNDER THE GOVERNMENT OF PAMPHILUS, THE SEVERALL
        ARGUMENTS DO CONCERNE SUCH PERSONS, AS EITHER BY WAY OF
       LIBERALITY, OR IN MAGNIFICENT MANNER, PERFORMED ANY WORTHY
            ACTION, FOR LOVE, FAVOUR, FRIENDSHIP, OR ANY OTHER
                          HONOURABLE OCCASION

  Already began certaine small Clouds in the West, to blush with a
Vermillion tincture, when those in the East (having reached to their
full heighth) looked like bright burnished Gold, by splendour of the
Sun beames drawing neere unto them: when Pamphilus being risen, caused
the Ladies, and the rest of his honourable companions to be called.
When they were all assembled, and had concluded together on the place,
whither they should walke for their mornings recreation: the King
ledde on the way before accompanied with the two Noble Ladies
Philomena and Fiammetta, all the rest following after them,
devising, talking, and answering to divers demands both what that
day was to be don, as also concerning the proposed imposition for
the forthcoming day.
  After they had walked an indifferent space of time, and found the
rayes of the Sunne to be over-piercing for them: they returned backe
againe to the Pallace, as fearing to have their blood immoderately
heated. Then rinsing their Glasses in the coole cleare running
current, each tooke their mornings draught, and then walked into the
milde shades about the Garden, untill they should bee summoned to
dinner. Which was no sooner over-past, and such as slept, returned
waking: they mette together againe in their wonted place, according as
the King had appointed, where he gave command unto Madame Neiphila,
that shee should (for that day) begin the first Novell, which she
humbly accepting, thus began.
                     THE TENTH DAY, THE FIRST NOVELL

    WHERIN MAY EVIDENTLY BE DISCERNED, THAT SERVANTS TO PRINCES AND
     GREAT LORDS, ARE MANY TIMES RECOMPENCED, RATHER BY THEIR GOOD
         FORTUNE, THEN IN ANY REGARD OF THEIR DUTIFULL SERVICES

  A Florentine knight, named Signior Rogiero de Figiovanni, became a
servant to Alphonso, King of Spaine, who (in his owne opinion)
seemed but sleightly to respect and reward him. In regard whereof,
by a notable experiment, the King gave him a manifest testimony,
that it was not through any defect in him, but onely occasioned by the
Knights ill fortune; most bountifully recompencing him afterward.

  I doe accept it (Worthy Ladies) as no mean favour, that the King
hath given me the first place, to speake of such an honourable
Argument, as Bounty and Magnificence is, which precious Jewell, even
as the Sunne is the beauty, or ornament and bright glory of al heaven;
so is bounty and magnificence the Crowne of all vertues. I shall
then recount to you a short Novell, sufficiently pleasing, in mine
owne opinion, and I hope (so much I dare rely on your judgements) both
profitable, and worthy to be remembred.
  You are to know then, that among other valiant Knights, which of
long have lived in our City, one of them, and (perhappes) of as
great merit as any, was one, named Signior Rogiero d'Figiovanni. He
being rich, of great courage, and perceiving, that (in due
consideration) the quality belonging to life, and the customes
observed among our Tuscanes, were not answerable to his expectation,
nor agreed with the disposition of his valour; determined to leave his
native Countrey, and belong in service (for some time) to Alfonso,
King of Spaine, whose fame was generally noised in all places, for
excelling all other Princes in those times, for respect of mens well
deservings, and bountifull requitall of their paines. Being provided
in honorable order, both of Horses, Armes, and a competent train, he
travelled to Spaine, where he was worthily entertained.
  Signior Rogiero continuing there, living in honorable maner, and
performing many admirable actions of arms; in short time he made
himselfe sufficiently knowne, for a very valiant and famous man. And
having remained an indifferent long while, observing divers behaviours
in the king: he saw, how enclined himselfe first to one man, then
another, bestowing on one a Castle, a Towne on another, and
Baronnies on divers, som-what indiscreetly, as giving away bountiful
to men of no merit. And restraining all his favors from him, as
seeming close fisted, and parting with nothing: he took it as a
diminishing of his former reputation, and a great empayring of his
fame, wherefore he resolved on his departure thence, and made his suit
to the king that he might obtaine it. The king did grant it, bestowing
on him one of the very best Mules, and the goodliest that ever was
backt, a gift most highly pleasing to Rogiero, in regarde of the
long journy he intended to ride. Which being delivcrd, the king gave
charge to one of his Gentlemen, to compasse such convenient meanes, as
to ride thorow the country, and in the company of Signior Rogiero, yet
in such manner, as he should not perceive, that the King had purposely
sent him so to do. Respectively he should observe whatsoever he said
concerning the king, his gesture, smiles, and other behavior,
shaping his answers accordingly, and on the nexte morning to command
his returne backe with him to the King.
  Nor was the Gentleman slacke in this command, but noting Rogieroes
departing forth of the city, he mounted on horseback likewise, and
immediatly after came into his company, making him beleeve, that he
journied towards Italy. Rogiero rode on the Mule which the king had
given him, with diversity of speeches passing between them. About
three of the clocke in the afternoone, the Gentleman said. It were not
amisse Sir, (having such fit opportunitie), to Stable our horses for a
while, till the heate be a little more overpast. So taking an Inne,
and the horses being in the stable, they all staled except the Mule.
  Being mounted againe, and riding on further, the Gentleman duely
observed whatsoever Rogiero spake, and comming to the passage of a
small River or Brooke: the rest of the beasts dranke, and not the
Mule, but staled in the River: which Signior Rogiero seeing,
clapping his hands on the Mules mane, hee said. What a wicked beast
art thou? thou art just like thy Master that gave thee to mee. The
Gentleman committed the words to memory, as he did many other
passing from Rogiero, riding along the rest of the day, yet none in
disparagement of the King, but rather highly in his commendation.
And being the next morning mounted on horseback, seeming to hold on
still the way for Tuscane: the Gentleman fulfilled the Kings
command, causing Signior Rogiero to turne back againe with him,
which willingly he yeelded to doe.
  When they were come to the Court, and the King made acquainted
with the words, which Rogiero spake to his Mule; he was called into
the presence, where the King shewed him a gracious countenance, and
demanded of him, why he had compared him to his Mule? Signior
Rogiero nothing daunted, but with a bold and constant spirit, thus
answered. Sir, I made the comparison, because, like as you give, where
there is no conveniency, and bestow nothing where reason requireth:
even so, the Mule would not stale where she should have done, but
where was water too much before, there she did it. Beleeve me
Signior Rogiero, replyed the King, if I have not given you such gifts,
as (perhaps) I have done to divers other, farre inferiour to you in
honour and merit; this happened not thorough any ignorance in me, as
not knowing you to be a most valiant Knight, and well-worthy of
speciall respect: but rather through your owne ill fortune, which
would not suffer me to doe it, whereof she is guilty, and not I, as
the truth thereof shall make it selfe apparant to you. Sir, answered
Rogiero, I complaine not, because I have received no gift from you, as
desiring thereby covetously to become the richer: but in regard you
have not as yet any way acknowledged, what vertue is remaining in
me. Neverthelesse, I allow your excuse for good and reasonable, and am
heartely contented, to behold whatsoever you please; although I doe
confidently credit you, without any other testimony.
 The King conducted him then into the great Hall, where (as hee had
before given order) stood two great Chests, fast lockt; in the
presence of all his Lords, the King thus spake. Signior Rogiero, in
one of these Chests is mine imperiall Crowne, the Scepter Royall,
the Mound, and many more of my richest girdles, rings, plate, and
jewels, even the very best that are mine: the other is full of earth
onely. Chuse one of these two, and which thou makest election of; upon
my Royall word thou shalt enjoy it. Hereby shalt thou evidently
perceive, who hath bin ingreatful to the deservings, either I, or
thine owne bad fortune. Rogiero seeing it was the kings pleasure to
have it so; chose one of them, which the King caused presently to be
opened, it approving to be the same that was full of earth, whereat
the King smyling, said thus unto him. You see Signior Rogiero, that
what I said concerning your ill fortune, is very true: but
questionlesse, your valour is of such desert, as I ought to oppose
my selfe against all her malevolence. And because I know right, that
you are not minded to become a Spaniard; I will give you neither
Castle nor dwelling place: but will bestow the Chest on you (in meer
despight of your malicious fortune) which she so unjustly tooke away
from you. Carry it home with you into your Countrey, that there it may
make an apparant testimoney, in the sight of all your well-willers,
both of your owne vertuous deservings, and my bounty. Signior
Rogiero humbly receiving the Chest, and thanking his Majestie for so
liberall a gift, returned home joyfully therewith, into his native
Countrey of Tuscane.
                   THE TENTH DAY, THE SECOND NOVELL

    WHEREIN IS DECLARED THAT GOOD MEN DOE SOMETIMES FALL INTO BAD
      CONDITIONS, ONELY OCCASIONED THERETO BY NECESSITY: AND WHAT
       MEANES ARE TO BE USED, FOR THEIR REDUCING TO GOODNESSE
                                      AGAINE

  Ghinotto di Tacco; tooke the Lord Abbot of Clugni as his prisoner,
and cured him of a grievous disease, which he had in his stomacke, and
afterwards set him at libert. The same Lord Abbot when hee returned
from the Court Rome, reconciled Ghinotto to Pope Boniface; who made
him a Knight, and Lord Prior of a goodly Hospitall.

  The magnificence and Royall bounty, which King Alphonso bestowed
on the Florentine knight, passed through the whole assembly with
mean applause, and the King (who gave the greatest praise of al)
commanded Madame Eliza, to take the second turne in order;
whereupon, thus she began. Faire Ladies, if a king shewed himselfe
magnificently minded, and expressed his liberall bounty to such a man,
as had done him good and honourable services: it can be termed no more
then a vertuous deed well done, and becomming a King. But what will we
say, when we heare that a Prelate of the Church, shewed himselfe
wondrously magnificent, and to such a one as was his enemy: can any
malicious tongue speake ill of him? Undoubtedly, no other answere is
to be made, but the action of the King was meerely vertue, and that of
the Prelate, no lesse then a miracle: for how can it be otherwise,
when they are more greedily covetous then women, and deadly enemies to
all liberality? And although every man (naturally) desireth revenge
for injuries and abuses done unto him: yet men of the Church, in
regard that dayly they preached patience, and commaund (above all
things else) remission of sinnes: it would appeare a mighty blemish in
them, to be more froward and furious then other men. But I am to
speake of a reverend Prelate of the Church, as also concerning his
munificent bounty, to one that was his enemy, and yet became his
reconciled friend, as you shall perceive by my Novell.
  Ghinotto di Tacco, for his insolent and stout robberies, became a
man very farre famed, who being banished from Sienna, and an enemy
to the Countes Disanta Flore: prevailed so by his bold and
headstrong perswasions, that the Towne of Raticonfani rebelled against
the Church of Rome, wherein he remaining; all passengers whatsoever,
travelling any way thereabout, were robde and rifled by his theeving
Companions. At the time whereof now I speake, Boniface the eight,
governed as Pope at Rome, and the Lord Abbot of Clugni (accounted to
be one of the richest Prelates in the world) came to Rome, and there
either by some surfeit, excesse of feeding, or otherwise, his stomacke
being grievously offended and pained; the Phisitians advised him, to
travell to the Bathes at Sienna, where he should receive immediate
cure. In which respect, his departure being licenced by the Pope, to
set onward thither, with great and pompous Cariages, of Horses, Mules,
and a goodly traine, without hearing any rumour of the theevish
Consorts.
  Ghinotto di Tacco, being advertised of his comming, spred about
his scouts and nettes, and without missing so much as one Page, shut
up the Abbot, with all his traine and baggage, in a place of narrow
restraint, out of which he could by no meanes escape. When this was
done, he sent one of his most sufficient attendants (well accompanyed)
to the Lord Abbot, who said to him in his Masters name, that if his
Lordship were so pleased, hee might come and visite Ghinotto at his
Castle. Which the Abbot hearing, answered chollerickly, that he
would not come thither, because hee had nothing to say to Ghinotto:
but meant to proceed on in his journy, and would faine see, who
durst presume to hinder his passe. To which rough words, the messenger
thus mildely answered. My Lord (quoth he) you are arrived in such a
place, where we feare no other force, but the all-controlling power of
heaven, clearely exempted from the Popes thunder-cracks, of
maledictions, interdictions, excommunications, or whatsoever else: and
therefore it would bee much better for you, if you pleased to do as
Ghinotto adviseth you.
  During the time of this their interparlance, the place was
suddenly round ingirt with strongly armed theeves, and the Lord
Abbot perceiving, that both he and all his followers were surprized:
tooke his way (though very impatiently) towards the Castle, and
likewise all his company and carriages with him. Being dismounted, hee
was conducted (as Ghinotto had appointed) all alone, into a small
Chamber of the Castle, it being very darke and uneasie: but the rest
of his traine, every one according to his ranck and quality, were
all well lodged in the Castle, their horses, goods and all things
else, delivered into secure keeping, without the least touch of injury
or prejudice. All which being orderly done, Ghinotto himselfe went
to the Lord Abbot, and said. My Lord, Ghinotto, to whom you are a
welcome guest, requesteth, that it might be your pleasure to tell him,
whither you are travelling, and upon what occasion?
  The Lord Abbot being a very wise man, and his angry distemper more
moderately qualified; revealed whither he went, and the cause of his
going thither. Which when Ghinotto had heard, hee departed courteously
from him, and began to consider with himselfe, how he might cure the
Abbot; yet without any Bathe. So, commanding a good fire to be kept
continually in his small Chamber, and very good attendance on him: the
next morning, he came to visite him againe, bringing a faire white
Napkin on his arme, and in it two slices or toasts of fine Manchet,
a goodly cleare Glasse, full of the purest white-Bastard of
Corniglia (but indeed, of the Abbots owne provision brought thither
with him) and then hee spoke to him in this manner.
  My Lord, when Ghinotto was yonger then now he is, he studyed
Physicke, and he commanded me to tell you, that the very best
medicine, he could ever learne, against any disease in the stomacke,
was this which he had provided for your Lordship, as an especial
preparative, and which he should finde to be very comfortable. The
Abbot, who had a better stomacke to eate, then any will or desire to
talke: although hee did it somewhat disdainfully, yet hee eate up both
the toastes, and roundly dranke the Glasse of Bastard. Afterward,
divers other speeches passed betweene them, the one still advising
in Phisicall manner, and the other seeming to care little for it:
but moved many questions concerning Ghinotto, and earnestly requesting
to see him. Such speeches as savoured of the Abbots discontentment,
and came from him in passion; were clouded with courteous
acceptance, and not the least signe of any mislike: but assuring his
Lordship, that Ghinotto intended very shortly to see him, and so
they parted for that time.
 Nor returned he any more, till the next morning with the like two
toastes of bread, and such another Glasse of white Bastard, as he
had brought him at the first, continuing the same course for divers
dayes after: till the Abbot had eaten (and very hungerly too) a pretty
store of dryed Beanes, which Ghinotto purposely, (yet secretly) had
hidden in the Chamber. Whereupon he demaunded of him (as seeming to be
so enjoyned by his pretended master) in what temper he found his
stomacke now? I should finde my stomacke well enough (answered the
Lord Abbot) if I could get forth of thy masters fingers, and then have
some good food to feed on: for his medicines have made me so soundly
stomackt, that I am ready to starve with hunger.
  When Ghinotto was gone from him, hee then prepared a very faire
Chamber for him, adorning it with the Abbots owne rich hangings, as
also his Plate and other moveables, such as were alwayes used for
his service. A costly dinner he provided likewise, whereto he
invited divers of the Towne, and many of the Abbots chiefest
followers: then going to him againe the next morning, he said. My
Lord, seeing you doe feele your stomacke so well, it is time you
should come forth of the Infirmary. And taking him by the hand, he
brought him into the prepared Chamber, where he left him with his owne
people, and went to give order for the dinners serving in, that it
might be performed in magnificent manner.
  The Lord Abbot recreated himselfe a while with his owne people, to
whom he recounted, the course of his life since hee saw them; and they
likewise told him, how kindly they had bin initeated by Ghinotto.
But when dinner time was come, the Lord Abbot and all his company,
were served with costly viands and excellent Wines, without Ghinottoes
making himselfe knowne to the Abbot: till after he had beene
entertained some few dayes in this order: into the great Hall of the
Castle, Ghinotto caused all the Abbots goods and furniture to bee
brought, and likewise into a spacious Court, wheron the windowes of
the said Court gazed, all his mules and horses, with their sumpters,
even to the very silliest of them, which being done, Ghinotto went
to the Abbot, and demaunded of him, how he felt his stomacke now,
and whether it would serve him to venter on horsebacke as yet, or
no? The Lord Abbot answered, that he found his stomacke perfectly
recovered, his body strong enough to endure travell, and all things
well, so hee were delivered from Ghinotto.
  Hereupon, he brought him into the hall where his furniture was, as
also all his people, and commanding a window to be opned, wherat he
might behold his horses, he said. My Lord, let me plainely give you to
understand, that neither cowardise, or basenesse of minde, induced
Ghinotto di Tacco (which is my selfe) to become a lurking robber on
the high-wayes, an enemy to the Pope, and so (consequently) to the
Romane Court: but onely to save his owne life and honour knowing
himselfe to be a Gentleman cast out of his owne house, and having
(beside) infinite enemies. But because you seeme to be a worthy
Lord, I will not (although I have cured your stomacks disease) deale
with you as I doe to others, whose goods (when they fall into my
power) I take such part of as I please: but rather am well
contented, that my necessities being considered by your selfe, you
spare me out a proportion of the things you have heere, answerable
to your owne liking. For all are present here before you, both in this
Hall, and in the Court beneath, free from any spoyle, or the least
impairing. Wherefore, give a part, or take all, if you please, and
then depart hence when you will, or abide heere still, for now you are
at your owne free liberty.
  The Lord Abbot wondred not a little, that a robber on the high
wayes, should have such a bold and liberall spirit, which appeared
very pleasing to him; and instantly, his former hatred and spleene
against Ghinotto, became converted into cordiall love and kindnes,
so that (imbracing him in his armes) he said. I protest upon my vow
made to Religion, that to win the love of such a man, as I plainely
perceive thee to be: I would undergo far greater injuries, then
those which I have received at thy hands. Accursed be cruell
destiny, that forced thee to so base a kind of life, and did not
blesse thee with a fairer fortune. After he had thus spoken, he left
there the greater part of all his goods, and returned backe againe
to Rome, with few horses, and a meaner traine.
  During these passed accidents, the Pope had received intelligence of
the Lord Abbots surprizall, which was not a little displeasing to him:
but when he saw him returned, he demaunded, what benefit he received
at the Bathes? Whereto the Abbot, merrily smyling, thus replyed.
Holy Father, I met with a most skilfull Physitian neerer hand, whose
experience is beyond the power of the Bathes, for by him I am very
perfectly cured: and so discoursed all at large. The Pope laughing
heartely, and the Abbot continuing on still his report; moved with
an high and magnificent courage, he demaunded one gracious favour of
the Pope: who imagining that he would request a matter of greater
moment, then he did, freely offered to grant, whatsoever he desired.
  Holy Father, answered the Lord Abbot, all the humble suit which I
make to you, is, that you would be pleased to receive into your
grace and favor, Ghinotto di Tacco my Physitian, because among all the
vertuous men, deserving to have especial account made of them I
never met with any equall to him both in honour and honesty.
Whatsoever injury he did to me, I impute it as a greater in-fortune,
then any way he deserveth to be charged withall. Which wretched
condition of his, if you were pleased to alter, and bestow on him some
better meanes of maintenance, to live like a worthy man, as he is no
lesse: I make no doubt, but (in very short time) hee will appeare as
pleasing to your holinesse, as (in my best judgement) I thinke him
to be.
  The Pope, who was of a magnanimious spirit, and one that highly
affected men of vertue, hearing the commendable motion made by the
Abbot; returned answere, that he was as willing to grant it, as the
other desired it, sending Letters of safe conduct for his comming
thither. Ghinotto receiving such assurance from the Court of Rome,
came thither immediatly, to the great joy of the Lord Abbot: and the
Pope finding him to be a man of valor and worth, upon
reconciliation, remitted all former errors, creating him knight, and
Lord Prior of the very chiefest Hospitall in Rome. In which Office
he lived long time after, as a loyall servant to the Church, and an
honest thankefull friend to the Lord Abbot of Clugny.
                    THE TENTH DAY, THE THIRD NOVELL

     SHEWING IN AN EXCELLENT AND LIVELY DEMONSTRATION, THAT ANY
     ESPECIALL HONOURABLE VERTUE, PERSEVERING AND DWELLING IN A
    TRULY NOBLE SOULE, CANNOT BE VIOLENCED OR CONFOUNDED, BY THE
              MOST POLITICKE ATTEMPTES OF MALICE AND ENVY

  Mithridanes envying the life and liberality of Nathan, and
travelling thither, with a setled resolution to kill him: chaunceth to
conferre with Nathan unknowne. And being instructed by him, in what
manner he might best performe the bloody deede, according as hee
gave direction, hee meeteth with him in a small Thicket or Woode,
where knowing him to be the same man, that taught him how to take away
his life: Confounded with shame, hee acknowledgeth his horrible
intention, and becommeth his loyall friend.

