The Induction to the ensuing Discourses._

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

abroade 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 Queen was setting

forward, charged all the rest of their followers, as if it had been

preparation 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 peace, the Queen 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 floures, which by reason of the Sunnes high mounting, beganne to

open their bosome, and fill the fresh Ayre with their odorifferous

perfumes. Before they had travelled two small miles distance, all of

them pleasantly conversing together; they arrived at another goodly

Palace, which being somewhat mounted above the plaine, was seated on

the side of a little rising hill.

When they were entred there into, and had seene the great Hall, the

Parlours, and beautifull Chambers, every one stupendiously furnished,

with all convenient commodities to them belonging, and nothing wanting,

that could be desired; they highly commended it, reputing the Lord

thereof for a most worthy man, that had adorned it in such Princely

manner. Afterward, being descended lower, and noting the most spacious

and pleasant Court, the Sellars stored with the choysest Wines, and

delicate Springs of water every where running, their prayses then

exceeded more and more. And being weary with beholding such variety

of pleasures, they sate downe in a faire Gallery, which took the view

of the whole Court, it being round engirt with trees and floures,

whereof the season then yeelded great plenty. And then came the

discreete Master of the Houshold, with divers servants attending on

him, presenting them with Comfits, and other Banquetting, as also very

singular Wines, to serve in sted of a breakefast.

Having thus reposed themselves a while, a Garden gate was set open to

them, coasting on one side of the Pallace, and round inclosed with

high mounted walles. Whereinto when they were entred, they found it to

be a most beautifull Garden, stored with all varieties that possibly

could be devised; and therefore they observed it the more respectively.

The walkes and allyes were long and spacious, yet directly straite as

an arrow, environed with spreading vines, whereon the grapes hung in

copious clusters; which being come to their full ripenesse, gave so rare

a smell throughout the Garden, with other sweete savours intermixed

among, that they supposed to feele the fresh spiceries of the East.

It would require large length of time, to describe all the rarities of

this place, deserving much more to be commended, then my best faculties

will affoord me. In the middest of the Garden, was a square plot, after

the resemblance of a Meadow, flourishing with high grasse, hearbes, and

plants, beside a thousand diversities of floures, even as if by the art

of painting they had beene there deputed. Round was it circkled with

very verdant Orenge and Cedar Trees, their branches plentiously stored

with fruite both old and new, as also the floures growing freshly among

them, yeelding not onely a rare aspect to the eye, but also a delicate

savour to the smell.

In the middest of this Meadow, stood a Fountaine of white Marble,

whereon was engraven most admirable workemanship, and within it (I

know not whether it were by a naturall veine, or artificiall) flowing

from a figure, standing on a Collomne in the midst of the Fountaine,

such aboundance of water, and so mounting up towards the Skies, that

it was a wonder to behold. For after the high ascent, it fell downe

againe into the wombe of the Fountaine, with such a noyse and pleasing

murmur, as the streame that glideth from a mill. When the receptacle of

the Fountaine did overflow the bounds, it streamed along the Meadow,

by secret passages and chanelse, very faire and artificially made,

returning againe into every part of the Meadow, by the like wayes of

cunning conveighance, which allowed it full course into the Garden,

running swiftly thence down towards the plaine; but before it came

thether, the very swift current of the streame, did drive two goodly

Milles, which brought in great benefit to the Lord of the soile.

The sight of this Garden, the goodly grafts, plants, trees, hearbes,

frutages, and flowers, the Springs, Fountaines, and prety rivolets

streaming from it, so highly pleased the Ladies and Gentlemen, that

among other infinite commendations, they spared not to say: if any

Paradise remayned on the earth to be seene, it could not possibly

bee in any other place, but onely was contained within the compasse

of this Garden. With no meane pleasure and delight they walked round

about it, making Chaplets of flowers, and other faire branches of the

trees, continually hearing the Birds in mellodious notes, ecchoing and

warbling one to another, even as if they envied each others felicities.

But yet another beauty (which before had not presented it selfe unto

them) on a sodaine they perceyved; namely divers prety creatures in

many parts of the Gardens. In one place Conies tripping about; in

another place Hares: in a third part Goats browsing on the hearbes, &

little yong Hindes feeding every where: yet without strife or warring

together, but rather living in such a Domesticke and pleasing kinde of

company, even as if they were appoynted to enstruct the most noble of

all creatures, to imitate their sociable conversation.

