It came to passe, that in the reporting of this discourse, there was

then a Gentleman in the company, named _Guillemino da Medicina_, who

at the surprizal of the City, was present with _Guidotto_ of _Cremona_,

and knew well the House which he had ransacked, the owner whereof was

also present with him, wherefore taking him aside, he saide to him.

_Bernardino_, hearest thou what _Jacomino_ hath related? yes very wel,

replyed _Bernardino_, and remember withall, that in that dismall bloody

combustion, I lost a little Daughter, about the age as _Jacomino_

speaketh. Questionlesse then, replied _Guillemino_, shee must needes

be the same young Mayden, for I was there at the same time, and in the

House, whence _Guidotto_ did bring both the girle and goods, and I doe

perfectly remember, that it was thy House. I pray thee call to minde,

if ever thou sawest any scarre or marke about her, which may revive thy

former knowledge of her, for my minde perswades me, that the Maide is

thy Daughter.

_Bernardino_ musing a while with himselfe, remembred, that under her

left eare, shee had a scarre, in the forme of a little crosse, which

happened by the byting of a Wolfe, and but a small while before the

spoyle was made. Wherefore, without deferring it to any further time,

he stept to _Jacomino_ (who as yet staied there) and entreated him to

fetch the Mayden from his house, because shee might be knowne to some

in the company: whereto right willingly he condiscended, and there

presented the Maide before them. So soone as _Bernardino_ beheld her,

he began to be much inwardly moved; for the perfect character of her

Mothers countenance, was really figured in her sweete face, onely that

her beauty was somewhat more excelling. Yet not herewith satisfied, he

desired _Jacomino_ to be so pleased, as to lift up a little the lockes

of haire, depending over her left eare. _Jacomino_ did it presently,

albeit with a modest blushing in the maide, and _Bernardino_ looking

advisedly on it, knew it to be the selfe same crosse; which confirmed

her constantly to be his Daughter.

Overcome with excesse of joy, which made the teares to trickle downe

his cheekes, he proffered to embrace and kisse the Maide: but she

resisting his kindnesse, because (as yet) shee knew no reason for it,

he turned himselfe to _Jacomino_, saying. My deare brother and friend,

this Maide is my Daughter, and my House was the same which _Guidotto_

spoyled, in the generall havocke of our City, and thence he carried

this child of mine, forgotten (in the fury) by my Wife her Mother. But

happy was the houre of his becomming her Father, and carrying her away

with him; for elsee she had perished in the fire, because the House was

instantly burnt downe to the ground. The Mayden hearing his words,

observing him also to be a man of yeeres and gravity: shee beleeved

what he saide, and humbly submitted her selfe to his kisses & embraces,

even as instructed thereto by instinct of nature. _Bernardino_

instantly sent for his wife, her owne mother, his daughters, sonnes,

and kindred, who being acquainted with this admirable accident, gave

her most gracious and kind welcome, he receiving her from _Jacomino_ as

his childe, and the legacies which _Guidotto_ had left her.

When the Captaine of the City (being a very wise and worthy Gentleman)

heard these tydings, and knowing that _Giovanni_, then his prisoner,

was the Son to _Bernardino_, and naturall Brother to the newly

recovered Maide; he bethought himselfe, how best he might qualifie the

fault committed by him. And entring into the Hall among them, handled

the matter so discreetly, that a loving league of peace was confirmed

betweene _Giovanni_ and _Menghino_, to whom (with free and full consent

on all sides) the faire Maide, named _Agatha_, was given in marriage,

with a more honourable enlargement of her dowry, and _Grivello_, with

the rest, delivered out of prison, which for their tumultuous riot they

had justly deserved. _Menghino_ and _Agatha_ had their wedding worthily

sollemnized, with all due honours belonging thereto; and long time

after they lived in _Faenza_, highly beloved, and graciously esteemed.

Guion di Procida, _being found familiarly conversing with a young

Damosell, which he loved; and had been given (formerly) to_ Frederigo,

_King of Sicilie: was bound to a stake; to be consumed with fire. From

which danger (neverthelesse) he escaped, being knowne by_ Don Rogiero

de Oria, _Lord Admirall of Sicilie, and afterward married the Damosell._

The sixth Novell.

_Wherein is manifested, that love can leade a man into numberlesse

perils: out of which he escapeth with no meane difficulty._

The Novell of Madam _Neiphila_ being ended, which proved very pleasing

to the Ladies: the Queene commanded Madam _Pampinea_, that shee

should prepare to take her turne next, whereto willingly obeying,

thus shee began. Many and mighty (Gracious Ladies) are the prevailing

powers of love, conducting amorous soules into infinite travelse, with

inconveniences no way avoidable, and not easily to be foreseene, or

prevented. As partly already hath beene observed, by divers of our

former Novelse related, and some (no doubt) to ensue hereafter; for one

of them (comming now to my memory) I shall acquaint you withall, in so

good tearmes as I can.

_Ischia_ is an Iland very neere to _Naples_, wherein (not long since)

lived a faire and lovely Gentlewoman, named _Restituta_, Daughter to a

Gentleman of the same Isle, whose name was _Marino Bolgaro_. A proper

youth called _Guion_, dwelling also in a neere neighbouring Isle,

called _Procida_, did love her as dearely as his owne life, and she was

as intimately affected towards him. Now because the sight of her was

his onely comfort, as occasion gave him leave; he resorted to _Ischia_

very often in the day time, and as often also in the night season, when

any Barque passed from _Procida_ to _Ischia_; if to see nothing elsee,

yet to behold the walles that enclosed his Mistresse thus.

