Madam, you have so straitly conjured me, by urging the remembrance of

her; for whose sake I am not able to denie any thing you can demand, as

I am ready therein to pleasure you. But first you must promise me, that

neither you, or any other person for you, shall at any time disclose

it to your Husband, untill you have seene by effect, that which I have

tolde you proveth to be true: and when you please, I will instruct you

how your selfe shall see it. The Lady was not a little joyfull, to be

thus satisfied in her Husbands follie, and constantly crediting his

words to be true, shee sware a solemne oath, that no one alive should

ever know it. So stepping a little further aside, because no listening

eare should heare him, thus he beganne.

Lady, if I did love you now so effectually, as heretofore I have done,

I should be very circumspect, in uttering any thing which I imagined

might distaste you. I know not whether your Husband _Philippello_,

were at any time offended; because I affected you, or beleeved, that I

received any kindnesse from you: but whether it were so or no, I could

never discerne it by any outward apparance. But now awaiting for the

opportunity of time, which he conceived should affoord me the least

suspition; he seekes to compasse that, which (I doubt) he feares I

would have done to him, in plaine termes Madam, to have his pleasure

of my wife. And as by some carriages I have observed, within few dayes

past, he hath solicited and pursued his purpose very secretly, by many

Ambassages, and other meanes, as (indeede) I have learned from her

selfe, and alwayes shee hath returned in such answers, as shee received

by my direction.

And no longer agoe Madam, then this very morning, before my comming

hither, I found a woman messenger in my House, in very close conference

with my Wife, when growing doubtfull of that which was true indeede,

I called my Wife, enquiring, what the woman would have with her; and

shee tolde me it was another pursuite of _Philippello Fighinolfi_,

who (quoth shee) upon such answers as you have caused me to send him

from time to time, perhaps doth gather some hope of prevailing in the

ende, which maketh him still to importune me as he doth. And now he

adventureth so farre, as to understand my finall intention, having thus

ordered his complot, that when I please, I must meete him secretly in

an house of this City, where he hath prepared a Bath ready for me,

and hopeth to enjoy the ende of his desire, as very earnestly he hath

solicited me thereto. But if you had not commanded me, to hold him in

suspence with so many frivolous answers; I would (long ere this) have

sent him such a message, as should have beene little to his liking.

With patience (Madam) I endured all before, but now (me thinkes)

he proceedeth too farre, which is not any way to be suffered; and

therefore I intended to let you know it, whereby you may perceive, how

well you are rewarded, for the faithfull and loyall love you beare him,

and for which I was even at the doore of death. Now, because you may be

the surer of my speeches, not to be any lies or fables, and that you

may (if you be so pleased) approve the trueth by your owne experience:

I caused my Wife to send him word, that shee would meete him to morrow,

at the Bathing-house appointed, about the houre of noone-day, when

people repose themselves, in regard of the heates violence; with which

answere the woman returned very jocondly. Let me now tell you Lady, I

hope you have better opinion of my wit, then any meaning in me, to send

my wife thither; I rather did it to this ende, that having acquainted

you with his treacherous intent, you should supply my wives place, by

saving both his reputation and your owne, and frustrating his unkind

purpose to me. Moreover, upon the view of his owne delusion, wrought by

my wife in meere love to you, he shall see his foule shame, and your

most noble care, to keepe the rites of marriage betweene you still

unstained.

Madame _Catulla_, having heard this long and unpleasing report; without

any consideration, either what he was that tolde the tale, or what a

treason he intended against her: immediatly (as jealous persons use to

doe) she gave faith to his forgerie, and began to discourse many things

to him, which imagination had often misguided her in, against her

honest minded husband, and enflamed with rage, suddenly replied; that

shee would doe according as he had advised her, as being a matter of no

difficulty. But if he came, she would so shame and dishonour him, as no

woman whatsoever should better schoole him. _Ricciardo_ highly pleased

herewith; & being perswaded, that his purpose would take the full

effect: confirmed the Lady in her determination with many words more;

yet putting her in memory, to keepe her faithfull promise made, without

revealing the matter to any living person, as shee had sworne upon her

faith.

On the morrow morning, _Ricciardo_ went to an auncient woman of his

acquaintance, who was the Mistresse of a Bathing-house, and there where

he had appointed Madame _Catulla_, that the Bath should be prepared for

her, giving her to understand the whole businesse, and desiring her to

be favourable therein to him. The woman, who had beene much beholding

to him in other matters, promised very willingly to fulfill his

request, concluding with him, both what should be done and said. She

had in her house a very darke Chamber, without any window to affoord

it the least light, which Chamber shee had made ready, according to

_Ricciardoes_ direction, with a rich Bed therein, so soft and delicate

as possible could be, wherein he entred so soone as he had dined, to

attend the arrivall of Madame _Catulla_. On the same day, as she had

heard the speeches of _Ricciardo_, and gave more credit to them then

became her; shee returned home to her house in wonderfull impatience.

And _Philippello_ her husband came home discontentedly too, whose head

being busied about some worldly affaires, perhaps he looked not so

pleasantly, neither used her so kindly, as he was wont to doe. Which

_Catulla_ perceiving, shee was ten times more suspicious then before,

saying to herselfe. Now apparant trueth doth disclose it selfe, my

husbands head is troubled now with nothing elsee, but _Ricciardoes_

wife, with whom (to morrow) he purposeth his meeting; wherein he shall

be disappointed, if I live; taking no rest at all the whole night, for

thinking how to handle her husband.

What shall I say more? On the morrow, at the houre of mid-day,

accompanied onely with her Chamber-mayde, and without any other

alteration in opinion; shee went to the house where the Bath was

promised; and meeting there with the olde woman, demaunded of her, if

_Philippello_ were come thither as yet or no? The woman, being well

instructed by _Ricciardo_, answered: Are you shee that should meete him

heere. Yes, replied _Catulla_. Goe in then to him (quoth the woman) for

he is not farre off before you.

Madame _Catulla_, who went to seeke that which she would not finde,

being brought vailed into the darke Chamber where _Ricciardo_ was,

entred into the Bath, hoping to finde none other there but her

husband, and the custome of the Countrey, never disallowed such

meetings of men with their wives, but held them to be good and

commendable. In a counterfeit voyce he bad her welcome, and she, not

seeming to be any other then she was indeed, entertained his embracings

in as loving manner; yet not daring to speake, least he should know

her, but suffered him to proceede in his owne error.

Let passe the wanton follies passing betweene them, and come to Madame

_Catulla_, who finding it a fit and convenient time, to vent forth the

tempest of her spleene, began in this manner. Alas! how mighty are

the misfortunes of women, and how ill requited is the loyall love,

of many wives to their husbands? I, a poore miserable Lady, who, for

the space of eight yeares now fully compleated, have loved thee more

dearely then mine owne life, finde now (to my hearts endlesse griefe)

how thou wastest and consumest thy desires, to delight them with a

strange woman, like a most vile and wicked man as thou art. With whom

doest thou now imagine thy selfe to be? Thou art with her, whom thou

hast long time deluded by false blandishments, feigning to affect

her, when thou doatest in thy desires elsee-where. I am thine owne

_Catulla_, and not the wife of _Ricciardo_, trayterous and unfaithfull

man, as thou art. I am sure thou knowest my voyce, and I thinke it a

thousand yeares, untill wee may see each other in the light, to doe

thee such dishonour as thou justly deserveth, dogged, disdainefull,

and villainous wretch. By conceiving to have another woman in thy

wanton embraces, thou hast declared more joviall disposition, and

demonstrations of farre greater kindnesse, then domesticke familiarity.

At home thou lookest sower, sullen or surly, often froward, and sildome

well pleased. But the best is, whereas thou intendest this husbandrie

for another mans ground, thou hast (against thy will) bestowed it on

thine owne, and the water hath runne a contrary course, quite from the

current where thou meantst it.

What answere canst thou make, devill, and no man? What, have my words

smitten thee dumbe? Thou mayest (with shame enough) hold thy peace, for

with the face of a man, and love of an husband to his wife, thou art

not able to make any answere.

_Ricciardo_ durst not speake one word, but still expressed his affable

behaviour towards her, bestowing infinite embraces and kisses on her:

which so much the more augmented her rage and anger, continuing on her

chiding thus. If by these flatteries and idle follies, thou hopest to

comfort or pacifie me, thou runnest quite byas from thy reckoning: for

I shall never imagine my selfe halfe satisfied, untill in the presence

of my parents, friends, and neighbours, I have revealed thy base

behaviour. Tell mee, treacherous man, am not I as faire, as the wife

of _Ricciardo_? Am I not as good a Gentlewoman borne, as shee is? What

canst thou more respect in her, then is in mee? Villaine, monster, why

doest thou not answere mee? I will send to _Ricciardo_, who loveth mee

beyond all other women in _Naples_, and yet could never vaunt, that I

gave him so much as a friendly looke: he shall know, what a dishonour

thou hadst intended towards him; which both he and his friends will

revenge soundly upon thee.

The exclamations of the Lady were so tedious and irksome, that

_Ricciardo_ perceiving, if she continued longer in these complaints,

worse would ensue thereon, then could be easily remedied: resolved

to make himselfe knowne to her, to reclaime her out of this violent

extasie, and holding her somewhat strictly, to prevent her escaping

from him, he said. Madam, afflict your selfe no further, for, what I

could not obtaine by simply loving you, subtilty hath better taught me,

and I am your _Ricciardo_, which she hearing, and perfectly knowing him

by his voyce; shee would have leapt out of the Bath, but shee could

not, and to avoyde her crying out, he layde his hand on her mouth,

saying. Lady, what is done, cannot now be undone, albeit you cried

out all your lifetime. If you exclaime, or make this knowne openly by

any meanes; two unavoydable dangers must needes ensue thereon. The

one (which you ought more carefully to respect) is the wounding of

your good renowne and honour, because, when you shall say, that by

treacherie I drew you hither: I will boldly maintaine the contrary,

avouching, that having corrupted you with gold, and not giving you

so much as covetously you desired; you grew offended, and thereon

made the out-cry, and you are not to learne, that the world is more

easily induced to beleeve the worst, then any goodnesse, be it never

so manifest. Next unto this, mortall hatred must arise betweene your

husband and me, and (perhaps) I shall as soone kill him, as he mee;

whereby you can hardly live in any true contentment after. Wherefore,

joy of my life, doe not in one moment, both shame your selfe, and cause

such perill betweene your husband and me: for you are not the first,

neither can be the last, that shall be deceived. I have not beguiled

you, to take any honour from you, but onely declared, the faithfull

affection I beare you, and so shall doe for ever, as being your bounden

and most obedient servant; and as it is a long time agoe, since I

dedicated my selfe and all mine to your service, so hence-forth must

I remaine for ever. You are wise enough (I know) in all other things;

then shew your selfe not to be silly or simple in this.