When their senses had sufficiently banquetted on these several

beauties, the tables were sodainly prepared about the Fountaine,

where first they sung sixe Canzonets; and having paced two or three

dances, they sate downe to dinner, according as the Queene ordained,

being served in very sumptuous manner, with all kinde of costly and

delicate viands, yet not any babling noise among them. The Tables being

withdrawne, they played againe upon their instruments, singing and

dancing gracefully together: till, in regard of the extreame heate, the

_Queene_ commanded to give over, and permitted such as were so pleased,

to take their ease and rest. But some, as not satisfied with the places

pleasures, gave themselves to walking: others fell to reading the lives

of the Romanes; some to the Chesse, and the rest to other recreations.

But, after the dayes warmth was more mildely qualified, and everie 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.

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._

The first Novell.

_Wherein is declared, that virginity is very hardly to be kept, in all

places._

Most woorthy Ladies, there wantes 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 (after it is once shorn and filletted) &

the blacke Cowle given to cover her withall: shee 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 setled perswasion; then they growe so

furiously offended, as if one had committed a most foul and enormous

sinne, directly against the course of nature. And the torrent of this

opinion hurries them on so violently, that they will not admit the

least leisure to consider, how (in such a full scope of liberty) they

have power to do what they list, yea beyonde all meanes of sufficient

satisfying; never remembring withall, how potent the priviledge of

idlenesse is, especially when it is backt by solitude.

In like manner, there are other people now, who do verily believe,

that the Spade and Pickaxe, grosse feeding and labour, do quench

all sensuall and fleshly concupiscences, yea, in such as till and

husband the grounds, 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) and make

it apparant to you al, by a short and pleasant Tale; how greatly they

are abused by error, that build upon so weake a foundation.

Not far from _Alexandria_, there was (and yet is) a great & goodly

Monastery, 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 Nunnes, vowed to chastity of life;

out of whose number, the Soldan of _Babylon_ (under whom they lived

in subjection) at every three yeares end, had usually three of these

virgins sent him. At the time whereof I am now to speak, there remained

in the Monastery, no more but eight religious Sisters only, beside

the Governesse or Lady Abbesse, and an honest poore 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 turned 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 uppe

all their water beside, with many other toilesome services elsee: but

the allowance of my wages was so little, as it would not pay for the

shooes I wore. And that which was worst of all, they being all yong

women, I thinke the devill dwelse among 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 & 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 businesse, gave over the Garden, and what for one

molestation, 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 elsee now hammered in his head: for

he meant more subtilly, then 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 be done,

he could question no further therein with _Lurco_, but onely demanded

other matters of him, and among them said. Introth thou didst well

_Lurco_, to come away from so tedious a dwelling; had he not need to be

more then a man that is to live with such women? It were better for him

to dwell among so many divelse, because they understand not the tenth

part that womens wily wits can dive into.

After their conference was ended, _Massetto_ began to beat his braines,

how he might compasse to dwell among them, & knowing that he could well

enough performe all the labours, whereof _Lurco_ had made mention: he

cared not for any losse he should sustaine thereby: but onely stoode

in doubt of his entertainment, because he was too yong and sprightly.

Having pondered on many imaginations, he saide 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 (questionlesse) I shall be received. And resolving to

prosecute this determination, he tooke a Spade on his shoulder, and

without revealing to any body, whether he 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 do any reasonable kinde of service.

The _Fac-totum_ 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 lade 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

_Fac-totum_ what he was? Madam (quoth hee) a poore labouring man, who

is both deafe and dumbe: hither he came to crave an almes the other

day, 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 some 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 gone, and we have neede of such a stout fellow, to do the

businesse belonging unto 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 farre off from them all this while, but seemed

seriously busied, about sweeping and making cleane the Court, hearde

all these speeches; and being not a little joyfull of them, saide to

himselfe. If once I come to worke in your Garden, let the proofe yeelde

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 answer 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 bee 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

walks, but referred them to their owne care and providence. On a day,

_Massetto_ having laboured somewhat extraordinarily, lay downe to rest

him selfe 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 pity 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. [Sidenote: Example, at least excuses