While this love continued in equall fervency, it chanced upon a faire

Summers day, that _Restituta_ walked alone upon the Sea-shoare, going

from Rocke to Rocke, having a naked knife in her hand, wherewith shee

opened such Oysters as shee found among the stones, seeking for small

pearles enclosed in their shelles. Her walke was very solitary and

shady, with a faire Spring or well adjoining to it, and thither (at

that very instant time) certaine Sicilian young Gentlemen, which came

from _Naples_, had made their retreate. They perceiving the Gentlewoman

to be very beautifull (shee as yet not having any sight of them) and

in such a silent place alone by her selfe: concluded together, to make

a purchase of her, and carry her thence away with them; as indeed they

did, notwithstanding all her out-cryes and exclaimes, bearing her

perforce aboard their Barque.

Setting sayle thence, they arrived in _Calabria_, and then there grew a

great contention betweene them, to which of them this booty of beauty

should belong, because each of them pleaded a title to her. But when

they could not grow to any agreement, but doubted greater disaster

would ensue thereon, by breaking their former league of friendship:

by an equall conformity in consent, they resolved, to bestow her as a

rich present, on _Frederigo_ King of _Sicilie_, who was then young &

joviall, and could not be pleased with a better gift; wherefore they

were no sooner landed at _Palermo_, but they did according as they had

determined. The King did commend her beauty extraordinarily, and liked

her farre beyond all his other Loves: but, being at that time empaired

in his health, and his body much distempered by ill dyet; he gave

command, that untill he should be in more able disposition, shee must

be kept in a goodly house of his owne, erected in a beautifull Garden,

called the _Cube_, where shee was attended in most pompeous manner.

Now grew the noyse and rumor great in _Ischia_, about this rape or

stealing away of _Restituta_; but the chiefest greevance of all, was,

that it could not be knowne how, by whom, or by what meanes. But _Guion

di Procida_, whom this injury concerned much more then any other;

stood not in expectation of better tydings from _Ischia_, but hearing

what course the Barke had taken, made ready another, to follow after

with all possible speede. Flying thus on the winged minds through the

Seas, even from _Minerva_, unto the _Scalea_ in _Calabria_, searching

for his lost Love in every angle: at length it was tolde him at the

_Scalea_, that shee was carried away by certaine _Sicillian_ Marriners,

to _Palermo_, whither _Guion_ set sayle immediately.

After some diligent search made there, he understood, that she was

delivered to the King, and he had given strict command, for keeping

her in his place of pleasure; called the _Cube_: which newes were not

a little greevous to him, for now he was almost quite out of hope, not

onely of ever enjoying her, but also of seeing her. Neverthelesse, Love

would not let him utterly despaire, whereupon he sent away his Barque,

and perceiving himselfe to be unknowne of any; he continued for some

time in _Palermo_, walking many times by that goodly place of pleasure.

It chanced on a day, that keeping his walke as he used to doe, Fortune

was so favourable to him, as to let him have a sight of her at her

window; from whence also she had a full view of him, to their exceeding

comfort and contentment. And _Guion_ observing, that the _Cube_ was

seated in a place of small resort; approached so neere as possibly he

durst, to have some conference with _Restituta_.

As Love sets a keene edge on the dullest spirit, and (by a small

advantage) makes a man the more adventurous: so this little time of

unseene talke, inspired him with courage, and her with witty advice,

by what meanes his accesse might be much neerer to her, and their

communication concealed from any discovery, the scituation of the

place, and benefit of time duly considered. Night must be the cloud to

their amorous conclusion, and therefore, so much thereof being spent,

as was thought convenient, he returned thither againe, provided of such

grappling-yrons, as is required when men will clamber, made fast unto

his hands and knees; by their helpe he attained to the top of the wall,

whence discending downe into the Garden, there he found the maine yard

of a ship, whereof before shee had given him instruction, and rearing

it up against her chamber window, made that his meanes for ascending

thereto, shee having left it open for his easier entrance.

You cannot denie (faire Ladies) but here was a very hopefull beginning,

and likely to have as happy an ending, were it not true Loves fatall

misery, even in the very height of promised assurance, to be thwarted

by unkind prevention, and in such manner as I will tell you. This

night, intended for our Lovers meeting, proved disastrous and dreadfull

to them both: for the King, who at the first sight of _Restituta_, was

highly pleased with her excelling beauty; gave order to his Eunuches

and other women, that a costly bathe should be prepared for her, and

therein to let her weare away that night, because the next day he

intended to visit her. _Restituta_ being royally conducted from her

Chamber to the Bathe, attended on with Torch-light, as if shee had been

a Queene: none remained there behind, but such women as waited on her,

and the Guards without, which watched the Chamber.

No sooner was poore _Guion_ aloft at the window, calling softly to

his Mistresse, as if she had beene there; but he was over-heard by

the women in the darke, and immediately apprehended by the Guard, who

forthwith brought him before the Lord Marshall, where being examined,

and he avouching, that _Restituta_ was his elected wife, and for her

he had presumed in that manner; closely was he kept in prison till the

next morning. When he came into the Kings presence, and there boldly

justified the goodnesse of his cause: _Restituta_ likewise was sent

for, who no sooner saw her deare Love _Guion_, but shee ran and caught

him fast about the necke, kissing him in teares, and greeving not a

little at his hard fortune. Hereat the King grew exceedingly enraged,

loathing and hating her now, much more then formerly he did affect her,

and having himselfe seene, by what strange meanes he did climbe over

the wall, and then mounted to her Chamber window; he was extreamely

impatient, and could not otherwise be perswaded, but that their

meetings thus had beene very many.

Forthwith he sentenced them both with death, commanding, that they

should be conveyed thence to _Palermo_, and there (being stript starke

naked) be bound to a stake backe to backe, and so to stand the full

space of nine houres, to see if any could take knowledge, of whence, or

what they were; then afterward, to be consumed with fire. The sentence

of death, did not so much daunt or dismay the poore Lovers, as the

uncivill and unsightly manner, which (in feare of the Kings wrathfull

displeasure) no man durst presume to contradict. Wherefore, as he had

commanded, so were they carried thence to _Palermo_, and bound naked

to a stake in the open Market place, and (before their eyes) the fire

and wood brought, which was to consume them, according to the houre as

the King had appointed. You need not make any question, what an huge

concourse of people were soone assembled together, to behold such a sad

and wofull spectacle, even the whole City of _Palermo_, both men and

women. The men were stricken with admiration, beholding the unequalled

beauty of faire _Restituta_, & the selfe same passion possessed the

women, seeing _Guion_ to be such a goodly and compleat young man: but

the poore infortunate Lovers themselves, they stood with their lookes

dejected to the ground, being much pittied of all, but no way to be

holpen or rescued by any, awaiting when the happy houre would come, to

finish both their shame and lives together.