_Ricciardo_ uttered these words, teares streaming aboundantly downe his

cheekes, and Madame _Catulla_ (all the while) likewise showred forth

her sorrowes equally to his, now, although she was exceedingly troubled

in minde, and saw what her owne jealous folly had now brought her to,

a shame beyond all other whatsoever: in the midst of her tormenting

passions, she considered on the words of _Ricciardo_, found good reason

in them, in regard of the unavoydable evils, whereupon shee thus

spake. _Ricciardo_, I know not how to beare the horrible injurie, and

notorious treason used by thee against me, grace and goodnesse having

so forsaken me, to let me fall in so foule a manner. Nor becommeth it

me, to make any noyse or out-cry heere, whereto simplicity, or rather

devillish jealousie, did conduct me. But certaine I am of one thing,

that I shall never see any one joyfull day, till (by one meanes or

other) I be revenged on thee. Thou hast glutted thy desire with my

disgrace, let me therefore goe from thee, never more to looke upon my

wronged husband, or let any honest woman ever see my face.

_Ricciardo_ perceiving the extremity of her perplexed minde, used

all manly and milde perswasions, which possibly he could devise to

doe, to turne the torrent of this high tide, to a calmer course; as

by outward shew shee made apparance of, untill (in frightfull feares

shunning every one shee met withall, as arguments of her guiltinesse)

shee recovered her owne house, where remorse so tortured her distressed

soule, that shee fell into so fierce a melancholy, as never left her

till shee died. Upon the report whereof, _Ricciardo_ becomming likewise

a widdower, and grieving extraordinarily for his haynous transgression,

penitently betooke himselfe to live in a wildernesse, where (not long

after) he ended his dayes.

Thebaldo Elisei, _having received an unkinde repulse by his beloved,

departed from Florence, and returning thither againe (a long while

after) in the habite of a Pilgrime; he spake with her, and made his

wrongs knowne unto her. He delivered her Father from the danger of

death, because it was proved, that he had slaine_ Thebaldo: _he made

peace with his brethren, and in the ende, wisely enjoyed his hearts

desire._

The seaventh Novell.

_Wherein is signified the power of Love, and the diversity of dangers,

whereinto men may daily fall._

So ceased _Fiammetta_ her discourse, being generally commended, when

the Queene, to prevent the losse of time, commanded _Æmillia_ to

follow next, who thus began. It liketh me best (gracious Ladies) to

returne home againe to our owne City, which it pleased the former two

discoursers to part from: And there I will shew you, how a Citizen of

ours, recovered the kindnesse of his Love, after he had lost it.

Sometime there dwelt in _Florence_ a young gentleman, named _Thebaldo

Elisei_, descended of a noble House, who became earnestly enamored of a

Widdow, called _Hermelina_, the daughter to _Aldobrandino Palermini_:

well deserving, for his vertues and commendable qualities, to enjoy of

her whatsoever he could desire. Secretly they were espoused together,

but Fortune, the enemy to Lovers felicities, opposed her malice

against them, in depriving _Thebaldo_ of those deare delights, which

sometime he held in free possession, and making him as a stranger to

her gracious favours. Now grew shee contemptibly to despise him, not

onely denying to heare any message sent from him, but scorning also to

vouchsafe so much as a sight of him, causing in him extreme griefe and

melancholy, yet concealing all her unkindnesse so wisely to himselfe,

as no one could understand the reason of his sadnesse.

After he had laboured by all hopefull courses, to obtaine that favour

of her, which he had formerly lost, without any offence in him, as his

innocent soule truly witnessed with him, and saw that all his further

endeavours were fruitlesse and in vaine; he concluded to retreate

himselfe from the World, and not to be any longer irkesome in her eye,

that was the onely occasion of his unhappinesse. Hereupon, storing

himselfe with such summes of money, as suddenly he could collect

together, secretly he departed from _Florence_, without speaking any

word to his friends or kindred; except one kind companion of his, whom

he acquainted with most of his secrets, and so travelled to _Ancona_,

where he termed himselfe by the name of _Sandolescio_. Repairing to a

wealthy Merchant there, he placed himselfe as his servant, and went in

a Ship of his with him to _Cyprus_; his actions and behaviour proved so

pleasing to the Merchant, as not onely he allowed him very sufficient

wages, but also grew into such association with him; as he gave the

most of his affaires into his hands, which he guided with such honest

and discreete care, that he himselfe (in few yeeres compasse) proved to

be a rich Merchant, and of famous report.

While matters went on in this successefull manner, although he could

not chuse, but still he remembred his cruell Mistresse, and was very

desperately transported for her love, as coveting (above all things

elsee) to see her once more; yet was he of such powerfull constancy, as

7 whole yeers together, he vanquished all those fierce conflicts. But

on a day it chanced he heard a song sung in _Cyprus_, which he himselfe

had formerly made, in honour of the love he bare to his Mistresse, and

what delight he conceived, by being daily in her presence; whereby he

gathered, that it was impossible for him to forget her, and proceeded

on so desirously, as he could not live, except he had a sight of her

once more, and therefore determined on his returne to _Florence_.

Having set all his affaires in due order, accompanied with a servant of

his onely, he passed to _Ancona_, where when he was arrived, he sent

his Merchandises to _Florence_, in name of the Merchant of _Ancona_,

who was his especiall friend and partner; travayling himselfe alone

with his servant, in the habite of a Pilgrime, as if he had beene newly

returned from _Jerusalem_.

Being come to _Florence_, he went to an Inne kept by two bretheren,

neere neighbours to the dwelling of his Mistresse, and the first

thing he did, was passing by her doore, to get a sight of her if he

were so happie. But he found the windowes, doores, and all parts of

the house fast shut up, whereby he suspected her to be dead, or elsee

to be changed from her dwelling: wherefore (much perplexed in minde)

he went on to the two brothers Inne, finding foure persons standing

at the gate, attired in mourning, whereat he marvelled not a little;

knowing himselfe to be so transfigured, both in body and habite, farre

from the manner of common use at his parting thence, as it was a

difficult matter to know him: he stept boldly to a Shooe-makers shop

neere adjoining, and demanded the reason of their wearing mourning.

The Shoo-maker made answer thus; Sir, those men are clad in mourning,

because a brother of theirs, being named _Thebaldo_ (who hath beene

absent hence a long while) about some fifteene dayes since was slaine.

And they having heard, by proofe made in the Court of Justice, that one

_Aldobrandino Palermini_ (who is kept close prisoner) was the murtherer

of him, as he came in a disguised habite to his daughter, of whom he

was most affectionately enamoured; cannot chuse, but let the World know

by their outward habites, the inward affliction of their hearts, for a

deede so dishonourably committed.

_Thebaldo_ wondered greatly hereat, imagining, that some man belike

resembling him in shape, might be slaine in this manner, and by

_Aldobrandino_, for whose misfortune he grieved marvellously. As

concerning his Mistresse, he understood that shee was living, and

in good health; and night drawing on apace, he went to his lodging,

with infinite molestations in his minde, where after supper, he was

lodged in a Corne-loft with his man. Now by reason of many disturbing

imaginations, which incessantly wheeled about his braine, his bed

also being none of the best, and his supper (perhaps) somewhat of the

coursest; a great part of the night was spent, yet could he not close

his eyes together. But lying still broade awake, about the dead time

of night, he heard the treading of divers persons over his head, who

discended downe a paire of stayres by his Chamber, into the lower

parts of the house, carrying a light with them, which he discerned

by the chinkes and crannies in the wall. Stepping softly out of his

bed, to see what the meaning hereof might be, he espied a faire young

woman, who carried the light in her hand, and three men in her company,

descending downe the stayres together, one of them speaking thus to

the young woman. Now we may boldly warrant our safety, because we

have heard it assuredly, that the death of _Thebaldo Elisei_, hath

beene sufficiently approved by the Brethren, against _Aldobrandino

Palermini_, and he hath confessed the fact; whereupon the sentence is

already set downe in writing. But yet it behoveth us notwithstanding,

to conceale it very secretly, because if ever hereafter it should be

knowne, that we are they who murthered him, we shall be in the same

danger, as now _Aldobrandino_ is.

When _Thebaldo_ had heard these words, hee began to consider with

himselfe, how many and great the dangers are, wherewith mens minds may

daily be molested. First, he thought on his owne brethren in their

sorrow, and buried a stranger in steed of him, accusing afterward (by

false opinion, and upon the testimony of as false witnesses) a man most

innocent, making him ready for the stroke of death. Next, he made a

strict observation in his soule, concerning the blinded severity of

Law, and the Ministers thereto belonging, who pretending a diligent

and carefull inquisition for trueth, doe oftentimes (by their tortures

and torments) heare lies avouched (onely for ease of paine) in the

place of a true confession, yet thinking themselves (by doing so) to be

the Ministers of God and Justice, whereas indeede they are the Divelse

executioners of his wickednesse. Lastly, converting his thoughts to

_Aldobrandino_, the imagined murtherer of a man yet living, infinite

cares beleagured his soule, in devising what might best be done for his

deliverance.

So soone as he was risen in the morning, leaving his servant behinde

him in his lodging, he went (when he thought it fit time) all alone

toward the house of his Mistresse, where finding by good fortune the

gate open, he entred into a small Parlour beneath, and where he saw

his Mistresse sitting on the ground, wringing her hands, and wofully

weeping, which (in meere compassion) moved him to weepe likewise; and

going somewhat neere her, he saide. Madam, torment your selfe no more,

for your peace is not farre off from you. The Gentlewoman hearing him

say so, lifted up her head, and in teares spake thus. Good man, thou

seemest to me to be a Pilgrim stranger; what doest thou know, either

concerning my peace, or mine affliction? Madam (replied the Pilgrime)

I am of _Constantinople_, and (doubtlesse) am conducted hither by the

hand of Heaven, to convert your teares into rejoycing, and to deliver

your Father from death. How is this? answered shee: If thou be of

_Constantinople_, and art but now arrived here; doest thou know who we

are, either I, or my Father?

The Pilgrime discoursed to her, even from one end to the other, the

history of her Husbands sad disasters, telling her, how many yeeres

since shee was espoused to him, and many other important matters,

which wel shee knew, and was greatly amazed thereat, thinking him

verily to be a Prophet, and kneeling at his feete, entreated him very

earnestly, that if hee were come to deliver her Father _Aldobrandino_

from death, to doe it speedily, because the time was very short. The

Pilgrime appearing to be a man of great holinesse, saide. Rise up

Madam, refraine from weeping, and observe attentively what I shall

say; yet with this caution, that you never reveale it to any person

whatsoever. This tribulation whereinto you are falne, (as by revelation

I am faithfully informed) is for a grievous sinne by you heretofore

committed, whereof divine mercy is willing to purge you, and to make

a perfect amends by a sensible feeling of this affliction; as seeking

your sound and absolute recovery, least you fall into farre greater

danger then before. Good man (quoth shee) I am burthened with many

sinnes, and doe not know for which any amends should be made by me, any

one sooner then another: wherefore if you have intelligence thereof,

for charities sake tell it me, and I will doe so much as lieth in me,

to make a full satisfaction for it. Madam, answered the Pilgrime;

I know well enough what it is, and will demand it no more of you,

to winne any further knowledge thereof, then I have already: but

because in revealing it yourselfe, it may touch you with the more true

compunction of soule; let us goe to the point indeede, and tell me, doe

you remember, that at any time you were married to an Husband, or no?