  It appeared to the whole assembly, that they had heard a matter of
mervaile, for a Lord Abbot to performe any magnificent action: but
their admiration ceasing in silence, the King commanded Philostratus
to follow next, who forthwith thus began.
  Honourable Ladies, the bounty and magnificense of Alphonso King of
Spaine, was great and that done by the Lord great in Abbot of
Clugny, a thing (perhaps) never heard of in any other. But it will
seeme no lesse mervailous to you, when you heare, how one man, in
expression of great liberality to another man, that earnestly
desired to kill him; should bee secretly disposed to give him his
life, which had bin lost, if the other would have taken it, as I
purpose to acquaint you withall, in a short Novell.
  Most certaine it is, at least, if Faith may bee given to the
report of certaine Genewayes, and other men resorting to those
remote parts, that in the Country of Cathaya, there lived somtime a
Gentleman, rich beyond comparison, and named Nathan. He having his
living adjoyning to a great common rode-way, whereby men travayled
from the East to the West (as they did the like from the West unto the
East, as having no other means of passage) and being of a bountifull
and chearfull disposition, which he was willing to make knowen by
experience: he summoned together many Master Masons and Carpenters,
and there erected (in a short time) one of the greatest, goodliest,
and most beautifull houses (in manner of a Princes Pallace) that
ever was seene in all those quarters.
  With movables and all kinde of furnishment, befitting a house of
such outward apparance, hee caused it to be plentifully stored onely
to receive, entertaine, and honor all Gentlemen or other Travailers
whatsoever, as had occasion to passe that way, being not unprovided
also of such a number of servants, as might continuallie give
attendance on all commers and goers. Two and fifty severall gates,
standing alway wide open, and over each of them in great golden
carracters was written, Welcome, welcome, and gave free admission to
all commers whatsoever.
  In this honourable order (observed as his estated custom) he
persevered so long a while, as not onely the East parts, but also
those in the west, were every where acquainted with his fame and
renown. Being already well stept into yeares, but yet not wearie
(therefore) of his great charge and liberality: it fortuned, that
the rumor of his noble Hospitality, came to the eare of another
gallant Gentleman, named Mithridanes, living in a Countrey not farre
off from the other.
  This Gentleman, knowing himselfe no lesse wealthy then Nathan, and
enviously repining at his vertue and liberality, determined in his
mind, to dim and obscure the others bright splendor, by making
himselfe farre more famous. And having built a Palace answerable to
that of Nathans, with like windings of gates, and welcom inscriptions;
he beganne to extend immeasurable courtesies, unto all such as were
disposed to visite him: so that (in a short while) hee grew very
famous in infinite places. It chanced on a day, as Mithridanes sate
all alone within the goodly Court of his Pallace: a poore woman entred
at one of the gates, craving an almes of him, which she had; and
returned in againe at a second gate, comming also to him, and had a
second almes; continuing so still a dozen times; but at the thirteenth
returning, Mithridanes saide to her: Good Woman, you goe and come very
often, and still you are served with almes. When the old Woman heard
these words, she said. O the liberality of Nathan! How honourable
and wonderfull is that? I have past through two and thirty gates of
his Palace, even such as are here, and at every one I receyved an
almes, without any knowledgement taken of me, either by him, or any of
his followers: and heere I have past but through thirteene gates,
and am there both acknowledged and taken. Farewell to this house,
for I never meane to visit it any more; with which words shee departed
thence, and never after came thither againe.
  When Mithridanes had a while pondered on her speeches, hee waxed
much discontented, as taking the words of the olde woman, to extoll
the renowne of Nathan, and darken or ecclipse his glorie, whereupon he
said to himselfe. Wretched man as I am, when shall I attaine to the
height of liberality, and performe such wonders, as Nathan doth? In
seeking to surmount him, I cannot come neere him in the very
meanest. Undoubtedly, I spend all my endeavour but in vaine, except
I rid the world of him, which (seeing his age will not make an end
of him) I must needs do with my own hands. In which furious and bloody
determination (without revealing his intent to any one) he mounted
on horse-backe, with few attendants in his company, and after three
dayes journey, arrived where Nathan dwelt. He gave order to his men,
to make no shew of beeing his servants, or any way to acknowledge him:
but to provide them selves of convenient lodgings, untill they heard
other tydings from him.
  About Evening, and (in this manner) alone by himselfe, neere to
the Palace of Nathan, he met him solitarily walking, not in pompous
apparrell, whereby to bee distinguished from a meaner man: and,
because he knew him not, neyther had heard any relation of his
description, he demanded of him, if he knew where Nathan then was?
Nathan, with a chearfull countenance, thus replyed. Faire Syr, there
is no man in these parts, that knoweth better how to shew you Nathan
then I do; and therefore, if you be so pleased, I will bring you to
him. Mithridanes said, therein he should do him a great kindnesse:
albeit (if it were possible) he would bee neyther knowne nor seene
of Nathan. And that (quoth he) can I also do sufficiently for you,
seeing it is your will to have it so, if you will goe along with me.
  Dismounting from his horse, he walked on with Nathan, diversly
discoursing, untill they came to the Pallace, where one of the
servants taking Mithridanes his horse, Nathan rounded the fellow in
the eare, that he should give warning to al. throughout the House, for
revealing to the Gentleman, that he was Nathan; as accordingly it
was performed. No sooner were they within the Pallace, but he
conducted Mithridanes into a goodly chamber, wher none (as yet) had
seene him, but such as were appointed to attend on him reverently;
yea, and he did himselfe greatly honor him, as being loth to leave his
company.
  While thus Mithridanes conversed with him, he desired to know
(albeit he respected him much for his yeares) what he was. Introth
sir, answered Nathan, I am one of the meanest servants to Nathan,
and from my child-hood, have made my selfe thus olde in his service:
yet never hath he bestowed any other advancement on mee, then as you
now see; in which respect, howsoever other men may commend him, yet
I have no reason at all to do it. These Words, gave some hope to
Mithridanes, that with a little more counsell, he might securely put
in execution his wicked determination. Nathan likewise demaunded of
him (but in very humble manner) of whence, and what he was, as also
the businesse inviting him thither: offering him his utmost aide and
counsell, in what soever consisted in his power.
  Mithridanes sat an indifferent while meditating with his thoghts
before ie would returne any answer: but at the last, concluding to
repose confidence in him (in regard of his pretended discontentment)
with many circumstantial perswasions, first for fidelity, next for
constancie, and lastly for counsell and assistance, he declared to him
truly what he was, the cause of his comming thither, and the reason
urging him thereto. Nathan hearing these words, and the detestable
deliberation of Mithridanes, became quite changed in himself: yet
wisely making no outward appearance thereof, with a bold courage and
setled countenance, thus he replyed.
  Mithridanes, thy Father was a Noble Gentleman, and (in vertuous
qualities) inferiour to none, from whom (as now I see) thou desirest
not to degenerate, having undertaken so bold and high an enterprise, I
meane, in being liberall and bountifull to all men. I do greatly
commend the envy which thou bearest to the vertue of Nathan: because
if there were many more such men, the world that is now wretched and
miserable, would become good and conformable. As for the determination
which thou hast disclosed to mee, I have sealed it up secretly in my
soule: wherein I can better give thee counsell, then any especiall
helpe or furtherance: and the course which I would have thee to
observe, followeth thus in few words.
  This window, which we now looke forth at, sheweth thee a smal wood
or thicket of trees, being litle more then the quarter of a miles
distance hence; whereto Nathan usually walketh every morning, and
there continueth time long enough: there maist thou very easily meet
him, and do whatsoever thou intendest to him. If thou kilst him,
because thou maist with safety returne home unto thine owne abiding,
take not the same way which guided thee thither, but another, lying on
the left hand, and directing speedily out of the wood, as being not so
much haunted as the other, but rather free from all resort, and surest
for visiting thine owne countrey, after such a dismall deed is done.
  When Mithridanes had receyved this instruction, and Nathan was
departed from him; hee secretly gave intelligence to his men, (who
likewise were lodged, as welcom strangers, in the same house) at
what place they should stay for him the next morning. Night being
passed over, and Nathan risen, his heart altred not a jot from his
counsel given to Mithridanes, much lesse changed from anie part
thereof: but all alone by himselfe, walked on to the wood, the place
appointed for his death. Mithridanes also being risen, taking his
Bow and Sword (for other weapons had he none) mounted on horsbacke,
and so came to the wood, where (somewhat farre off) hee espyed
Nathan walking, and no creature with him. Dismounting from his
horse, he had resolved (before he would kill him) not onely to see,
but also to heare him speake: so stepping roughly to him, and taking
hold of the bonnet on his head, his face being then turned from him,
he sayde. Old man, thou must dye. Whereunto Nathan made no other
answer, but thus: Why then (belike) I have deserved it.
  When Mithridanes heard him speake, and looked advisedly on his face,
he knew him immediately to be the same man, that had entertained him
so lovingly, conversed with him so familiarly, and counselled him so
faithfully: all which overcomming his former fury, his harsh nature
became meerly confounded with shame: So throwing downe his drawne
sword, which he held readily prepared for the deede: he prostrated
himselfe at Nathans feet, and in teares, spake in this manner. Now
do I manifestly know (most loving Father) your admired bounty and
liberalitie; considering, with what industrious providence, you made
the meanes for your comming hither, prodigally to bestow your life
on me, which I have no right unto, although you were so willing to
part with it. But those high and supreame powers, more carefull of
my dutie, then I my selfe: even at the very instant, and when it was
most needfull, opened the eyes of my better understanding, which
internall envy had closed up before. And therefore, looke how much you
have bin forward to pleasure me; so much the more shame and
punishment, I confesse my heinous transgression hath justly
deserved: take therefore on me (if you please) such revenge, as you
thinke (in justice) answerable to my sin.
  Nathan lovingly raised Mithridanes from the ground, then kissing his
cheeke, and tenderly embracing him, he said. Sonne, thou needest not
to aske, much less to obtaine pardon, for any enterprise of thine,
which thou canst not yet terme to be good or bad: because thou
soughtest not to bereave me of my life, for any hatred thou barest me,
but onely in coveting to be reputed the Woorthier man. Take then
this assurance of me, and beleeve it constantly, that there is no
man living, whom I love and honour, as I do thee: considering the
greatnesse of thy minde, which consisteth not in the heaping up of
money, as wretched and miserable Worldlings make it their onely
felicity; but, contending in bounty to spend what is thine, didst hold
it for no shame to kil me, thereby to make thy selfe so much the
more worthily famous.
  Nor is it any matter to be wondred at, in regard that Emperors,
and the greatest Kings, hadde never made such extendure of their
Dominions, and consequently of their renowne, by any other Art, then
killing; yet not one man onely, as thou wouldst have done: but
infinite numbers, burning whole Countries, and making desolate huge
Townes and Cities, onely to enlarge their dominion, and further
spreading of their fame. Wherefore, if for the increasing of thine
owne renowne, thou wast desirous of my death: it is no matter of
novelty, and therefore deserving the lesse mervaile, seeing men are
slaine daily, and all for one purpose or other.
  Mithridanes, excusing no further his malevolent deliberation, but
rather commending the honest defence, which Nathan made on his
behalfe; proceeded so farre in after discoursing, as to tel him
plainely, that it did wondrously amaze him, how he durst come to the
fatall appointed place, himselfe having so exactly plotted and
contrived his owne death: whereunto Nathan returned this aunswere.
  I would not have thee Mithridanes, to wonder at my counsel or
determination; because, since age hath made mee Maister of mine owne
will, and I resolved to doe that, wherein thou hast begun to follow
me: never came any man to mee, whom I did not content (if I could)
in any thing he demanded of me. It was thy fortune to come for my
life, which when I saw thee so desirous to have it, I resolved
immediately to bestow it on thee: and so much the rather, because thou
shouldst not be the onely man, that ever departed hence, without
enjoying whatsoever hee demanded. And, to the end thou mightst the
more assuredly have it, I gave thee that advice, least by not enjoying
mine, thou shouldest chance to loose thine owne. I have had the use of
it full fourescore yeares, with the consummation of all my delights
and pleasures: and well I know, that according to the course of Nature
(as it fares with other men, and generally all things else) it
cannot bee long before it must leave mee.
  Wherefore, I hold it much better for me to give it away freely, as I
have alwayes done my goods and treasure; then bee curious in keeping
it, and suffer it to be taken from me (whether I will or no) by
Nature. A small gift it is, if time make me up the full summe of an
hundred yeares: how miserable is it then, to stand beholding but for
foure or five, and all of them vexation too? Take it then I intreate
thee, if thou wilt have it; for I never met with any man before (but
thy selfe) that di desire it, nor (perhaps) shall finde any other to
request it: for the longer I keepe it, the worse it wil be esteemed:
and before it grow contemptible, take it I pray thee.
  Mithridanes, being exceedingly confounded with shame, bashfully
sayde: Fortune fore-fend, that I should take away a thing so
precious as your life is, or once to have so vile a thought of it as
lately I had; but rather then I would diminish one day thereof, I
could wish, that my time might more amply enlarge it. Forthwith
aunswered Nathan, saying. Wouldst thou (if thou couldst) shorten thine
owne dayes, onely to lengthen mine? Why then thou wouldest have me
to do that to thee, which (as yet) I never did unto any man, namely,
robbe thee, to enrich my selfe. I will enstruct thee in a much
better course, if thou wilt be advised by mee. Lusty and young, as now
thou art, thou shalt dwell heere in my house, and be called by the
name of Nathan. Aged, and spent with yeares, as thou seest I am, I
will goe live in thy house, and bee called by the name of Mithridanes.
So, both the name and place shall illustrate thy Glorie, and I live
contentedly, without the very least thought of envie.
  Deare Father, answered Mithridanes, if I knew so well howe to direct
mine owne actions, as you doe, and alwayes have done, I would gladly
accept your most liberall offer: but because I plainlie perceive, that
my very best endeavours, must remayne darkened by the bright renowne
of Nathan: I will never seeke to impayre that in another, which I
cannot (by any means) increase in my selfe, but (as you have
worthily taught me) live contented with my owne condition.
  After these, and many more like loving speeches had passed between
them; according as Nathan very instantly requested, Mithridanes
returned back with him to the Pallace, where many dayes he highly
honored and respected him, comforting and counselling him, to persever
alwayes in his honourable determination. But in the end, when
Mithridanes could abide there no longer, because necessary occasions
called him home: he departed thence with his men, having found by good
experience, that hee could never goe beyond Nathan in liberality.
                    THE TENTH DAY, THE FOURTH NOVELL

     WHEREIN IS SHEWNE, THAT TRUE LOVE HATH ALWAYES BIN, AND SO STILL
             IS, THE OCCASION OF MANY GREAT AND WORTHY COURTESIES

  Signior Gentile de Carisendi, being come from Modena, took a
Gentlewoman, named Madam Catharina, forth of a grave, wherin she was
buried for dead: which act he did, in regard of his former honest
affection to the said Gentlewoman. Madame Catharina remaining there
afterward, and delivered of a goodly Sonne: was (by Signior Gentile)
delivered to her owne Husband, named Signior Nicoluccio
Caccianimico, and the yong infant with her.

  By judgment of all the honorable assembly, it was reputed
wonderfull, that a man should be so bountifull, as to give away his
owne life, and to his hatefull enemy. In which respect, it passed with
generall affirmation, that Nathan (in the vertue of liberallity) had
exceeded Alphonso, King of Spain, but (especially) the Abbot of
Clugny. So, after every one had delivered their opinion, the King,
turning himselfe to Madame Lauretta, gave her such a signe, as well
instructed her understanding, that she should be the next in order,
whereto she gladly yeelding, began in this manner.
  Youthfull Ladies, the discourses already past, have been so worthy
and magnificent, yea, reaching to such a height of glorious splendour;
as (me thinkes) there remaineth no more matter, for us that are yet to
speake, whereby to enlarge so famous an Argument, and in such manner
as it ought to be: except we lay hold on the actions of love,
wherein is never any want of subject, it is so faire and spacious a
field to walke in. Wherefore, as well in behalfe of the one, as
advancement of the other, whereto our instant age is most of all
inclined: I purpose to acquaint you with a generous and magnificent
act, of an amourous Gentleman, which when it shall be duely considered
on, perhaps will appeare equall to any of the rest. At least, if it
may passe for currant, that men may give away their treasures, forgive
mighty injuries, and lay downe life it selfe, honour and renowne
(which is farre greater) to infinite dangers, only to attaine any
thing esteemed and affected.
  Understand then (Gracious hearers) that in Bologna, a very famous
City of Lombardicy there lived sometime a Knight, most highly
respected for his vertues, named Signior Gentile de Carisendi, who (in
his yonger dayes) was enamoured of a Gentlewoman, called Madam
Catharina, the Wife of Signior Nicoluccio Caccianimico. And because
during the time of his amourous pursuite, he found but a sorry
enterchange of affection from the Lady; hee went (as hopelesse of
any successe) to be Potestate of Modena, whereto he was called by
place and order.
  At the same time, Signior Nicoluccio being absent from Bologna,
and his Lady at a Farme-house of his in the Countrey (about three
miles distant from the City) because she was great with child,; and
somewhat neere the time of her teeming: it came to passe, that some
dangerous accident befell her, which was so powerfull in operation, as
no signe of life appeared remained in her, but she was reputed (even
in the judgement of the best Phisitians, whereof she wanted no
attendance) to be verily dead. And because in the opinion of her
parents and neerest kinred, the time for her deliverance was yet so
farre off, as the Infant within her, wanted much of a perfect
creature: they made the lesse mourning; but in the next Church, as
also the vault belonging to her Ancestors, they gave her buriall
very speedily.
  Which tydings comming to the hearing of Signior Gentile, by one that
was his endeared friend: Although (while she lived) he could never
be gracious n her favour, yet her so sudden death did greatly grieve
him, whereupon he discoursed in this sort with himselfe. Deare
Madame Catharina, I am not a little sorry for thy death, although
(during thy life-time) I was scarcely worthy of one kind looke: Yet
now being dead, thou canst not prohibite me, but I may robbe thee of a
kisse. No sooner had hee spoke the words, but it beeing then night,
and taking such order, as none might know of his departure: hee
mounted on horsebacke, accompanied onely with one servant, and
stayed no where, till hee came to the vault where the Lady was buried.
Which when he had opened, with instruments convenient for the purpose,
he descended downe into the vault, and kneeled downe by the Beere
whereon she lay, and in her wearing garments, according to the
usuall manner; with teares trickling mainly downe his cheekes, he
bestowed infinite sweet kisses on her.
  But as we commonly see, that mens desires are never contented, but
still will presume on further advantages, especially such as love
entirely: so fared it with Gentile, who being once minded to get him
gone, as satisfied with the oblation of his kisses; would needs yet
step backe againe, saying. Why should I not touch her yvory breast,
the Adamant that drew all desires to adore her? Ah let me touch it
now, for never hereafter can I bee halfe so happy. Overcome with
this alluring appetite, gently he laid his hand upon her breast,
with the like awefull respect, as if she were living, and holding it
so an indifferent while: either he felt, or his imagination so
perswaded him, the heart of the Lady to beate and pant. Casting off
all fond feare, and the warmth of his increasing the motion: his
inward soule assured him, that she was not dead utterly, but had
some small sense of life remaining in her, whereof he would needs be
further informed.
  So gently as possible he could, and with the helpe of his man, he
tooke her forth of the monument, and layingher softly on his horse
before him, conveighed her closely to his house in Bologna. Signior
Gentile had a worthy Lady to his Mother, a woman of great wisdome
and vertue, who understanding by her Sonne, how matters had
happened, moved with compassion, and suffering no one in the house
to know what was done, made a good fire, and very excellent Bathe,
which recalled back againe wrongwandering life. Then fetching a
vehement sigh, opening her eyes, and looking very strangly about
her, she said. Alas! where am I now? whereto the good old Lady
kindly replyed, saying. Comfort your selfe Madame, for you are in a
good place.
  Her spirits being in better manner met together, and she still
gazing every way about her, not knowing well where she was, and secing
Signior Gentile standing before her: he entreated his mother to tell
her by what meanes she came thither; which the good old Lady did,
Gentile himselfe helping to relate the whole history. A while she
grieved and lamented, but afterward gave them most hearty thankes,
humbly requesting, that, in regard of the love he had formerly borne
her, in his house she might finde no other usage, varying from the
honour of her selfe and her Husband, and when day was come, to be
conveighed home to her owne house. Madame, answered Signior Gentile,
whatsoever I sought to gaine from you in former dayes, I never
meane, either here, or any where else, to motion any more. But
seeing it hath been my happy fortune, to prove the blessed means of
reducing you from death to life: you shal find no other
entertainment here, then as if you were mine owne Sister. And yet
the good deed which I have this night done for you doth well
deserve some courteous requitall: in which respect, I would have you
not to deny me one favour, which I will presume to crave of you.
Whereto the Lady lovingly replyed, that she was willing to grant it;
provided, it were honest, and in her power: whereto Signior Gentile
thus answered.
  Madame, your parents, kindred and friends, and generally all
throughout Bologna, doe verily thinke you to be dead, wherefore
there is not any one, that will make any inquisition after you: in
which regard, the favour I desire from you, is no more but to abide
here secretly with my Mother, untill such time as I returne from
Modena, which shall be very speedily. The occasion why I move this
motion, aymeth at this end, that in presence of the chiefest persons
of our City, I may make a gladsome present of you to your Husband. The
Lady knowing her selfe highly beholding to the Knight, and the request
he made to be very honest: disposed her selfe to doe as he desired
(although she earnestly longed, to glad her parents and kindred with
seeing her alive) and made her promise him on her faith, to effect
it in such manner, as he pleased to appoint and give her direction.
  Scarcely were these words concluded, but she felt the custome of
women to come upon her, with the paines and throwes incident to
childing: wherefore, with helpe of the aged Lady, Mother to Signior
Gentile, it was not long before her deliverance of a goodly Sonne,
which greatly augmented the joy of her and Gentile, who tooke order,
that all things belonging to a woman in such a case, were not wanting,
but she was as carefully respected, even as if she had been his owne
Wife. Secretly he repaired to Modena, where having given direction for
his place of authority; he returned back againe to Bologna, and
there made preparation for a great and solemne feast, appointing who
should be his invited guests, the very chiefest persons in Bologna,
and (among them) Signior Nicoluccio Caccianimico the especiall man.
  After he was dismounted from horsebacke, and found so good company
attending for him (the Lady also, more faire and healthful then
ever, and the Infant lively disposed) he sate downe at the Table
with his guests, causing them to be served in most magnificent manner,
with plenty of all delicates that could be devised, and never before
was there such a joviall feast. About the ending of dinner, closely he
made the Lady acquainted with his further intention, and likewise in
what order every thing should be done, which being effected, he
returned to his company, and used these speeches.
  Honourable friends, I remember a discourse sometime made unto me,
concerning the Countrey of Persia, and a kind of custome there
observed, not to be misliked in mine opinion. When any one intended to
honour his friend in effectuall manner, he invited him home to his
house, and there would shew him the thing, which with greatest love he
did respect; were it Wife, Friend, Sonne, Daughter, or any thing
else whatsoever; wherewithall hee spared not to affirme, that as he
shewed him those choyce delights, the like view he should have of
his heart, if with any possibility it could be done; and the very same
custome I meane now to observe here in our City. You have vouchsafed
to honour me with your presence, at this poore homely dinner of
mine, and I will welcome you after the Persian manner, in shewing
you the jewell, which (above all things else in the world) I ever have
most respectively esteemed. But before I doe it, I crave your
favourable opinions in a doubt, which I will plainely declare unto
you.
  If any man having in his house a good and faithfull servant, who
falling into extremity of sickenesse, shall be throwne forth into
the open street, without any care or pitty taken on him: A stranger
chanceth to passe by, and (moved with compassion of his weakenesse)
carryeth him home to his owne house, where using all charitable and
not sparing any cost, he recovereth the sicke person to his former
health. I now desire to know, if keeping the said restored person, and
imploying him about his owne businesse: the first Master (by
pretending his first right) may lawfully complaine of the second,
and yeeld him backe againe to the first master, albeit he doe make
challenge of him?
  All the Gentlemen, after many opinions passing among them, agreed
altogether in one sentence, and gave charge to Signior Nicoluccio
Caccianimico, (because he was an excellent and elegant speaker) to
give answere for them all. First, he commended the custome observed in
Persia, saying, he jumpt in opinion with all the rest, that the
first Master had no right at all to the servant, having not onely
(in such necessity) forsaken him, but also cast him forth into the
comfortlesse street. But for the benefits and mercy extended to him;
it was more then manifest, that the recovered person, was become
justly servant to the second Master, and in detayning him from the
first, hee did not offer him any injury at all. The whole Company
sitting at the Table (being all very wise and worthy men) gave their
verdict likewise with the confession of Signior Nicoluccio
Caccianimico. Which answere did not a little please the Knight; and so
much the rather, because Nicoluccio had pronounced it, affirming
himselfe to be of the same minde.
  So, sitting in a pretended musing a while, at length he said. My
honourable guests, it is now more then high time, that I should doe
you such honour, as you have most justly deserved, by performing the
promise made unto you. Then calling two of his servants, he sent
them to Madame Catharina (whom he had caused to adorne her self in
excellent manner) entreating her, that she would be pleased to grace
his guests with her presence. Catharina, having deckt her child in
costly habiliments, layed it in her armes, and came with the
servants into the dyning Hall, and sate down (as the Knight had
appointed) at the upper end of the Table, and then Signior Gentile
spake thus. Behold, worthy Gentlemen, this is the jewell which I
have most affected, and intend to love none other in the world; be you
my judges, whether I have just occasion to doe so, or no? The
Gentlemen saluting her with respective reverence, said to the
Knight; that he had great reason to affect her: And viewing her
advisedly, many of them thought her to be the very same woman (as
indeed she was) but that they beleeved her to be dead.
  But above all the rest, Nicoluccio Caccianimico could never be
satisfied with beholding her; and, enflamed with earnest desire, to
know what she was, could not refraine (seeing the Knight was gone
out of the roome) but demaunded of her, whether she were of Bologna,
or a stranger? when the Lady heard her selfe to be thus questioned,
and by her Husband, it seemed painefull to her, to containe from
answering: Neverthelesse, to perfect the Knights intended purpose, she
sate silent. Others demaunded of her, whether the sweet Boy were hers,
or no; and some questioned, if she were Gentiles Wife, or no, or
else his Kinsewoman; to all which demaunds, she returned not any
answere. But when the Knight came to them againe, some of them said to
him. Sir, this woman is a goodly creature, but she appeareth to be
dumbe, which were great pitty, if it should be so. Gentlemen (quoth
he) it is no small argument of her vertue, to sit still and silent
at this instant. Tell us then (said they) of whence, and what she
is. Therein (quoth he) I will quickely resolve you, upon your
conditionall promise: that none of you do remove from his place,
whatsoever shall be said or done, untill I have fully delivered my
minde. Every one bound himselfe by solemne promise, to perform what he
had appointed, and the Tables being voided, as also the Carpets
laid; then the Knight (sitting downe by the Lady) thus began.
  Worthy Gentlemen, this Lady is that true and faithfull servant,
wherof I moved the question to you, whom I tooke out of the cold
street, where her parents, kindred and friends (making no account at
all of her) threw her forth, as a thing vile and unprofitable.
Neverthelesse, such hath been my care and cost, that I have rescued
her out of deaths griping power; and, in a meere charitable
disposition, which honest affection caused me to beare her; of a body,
full of terror and affrighting (as then she was) I have caused her
to become thus lovely as you see. But because you may more
apparantly discerne, in what manner this occasion happened; I will lay
it open to you in more familiar manner. Then he began the whole
history, from the originall of his unbeseeming affection to her (in
regard she was a worthy mans wife) and consequently, how all had
happened to the instant houre, to the no meane admiration of all the
hearers, adding withall. Now Gentlemen (quoth he) if you varry not
from your former opinion, and especially Signior Nicoluccio
Caccianimico: this Lady (by good right) is mine, and no man els by any
just title, can lay any claime to her.
  All sate silent, without answering one word, as expecting what he
intended further to say: but in the meane while, Nicoluccio, the
parents and kindred, but chiefely the Lady her selfe, appeared as
halfe melted into teares with weeping. But Signior Gentile, starting
up from the Table, taking the Infant in his arme, and leading the Lady
by the hand, going to Nicoluccio, thus spake. Rise Sir, I will not
give thee thy wife, whom both her kindred and thine, threw forth
into the street: but I will bestow this Lady on thee, being my Gossip,
and this sweet Boy my God-sonne, who was (as I am verily perswaded)
begotten by thee, I standing witnesse for him at the Font of Baptisme,
and give him mine owne name Gentile. Let me entreat thee, that,
although she hath lived here in mine house, for the space of three
monethes, she should not be lesse welcome to thee, then before: for
I sweare to thee upon my soule, that my former affection to her (how
unjust soever) was the onely meanes of preserving her life: and more
honestly she could not live, with Father, Mother, or thy selfe, then
she hath done here with mine owne Mother.
  Having thus spoken, he turned to the Lady, saying. Madame, I now
discharge you of all promises made me, delivering you to your
Husband franke and free: And when he had given him the Lady, and the
child in his armes, he returned to his place, and sate downe againe.
Nicoluccio, with no meane joy and hearty contentment received both his
wife and childe, being before farre from expectation of such an
admirable comfort; returning the Knight infinite thankes (as all the
rest of the Company pany the like) who could not refraine from weeping
for meere joy, for such a strange and wonderful accident: every one
highly commending Gentile, and such also as chanced to heare
thereof. The Lady was welcommed home to her owne house, with many
moneths of joviall feasting, and as she passed through the streets,
all beheld her with admiration, to be so happily recovered from her
grave Signior Gentile lived long after, a loyall friend to
Nicoluccio and his Lady, and all that were well-willers to them.
  What thinke you now Ladies? Can you imagine, because a King gave
away his Crowne and Scepter; and an Abbot (without any cost to
himselfe) reconciled a Malefactor to the Pope; and an old
idle-headed man, yeelding to the mercy of his enemy: that all those
actions are comparable to this of Signior Gentile? Youth and ardent
affection, gave him a just and lawfull title, to her who was free
(by imagined death) from Husband, Parents, and all friends else, she
being so happily wonne into his owne possession. Yet honestly not
onely overswayed the heate of desire, which in many men is violent and
immoderate: but with a bountifull and liberall soule, that which he
coveted beyond all hopes else, and had within his owne command; he
freely gave away. Beleeve me (bright Beauties) not any of the other
(in a true and unpartiall judgement ) are worthy to be equalled with
this, or stiled by the name of magnificent actions.
                    THE TENTH DAY, THE FIFT NOVELL

     ADMONISHING ALL LADIES AND GENTLEWOMEN, THAT ARE DESIROUS TO
   PRESERVE THEIR CHASTITY, FREE FROM ALL BLEMISH AND TAXATION: TO
          MAKE NO PROMISE OF YEELDING TO ANY, UNDER A COMPACT OR
           COVENANT, HOW IMPOSSIBLE SOEVER IT MAY SEEME TO BE

  Madame Dianora, the Wife of Signior Gilberto, being immodestly
affected by Signior Ansaldo, to free her selfe from his tedious
importunity, she appointed him to performe (in her judgement) an act
of impossibility; namely, to give her a Garden, as plentifully
stored with fragrant Flowers in January, as in the flourishing
moneth of May. Ansaldo, by meanes of a bond which he made to a
Magitian, performed her request. Signior Gilberto, the Ladyes Husband,
gave consent, that his Wife should fulfill her promise made to
Ansaldo. Who hearing the bountifull mind of her Husband; released
her of her promise: And the Magitian likewise discharged Signior
Ansaldo, without taking any thing of him.