During the time of this tragicall expectation, the fame of this publike

execution being noysed abroade, calling all people farre and neere

to behold it; it came to the eare of _Don Rogiero de Oria_, a man of

much admired valour, and then the Lord high Admirall of _Sicily_,

who came himselfe in person, to the place appointed for their death.

First he observed the Mayden, confessing her (in his soule) to be a

beauty beyond all compare. Then looking on the young man, thus he saide

within himselfe: If the inward endowments of the mind, doe paralell the

outward perfections of body; the World cannot yeeld a more compleate

man. Now, as good natures are quickly incited to compassion (especially

in cases almost commanding it) and compassion knocking at the doore

of the soule, doth quicken the memory with many passed recordations:

so this noble Admirall, advisedly beholding poore condemned _Guion_,

conceived, that he had somewhat seene him before this instant, and upon

this perswasion (even as if divine vertue had tutured his tongue) he

saide: Is not thy name _Guion di Procida_?

Marke now, how quickly misery can receive comfort, upon so poore

and silly a question; for _Guion_ began to elevate his dejected

countenance, and looking on the Admirall, returned him this answere.

Sir, heretofore I have been the man which you spake of; but now,

both that name and man must die with me. What misfortune (quoth the

Admirall) hath thus unkindly crost thee? Love (answered _Guion_) and

the Kings displeasure. Then the Admirall would needs know the whole

history at large, which briefly was related to him, and having heard

how all had happened; as he was turning his Horse to ride away thence,

_Guion_ called to him, saying. Good my Lord, entreate one favour for

me, if possible it may be. What is that? replyed the Admirall. You

see Sir (quoth _Guion_) that I am very shortly to breathe my last;

all the grace which I doe most humbly entreate, is, that as I am here

with this chaste Virgin, (whom I honour and love beyond my life) and

miserably bound backe to backe: our faces may be turned each to other,

to the end, that when the fire shall finish my life, by looking on her,

my soule may take her flight in full felicity. The Admirall smyling,

saide; I will doe for thee what I can, and (perhaps) thou mayest so

long looke on her, as thou wilt be weary, and desire to looke off her.

At his departure, he commanded them that had the charge of this

execution, to proceede no further, untill they heard more from the

King, to whom hee gallopped immediately, and although hee beheld him

to be very angerly moved; yet he spared not to speake in this manner.

Sir, wherein have those poore young couple offended you, that are so

shamefully to be burnt at _Palermo_? The King told him: whereto the

Admirall (pursuing still his purpose) thus replyed. Beleeve me Sir,

if true love be an offence, then theirs may be termed to be one; and

albeit it did deserve death, yet farre be it from thee to inflict it on

them: for as faults doe justly require punishment, so doe good turnes

as equally merit grace and requitall. Knowest thou what and who they

are, whom thou hast so dishonourably condemned to the fire? Not I,

quoth the King. Why then I will tell thee, answered the Admirall, that

thou mayest take the better knowledge of them, and forbeare hereafter,

to be so over-violently transported with anger.

The young Gentleman, is the Sonne to _Landolfo di Procida_, the onely

Brother to Lord _John di Procida_, by whose meanes thou becamest Lord

and King of this Countrey. The faire young Damosell, is the Daughter

to _Marino Bolgaro_, whose power extendeth so farre, as to preserve

thy prerogative in _Ischia_, which (but for him) had long since beene

out-rooted there. Beside, these two maine motives, to challenge justly

grace and favour from thee; they are in the floure and pride of their

youth, having long continued in loyall love together, and compelled by

fervency of endeared affection, not any will to displease thy Majesty:

they have offended (if it may be termed an offence to love, and in such

lovely young people as they are.) Canst thou then find in thine heart

to let them die, whom thou rather oughtest to honour, and recompence

with no meane rewards?

When the King had heard this, and beleeved for a certainty, that the

Admirall told him nothing but truth: he appointed not onely, that they

should proceede no further, but also was exceeding sorrowfull for what

he had done, sending presently to have them released from the Stake,

and honourably to be brought before him. Being thus enstructed in their

severall qualities, and standing in duty obliged, to recompence the

wrong which he had done, with respective honours: he caused them to

be cloathed in royall garments, and knowing them to be knit in unity

of soule; the like he did by marrying them sollemnly together, and

bestowing many rich gifts and presents on them, sent them honourably

attented home to _Ischia_; where they were with much joy and comfort

received, and lived long after in great felicity.

Theodoro _falling in love with_ Violenta, _the Daughter to his Master,

named_ Amarigo, _and shee conceiving with childe by him; was condemned

to be hanged. As they were leading him to the Gallowes, beating and

misusing him all the way: he happened to be knowne by his owne Father,

whereupon hee was released, and afterward enjoyed_ Violenta _in

marriage._

The seventh Novell.

_Wherein is declared, the sundry travelse and perillous accidents,

occasioned by those two powerfull Commanders, Love and Fortune, the

insulting Tyrants over humaine life._

Greatly were the Ladies minds perplexed, when they heard, that the two

poore Lovers were in danger to be burned: but hearing afterward of

their happy deliverance, for which they were as joyfull againe; upon

the concluding of the Novell, the Queene looked on Madam _Lauretta_,

enjoyning her to tell the next Tale, which willingly she undertooke to

doe, and thus began.