At the hearing of these words, shee breathed foorth a very vehement

sigh, and was stricken with admiration at this question, beleeving

that not any one had knowledge thereof. Howbeit, since the day of the

supposed _Thebaldoes_ buriall, such a rumour ran abroade, by meanes

of some speeches, rashly dispersed by a friend of _Thebaldoes_, who

(indeede) knew it; whereupon shee returned him this answere. It

appeareth to me (good man) that divine ordinativation hath revealed

unto you all the secrets of men; and therefore I am determined, not to

conceale any of mine from you. True it is, that in my younger yeeres,

being left a widow, I entirely affected an unfortunate young Gentleman,

who (in secret) was my Husband, and whose death is imposed on my

Father. The death of him I have the more bemoaned, because (in reason)

it did neerely concerne me, by shewing my selfe so savage and rigorous

to him before his departure: neverthelesse, let me assure you Sir, that

neither his parting, long absence from me, or his untimely death, never

had the power to bereave my heart of his remembrance.

Madame, saide the Pilgrime, the unfortunate young Gentleman that is

slaine, did never love you; but sure I am, that _Thebaldo Elisei_ loved

you dearely. But tell me, what was the occasion whereby you conceived

such hatred against him? Did he at any time offend you? No trulie Sir,

quoth shee; but the reason of my anger towards him, was by the wordes

and threatnings of a religious Father, to whom once I revealed (under

confession) how faithfully I affected him, and what private familiarity

had passed betweene us. When instantly he used such dreadfull

threatnings to me, and which (even yet) doe afflict my soule, that if

I did not abstaine, and utterly refuse him, the Divell would fetch me

quicke to Hell, and cast me into the bottome of his quenchlesse and

everlasting fire.

These menaces were so prevailing with me, as I refused all further

conversation with _Thebaldo_, in which regard, I would receive neither

letters or messages from him. Howbeit, I am perswaded, that if he had

continued here still, and not departed hence in such desperate manner

as he did, seeing him melt and consume daily away, even as Snowe by

power of the Sunne-beames: my austere deliberation had beene long agoe

quite altered, because not at any time (since then) life hath allowed

me one merry day, neither did I, or ever can love any man like unto him.

At these wordes the Pilgrime sighed, and then proceeded on againe thus.

Surely Madam, this one onely sin, may justly torment you, because I

know for a certainty, that _Thebaldo_ never offered you any injury,

since the day he first became enamoured of you; and what grace or

favour you affoorded him, was your owne voluntary gift, and (as he

tooke it) no more then in modesty might well become you; for he loving

you first, you had beene most cruell and unkinde, if you should not

have requited him with the like affection. If then he continued so

just and loyall to you, as (of mine owne knowledge) I am able to say

he did; what should move you to repulse him so rudely? Such matters

ought well to be considered on before hand; for if you did imagine,

that you should repente it as an action ill done, yet you could not doe

it, because as he became yours, so were you likewise onely his; and

he being yours, you might dispose of him at your pleasure, as being

truely obliged to none but you. How could you then with-draw your selfe

from him, being onely his, and not commit most manifest theft, a farre

unfitting thing for you to doe, except you had gone with his consent?

Now Madam, let me further give you to understand, that I am a religious

person, and a pilgrime, and therefore am well acquainted with all the

courses of their dealing; if therefore I speake somewhat more amply

of them, and for your good, it cannot be so unseeming for me to doe

it, as it would appeare ugly in another. In which respect, I will

speake the more freely to you, to the ende, that you may take better

knowledge of them, then (as it seemeth) hitherto you have done. In

former passed times such as professed Religion, were learned and most

holy persons; but our religious professours now adayes, and such as

covet to be so esteemed; have no matter at all of Religion in them,

but onely the outward shew & habite. Which yet is no true badge of

Religion neither, because it was ordained by religious institutions,

that their garments should be made of narrow, plaine, and coursest spun

cloth, to make a publike manifestation to the world, that (in meere

devotion, and religious disposition) by wrapping their bodies in such

base clothing, they condemned and despised all temporall occasions. But

now adayes they make them large, deepe, glistering, and of the finest

cloth or stuffes to be gotten, reducing those habites to so proude

and pontificall a forme, that they walke Peacock-like rustling, and

strouting with them in the Churches; yea, and in open publike places,

as if they were ordinary secular persons, to have their pride more

notoriously observed. And as the Angler bestoweth his best cunning,

with one line and baite to catch many fishes at one strike; even so

do these counterfeited habite-mongers, by their dissembling and crafty

dealing, beguile many credulous widowes, simple women, yea, and men of

weake capacity, to credit whatsoever they doe or say, and herein they

doe most of all excercise themselves.

And to the end, that my speeches may not savour of any untruth against

them; these men which I speake of, have not any habite at all of

religious men, but onely the colour of their garments, and whereas

they in times past, desired nothing more then the salvation of mens

soules; these fresher witted fellowes, covet after women & wealth, and

employ all their paines by their whispering confessions, and figures

of painted feareful examples, to affright and terrifie unsetled and

weake consciences, by horrible and blasphemous speeches; yet adding

a perswasion withall, that their sinnes may be purged by Almes-deedes

and Masses. To the end, that such as credit them in these their dayly

courses, being guided more by apparance of devotion, then any true

compunction of heart, to escape severe penances by them enjoyned: may

some of them bring bread, others wine, others coyne, all of them matter

of commoditie and benefit, and simply say, these gifts are for the

soules of their good friends deceased.

I make not any doubt, but Almes-deedes and prayers, are very mighty,

and prevailing meanes, to appease heavens anger for some sinnes

committed; but if such as bestow them, did either see or know, to whom

they give them: they would more warily keepe them, or elsee cast them

before Swine, in regard they are altogether so unworthy of them. But

come we now to the case of your ghostly father, crying out in your

eare, that secret mariage was a most greevous sinne: Is not the breach

thereof farre greater. Familiar conversation betweene man and woman,

is a concession meerely naturall: but to rob, kill, or banish anyone,

proceedeth from the mindes malignity. That you did rob _Thebaldo_, your

selfe hath already sufficiently witnessed, by taking that from him,

which with free consent in mariage you gave him. Next I must say, that

by all the power remaining in you, you kild him, because you would

not permit him to remaine with you, declaring your selfe in the very

height of cruelty, that hee might destroy his life by his owne hands.

In which case the Law requireth, that whosoever is the occasion of an

ill act committed, hee or she is as deepe in the fault, as the party

that did it. Now concerning his banishment, and wandring seaven yeares

in exile thorow the world; you cannot denie, but that you were the

onely occasion thereof. In all which three severall actions, farre more

capitally have you offended; then by contracting of mariage in such

clandestine manner.

But let us see, whether _Thebaldo_ deserved all these severall

castigations, or not. In trueth he did not, your selfe have confessed

(beside that which I know) that hee loved you more dearely then

himselfe, and nothing could be more honoured, magnified and exalted,

then dayly you were by him, above all other women whatsoever. When

hee came in any place, where honestly, and without suspition hee

might speake to you: all his honour, and all his liberty, lay wholly

committed into your power. Was he not a noble young Gentleman? Was

hee (among all those parts that most adorne a man, and appertaine to

the very choycest respect) inferiour to any one of best merit in your

Citie? I know that you cannot make deniall to any of these demands.

How could you then by the perswasion of a beast, a foole, a villaine,

yea, a vagabond, envying both his happinesse and yours, enter into so

cruell a minde against him? I know not what error misguideth women, in

scorning and despising their husbands: but if they entred into a better

consideration, understanding truly what they are, and what nobility of

nature God hath endued man withall, farre above all other creatures; it

would bee their highest title of glory, when they are are so preciously

esteemed of them, so dearely affected by them, and so gladly embraced

in all their best abilities.

This is so great a sinne, as the divine Justice (which in an equal

ballance bringeth all operations to their full effect) did purpose not

to leave unpunished; but, as you enforced against all reason, to take

away _Thebaldo_ from your selfe: even so your Father _Aldobrandino_,

without any occasion given by _Thebaldo_, is in perill of his life,

and you a partaker of his tribulation. Out of which if you desire to

be delivered, it is very convenient that you promise one thing which I

shall tell you, and may much better be by you performed. Namely, that

if _Thebaldo_ doe at any time returne from his long banishment, you

shall restore him to your love, grace, and good acceptation; accounting

him in the selfe same degree of favour and private entertainement, as

he was at the first, before your wicked ghostly father so hellishly

incensed you against him.

When the Pilgrime had finished his speeches, the Gentlewoman, who had

listened to them very attentively (because all the alleaged reasons

appeared to be plainely true) became verily perswaded, that all these

afflictions had falne on her and her Father, for the ingratefull

offence by her committed, and therefore thus replied. Worthy man, and

the friend to goodnesse, I know undoubtedly, that the words which you

have spoken are true, and also I understand by your demonstration, what

manner of people some of those religious persons are, whom heretofore I

have reputed to be Saints, but find them now to be far otherwise. And

to speake truly, I perceive the fault to be great and grievous, wherein

I have offended against _Thebaldo_, and would (if I could) willingly

make amends, even in such manner as you have advised. But how is it

possible to be done? _Thebaldo_ being dead, can be no more recalled to

this life; and therefore, I know not what promise I should make, in a

matter which is not to be performed. Whereto, the Pilgrime without any

longer pausing, thus answered.

Madam, by such revelations as have beene shewne to me, I know for a

certainety, that _Thebaldo_ is not dead, but living, in health, and

in good estate; if he had the fruition of your grace and favour. Take

heede what you say Sir (quoth the Gentlewoman) for I saw him lie

slaine before my doore, his body having received many wounds, which

I folded in mine armes, and washed his face with my brinish teares;

whereby (perhaps) the scandall arose, that flew abroade to my disgrace.

Beleeve me Madam, (replied the Pilgrime) say what you will, I dare

assure you that _Thebaldo_ is living, and if you dare make promise,

concerning what hath beene formerly requested, and keepe it inviolably;

I make no doubt, but you your selfe shall shortly see him. I promise

it (quoth shee) and binde my selfe thereto by a sacred oath, to keepe

it faithfully: for never could any thing happen, to yeeld me the like

contentment, as to see my Father free from danger, and _Thebaldo_

living.