formed to that intent prevaileth much with such kind of religious

women.] Sister, replyed the other Nun, speake your minde boldly, and

beleeve it (on my Maiden-head) that I will never reveale it to any

creature living. Encouraged by this solemne answer, the first Nun thus

prosecuted her former purpose, saying. I know not Sister, whether

it hath entred into thine understanding or no, how strictly we are

here kept and attended, never any man daring to adventure among us,

except our good and honest _Fac-totum_, who is very aged; and this

dumbe fellow, maimed, and made imperfect by nature, and therefore not

woorthy the title of a man. Ah Sister, it hath oftentimes bin told me,

by Gentle-women comming hither to visite us, that all other sweetes in

the world, are meere 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 selfe-same mold, dumb and deafe, which are two the

most rational and understanding parts that do belong to any man, and

therefore no Man, wanting them. If folly & frailty should 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 constitutions of our

Religion doth teach us, that a sinne so assuredly concealed, is more

then halfe absolved.

_Ave Maria_ Sister (said the other Nunne) what kinde of words are these

you utter? Doe not you know, that wee 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 weaker witted Sisters do

performe it for us, no doubt but he will accept it in part of payment.

Yea but Sister, replied the second Nunne againe, there is another

danger lying in our way: If wee prove to be with childe, how shall

we doe then? Sister (quoth our couragious Wench) thou art afraid of

a 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, and wee

are provided of a thousand meanes, whereby to prevent conception. Or,

if they should faile, wee 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 Monasterie questioned, or our Religion rashly

scandalized. Thus shee schooled her younger Sister in wit, albeit as

forward as she in will, and longed as desirously, to know what kinde a

creature a man was.

After some other questions, how this intention of theirs might be

safely brought to full effect: the sprightly Nunne, 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 sleepe, for our earlier rising

to morning Mattins. Here are none in the Garden now but our selves,

and, while I awake him, be you the watch, and afterward follow me in my

fortune, for I will valiantly leade you the way. _Massetto_ imitating

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 simply 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 deedes

require longer time to contrive, then act, and both the Nunnes, having

beene 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 perfect Confessour.

Desires obtained, but not fully satisfied, doe commonly urge more

frequent accesse, then wisdome thinkes expedient, or can continue

without discoverie. Our two Joviall Nunnes, not a little proud of

their private stolne pleasures, so long resorted to the close Arbour;

till an other 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 forewoman 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

very 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 little

businesse to doe, because he had wrought hard all the night before.

Shee observed him to be an hansome man, young, lusty, well limbde, and

proportioned, having a mercifull commisseration of his dumbnesse and

deafenesse, being perswaded also in like manner, that if he were an

Eunuch too, he deserved a thousand times the more to be pittied. The

season was exceeding hot, and he lay downe so carelesly to sleepe,

that something 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 Gardener came not to his dayly 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, shewes, or what language

he speaks there, I am not able to expresse; onely it appeard that his

behaviour pleased her so well, as it procured his daily repairing

thither; and acquainted her with such familiar conversation, as shee

would have condemned in the Nuns her daughters, but that they were wise

enough to keepe it from her. Now began _Massetto_ to consider with

himselfe, that he had undertaken a taske belonging to great _Hercules_,

in giving contentment to so many, and by continuing dumbe in this

manner, it would redound to his no meane detriment. Whereupon, as hee

was one night sitting by the Abbesse, the string that restrained 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 severall 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 doe. Already have I performed so much Garden and

Chamber-worke, that I confesse my selfe starke tired, and can travaile

no further; and therefore let me entreate you to lysence my departure

hence, or finde some meanes for my better ease. The Abbesse hearing

him speake, who had so long served there dumbe; being stricken into

admiration, and accounting it almost a miracle, saide. 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

sicknesse, which bereft me of speech, and which I have not onely

recovered againe this night, but shall 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 all the eight

Sisters. Upon this reply, the Abbesse plainly perceived, that not onely

shee had fallen into folly, but all the Nunnes likewise cried guilty

too: wherefore 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 elsee more neerely concerning them: by

generall consent, & with the good liking of _Massetto_, he was created

the _Fac-totum_ of the Monasterie.