Faire Ladies, at such time as the good King _William_ reigned in

_Sicily_, there lived within the same Dominions a young Gentleman,

named _Signior Amarigo_, Abbot of _Trapani_, who (among his other

worldly blessings, commonly termed the goods of Fortune) was not

unfurnished of children; and therefore having neede of servants, he

made his provision of them as best he might. At that time, certaine

Gallies of _Geneway_ Pyrates comming from the Easterne parts, which

coasting along _Armenia_, had taken divers children; he bought some

of them, thinking that they were Turkes. They all resembling clownish

Peazants, yet there was one among them, who seemed to be of more

tractable and gentle nature, yea, and of a more affable countenance

then any of the rest, being named, _Theodoro_: who growing on in

yeeres, (albeit he lived in the condition of a servant) was educated

among _Amarigoes_ Children, and as enstructed rather by nature, then

accident, his conditions were very much commended, as also the feature

of his body, which proved so highly pleasing to his Master _Amarigo_,

that he made him a free man, and imagining him to be a Turke, caused

him to be baptized, and named _Pedro_, creating him superintendent of

all his affaires, and reposing his chiefest trust in him.

As the other Children of _Signior Amarigo_ grew in yeeres and

stature, so did a Daughter of his, named _Violenta_, a very goodly

and beautifull Damosell, somewhat over-long kept from marriage by her

Fathers covetousnesse, and casting an eye of good liking on poore

_Pedro_. Now, albeit shee loved him very dearely, and all his behaviour

was most pleasing to her, yet maiden modesty forbad her to reveale it,

till Love (too long concealed) must needes disclose itselfe. Which

_Pedro_ at the length tooke notice of, and grew so forward towards

her in equality of affection, as the very sight of her was his onely

happinesse. Yet very fearefull he was, least it should be noted, either

by any of the House, or the Maiden her selfe: who yet well observed it,

and to her no meane contentment, as it appeared no lesse (on the other

side) to honest _Pedro_.

While thus they loved together meerely in dumbe shewes, not daring

to speake to each other, (though nothing more desired) to find some

ease in this their oppressing passions: Fortune, even as if shee

pittied their so long languishing, enstructed them how to find out

a way, whereby they might both better releeve themselves. _Signior

Amarigo_, about some two or three miles distance from _Trapani_,

had a Countrey-House or Farme, whereto his Wife, with her Daughter

and some other women, used oftentimes to make their resort, as it

were in sportfull recreation; _Pedro_ alwayes being diligent to man

them thither. One time among the rest, it came to passe, as often it

falleth out in the Summer season, that the faire Skie became suddenly

over-clouded, even as they were returning home towards _Trapani_,

threatning a storme of raine to overtake them, except they made the

speedier haste.

_Pedro_, who was young, and likewise _Violenta_, went farre more

lightly then her Mother and her company, as much perhaps provoked

by love, as feare of the sudden raine falling, and paced on so fast

before them, that they were wholly out of sight. After many flashes

of lightning, and a few dreadfull clappes of thunder, there fell

such a tempestuous shower of hayle, as compelled the Mother and her

traine to shelter themselves in a poore Countrey-mans Cottage. _Pedro_

and _Violenta_, having no other refuge, ranne likewise into a poore

Sheepe-coate, so over ruined, as it was in danger to fall on their

heads; for no body dwelt in it, neither stood any other house neere it,

and it was scarcely any shelter for them, howbeit, necessity enforceth

to make shift with the meanest. The storme encreasing more & more,

and they coveting to avoide it so well as they could; sighes and drie

hemmes were often inter-vented, as dumbly (before) they were wont to

doe, when willingly they could affoord another kind of speaking.

At last _Pedro_ tooke heart, and saide: I would this shower would never

cease, that I might be alwayes where I am. The like could I wish,

answered _Violenta_, so we were in a better place of safety. These

wishes drew on other gentle language, with modest kisses and embraces,

the onely ease to poore Lovers soules; so that the raine ceased not,

till they had taken order for their oftner conversing, and absolute

plighting of their faithes together. By this time the storme was

fairely over-blowne, and they attending on the way, till the Mother

and the rest were come, with whom they returned to _Trapani_, where by

wise and provident meanes, they often conferred in private together,

and enjoyed the benefit of their amorous desires; yet free from any ill

surmise or suspition.

But, as Lovers felicities are sildome permanent, without one

encountring crosse or other: so these stolne pleasures of _Pedro_ and

_Violenta_, met with as sowre a sauce in the farewell. For, shee proved

to be conceived with childe, then which could befall them no heavier

affliction, and _Pedro_ fearing to loose his life therefore, determined

immediate flight, and revealed his purpose to _Violenta_. Which when

she heard, she told him plainly, that if he fled, forth-with shee would

kill her selfe. Alas deare Love (quoth _Pedro_) with what reason can

you wish my tarrying here? This conception of yours, doth discover our

offence, which a Fathers pity may easily pardon in you: but I being

his servant and vassall, shall be punished both for your sinne and

mine, because he will have no mercy on me. Content thy selfe _Pedro_,

replyed _Violenta_, I will take such order for mine owne offence, by

the discreete counsell of my loving Mother, that no blame shall any way

be laide on thee, or so much as a surmise, except thou wilt fondly

betray thy selfe. If you can doe so, answered _Pedro_, and constantly

maintaine your promise; I will not depart, but see that you prove to be

so good as your word.

_Violenta_, who had concealed her amisse so long as shee could, and saw

no other remedy, but now at last it must needes be discovered; went

privately to her Mother, and (in teares) revealed her infirmity, humbly

craving her pardon, and furtherance in hiding it from her Father. The

Mother being extraordinarily displeased, chiding her with many sharpe

and angry speeches, would needes know with whom shee had thus offended.

The Daughter (to keepe _Pedro_ from any detection) forged a Tale of

her owne braine, farre from any truth indeede, which her Mother verily

beleeving, and willing to preserve her Daughter from shame, as also the

fierce anger of her Husband, he being a man of very implacable nature:

conveyed her to the Countrey-Farme, whither _Signior Amarigo_ sildome

or never resorted, intending (under the shadow of sicknesse) to let her

lie in there, without the least suspition of any in _Trapani_.