At this instant _Thebaldo_ thought it to be a very apt and convenient

time to disclose himselfe, and to comfort the Lady, with an assured

signall of hope, for the deliverance of her Father, wherefore he

saide. Lady, to the ende that I may comfort you infallibly, in this

dangerous perill of your Fathers life; I am to make knowne an especiall

secret to you, which you are to keepe carefully (as you tender your

owne life) from ever being revealed to the world. They were then in

a place of sufficient privacy, and alone by themselves, because shee

reposed great confidence in the Pilgrimes sanctity of life, as thinking

him none other, then as he seemed to be. _Thebaldo_ tooke out of his

Purse a Ring, which shee gave him, the last night of their conversing

together, and he had kept with no meane care, and shewing it to her,

he saide. Doe you know this Ring Madam? So soone as shee saw it,

immediately shee knew it, and answered. Yes Sir, I know the Ring, and

confesse that heretofore I gave it unto _Thebaldo_.

Hereupon the Pilgrime stood up, and suddenly putting off his poore

linnen Frocke, as also the Hood from his head; using then his

_Florentine_ tongue, he saide. Then tell me Madam, doe you not know

me? When shee had advisedly beheld him, and knew him indeede to be

_Thebaldo_; she was stricken into a wonderfull astonishment, being as

fearefull of him, as shee was of the dead body, which shee saw lying in

the streete. And I dare assure you, that shee durst not goe neere him,

to respect him, as _Thebaldo_ so lately come from _Cyprus_: but (in

terror) fled away from him; as if _Thebaldo_ had beene newly risen out

of his grave, and came thither purposely to affright her; wherefore he

saide. Be not afraide Madam, I am your _Thebaldo_, in health, alive,

and never as yet died, neither have I received any wounds to kill mee,

as you and my bretheren have formerly imagined.

Some better assurance getting possession of her soule, as knowing him

perfectly by his voyce, and looking more stedfastly on his face, which

constantly avouched him to be _Thebaldo_; the teares trickling amaine

downe her faire cheekes, shee ran to embrace him, casting her armes

about his necke, and kissing him a thousand times, saying; _Thebaldo_,

my true and faithfull Husband, nothing in the World can be so welcome

to me. _Thebaldo_ having most kindly kissed and embraced her, said;

Sweete wife, time will not now allow us those ceremonious curtesies,

which (indeede) so long a separation doe justly challenge; but I must

about a more weightie businesse, to have your Father safe and soundly

delivered, which I hope to doe before to morrow at night, when you

shall heare tydings to your better contentment. And questionlesse, if I

speede no worse then my good hope perswadeth me, I will see you againe

to night, and acquaint you at better leysure, in such things as I

cannot doe now at this present.

So putting on his Pilgrimes habite againe, kissing her once more, and

comforting her with future good successe, he departed from her, going

to the prison where _Aldobrandino_ lay, whom he found more pensive,

as being in hourely expectation of death, then any hope he had to be

freed from it. Being brought neerer to him by the prisoners favour,

as seeming to be a man, come onely to comfort him; sitting downe by

him, thus he began. _Aldobrandino_, I am a friend of thine, whom Heaven

hath sent to doe thee good, in meere pitty and compassion of thine

innocency. And therefore, if thou wilt grant me one small request,

which I am earnestly to crave at thy hands; thou shalt heare (without

any failing) before to morrow at night, the sentence of thy free

absolution, whereas now thou expectest nothing but death; whereunto

_Aldobrandino_ thus answered. Friendly man, seeing thou art so carefull

of my safety (although I know thee not, neither doe remember that

ever I saw thee till now) thou must needs (as it appeareth no lesse)

be some especiall kind friend of mine. And to tell thee the trueth, I

never committed the sinfull deede, for which I am condemned to death.

Most true it is, I have other heynous and grievous sinnes, which

(undoubtedly) have throwne this heavy judgement upon me, and therefore

I am the more willing to undergoe it. Neverthelesse, let me thus farre

assure thee, that I would gladly, not onely promise something, which

might to the glory of God, if he were pleased in this case to take

mercy on me; but also would as willingly performe and accomplish it.

Wherefore, demand whatsoever thou pleasest of me, for unfainedly (if I

escape with life) I will truly keepe promise with thee.

Sir, replied the Pilgrime, I desire nor demand any thing of you, but

that you wold pardon the foure brethren of _Thebaldo_, who have brought

you to this hard extremity, as thinking you to be guilty of their

brothers death, and that you would also accept them as your brethren

and friends, upon their craving pardon for what they have done. Sir,

answered _Aldobrandino_, no man knoweth how sweete revenge is, nor

with what heate it is to be desired, but onely the man who hath been

wronged. Notwithstanding, not to hinder my hope, which onely aymeth at

Heaven; I freelie forgive them, and henceforth pardon them for ever;

intending moreover, that if mercy give me life, and cleere me from this

bloody imputation, to love and respect them so long as I shall live.

This answer was most pleasing to the Pilgrime, and without any further

multiplication of speeches, he entreated him to be of good comfort, for

he feared not but before the time prefixed, he should heare certaine

tydings of his deliverance.

At his departing from him, he went directly to the _Signoria_, and

prevailed so farre, that he spake privately with a Knight, who was then

one of the States chiefest Lords, to whom he saide. Sir, a man ought to

bestow his best paines and diligence, that the truth of things should

be apparantly knowne; especially, such men as hold the place and office

as you doe: to the ende, that those persons which have committed no

foule offence, should not be punished, but onely the guilty and haynous

transgressors. And because it will be no meane honour to you, to lay

the blame where it worthily deserveth; I am come hither purposely, to

informe you in a case of most weighty importance. It is not unknowne to

you, with what rigour the State hath proceeded against _Aldobrandino

Palermini_, and you thinke verily he is the man that hath slaine

_Thebaldo Elisei_, whereupon your law hath condemned him to dye. I

dare assure you Sir, that a very unjust course hath beene taken in this

case, because _Aldobrandino_ is falsly accused, as you your selfe will

confesse before midnight, when they are delivered into your power, that

were the murderers of the man.

The honest Knight, who was very sorrowfull for _Aldobrandino_, gladly

gave attention to the Pilgrime, and having conferred on many matters,

appertaining to the fact committed: the two brethren, who were

_Thebaldoes_ Hostes, and their Chamber-mayd, upon good advise given,

were apprehended in their first sleepe, without any resistance made

in their defence. But when the tortures were sent for, to understand

truely how the case went; they would not endure any paine at all, but

each aside by himselfe, and then altogether, confessed openly, that

they did the deede, yet not knowing him to bee _Thebaldo Elisei_. And

when it was demanded of them, upon what occasion they did so foule an

act. They answered, that they were so hatefull against the mans life,

because he would luxuriously have abused one of their wives, when they

both were absent from their owne home.

When the Pilgrime had heard this their voluntary confession, hee tooke

his leave of the Knight, returning secretly to the house of Madame

_Hermelina_, and there, because all her people were in their beds, she

carefull awaited his returne, to heare some glad tydings of her father,

and to make a further reconciliation betweene her and _Thebaldo_,

when, sitting downe by her, hee said. Deare Love, be of good cheare,

for (upon my word) to morrow you shall have your father home safe,

well, and delivered from all further danger: and to confirme her the

more confidently in his words, hee declared at large the whole cariage

of the businesse. _Hermelina_ being wondrously joyfull, for two such

suddaine and succesfull accidents to enjoy her husband alive and in

health, and also to have her father freed from so great a danger;

kissed and embraced him most affectionately, welcomming him lovingly

into her bed, whereto so long time he had beene a stranger.

No sooner did bright day appeare, but _Thebaldo_ arose, having

acquainted her with such matters as were to be done, and once more

earnestly desiring her, to conceale (as yet) these occurrences to her

selfe. So, in his Pilgrimes habite, he departed from her house, to

awaite convenient opportunity, for attending on the businesse belonging

to _Aldobrandino_. At the usuall houre appointed, the Lords were all

set in the _Signioria_, and had received full information, concerning

the offence imputed to _Aldobrandino_: setting him at liberty by

publique consent, and sentencing the other malefactors with death,

who (within a fewe dayes after) were beheaded in the place where the

murther was committed. Thus _Aldobrandino_ being released, to his

exceeding comfort, and no small joy of his daughters, kindred and

friends, all knowing perfectly, that this had happened by the Pilgrimes

meanes: they conducted him home to _Aldobrandinoes_ house, where they

desired him to continue so long as himselfe pleased, using him with

most honourable and gracious respect; but especially _Hermelina_, who

knew (better then the rest) on whom shee bestowed her liberall favours,

yet concealing all closely to her selfe.

After two or three dayes were over-past, in these complementall

entercoursings of kindnesse, _Thebaldo_ began to consider, that it

was high time for reconciliation, to be solemnely past betweene his

brethren and _Aldobrandino_. For, they were not a little amazed at his

strange deliverance, and went likewise continually armed, as standing

in feare of _Aldobrandino_ and his friends; which made him the more

earnest, for accomplishment of the promise formerly made unto him.

_Aldobrandino_ lovingly replied, that he was ready to make good his

word. Whereupon, the Pilgrime provided a goodly Banquet, whereat he

purposed to have present, _Aldobrandino_, his daughter, kindred, and

their wives. But first, himselfe would goe in person, to invite them

in peace to his Banquet, to performe this desired pacification, and

conferred with his brethren, using many pregnant and forcible arguments

to them, such as are requisite in the like discordant cases. In the

end, his reasons were so wise, and prevailing with them, that they

willingly condiscended, and thought it no disparagement to them, for

the recoverie of _Aldobrandinoes_ kindnesse againe, to crave pardon for

their great error committed.

On the morrow following, about the houre of dinner time, the foure

brethren of _Thebaldo_, attired in their mourning garments, with their

wives and friends, came first to the house of _Aldobrandino_, who

purposely attended for them, and having layd downe their weapons on

the ground: in the presence of all such, as _Aldobrandino_ had invited

as his witnesses, they offered themselves to his mercy, and humbly

required pardon of him, for the matter wherein they had offended him.

_Aldobrandino_, shedding teares, most lovingly embraced them, and (to

bee briefe) pardon whatsoever injuries he had received. After this,

the sisters and wives, all clad in mourning, courteously submitted

themselves, and were graciously welcommed by Madame _Hermelina_, as

also divers other Gentlewomen there present with her. Being all seated

at the Tables, which were furnished with such rarities as could be

wished for; all things elsee deserved their due commendation, but onely

sad silence, occasioned by the fresh remembrance of sorrow, appearing

in the habites of _Thebaldoes_ friends and kindred, which the Pilgrime

himselfe plainely perceived, to be the onely disgrace to him and his

feast. Wherefore, as before hee had resolved, when time served to purge

away this melancholly; hee arose from the Table, when some (as yet) had

scarce begun to eate, and thus spake.