  Not any one in all the Company, but extolled the worthy Act of
Signior Gentile to the skies; till the King gave command to Madame
Aemillia, that she should follow next with her Tale, who boldly
stepping up, began in this order.
  Gracious Ladies, I thinke there is none heere present among us,
but (with good reason) may maintaine, that Signiour Gentile
performed a magnificent deede; but whosoever saith, it is impossible
to do more; perhaps is ignorant in such actions, as can and may be
done, as I meane to make good unto you, by a Novell not overlong or
tedious.
  The Countrey of Fretulium, better knowne by the name of Forum Julij;
although it be subject to much cold, yet it is pleasant, in regard
of many goodly Mountaines, Rivers, and cleare running Springs,
wherewith it is not meanly stored. Within those Territories, is a City
called Udina, where sometime lived a faire and Noble Lady, named
Madame Dianora, WiFe to a rich and woorthie Knight, called Signior
Gilberto, a man of very great fame and merite.
  This beautiful Lady, beeing very modest and vertuously inclined, was
highly affected by a Noble Baron of those parts, tearmed by the name
of Signior Ansaldo Gradense; a man of very great spirit, bountifull,
active in Armes, and yet very affable and courteous, which caused
him to be the better respected. His love to this Lady was
extraordinary, hardly to bee contained within any moderate compasse,
striving to bee in like manner affected of her: to which end, she
wanted no daily solicitings, Letters, Ambassages and Love-tokens,
all proving to no purpose.
  This vertuous Lady, being wearied with his often temptations, and
seeing, that by denying whatsoever he demanded, yet he wold not give
over his suite, but so much the more importunatly stil pursued her:
began to bethinke her selfe, how she might best be rid of him, by
imposing some such taske upon him, as should bee impossible (in her
opinion) for him to effect. An olde woman, whom hee imployed for his
continual messenger to her, as shee came one day about her ordinary
errand, with her she communed in this manner. Good woman (quoth she)
thou hast so often assured me, that Signior Ansaldo loveth me above
all other Women in the world, offering me wonderfull gifts and
presents in his name, which I have alwayes refused, and so stil wil
do, in regard I am not to be woon by any such allurements: yet if I
could be soundly perswaded, that his affection is answerable to thy
peremptory protestations, I shoulde (perhaps) be the sooner wonne,
to listen to his suite in milder manner, then hitherto I have done.
Wherefore, if he wil give me assurance, to perform such a businesse as
I mean to enjoyne him, he shall the speedier heare better answer
from me, and I wil confirme it with mine oath.
  Wonderfully pleased was Mistresse Maquerella, to heare a reply of
such comfortable hope; and therefore desired the Lady, to tel hir what
she wold have done. Listen to me wel (answerd Madam Dianora) the
matter which I would have him to effect for me, is; without the wals
of our City, and during the month of Januarie nexte ensuing, to
provide me a Garden, as fairely furnished with all kind of fragrant
flowers, as the flourishing month of May can yeelde no better. If he
be not able to accomplish this imposition, then I command him, never
hereafter to solicite me any more, either by thee, or any other
whatsoever: for, if he do importune me afterward, as hitherto I have
concealed his secret conspiring, both from my husband, and all my
friends; so wil I then lay his dishonest suite open to the world, that
he may receive punishment accordingly, for offering to wrong a
Gentleman in his wife.
  When Signior Ansaldo heard her demand, and the offer beside
thereuppon made him (although it seemed no easie matter, but a thing
meerly impossible to be done) he considered advisedly, that she made
this motion to no other end, but onely to bereave him of all his hope,
ever to enjoy what so earnestly hee desired: neverthelesse, he would
not so give it utterly over, but would needs approve what could be
done. Heereupon, hee sent into divers partes of the world, to find out
any one that was able to advise him in this doubtfull case. In the
end, one was brought to him, who beeing well recompenced for his
paines, by the Art of Nigromancie would under take to do it. With
him Signior Ansaldo covenanted, binding himselfe to pay a great
summe of mony, upon performance of so rare a deed, awaiting (in
hopefull expectation) for the month of januaries comming. It being
come, and the weather then in extreamity of cold, every being
covered with ice and snow, the Magitian prevailed so by his Art,
that after the Christmas Holy dayes were past, and the Calends of
january entred: in one night, and without the Cittie Wals, the
goodliest Garden of flowers and fruites, was sodainely sprung up, as
(in opinion of such as beheld it) never was the like seen before.
Now Ladies, I think I need not demand the question, whether Signior
Ansaldo were wel pleased, or no, who going to beholde t, saw it most
plenteously stored, with al kind of fruit trees, flowers, herbes and
plants, as no one could be named, that was wanting in this artificiall
garden. And having gathered some pretty store of them, secretly he
sent them to Madam Dianora, inviting hir to come see her Garden,
perfected according to her owne desire, and uppon view thereof, to
confesse the integrity of his love to her; considering and
remembring withall, the promise shee had made him under solemne
oath, that she might be reputed for a woman of her word.
  When the Lady beheld the fruites and flowers, and heard many other
thinges recounted, so wonderfully growing in the same Garden: began to
repent her rash promise made; yet notwithstanding her repentance, as
Women are covetous to see all rarities; so, accompanied with divers
Ladies and Gentlewomen more, she went to see the Garden; and having
commended it with much admiration, she returned home againe, the
most sorrowfull Woman as ever lived, considering what she had tyed her
selfe to, for enjoying this Garden. So excessive grew her griefe and
affliction, that it could not be so clouded or concealed: but her
Husband tooke notice of it, and would needs understand the occasion
thereof. Long the Lady (in regard of shame and modesty) sate without
returning any answer; but being in the end constrained, she disclosd
the whol History to him.
  At the first, Signior Gilberto waxed exceeding angry, but when he
further considered withall, the pure and honest intention of his Wife;
wisely he pacified his former distemper, and saide. Dianora, it is not
the part of a wise and honest woman, to lend an eare to ambassages
of such immodest nature, much lesse to compound or make agreement
for her honesty, with any person, under any condition whatsoever.
Those perswasions which the heart listeneth to, by allurement of the
eare, have greater power then many do imagine, and nothing is so
uneasie or difficult, but in a lovers judgement it appeareth possible.
Ill didst thou therefore first of all to listen, but worse (afterward)
to contract.
  But, because I know the purity of thy soule, I wil yeelde (to
disoblige thee of thy promise) as perhaps no wise man else would do:
mooved thereto onely by feare of the Magitian, who seeing Signior
Ansaldo displeased, because thou makest a mockage of him; will do some
such violent wrong to us, as we shal be never able to recover.
Wherefore, I would have thee go to Signior Ansaldo, and if thou
canst (by any meanes) obtaine of him, the safe-keeping of thy
honour, and ful discharge of thy promise; it shal be an eternall
fame to thee, and the crowne of a most victorious conquest. But if
it must needs be otherwise, lend him thy body onely for once, but
not thy wil: for actions committed by constraint, wherein the will
is no way guilty, are halfe pardonable by the necessity.
  Madame Dianora, hearing her husbands words, wept exceedingly, and
avouched, that shee had not deserved any such especiall grace of
him, and therefore she would rather dye, then doe it. Neverthelesse,
it was the wil of her Husband to have it so, and therefore (against
her wil) she gave consent. The next morning, by the breake of day,
Dianora arose, and attiring her selfe in her very meanest garments,
with two servingmen before her, and a waiting Woman following, she
went to the lodging of Signior Ansaldo, who hearing that Madam Dianora
was come to visite him, greatly mervailed, and being risen, he
called the Magitian to him, saying. Come go with me, and see what
effect will follow upon thine Art. And being come into her presence,
without any base or inordinate appetite, he did her humble
reverence, embracing her honestly, and taking her into a goodly
Chamber, where a faire fire was readilie prepared, causing her to
sit downe by him, he sayde unto her as followeth.
  Madam, I humbly intreat you to resolve me, if the affection I have
long time borne you, and yet do stil, deserve any recompence at all:
you would be pleased then to tel me truly, the occasion of your
instant comming hither, and thus attended as you are. Dianora,
blushing with modest shame, and the teares trickling mainly down her
faire cheekes, thus answered. Signior Ansaldo, not for any Love I
beare you, or care of my faithfull promise made to you, but onely by
the command of my husband (who respecting more the paynes and trave of
your inordinate love, then his owne reputation and honor, or mine;)
hath caused me to come hither: and by vertue of his command, am
ready (for once onely) to fulfill your pleasure, but far from any will
or consent in my selfe. If Signior Ansaldo were abashed at the
first, hee began now to be more confounded with admiration, when he
heard the Lady speake in such strange manner: and being much moved
with the liberall command of her husband, he began to alter his
inflamed heate, into most honourable respect and compassion, returning
her this answer.
  Most noble Lady, the Gods forbid (if it be so as you have sayd) that
I should (Villain-like) soile the honour of him, that takes such
unusuall compassion of my unchaste appetite. And therefore, you may
remaine heere so long as you please, in no other condition, but as
mine owne naturall borne Sister; and likewise, you may depart freely
when you will: conditionally, that (on my behalfe) you render such
thankes to your husband, as you thinke convenient for his great bounty
towards me, accounting me for ever heereafter, as his loyall Brother
and faithfull servant. Dianora having well observed his answer, her
heart being ready to mount out at her mouth with joy, said. All the
world could never make mee beleeve (considering your honourable
minde and honesty) that it would happen otherwise to me, then now it
hath done, for which noble courtesie, I will continually remaine
obliged to you. So, taking her leave, she returned home honorably
attended to her husband, and relating to him what had happened, it
proved the occasion of begetting intire love and friendship,
betweene himselfe and the Noble Lord Ansaldo.
  Now concerning the skilfull Magitian, to whom Ansaldo meant to
give the bountifull recompence agreed on betweene them, hee having
seene the strange liberality, which the husband expressed to Signior
Ansaldo, and that of Ansaldo to the Lady, hee presently saide. Great
jupiter strike me dead with thunder, having my selfe seene a husband
so liberall of his honour, and you Sir of true noble kindnesse, if I
should not be the like of my recompence: for, perceiving it to be so
worthily imployed, I am well contented that you shal keepe it. The
Noble Lord was modestly ashamed, and strove (so much as in him lay)
that he should take all, or the greater part thereof: but seeing he
laboured meerly in vaine, after the third day was past, and the
Magitian had destroyed the Garden againe, hee gave him free liberty to
depart, quite controlling all fond and unchaste affection in himselfe,
either towards Dianora, or any Lady else, and living (ever after) as
best becommeth any Nobleman to do.
  What say you now Ladies? Shal wee make any account of the woman
wel-neere dead, and the kindnesse growne cold in Signiour Gentile,
by losse of his former hopes, comparing them with the liberality of
Signior Ansaldo, affecting more fervently, then ever the other did?
And being (beyond hope) possessed of the booty, which (above all
things else in the world) he most desired to have, to part with it
meerly in fond compassion? I protest (in my judgement) the one is no
way comparable to the other; that of Geitile, with this last of
Signior Ansaldo.
                    THE TENTH DAY, THE SIXT NOVELL

       SUFFICIENTLY DECLARING, THAT HOW MIGHTY SOEVER THE POWER OF
       LOVE IS: YET A MAGNANIMOUS AND TRULY GENEROUS HEART, IT CAN
                        BY NO MEANES FULLY CONQUER

  Victioious King Chrles, sirnamed the Aged, and first of that Name,
fell in love with a yong Maiden, named Genevera, daughter to an
ancient Knight, called Signior Neri degli Uberti. And waxing ashamed
of his amorous folly, caused both Genevera, and her fayre Sister
Isotta, to be joyned in marriage with two Noble Gentlemen; the one
named Signior Maffeo da Palizzi, and the other, Signior Gulielmo della
Magna.

  Who is able to expresse ingeniously, the diversity of opinions,
which hapned among the Ladies, in censuring on the act of Madame
Dianora, and which of them was most liberall, eithet Signior
Gilberto the Husband, Lord Ansaldo the importunate suiter, or the
Magitian, expecting to bee bountifully rewarded. Surely, it is a
matter beyond my capacity: but after the King had permitted their
disputation a long while, looking on Madam Fiammetta, he commanded
that she should report her Novel to make an end of their controversie;
and she (without any further delaying) thus began. I did alwaies
(Noble Ladies) hold it fit and decent, that in such an assembly as
this of ours is, every one ought to speake so succinctly and
plainly: that the obscure understanding, concerning the matters spoken
of, should have no cause of disputation. For disputes do much better
become the Colledges of Schollers, then to be among us, who hardly can
manage our Distaves or Samplers. And therefore I, who intend to relate
something, which (peradventure) might appeare doubtfull: will forbeare
(seeing you in such a difference; for that which hath bin spoken
alreadie) to use any difficult discourse; but will speake of one, a
man of no meane ranke or quality, being both a valiant and vertuous
King, and what he did, without any impeach or blemish to his honor.
  I make no doubt, but you have often heard report, of king Charls the
Aged, and first of that name, by reason of his magnificent
enterprises, as also his most glorious victory, which he obtaind
against King Manfred, when the Ghibellines were expulsed foorth of
Florence, and the Guelphes returned thither againe. By which occasion,
an ancient knight, named Signior Neri degli Uberti; forsaking then the
City, with all his family and great store of wealth, woulde live under
any other obedience, then the awful power or command of King
Charles. And coveting to be in some solitary place, where he might
finish the remainder of his dayes in peace, he went to Castello da
Mare; where, about a Bow shoote distance from all other dwelling
houses, hee bought a parcel of ground, plentifully stored with variety
of Trees, bearing Olives, Chesnuts, Orenges, Lemons, Pomcitrons, and
other excellent frutages, wherewith the Countrey flourisheth
abundantly. There he built a very faire and commodious house, and
planted (close by it) a pleasant Garden, in the middst whereof,
because he had great plenty of water: according as other men use to
do, being in the like case so wel provided; he made a very goodly
Pond, which forthwith had all kinde of Fish swimming in it, it being
his daily care and endevour, to tend his Garden, and encrease his
Fish-pond.
  It fortuned, that King Charles in the Summer time) for his
pleasure and recreation, went to repose himselfe (for some certayne
dayes) at Castello de Mare, where having heard report of the beautie
and singularitie of Signiour Neries Garden; hee grew very desirous
to see it. But when he understoode to whome it belonged, then he
entred into consideration with himselfe, that hee was an ancient
Knight, maintaining a contrarie faction to his: wherefore, he
thought it fit to goe in some familiar manner, and with no trayne
attending on him. Wherupon he sent him word, that he wold come to
visit him, with foure Gentlemen onely in his companie, meaning to
sup with him in his Garden the next night ensuing. The newes was
very welcome to Signior Neri, who took order in costly maner for all
things to bee done, entertaining the King most joyfully into his
beautifull Garden.
  When the King had survayed all, and the house likewise, he commended
it beyond all other comparison, and the Tables being placed by the
Ponds side, he washed his hands therin, and then sat down at the the
Count, Sir Guy de Montforte (who was one of them which came in his
company) to sitte downe by him, and Signior Neri on his other side. As
for the other three of the traine, hee commaunded them to attend on
his service, as Signior Neri had given order. There wanted no
exquisite Viandes and excellent Wines, all performed in most decent
manner, and without the least noise or disturbance, wherein the King
tooke no little delight.
  Feeding thus in this contented manner, and fancying the solitude
of the place: sodainly entred into the garden, two yong Damosels, each
aged about some fifteene yeares, their haire resembling wyars of Gold,
and curiously curled, having Chaplets (made like provinciall
Crownes) on their heades, and their delicate faces, expressing them to
be rather Angels, then mortall creatures, such was the appearance of
their admired beauty. Their under-garments were of costly Silke, yet
white as the finest snow, framed (from the girdle upward) close to
their bodies, but spreading largely downward, like the extendure of
a Pavillion, and so descending to the feet. She that first came in
sight, caried on her shoulder a couple of fishing Netts, which she
held fast with her left hand, and in the right she carryed a long
staffe. The other following her, had on her left shoulder a
Frying-pan, and under the same arme a small Faggot of woodde, with a
Trevit in her hand; and in the other hand a pot of Oyle, as also a
brand of fire flaming.
  No sooner did the King behold them, but he greatly wondered what
they should be; and, without uttering one word, attended to listen
what they wold say. Both the yong damosels, when they were come before
the King, with modest and bashfull gesture, they performed very humble
reverence to him, and going to the place of entrance into the Pond,
she who held the Trevit, set it downe on the ground, with the other
things also; and taking the staffe which the other Damosell carried:
they both went into the Pond, the water whereof reached so high as
to their bosomes. One of the Servants to Signior Neri, presently
kindled the fire, setting the Trevit over it, and putting Oyle into
the Frying-panne, held it uppon the Trevit, awaiting untill the
Damosels should cast him uppe Fish. One of them did beate a place with
the staffe, where she was assured of the Fishes resort, and the
other hadde lodged the Nets so conveniently, as they quickly caught
great store of Fish, to the Kings high contentment, who observed their
behaviour very respectively.
  As the Fishes were throwne up to the servant, alive as they were, he
tooke the best and fairest of them, and brought them to the Table,
where they skipt and mounted before the King, Count Guy de Montfort
and the Father: some leaping from the Table into the Pond againe,
and others, the King (in a pleasing humour) voluntarily threw backe to
the Damosels. jesting and sporting in this manner, till the servant
had drest divers of them in exquisite order, and served them to the
Table according as Signior Neri had ordained. When the Damosels saw
the Fishes service performed, and perceived that they had fished
sufficiently: they came forth of the water, their garments then (being
wet) hanging close about them, even as if they hid no part of their
bodies. Each having taken those things againe, which at first they
brought with them, and saluting the king in like humility as they
did before, returned home to the mansion house.
  The King and Count likewise, as also the other attending
Gentlemen, having duely considered the behavior of the Damosels:
commended extraordinarily their beauty and faire feature, with those
other perfections of Nature so gloriously shining in them. But (beyond
all the rest) the King was boundlesse in his praises given of them,
having observed their going into the water, the equall carriage
there of them both, their comming forth, and gracious demeanor at
their departing (yet neither knowing of whence, or what they were)
he felt his affection very violently flamed, and grew into such an
amourous desire to them both, not knowing which of them pleased him
most, they so choisely resembled one another in all things.
  But after he had dwelt long enough upon these thoughts, he turned
him selfe to Signior Neri, and demanded of him, what Damosels they
were. Sir (answered Neri) they are my Daughters, both brought into the
world at one birth, and Twinnes, the one being named Genevera the
faire, and the other Isotta the amiable. The King began againe to
commend them both, and gave him advise to get them both married:
wherein he excused himselfe, alleadging, that he wanted power to doe
it. At the same time instant, no other service remaining to be brought
to the table, except Fruit and Cheese, the two Damosels returned
againe, attyred in goodly Roabes of Carnation Sattin, formed after the
Turkish fashion, carrying two fayre Silver dishes in their hands,
filled with divers delicate Fruites, such as the season then afforded,
setting them on the Table before the King. Which being done, they
retyred a little backeward, and with sweet melodious voyces, sung a
ditty, beginning in this manner.
  Where Love presumeth into place:
  Let no one sing in Loves disgrace.
  So sweet and pleasing seemed the Song to the King (who tooke no
small delight, both to heare and behold the Damosels) even as if all
the Hirarchies of Angels were descended from the Heavens to sing
before him. No sooner was the Song ended, but (humbly on their
knees) they craved favour of the King for their departing. Now,
although their departure was greatly grieving to him, yet (in
outward appearance) he seemed willing to grant it.
  When Supper was concluded, and the King and his Company remounted on
horsebacke: thankefully departing from Signior Neri, the King returned
to his lodging, concealing there closely his affection to himselfe,
and whatsoever important affaires happened: yet he could not forget
the beauty, and gracious behaviour of Genevera the faire (for whose
sake he loved her Sister likewise) but became so linked to her in
vehement maner, as he had no power to think on any thing else.
Pretending other urgent occasions, he fell into great familiarity with
Signior Neri, visiting very often his goodly Garden; onely to see
his faire Daughter Genevera, the Adamant which drew him thither.
  When he felt his amourous assaults, to exceed all power of longer
sufferance: he resolved determinately with himselfe, (being unprovided
of any better meanes) to take her away from her Father, and not
onely she, but her Sister also; discovering both his love and intent
to Count Guy de Montforte, who being a very worthy and vertuous
Lord, and meet to be a Counseller for a King, delivered his mind in
this manner.
  Gracious Lord, I wonder not a little at your speeches, and so much
the greater is my admiration, because no man els can be subject to the
like, in regard I have knowne you from the time of your infancy;
even to this instant houre, and alwayes your carriage to bee one and
the same. I could never perceive in your youthfull dayes (when love
should have the greatest meanes to assaile you) any such oppressing
passions: which is now the more novell and strange to me, to heare
it but said, that you being old, and called the Aged; should be growne
amorous, surely to me it seemeth a miracle. And if it appertained to
me to reprehend you in this case, I know well enough what I could say.
Considering, you have yet your Armour on your backe, in a Kingdome
newly conquered, among a Nation not knowne to you, full of falsehoods,
breaches, and treasons; all which are no meane motives to care and
needfull respect. But having now wone a little leisure, to rest your
selfe a while from such serious affaires; can you give way to the idle
suggestions of Love? Beleeve me Sir, it is no act becomming a
magnanimious King; but rather the giddy folly of a young braine.
  Moreover you say (which most of all I mislike) that you intend to
take the two Virgines from the Knight, who hath given you
entertainment in his house beyond his ability, and to testifie how
much he honoured you, he suffered you to have a sight of them, meerely
(almost) in a naked manner: witnessing thereby, what constant faith he
reposed in you, beleeving verily, that you were a just King, and not a
ravenous Woolfe. Have you so soone forgot, that the rapes and
violent actions, done by King Manfred to harmelesse Ladies, made
your onely way of entrance into this Kingdome? What treason was ever
committed, more worthy of eternall punishment, then this will be in
you: to take away from him (who hath so highly honoured you) his
chiefest hope and consolation? What will be said by all men, if you
doe it?
  Peradventure you thinke, it will be a sufficient excuse for you,
to say: I did it, in regard hee was a Ghibelline. Can you imagine this
to be justice in a King, that such as get into their possession in
this manner (whatsoever it be) ought to use it in this sort? Let me
tell you Sir, it was a most worthy victory for you, to conquer King
Manfred: but it is farre more famous victory, for a man to conquer
himselfe. You therfore, who are ordained to correct vices in other
men, learne first to subdue them in your selfe, and (by brideling this
inordinate appetite) set not a foule blemish on so faire a fame, as
will be honour to you to preserve spotlesse.
  These words pierced the heart of the King deepely, and so much the
more afflicted him, because he knew them to be most true: wherefore,
after he had ventred a very vehement sigh, thus he replyed. Beleeve me
noble Count, there is not any enemy, how strong soever he be, but I
hold him weake and easie to be vanquished, by him who is skilfull in
the warre, where a man may learne to conquere his owne appetite. But
because he shall find it a laborious taske, requiring inestimable
strength and courage; your words have so toucht me to the quicke, that
it becommeth me to let you effectually perceive (and within the
compasse of few dayes) that as I have learned to conquer others, so
I am not ignorant, in expressing the like power upon my selfe.
Having thus spoken, within some few dayes after, the King being
returned to Naples, he determined, as we to free himself from any
the like ensuing follie, as also to recompence Signior Neri, for the
great kindnesse he had shewne to him (although it was a difficult
thing, to let another enjoy, what he rather desired for himselfe) to
have the two Damosels married, not as the Daughters of Signior Neri,
but even as if they were his owne. And by consent of the Father, he
gave Genevera the faire, to Signior Maffeo da Palizzi, and Isotta
the amiable, to Signior Gulielmo della Magna, two Noble Knights and
honourable Barons. After he had thus given them in marriage, in sad
mourning he departed thence into Apuglia, where by following worthy
and honourable actions, he so well overcame all inordinate
appetites: that shaking off the enthraling fetters of love, he lived
free from all passions, the rest of his life time, and dyed as an
honourable King.
  Some perhaps will say, it was a small matter for a King, to give
away two Damosels in marriage, and I confesse it: but I maintaine it
to be great, and more then great, if we say, that a King, being so
earnestly enamoured as this King was; should give her away to another,
whom he so dearely affected himselfe, without receiving (in recompence
of his affection) so much as a leaffe, flowre, or the least fruit of
love. Yet such was the vertue of this magnificent King, expressed in
so highly recompencing the noble Knights courtesie, honouring the
two daughters so royally, and conquering his owne affections so
vertuously.
                  THE TENTH DAY, THE SEVENTH NOVELL

   WHEREIN IS COVERTLY GIVEN TO UNDERSTAND, THAT HOWSOEVER A PRINCE
   MAY MAKE USE OF HIS ABSOLUTE POWER AND AUTHORITY, TOWARDS MAIDES
    OR WIVES THAT ARE HIS SUBJECTS: YET HE OUGHT TO DENY AND REJECT
                ALL THINGS, AS SHALL MAKE HIM FORGETFULL
                    OF HIMSELFE, AND HIS TRUE HONOUR

  Lisana, the Daughter of a Florentine Apothecary, named Bernardo
Puccino, being at Palermo, and seeing Piero, King of Aragon run at the
Tilt; fell so affectionately enamored of him, that she languished in
an extreame and long sickenesse. By her owne devise, and means of a
Song, sung in the hearing of the King: he vouchsafed to visite her,
and giving her a kisse, terming himselfe also to bee her Knight for
ever after, hee honourably bestowed her in marriage on a young
Gentleman, who was called Perdicano, and gave him liberall
endowments with her.