Sinne and shame can never be so closely carried, or clouded with the

greatest cunning; but truth hath a loop-light whereby to discover it,

even when it supposeth it selfe in the surest safety. For, on the

very day of her deliverance, at such time as the Mother, and some

few friends (sworne to secrecy) were about the businesse: _Signior

Amarigo_, having beene in company of other Gentlemen, to flye his

Hawke at the River, upon a sudden, (but very unfortunately, albeit

he was alone by himselfe) stept into his Farme house, even to the

next roome where the women were, and heard the new-borne Babe to cry,

whereat marvelling not a little, he called for his Wife, to know what

young childe cryed in his House. The Mother, amazed at his so strange

comming thither, which never before he had used to doe, and pittying

the wofull distresse of her Daughter, which now could be no longer

covered, revealed what happened to _Violenta_. But he, being nothing so

rash in beliefe, as his Wife was, made answere, that it was impossible

for his Daughter to be conceived with childe, because he never observed

the least signe of love in her to any man whatsoever, and therefore he

would be satisfied in the truth, as shee expected any favour from him,

for elsee there was no other way but death.

The Mother laboured by all meanes shee could devise, to pacifie her

Husbands fury, which proved all in vaine; for being thus impatiently

incensed, he drew foorth his Sword, and stepping with it drawne into

the Chamber (where she had been delivered of a goodly Sonne) he said

unto her. Either tell me who is the Father of this Bastard, or thou and

it shall perish both together. Poore _Violenta_, lesse respecting her

owne life, then she did the childes; forgot her sollemne promise made

to _Pedro_, and discovered all. Which when _Amarigo_ had heard, he grew

so desperately enraged, that hardly he could forbeare from killing her.

But after he had spoken what his fury enstructed him, hee mounted on

Horse-backe againe, ryding backe to _Trapani_, where he disclosed the

injury which _Pedro_ had done him, to a noble Gentleman, named _Signior

Conrado_, who was Captaine for the King over the City.

Before poore _Pedro_ could have any intelligence, or so much as

suspected any treachery against him; he was suddenly apprehended, and

being called in question, stood not on any deniall, but confessed

truly what he had done: whereupon, within some few dayes after, he

was condemned by the Captaine, to be whipt to the place of execution,

and afterward to be hanged by the necke. _Signior Amarigo_, because

he would cut off (at one and the same time) not onely the lives of

the two poore Lovers, but their childes also; as a franticke man,

violently carried from all sense of compassion, even when _Pedro_ was

led and whipt to his death: he mingled strong poyson in a Cup of wine,

delivering it to a trusty servant of his owne, and a naked Rapier

withall, speaking to him in this manner. Goe carry these two presents

to my late Daughter _Violenta_, and tell her from me, that in this

instant houre, two severall kinds of death are offered unto her, and

one of them she must make choyce of, either to drinke the poyson, and

so die, or to run her body on this Rapiers point, which if she denie

to doe, she shall be haled to the publike market place, and presently

be burned in the sight of her lewd companion, according as shee hath

worthily deserved. When thou hast delivered her this message, take her

bastard brat, so lately since borne, and dash his braines out against

the walles, and afterward throw him to my Dogges to feede on.

When the Father had given this cruell sentence, both against his own

Daughter, and her young Sonne, the servant, readier to doe evill,

then any good, went to the place where his Daughter was kept. Poore

condemned _Pedro_, (as you have heard) was ledde whipt to the Jybbet,

and passing (as it pleased the Captaines Officers to guide him) by a

faire Inne: at the same time were lodged there three chiefe persons

of _Armenia_, whom the King of the Countrey had sent to _Rome_, as

Ambassadours to the Popes Holinesse, to negociate about an important

businesse neerely concerning the King and State. Reposing there for

some few dayes, as being much wearied with their journey, and highly

honoured by the Gentlemen of _Trapani_, especially _Signior Amarigo_;

these Ambassadours standing in their Chamber window, heard the wofull

lamentations of _Pedro_ in his passage by.

_Pedro_ was naked from the middle upward, and his hands bound fast

behind him, but being well observed by one of the Ambassadours, a man

aged, and of great authority, named _Phineo_: he espied a great red

spot uppon his breast, not painted, or procured by his punishment, but

naturally imprinted in the flesh, which women (in these parts) terme

the Rose. Uppon the sight hereof, he suddenly remembred a Sonne of

his owne, which was stolne from him about fifteene yeeres before, by

Pyrates on the Sea-coast of _Laiazzo_, never hearing any tydings of him

afterward. Upon further consideration, and compairing his Sonnes age

with the likelyhood of this poore wretched mans; thus he conferred with

his owne thoughts. If my Sonne (quoth he) be living, his age is equall

to this mans time, and by the redde blemish on his brest, it plainely

speakes him for to be my Sonne.

Moreover, thus he conceived, that if it were he, he could not but

remember his owne name, his Fathers, and the Armenian Language;

wherefore, when hee was just opposite before the window, hee called

aloud to him, saying: _Theodoro. Pedro_ hearing the voyce, presently

listed up his head, and _Phineo_ speaking _Armenian_, saide: Of whence

art thou, and what is thy Fathers name? The Sergeants (in reverence to

the Lord Ambassadour) stayed a while, till _Pedro_ had returned his

answer, who saide. I am an _Armenian_ borne, Sonne to one _Phineo_,

and was brought hither I cannot tell by whom. _Phineo_ hearing this,

knew then assuredly, that this was the same Sonne which he had lost;

wherefore, the teares standing in his eyes with conceite of joy: downe

he descended from the window, and the other Ambassadours with him,

running in among the Sergeants to embrace his Sonne, and casting his

owne rich Cloake about his whipt body, entreating them to forbeare and

proceed no further, till they heard what command he should returne

withall unto them; which very willingly they promised to doe.