All the neighbouring people dwelling thereabout, who knew _Massetto_

to be dumbe, by fetching home wood daily from the Forrest, and divers

employments in other places; were made to beleeve that by the Nunnes

devoute prayers and discipline, as also the merits 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

_Fac-totum_, having power now to employ others in drudgeries, and ease

himselfe of all such labours. And albeit he make the Nunnes to be

fruitfull, by encreasing some store of yonger Sisters; yet all matters

were so close & cleanly carried, as it was never talkt of, till after

the death of the Ladie Abbesse, when _Massetto_ beganne to grow in

good yeares, and desired, to returne home to his Native abiding, which

(within a while after) was granted him.

Thus _Massetto_, being rich and old, 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 born, having (by his wit and

ingenious apprehension) made such a benefit of his youthfull years,

that now he merrily tooke ease in his age.

_A Querry of the Stable, belonging to_ Agilulffo; _King of the

Lombards, 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 knowne, 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._

The second Novell.

_Wherein is signified, the providence of a wise man, when he shall

have reason to use revenge. And the cunning craft of another, when hee

compasseth meanes to defend himselfe from perill._

When the Novell 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 mens errors, 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) might

be reputed of lesse reckoning then _Massetto_; and yet hee 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, wise 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 lowe

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 hee 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 Stirrope, 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 fel 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 manie nights

together from the Queene. Wherefore, to see in what manner, & 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 fellowe 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

verie 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 be at rest in his

owne Lodging, and all elsee sleeping in their beds; closely he steals

into the Gallery, where alighting his Taper, with 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 sinne committed, 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 forfeite

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 disposed, whereat

the Queene began not a little to mervaile. Now trust mee Sir, quoth

shee, this hath been 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, sodainly presumed, that by some

counterfeit person or other, the Queene had been 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 hare-braind men, who presently would

have answered and sworne; I came not hither this night, till now.

Whereupon many dangers might ensue, to the dishonour and prejudice of

the Queene; beside, hir error being discovered to hir, 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 needes 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 Madame, 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 truely Sir, quoth she,

I only 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 him, and leaving his

Chamber, imagining, that whatsoever he was, needes 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

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 hee 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

his 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 extremely, 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; untill he came to this Querry, whose heart and pulses

laboured so sternely, that he said to himselfe; yea mary, this is the

man that did the deede.

Neverthelesse, purposing to make no apparance of his further intention,

he did nothing elsee to him, but drawing foorth 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 interrogatories, 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 title of the

shame, neither qualifieth the peoples bad affections, who will lash

out as liberally in scandall, and upon the very least babling rumor.

Such therefore 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 indeede 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.

_Under colour of Confession, and of a most pure conscience, a faire

young 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._

The third Novell.

_Declaring, that the leude and naughty qualities of some persons, doe

oftentimes misguide good people, into very great and greevous errors._

When Madam _Pampinea_ sate silent, and the Querries boldnesse equalled

with his crafty cunning, and great wisedome in the King had passed

among them with generall applause; the Queene, turning her selfe to

Madam _Philomena_, appointed her to follow next in order, and to hold

rancke with her discourse, as the rest had done before her: whereupon

_Philomena_ graciously began in this manner.

It is my purpose, to acquaint you with a notable mockery, 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 shee 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 very best of all their devises, to expresse

their owne vilenesse of minde, and fatten themselves in their sties,

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

opinative and credulous, may be, yea, and are (divers times) cunningly

met withall, in their craftinesse, not onely by men, but likewise some

of our owne sexe, as I 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 Novell, I meane not to make manifest,

albeit I know them, because some are yet living, and thereby may be

scandalized; 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 Artezen, a Clothier or

Drapier, that lived by the making and selling of Cloth: shee could

not (because he was a Trades-man) 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 Loomes, or dispute with

his Spinsters, about their businesse.