  Madame Fiametta being come to the end of her Novell, and the great
magnificence of King Charles much commended (howbeit, some of the
Company, affecting the Ghibelline faction, were otherwise minded)
Madame Pampinea, by order given from the King, began in this manner.
  There is no man of good understanding (honourable Ladies) but will
maintaine what you have said of victorious Charles; except such as
cannot wish well to any. But because my memory hath instantly informed
me, of an action (perhaps) no lesse commendable then this, done by
an enemy of the said King Charles, and to a yong Maiden of our City, I
am the more willing to relate it, upon your gentle attention
vouchsafed, as hitherto it hath been courteously granted.
  At such time as the French were driven out of Sicilie, there dwelt
at Palermo a Florentine Apothecary, named Bernardo Puccino, a man of
good wealth and reputation, who had by his Wife one onely Daughter, of
marriageable yeares, and very beautifull. Piero, King of Arragon,
being then become Lord of that Kingdom, he made an admirable Feast
Royall at Palermo, accompanyed with his Lords and Barons. In honour of
which publique Feast, the King kept a triumphall day (of Justs and
Turnament) at Catalana, and whereat it chanced, that the Daughter of
Bernardo, named Lisana, was present. Being in a window, accompanied
with other Gentlewomen, she saw the King runne at the Tilt, who seemed
so goodly a person in her eye; that being never satisfied with
beholding him, she grew enamoured, and fell into extremity of
affection towards him.
  When the Feastivall was ended, she dwelling in the house of her
Father, it was impossible for her to thinke on any thing else, but
onely the love, which she had fixed on a person of such height. And
that which most tormented her in this case, was the knowledge of her
owne condition, being but meane and humble in degree; whereby she
confessed, that she could not hope for any successefull issue of her
proud love. Neverthelesse, she would not refraine from affecting the
King, who taking no note of this kindnesse in her, by any
perceivable meanes; must needs be the more regardles, which procured
(by wary observation) her afflictions to be the greater and
intollerable.
  Whereon it came to passe, that this earnest love encreasing in her
more and more, and one melancholly conceit taking hold on another: the
faire Maide, when she could beare the burden of her griefe no
longer; fell into a languishing sickenesse, consuming away daily (by
evident appearance) even as the Snow melteth by the warme beames of
the Sunne.
  The Father and Mother, much dismayed and displeased at this haplesse
accident, applying her with continuall comforts, Phisicke, and the
best skill remayning in all the Phisitions, sought all possible meanes
wayes to give her succour: but all proved to no effect, because in
regard of her choyce (which could sort to none other then a
desperate end) she was desirous to live no longer. Now it fortuned,
that her parents offering her whatsoever remained in their power to
performe, a sudden apprehension entred her minde, to wit, that (if
it might possible be done) before she dyed, she would first have the
King to know, in what manner she stood affected to him. Wherefore, one
day she entreated her Father that a Gentleman, named Manutio de
Arezza, might be permitted to come see her. This Manutio was (in those
times) held to be a most excellent Musitian, both for his voyce in
singing, and exquisite skill in playing on Instruments, for which he
was highly in favour with King Piero, who made (almost) daily use of
him, to heare him both sing and play.
  Her tender and loving father conceived immediately, that shee was
desirous to heare his playing and singing, both being comfortable to a
body in a languishing. sickenesse, whereupon, he sent presently for
the Gentleman, who came accordingly, and after he had comforted Lisana
with kind and courteous speeches; he played dexteriously on his
Lute, which purposely hee had brought with him, and likewise he sung
divers excellent Ditties, which insted of his intended consolation
to the Maid, did nothing else but encrease her fire and flame.
  Afterward, she requested to have some conference with Manutio alone,
and every one being gone forth of the Chamber, she spake unto him in
this manner.
  Manutio, I have made choyce of thee, to be the faithfull Guardian of
an especial secret, hoping first of al, that thou wilt never reveale
it to any living body, but onely to him whom I shall bid thee: And
next, to helpe me so much as possibly thou canst, because my onely
hope relyeth in thee. Know then my dearest friend Manutio, that on the
solemne festivall day, when our Soveraigne Lord the King honoured
his exaltation, with the noble exercises of Tilt and Turney; his brave
behaviour kindled such a sparke in my soule, as since brake forth into
a violent flame, and brought me to this weake condition as now thou
seest. But knowing and confessing, how farre unbeseeming my love is,
to aime so ambitiously at a King, and being unable to controule it, or
in the least manner to diminish it: I have made choyce of the onely
and best remedy of all, namely, to dye, and so I am most willing to
doe.
  True it is, that I shall travaile in this my latest journey, with
endlesse torment and affliction of soule, except he have some
understanding thereof before, and not knowing by whom to give him
intelligence, in so oft and convenient order, as by thee: I doe
therefore commit this last office of a friend to thy trust, desiring
thee, not to refuse me in the performance thereof. And when thou
hast done it, to let me understand what he saith, that I may dye the
more contentedly, and disburdened of so heavy an oppression, the onely
comfort to a parting spirit: and so she ceased, her teares flowing
forth abundantly.
  Manutio did not a little wonder at the Maides great spirit, and
her desperate resolution, which moved him to exceeding
commiseration, and suddenly he conceived, that honestly he might
discharge this duty for her, whereupon, he returned her this answer.
Lisana, here I engage my faith to thee, that thou shalt find me
firme and constant, and die I will, rather then deceive thee.
Greatly I doe commend thy high attempt, in fixing thy affection on
so Potent a King, wherein I offer thee my utmost assistance: and I
make no doubt (if thou wouldest be of good comfort) to deale in such
sort, as, before three dayes are fully past, to bring such newes as
will content thee, and because I am loath to loose the least time, I
will goe about it presently. Lisana the yong Maiden, once againe
entreated his care and diligence, promising to comfort her selfe so
well as she could, commending him to his good fortune. When Manutio
was gone from her, hee went to a Gentleman, named Mico de Sienna,
one of the best Poets in the composing of verses, as all those parts
yeelded not the like. At his request, Mico made for him this ensuing
Dittie.

                 THE SONG
       SUNG IN THE HEARING OF KING PIERO, ON THE
            BEHALFE OF LOVE-SICKE LISANA

    Goe Love, and tell the torments I endure,
    Say to my Soveraigne Lord, that I must die
    Except he come, some comfort to procure,
    For tell I may not, what I feele, and why.

  With heaved hands Great Love, I call to thee,
  Goe see my Soveraigne, where he doth abide,
  And say to him, in what extremity,
  Thou hast (for him) my firm affection tryed.
  To die for him, it is my sole desire,
  For live with him I may not, nor aspire,
  To have my fortunes thereby dignified,
  Onely his sight would lend me life a while:
  Grant it (great love) mine anguish to beguile.
      Goe love, and tell the torments, etc.

  Since the first houre that love enthralled me,
  I never had the heart, to tell my griefe,
  My thoughts did speake, for thoughts be alwayes free,
  Yet hopefull thoughts doe find but poore reliefe.
  When Gnats will mount to Eagles in the ayre,
  Alas! they scorne them, for full well they know,
  They were not bred to prey so base and low,
  Aloft they look, to make their flight more faire.
  And yet his sight would lend me life a while:
  Grant it (great love) mine anguish to beguile.
      Goe love, and tell the torments, etc.

  If sight shall be denyed, then tell them plaine,
  His high triumphall day procurd my death,
  The Launce that won him Honour, hath me slaine,
  For instantly it did bereave my breath.
  That speake I could not, nor durst be so bold,
  To make the Ayre acquainted with my woe:
  Alas! I lookt so high, and doing so,
  Justly deserve by death to be controld.
  Yet mercies sight would lend me life a while,
  Grant it (great love) mine anguish to beguffe.

    Goe love, and tell the torments I endure,
    Say to my Soveraigne Lord, that I must die:
    Except he come, some comfort to procure,
    For tell I may not, what I feele, and why.

  The lines contained in this Ditty, Manutio fitted with noates so
mooving and singularly musicall, that every word had the seisible
motion of life in it, where the King being (as yet) not risen from the
Table, he commanded him to use both his Lute and voyce.
  This seemed a happy opportunity to Manutio, to sing the dittie so
purposely done and devised: which hee delivered in such excellent
manner, the voice and Instrument concording so extraordinary pleasing;
that all the persons then in the Presence, seemed rather Statues, then
living men, so strangely they were wrapt with admiration, and the King
himselfe farre beyond all the rest, transported with a rare kinde of
alteration.
  When Manutio had ended the Song, the King demanded of him, whence
this Song came, because he had never heard it before? My gracious
Lord, answered Manutio, it must needes seeme straunge to your Majesty,
because it is not fully three dayes, since it was invented, made,
and set to the note. Then the King asked, whom it concerned? Sir
(quoth Manutio) I dare not disclose that to any but onely your
selfe. Which answer made the King much more desirous, and being
risen from the Table, he tooke him into his Bedchamber, where
Manutio related all at large to him, according to the trust reposed in
him. Wherwith the King was wonderfully well pleased, greatly
commending the courage of the Maide, and said, that a Virgin of such a
valiant spirit, did well deserve to have her case commiserated: and
commanded him also, to goe (as sent from him) and comfort her, with
promise, that the very same day, in the evening, he would not faile to
come and see her.
  Manutio, more then contented, to carry such glad tydings to
Lisana; without staying in any place, and taking his Lute also with
him, went to the Apothecaries house, where speaking alone with the
Maide: he told her what he had done, and afterward sung the song to
her, in as excellent manner as he had done before, wherein Lisana
conceived such joy and contentment, as even in the very same moment,
it was observed by apparant signes, that the violence of her fits
forsooke her, and health began to get the upper hand of them. SO,
without suffering any one in the house to know it, or by the least
meanes to suspect it; she comforted her selfe till the evening, in
expectation of her Soveraignes arrivall.
  Piero being a Prince, of most liberall and benigne nature, having
afterward divers times considered on the matters which Manutio had
revealed to him, knowing also the yong Maiden, to bee both
beautifull and vertuous: was so much moved with pitty of her
extremitie, as mounting on horsebacke in the evening, and seeming as
if he rode abroad for his private recreation; he went directly to
the Apothecaries house, where desiring to see a goodly garden,
appertaining then to the Apothecarie, he dismounted from his horse.
Walking into the garden, he began to question with Bernardo,
demaunding him for his Daughter, and whether he had (as yet) marryed
her, or no? My Gracious Lord, answered Bernardo, as yet shee is not
marryed, neither likely to bee, in regard shee hath had a long and
tedious sickenesse: but since Dinner time, she is indifferently
eased of her former violent paine, which we could not discerne the
like alteration in her, a long while before.
  The King understood immediately, the reason of this so sudden
alteration, and said. In good faith Bernardo, the world would sustaine
a great maine and imperfection, by the losse of thy faire daughter;
wherefore, we will goe our selfe in person to visite her. So, with two
of his Lords onely, and the Father, he ascended to the Maides
Chamber and being entred, he went to the Beds side, where she sate,
somewhat raised, in expectation of his comming, and taking her by
the hand, he said. Faire Lisana, how commeth this to passe? You
being so faire a Virgin, yong, and in the delicacy of your daies,
which should be the chiefest comfort to you, will you suffer your
selfe to be over-awed with sickenesse? Let us intreat you, that (for
our sake) you will be of good comfort, and thereby recover your health
the sooner, especially, when it is requested by a King, who is sorry
to see so bright a beauty sicke, and would helpe it, it consisted in
his power.
  Lisana, feeling the touch of his hand, whom she loved above all
things else in the world, although a bashfull blush mounted up into
her cheekes: yet her heart was seazed with such a rapture of pleasure,
that she thought her selfe translated into Paradise, and, so well as
she could, thus she replyed. Great King, by opposing my feeble
strength, against a burden of over-ponderous weight, it became the
occasion of this grievous sickenesse: but I hope that the violence
thereof is (almost) already kild, onely by this soveraigne mercy in
you, and doubtlesse it will cause my speedy deliverance. The King
did best understand this so well palliated answere of Lisana, which as
he did much commend, in regard of her high adventuring; so he did
againe as greatly condemne Fortune, for not making her more happy in
her birth.
  So, after he had stayed there a good while, and given her many
comfortable speeches, he returned backe to the Court. This humanity in
the King, was reputed a great honour to the Apothecary and his
daughter, who (in her owne mind) received as much joy and
contentment thereby, as ever any wife could have of her owne Husband.
  And being assisted by better hopes, within a short while after,
she became recovered, and farre more beautifull (in common judgment)
then ever she was before.
  Lisana being now in perfect health, the King consulted with his
Queene, what meete recompence he should gratifie her withall, for
loving and affecting him in such fervent manner. Upon a day
determined, the King mounting on horsebacke, accompanied with many
of his cheefest Lords and Barons, he rode to the Apothecaries house,
where walking in his beautifull Garden, hee called for Bernardo and
his daughter Lisana. In the meane space, the Queene also came thither,
Royally attended on by her Ladies, and Lisana being admitted into
their company, they expressed themselves very gracious to her. Soone
after, the King and the Queene cald Lisana, and the King spake in this
manner to her.
  Faire Virgin, the extraordinary love which you bare to us, calleth
for as great honour from us to you; in which respect, it is our Royall
desire, by one meanes or other to requite your kinde Love. In our
opinion, the chief honour we can extend to you. is, that being of
sufficient yeares for marriage, you would grace us so much, as to
accept him for your Husband, whom we intend to bestow on you. Beside
this further grant from us, that (notwithstanding whatsoever else) you
shall call us your Knight; without coveting any thing else from you,
for so great favour, but only one kisse, and thinke not to bestow it
nicely on a King, but grant it the rather, because he begges it.
  Lisana, whose lookes were dyed with a vermillian tincture, or rather
converted into a pure maiden blush, reputing the Kings desire to be
her owne; in a low and humbled voyce, thus answered. My Lord, most
certaine am I, that if it had beene publikely knowne, how none but
your highnes, might serve for me to fixe my love on, I should have
been termed the foole of all fooles: they perhaps beleeving, that I
was forgetfull of my selfe, in being ignorant of mine owne
condition, and much lesse of yours. But the Gods are my witnesses
(because they know the secrets of all hearts) that even in the very
instant, when Loves fire tooke hold on my yeelding affection: I knew
you to be a King, and my selfe the daughter of poore Bernardo the
Apothecary: likewise, how farre unfitting it was for me, to be so
ambitious in my loves presuming. But I am sure your Majestie doth know
(much better then I am able to expresse) that no one becommeth
amourous, according to the duty of election, but as the appetite
shapeth his course, against whose lawes my strength made many
resistances, which not prevailing, I presumed to love, did, and so for
ever shall doe, your Majestie.
  Now Royall Soveraigne, I must needes confesse, that so soone as I
felt my selfe thus wholly conquered by loving you, I resolved for ever
after, to make your will mine owne, and therefore, am not onely
willing to accept him for my Husband, whom you shall please to
appoint, befitting my honor and degree: but if you will have me to
live in a flaming fire, my obedience shall sacrifice it selfe to
your will, with the absolute conformity of mine owne. To stile you
by the name of my Knight, whom I know to be my lawfull King and
Soveraigne; you are not ignorant, how farre unfitting a word that were
for me to use: As also the kisse which you request, in requitall of my
love to you; to these two I will never give consent, without the
Queenes most gracious favour and license first granted. Neverthelesse,
for such admirable benignity used to me, both by your Royall selfe,
and your vertuous Queene: heaven shower downe all boundlesse graces on
you both, for it exceedeth all merit in me, and so she ceased
speaking, in most dutifull manner.
  The answer of Lisana pleased the Queene exceedingly, in finding
her to be so wise and faire, as the King himself had before informed
her: who instantly called for her Father and Mother, and knowing
they would be well pleased with whatsoever he did; he called for a
proper yong Gentleman, but somewhat poore, being named Perdicano,
and putting certaine Rings into his hand, which he refused not to
receive, caused him there to espouse Lisana. To whome the King gave
immediately (besides Chaines and jewels of inestimable valew,
delivered by the Queene to the Bride) Ceffala and Calatabelotta, two
great territories abounding in divers wealthy possessions, saying to
Perdicano. These wee give thee, as a dowry in marriage with this
beautifull Maid, and greater gifts we will bestow on thee hereafter,
as we shal perceive thy love and kindnesse to her.
  When he had ended these words, hee turned to Lisana, saying: Heere
doe I freely give over all further fruits of your affection towards
me, thanking you for your former love: so taking her head betweene his
hands he kissed her faire forhead, which was the usuall custome in
those times. Perdicano, the Father and Mother of Lisana, and she her
selfe likewise, extraordinarily joyfull for this so fortunate a
marriage, returned humble and hearty thankes both to the King and
Queene, and (as many credible Authors doe affirme) the King kept his
promise made to Lisana, because (so long as he lived) he alwales
termed himselfe by the name of her Knight, and in al actions of
Chivalry by him undertaken, he never carried any other devise, but
such as he received still from her.
  By this, and divers other like worthy deeds, not onely did he win
the hearts of his subjects; but gave occasion to the who world beside,
to renowne his fame to all succeeding posterity. Whereto (in these
more wretched times of ours) few or none bend the sway of their
understanding: but rather how to bee cruell and tyrranous Lords, and
thereby win the hatred of their people.
                    THE TENTH DAY, THE EIGHT NOVELL

       DECLARING, THAT NOTWITHSTANDING THE FROWNES OF FORTUNE,
     DIVERSITY OF OCCURRENCES, AND CONTRARY ACCIDENTS HAPPENING:
       YET LOVE AND FRIENDSHIP OUGHT TO BE PRECIOUSLY PRESERVED
                                AMONG MEN

  Sophronia, thinking her selfe to be the maried wife of Gisippus, was
(indeed) the wife of Titus Quintus Fulvius, and departed thence with
him to Rome. Within a while after, Gisippus also came thither in
very poore condition, and thinking that he was despised by Titus, grew
weary of his life, and confessed that he had murdred a man, with ful
intent to die for the fact. But Titus taking knowledge of him, and
desiring to save the life of Gisippus, charged himself to have done
the bloody deed. Which the murderer himself (standing then among the
multitude) seeing, truly confessed the deed. By meanes whereof, all
three were delivered by the Emperor Octavius; and Titus gave his
Sister in mariage to Gisippus, giving them also the most part of his
goods and inheritances.