Gracious company, there is no defect in this Banquet, or more debarres

it of the honour it might elsee have, but onely the presence of

_Thebaldo_, who having beene continually in your company, it seemes

you are not willing to take knowledge of him, and therefore I meane my

selfe to shew him. So, uncasing himselfe out of his Pilgrimes clothes,

and standing in his Hose and Doublet: to their no little admiration,

they all knew him, yet doubted (a good while) whether it were he

or no. Which hee perceiving, hee repeated his bretherens and absent

kindreds names, and what occurrences had happened betweene them from

time to time, beside the relation of his owne passed fortunes, inciting

teares in the eyes of his brethren, and all elsee there present, every

one hugging and embracing him, yea, many beside, who were no kin at

all to him, _Hermelina_ onely excepted, which when _Aldobrandino_ saw,

he said unto her. How now _Hermelina_? Why doest thou not welcome home

_Thebaldo_, so kindely as all here elsee have done?

She making a modest courtesie to her Father, and answering so loude as

every one might heare her, said. There is not any in this assembly,

that more willingly would give him all expression of a joyfull welcom

home, and thankfull gratitude for such especiall favours received, then

in my heart I could afford to do: but only in regard of those infamous

speeches, noysed out against me, on the day when wee wept for him, who

was supposed to be _Thebaldo_, which slander was to my great discredit.

Goe on boldly, replied _Aldobrandino_, doest thou thinke that I regard

any such praters? In the procuring of my deliverance, hee hath approved

them to be manifest liers, albeit I my selfe did never credit them. Goe

then I command thee, and let me see thee both kisse and embrace him.

She who desired nothing more, shewed her selfe not slothfull in obeying

her Father, to do but her duty to her husband. Wherefore, being risen;

as all the rest had done, but yet in farre more effectual manner, she

declared her unfeigned love to _Thebaldo_. These bountifull favours

of _Aldobrandino_, were joyfully accepted by _Thebaldoes_ brethren,

as also every one elsee there present in company; so that all former

rancour and hatred, which had caused heavy variances betweene them, was

now converted to mutuall kindnesse, and solemne friendship on every

side.

When the feasting dayes were finished, the garments of sad mourning

were quite layde aside, and those, becomming so generall a joy, put

on, to make their hearts and habites suteable. Now, concerning the

man slaine, and supposed to be _Thebaldo_, hee was one, that in all

parts of body, and truenesse of complexion so neerely resembled him,

as _Thebaldoes_ owne brethren could not distinguish the one from

the other: but hee was of _Lunigiana_, named _Fatinolo_, and not

_Thebaldo_, whom the two brethren Inne-keepers maliced, about some

idle suspition conceived, and having slaine him, layde his body at the

doore of _Aldobrandino_, where, by the reason of _Thebaldoes_ absence,

it was generally reputed to be he, and _Aldobrandino_ charged to doe

the deede, by vehement perswasion of the brethren, knowing what love

had passed betweene him and his daughter _Hermelina_. But happy was

the Pilgrimes returne, first to heare those words in the Inne, the

meanes to bring the murther to light; and then the discreete cariage

of the Pilgrime, untill hee plainely approved himselfe, to be truly

_Thebaldo_.

Ferando, _by drinking a certaine kinde of Powder, was buried for dead.

And by the Abbot, who was enamoured of his wife, was taken out of his

Grave, and put into a darke prison, where they made him beleeve, that

hee was in Purgatorie. Afterward, when time came that hee should bee

raised to life againe; hee was made to keepe a childe, which the Abbot

had got by his Wife._

The eight Novell.

_Wherein is displayed, the apparant folly of jealousie: And the

subtilty of some religious carnall minded men, to beguile silly and

simple maried men._

When the long discourse of Madame _Æmilia_ was ended, not displeasing

to any, in regard of the length, but rather held too short, because

no exceptions could be taken against it, comparing the raritie of

the accidents, and changes together: the Queene turned to Madame

_Lauretta_, giving her such a manifest signe, as she knew, that it

was her turne to follow next, and therefore shee tooke occasion to

begin thus. Faire Ladies, I intend to tell you a Tale of trueth, which

(perhaps) in your opinions, will seeme to sound like a lye: and yet I

heard by the very last relation, that a dead man was wept and mournd

for, in sted of another being then alive. In which respect, I am now to

let you know, how a living man was buried for dead, and being raised

againe, yet not as living, himselfe, and divers more beside, did

beleeve that he came forth of his grave, and adored him as a Saint, who

was the occasion thereof, and who (as a bad man) deserved justly to be

condemned.

In _Tuscanie_ there was sometime an Abby, seated, as now we see

commonly they are, in a place not much frequented with people, and

thereof a Monke was Abbot, very holy and curious in all things elsee,

save onely a wanton appetite to women: which yet hee kept so cleanly to

himselfe, that though some did suspect it, yet it was knowne to very

few. It came to passe, that a rich Country Franklin, named _Ferando_,

dwelt as a neere neighbour to the said Abby, hee being a man materiall,

of simple and grosse understanding, yet he fell into great familiarity

with the Abbot; who made use of this friendly conversation to no other

end, but for divers times of recreation; when he delighted to smile at

his silly and sottish behaviour.

Upon this his private frequentation with the Abbot, at last he

observed, that _Ferando_ had a very beautifull woman to his wife,

with whom he grew so deepely in love, as hee had no other meditations

either by day or night, but how to become acceptable in her favour.

Neverthelesse, he concealed his amorous passions privately to himselfe,

and could plainely perceive, that although Ferando (in all things

elsee) was meerely a simple fellow, and more like an Idiot, then of

any sensible apprehension: yet was he wise enough in loving his wife,

keeping her carefully out of all company, as one (indeede) very

jealous, least any should kisse her, but onely himselfe, which drove

the Abbot into despaire, for ever attaining the issue of his desire.

Yet being subtill, crafty, and cautelous, he wrought so on the flexible

nature of _Ferando_, that hee brought his wife with him divers dayes

to the Monasterie; where they walked in the goodly Garden, discoursing

on the beatitudes of eternall life, as also the most holy deedes of

men and women, long since departed out of this life, in mervailous

civill and modest manner. Yet all these were but traines to a further

intention, for the Abbot must needes bee her ghostly Father, and shee

come to be confessed by him; which the foole _Ferando_ tooke as an

especiall favour, and therefore he gave his consent the sooner.

At the appointed time, when the woman came to confession to the Abbot,

and was on her knees before him, to his no small contentment, before

she would say any thing elsee, thus she began: Sacred Father, if God

had not given me such an husband as I have, or elsee had bestowed on me

none at all; I might have beene so happy, by the meanes of your holy

doctrine, very easily to have entred into the way, whereof you spake the

other day, which leadeth to eternall life. But when I consider with

my selfe, what manner of man _Ferando_ is, and thinke upon his folly

withall; I may well terme my selfe to be a widdow, although I am a

maried wife, because while he liveth, I cannot have any other husband.

And yet (as sottish as you see him) he is (without any occasion given

him) so extreamely jealous of me; as I am not able to live with him,

but onely in continuall tribulation & hearts griefe. In which respect,

before I enter into confession, I most humbly beseech you, that you

would vouchsafe (in this distresse) to assist me with your fatherly

advise and counsell, because, if thereby I cannot attaine to a more

pleasing kinde of happinesse; neither confession, or any thing elsee, is

able to doe me any good at all.

These words were not a little welcome to my Lord Abbot, because

(thereby) he halfe assured himselfe, that Fortune had laid open the

path to his hoped pleasures, whereupon he said. Deare daughter, I

make no question to the contrary, but it must needes be an exceeding

infelicity, to so faire and goodly a young woman as you are, to be

plagued with so sottish an husband, brain-sick, and without the use

of common understanding; but yet subject to a more hellish affliction

then all these, namely jealousie, and therefore you being in this wofull

manner tormented, your tribulations are not only so much the more

credited, but also as amply grieved for, & pittied. In which heavy and

irksome perturbations, I see not any meanes of remedy, but onely one,

being a kinde of physicke (beyond all other) to cure him of his foolish

jealousie; which medicine is very familiar to me, because I know best

how to compound it, alwayes provided, that you can be of so strong a

capacity, as to be secret in what I shall say unto you.

Good Father (answered the Woman) never make you any doubt thereof, for

I would rather endure death it selfe, then disclose any thing which

you enjoyne me to keepe secret: wherefore, I beseech you Sir to tell

me, how, and by what meanes it may be done. If (quoth the Abbot) you

desire to have him perfectly cured, of a disease so dangerous and

offensive, of necessity he must be sent into Purgatory. How may that be

done, saide the woman, he being alive? He must needs die, answered the

Abbot, for his more speedy passage thither; and when he hath endured so

much punishment, as may expiate the quality of his jealousie, we have

certaine devoute and zealous prayers, whereby to bring him backe againe

to life, in as able manner as ever he was. Why then, replyed the woman,

I must remaine in the state of a Widdow? Very true, saide the Abbot,

for a certaine time, in all which space, you may not (by any meanes)

marrie againe, because the heavens will therewith be highly offended:

but _Ferando_ being returned to life againe, you must repossesse him

as your Husband, but never to be jealous any more. Alas Sir (quoth the

woman) so that he may be cured of his wicked jealousie, and I no longer

live in such an hellish imprisonment, doe as you please.

Now was the Abbot (well neere) on the highest step of his hope, making

her constant promise, to accomplish it: But (quoth he) what shall be

my recompence when I have done it? Father, saide shee, whatsoever you

please to aske, if it remaine within the compasse of my power: but you

being such a vertuous and sanctified man, and I a woman of so meane

worth or merit; what sufficient recompence can I be able to make you?

Whereunto the Abbot thus replyed. Faire Woman, you are able to doe as

much for me, as I am for you, because as I doe dispose my selfe, to

performe a matter for your comfort and consolation, even so ought you

to be as mindfull of me, in any action concerning my life and welfare.

In any such matter Sir (quoth shee) depending on your benefit so

strictly, you may safely presume to command me. You must then (saide

the Abbot) grant me your love, and the kinde embracing of your person;

because so violent are mine affections, as I pine and consume away

daily, till I enjoy the fruition of my desires, and none can help me

therein but you.