Being thus over-swayed with her proud opinion, shee would no longer

be embraced, or regarded by him in any manner, saving onely 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

Drapier her Husband did. Hereupon shee fell so deepe in love, with a

very 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 neglect

and 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 daily 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; upon a day, apt and convenient, shee 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 shee would be confessed, and

onely had made her choyce of him. The holy man seeing her, and reputing

her to be a Gentlewoman, as indeede shee was no lesse; willingly heard

her, and when shee had confessed what shee could, shee 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 help and councell, 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 dearely as his life, for proofe

whereof, there is not any thing that I can desire, but immediatly 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 endeavours for him; I must tell you one thing,

if I should do anything contrary to his liking and honour, no woman

can more worthily deserve death, then my selfe. Understand then, good

Father, that there is a man, whose name I know not, but hee seemeth

to be honest, and of good worth; moreover (if I am not deceived) hee

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 me, 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 walkes, and much I mervaile, that he is not now here.

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 minde, to let him have knowledge thereof by my

brethren: but afterward I considered, that men (many times) deliver

messages in such sort, as draw on very ungentle answeres, whereon grow

words, and words beget actions. In which respect, because no harme or

scandall should ensue, I thought it best to be silent; determining,

to acquaint you rather therewith, then any other, as well because

you seeme 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. Enowe other women there are, (more is the pitty) who

(perhaps) are better disposed to such suites, then I am, and can both

like and allowe 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 entreat 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 hereafter. With which

words, shee hung downe her head in her bosome, cunningly dissembling,

as if shee wept, wiping her eyes with her Handkerchife, when not a

teare fell 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 be any more 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 commended Almes-deedes, and dayly workes of charity, recounting to

her (beside) his owne perticular necessities. Then, giving him two

pieces of gold, she said. I pray you (good Father) to be mindfull of

me, and if he chance to make any deniall: tell him boldly, 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, shee promised to

make her parents bountifull benefactours 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 whom

she had 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 Frier (in very loving and friendly sort) mildly

reproved him, for such amorous glaunces, and other pursuites, which

(as he thought) hee dayly used to the Gentlewoman, according to

her owne speeches. The Gentleman mervailed greatly thereat, as one

that had never seene her, and very sildome passed by the way where

she dwelt, which made him the bolder in his answeres; wherein the

Confessour interrupting him, said. Never make such admiration at the

matter, neither waste more words in these stout denials, because they

cannot serve thy turne: I tell thee plainely, I heard it not from any

neighbours, but even of her owne selfe, in a very sorrowfull and sad

complaint. And though (perhaps) hereafter, thou canst very hardly

refraine such follies; yet let mee tell thee so much of her (and under

the seale of absolute assurance) that she is the onely woman of the

world, who (in my true judgement) doth hate and abhorre all such base

behaviour. Wherefore, in regard of thine owne honour, as also not to

vexe & prejudice so vertuous a Gentlewoman: I pray thee refrain such

idlenes henceforward, & suffer hir to live in peace.

The Gentleman, being a little wiser then his ghostly Father, perceived

immediatly (without any further meditating on the matter) the notable

pollicie of the woman: whereupon, making somewhat bashfull appearance

of any error already committed; hee said, hee would afterward be better

advised. So, departing from the Frier, he went on directly, to passe

by the house where the Gentlewoman dwelt, and she stood alwayes ready

on her watch, at a little window, to observe, when hee should walke

that way: And seeing him comming, she 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, hee

used dayly, though in covert manner (to the no little liking of the

Gentlewoman and himselfe) to make his passage through that streete,

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:

shee 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 shee

went, (for shee had been 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 new accident had

happened? Holy Father (quoth shee) no novell accident, but onely your

wicked and ungracious friend, by whom (since I was here with you, yea,

no longer agoe then yesterday) I have beene so wronged, as I verily

beleeve that hee was borne to be my mortall enemie, and to make me doe

something 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 sigh, thus

shee replyed. No truly, holy Father, there is no likelyhood of his

abstaining; for since I made my complaint to you, he belike taking it

in evill part, to be 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 glaunces which

hee dartes at me: but growne he is so bolde and shamelesse, that

even yesterday, (as I tolde you) he sent a woman to me, one of his

_Pandoraes_, as it appeared, and as if I had wanted either Purses or

Girdles, he sent me (by her) a Purse and a Girdle. Whereat I grew so

grievously offended, as had it not beene 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 will neither say or doe 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

shee would keepe them to her selfe, and make him beleeve, that I had

received them (as I have heard such kind of women use to doe sometimes)

and in anger I snatcht them from her, and have brought them hither to

you, to the end that you may give him them againe; and tell him, I have

no neede 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, and I beseech you accept my just excuse, that if

he will not abstaine from thus molesting me, I will disclose it to my

Husband, Father, and Brethren, whatsoever shall ensue thereon: for I

had rather he should receive the injury (if needs it must come) then I

to be causelesly blamed for him; wherein good Father tell me, if I doe

not well. With many counterfeit sobbes, sighes, and teares, these wordes

were delivered; and drawing foorth from under her gowne, a very faire

and rich purse, as also a Girdle of great worth, shee threw them into

the Friers lap.