  By this time Madam Philomena, at command of the King, (Madam
Pampinea ceasing) prepared to follow next in order, whereupon thus she
began. What is it (Gracious Ladies) that Kings cannot do (if they
list) in matters of greatest importance, and especially unto such as
most they should declare their magnificence? He then that performeth
what he ought to do, when it is within his owne power, doth well.
But it is not so much to bee admired, neither deserveth halfe the
commendations, as when one man doth good to another, when least it
is expected, as being out of his power, and yet performed. In which
respect, because you have so extolled king Piero, as appearing not
meanly meritorious in your judgements; I make no doubt but you will be
much more pleased, when the actions of our equals are duly considered,
and shal paralell any of the greatest Kings. Wherefore I purpose to
tell you a Novel, concerning an honorable curtesie of two worthy
friends.
  At such time as Octavius Caesar (not as yet named Augustus, but only
in the office called Triumveri) governed the Romane Empire, there
dwelt in Rome a Gentleman, named Publius Quintus Fulvius, a man of
singular understanding, who having one son, called Titus Quintus
Fulvius, of towardly yeares and apprehension, sent him to Athens to
learne Philosophy, but with letters of familiar commendations, to a
Noble Athenian Gentleman, named Chremes, being his ancient friend, of
long acquaintance. This Gentleman lodged Titus in his owne house, as
companion to his son, named Gisippus, both of them studying
together, under the tutoring of a Philosopher, called Aristippus.
These two yong Gentlemen living thus in one Citty, House, and Schoole,
it bred betweene them such a brother-hoode and amity, as they could
not be severed from one another, but only by the accident of death;
nor could either of them enjoy any content, but when they were both
together in company.
  Being each of them endued with gentle spirits, and having begun
their studies together: they arose (by degrees) to the glorious height
of Philosophy, to their much admired fame and commendation. In this
manner they lived, to the no meane comfort of Chremes, hardly
distinguishing the one from the other for his Son, and thus the
Schollers continued the space of three yeares. At the ending wherof
(as it hapneth in al things else) Chremes died, whereat both the young
Gentlemen conceived such hearty griefe, as if he had bin their
common father; nor could the kinred of Chremes discerne, which of
the two had most need of comfort, the losse touched them so equally.
  It chanced within some few months after, that the kinred of Gisippus
came to see him, and (before Titus) avised him to marriage, and with a
yong Gentlewoman of singular beauty, derived from a most noble house
in Athens, and she named Sophronia, aged about fifteen years. This
mariage drawing neere, Gisippus on a day, intreated Titus to walk
along with him thither, because (as yet) he had not seene her.
Commingto the house, and she sitting in the midst betweene them, Titus
making himselfe a considerator of beauty, and especially on his
friends behalfe; began to observe her very judicially, and every
part of her seemed so pleasing in his eie, that giving them al a
privat praise, yet answerable to their due deserving; he becam so
enflamed with affection to her, as never any lover could bee more
violentlie surprized, so sodainly doth beauty beguile our best senses.
  After they had sate an indifferent while with her, they returned
home to their lodging, where Titus being alone in his chamber, began
to bethink himselfe on her, whose perfections had so powerfully
pleased him: and the more he entred into this consideration, the
fiercer he felt his desires enflamed, which being unable to quench, by
any reasonable perswasions, after hee had vented foorth infinite
sighes, thus he questioned with himselfe.
 Most unhappie Titus as thou art, whether doost thou transport thine
understanding, love, and hope? Dooest thou not know as well by the
honourable favours, which thou hast received of Chremes and his house,
as also the intire amity betweene thee and Gisippus (unto whom faire
Sophronia is the afflanced friend) that thou shouldst holde her in the
like reverent respect, as if shee were thy true borne Sister? Darest
thou presume to fancie her? Whether shall beguiling Love allure
thee, and vaine immaging hopes carrie thee? Open the eyes of thy
better understanding, and acknowledge thy selfe to bee a most
miserable man. Give way to reason, bridle thine intemperate appetites,
reforme all irregulare desires, and guide thy fancy to a place of
better direction. Resist thy wanton and lascivious will in the
beginning, and be master of thy selfe, while thou hast opportunity,
for that which thou aimest at, is neyther reasonable nor honest. And
if thou wert assured to prevaile upon this pursuite, yet thou
oughtst to avoide it, if thou hast any regard of true friendship,
and the duty therein justly required. What wilt thou do then Titus?
Fly from this inordinate affection, if thou wilt be reputed to be a
man of sensible judgement.
  After he had thus discoursed with himselfe, remembring Sophronia,
and converting his former allegations, into a quite contrarie sense,
in utter detestation of them, and guided by his idle appetite, thus he
began againe. The lawes of love are of greater force, then any other
whatsoever, they not only breake the bands of friendship, but even
those also of more divine consequence. How many times hath it bin
noted, the father to affect his own daughter, the brother his
sister, and the stepmother her son in law, matters far more monstrous,
then to see one friend love the wife of another, a case happening
continually? Moreover, I am yong, and youth is wholly subjected to the
passions of Love: is it reasonable then, that those should be bard
from me, which are fitting and pleasing to Love? Honest things, belong
to men of more years and maturity, then I am troubled withall, and I
can covet none, but onely those wherein Love is directer. The beauty
of Sophronia is worthy of generall love, and if I that am a yongman do
love her, what man living can justly reprove me for it? Shold not I
love her, because she is affianced to Gisippus? That is no matter to
me, I ought to love her, because she is a woman, and women were
created for no other occasion, but to bee Loved. Fortune had sinned in
this case, and not I, in directing my frends affection to her,
rather then any other; and if she ought to be loved, as her
perfections do challenge, Gisippus understanding that I affect her,
may be the better contented that it is I, rather then any other.
  With these, and the like crosse entercourses, he often mockt
himselfe, falling into the contrary, and then to this againe, and from
the contrary, into another kind of alteration, wasting and consuming
himselfe, not only this day and the night following, but many more
afterward, til he lost both his feeding and sleepe, so that through
debility of body, he was constrained to keepe his bed. Gisippus, who
had divers dayes noted his melancholly disposition, and now his
falling into extreamitie of sicknesse, was very sorry to behold it:
and with all meanes and inventions he could devise to use, hee both
questioned the cause of this straunge alteration, and essayed everie
way, how hee might best comfort him, never ceassing to demaunde a
reason, why he should become thus sad and sickely. But Titus after
infinite importuning (which still he answered) with idle and frivolous
excuses, farre from the truth indeede, and (to the no meane affliction
of his friend) when he was able to use no more contradictions; at
length, in sighes and teares, thus he replyed.
  Gisippus, were the Gods so wel pleased, I could more gladly yeild to
dye, then continue any longer in this wretched life, considering, that
Fortune hath brought mee to such an extremity, as proofe is now to
be made of my constancie and vertue; both which I finde conquered in
me, to my eternall confusion and shame. But my best hope is, that I
shal shortly be requited, as I have in justice deserved, namely with
death, which will be a thousand times more welcome to me, then a
loathed life, with remembrance of my base dejection in courage,
which because I can no longer conceale from thee; not without blushing
shame, I am well contented for to let thee know it.
  Then began hee to recount, the whole occasion of this straunge
conflict in him, what a maine battaile hee had with his private
thoughts, confessing that they got the victory, causing him to die
hourely for the love of Sophronia, and affirming withall, that in
due acknowledgement, how greatly hee had transgressed against the
lawes of friendship, he thought no other penance sufficient for him,
but onely death, which he willingly expected every houre, and with all
his heart would gladly bid welcome.
  Gisippus hearing this discourse, and seeing how Titus bitterly wept,
in agonies of most moving afflictions: sat an indifferent while sad
and pensive, as being wounded with affection to Sophronia, but yet
in a well-governed and temperate manner without any long delaying, hee
concluded with himselfe; that the life of his friend ought to be
accounted much more deare, then any love hee could beare unto
Sophronia: And in this resolution, the teares of Titus forcing his
eyes to flow forth like two Fountaines, thus he replyed.
  Titus, if thou hadst not neede of comfort, as plainly I see thou
hast, I would justly complaine of thee to my selfe, as of the man
who hath violated our friendship, in keeping thine extreamitie so long
time concealed from mee, which hath beene overtedious for thee to
endure. And although it might seeme to thee a dishonest case, and
therefore kept from the knowledge of thy friend, yet I plainly tell
thee, that dishonest courses (in the league of amitie) deserve no more
concealment, then those of the honestest nature. But leaving these
impertinent wandrings, let us come to them of much greater necessitie.
  If thou doest earnestly love faire Sophronia, who is betroathed
and afflanced to me, it is no matter for me to marvaile at: but I
should rather be much abashed, if thou couldst not intyrely affect
her, knowing how beautifull she is, and the nobility of her minde,
being as able to sustaine passion, as the thing pleasing is fullest of
excellence. And looke how reasonable thou fanciest Sophronia, as
unjustly thou complainest of thy fortune, in ordaining her to be my
wife, although thou doest not speake it expresly: as being of opinion,
that thou mightst with more honesty love her, if she were any
others, then mine. But if thou art so wise, as I have alwayes held
thee to be, tell me truely upon thy faith, to whom could Fortune
better guide her, and for which thou oughtest to be more thankfull,
then in bestowing her on me? Any other that had enjoyed her,
although thy love were never so honest, yet he would better affect her
himselfe, then for thee, which thou canst not (in like manner) looke
for from me, if thou doest account me for thy friend, and as
constant now as ever.
  Reason is my warrant in this case, because I cannot remember,
since first our entrance into friendship, that ever I enjoyed any
thing, but it was as much thine, as mine. And if our affaires had such
an equall course before, as otherwise they could not subsist; must
they not now be kept in the same manner? Can any thing more
perticularly appertaine to me, but thy right therein is as absolute as
mine? I know not how thou maist esteeme of my friendship, if in any
thing concerning my selfe, I can plead my priviledge to be above
thine. True it is, that Sophronia is affianced to me, and I love her
dearely, daily expecting when our nuptials shall be celebrated. But
seeing thou doest more fervently affect her, as being better able to
Judge of the perfections, remaining in so excellent a creature as
she is, then I doe: assure thy selfe, and beleeve it constantly,
that she shall come to my bed, not as my wife but onely thine. And
therefore leave these despairing thoughts, shake off this cloudy
disposition, reassume thy former joviall spirit, with comfort and what
else can content thee: in expectation of the happy houre, and the just
requitall of thy long, loving, and worthy friendship, which I have
alwayes valued equall with mine owne life.
  Titus hearing this answer of Gisippus, looke how much the sweet hope
of that which he desired gave him pleasure, as much both duty and
reason affronted him with shame; setting before his eyes this du
consideration, that the greater the liberality of Gisippus was,
farre greater and unreasonable it appeared to him in disgrace, if
hee should unmannerly accept it. Wherefore, being unable to refrain
from teares, and with such strength as his weaknesse would give leave,
thus he replyed.
  Gisippus, thy bounty and firme friendship suffereth me to see
apparantly, what (on my part) is no more then ought to be done. All
the Gods forbid, that I should receive as mine, her whom they have
adjudged to be thine, by true respect of birth and desert. For if they
had thought her a wife fit for me, doe not thou or any else imagine,
that ever she should have beene granted to thee. Use freely
therefore thine owne election, and the gracious favour wherewith
they have blessed thee: leave me to consume away in teares, a mourning
garment by them appointed for me, as being a man unworthy of such
happinesse; for either I shall conquer this disaster, and that wil
be my crowne, or else will vanquish me, and free me from all paine:
whereto Gisippus presently thus answered.
  Worthy Titus, if our amity would give me so much licence, as but
to contend with my selfe, in pleasing thee with such a thing as I
desire, and could also induce thee therein to be directed: it is the
onely end whereat I aime, and am resolved to pursue it. In which
regard, let my perswasions prevaile with thee, and thereto I conjure
thee, by the faith of a friend, suffer me to use mine authority,
when it extendeth both to mine owne honour, and thy good, for I will
have Sophronia to bee onely thine. I know sufficiently, how farre
the forces of love doe extend in power, and am not ignorant also,
how not once or twice, but very many times, they have brought lovers
to unfortunate ends, as now I see thee very neere it, and so farre
gone, as thou art not able to turne backe againe, nor yet to conquer
thine owne teares, but proceeding on further in this extremity, thou
wilt be left vanquished, sinking under the burthen of loves
tyrannicall oppression, and then my turne is next to follow thee.
And therefore, had I no other reason to love thee, yet because thy
life is deare to me, in regard of mine owne depending thereon; I stand
the neerer thereto obliged. For this cause, Sophronia must and shal be
thine, for thou canst not find any other so conforme to thy fancy:
albeit I who can easily convert my liking to another wife, but never
to have the like friend againe, shall hereby content both thee, and my
selfe.
  Yet perhaps this is not a matter so easily done, or I to expresse
such liberality therein, if wives were to be found with the like
difficultie, as true and faithfull friends are: but, (being able to
recover another wife) though never such a worthy friend; I rather
chuse to change, I doe not say loose her (for in giving her to thee, I
loose her not my selfe) and by this change, make that which was good
before, tenne times better, and so preserve both thee and my selfe. To
this end therefore, if my prayers and perswasions have any power
with thee, I earnestly entreat thee, that, by freeing thy selfe out of
this affliction, thou wilt (in one instant) make us both truely
comforted, and dispose thy selfe (living in hope) to embrace that
happinesse, which the fervent love thou bearest to Sophronia, hath
justly deserved.
  Now although Titus was confounded with shame, to yeeld consent, that
Sophronia should be accepted as his wife, and used many obstinate
resistances: yet notwithstanding, Love pleading on the one side
powerfully, and Gisippus as earnestly perswading on the other, thus he
answered. Gisippus, I know not what to say, neither how to behave my
selfe in this election, concerning the fitting of mine contentment, or
pleasing thee in thy importunate perswasion. But seeing thy liberality
is so great, as it surmounteth all reason or shame in me, I will yeeld
obedience to thy more then noble nature. Yet let this remaine for
thine assurance, that I doe not receive this grace of thine, as a
man not sufficiently understanding, how I enjoy from thee, not onely
her whom most of all I doe affect, but also doe hold my very life of
thee. Grant then you greatest Gods (if you be the Patrones of this
mine unexpected felicitie) that with honor and due respect, I may
hereafter make apparantly knowne: how highly I acknowledge this thy
wonderfull favour, in being more mercifull to me, then I could be to
my selfe.
  For abridging of all further circumstances, answered Gisippus, and
for easier bringing this matter to full effect, I hold this to be
our onely way. It is not unknowne to thee, how after much discourse
had between my kindred, and those belonging to Sophronia, the
matrimoniall conjunction was fully agreed on, and therefore, if now
I shall flye off, and say, I will not accept thee as my wife: great
scandall would arise thereby, and make much trouble among our friends,
which could not be greatly displeasing to me, if that were the way
to make her thine. But I rather stand in feare, that if I forsake
her in such peremptory sort, her kinred and friends will bestow her on
some other, and so she is utterly lost, without all possible meanes of
recovery. For prevention therefore of all sinister accidents, I thinke
it best, (if thy opinion jumpe with mine) that I still pursue the
busines, as already I have begun, having thee alwaies in my company,
as my dearest friend and onely associate. The nuptials being performed
with our friends, in secret manner at night (as we can cunningly
enough contrive it) thou shalt have her maiden honour in bed, even
as if she were thine owne wife. Afterward, in apt time and place, we
will publiquely make knowne what is done; if they take it well, we
will be as jocond as they: if they frowne and waxe offended, the
deed is done, over-late to be recalled, and so perforce they must rest
contented.
  You may well imagine, this advise was not a little pleasing to
Titus, wherupon Gisippus received home Sophronia into his house,
with publike intention to make her his wife, according as was the
custome then observed, and Titus being perfectly recovered, was
present at the Feast very ceremonially observed. When night was
come, the Ladies and Gentlewomen conducted Sophronia to the
Bride-Chamber, where they left her in her Husbands bed, and then
departed all away. The Chamber wherein Titus used to lodge, joyned
close to that of Gisippus, for their easier accesse each to the other,
at all times whensoever they pleased, and Gisippus being alone in
the Bride-Chamber, preparing as if he were comming to bed:
extinguishing the light, he went softly to Titus, willing him to goe
to bed to his wife. Which Titus hearing, overcome with shame and
feare, became repentant, and denyed to goe. But Gisippus, being a true
intyre friend indeed, and confirming his words with actions: after a
little lingring dispute, sent him to the Bride, and so soone as he was
in the bed with her, taking Sophronia gently by the hand, softly he
moved the usuall question to her, namely, if she were willing to be
his wife.
  She beleeving verily that he was Gisippus, modestly answered. Sir, I
have chosen you to be my Husband, reason requires then, that I
should be willing to be your wife. At which words, a costly Ring,
which Gisippus used daily to weare, he put upon her finger, saying.
With this Ring, I confesse my selfe to be your Husband, and bind you
(for ever) my Spouse and Wife; no other kind of marriage was
observed in those dayes, and so he continued all the night with her,
she never suspecting him to be any other then Gisippus, and thus was
the marriage consumated, betweene Titus and Sophronia, albeit the
friends (on either side) thought otherwise.
  By this time, Publius, the father of Titus, was departed out of this
mortall life, and letters came to Athens, that with all speed he
should returne to Rome, to take order for occasions there concerning
him; wherefore he concluded with Gisippus about his departure, and
taking Sophronia thither with him, which was no easie matter to be
done, until it were first known, how occasions had bin caried among
them. Wherupon, calling her one day into her Chamber, they told her
entirely, how all had past, which Titus confirmed substantially, by
such direct passages betweene themselves, as exceeded all
possibility of denyall, and moved in her much admiration; looking each
on other very discontentedly, she heavily weeping and lamenting, and
greatly complaining of Gisippus, for wronging her so unkindly.
  But before any further noyse was made in the house, shee went to her
Father, to whom, as also to her Mother, shee declared the whole
trecherie, how much both they and their other friends were wronged
by Gisippus, avouching her selfe to be the wife of Titus, and not of
Gisippus, as they supposed. These newes were highly displeasing to the
Father of Sophronia, who with hir kinred, as also those of Gisippus,
made great complaints to the Senate, very dangerous troubles and
commotions arising daily betweene them, drawing both Gisippus and
Sophronia into harsh reports; he being generally reputed, not onely
worthy of all bitter reproofe, but also the severest punishment.
Neverthelesse, hee maintained publikely what he had done, avouching it
for an act both of honour and honestie, wherewith Sophronia's
friends had no reason to bee offended, but rather to take it in very
thankfull part, having married a man of farre greater worth and
respect, than himselfe was, or could be.
  On the other side, Titus hearing these uncivill acclamations, became
much moved and provoked at them, but knowing it was a custome observed
among the Greeks, to be so much the more hurried away with rumours and
threatnings, as lesse they finde them to be answered, and when they
finde them, shew themselves not onely humble enough, but rather as
base men, and of no courage; he resolved with himselfe, that their
braveries were no longer to be enclured, without some bold and manly
answere. And having a Romane heart, as also an Athenian understanding,
by politique perswasions, he caused the kinred of Gisippus and
Sophronia, to be assembled in a Temple, and himselfe comming
thither, accompanied with none but Gisippus onely, he began to deliver
his minde before them all, in this manner following.
  "Many Philosophers doe hold opinion, that the actions performed by
mortall men, doe proceed from the disposing and ordination of the
immortall gods. Whereupon some doe maintaine, that things which be
done, or never are to be done, proceed of necessity: howbeit some
other doe hold, that this necessity is onely referred to things
done. Both which opinions (if they be considered with mature judgment)
doe most manifestly approve, that they who reprehend any thing which
is irrevocable, doe nothing else but shew themselves, as if they
were wiser then the Gods, who we are to beleeve, that with
perpetuall reason, and void of any error, doe dispose and governe both
us, and all our actions; In which respect, how foolish and
beast-like a thing it is, presumptuously to checke or controule
their operations, you may very easily consider; and likewise, how
justly they deserve condigne punishment, who suffer themselves to be
transported in so temerarious a manner.
  "In which notorious transgression, I understand you all to be
guiltie, if common fame speake truely, concerning the marriage of my
selfe and Sophronia, whom you imagined as given to Gisippus; for you
never remember that it was so ordained from eternitie, shee to be
mine, and no Wife for Gisippus, as at this instant is made manifest by
full effect. But because the kinde of speaking, concerning divine
providence, and intention of the Gods, may seeme a difficult matter to
many, and somewhat hard to bee understood: I am content to presuppose,
that they meddle not with any thing of ours, and will onely stay my
selfe on humane reasons, and in this nature of speech, I shall be
enforced to doe two things, quite contrary to my naturall disposition.
The one is, to speake somewhat in praise and commendation of my selfe:
And the other, justly to blame and condemne other mens seeming
estimation. But because both in the one and the other, I doe not
intend to swerve a jot from the Truth, and the necessitie of the