Already, by the generall rumour dispersed abroade, _Phineo_ had

understood the occasion, why _Pedro_ was thus punished, and sentenced

to be hanged; wherefore, accompanied with his fellow Ambassadours, and

all their attending traine, he went to _Signior Conrado_, and spake

thus to him. My Lord, he whom you have sent to death as a slave, is

a free Gentleman borne, and my Sonne, able to make her amends whom

he hath dishonoured, by taking her in mariage as his lawfull Wife.

Let me therefore entreate you, to make stay of the execution, untill

it may be knowne, whether she will accept him as her Husband, or no;

least (if she be so pleased) you offend directly against your owne

Law. When _Signior Conrado_ heard, that _Pedro_ was Sonne to the Lord

Ambassadour, he wondered thereat not a little, and being somewhat

ashamed of his fortunes error, confessed, that the claime of _Phineo_

was conformable to Law, and ought not to be denied him; going presently

to the Councell Chamber, sending for _Signior Amarigo_ immediately

thither, and acquainting him fully with the case.

_Amarigo_, who beleeved that his Daughter and her Child were already

dead, was the wofullest man in the World, for his so rash proceeding,

knowing very well, that if shee were not dead, the scandall would

easily be wipt away with credit. Wherefore he sent in all poast

haste, to the place where his Daughter lay, that if his command were

not already executed, by no meanes to have it done at all. He who

went on this speedy errand, found there _Signior Amarigoes_ servant

standing before _Violenta_, with the Cup of poyson in his one hand,

and the drawne Rapier in the other, reproaching herewith very foule

and injurious speeches, because shee had delayed the time so long, and

would not accept the one or other, striving (by violence) to make her

take the one. But hearing his Masters command to the contrary, he left

her, and returned backe to him, certifying him how the case stood.

Most highly pleased was _Amarigo_ with these glad newes, and going

to the Ambassadour _Phineo_, in teares excused himselfe (so well as

he could) for his severity, and craving pardon; assured him, that if

_Theodoro_ would accept his Daughter in mariage, willingly he would

bestow her on him. _Phineo_ allowed his excuses to be tollerable, and

saide beside; If my Sonne will not mary your Daughter, then let the

sentence of death be executed on him. _Amarigo_ and _Phineo_ being

thus accorded, they went to poore _Theodoro_, fearefully looking every

minute when he should die, yet joyfull that he had found his Father,

who presently moved the question to him. _Theodoro_ hearing that

_Violenta_ should be his Wife, if he would so accept her: was overcome

with such exceeding joy, as if he had leapt out of hell into Paradise;

confessing, that no greater felicity could befall him, if _Violenta_

her selfe were so well pleased as he.

The like motion was made to her, to understand her disposition in this

case, who hearing what good hap had befalne _Theodoro_, and now in

like manner must happen to her: whereas not long before, when two such

violent deathes were prepared for her, and one of them she must needes

embrace, shee accounted her misery beyond all other womens, but shee

now thought her selfe above all in happinesse, if she might be wife

to her beloved _Theodoro_, submitting herselfe wholy to her Fathers

disposing. The mariage being agreed on betweene them, it was celebrated

with great pompe and sollemnity, a generall Feast being made for all

the Citizens, and the young maried couple nourished up their sweete

Son, which grew to be a very comely childe.

After that the Embassie was dispatched at _Rome_, and _Phineo_ (with

the rest) was returned thither againe; _Violenta_ did reverence him as

her owne naturall Father, and he was not a little proud of so lovely a

Daughter, beginning a fresh feasting againe, and continuing the same a

whole moneth together. Within some short while after, a Galley being

fairely furnished for the purpose, _Phineo_, his Sonne, Daughter, and

their young Son went aboard, sayling away thence to _Laiazzo_, where

afterward they lived long in much tranquility.

Anastasio, _a Gentleman of the Family of the_ Honesti, _by loving

the Daughter to_ Signior Paulo Traversario, _lavishly wasted a great

part of his substance, without receiving any love from her againe. By

perswasion of some of his kindred and friends, he went to a Countrey

dwelling of his, called_ Chiasso, _where he saw a Knight desperately

pursue a young Damosell, whom he slew, and afterward gave her to be

devoured by his Hounds._ Anastasio _invited his friends, and hers

also whom he so dearely loved, to take part of a dinner with him, who

likewise saw the same Damosell so torne in peeces: which his unkind

Love perceiving, and fearing least the like ill fortune should happen

to her; shee accepted_ Anastasio _to be her Husband._

The eighth Novell.

_Declaring, that Love not onely makes a man prodigall, but also an

enemy to himselfe. Moreover, adventure oftentimes bringeth such matters

to passe, as wit and cunning in man can never comprehend._

So soone as Madam _Lauretta_ held her peace, Madam _Philomena_ (by the

Queenes command) began, and saide. Lovely Ladies, as pitty is most

highly commended in our Sexe, even so is cruelty in us as severely

revenged (oftentimes) by divine ordination. Which that you may the

better know, and learne likewise to shun, as a deadly evill; I purpose

to make apparant by a Novell, no lesse full of compassion, then

delectable.

_Ravenna_ being a very ancient City in _Romania_, there dwelt sometime

a great number of worthy Gentlemen, among whom I am to speake of one

more especially, named _Anastasio_, descended from the Family of

the _Honesti_, who by the death of his Father, and an Unkle of his,

was left extraordinarily abounding in riches, and growing to yeeres

fitting for mariage, (as young Gallants are easily apt enough to doe)

he became enamoured of a very beautifull Gentlewoman, who was Daughter

to _Signior Paulo Traversario_, one of the most ancient and noble

Families in all the Countrey. Nor made he any doubt, but by his meanes

and industrious endeavour, to derive affection from her againe; for

hee carried himselfe like a brave minded Gentleman, liberall in his

expences, honest and affable in all his actions, which commonly are

the true notes of a good nature, and highly to be commended in any

man. But, howsoever Fortune became his enemy, these laudable parts of

manhood did not any way friend him, but rather appeared hurtfull to

him: so cruell, unkind, and almost meerely savage did she shew her

selfe to him; perhaps in pride of her singular beauty, or presuming on

her nobility by birth, both which are on her blemishes, then ornaments

in a woman, especially when they be abused.