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, not will any wise man 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 mee;

wherefore, in regard of his former offence, as also this other so

lately committed, I hope to set him in such a heate, as shall make him

leave off from further injurying thee. And in Gods name, suffer not thy

selfe to be conquered by choler, in disclosing this to thy kindred or

husband, because too much harme may ensue thereon. But feare not any

wrong to thy selfe; for, both before God and men, I am a true witnesse

of thine honesty and vertue.

Now began she to appeare somewhat better comforted; & forbearing to

play on this string any longer, as wel knowing the covetousness 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 paines, and desired

nothing else but Almes; especially my God-mother, who seemed to bee

afflicted with such extreme poverty, that it was most pittifull to

behold. And I am half perswaded, that her torments are the greater,

seeing mee 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 fortie Masses of S. _Gregory_, as a meanes 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 Frier, falling into the course of his former

reprehensions, but yet in more rough and impatient manner, 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

be 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

trueth? 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 understande

how firmely she is affected, that you shall never heare any more

complaints 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, & 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 certified of his Mistresses love, and by tokens of

such worthy esteeme; wherefore no sooner was hee gone from the Frier,

but hee went into such a secret place, where he could let her behold

at her Window, what precious tokens he had receyved 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 hee mounted on

horsebacke, taking leave of her and all his friends: but she, being

sure hee was gone, went in all hast to her Ghostly Father; and, after

a few faigned outward shewes, thus she spake. I must now plainly 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

molestation.

Your friend I cannot terme him, but (questionles) a very divel 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 out-cry: but that he entreated mee, 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 civil

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 answer, 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 il

done; & thou shewedst thy selfe a worthy wise woman, in sending him

away so mercifully, as thou didst. Once more I would entreat thee

(deare and vertuous daughter) seeing grace hath hitherto kept thee

from dishonour, 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 divel, 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 work (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, shee 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. Hee who had formerly

twice perceived, how high the holy mans anger mounted, did nothing but

expect what he wold 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

mee 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, & 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 strain,

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 possibly she can hate more then you, and 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, & my loving

admonishments might have had better successe in you, then as yet they

shewe by 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 shee

will 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 wel 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

ingenuous subtiltie, made way to obtaine both their longing 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._

The fourth Novell.

_Wherein is declared, what craft and subtilty some wily wits can

devise, to deceive the simple, and compasse their owne desires._

After that _Philomena_ had finished her Tale, she sate still; and

_Dioneus_ with faire and pleasing Language, commended the Gentlewomans

quaint cunning, but smiled at the Confessors witlesse simplicity.

Then the _Queen_, turning with chearefull looks towards _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, hee 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 loutish men, and his carriage

also absurd, boore-like, and clownish. His daughter, being named _Monna

Isabetta_, aged not above eight and twenty, or thirty yeers; 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 wold 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 widow to be faire, fresh, and prettily formall; he began

to consider with himselfe, what those things might be, wherein shee

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 he 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 physick 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 mayest become very rich, wherein (me thinkes) thou takest too

wide a course, when there is a much neere 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 misterie might be 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 be comprehended by very apprehensive judgements. Well

(quoth _Felice_) seeing thou hast 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 be even as rich as now thou

art; but thou shalt plainly perceive, that the very grosest substance,

which hitherto thou hast seene, all of them shal be 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 thy 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 mayst (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 replied. 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 favour, in helping to direct the Furnace and Table,

according as you imagine most convenient) on Sunday at night next, I

will begin my task. The Scholler being gone, he went to his daughter,

and tolde her all the matter, and what he had determined to do: which

shee immediately understood sufficiently, and what would ensue on his

nightly watching in that manner, returning him answer, that whatsoever

he liked and allowed of, it became not her any way to mislike. Thus

they continued in this kinde concordance, till Sunday night came. When

_Puccio_ was to begin his experience, and _Felice_ to set forward upon

his adventure. Concluded it was, that every night the Scholler must

come to Supper, partly to bee a witnesse of his constant performance,

but more especially for his owne advantage.