present case in question, doth not onely require, but also command it,
you must pardon what I am to say.
  "Your complaints doe proceed, rather from furie then reason, and
(with continuall murmurings, or rather seditions) slander,
backe-bite and condemne Gisippus, because (of his owne free will and
noble disposition) hee gave her to be my Wife, whom (by your election)
was made his; wherein I account him most highly praiseworthy: and
the reasons inducing mee thereunto, are these. The first, because he
hath performed no more then what a friend ought to doe: And the
second, in regard he hath dealt more wisely, then you did. I have no
intention, to display (at this present) what the sacred law of
amitie requireth, to be acted by one friend towards another, it
shall suffice mee onely to informe you, that the league of
friendship (farre stronger then the bond of bloud and kinred)
confirmed us in our election of either at the first, to be true,
loyall and perpetuall friends; whereas that of kinred, commeth onely
by fortune or chance. And therefore if Gisippus affected more my life,
then your benevolence, I being ordained for his friend, as I
confesse my selfe to be; none of you ought to wonder thereat, in
regard it is no matter of mervaile.
  "But let us come now to our second reason, wherein, with farre
greater instance I will shew you, that he hath (in this occasion)
shewen himselfe to be much more wise, then you did, or have done:
because it plainely appeareth, that you have no feeling of the
divine providence, and much lesse knowledge in the effects of
friendship. I say, that your foresight, councell and deliberation,
gave Sophronia to Gisippus, a yong Gentleman, and a Philosopher:
Gisippus likewise hath given her to a yong Gentleman, and a
Philosopher, as himselfe is. Your discretion gave her to an
Athenian; the gift of Gisippus, is to a Romaine. Yours, to a Noble and
honest man; that of Gisippus, to one more Noble by race, and no
lesse honest then himselfe. Your judgement hath bestowed her on a rich
young man: Gisippus hath given her to one farre richer. Your
wisedome gave her to one who not onely loved her not, but also one
that had no desire to know her: Gisippus gave her unto him, who, above
all felicitie else, yea, more than his owne life, both entirely
loved and desired her.
  "Now, for proofe of that which I have said, to be most true and
infallible, and that his deede deserveth to bee much more commended
then yours, let it bee duely considered on, point by point. That I
am a young man and a Philosophe, as Gisippus is; my yeares, face,
and studies, without seeking after further proofe, doth sufficiently
testifie: One selfe-same age is both his and mine, in like quality
of course have wee lived and studied together. True it is, that hee is
an Athenian, and I am a Romaine. But if the glory of these two
Cities should bee disputed on: then let mee tell you, that I am of a
Citie that is Francke and Free, and hee is of a Tributarie Citie. I
say that I am of a Citie, which is chiefe Lady and Mistresse of the
whole World and hee is of a Citie subject to mine. I say that I am
of a Citie, that is strong in Arms, Empire, and studies: whereas his
can commend it selfe but for Studies onely. And although you seeme
heere to bee a Scholler, in appearance meane enough, yet I am not
descended of the simplest stocke in Rome.
  "My houses and publique places, are filled with the ancient
Statues of my Predecessors, and the Annales recorde the infinite
triumphs of the Quintij, brought home by them into the Romane
Capitole, and yeares cannot eate out the glory of our name, but it
will live and flourish to all posteritie.
  "Modest shame makes me silent in my wealth and possessions, my minde
truely telling mee, that honest contented povertie, is the most
ancient and richest inheritance, of our best and Noblest Romanes,
which opinion, if it bee condemned by the understanding of the
ignorant multitude, and heerein wee shall give way to them by
preferring riches and worldly treasures, then I can say that I am
aboundantly provided, not as ambitious, or greedily covetous, but
sufficiently stored with the goods of Fortune.
  "I know well enough, that you held it as a desired benefit, Gisippus
being a Native of your Citie, should also be linked to you by
alliance: but I know no reason, why I should not be as neere and deere
to you at Rome, as if I lived with you heere. Considering, when I am
there, you have a ready and well wishing friend, to stead you in all
beneficiall and serviceable offices, as carefull and provident for
your support, yea, a protectour of you and your affaires, as well
publique as particular. Who is it then, not transported with
partiall affection, that can (in reason) more approve your act, then
that which my friend Gisippus hath done? Questionlesse, not any one,
as I thinke. Sophronia is married to Titus Quintus Fulvius, a Noble
Gentleman by antiquitie, a rich Citizen of Rome, and (which is above
all) the friend of Gisippus: therfore, such a one as thinkes it
strange, is sorrie for it, or would not have it to be; knoweth not
what he doth.
  "Perhaps there may be some, who will say, they doe not so much
complain, that Sophronia is the wife to Titus; but of the manner
whereby it was done, as being made his wife secretly, and by theft,
not any of her parents, kinred or friends called thereto: no, nor so
much as advertised thereof. Why Gentlemen, this is no miraculous
thing, but heeretofore hath oftentimes happened, and therefore no
noveltie.
  "I cannot count unto you, how many there have beene, who (against
the will of their Fathers) have made choice of their husbands; nor
them that have fled away with their lovers into strange Countries,
being first friends, before they were wives:
  nor of them who have sooner made testimonie of marriage by their
bellies, then those ceremonies due to matrimonie, or publication
thereof by the tongue; so that meere necessity and constraint, hath
forced the parents to yeeld consent: which hath not so happened to
Sophronia, for she was given to me by Gisippus discreetly, honestly,
and orderly.
  "Others also may say, that shee is married to him, to whom it
belonged not to marrie her. These complaints are foolish, and
womanish, proceeding from verie little, or no consideration at all. In
these daies of ours, Fortune makes no use of novell or inconsiderate
meanes, whereby to bring matters to their determined effect. Why
should it offend me, if a Cobler, rather than a Scholler, hath ended a
businesse of mine, either in private or publique, if the end be well
made? Well I may take order, if the Cobler bee indiscreet, that hee
meddle no more with any matters of mine, yet I ought, in courtesie, to
thanke him for that which hee did.
  "In like manner, if Gisippus hath married Sophronia well, it is
foolish and superfluous, to finde fault with the manner hee used in
her marriage. If you mislike his course in the case, beware of him
hereafter, yet thanke him because it is no worse. "Neverthelesse,
you are to understand, that I sought not by fraud or deceit, (but
onely by witte) any opportunitie, whereby any way to sullie the
honestie and cleere Nobilitie of your bloud, in the person of
Sophronia: for although in secret I made her my wife, yet I came not
as an enemie, to take her perforce, nor (like a ravisher) wronged
her virginitie, to blemish your no. titles, or despising your
alliance. But fervently, enflamed by her bright beauty, and incited
also by her unparalleld vertues, I shaped my course; knowing well
enough, that if I tooke the ordinarie way of wiving, by moving the
question to you, I should never winne your consent, as fearing, lest I
would take her with me to Rome, and so conveigh out of your sight, a
jewell by you so much esteemed, as she is.
  "For this, and no other reason, did I presume to use the secret
cunning which now is openly made knowne unto you: and Gisippus
disposed himselfe thereunto, which otherwise hee never determined to
have done, in contracting the marriage for me, and shee consenting
to me in his name.
  Moreover, albeit most earnestly I affected her, I sought to
procure your union, not like a lover, but as a true husband, nor would
I immodestly touch her, till first (as her selfe can testifie) with
the words becomming wedlocke, and the Ring also I espoused her,
demanding of her, if shee would accept mee as her husband, and shee
answered mee, with her full consent. Wherein, if it may seeme that
shee was deceived, I am not any way to be blamed, but she, for not
demanding, what, and who I was.
  This then is the great evill, the great offence, and the great
injurie committed by my friend Gisippus, and by mee as a Lover: that
Sophronia is secretly become the wife of Titus Quintus Fulvius. And
for this cause, like spies you watch him, threaten him daily, as if
you intended to teare him in pieces. What could you doe more, if hee
had given her to a man of the very vilest condition? to a villaine, to
a slave? What prisons? what fetters? Or what torments are sufficient
for this fact? But leaving these frivolous matters, let us come to
discourse of more moment, and better beseeming your attention.
  The time is come, that I may no longer continue heere, because
Publius my Father is dead, and I must needs returne to Rome, wherefore
being minded to take Sophronia thither with mee, I was the more
willing to acquaint you therewith, as also what else I have said,
which otherwise had still beene concealed from you. Nor can you but
take it in good part, if you be wise, and rest well contented with
what is done: considering, if I had any intention eyther to deceive,
or otherwise wrong you, I could have basely left her, and made a
scorne both of her and you, you not having any power to stay mee
heere. But the Gods will never permitte that any couragious Romane,
should ever conceive so vile and degenerate a thought.
  Sophronia, by ordination of the Gods, by force of humane Lawes,
and by the laudable consent of my friend Gisippus, as also the
powerfull command of Love is mine. But you perchance, imagining your
selves to be wiser then the Gods, or any other men whatsoever; may
thinke ill of it, and more brutishly then beasts, condemne their
working in two kinds, which would be offensive to mee. The one is,
your detaining of Sophronia from mee, of whom you have no power, but
what pleaseth mee. The other, is your bitter threatnings against
Gisippus my deare friend, to whom you are in duty obliged. In both
which cases, how unreasonablie soever you carrie your selves, I intend
not at this time to presse any further. But rather let mee counsell
you like a friend, to cease your hatred and disdaine, and suffer
Sophronia to be delivered mee, that I may depart contentedly from
you as a kinsman, and (being absent) remaine your friend: assuring
you, that whether what is done shall please or displease you, if you
purpose to proceed any otherwise: I will take Gisippus along with me,,
and when I come to Rome, take such sure order, to fetch her hence, who
in justice is mine, even in meere despight of you all, and then you
shall feele by sound experience, how powerfull is the just indignation
of the wronged Romanes."
  When Titus had thus concluded his Oration, he arose with a sterne
and discontented countenance, and tooke Gisippus by the hand,
plainly declaring, that he made small account of all the rest that
were in the Temple; and shaking his head at them, rather menaced
then any other wise seemed to care for them.
  They which tarried, when they were gone, considering partly on the
reasons alleadged by Titus, and partly terrified by his latest
speeches; became induced, to like well of his alliance and amitie,
as (with common consent) they concluded: that it was much better to
accept Titus as their kinsman (seeing Gisippus had made manifest
refusall thereof) than to lose the kinred of the one, and procure
the hatred of the other. Wherefore they went to seeke Titus, and
said unto him, they were very well contented that Sophronia should bee
his Wife, hee their deare and loving kinsman, and Gisippus to
remaine their much respected friend. And embracing one another, making
a solemne feast, such as in the like cases is necessarilie required,
they departed from him, presently sending Sophronia to him, who making
a vertue of necessity, converted her love (in short time after) to
Titus, in as effectuall manner, as formerly shee had done to Gisippus,
and so was sent away with him to Rome, where she was received and
welcommed with very great honour.
  Gisippus remaining still at Athens, in small regard of eyther theirs
or his owne friends: not long after by meanes of sundry troublesome
Citizens; and partialities happening among the common people, was
banished from Athens, and hee, as also all his familie, condemned to
perpetuall exile: during which tempestuous time, Gisippus was become
not onely wretchedly poore, but wandred abroad as a common begger;
in which miserable condition he travelled to Rome, to try if Titus
would take any acknowledgement of him. Understanding that he was
living, and one most respected among the Romanes, as being a great
Commander and a Senator: he enquired for the place where hee dwelt,
and going to be neere about his house, stayed there so long, till
Titus came home, yet not daring to manifest himselfe, or speake a word
to him, in regard of his poore and miserable estate, but strove to
have him see him, to the end, that hee might acknowledge and call
him by his name; notwithstanding, Titus passed by him without either
speech, or looking on him: Which when Gisippus perceived, and making
full account, that (at the least) he would remember him, in regard
of former courtesies, done to him: confounded with griefe and
desperate thoughtes, hee departed thence, never meaning to see him any
more.
  Now, in regard it was night, he having eaten nothing all that day,
nor provided of one penny to buy him any food, wandred he knew not
whether, desiring rather to die than live; hee came at last to an
old ruinous part of the City, over-spred with briers and bushes, and
seldome resorted unto by any: where finding a hollow Cave or vault, he
entred into it, meaning there to weare away the comfortlesse night,
and laying himselfe downe on the hard ground, almost starke naked, and
without any warme garments, over-wearied with weeping, at last he fell
into a sleepe.
  It fortuned that two men, who had beene abroad the same night,
committing thefts and robberies together; somwhat very earlie in the
morning, came to the same Cave, intending there to share and divide
their booties, and difference happening betweene them about it, hee
that was the stronger person, slew there the other, and then went away
with the whole purchase.
  Gisippus having heard and seene the manner of this accident, was not
a little joyfull, because he had now found a way to death, without
laying any violent hand on himselfe; for life being very loathsome
to him, it was his only desire to die. Wherfore, he would not budge
from the place, but taried there so long, till the Sergeants and
Officers of justice (by information of him that did the deede) came
thither well attended, and furiously ledde Gisippus thence to prison.
  Being examined concerning this bloudy fact, he plainly confessed,
that hee himselfe had committed the murder, and afterward would not
depart from the Cave, but purposely stayed for apprehension, as
being truely toucht with compunction for so foule an offence: upon
which eremptorie confession, Marcus Varro being then Praetor, gave
sentence that he should be crucified on a Crosse, as it was the usuall
manner of death in those dayes. Titus chancing to come at the same
time into Praetorium, advisedly beholding the face of the condemned
man (as hee sate upon the bench) knew him to bee Gysippus, not a
little wondring at this strange accident, the povertie of his
estate, and what occasion should bring him thither, especially in
the questioning for his life, and before the Tribunall of justice.
  His soule earnestly thirsting, by all possible meanes to helpe and
defend him, and no other course could now be taken for safetie of
his life, but by accusing himselfe, to excuse and cleare the other
of the crime: hee stept from off the judgement bench, and crouding
through the throng to the Barre, called out to the Praetor in this
manner. Marcus Varro, recall thy sentence given on the condemned man
sent away, because hee is truely guiltlesse and innocent: With one
bloudie blow have I offended the Gods, by killing that wretched man,
whom the Serjeants found this morning slaine, wherefore Noble Praetor,
let no innocent mans bloud be shed for it, but onely mine that have
offended.
  Marcus Varro stood like a man confounded with admiration, being very
sorrie, for that which the whole assistants had both seene and
heard, yet hee could not (with honour) desist from what must needs
be done, but would performe the Lawes severe injunction. And sending
for condemned Gisippus backe againe, in the presence of Titus, thus he
spake to him. How becamest thou so madly incensed, as (without any
torment inflicted on thee) to confesse an offence by thee never
committed? Art thou wearie of thy life? Thou chargest thy selfe
falsly, to be the person who this last night murdered the man in the
Cave, and there is another that voluntarily also doth confesse his
guiltinesse.
  Gisippus lifting up his eyes, and perceiving it was Titus, conceived
immediately, that he had done this onely for his deliverance, as one
that remembred him sufficiently, and would not be ungratefull for
former kindnesses received. Wherefore, the teares flowing abundantly
down his cheekes, he said to the Judge Varro, it was none but I that
murdered the man, wherefore, I commiserate the case of this Noble
Gentleman Titus, who speakes now too late for the safety of my life.
Titus on the other side, said. Noble Praetor, this man (as thou seest)
is a stranger heere, and was found without any weapon, fast asleepe by
the dead body: thou mayst then easily perceive, that meerely the
miserable condition wherein he is, hath made him desperate, and he
would make mine offence the occasion of his death. Absolve him, and
send me to the Crosse, for none but I have deserved to die for this
fact.
  Varro was amazed, to observe with what earnest instance each of them
strove to excuse the other, which halfe perswaded him in his soule,
that they were both guiltlesse. And as he was starting-up, with full
intent to acquaint them: a yong man, who had stood there all this
while, and observed the hard pleading on either side; he crowded
into the Barre, being named Publius Ambustus, a fellow of lewd life,
and utterly out of hopes, as being debauched in all his fortunes,
and knowne among the Romaines to be a notorious theefe, who verily had
committed the murder. Well knew his conscience, that none of them were
guilty of the crime, wherewith each so wilfully charged himselfe:
being therefore truely toucht with remorse, he stept before Marcus
Varro, saying.
  Honourable Praetor, mine owne horrid and abominable actions, have
induced me thus to intrude my selfe, for clearing the strict
contention betweene these two persons. And questionlesse, some God
or greater power, hath tormented my wretched soule, and so
compunctually solicited me, as I cannot chuse, but make open
confession of my sinne. Here therefore, I doe apparantly publish, that
neither of these men is guilty of the offence, wherewith so wilfully
each chargeth himselfe. I am the villaine, who this morning murdered
the man in the Cave, one of no greater honesty then my selfe, and
seeing this poore man lie there sleeping, while we were dividing the
stolne booties betweene us; I slew my Companyon, because I would be
the sole possessor. As for Noble Lord Titus, he had no reason thus
to accuse himselfe, because [he] is a man of no such base quality: let
them both then be delivered, and inflict the sentence of death on me.
  Octavius Caesar, to whom tydings was brought of this rare
accident, commanding them al three to be brought before him; would
needs understand the whole History, in every particular as all had
happened, which was substantially related to him. Whereupon,
Octavius pleased them all three: the two noble friendes, because
they were innocent, and the third, for openly revealing the very
truth.
  Titus tooke home with him his friend Gisippus, and after he had
sharpely reproved him for his distrust, and cold credence of his
friendship: he brought him to Sophronia, who welcomed him as lovingly,
as if he had bin her naturall borne brother, bemoaning his hard and
disastrous fortune, and taking especiall care, to convert all passed
distresses, into as happy and comfortable a change, fitting him with
garments and attendants, beseeming his degree both in Nobility and
vertue. Titus, out of his honourable bounty, imparted halfe his
lands and rich possessions to him, and afterward gave him in marriage,
his owne Sister, a most beautifull Lady, named Fulvia, saying to him
beside. My deare friend Gisippus, it remaineth now in thine owne
election, whether thou wilt live here still with me, or returne
backe to Athens, with all the wealth which I have bestowed on thee.
But Gisippus, being one way constrayned, by the sentence of banishment
from his native City, and then againe, in regard of the constant love,
which he bare to so true and thankefull friend as Titus was: concluded
to live there as a loyall Roman, where he with his Fulvia, and Titus
with his faire Sophronia, lived long after together in one and the
same house, augmenting daily (if possible it might be) their amity
beyond all other equalizing.
  A most sacred thing therefore is (ordiall amity, worthy not onely of
singuler reverence, but also to be honoured with eternall
commendation, as being the onely wise Mother of all magnificence and
honesty, the Sister of Charity and Gratitude, the enemy to hatred
and avarice, and which is alwayes ready (without attending to be
requested) to extend all vertuous actions to others, which she would
have done to her selfe. Her rare and divine effects, in these contrary
times of ours, are not to be found between two such persons, which
is a mighty fault, and greatly checketh the miserable covetousnesse of
men, who respecting nothing but onely their particular benefit; have
banished true Amity, to the utmost confines of the whole earth, and
sent her into perpetuall exile.
  What love, what wealth, or affinity of kindred, could have made
Gisippus feele (even in the intyrest part of his soule) the fervent
compassion, the teares, the sighes of Titus, and with such efficacy as
plainely appeared: to make him consent, that his faire elected Spouse,
by him so dearely esteemed, should become the wife of his Companion,
but onely the precious league of Amity?
  What Lawes, what threatnings, what feares, could cause the yong
armes of Gisippus to abstaine embraces, betaking himselfe to
solitary walkes, and obscure places, when in his owne bedde, he
might have enjoyed so matchlesse a beauty (who perhaps desired it so
much as himselfe) but onely the gracious title of Amity? What
greatnesse, what merits or precedence, could cause Gisippus not to
care, for the losse of his kindred, those of Sophronia, yea, of
Sophronia her selfe, not respecting the dishonest murmurings of base
minded people, their vile and contemptible language, scornes and
mockeries, and all to content and satisfie a friend, but onely
Divine Amity?
  Come now likewise to the other side. What occasions could compell
Noble Titus, so promptly and deliberatly, to procure his owne death,
to rescue his friend from the crosse, and inflict the pain and shame
upon himselfe, pretending not [to] see or know Gisippus at all, had it
not bin wrought by powerfull Amity? What cause else could make Titus
so liberall, in dividing (with such willingnesse) the larger part of
his patrimony to Gisippus, when Fortune had dispossest him of his
owne, but onely heaven-borne Amity? What else could have procured
Titus, without any further dilation, feare or suspition, to give his
Sister Fulvia in marriage to Gisippus, when he saw him reduced to such
extreame poverty, disgrace and misery, but onely infinite Amity? To
what end doe men care then, to covet and procure great multitudes of
kinred, store of brethren, numbers of children, and to encrease
(with their owne monyes) plenty of servants: when by the least losse
and dammage happening, they forget all duty to Father, Brother, or
Master? Amity and true friendship is of a quite contrary nature,
satisfying (in that sacred bond) the obligation due to all degrees,
both of parentage, and all alliences else.
                    THE TENTH DAY, THE NINTH NOVELL