The harsh and uncivill usage in her, grew very distastefull to

_Anastasio_, and so unsufferable, that after a long time of fruitlesse

service, requited still with nothing but coy disdain; desperate

resolutions entred into his brain, and often he was minded to kill

himselfe. But better thoughts supplanting those furious passions,

he abstained from any such violent act; & governed by more manly

consideration, determined, that as she hated him, he would requite her

with the like, if he could: wherein he became altogether deceived,

because as his hopes grew to a dayly decaying, yet his love enlarged it

selfe more and more.

Thus _Anastasio_ persevering still in his bootelesse affection, and

his expences not limited within any compasse; it appeared in the

judgement of his Kindred and Friends, that he was falne into a mighty

consumption, both of his body and meanes. In which respect, many times

they advised him to leave the City of _Ravenna_, and live in some other

place for such a while; as might set a more moderate stint upon his

spendings, and bridle the indiscreete course of his love, the onely

fuell which fed this furious fire.

_Anastasio_ held out thus a long time, without lending an eare to such

friendly counsell: but in the end, he was so neerely followed by them,

as being no longer able to deny them, he promised to accomplish their

request. Whereupon, making such extraordinary preparation, as if he

were to set thence for _France_ or _Spaine_, or elsee into some further

distant countrey: he mounted on horsebacke, and accompanied with some

few of his familiar friends, departed from _Ravenna_, and rode to a

country dwelling house of his owne, about three or foure miles distant

from the Cittie, which was called _Chiasso_, and there (upon a very

goodly greene) erecting divers Tents and Pavillions, such as great

persons make use of in the time of a Progresse: he said to his friends,

which came with him thither, that there hee determined to make his

abiding, they all returning backe unto _Ravenna_, and might come to

visite him againe so often as they pleased.

Now, it came to passe, that about the beginning of May, it being then

a very milde and serrene season, and he leading there a much more

magnificent life, then ever he had done before, inviting divers to dine

with him this day, and as many to morrow, and not to leave him till

after supper: upon the sodaine, falling into remembrance of his cruell

Mistris, hee commanded all his servants to forbeare his company, and

suffer him to walke alone by himselfe awhile, because he had occasion

of private meditations, wherein he would not (by any meanes) be

troubled. It was then about the ninth houre of the day, and he walking

on solitary all alone, having gone some halfe miles distance from his

Tents, entred into a Grove of Pine-trees, never minding dinner time, or

any thing elsee, but only the unkind requitall of his love.

Sodainly he heard the voice of a woman, seeming to make most mournfull

complaints, which breaking of his silent considerations, made him

to lift up his head, to know the reason of this noise. When he saw

himselfe so farre entred into the Grove, before he could imagine where

he was; hee looked amazedly round about him, and out of a little

thicket of bushes & briars, round engirt with spreading trees, hee

espyed a young Damosell come running towards him, naked from the

middle upward, her haire dishevelled on her shoulders, and her faire

skinne rent and torne with the briars and brambles, so that the blood

ran trickling downe mainly; shee weeping, wringing her hands, and

crying out for mercy so lowde as shee could. Two fierce Blood-hounds

also followed swiftly after, and where their teeth tooke hold, did most

cruelly bite her. Last of all (mounted on a lusty blacke Courser) came

gallopping a Knight, with a very sterne and angry countenance, holding

a drawne short Sword in his hand, giving her very vile and dreadfull

speeches, and threatning everie minute to kill her.

This strange and uncouth sight, bred in him no meane admiration,

as also kinde compassion to the unfortunate woman; out of which

compassion, sprung an earnest desire, to deliver her (if he could)

from a death so full of anguish and horror: but seeing himselfe to

be without Armes, hee ran and pluckt up the plant of a Tree, which

handling as if it had beene a staffe, he opposed himselfe against the

Dogges and the Knight, who seeing him comming, cryed out in this manner

to him. _Anastasio_, put not thy selfe in any opposition, but referre

to my Hounds and me, to punish this wicked woman as she hath justly

deserved. And in speaking these words, the Hounds tooke fast hold on

her body, so staying her, untill the Knight was come neerer to her,

and alighted from his horse: when _Anastasio_ (after some other angry

speeches) spake thus unto him. I cannot tell what or who thou art,

albeit thou takest such knowledge of me: yet I must say, that it is

meere cowardize in a Knight, being armed as thou art, to offer to kill

a naked woman, and make thy dogges thus to seize on her, as if she were

a savage beast; therefore beleeve me, I will defend her so farre as I

am able.

_Anastasio_, answered the Knight, I am of the same City as thou art,

and do well remember, that thou wast a little Ladde, when I (who was

then named _Guido Anastasio_, and thine Unckle) became as intirely

in love with this woman, as now thou art of _Paulo Traversarioes_

daughter. But through her coy disdaine and cruelty, such was my heavy

fate, that desperately I slew my selfe with this short sword which

thou beholdest in mine hand: for which rash sinfull deede, I was and

am condemned to eternall punishment. This wicked woman, rejoycing

immeasurably in mine unhappie death, remained no long time alive after

me, and for her mercilesse sinne of cruelty, and taking pleasure in my

oppressing torments; dying unrepentant, and in pride of her scorne, she

had the like sentence of condemnation pronounced on her, and sent to

the same place where I was tormented.