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 busie 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?

_Puccio_ mervailing at this answer, 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 discernde 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 now 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 limitted time, because hee failed of the

Philosophers Stone, _Isabetta_ joyned in marriage with _Felice_, to

make him amends for enstructing her father, by which meanes he came to

be her husband.

Ricciardo, _surnamed the Magnifico, gave a Horse to_ Signior Francesco

Vergellisi, _upon condition, that (by his leave and lisence) he

might speake to his Wife in his presence; which he did, and shee not

returning him any answere, made answer to himselfe on her behalfe, and

according to his answer, so the effect followed._

The fifth Novell.

_Wherein is described the frailety of some Women, and folly of such

Husbands, as leave them alone to their owne disposition._

_Pamphilus_ having ended the Novell of _Puccio_ the Alchimist, the

Queene fixing her eye on Madam _Eliza_, gave order, that shee should

succeede with hers next. When shee 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 doe

beleeve (because themselves 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 the proofe, doe finde themselves to carry away the

scorne. And therefore I account it no meane follie in them, who (upon

no occasion) will tempt the power of another mans wit or experience.

But because all men and women (perhaps) are not of mine 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 Towne of _Pistoia_, bordering upon _Florence_, there lived not

long since, a Knight named Signior _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; only, a comely horse

(for his owne saddle) excepted, which he knew not by any meanes how

to compasse, so loath he was to 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 without 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 choysest and goodliest ambling Gelding in all

_Tuscanie_, which he loved dearely, for his faire forme, and other good

parts. Upon a flying rumor throughout _Pistoria_, that he daily made

love to the fore-said Lady: some busie body, put it into the head of

_Signior Francesco_, that if he pleased to request the Gelding, the

_Magnifico_ would frankly 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

faire Gelding of him, because he hoped to have him of free gift. The

_Magnifico_ hearing his request, was not a little joyfull hereof, and

thus answered; Sir, if you would give me all the wealth which you

possesse in this World, I will not sell you my Horse, rather I will

bestow him on you as a Gentlemanly gift; but yet upon this condition,

that before you have him delivered, I may with your lisence, 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 answere;

that he was well contented, to let him speake with her when he would,

and leaving him in the great Hall of the house, he went to his Wives

Chamber, and told her, how easily he might enjoy the Horse; commanding

her forth-with, to come and heare what he could say to her, onely shee

should abstaine, and not returne him any answer. The Lady with a modest

blush, much condemned this folly in him, that his covetousnesse 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, shee promised to doe it, and followed him downe into

the House, 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 appeareth to me for a certainty, that you are so

truly wise, as you have (no doubt) a long while since perceived, what

unfained affection your beauty (farre excelling all other womens

that I know) 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 very stoutest

courage: I held it utterly needlesse, to let you understand by words,

how faithfull the love is I beare 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

impaire, 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 to travaile thorow the whole world, right

willing am I, and obedient. In which regard, faire Madame, 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 dependeth my happinesse, life and absolute comfort, and as

your most humble servant, I beseech you (my dearest 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 shal say, that as your divine

beauty enflamed mine affections, even so it extended such a mercifull

qualification, as exceeded all my hope, but not the halfe part of your

pitty.

Admit (miracle 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 witnesse of your rigour. You cannot then chuse but call

to minde, and say within your owne soule: Alas! what a sinne have I

committed, in being so unmercifull to my _Magnifico_. Repentance then

serves to no purpose, but you must answere for such unkinde cruelty.

Wherefore, to prevent so blacke a scandall to your bright beauty,

beside the ceaselesse acclamations, which will dogge 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 move 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, he sate still in exspectation of

the Ladies answere, who made neither long or short of the matter,

neither Tilts not 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: Moved now in this

very houre, by these solemne 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 answere 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

chuse 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 stomack rising, and sighes swelling; all these were

arguments of a change, and motives to advance his hope. Taking courage

by this tickling perswasion, and instructing his minde with a new kinde

of counsell: he would needes answere himselfe on her behalfe, and as if

she had uttered the words, he spake in this manner.