       DECLARING WHAT AN HONOURABLE VERTUE COURTESIE IS, IN THEM
                   THAT TRUELY KNOW HOW TO USE THEM

  Saladine, the great Soldan of Babylon, in the habite of a
Merchant, was honourably received and welcommed, into the house of
Signior Thorello d'Istria. Who travelling to the Holy Land, prefixed a
certaine time to his Wife, for his returne back to her againe,
wherein, if he failed, it was lawfull for her to take another Husband.
By clouding himselfe in the disguise of a Faulkner, the Soldan tooke
notice of him, and did him many great honours. Afterward, Thorello
falling sicke, by Magicall Art, he was conveighed in one night to
Pavia, when his Wife was to be married on the morrow: where making
himselfe knowne to her, all was disappointed, and shee went home
with him to his owne house.

  Adam Philomena having concluded her discourse, and the rare
acknowledgement, which Titus made of his esteemed friend Gisippus,
extolled justly as it deserved by all the Company: the King, reserving
the last office to Dioneus (as it was at the first granted him)
began to speake thus. Without all question to the contrary (worthy
Ladies) nothing can be more truely said, then what Madame Philomena,
hath delivered, concerning Amity, and her complaint in the
conclusion of her Novell, is not without great reason, to see it so
slenderly reverenced and respected (now a dayes) among all men. But if
we had met here in duty onely for correcting the abuses of iniquity,
and the malevolent courses of this preposterous age; I could proceed
further in this just cause of complaint. But because our end aimeth at
matters of other nature, it commeth to my memory to tel you of a
History, which (perhaps) may seeme somewhat long, but altogether
pleasant, concerning a magnificent act of great Saladine: to the
end, that by observing those things which you shall heare in my
Novell, if we cannot (by reason of our manifold imperfections)
intirely compasse the amity of any one; yet (at least) we may take
delight, in stretching our kindnesse (in good deeds) so farre as we
are able, in hope one day after, some worthy reward will ensue
thereon, as thereto justly appertaining.
  Let me tell you then, that (as it is afermed by many) in the time of
the Emperour Frederick, first of that name, the Christians, for the
better recovery of the holy land, resolved to make a generall voyage
over the Seas. Which being understood by Saladine, a very worthy
Prince, and then Soldan of Babylon: he concluded with himselfe, that
he would (in person) goe see, what preparation the Christian
Potentates made for this Warre, that hee might the better provide
for himselfe. Having setled all things orderly in Aegypt for the
busines, and making an outward appearance, as if he purposed a
pilgrimage to Mecha: he set onward on his journey, habited like a
Merchant, attended onely with two of his most Noble and wisest
Baschaes, and three waiting servants.
  When he had visited many Christian Provinces, and was riding
thorow Lombardle, to passe the mountaines; it fortuned, in his
journeying from Millaine to Pavia, and the day being very farre spent,
so that night hastened speedily on him: he met with a Gentleman, named
Signior Thorella d'Istria, but dwelling at Pavia, who with his men,
Hawkes and Hounds, went to a house of his, seated in a singular place,
and on the River of Ticinum. Signior Thorello seeing such men making
towardes him, presently imagined, that they were some
Gentle-strangers, and such hee desired to respect with honor.
  Wherefore, Saladine demanding of one of Thorelloes men, how farre
(as then) it was to Pavia, and whether they might reach thither by
such an houre, as would admit their entrance into the Citty:
Thorello would not suffer his servant to returne the answer, but
replyed thus himselfe. Sir (quoth he) you cannot reach Pavia, but
night will abridge you of any entraunce there. I beseech you then Sir,
answered Saladine, favour us so much (because we are all strangers
in these parts) as to tell us where we may be well lodged. That shal I
Sir, said Thorello, and very gladly too.
  Even at the instant Sir, as we met with you, I had determined in
my mind, to send one of my servants somewhat neere to Pavia, about a
businesse concerning my selfe: he shall go along with you, and conduct
you to a place, where you will be very well entertayned. So,
stepping to him, who was of best discretion amongst his men, he gave
order to him what should bee done, and sent him with them. Himselfe,
making hast by a farre neerer way, caused Supper to be prepared in
worthy manner, and the Tables to be covered in his Garden; and all
things being in good readinesse, he sate downe at his doore, to attend
the comming of his guests. The Servingman, discoursing with the
Gentlemen on divers occasions, guided them by such unusuall
passages, as (before they could discerne it) he brought them to his
Masters house; where so soone as Thorello saw them arrived, he went
forth to meet them, assuring them all of most hearty welcome.
  Saladine, who was a man of accute understanding, did well
perceive, that this Knight Thorello misdoubted his going with him,
if (when he met him) hee should have invited him; and therefore,
because he would not be denied, of entertaining him into his house; he
made choise of this kinde and honourable course, which caused him to
returne this answer. Gentle Sir, if courtesie in one man to another,
do deserve condemning, then may we justly complaine of you, who
meeting us upon the way, which you have shortened by your kindnesse,
and which we are no way able to deserve, wee are constrained to
accept, taking you to bee the mirrour of courtesie. Thorello being a
Knight of ingenious apprehension, and wel languaged, replyed thus.
  Gentlemen; this courtesie (seeing you terme it so) which you receive
of me, in regard of that justly belonging to you, as your faces do
sufficiently informe mee, is matter of very slender account. But
assuredly out of Pavia, you could not have any lodging, deserving to
be termed good. And therefore let it not bee displeasing to you, if
you have a little gone forth of the common rode way, to have your
entertainment somewhat bettered, as many travaylers are easily induced
to do.
  Having thus spoken, all the people of the house shewed themselves,
in serviceable manner to the Gentlemen, taking their horses as they
dismounted, and Thorello himselfe, conducted the three Gentlemen, into
three severall faire Chambers, which in costly maner were prepared for
them, where their boots were pluckt off, faire Napkins with Manchets
lay ready, and delicate Wines to refresh their wearied spirits, much
prety conference being entercoursed, til Supper time invited them
thence.
  Saladine, and they that were with him, spake the Latine tongue
very readily, by which meanes they were the better understoode; and
Thorello seemed (in their judgement) to bee the most gracious,
compleate, and best spoken Gentleman, as ever they met with in all
their journey. It appeared also (on the other side) to Signiour
Thorello, that his guests were men of great merit, and worthy of
much more esteeme, then there he could use towards them: wherefore, it
did highly distast him, that he had no more friends there this night
to keepe them company, or himselfe better provided for their
entertainment, which hee intended (on the morrow) to recompence with
larger amends at dinner.
  Heereupon, having instructed one of his men with what hee
intended, he sent him to Pavia, which was not farre off (and where
he kept no doore shut) to his Wife, named Madam Adialetta; a Woman
singularly wise, and of a Noble spirit, needing little or no
direction, especially when she knew her husbands minde. As they were
walking in the Garden, Thorello desired to understand, of whence,
and what they were? Whereto Saladine thus answered. Sir, wee are
Cyprian Marchants, comming now from Cyprus, and are travalling to
Paris, about affaires of importance. Now trust me Syr, replyed
Thorello, I could heartily wish, that this Countrey of ours would
yeeld such Gentlemen, as your Cyprus affordeth Marchants. So,
falling from one discourse unto another, Supper was served in; and
looke howe best themselves pleased, so they sate at the Table, where
(we need make no doubt) they were respected in honourable order.
  So soone as the Tables were withdrawne, Thorello knowing they
might be weary, brought them againe to their Chambers, where
committing them to their good rest, himselfe went to bed soone
after. The Servant sent to Pavia, delivered the message to his Lady;
who, not like a woman of ordinary disposition, but rather truely
Royall, sent Thorelloes servants into the City, to make preparation
for a Feast indeed, and with lighted Torches (because it was
somewhat late) they invited the very greatest and noblest persons of
the Citie, all the roomes being hanged with the richest Arras, Clothes
and Golde worke, Velvets, Silkes, and all other rich adornments, in
such manner as her husband had commanded, and answerable to her owne
worthy mind, being no way to learne, in what manner to entertaine
strangers.
  On the morrow morning, the Gentlemen arose, and mounting on
horsebacke with Signior Thorello, he called for his Hawkes and Hounds,
brought them to the River, where he shewed two or three faire flights:
but Saladine desiring to know, which was the fayrest Hostery in all
Pavia, Thorello answered. Gentlemen, I wil shew you that my selfe,
in regard I have occasion to ride thither. Which they beleeving,
were the better contented, and rode on directly unto Pavia; arriving
there about nine of the clocke, and thinking he guided them to the
best Inne, he brought them to his owne house; where, above fifty of
the worthiest Citizens, stood ready to welcome the Gentlemen,
imbracing them as they lighted from their Horsses. Which Saladine, and
his associates perceiving, they guessed as it was indeede, and
Saladine sayd. Beleeve me worthy Thorello, this is not answerable to
my demand; you did too much yester night, and much more then we
could desire or deserve: Wherefore, you might wel be the sooner
discharged of us, and let us travaile on our journey.
  Noble Gentlemen, replyed Thorello (for in mine eye you seeme no
lesse) that courtesie which you met with yester-night, I am to
thanke Fortune for, more then you, because you were then straited by
such necessity, as urged your acceptance of my poore Country house.
But now this morning, I shall account my selfe much beholding to you
(as the like will all these worthy Gentlemen here about you) if you do
but answer kindnes with kindnes, and not refuse to take a homely
dinner with them.
  Saladine and his friends, being conquerd with such potent
perswasions, and already dismounted from their horses, saw that all
deniall was meerly in vaine: and therefore thankfully condiscending
(after some few ceremonious complements were over-past) the
Gentlemen conducted them to their Chambers, which were most
sumptuously prepared for them, and having laid aside their riding
garments, being a little re reshed with Cakes and choice Wines; they
descended into the dining Hall, the pompe whereof I am not able to
report.
  When they had washed, and were seated at the Tables, dinner was
served in most magnificent sort; so that if the Emperor himself had
bin there, he could not have bin more sumptuously served. And although
Saladine and his Baschaes were very Noble Lords, and wonted to see
matters of admiration: yet could they do no lesse now, but rather
exceeded in marvaile, considering the qualitie of the Knight, whom
they knew to bee a Citizen, and no Prince or great Lord. Dinner
being ended, and divers familiar conferences passing amongst them:
because it was exceeding hot, the Gentlemen of Pavia (as it pleased
Thorello to appoint) went to repose themselves awhile, and he
keeping company with his three guests, brought them into a goodly
Chamber, where, because he would not faile in the least scruple of
courtesie, or conceale from them the richest jewell which he had; he
sent for his Lady and wife, because (as yet) they had not seene her.
  She was a Lady of extraordinary beauty, tall stature, very
sumptuously attired, and having two sweet Sonnes (resembling Angels)
she came with them waiting before her, and graciously saluted her
guests.
  At her comming, they arose, and having received hir with great
reverence, they seated her in the midst, kindly cherishing the two
Children. After some gracious Language past on eyther side, she
demanded of whence, and what they were, which they answered in the
same kind as they had done before to her husband. Afterward, with a
modest smiling countenance, she sayd. Worthy Gentlemen, let not my
weake Womanish discretion appeare distastable, in desiring to crave
one especiall favour from you, namely, not to refuse or disdaine a
small gift, wherewith I purpose to present you. But considering first,
that women (according to their simple faculty) are able to bestow
but silly gifts: so you would be pleased, to respect more the person
that is the giver, then the quality or quantity of the gift.
  Then causing to be brought (for each of them) two goodly gowns or
Robes (made after the Persian manner) the one lyned thorough with
cloth of Gold, and the other with the costlyest Fur; not after such
fashion as Citizens or Marchants use to weare, but rather beseeming
Lords of greatest account, and three light under-wearing Cassocks or
Mandillions, of Carnatian Sattin, richly Imbroidred with Gold and
Pearles, and lined thorow with White Taffata, presenting these gifts
to him, she sayd. I desire you Gentlemen to receive these meane
trifies, such as you see my Husband weares the like, and these other
beside, considering you are so far from your Wives, having travailed a
long way already, and many miles more yet to overtake; also
Marchants (being excellent men) affect to be comely and handsome in
their habits; although these are of slender value, yet (in
necessity) they may do you service.
  Now was Saladine and his Baschaes halfe astonyed with admiration, at
the magnificent minde of Signiour Thorello, who would not forget the
least part of courtesie towardes them, and greatly doubted (seeing the
beauty and riches of the Garments) least they were discovered by
Thorello. Neverthelesse, one of them thus answered the Lady. Beleeve
me Madame, these are rich guiftes, not lightly either to be given,
rich or receyved: but in regard of your strict imposition, we are
not able to deny them. This being done, with most gracious and
courteous demeanour, she departed from them, leaving her Husband to
keepe them still companie; who furnished their servants also, with
divers worthy necessaries fitting for their journey.
  Afterward, Thorello (by very much importunitie) wonne them to stay
with him all the rest of the day; wherefore, when they had rested
themselves awhile, being attyred in their newly given robes; they rode
on Horsebacke thorow the Citty. When supper time came, they supt in
most honourable and worthy company, beeing afterwards Lodged in most
faire and sumptuous Chambers, and being risen in the morning, in
exchange of their horses (over-wearied with Travaile) they found three
other very richly furnished, and their men also in like manner
provided. Which when Saladine had perceyved, he tooke his Baschaes
aside, and spake in this manner.
  By our greatest Gods, I never met with any man, more compleat in all
noble perfections, more courteous and kinde then Thorello is. If all
the Christian Kings, in the true and heroicall nature of Kings, do
deale as honourably as I see this Knight doeth, the Soldane of Babylon
is not able to endure the comming of one of them, much lesse so
many, as wee see preparing to make head against us. But beholding,
that both refusall and acceptation, was all one in the minde of
Thorello: after much kinde Language had bin intercoursed betweene
them, Saladine (with his Attendants) mounted on horsebacke.
  Signiour Thorello, with a number of his honourable Friends (to the
number of an hundred Horsse) accompanied them a great distance from
the Citie, and although it greeved Saladine exceedingly, to leave
the company of Thorello, so dearely he was affected to him: but
necessity (which controlleth the power of all lawes whatsoever) must
needs divide them: yet requesting his returne agayne that way, if
possibly it might be granted; which Saladine promised but did not
performe. Well Gentlemen (quoth Thorello at parting) I know not what
you are, neither (against your will) do I desire it: but whether you
be Marchants or no remember me in your kindnesse, and so to the
heavenly powers I commend you. Saladine, having taken his leave of all
them that were with Thorello, returned him this answer. Sir, it may
one day hereafter so happen, as we shal let you see some of our
Marchandises, for the better confirmation of your beleefe, and our
profession.
  Thus parted Signior Thorello and his friends, from Saladine and
his company, who verily determined in the heighth of his minde, if
he should be spared with life, and the warre (which he expected)
concluded: to requite Thorello with no lesse courtesie, then hee had
already declared to him; conferring a long while after with his
Baschaes, both of him and his beauteous Lady, not forgetting any of
their courteous actions, but gracing them all with deserved
commendation. But after they had (with very laborious paines) surveyed
most of the Westerne parts, they all tooke Shipping, and returned into
Alexandria: sufficiently informed, what preparation was to be made for
their owne defence. And Signior Thorello being come backe againe to
Pavia, consulted with his privat thoughts (many times after) what
these three travailers should be, but came farre short of knowing
the truth, till (by experience) hee became better informed.
  When the time was come, that the Christians were to make their
passage, and wonderfull great preparations, in all places performed:
Signiour Thorello, notwithstanding the teares and intreaties of his
Wife, determined to be one in so woorthy and honourable a voyage:
and having made his provision ready, nothing wanting but mounting on
Horsebacke, to go where he should take shipping; to his Wife (whom
he most intirely affected) thus hee spake. Madame, I goe as thou seest
in this famous Voyage, as well for mine Honour, as also the benefite
of my soule; all our goodes and possessions, I commit to thy
vertuous care. And because I am not certaine of my returning backe
againe, in regard of a thousand accidents which may happen, in such
a Countrey as I goe unto: I desire onely but one favour of thee,
whatsoever daunger shall befall mee; Namely, when any certaine tydings
shall be brought you of my death; to stay no longer before thy
second marriage, but one yeare, one month, and one day; to begin on
this day of my departing from thee.
  The Lady, who wept exceedingly, thus answered. Alas Sir: I know
not how to carry my selfe, in such extremity of greefe, as now you
leave me; but if my life surmount the fortitude of sorrow, and
whatsoever shall happen to you for certainty, either life or death:
I will live and dye the Wife of Signiour Thorello, and make my
obsequies in his memory onely. so Madame (replyed her Husband) not so;
Be not overrash in promising any thing, albeit I am well assured, that
so much as consisteth in thy strength, I make no question of thy
performance. But consider withall (deare heart) thou art a yong woman,
beautifull, of great parentage, and no way thereto inferior in the
blessings of Fortune.
  Thy Vertues are many, and universally both divulged and knowen, in
which respect, I make no doubt; but divers and sundrie great Lords and
Gentlemen (if but the least rumor of my death be noysed) will make
sulte for thee to thy parents and brethren, from whose violent
solicitings, wouldst thou never so resolutely make resistance, yet
thou canst not be able to defend thy selfe; but whether thou wilt or
no, thou must yeeld to please them; and this is the only reason, why I
would tie thee to this limited time, and not one day or minute longer.
  Adalietta, sweetly hugging him in her armes, and melting her selfe
in kisses, sighes, and teares on his face, said. Well Sir, I will do
so much as I am able, in this your most kinde and loving imposition:
and when I shall bee compelled to the contrary: yet rest thus
constantly assured, that I will not breake this your charge, so much
as in thought. Praying ever heartily to the heavenly powers, that they
will direct your course home againe to me, before your prefixed
date, or else I shall live in continual languishing. In the knitting
up of this woful parting, embracing and kissing either infinit
times, the Lady tooke a Ring from off her finger, and giving it to her
husband, said. If I chaunce to die before I see you againe, remember
me when you looke on this. He receiving the Ring, and bidding all
the rest of his Friends farewell, mounted on horsebacke, and rode away
wel attended.
  Being come unto Geneway, he and his company boorded a Galley, and
(in few dayes after) arrived at Acres, where they joyned themselves
with the Christian Army, wherein there happened a verie dangerous
mortality: During which time of so sharpe visitation (the cause
unknowne whence it proceeded) whether thorough the industrie, or
rather the good Fortune of Saladine, well-neere all the rest of the
Christians (which escaped death) were surprized his prisoner
(without a blow strucken) and sundred and imprisoned in divers
Townes and Citties. Amongest the which number of prisoners, it was
Signior Thorelloes chaunce to be one, and walked in bonds to
Alexandria, where being unknowne, and fearing least he should be
discovered: constrained thereto meerly by necessity, hee shewed
himselfe in the condition of a Faulconer; wherein he was very
excellently experienced, and by which means his profession was made
knowne to Saladine, hee delivered out of prison, and created the
Soldans Faulconer.
  Thorello (whom the Soldane called by no other name, then the
Christian, neyther of them knowing the other) sadly now remembred
his departure from Pavia, devising and practising many times, how he
might escape thence, but could not compasse it by any possible meanes.
Wherefore, certaine Ambassadours beeing sent by the Genewayes, to
redeeme divers Cittizens of theirs, there detained as prisoners, and
being ready to returne home againe: he purposed to write to his
Wife, that he was living, and wold repaire to her so soone as he
could, desiring the still continued rememberance of her limited
time. By close and cunning meanes hee wrote the Letter, earnestly
intreating one of the Ambassadors (who knew him perfectly, but made no
outward apparance thereof) to deale in such sort for him, that the
Letter might be delivered to the handes of the Abbot Di San Pietro
in Ciel d'Oro, who was (indeede) his Unckle.
  While Thorello remayned in this his Faulconers condition, it
fortuned uppon a day, that Saladine, conversing with him about his
Hawkes: Thorello chanced to smile, and used such a kinde of gesture or
motion with his Lippes, which Saladine (when he was in his house at
Pavia) had heedfully observed, and by this note, instantly he
remembred Signior Thorello, and began to eye him very respectively,
perswading himselfe that he was the same man. And therefore falling
from their former kinde of discoursing: Tell me: Christian (quoth
Saladine) what Country-man art thou of the West? Sir, answered
Signiour Thorello, I am by Country a Lombard, borne in a Citty
called Pavia, a poore man, and of as poore condition.
  So soone as Saladine had heard these Words; becomming assured in
that which (but now) he doubted, he saide within himselfe. Now the
Gods have given me time, wherein I may make knowne to this man, how
thankefully I accepted his kinde courtesie, and cannot easily forget
it. Then, without saying any thing else, causing his Guard-robe to
be set open, he tooke him with him thither, and sayde. Christian,
observe well all these Garments, and quicken thy remembrance, in
telling mee truly, whether thou hast seene any of them before now,
or no. Signiour Thorello looked on them all advisedly, and espyed
those two especiall Garments, which his Wife had given one of the
strange Merchants; yet he durst not credit it, or that possibly it
could be the same, neverthelesse he said. Sir, I doe not know any of
them, but true it is, that these two doe resemble two such Robes, as I
was wont to weare my selfe, and these (or the like) were given to
three Merchants, that happened to visite my poore house.
  Now could Saladine containe no longer, but embracing him joyfully in
his armes, he said. You are Signior Thorello d'Istria, and I am one of
those three Merchants to whom your Wife gave these Roabes: and now the
time is come to give you credible intelligence of my Merchandise, as I
promised at my departing from you, for such a time (I told you)
would come at length. Thorello, was both glad, and bashfull
together: glad, that he had entertained such a Guest, and bashfully
ashamed, that his welcome had not exceeded in more bountifull
manner. Thorello, replyed Saladine, seeing the Gods have sent you so
happily to me: account your selfe to be soly Lord here, for I am now
no more then a private man.
  I am not able to expresse their counterchanges of courtesie,
Saladine commanding him to be cloathed in Royall garments, and
brought into the presence of his very greatest Lords, where having
spoken liberally in his due commendation, he commanded them to
honour him as himselfe, if they expected any grace or favour from him,
which every one did immediatly, but (above all the rest) those two
Baschaes, which accompanied Saladine at his house. The greatnesse of
this pompe and glory, so suddenly throwne on Signior Thorello, made
him halfe forget all matters of Lomberdie; and so much the rather,
because he had no doubt at all, but that his letters, were safely come
to the hands of his Uncle.
  Here I am to tell you, that in the Campe or Army of the
Christians, on the day when Saladine made his surprizal, there was a
Provinciall Gentleman dead and buried, who was Signior Thorello de
Dignes, a man of very honourable and great esteeme, in which respect
(Signior Thorello d'Istria, knowne throughout the Army, by his
Nobility and valour) whosoever heard that Signior Thorello was dead:
beleeved it to be Thorello d'Istria, and not he of Dignes, so that
Thorello d'Istriaes unknowne surprizall and thraldome, made it also to
passe for an assured truth.
  Beside, many Italians returning home, and carrying this report for
credible; some were so audaciously presumptuous, as they avouched upon
their oathes, that not onely they saw him dead, but were present at
his buriall likewise. Which rumour comming to the eare of his Wife,
and likewise to his kinred and hers: procured a great and grievous
mourning among them, and all that happened to heare thereof.
  Over-tedious time it would require, to relate at large, the publique
griefe and sorrow, with the continuall lamentations of his Wife, who
(within some few moneths after) became tormented with new marriage
solicitings, before she had halfe sighed for the first: the very
greatest persons of Lomberdie making the motion, being daily
followed and furthered by her owne brothers and friends. Still
(drowned in teares) she returned denyall, till in the end, when no
contradiction could prevaile, to satisfie her parents, and the
importunate pursuers: she was constrained to reveale, the charge
imposed on her by her Husband, which shee had vowed infallibly to
keepe, and till that very time, she would in no wise consent.
  While wooing for a second wedding with Adalietta, proceeded in
this manner at Pavia, it chanced on a day, that Signior Thorello had
espied a man in Alexandria whom he saw with the Geneway
Ambassadours, when they set thence towards Geneway with their Gallies.
And causing him to be sent for, he demaunded of him, the successe of
the voyage, and when the Gallies arrived at Geneway; whereto he
returned him this answere. My Lord, our Gallies made a very fatall
voyage, as it is (already) too well knowne in Creete, where my
dwelling is. For when we drew neere Sicilie, there suddenly arose a
very dangerous North-West-winde, which drove us on the quicke-Sands of
Barbarie, where not any man escaped with life, onely my selfe
excepted, but (in the wracke) two of my brethren perished.
  Signior Thorello, giving credit to the mans words, because they were
most true indeed, and remembring also, that the time limitted to his
Wife, drew neere expiring within very few dayes, and no newes now
possibly to be sent thither of his life, his Wife would
questionlesse be marryed againe: he fell into such a deepe conceited
melancholly, as food and sleepe forsooke him, whereupon, he kept his
bed, setting downe his peremptory resolution for death. When
Saladine (who dearely loved him) heard thereof, he came in all haste
to see him, and having (by many earnest perswasions and entreaties)
understood the cause of his melancholly and sickenesse: he very
severely reproved him, because he could no sooner acquaint him
therewith. Many kind and comfortable speeches, he gave him, with
constant assurance, that (if he were so minded) he would so order
the businesse for him; as he should be at Pavia, by the same time as
he had appointed to his Wife, and revealed to him also the manner how.
  Thorello verily beleeved the Soldanes promise, because he had
often heard the possibility of performance, and others had effected as
much, divers times else-where: whereupon he began to comfort himselfe,
soliciting the Soldan earnestly that it might be accomplished.
Saladine sent for one of his Sorcerers (of whose skill he had formerly
made experience) to take a direct course, how Signior Thorello
should be carryed (in one night) to Pavia, and being in his bed. The
Magitian undertooke to doe it, but, for the Gentlemans more ease, he
must first be possessed with an entraunced dead sleep. Saladine
being thus assured of the deeds full effecting, he came againe to
Thorello, and finding him to be setled for Pavia (if possibly it might
be accomplished by the determined time, or else no other expectation
but death) he said unto him as followeth.
  Signior Thorello, if with true affection you love your Wife, and
misdoubt her marriage to some other man: I protest unto you, by the
supreme powers, that you deserve no reprehension in any manner
whatsoever. For, of all the Ladyes that ever I have seene, she is
the onely woman, whose carriage, vertues, and civile speaking (setting
aside beauty, which is but a fading flowre) deserveth most
graciously to be respected, much more to be affected in the highest
degree. It were to me no meane favour of our Gods, (seeing Fortune
directed your course so happily hither) that for the short or long
time we have to live, we might reigne equally together in these
Kingdomes under my subjection. But if such grace may not be granted
me, yet, seeing it stands mainly upon the perill of your life, to be
at Pavia againe by your own limitted time, it is my chiefest
comfort, that I am therewith acquainted, because I intended to have
you conveighed thither, yea, even into your owne house, in such
honourable order as your vertues doe justly merit, which in regard
it cannot be so conveniently performed, but as I have already informed
you, and as the necessity of the case urgently commandeth; accept it
as it may be best accomplished.
  Great Saladine (answered Thorella) effects (without words) have
already sufficiently warranted your Gracious disposition towards me,
farre beyond any requitall remayning in me; your word onely being
enough for my comfort in this case, either dying or living. But in
regard you have taken such order for my departure hence, I desire to
have it done with all possible expedition, because to morrow is the
very last day, that I am to be absent. Saladine protested that it
should be done, and the same evening in the great Hall of his Pallace,
commanded a rich and costly Bedde to be set up, the mattras formed
after the Alexandrian manner, of Velvet and cloth Gold, the Quilts,
counterpoints and coverings, sumptuously imbroydered with Orient
Pearles and Precious Stones, supposed to be of inestimable value,
and two rarely wrought Pillowes, such as best beseemed so stately a
Bedde, the Curtaines and Vallans every way equall to the other pompe.
  Which being done, he commanded that Thorello (who was
indifferently recovered) should be attyred in one of his owne
sumptuous Saracine Roabes, the very fairest and richest that ever
was seene, and on his head a Majesticall Turbant, after the manner
of his owne wearing, and the houre appearing to be somewhat late, he
with many of his best Baschaes, went to the Chamber where Thorello
was, and sitting downe a while by him, in teares thus he spake.
Signior Thorello, the houre for sundering you and me, is now very
neere, and because I cannot beare you company, in regard of the
businesse you goe about, and which by no meanes will admit it: I am to
take my leave of you in this Chamber, and therefore am purposely
come to doe it. But before I bid you farewell, let me entreat you,
by the love and friendship confirmed betweene us, to be mindfull of
me, and to take such order (your affaires being fully finished in
Lombardie) that I may once more enjoy the sight of you here, for a
mutuall solace and satisfaction of our mindes, which are now divided
by this urgent hast. Till which may be granted, let me want no
visitation of your kind letters, commanding thereby of me,
whatsoever here can possibly be done for you: assuring your selfe,
no man living can command me as you doe.
  Signior Thorello could not forbeare weeping, but being much
hindred therby, answered in few words. That he could not possibly
forget, his Gracious favours and extraordinary benefits used towards
him, but would accomplish whatsoever hee commaunded, according as
heaven did enable him.
  Hereupon, Saladine embracing him, and kissing his forehead, said.
All my Gods goe with you, and guard you from any perill, departing
so out of the Chamber weeping, and his Baschaes (having likewise taken
their leave of Thorello) followed Saladine into the Hall, whereas
the Bedde stood readily prepared? Because it waxed very late, and
the Magitian also there attending for his dispatch: the Phisitian went
with the potion to Thorello, and perswading him, in the way of
friendship, that it was onely to strengthen him after his great
weaknes: he drank it off, being thereby immediately entraunced, and so
presently sleeping, was (by Saladines command,) laid on the
sumptuous and costly Bed, whereon stood an Imperiall Crowne of
infinite value, appearing (by a description engraven on it) that
Saladine sent it to Madame Adalietta, the wife of Thorello. On his
finger also hee put a Ring, wherein was enchased an admirable
Carbuncle, which seemed like a flaming Torche, the value thereof not
to bee estimated. By him likewise hee laid a rich sword, with the
girdle, hangers, and other furniture, such as seldome can be seene the
like. Then hee laid a jewell on the Pillow by him, so sumptuouslie
embelished with Pearles and precious Stones, as might have beseemed
the greatest Monarch in the World to weare. Last of all, on either
side of them, hee set two great Basons of pure Gold, full of double
ducates, many cords of Orient Pearles, Rings, Girdles, and other
costly jewells (over-tedious to bee recounted) and kissing him once
more as hee lay in the bedde, commanded the Magitian to dispatch and
be gone.
  Instantly, the bedde and Thorello in it, in the presence of
Saladine, was invisibly carried thence, and while he sate conferring
with his Baschaes, the bed, Signior Thorello, and all the rich Jewells
about him, was transported and set in the Church of San Pietro in Ciel
d'Ore in Pavia, according to his own request, and soundly sleeping,
being placed directly before the high Altar. Afterward, when the bells
rung to Mattines, the Sexton entring the Church with a light in his
hand (where hee beheld a light of greater splendor) and suddenly
espied the sumptuous bedde there standing: not only was he smitten
into admiration, but hee ranne away also very fearefully. When the
Abbot and the Monkes mette him thus running into the Cloyster, they
became amazed, and demanded the reason why he ranne in such haste,
which the Sexton told them. How? quoth the Abbot, thou art no
childe, or a new-come hither, to be so easilie affrighted in our
holy Church, where Spirits can have no power to walke, God and Saint
Peter (wee hope) are stronger for us then so: wherefore turne backe
with us, and let us see the cause of thy feare.
  Having lighted many Torches, the Abbot and his Monkes entred with
the Sexton into the Church, where they beheld the wonderful riche
bedde, and the Knight lying fast asleepe in it. While they stood all
in amazement, not daring to approach neere the bedde, whereon lay such
costly jewells: it chanced that Signior Thorello awaked, and
breathed forth a vehement sigh. The Monkes and the Abbot seeing him to
stirre, ranne all away in feare, crying aloud, God and S. Peter defend
us.
  By this time Thorello had opened his eyes, and looking round about
him, perceived that hee was in the place of Saladines promise, whereof
hee was not a little joyfull. Wherefore, sitting up in the bedde,
and particularly observing all the things about him: albeit he knew
sufficiently the magnificence of Saladine, yet now it appeared far
greater to him, and imagined more largely thereof, then hee could
doe before. But yet, without any other ceremony, seeing the flight
of the Monkes, hearing their cry, and perceiving the reason; he called
the Abbot by his name, desiring him not to be afraid, for he was his
Nephew Thorello, and no other.
  When the Abbot heard this, hee was ten times worse affrighted then
before, because (by publique fame) hee had beene so many moneths
dead and buried; but receiving (by true arguments) better assurance of
him, and hearing him still call him by his name: blessing himselfe
with the signe of the Crosse, hee went somewhat neerer to the bed,
when Thorello said. My loving Uncle, and religious holy Father, wherof
are you afraid? I am your loving Nephew, newly returned from beyond
the Seas. The Abbot, seeing his beard to be grown long, and his
habit after the Arabian fashion, did yet collect some resemblance of
his former countenance; and being better perswaded of him, tooke him
by the hand, saying:
  Sonne thou art happily returned, yet there is not any man in our
Citie, but doth verily beleeve thee to bee dead, and therefore doe not
much wonder at our feare. Moreover, I dare assure thee, that thy
Wife Adalietta, being conquered by the controuling command, and
threatnings of her kinred (but much against her owne minde) is this
very morning to be married to a new husband, and the marriage feast is
solemnly prepared, in honour of this second nuptialls.
  Thorello arising out of the bedde, gave gracious salutations to
the Abbot and his Monkes, intreating earnestly of them all, that no
word might be spoken of his returne, untill he had compleated an
important businesse. Afterward, having safely secured the bedde, and
all the rich Jewells, he fully acquainted the Abbot with all his
passed fortunes, whereof he was immeasurably joyfull, and having
satisfied him, concerning the new elected husband, Thorello said
unto the Abbot. Unckle, before any rumour of my returne, I would
gladly see my wives behavior at this new briding feast, and although
men of religion are seldome seene at such joviall meetings: yet (for
my sake) doe you so order the matter, that I (as an Arabian
stranger) may be a guest under your protection; wherto the Abbot
very gladly condescended.
  In the morning, he sent to the Bridegroom, and advertised him,
that he (with a stranger newly arrived) intended to dine with him,
which the Gentleman accepted in thankefull manner. And when dinner
time came, Thorello in his strange disguise went with the Abbot to the
Bridegroomes house, where he was lookt on with admiration of all the
guests, but not knowne or suspected by any one; because the Abbot
reported him to be a Sarracine, and sent by the Soldane (in Ambassage)
to the King of France. Thorello was seated at a by-table, but directly
opposite to the new Bride, whom hee much delighted to looke on, and
easily collected by her sad countenance, that shee was scarcely well
pleased with this new nuptialls. She likewise beheld him very often,
not in regard of any knowlege she took of him: for the bushiness of
his beard, strangeness of habit, (but most of all) firm beleefe of his
death, was the maine prevention.
  At such time as Thorello thought it convenient, to approve how farre
he was falne out of her remembrance; he took the ring which she gave
him at his departure, and calling a young Page that waited on none but
the Bride, said to him in Italian: Faire youth, goe to the Bride,
and saluting her from me, tell her, it is a custome observed in my
Country, that when any Stranger (as I am heere) sitteth before a new
married Bride, as now shee is, in signe that hee is welcome to her
feast, she sendeth the same Cup (wherein she drinketh her selfe)
full of the best wine, and when the stranger hath drunke so much as
him pleaseth, the Bride then pledgeth him with all the rest. The
Page delivered the message to the Bride, who, being a woman of
honourable disposition, and reputing him to be a Noble Gentleman, to
testifie that his presence there was very acceptable to her, shee
commanded a faire Cuppe of gold (which stood directlie before her)
to bee neately washed, and when it was filled with excellent Wine,
caused it to bee carried to the stranger, and so it was done.
  Thorello having drunke a heartie draught to the Bride, conveyed
the Ring into the Cuppe, before any person could perceive it, and
having left but small store of Wine in it, covered the Cuppe, and sent
it againe to the Bride, who received it very gracioasly, and to honour
the Stranger in his Countries custome, dranke up the rest of the Wine,
and espying the Ring, shee tooke it forth undescried by any: Knowing
it to be the same Ring which shee gave Signior Thorello at his parting
from her; she fixed her eyes often on it, and as often on him, whom
she thought to be a stranger, the cheerfull bloud mounting up into her
cheeks, and returning againe with remembrance to her heart, that
(howsoever thus disguised) he only was her husband.
  Like one of Bacchus Froes, up furiously she started, and throwing
downe the Table before her, cried out aloud: This is my Lord and
Husband, this truely is my Lord Thorello. So running to the Table
where he sate, without regard of all the riches thereon, down she
threw it likewise, and clasping her armes about his necke, hung so
mainly on him (weeping, sobbing, and kissing him) as she could not
be taken off by any of the company, nor shewed any moderation in
this excesse of passion, till Thorello spake, and entreated her to
be more patient, because this extremity was over-dangerous for her.
Thus was the solemnitic much troubled, but every one there very glad
and joyfull for the recovery of such a famous and worthy Knight, who
intreated them all to vouchsafe him silence, and so related all his
fortunes to them, from the time of his departure, to the instant
houre. Concluding withall, that hee was no way offended with the new
Bridegroome, who upon the so constant report of his death, deserved no
blame in making election of his wife.
  The Bridegroome, albeit his countenance was somewhat cloudie, to see
his hope thus disappointed: yet granted freely, that Adalietto was
Thorello's wife in equitie, and bee could not justly lay any claime to
her. She also resigned the Crown and Rings which she had so lately
received of her new Spouse, and put that on her finger which she found
in the Cup, and that Crowne was set upon her head, in honor sent her
from great Saladine. In which triumphant manner, she left the new
Bridegrooms abiding, and repayred home to Thorello's house, with
such pompe and magnificence as never had the like been seene in
Pavia before, all the Citizens esteeming it as a miracle, that they
had so happily recovered Signior Thorello againe.
  Some part of the Jewells he gave to him, who had beene at cost
with marriage feasting, and some to his the Abbot, beside a bountie
bestowed on Monkes. Then he sent a messenger to Saladine, with Letters
of his whole successe, and confessing himselfe (for ever) his
obliged servant: living many yeeres (after) with his wife Adalietta,
and using greater curtesies to strangers, then ever before he had
done.
  In this manner ended the troubles of Signior Thorello, and the
afflictions of his dearely affected Lady, with due recompence to their
honest and ready courtesies. Many strive (in outward shew) to doe
the like, who although they are sufficiently able, doe performe it
so basely, as i: rather redoundeth to their shame, then honour. And
therefore if no merit ensue thereon, but onely such disgrace as justly
should follow; let them lay the blame upon themselves.
                    THE TENTH DAY, THE TENTH NOVELL

        SET DOWNE AS AN EXAMPLE OR WARNING TO ALL WEALTHIE MEN,
     HOW TO HAVE CARE OF MARRYING THEMSELVES. AND LIKEWISE TO POORE
         AND MEANE WOMEN, TO BE PATIENT IN THEIR FORTUNES, AND
                           OBEDIENT TO THEIR HUSBANDS

  The Marquesse of Saluzzo, named Gualtiero, being constrained by
the importunate solliciting of his Lords, and other inferiour
people, to joyne himselfe in marriage; tooke a woman according to
his owne liking, called Grizelda, she being the daughter of a poore
Countriman, named Janiculo, by whom he had two children, which he
pretended to be secretly murdered. Afterward, they being grown to
yeres of more stature, and making shew of taking in marriage another
wife, more worthy of his high degree and Calling: made a seeming
publique liking of his owne daughter, expulsing his wife Grizelda
poorely from him. But finding her incomparable patience; more
dearely (then before) hee received her into favour againe, brought her
home to his owne Pallace, where (with her children) hee caused her and
them to be respectively honoured, in despight of all her adverse
enemies.