When the woman heard these words, as one confounded with much

amazement, this shee replied. Alas, holy Father! what a strange motion

have you made to me? I beleeved very faithfully, that you were no

lesse then a Saint, and is it convenient, that when silly women come

to aske counsell of such sanctified men, they should returne them such

unfitting answeres? Be not amazed good woman, saide the Abbot, at the

motion which I have made unto you, because holinesse is not thereby

impaired a jot in me; for it is the inhabitant of the soule, the other

is an imperfection attending on the body: but be it whatsoever, your

beauty hath so powerfully prevailed on me, that entire love hath

compelled me to let you know it. And more may you boast of your beauty,

then any that ever I beheld before, considering, it is so pleasing to

a sanctified man, that it can draw him from divine contemplations, to

regard a matter of so humble an equalitie.

Let me tell you moreover, woorthy Woman, that you see me reverenced

here as Lord Abbot, yet am I but as other men are, and in regard I am

neither aged, nor misshapen, me thinkes the motion I have made, should

be the lesse offensive to you, and therefore the sooner granted.

For, all the while as _Ferando_ remaineth in Purgatory, doe you but

imagine him to be present with you, and your perswasion will the more

absolutely be confirmed. No man can, or shall be privy to our close

meetings, for I carrie the same holy opinion among all men, as you

your selfe conceived of me, and none dare be so saucie, as to call

in question whatsoever I doe or say, because my wordes are Oracles,

and mine actions more then halfe miracles; doe you not then refuse so

gracious an offer. Enow there are, who would gladly enjoy that, which

is francke and freely presented to you, and which (if you be a wise

Woman) is meerely impossible for you to refuse. Richly am I possessed

of Gold and Jewelse, which shall be all yours, if you please in favour

to be mine; wherein I will not be gaine-saide, except your selfe doe

denie me.

The Woman having her eyes fixed on the ground, knew not wel how shee

should denie him; and yet in plaine words, to say shee consented, shee

held it to be over-base and immodest, and ill agreeing with her former

reputation: when the Abbot had well noted this attention in her, and

how silent shee stood without returning any answer; he accounted the

conquest to be more then halfe his owne: so that continuing on his

formall perswasions, hee never ceased, but allured her still to beleeve

whatsoever he saide. And shee much ashamed of his importunity, but more

of her owne flexible yeelding weakenesse, made answer, that shee would

willingly accomplish his request; which yet shee did not absolutelie

grant, untill _Ferando_ were first sent into Purgatory. And till then

(quoth the Abbot) I will not urge any more, because I purpose his

speedy sending thither: but yet, so farre lend me your assistance, that

either to morrow, or elsee the next day, he may come hither once more

to converse with me. So putting a faire gold Ring on her finger, they

parted till their next meeting.

Not a little joyfull was the Woman of so rich a gift, hoping to enjoy

a great many more of them, and returning home to her neighbours,

acquainted them with wonderfull matters, all concerning the

sanctimonious life of the Abbot, a meere miracle of men, and worthy to

be truely termed a Saint. Within two dayes after, _Ferando_ went to

the Abbye againe, and so soone as the Abbot espyed him, hee presently

prepared for his sending of him into Purgatorie. He never was without

a certaine kinde of drugge, which being beaten into powder, would worke

so powerfully upon the braine, and all the other vitall sences, as to

entrance them with a deadly sleepe, and deprive them of all motion,

either in the pulses, or any other part elsee, even as if the body

were dead indeede; in which operation it would so hold and continue,

according to the quantity given and drunke, as it pleased the Abbot

to order the matter. This powder or drugge, was sent him by a great

Prince of the East, and therewith he wrought wonders upon his Novices,

sending them into Purgatory when he pleased, and by such punishments as

he inflicted on them there, made them (like credulous asses) beleeve

whatsoever himselfe listed.

So much of this powder had the Abbot provided, as should suffice for

three dayes entrauncing, and having compounded it with a very pleasant

Wine, calling _Ferando_ into his Chamber, there gave it him to drinke,

and afterward walked with him about the Cloyster, in very friendly

conference together, the silly sot never dreaming on the treachery

intended against him. Many Monkes beside were recreating themselves

in the Cloyster, most of them delighting to behold the follies of

_Ferando_, on whom the potion beganne so to worke, that he slept in

walking, nodding and reeling as hee went, till at the last hee fell

downe, as if he had beene dead.

The Abbot pretending great admiration at this accident, called his

Monkes about him, all labouring by rubbing his temples, throwing

cold water and vinegar in his face, to revive him againe; alleaging

that some fume or vapour in the stomacke, had thus over-awed his

understanding faculties, and quite deprived him of life indeede. At

length, when by tasting the pulse, and all their best employed paines,

they saw that their labour was spent in vaine; the Abbot used such

perswasions to the Monkes, that they all beleeved him to be dead:

whereupon they sent for his Wife and friends, who crediting as much as

the rest did, were very sad and sorrowfull for him.

The Abbot (cloathed as he was) laide him in a hollow vault under a

Tombe, such as there are used in stead of Graves; his Wife returning

home againe to her House, with a young Sonne which shee had by her

Husband, protesting to keepe still within her House, and never more to

be seene in any company, but onely to attend her young Sonne, and be

very carefull of such wealth as her Husband had left unto her.

From the City of _Bologna_, that very instant day, a well staide and

governed Monke there arrived, who was a neere kinsman to the Abbot,

and one whom he might securely trust. In the dead time of the night,

the Abbot and this Monke arose, and taking _Ferando_ out of the vault,

carried him into a darke dungeon or prison, which he termed by the

name of Purgatory, and where hee used to discipline his Monkes, when

they had committed any notorious offence, deserving to be punished

in Purgatory. There they tooke off his usuall wearing garments, and

cloathed him in the habite of a Monke, even as if he had beene one of

the house; and laying him on a bundle of straw, so left him untill

his sences should be restored againe. On the day following, late in

the evening, the Abbot, accompanied with his trusty Monke, (by way

of visitation) went to see and comfort the supposed widow; finding

her attired in blacke, very sad and pensive, which by his wonted

perswasions, indifferently he appeased; challenging the benefit of her

promise. Shee being thus alone, not hindered by her Husbands jealousie,

and espying another goodly gold Ring on his finger, how frailety

and folly over-ruled her, I know not, shee was a weake woman, he a

divelish deluding man; and the strongest holdes by over-long battery

and besieging, must needes yeeld at the last, as I feare shee did: for

very often afterward, the Abbot used in this manner to visit her, and

the simple ignorant Countrey people, carrying no such ill opinion of

the holy Abbot, and having seene _Ferando_ lying for dead in the vault,

and also in the habite of a Monke; were verily perswaded, that when

they saw the Abbot passe by to and fro, but most commonly in the night

season, it was the ghost of _Ferando_, who walked in this manner after

his death, as a just pennance for his jealousie.

When _Ferandoes_ sences were recovered againe, and he found himselfe to

be in such a darkesome place; not knowing where he was, he beganne to

crie and make a noyse. When presently the Monke of _Bologna_ (according

as the Abbot had tutured him) stept into the dungeon, carrying a little

waxe candle in the one hand, and a smarting whip in the other, going

to _Ferando_, he stript off his cloathes, and began to lash him very

soundly. _Ferando_ roaring and crying, could say nothing elsee, but,

where am I? The Monke (with a dreadfull voyce) replyed: Thou art in

Purgatory. How? saide _Ferando_; what? Am I dead? Thou art dead (quoth

the Monke) and began to lash him lustily againe. Poore _Ferando_,

crying out for his Wife and little Sonne, demanded a number of idle

questions, whereto the Monke still fitted him with as fantasticke

answers. Within a while after, he set both foode and wine before him,

which when _Ferando_ sawe, he saide; How is this? Doe dead men eate and

drinke? Yes, replyed the Monke, and this foode which here thou seest,

thy Wife brought hither to their Church this morning, to have Masses

devoutly sung for thy soule; and as to other, so must it be set before

thee, for such is the command of the Patrone of this place.

_Ferando_ having lyen entranced three dayes and three nights, felt

his stomacke well prepared to eate, and feeding very heartily, still

saide; O my good Wife, O my loving Wife, long mayest thou live for

this extraordinary kindnesse. I promise thee (sweete heart) while I

was alive, I cannot remember, that ever any foode and wine was halfe

so pleasing to me. O my deare Wife; O my hony Wife. Canst thou (quoth

the Monke) prayse and commend her now, using her so villainously

in thy life time? Then did he whip him more fiercely then before,

when _Ferando_ holding up his hands, as craving for mercy, demanded

wherefore he was so severely punished? I am so commanded (quoth

the Monke) by supreme power, and twice every day must thou be thus

disciplinde. Upon what occasion? replyed _Ferando_. Because (quoth the

Monke) thou wast most notoriously jealous of thy Wife, shee being the

very kindest woman to thee, as all the Countrey containeth not her

equall. It is too true, answered _Ferando_, I was over-much jealous of

her indeede: but had I knowne, that jealousie was such a hatefull sinne

against Heaven, I never would have offended therein.

Now (quoth the Monke) thou canst confesse thine owne wilfull follie,

but this should have beene thought on before, and whilest thou wast

living in the World. But if the Fates vouchsafe to favour thee so

much, as hereafter to send thee to the World once more; remember thy

punishment here in Purgatory, and sinne no more in that foule sinne of

jealousie. I pray you Sir tell me, replyed _Ferando_, after men are

dead, and put into Purgatory, is there any hope of their ever visiting

the World any more? Yes, saide the Monke, if the fury of the Fates be

once appeased. O that I knew (quoth _Ferando_) by what meanes they

would be appeased, and let me visite the World once againe: I would

be the best Husband that ever lived, and never more be jealous, never

wrong so good a Wife, nor ever use one unkind word against her. In the

meane while, and till their anger may be qualified; when next my Wife

doth send me foode, I pray you worke so much, that some Candles may be

sent me also, because I live here in uncomfortable darknesse; and what

should I doe with foode, if I have no light. Shee sends Lights enow,

answered the Monke, but they are burnt out on the Altar in Masse-time,

and thou canst have none other here, but such as I must bring my selfe;

neither are they allowed, but onely for the time of thy feeding and

correcting.

_Ferando_ breathing foorth a vehement sigh, desired to know what he

was, being thus appointed to punish him in Purgatory? I am (quoth the

Monke) a dead man, as thou art, borne in _Sardignia_, where I served

a very jealous Master; and because I soothed him in his jealousie,

I had this pennance imposed on me, to serve thee here in Purgatory

with meate and drinke, and (twice every day) to discipline thy body,

untill the Fates have otherwise determined both for thee and me. Why?

saide _Ferando_, are any other persons here, beside you and I? Many

thousands, replyed the Monke, whom thou canst neither heare nor see,

no more then they are able to doe the like by us. But how farre, saide

_Ferando_, is Purgatory distant from our native Countries? About some

fifty thousand leagues, answered the Monke; but yet passable in a

moment, whensoever the offended Fates are pleased: and many Masses are

daily saide for thy soule, at the earnest entreaty of thy Wife, in hope

of thy conversion; and becomming a new man, hating to be jealous any

more hereafter.