_Magnifico_, and my friend, surely it is a long time since, when I

first noted thine affection towards me, to be very great and most

perfect: but now I am much more certaine thereof, by thine owne

honest and gentle speeches, which content me as they ought to doe.

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 dearer then

any man living. But yet it became me to doe so, as well in feare of

others, as for the renowne of mine owne reputation. But now the time is

at hand, to let thee know more clearely, whether I doe 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 upon

this undoubted hope, because _Signior Francesco_ my husband, is to be

absent hence for many dayes, being chosen _Podesta_ at _Millaine_, as

thou canst not chuse 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 hee 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 doe 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

hee returned her this answere. Most vertuous Lady, my spirits are so

transported with extraordinary joy, for this your gracious and welcome

answere; that my sences so fayle mee, and all my faculties quite

forsake me, as I cannot give you such thankes as I would. And if I

could speake equally to my desire, yet the season sutes 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 words availe not to expresse) may remaine in your

kinde consideration. And, as you have commaunded 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 elsee to

doe, but, under the protection of your gracious pardon, I to give over

speech, and you to attend your worthy husband.

Notwithstanding all that hee had spoken, yet shee replied not one word,

wherefore the _Magnifico_ arose, and returned to the Knight, who went

to meete him, saying in a loude 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 answere, and

being thus provided of so faire a beast, he 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 to 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, she was

heard to talke thus idely to herselfe. 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 often times repented, but done in due

season, they are sildome sorrowed for. Upon these un-Lady-like private

consultations, whether the window shewed the signall 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.

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 he was greatly enamoured of his wife, and had

appointed to meete her privately in a Bathing house, on the next day

following: Where she hoping to take him tardie with his close compacted

Mistresse, found herselfe to be deceived by the said_ Ricciardo.

The sixth Novell.

_Declaring, how much perseverance, and a couragious spirit is

availeable in love._

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 succeede next in order with one of her

Novelse, who (smilingly) made answere that she would, and began thus.

Gracious Ladies, me 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 farre 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 shee 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 be

discreete in keeping it from publike knowledge.

In the City of _Naples_, it being of great antiquity, and (perhaps)

as pleasantly scituated, as any other City in all _Italie_, there

dwelt sometime a young Gentleman, of noble parentage, and well

knowne to be wealthy, named _Ricciardo Minutolo_, who, although hee

had a Gentlewoman (of excellent beauty, and worthy the very kindest

affecting) to his wife; yet his gadding eye gazed elsee-where, and he

became enamoured of another, which (in generall opinion) surpassed all

the _Neapolitane_ women elsee, in feature, favour, and the choysest

perfections, shee being named Madam _Catulla_, wife to as gallant a

young Gentleman, called _Philippello Fighinolfi_, who most dearely he

loved beyond all other, for her vertue and admired chastity.

_Ricciardo_ loving this Madam _Catulla_, and using all such meanes,

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 issue, as he

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 pursuite,

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 extreme 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

consider with himselfe, that it were best for him, to dissemble amorous

affection in some other place, and (hence-forward) 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, Jousts, Tournaments,

and all such like noble exercises, as he was wont to doe for Madam

_Catulla_. So that almost all the people of _Naples_, but especially

Madam _Catulla_, became verily perswaded, that his former fruitlesse

love to her was quite changed, and the new elected Lady had all the

glory of his best endeavours, persevering so long in this opinion, as

now it passed absolutely for currant. Thus seemed he now as a meere

Stranger to her, whose house before he familiarly frequented; yet (as a

neighbour) gave her the dayes salutations, according as he chanced to

see her, or meete her.

It came 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 Countrey) 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

shee 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

suddenly shot foorth a word, concerning her husband _Philippello_, &

of his loving another woman beside her selfe. She that was overmuch

jealous before, became so suddenly set on fire, to know what shee was

of whom _Minutolo_ spake; as shee sate silent a long while, till being

able to containe no longer, shee entreated _Ricciardo_, even for the

Ladies sake, whose love he had so devoutly embraced, to resolve her

certainely, in this strange alteration of her Husband; whereunto thus

he answered.