  Questionlesse, the Kings Novell not so much exceed the rest in
length, but it proved as sing to the whole assembly, past with their
generall approbation, till Dioneus (in a merry jesting humour) said.
The plaine honest simple man, that stood holding the Candle, to see
the setting on of his Mules tayle; deserved two penny-worth of more
praise, then all our applauding of Signior Thorello: And knowing
himselfe to bee left for the last speaker, thus he began.
  Milde and modest Ladies, for ought I can perceive to the contrary,
this day was dedicated to none but Kings, Soldanes, and great
Potentates, not in favour of any inferiour or meaner persons. And
therefore, because I would be loth to dis-ranke my selfe from the
rest, I purpose to speake of a Lord Marquesse, not any matter of great
magnificence, but rather in a more humble nature, and sorted to an
honest end: which yet I will not advise any to immitate, because
(perhaps) they cannot so well digest it, as they did whom my Novell
concerneth; thus then I begin.
  It it a great while since, when among those that were Lord
Marquesses of Saluzzo, the very greatest and worthiest man of them al,
was a young Noble Lord, named Gualtiero, who having neyther wife nor
childe, spent his time in nothing else but hawking and hunting: nor
had he any minde of marriage, or to enjoy the benefit of children,
wherein many did repute him the wiser. But this being distastfull to
his subjects, they very often earnestly solicited him, to match
himselfe with a wife, to the end, that hee might not decease without
an heire, nor they be left destitute of a succeeding Lord; offering
themselves to provide him of such a one, so well descended by Father
and Mother, as not only should confirm their hope, but also yeeld
him high contentment; whereto the Lord Marquess thus answered.
  Worthie friends, you would constraine me to the thing, wherewith I
never had any intent to meddle, considering, how difficult a case it
is to meet with such a woman, who can agree with a man in all his
conditions, and how great the number is of them, who daily happen on
the contrarie: but most (and worst of all the rest) how wretched and
miserable prooves the life of man, who is bound to live with a wife
not fit for him. And in saying, you can learn to understand the
custome and qualities of children, by behaviour of the fathers and
mothers, and so to provide mee of a wife, it is a meere argument of
folly: for neither shall I comprehend, or you either, the secret
inclinations of parents; I meane of the Father, and much lesse the
complexion of the mother. But admitte it were within compasse of power
to know them; yet it is a frequent sight, and observed every day; that
daughters doe resemble neither father nor mother, but that they are
naturally governed by their owne instinct.
  But because you are so desirous to have me fettered in the chains of
wedlocke; I am contented to grant what you request. And because I
would have no complaint made of any but my selfe, if matters should
not happen answerable to expectation; I will make mine owne eyes my
electors, and not see by any others sight. Giving you this assurance
before, that if she whom I shall make choice of, be not of you
honoured and respected as your Lady and Mistresse: it will ensue to
your detriment, how much you have displeased me, to take a wife at
your request, and against mine owne will.
  The Noble men answered, that they were well satisfied, provided that
he tooke a wife.
  Some indifferent space of time before, the beauty, manners, and
well-seeming vertues, of a poore Countrie-mans daughter, dwelling in
no farre distant village, had appeared very pleasing to the Lord
Marquesse, and gave him full perswasion, that with her hee should lead
a comfortable life. And therefore without any further search or
inquisition, he absolutely resolved to marry her, and having conferred
with her Father, agreed, that his daughter should be his wife.
Whereupon, the Marquesse made a generall convocation of all his Lords,
Barons, and other of his especiall friends, from all parts of his
Dominion; and when they were assembled together, hee then spake unto
them in manner as followeth.
 Honourable friends, it appeared pleasing to you all, and yet (I
thinke) you are of the same minde, that I should dispose my selfe to
take a wife: and I thereto condescended, more to yeeld you
contentment, then for any particular desire in my selfe. Let mee now
remember you of your solemne made promise, with full consent to
honor and obey her (whosoever) as your Soveraigne Lady and
Mistresse, that I shall elect to make my wife: and now the time is
come, for my exacting the performance of that promise, and which I
look you must constantly keepe. I have made choyce of a yong
virgine, answerable to mine owne heart and liking, dwelling not
farre off hence, whom I intend to make my wife, and (within few dales)
to have her brought home to my Pallace. Let your care and diligence
then extend so farre, as to see that the feast may be sumptuous, and
her entertainment to bee most honourable: to the end that I may
receive as much contentment in your promise performed, as you shall
perceive I doe in my choice.
  The Lords and all the rest, were wondrously joyfull to heare him
so well inclined, expressing no lesse by their shouts and jocund
suffrages: protesting cordially, that she should be welcommed with
pompe and majestie, and honoured of them all, as their Liege Ladie and
Soveraigne. Afterward, they made preparation for a princely and
magnificent feast, as the Marquesse did the like, for a marriage of
extraordinary state and qualitie, inviting all his kinred, friends,
and acquaintance in all parts and Provinces, about him. Hee made
also readie most riche and costly garments, shaped by the body of a
comely young Gentlewoman, who he knew to be equall in proportion and
stature, to her of whom hee hade made his election.
  When the appointed nuptiall day was come, the Lord Marques, about
nine of the clocke in the morning, mounted on horsebacke, as all the
rest did, who came to attend him honourably, and having all things
in due readinesse with them, he said: Lords, it is time for us to
goe fetch the Bride. So on hee rode with his traine, to the same poore
Village whereat shee dwelt, and when hee was come to her Fathers
house, hee saw the maiden returning very hastily from a Well, where
shee had beene to fetch a paile of water, which shee set downe, and
stood (accompanied with other maidens) to see the passage by of the
Lord Marquesse and his traine. Gualtiero called her by her name, which
was Grizelda, and asked her, where her Father was: who bashfully
answered him, and with an humble courtesie, saying. My gracious
Lord, hee is in the house.
  Then the Marquesse dismounted from his horse, commanding every one
to attend him, then all alone hee entred into the poore Cottage, where
he found the maides father, being named Janiculo, and said unto him.
God speed good Father, I am come to espouse thy daughter Grizelda: but
first I have a few demands to make, which I will utter to her in thy
presence. Then hee turned to the maide, and saide.
  Faire Grizelda, if I make you my wife, will you doe your best
endeavour to please me, in all things which I shall doe or say? will
you also be gentle, humble, and patient? with divers other the like
questions: whereto she still answered, that she would, so neere as
heaven (with grace) should enable her.
  Presently he tooke her by the hand, so led her forth of the poore
homely house, and in the presence of all his company, with his owne
hands, he took off her meane wearing garments, smocke and all, and
cloathed her with those Robes of State which he had purposely
brought thither for her, and plaiting her haire over her shoulders,
hee placed a Crowne of gold on her head, whereat every one standing as
amazed, and wondring not a little, hee said: Grizelda, wilt thou
have me to thy husband? Modestly blushing, and kneeling on the ground,
she answered. Yes my gracious Lord, if you will accept so poore a
maiden to be your wife. Yes Grizelda, quoth hee, with this holy kisse,
I confirme thee for my wife; and so espoused her before them all. Then
mounting her on a milke-white Palfray, brought thither for her, shee
was thus honourably conducted to her Pallace.
  Now concerning the marriage feast and triumphes, they were performed
with no lesse pompe, then if she had beene daughter to the King of
France. And the young Bride apparantly declared, that (with her
garments) her minde and behavior were quite changed. For indeed shee
was (as it were shame to speake otherwise) a rare creature, both of
person and perfections, and not onely was shee absolute for beautie,
but so sweetely amiand gracious, and goodlie; as if she were not the
daughter of poore Janicula, and a Countrie Shepheardesse, but rather
of some Noble Lord, whereat every one wondred that had knowne her.
Beside all this, shee was so obedient to her husband, so fervent in
all dutifull offices, and patient, without the very least provoking:
as hee held himselfe much more then contented, and the onely happy man
of the world.
  In like manner, towards the subjects of her Lord and Husband, she
shewed her selfe alwayes so benigne and gracious; as there was not any
one, but the more they lookt on her, the better they loved her,
honouring her voluntarily, and praying to the heavens, for her health,
dignity and well-fares long continuance. Speaking now (quite
contrary to their former opinion of the Marquesse) honourably and
thily, that he had shewne him selfe a singular wise man, in the
election of his Wife, which few else (but he) in the world would
have done: because their judgement might fall farre short, of
discerning those great and precious vertues, veiled under a homely
habite, and obscured in a poore Countrey cottage. To be briefe, in
very short time, not onely the Marquisate it selfe, but all
neighbouring Provinces round about, had no other common talke, but
of her rare course of life, devotion, charity, and all good actions
else; quite quailing all sinister Instructions of her Husband,
before he received her in marriage.
  About foure or five yeeres after the birth of her daughter, shee
conceived with child againe, and (at the limitted houre of
deliverance) had a goodly Sonne, to the no little liking of the
Marquesse. Afterward, a strange humour entred into his braine, namely,
that by a long continued experience, and courses of intollerable
quality; he would needes make proofe of his faire Wives patience.
First he began to provoke her by injurious speeches, shewing fierce
and frowning lookes to her, intimating; that his people grew
displeased with him, in regard of his Wives base birth and
education, and so much the rather, because she was likely to bring
children, who (by her blood) were no better then beggers, and murmured
at the daughter already borne. Which words when Grizelda heard,
without any alteration of countenance, for the least distemperature in
any appearing action she said.
  My honourable and gracious Lord, dispose of me, as you thinke
best, for your owne dignity and contentment, for I shall therewith
be well pleased: as she that knowes her selfe, farre inferiour to
the meanest of your people, much lesse worthy of the honour, whereto
you liked to advance me.
  This answere was very welcome to the Marquesse, as apparantly
perceiving hereby, that the dignity whereto hee had exalted her, or
any particular favours beside, could not infect her with any pride,
coynesse, or disdaine. Not long after, having told her in plaine and
open speeches, that his subjects could not endure her so late borne
daughter: he called a trusty servant of his, and having instructed him
what he should doe, sent him to Grizelda, and he being alone with her,
looking very sadde, and much perplexed in mind, he saide. Madame,
except I intend to loose mine owne life, I must accomplish what my
Lord hath strictly enjoyned me, which is, to take this your yong
daughter, and then I must: So breaking off abruptly, the Lady
hearing his words, and noting his frowning lookes, remembring also
what the Marquesse himselfe had formerly said; she presently imagined,
that he had commanded his servant to kill the childe. Suddenly
therefore, she tooke it out of the Cradle, and having sweetly
kissed, and bestowne her blessing on it (albeit her heart throbbed,
with the inward affection of a Mother) without any alteration of
countenance, she tenderly laid it in the servants armes, and said.
Here friend, take it, and doe with it as thy Lord and mine hath
commanded thee: but leave it in no rude place, where birds or savage
beasts may devour it, except it be his will to have it so.
  The servant departing from her with the child, and reporting the
Marquesse what his Lady had said; he wondered at her incomparable
constancy. Then he sent it by the same servant to Bologna, to an
honourable Lady his kinsewoman, requesting her (without revealing
whose child it was) to see it both nobly and carefully educated.
  At time convenient afterward, being with child againe, and delivered
of a Princely Sonne (then which nothing could be more joyfull to the
Marquesse) yet all this was not sufficient for him; but with farre
ruder language then before, and lookes expressing harsh intentions, he
said unto her. Grizelda, though thou pleasest me wonderfully, by the
birth of this Princely Boy, yet my subjects are not therewith
contented, but blunder abroad maliciously; that the grandchild of
Janiculo, a poore countrey pezant, when I am dead and gone, must be
their Soveraigne Lord and Master. Which makes me stand in feare of
their expulsion, and to prevent that, I must be rid of this childe, as
well as the other, and then send thee away from hence, that I may take
another wife, more pleasing to them.
  Grizelda, with a patient sufferent soule, hearing what he had
said, returned no other answere but this. Most Gracious and Honourable
Lord, satisfie and please your owne Royall minde, and never use any
respect of me: for nothing is precious or pleasing to mee, but what
may agree with your good liking. Within a while after, the Noble
Marquesse in the like manner as he did before for the Daughter, so
he sent the same servant for the Sonne, and seeming as if he had
sent it to have been slaine, conveighed it to be nursed at Bologna, in
company of his sweete Sister. Whereat the Lady shewed no other
discontentment in any kinde, then formerly she had done for her
Daughter, to the no meane marvell of the Marquesse, who protested in
his soule, that the like woman was not in all the world beside. And
were it not for his heedfull observation, how loving and carefull
she was of her children, prizing them as dearely as her owne life:
rash opinion might have perswaded him, that she had no more in her,
then a carnall affection, not caring how many she had, so shee might
thus easily be rid of them; but he knew her to be a truely vertuous
mother, and wisely liable to endure his severest impositions.
  His Subjects beleeving, that he had caused the children to bee
slaine, blamed him greatly, thought him to be a most cruell man, and
did highly compassionate the Ladies case: who when shee came in
company of other Gentlewomen, which mourned for their deceassed
children, would answere nothing else: but that they could not be
more pleasing to her, then they were to the father that begot them.
  Within certaine yeares after the birth of these children, the
Marquesse purposed with himselfe, to make his last and finall proofe
of faire Grizeldaes patience, and said to some neere about him: that
he could no longer endure, to keepe Grizelda as his wife,
confessing, he had done foolishly, and according to a young giddie
braine, when he was so rash in the marriage of her. Wherfore he
would send to the Pope, and purchase a dispensation from him, to
repudiate Grizelda, and take another Wife. Wherein although they
greatly reproved him; yet he told them plainely, that it must needes
be so.
  The Lady hearing these newes, and thinking she must returne againe
to her poore father's house, and (perhaps) to her old occupation of
keeping sheepe, as in her yonger dayes she had done, understanding
withall, that another woman must enjoy him, whom shee dearely loved
and honoured; you may well thinke (worthy Ladies) that her patience
was now put to the maine proofe indeede. Neverthelesse, as with an
invincible true vertuous courage, she had outstood all the other
injuries of Fortune; so did she constantly settle her soule, to
beare this with an undaunted countenance and behaviour.
  At such time as was prefixed for the purpose, counterfeit Letters
came to the Marquesse (as sent from Rome) which he caused to be
publikely read in the hearing of his subjects: that the Pope had
dispensed with him, to leave Grizelda, and marry with another Wife,
wherefore sending for her immediatly, in presence of them all, thus he
spake to her. Woman, by concession sent me from the Pope, he hath
dispensed with me, to make choyce of another Wife, and to free my
selfe from thee. And because my predecessors have beene Noblemen,
and great Lords in this Country, thou being the daughter of a poore
Countrey Clowne, and their blood and mine notoriously imbased, by my
marriage with thee: I intend to have thee no longer my Wife, but
will returne thee home to thy Fathers house, with all the rich Dowry
thou broughtest me; and then I wil take another Wife, with whom I am
already contracted, better beseeming my birth, and farre more
contenting and pleasing to my people.
  The Lady hearing these words (not without much paine and difficulty)
restrayned her teares, quite contrary to the naturall inclination of
women, and thus answered. Great Marquesse, I never was so empty of
discretion, but did alwayes acknowledge, that my base and humble
condition, could not in any manner sute with your high blood and
Nobility, and my being with you, I ever acknowledged, to proceed
from heaven and you, not any merit of mine, but onely as a favour lent
me, which you being now pleased to recall backe againe, I ought to
be pleased (and so am) that it bee restored. Here is the Ring,
wherewith you Espoused me; here (in all humility) I deliver it to you.
You command me, to carry home the marriage Dowry which I brought
with me: there is no need of a Treasurer to repay it me, neither any
new purse to carry it in, much lesse any Sumpter to be laden with
it. For (Noble Lord) it was never out of my memory, that you tooke
me starke naked, and if it shall seeme sightly to you, that this
body which hath borne two children, and begotten by you, must againe
be seene naked; willingly must I depart hence naked. But I humbly
beg of your Excellency, in recompence of my Virginity, which I brought
you blamelesse, so much as in thought: that I may have but one of my
wedding Smocks, onely to conceale the shame of nakednesse, and then
I depart rich enough.
  The Marquesse whose heart wept bloody teares, as his eyes would
likewise gladly have yeelded their naturall tribute; covered all
with a dissembled angry countenance, and starting up, said. Goe,
give her a Smocke onely, and so send her gadding. All there present
about him, entreated him to let her have a petticote, because it might
not be said, that she who had been his Wife thirteene yeares and more,
was sent away so poorely in her Smocke: but all their perswasions
prevailed not with him. Naked in her Smocke, without hose or shoes,
bareheaded, and not so much as a Cloth about her necke, to the great
griefe and mourning of all that saw her, she went home to her old
fathers house.
  And he (good man) never beleeving, that the Marquesse would long
keepe his daughter as his Wife, but rather expected dally, what now
had happened: safely laid up the garments, whereof the Marquesse
despoyled her, the same morning when he espoused her. Wherefore he
delivered them to her, and she fell to her fathers houshold businesse,
according as formerly she had done; sustayning with a great and
unconquerable spirit, all the cruell assaults of her enemy Fortune.
  About such time after, as suted with his owne disposition, the
Marquesse made publiquely knowne to his subjects, that he meant to
joyne in marriage again, with the daughter to one of the Counts of
Panago, and causing preparation to be made for a sumptuous wedding; he
sent for Grizelda, and she being come, thus he spake to her. The
Wife that I have made the new election of, is to arrive here within
very few dayes, and at her first comming, I would have her to be
most honourably entertained. Thou knowest I have no women in my house,
that can decke up the Chambers, and set all requisite things in due
order, befitting for so solemne a Feast: and therefore I sent for
thee, who knowing (better then any other) all the partes, provision
and goods in the house, set every thing in such order, as thou shalt
thinke necessary.
  Invite such Ladies and Gentlewomen as thou wilt, and give them
welcome, even as if thou wert the Lady of the house: and when the
marriage is ended, returne then home to thy father againe.
  Although these words pierced like wonding daggers, the heart of
poore (but Noble patient) Grizelda, as being unable to forget the
unequal'd love she bare to the Marquesse, though the dignitie of her
former fortune, more easily slipt out of her remembrance; yet
neverthelesse, thus she answered.
  My Gracious Lord, I am glad I can doe you any service; wherein you
shall find mee both willing and ready. In the same poore garments,
as she came from her fathers house, (although shee was turned out in
her Smocke) she began to sweep and make cleane the Chambers, rubbe the
stooles and benches in the Hall, and ordered every in the Kitchin,
as if she were the worst maide in all the house, never ceasing or
giving over, till all things were in due and decent order as best
beseemed in such a case. After all which was done, the Marquesse,
having invited all the Ladies of the Countrey, to be present at so
great a Feast: when the marriage day came, Grizelda, in her gowne of
Countrey gray, gave them welcome, in honourable manner, and graced
them all with very cheerefull countenance.
  Gualtiero the Marquesse, who had caused his two children to be nobly
nourished at Bologna, with a neere kinswoman of his, who had married
with one of the Counts of Panago, his daughter being now aged twelve
yeares old, and somewhat more, as also the Son about sixe or seven. He
sent a Gentleman expresly to his kindred, to have them come and visite
him at Saluzza, bringing his daughter and Sonne with them, attended in
very honourable manner, and publishing every where as they came along,
that the young Virgin (knowne to none but himselfe and them) should be
the Wife to the Marquesse, and that onely was the cause of her
comming. The Gentleman was not slacke, in the execution of the trust
reposed in him: but having made convenient preparation; with the
kindred, Sonne, daughter, and a worthy company attending on them,
arrived at Saluzza about dinner time, where wanted no resort, from all
neighbouring parts round about, to see the comming of the Lord
Marquesses new Spouse.
  By the Lords and Ladies she was joyfully entertained, and comming
into the great Hall, where the tables were readily covered:
Grizelda, in her homely Country habite, humbled her selfe before
her, saying. Gracious welcome, to the new elected Spouse of the Lord
Marquesse.
  All the Ladies there present, who had very earnestly importuned
Gualtiero (but in vaine) that Grizelda, might better be shut up in
some Chamber, or else to lend her the wearing of any other garments,
which formerly had been her owne, because she should not be so poorely
seene among strangers: being seated at the Tables, she waited on
them very serviceably. The yong Virgin was observed by every one,
who spared not to say; that the Marquesse had made an excellent
change: but above them all, Grizelda did most commend her, and so
did her brother likewise, as young as he was, yet not knowing her to
be his Sister.
  Now was the Marquesse sufficiently satisfied in his soule, that he
had seene so much as he desired, concerning the patience of his
Wife, who in so many hart-grieving trials, was never noated so much as
to alter her countenance. And being absolutely perswaded, that this
proceeded not from any want of understanding in her, because he knew
her to be singularly wise: he thought it high time now, to free her
from these afflicting oppressions, and give her such assurance as
she ought to have. Wherefore, commanding her into his presence, openly
before all his assembled friends, smiling on her, he said. What
thinkst thou Grizelda of our new chosen Spouse? My Lord (quoth she)
I like her exceeding well, and if she be so wise, as she is faire
(which verely I thinke she is) I make no doubt but you shall live with
her, as the onely happy man of the world. But I humbly entreat your
Honor (if I have any power in me to prevaile by) that you would not
give her such cutting and unkind language, as you did to your other
wife: for I cannot thinke her armed with such patience, as should
(indeed) support them: as wel in regard she is much yonger, as also
her more delicate breeding and education, whereas she who you had
before, was brought up in continual toile and travaile.
  When the Marquesse perceyved, that Grizelda beleeved verily, this
yong daughter of hers should be his wife, and answered him in so
honest and modest manner: he commanded her to sit downe by him, and
saide. Grizelda, it is now more then fitte time, that thou shouldst
taste the fruite of thy long admired patience, and that they who
have thought me cruell, harsh and uncivill natured, should at length
observe, that I have done nothing basely, or unadvisedly. For this was
a worke premeditated before, for enstructing thee, what it is to be
a married wife, and to let them know (whosoever they be) how to take
and keepe a wife. Which hath begotten (to me) perpetuall joy and
happinesse, so long as I have a day to live with thee: a matter
whereof I stoode before greatly in feare, and which (in marriage I
thought) would never happen to me.
  It is not unknown to thee, in how many kinds (for my first proofe) I
gave thee harsh and unpleasing speeches, which drawing no
discontentment from thee, either in lookes, words, or behaviour, but
rather such comfort as my soule desired, and so in my other
succeedings afterward: in one minute now, I purpose to give thee
that consolation, which I bereft thee of in many tempestuous
stormes, and make a sweet restauration, for all thy former sower
sufferinges. My faire and dearly affected Grizelda, shee whom thou
supposest for my new elected Spouse, with a glad and cheerfull hart,
imbrace for thine owne daughter, and this also her Brother, beeing
both of them thy children and mine, in common opinion of the vulgar
multitude, imagined to be (by my command) long since slaine. I am
thy honourable Lord and Husband, who doth, and will love thee farre
above all women else in the world; giving thee justly this deserved
praise and commendation, That no man living hath the like Wife, as I
have.
  So, sweetly kissing her infinitely, and hugging her joyfully in
his armes (the teares now streaming like new-let-loose Rivers, downe
her faire face, which no disaster before could force from her) hee
brought her, and seated her by her daughter, who was not a little
amazed at so rare an alteration. Shee having in zeale of affection)
kissed and embraced them both, all else there present being clearely
resolved from the former doubt which too long deluded them; the ladies
arose jocondly from the tables, and attending on Grizelda to her
Chamber, in signe of a more successfull augury to follow, tooke off
her poor contemptible rags, and put on such costly robes, which (as
Lady Marchionesse) she used to weare before.
  Afterward, they waited on her into the Hall againe, being their true
Soveraigne Lady and Mistresse, as she was no lesse in her poorest
Garments; where all rejoycing for the new restored Mother, and happy
recovery of so noble a son and daughter, the Festivall continued
many months after. Now every one thought the Marquesse to be a noble
and wise Prince, though somewhat sharpe and unsufferable, in the
severe experiences made of his wife: but (above al) they reputed
Grizelda, to be a most wise, patient, and vertuous Lady. The Count
of Panago, within few daies after returned backe to Bologna; and the
Lord Marques, fetching home old Janiculo from his country drudgery, to
live with him (as his Father in law) in his Princely Palace, gave
him honorable maintenance, wherein hee long continued, and ended his
daies. Afterward, he matched his daughter in a Noble marriage: he
and Grizelda living a long time together, in the highest honor that
possibly could be.
  What can now be saide to the contrary, but that poore Country
Cottages, may yeeld as divine and excellent spirits, as the most
stately and Royall mansions, which breed and bring uppe some, more
worthy to be Hog-rubbers, then hold any soveraignty over men? Where is
any other (beside Grizelda) who not only without a wet eye, but
imboldned by a valiant and invincible courage: that can suffer the
sharpe rigors, and (never the like heard of proofes) made by the
Marquesse? Perhaps he might have met with another, who would have
quitted him in a contrary kinde, and for thrusting her forth of doores
in her smocke, could have found better succor somewhere else, rather
then walke so nakedly in the cold streets.
  Dioneus having thus ended his Novel, and the Ladies delivering their
severall judgements, according to their owne fancies, some holding one
conceite, others leaning to the contrary; one blaming this thing,
and another commending that, the King lifting his eyes to heaven,
and seeing the Sun began to fal low, by rising of the Evening
Starre; without arising from his seat, spake as followeth. Discreet
Ladies, I am perswaded you know sufficiently, that the sense and
understanding of us mortals, consisteth not onely (as I think) by
preserving in memory things past, or knowledge of them present; but
such as both by the one and other, know how to foresee future
occasions, are worthily thought wise, and of no common capacity.
  It will be (to morrow) fifteene dayes, since we departed from the
City of Florence, to come hither for our pastime and comfort, the
conservation of our lives, and support of our health, by avoyding
those melanchollies, griefes and anguishes, which we beheld daylie
in our City, since the pestilentiall visitation beganne there, wherein
(by my judgement) we have done well and honestly. Albeit some light
Novels, perhaps attractive to a little wantonnes, as some say, and our
joviall feasting with good cheare, singing and dancing, may seeme
matters inciting to incivility, especially in weake and shallow
understandings. But I have neither seene, heard, or knowne, any
acte, word, or whatsoever else, either on your part or ours, justly
deserving to be blamed: but all has bin honest, as in a sweete and
hermonious concord, such as might well beseeme the communitie of
Brethren and Sisters; which assuredly, as well in regard of you, as
us, hath much contented me.
  And therefore, least by over-long consuetude, something should
take life, which might be converted to a bad construction, and by
our country demourance for so many dayes, some captious conceit may
wrest out an ill imagination; I am of the minde (if yours be the like)
seeing each of us hath had the honor, which now remaineth still on me:
that it is very fitting for us, to returne thither from whence we
came. And so much the rather, because this sociable meeting of ours,
which already hath wonne the knowledge of many dwellers here about us,
should not grow to such an increase, as might make our purposed
pastime offensive to us. In which respect (if you allow of advise) I
wil keepe the Crowne till our departing hence; the which I intend
shalbe to morrow: but if you determine otherwise I am the man ready
to make my resignation.
  Many imaginations passed amongst the Ladies, and likewise the men,
but yet in the end, they reputed the Kings counsell to bee the best
and wisest, concluding to do as he thought convenient. Wherupon, hee
called the Master of the housholde, and conferred with him, of the
businesse belonging to the next morning, and then gave the company
leave to rise. The Ladies and the rest, when they were risen, fel some
to one kinde of recreation, and others as their fancies served them,
even as (before) they had done. And when Supper time came, they
dispatcht it in very loving manner. Then they began to play on
instruments, sing and dance, and Madame Lauretta leading the dance:
the King commaunded Madame Fiammetta to sing a song, which
pleasantly she began in this manner.

                       THE SONG
     THE CHORUS SUNG BY ALL THE REST OF THE COMPANY

     If Love were free from Jealousie,
       No Lady living,
       Had lesse heart-greeving,
     Or liv'd so happily as I.

  If gallant youth
    In a faire friend, a woman could content,
  If vertues prize, valour and hardiment,
    Wit, carriage, purest eloquence,
    Could free a woman from impatience:
  Then I am she can vaunt (if I were wise)
  All these in one faire flower,
  Are in my power,
    And yet I boast no more but trueth.
  If Love were free from jealousie, etc.

  But I behold
  That other Women are as wise as
    Which killes me quite,
  Fearing false sirquedrie.
    For when my fire begins to flame
    Others desires misguide my aim,
  And so bereaves me of secure delight.
  Onely through fond mistrust, he is unjust:
    Thus are my comforts hourely hot and cold.
  If Love were free, etc.

  If in my friend,
  I found like faith, as manly minde I know;
    Mistrust were slaine.
    But my fresh griefes still grow,
  By sight of such as do allure,
  So I can thinke none true, none sure,
    But all would rob me of my golden gaine.
  Loe thus I dye, in jealousie,
    For losse of him, on whom I most depend.
  If Love were free, etc.

  Let me advise
  Such Ladies as in Love are bravely bold,
    Not to wrong me, I scorne to be controld.
  If any one I chance to finde,
  By winkes, words, smiles, in crafty kinde,
    Seeking for that, which onely mine should be:
  Then I protest, to do my best,
  And make them know, that they are scarsly wise.

      If Love were free from jealousie,
        I know no Lady living,
        Could have lesse heart-greeving,
      Or live so happily as I.

  So soone as Madam Flammetta had ended her Song; Dioneus, who sate by
her, smiling said. Truly Madam, you may do us a great courtesie, to
expresse your selfe more plainly to us all, least (thorow ignorance)
the possession may be imposed on your selfe, and so you remaine the
more offended.
  After the Song was past, divers other were sung beside, and it now
drawing wel-neere midnight, by the Kings command, they all went to
bed. And when new day appeared, and all the world awaked out of
sleepe, the Master of the Houshold having sent away the carriages;
they returned (under the conduct of their discreet King) to
Florence, where the three Gentlemen left the seven Ladies at the
Church of Santa Maria Novella, from whence they went with them at
the first. And having parted with kinde salutations, the Gentlemen
went whether themselves best pleased, and the Ladies repaired home
to their houses.


                                   -THE END-
.