In these and such like speeches, as thus they beguiled the time, so did

they observe it for a dayly course, sometime discipling, other whiles

eating and drinking, for the space of ten whole moneths together: in

the which time, the Abbot sildome failed to visite _Ferandoes_ wife,

without the least suspition in any of the neighbours, by reason of

their setled opinion, concerning the nightly walking of _Ferandoes_

ghost. But, as all pleasures cannot bee exempted from some following

paine or other, so it came to passe, that _Ferandoes_ wife proved

to be conceived with childe, and the time was drawing on for her

deliverance. Now began the Abbot to consider, that _Ferandoes_ folly

was sufficiently chastised, and hee had beene long enough in Purgatory:

wherefore, the better to countenance all passed inconveniences, it

was now thought high time, that _Ferando_ should be sent to the world

againe, and set free from the paines of Purgatory, as having payed for

his jealousie dearely, to teach him better wisedome hereafter.

Late in the dead time of the night the Abbot himselfe entred into

the darke dungeon, and in an hollow counterfeited voyce, called to

_Ferando_, saying. Comfort thy selfe _Ferando_, for the Fates are now

pleased, that thou shalt bee released out of Purgatory, and sent to

live in the world againe. Thou didst leave thy wife newly conceived

with childe, and this very morning she is delivered of a goodly Sonne,

whom thou shalt cause to be named _Bennet_: because, by the incessant

prayers of the holy Abbot, thine owne loving wife, and for sweet Saint

_Bennets_ sake, this grace and favour is afforded thee. _Ferando_

hearing this, was exceeding joyfull, and returned this answere:

For ever honoured be the Fates, the holy Lord Abbot, blessed Saint

_Bennet_, and my most dearely beloved wife, whom I will faithfully love

for ever, and never more offend her by any jealousie in me.

When the next foode was sent to _Ferando_, so much of the powder

was mingled with the wine, as would serve onely for foure houres

entrauncing, in which time, they clothed him in his owne wearing

apparell againe, the Abbot himselfe in person, and his honest trusty

Monke of _Bologna_, conveying and laying him in the same vault under

the Tombe, where at the first they gave him buriall. The next morning

following, about the breake of day, _Ferando_ recovered his sences, and

thorow divers chinkes and crannies of the Tombe, descried day-light,

which hee had not seene in tenne moneths space before. Perceiving then

plainely, that he was alive, he cried out aloude, saying: Open, open,

and let mee forth of Purgatory, for I have beene heere long enough in

conscience. Thrusting up his head against the cover of the Tombe, which

was not of any great strength, neither well closed together; hee put it

quite off the Tombe, and so got forth upon his feete: at which instant

time, the Monks having ended their morning Mattins, and hearing the

noyse, ran in hast thither, and knowing the voyce of _Ferando_, saw

that he was come forth of the Monument.

Some of them were ancient Signiors of the house, and yet but meere

Novices (as all the rest were) in these cunning and politique

stratagems of the Lord Abbot, when hee intended to punish any one in

Purgatory, and therefore, being affrighted, and amazed at this rare

accident; they fled away from him running to the Abbot, who making a

shew to them, as if he were but new come forth of his Oratory, in a

kinde of pacifying speeches, saide; Peace my deare Sonnes, bee not

affraide, but fetch the Crosse and Holy-water hither; then follow me,

and I will shew you, what miracle the Fates have pleased to shew in our

Convent, therefore be silent, and make no more noise; all which was

performed according to his command.

_Ferando_ looking leane and pale, as one, that in so long time hadde

not seene the light of heaven, and endured such strict discipline

twice everie day: stood in a gastly amazement by the Tombes side, as

not daring to adventure any further, or knowing perfectly, whether

he was (as yet) truly alive, or no. But when he saw the Monkes and

Abbot comming, with their lighted Torches, and singing in a solemne

manner of Procession, he humbled himselfe at the Abbots feete, saying.

Holy Father, by your zealous prayers (as hath bin miraculously

revealed to me) and the prayers of blessed S. _Bennet_; as also of my

honest, deare, and loving Wife, I have bin delivered from the paines

of Purgatory, and brought againe to live in this world; for which

unspeakable grace and favour, most humbly I thank the well-pleased

Fates, S. _Bennet_, your Father-hood, and my kinde Wife, and will

remember all your loves to me for ever. Blessed be the Fates, answered

the Abbot, for working so great a wonder heere in our Monastery. Go

then my good Son, seeing the Fates have bin so gracious to thee; Go

(I say) home to thine owne house, and comfort thy kind wife, who ever

since thy departure out of this life, hath lived in continuall mourning,

love, cherish, and make much of her, never afflicting her henceforth

with causlesse jealousie. No I warrant you good Father, replyed

_Ferando_; I have bin well whipt in Purgatory for such folly, and

therefore I might be called a starke foole, if I should that way offend

any more, either my loving wife, or any other.

The Abbot causing _Miserere_ to be devoutly sung, sprinkling _Ferando_

well with Holy-water, and placing a lighted Taper in his hand, sent him

home so to his owne dwelling Village: where when the Neighbours beheld

him, as people halfe frighted out of their wits, they fledde away from

him, so scared and terrified, as if they had seene some dreadfull

sight, or gastly apparition; his wife being as fearfull of him, as any

of the rest. He called to them kindly by their severall names, telling

them, that hee was newly risen out of his grave, and was a man as he

had bin before. Then they began to touch and feele him, growing into

more certaine assurance of him, perceiving him to be a living man

indeede: whereupon, they demanded many questions of him; and he, as

if he were become farre wiser then before, tolde them tydings, from

their long deceased Kindred and Friends, as if he had met with them

all in Purgatory, reporting a thousand lyes and fables to them, which

(neverthelesse) they beleeved.

Then he told them what the miraculous voice had said unto him,

concerning the birth of another young Sonne, whom (according as he was

commanded) he caused to be named _Bennet Ferando_. Thus his returne

to life againe, and the daily wonders reported by him, caused no

meane admiration in the people, with much commendation of the Abbots

Holynesse, and _Ferandoes_ happy curing of his jealousie.

Juliet of Narbona, _cured the King of France of a daungerous Fistula,

in recompence whereof, she requested to enjoy as her husband in

marriage,_ Bertrand _the Count of_ Roussillion. _Hee having married her

against his will, as utterly despising her, went to Florence, where he

made love to a young Gentlewoman._ Juliet, _by a queint and cunning

policy, compassed the meanes (insted of his chosen new friend) to lye

with her owne husband, by whom shee conceived, and had two Sonnes;

which being afterward made knowne unto Count_ Bertrand, _he accepted

her into his favour again, and loved her as his loyall and honourable

wife._

The Ninth Novell.

_Commending the good judgement and understanding in Ladies or

Gentlewomen, that are of a quicke and apprehensive spirit._

Now there remained no more (to preserve the priviledge granted to

_Dioneus_ uninfringed) but the Queene onely, to declare her Novell.

Wherefore, when the discourse of Madam _Lauretta_ was ended, without

attending any motion to bee made for her next succeeding, with a

gracious and pleasing disposition, thus she began to speake. Who shall

tell any Tale heereafter, to carry any hope or expectation of liking,

having heard the rare and wittie discourse of Madame _Lauretta_?

Beleeve me, it was verie advantageable to us all, that she was not this

dayes first beginner, because few or none would have had any courage to

follow after her, & therefore the rest yet remaining, are the more to

be feared and suspected. Neverthelesse, to avoid the breach of order,

and to claime no priviledge by my place, of not performing what I ought

to do: prove as it may, a Tale you must have, and thus I proceed.

There lived sometime in the kingdom of _France_, a Gentleman named

_Isnarde_, being the Count of _Roussillion_, who because hee was

continually weake, crazie and sickly, kept a Physitian daily in his

house, who was called Master _Gerard_ of _Narbona_. Count _Isnarde_ had

one onely Sonne, very young in yeares, yet of towardly hope, faire,

comely, and of pleasing person, named _Bertrand_; with whom, many other

children of his age, had their education: and among them, a daughter of

the fore-named Physitian, called _Juliet_; who, even in these tender

yeares, fixed her affection upon yong _Bertrand_, with such an earnest

and intimate resolution, as was most admirable in so yong a maiden,

and more then many times is noted in yeares of greater discretion. Old

Count _Isnard_ dying, yong _Bertrand_ fell as a Ward to the King, and

being sent to _Paris_, remained there under his royall custodie and

protection, to the no little discomfort of yong _Juliet_, who became

greevously afflicted in minde, because shee had lost the company of

_Bertrand_.

Within some few yeeres after, the Physitian her Father also dyed, and

then her desires grew wholly addicted, to visite _Paris_ her selfe in

person, onely because she would see the yong Count, awaiting but time

& opportunitie, to fit her stolne journey thither. But her kindred

and friends, to whose care and trust she was committed, in regard

of her rich dowrie, and being left as a fatherlesse Orphane: were

so circumspect of her walks and daily behaviour, as she could not

compasse any meanes of escaping. Her yeeres made her now almost fit for

marriage, which so much more encreased her love to the Count, making

refusall of many woorthie husbands, and laboured by the motions of her

friends and kindred, yet all denyed, they not knowing any reason for

her refusalles. By this time the Count was become a gallant goodly

Gentleman, and able to make election of a wife, whereby her affections

were the more violently enflamed, as fearing least some other should be

preferred before her, & so her hopes be utterly disappointed.

It was noysed abroad by common report, that the King of _France_ was

in a very dangerous condition, by reason of a strange swelling on

his stomacke, which failing of apt and convenient curing, became a

Fistula, afflicting him daily with extraordinary paine and anguish, no

Chirurgeon or Physitian being found, that could minister any hope of

healing, but rather encreased the greefe, and drove it to more vehement

extreamitie, compelling the King, as dispairing utterly of all helpe,

to give over any further counsell or advice. Heereof faire _Juliet_ was

wondrously joyful, as hoping that this accident would prove the meanes,

not only of hir journey to _Paris_, but if the disease were no more

then shee imagined; shee could easily cure it, and thereby compasse

Count _Bertrand_ to be her husband. Heereupon, quickning up her wits,

with remembrance of those rules of Art, which (by long practise and

experience) she had learned of her skilfull Father, shee compounded

certaine hearbes together, such as she knew fitting for that kinde of

infirmity, and having reduced hir compound into a powder, away she rode

forthwith to Paris.

Being there arrived, all other serious matters set aside, first shee

must needs have a sight of Count _Bertrand_, as being the onely Saint

that caused her pilgrimage. Next she made meanes for her accesse

to the King, humbly entreating his Majesty, to vouchsafe her the

sight of his Fistula. When the King saw her, her modest lookes did

plainly deliver, that she was a faire, comely, and discreete young

Gentlewoman; wherefore, hee would no longer hide it, but layed it

open to her view. When shee had seene and felt it, presently she

put the King in comfort; affirming, that she knew her selfe able to

cure his Fistula, saying: Sir, if your Highnesse will referre the

matter to me, without any perill of life, or any the least paine to

your person, I hope (by the helpe of heaven) to make you whole and

sound within eight dayes space. The King hearing her words, beganne

merrily to smile at her, saying: How is it possible for thee, being

a yong Maiden, to do that which the best Physitians in Europe, are

not able to performe? I commend thy kindnesse, and will not remaine

unthankefull for thy forward willingnesse: but I am fully determined,

to use no more counsell, or to make any further triall of Physicke or

Chirurgery. Whereto faire _Juliet_ thus replied: Great King, let not my

skill and experience be despised, because I am young, and a Maiden; for

my profession is not Physicke, neither do I undertake the ministering

thereof, as depending on mine owne knowledge; but by the gracious

assistance of heaven, & some rules of skilfull observation, which I

learned of reverend _Gerard_ of _Narbona_, who was my worthy Father,

and a Physitian of no meane fame, all the while he lived.

At the hearing of these words, the King began somewhat to admire at

her gracious carriage, and saide within himselfe. What know I, whether

this virgin is sent to me by the direction of heaven, or no? Why should

I disdaine to make proofe of her skill? Her promise is, to cure mee

in a small times compasse, and without any paine or affliction to me:

she shall not come so farre, to returne againe with the losse of her

labour, I am resolved to try her cunning, and thereon saide. Faire

Virgin, if you cause me to breake my setled determination, and faile

of curing mee, what can you expect to follow thereon? Whatsoever great

King (quoth she) shall please you. Let me bee strongly guarded, yet not

hindred, when I am to prosecute the businesse: and then if I doe not

perfectly heale you within eight daies, let a good fire be made, and

therein consume my bodie unto ashes. But if I accomplish the cure, and

set your Highnesse free from all further greevance, what recompence

then shall remaine to me?

Much did the King commend the confident perswasion which she had of her

owne power, and presently replyed. Faire beauty (quoth he) in regard

that thou art a Maide and unmarried, if thou keepe promise, and I finde

my selfe to be fully cured: I will match thee with some such Gentleman

in marriage, as shal be of honourable and worthy reputation, with a

sufficient dowry beside. My gracious Soveraigne saide she, willing am

I, and most heartily thankful withall, that your Highnesse shal bestow

me in marriage: but I desire then, to have such a husband, as I shal

desire or demand by your gracious favour, without presuming to crave

any of your Sonnes, Kindred, or Alliance, or appertaining unto your

Royall blood. Whereto the King gladly granted. Young _Juliet_ began to

minister her Physicke, and within fewer dayes then her limited time,

the King was sound and perfectly cured; which when he perceyved, hee

sayd unto her. Trust me vertuous Mayde, most woorthily hast thou wonne

a Husband, name him, and thou shalt have him. Royall King (quoth she)

then have I won the Count _Bertrand_ of _Roussillion_, whom I have

most entirely loved from mine Infancy, and cannot (in my soule) affect

any other. Very loath was the King to grant her the young Count, but in

regard of his solemne passed promise, and his royal word engaged, which

he would not by any meanes breake; he commanded, that the Count should

be sent for, and spake thus to him.

Noble Count, it is not unknowne to us, that you are a Gentleman

of great honour, and it is our royall pleasure, to discharge your

wardship, that you may repaire home to your owne House, there to settle

your affaires in such order, as you may be the readier to enjoy a Wife,

which we intend to bestow upon you. The Count returned his Highnesse

most humble thankes, desiring to know of whence, and what shee was? It

is this Gentlewoman, answered the King, who (by the helpe of Heaven)

hath beene the meanes to save my life. Well did the Count know her, as

having very often before seene her; and although shee was very faire

and amiable, yet in regard of her meane birth, which he held as a

disparagement to his Nobility in bloud; he made a scorne of her, and

spake thus to the King. Would your Highnesse give me a Quacksalver to

my Wife, one that deales in drugges and Physicarie? I hope I am able to

bestow my selfe much better then so. Why? quoth the King, wouldst thou

have us breake our faith; which for the recovery of our health, wee

have given to this vertuous virgin, and shee will have no other reward,

but onely Count _Bertrand_ to be her husband? Sir, replied the Count,

you may dispossesse me of all that is mine, because I am your Ward and

Subject, and any where elsee you may bestow me: but pardon me to tell

you, that this marriage cannot be made with any liking or allowance of

mine, neither will I ever give consent thereto.

Sir, saide the King, it is our will that it shall be so, vertuous she

is, faire and wise; she loveth thee most affectionately, and with

her mayest thou leade a more Noble life, then with the greatest Lady

in our Kingdome. Silent, and discontented stoode the Count, but the

King commaunded preparation for the marriage; and when the appointed

time was come, the Count (albeit against his will) received his wife

at the Kings hand; she loving him deerely as her owne life. When all

was done, the Count requested of the King, that what elsee remained

for further solemnization of the marriage, it might be performed in

his owne Countrey, reserving to himselfe what elsee he intended. Being

mounted on horseback, and humbly taking their leave of the King, the

Count would not ride home to his owne dwelling, but into _Tuscany_,

where he heard of a warre betweene the _Florentines_ and the _Senesi_,

purposing to take part with the _Florentines_, to whom he was willingly

and honourably welcommed, being created Captain of a worthy Company,

and continuing there a long while in service.

The poore forsaken new married Countesse, could scarsely be pleased

with such dishonourable unkindnes, yet governing her impatience with

no meane discretion, and hoping by her vertuous carriage, to compasse

the meanes of his recall: home she rode to _Roussillion_, where all the

people received her very lovingly. Now, by reason of the Counts so long

absence, all things were there farre out of order; mutinies, quarrelse,

and civill dissentions, having procured many dissolute irruptions,

to the expence of much blood in many places. But shee, like a jolly

stirring Lady, very wise and provident in such disturbances, reduced

all occasions to such civility againe, that the people admired her rare

behaviour, and condemned the Count for his unkindnesse towards her.

After that the whole countrey of _Roussillion_ (by the policy and

wisedome of this worthy Lady was fully re-established) in their ancient

liberties; she made choise of two discreet knights, whom she sent to

the Count her husband, to let him understand, that if in displeasure

to her, hee was thus become a stranger to his owne countrey: upon

the return of his answer, to give him contentment, shee would depart

thence, and by no meanes disturbe him. Roughly and churlishly he

replied; Let her doe as she list, for I have no determination to dwel

with her, or neere where she is. Tell her from me, when she shall have

this Ring, which you behold heere on my finger, and a sonne in her

armes begotten by me; then will I come live with her, and be her love.

The Ring he made most precious and deere account of, and never tooke

it off from his finger, in regard of an especial vertue and property,

which he well knew to be remaining in it. And these two Knights,

hearing the impossibility of these two strict conditions, with no other

favour elsee to be derived from him; sorrowfully returned backe to

their Ladie, and acquainted her with this unkinde answer, as also his

unalterable determination, which wel you may conceive, must needs be

verie unwelcome to her.

After she had an indifferent while considered with her selfe, her

resolution became so undauntable; that she would adventure to practise

such meanes, whereby to compasse those two apparant impossibilities,

and so to enjoy the love of her husband. Having absolutely concluded

what was to be done, she assembled all the cheefest men of the country,

revealing unto them (in mournfull manner) what an attempt she had made

already, in hope of recovering her husbands favour, and what a rude

answer was thereon returned. In the end, she told them, that it did

not sute with her unworthinesse, to make the Count live as an exile

from his owne inheritance, upon no other inducement, but only in regard

of her: wherefore, she had determined betweene heaven and her soule,

to spend the remainder of her dayes in Pilgrimages and prayers, for

preservation of the Counts soule and her owne; earnestly desiring them,

to undertake the charge and government of the Countrey, and signifying

unto the Count, how she had forsaken his house, and purposed to wander

so far thence, that never would she visite _Roussillion_ any more. In

the deliverie of these words, the Lords and gentlemen wept and sighed

extraordinarily, using many earnest imprecations to alter this resolve

in her, but all was in vaine.

Having taken her sad and sorrowfull farewell of them all, accompanied

onely with her Maide, and one of her Kinsmen, away she went, attired in

a Pilgrims habite, yet well furnished with money and precious Jewelse,

to avoide all wants which might befall her in travaile; not acquainting

any one whether she went. In no place stayed she, untill she was

arrived at Florence, where happening into a poore Widdowes house, like

a poore Pilgrim, she seemed well contented therewith. And desiring to

heare some tydings of the Count, the next day she saw him passe by

the house on horse-backe, with his company. Now, albeit shee knew him

well enough, yet she demanded of the good old Widdow, what Gentleman

he was? She made answer, that he was a stranger there, yet a Nobleman,

called Count _Bertrand_ of _Roussillion_, a verie courteous Knight,

beloved and much respected in the City. Moreover, that he was farre in

love with a neighbour of hers, a yong Gentlewoman, but verie poore and

meane in substance, yet of honest life, vertuous, and never taxed with

any evill report: onely her povertie was the maine imbarment of her

marriage, dwelling in house with her mother, who was a wise, honest,

and worthy Lady.

The Countesse having wel observed her words, and considered thereon

from point to point; debated soberly with her owne thoughts, in such a

doubtfull case what was best to be done. When she had understood which

was the house, the ancient Ladies name, and likewise her daughters, to

whom her husband was now so affectionately devoted; she made choise

of a fit and convenient time, when (in her Pilgrims habit), secretly

she went to the house. There she found the mother and daughter in

poore condition, and with as poore a family: whom after she had

ceremoniously saluted, she told the old Lady, that shee requested but a

little conference with her. The Ladie arose, and giving her courteous

entertainment, they went together into a withdrawing chamber, where

being both set downe, the Countesse began in this manner.

Madame, in my poore opinion, you are not free from the frownes of

Fortune, no more then I my selfe am: but if you were so well pleased,

there is no one that can comfort both our calamities in such manner,

as you are able to do. And beleeve me answered the Lady, there is

nothing in the world that can bee so welcome to mee, as honest

comfort. The Countesse proceeding on in her former speeches said: I

have now need (good Madame) both of your trust and fidelity, whereon

if I should rely, and you faile me, it will be your owne undooing as

well as mine. Speake then boldly, replied the olde Ladie, and remaine

constantly assured, that you shall no way be deceived by me. Heereupon,

the Countesse declared the whole course of her love, from the verie

originall to the instant, revealing also what she was, and the occasion

of her comming thither, relating every thing so perfectly, that the

Ladie verily beleeved her, by some reports which she had formerly

heard, and which mooved her the more to compassion. Now, when all

circumstances were at full discovered, thus spake the Countesse.