There the three impartiall Judges, imposed this further infliction on

us both; namely, that shee should flye in this manner before mee, and I

(who loved her so deerely while I lived) must pursue her as my deadly

enemy, not like a woman that had any taste of love in her. And so often

as I can overtake her, I am to kill her with this sword, the same

Weapon wherewith I slew my selfe. Then am I enjoyned, therewith to open

her accursed body, and teare out her hard and frozen heart, with her

other inwards, as now thou seest me doe, which I give unto my hounds to

feede on. Afterward, such is the appointment of the supreame powers,

that she re-assumeth life againe, even as if she had not bene dead at

all, and falling to the same kinde of flight, I with my houndes am

still to follow her, without any respite or intermission. Every Friday,

and just at this houre, our course is this way, where shee suffereth

the just punishment inflicted on her. Nor do we rest any of the other

dayes, but are appointed unto other places, where she cruelly executed

her malice against me, being now (of her dear affectionate friend)

ordained to be her endlesse enemy, and to pursue her in this manner,

for so many yeeres, as she exercised monthes of cruelty towards me.

Hinder me not then, in being the executioner of divine justice; for all

thy interposition is but in vaine, in seeking to crosse the appointment

of supreame powers.

_Anastasio_ having attentively heard all this discourse, his haire

stoode upright like Porcupines quils, and his soule was so shaken with

the terror, that he stept back to suffer the Knight to doe what he was

enjoyned, looking yet with milde commiseration on the poore woman. Who

kneeling most humbly before the Knight, & sternly seised on by the two

blood hounds, he opened her brest with his weapon, drawing foorth her

heart and bowelse, which instantly he threw to the dogges, and they

devoured them very greedily. Soone after, the Damosell (as if none of

this punishment had bene inflicted on her) started up sodainly, running

amaine towards the Sea shore, and the Hounds swiftly following her, as

the Knight did the like, after he had taken his sword, and was mounted

on horseback; so that _Anastasio_ had soon lost all sight of them, and

could not gesse what was become of them.

After he had heard and observed all these things, he stoode awhile as

confounded with feare and pitty, like a simple silly man, hoodwinkt

with his owne passions, not knowing the subtle enemies cunning

illusions, in offering false suggestions to the sight, to worke his

owne ends thereby, & encrease the number of his deceived servants.

Forthwith hee perswaded himself, that he might make good use of this

womans tormenting, so justly imposed on the Knight to prosecute, if

thus it should continue still every Friday. Wherefore, setting a good

note or marke upon the place, hee returned backe to his owne people,

and at such time as hee thought convenient, sent for divers of his

kindred and friends from _Ravenna_, who being present with him, thus

hee spake to them.

Deare Kinsmen and Friends, ye have a long while importuned mee, to

discontinue my over doating love to her, whom you all think, and I

find to be my mortall enemy: as also, to give over my lavish expences,

wherein I confesse my selfe too prodigal; both which requests of

yours, I will condiscend to, provided, that you will performe one

gracious favour for mee; Namely, that on Friday next, Signior _Paulo

Traversario_, his wife, daughter, with all other women linked in linage

to them, and such beside onely as you shall please to appoynt, will

vouchsafe to accept a dinner heere with mee; as for the reason thereto

mooving mee, you shall then more at large be acquainted withall. This

appeared no difficult matter for them to accomplish: wherefore, being

returned to _Ravenna_, and as they found the time answerable to their

purpose, they invited such as _Anastasio_ had appointed them. And

although they found it somewhat an hard matter, to gain her company whom

he so deerely affected; yet notwithstanding, the other women won her

along with them.

A most magnificent dinner had _Anastasio_ provided, and the tables

were covered under the Pine-trees, where hee saw the cruell Lady so

pursued and slaine: directing the guests so in their seating, that the

yong Gentlewoman his unkinde Mistresse, sate with her face opposite

unto the place, where the dismall spectacle was to be seene. About the

closing up of dinner, they beganne to heare the noise of the poore

prosecuted Woman, which drove them all to much admiration; desiring

to know what it was, and no one resolving them, they arose from the

tables, and looking directly as the noise came to them, they espied the

wofull Woman, the Dogges eagerly pursuing her; and the armed Knight

on horseback, gallopping fiercely after them with his drawn weapon,

and came very nere unto the company, who cryed out with lowd exclaimes

against the dogs and the Knight, stepping forth in assistance of the

injuried woman.

The Knight spake unto them, as formerly hee had done to _Anastasio_,

(which made them draw backe, possessed with feare and admiration)

acting the same cruelty as hee did the Friday before, not differing in

the least degree. Most of the Gentlewomen there present, being neere

allyed to the unfortunate Woman, and likewise to the Knight, remembring

well both his love and death, did shed teares as plentifully, as if it

had bin to the very persons themselves, in visiall performance of the

action indeede. Which tragicall Scene being passed over, and the Woman

and Knight gone out of their sight: all that had seene this straunge

accident, fell into diversity of confused opinions, yet not daring to

disclose them, as doubting some further danger to ensue thereon.

But beyond al the rest, none could compare in feare and astonishment

with the cruell yong Maide affected by _Anastasio_, who both saw and

observed all with a more inward apprehension, knowing very well, that

the morall of this dismall spectacle, carried a much neerer application

to her then any other in all the company. For now she could call to

mind, how unkinde and cruell she had shewn her selfe to _Anastasio_,

even as the other Gentlewoman formerly did to her Lover, still flying

from him in great contempt and scorne: for which, shee thought the

Blood-hounds also pursued her at the heeles already, and a sword of

due vengeance to mangle her body. This feare grew so powerfull in her,

that, to prevent the like heavy doome from falling on her; she studied

(by all her best & commendable meanes, and therein bestowed all the

night season) how to change her hatred into kinde love, which at the

length shee fully obtayned, and then purposed to prosecute in this

manner.

Secretly she sent a faithfull Chamber-maide of her owne, to greete

_Anastasio_ on her behalfe; humbly entreating him to come see her:

because now she was absolutely determined, to give him satisfaction in

all which (with honour) he could request of her. Whereto _Anastasio_

answered, that he accepted her message thankfully, and desired no other

favour at her hand, but that which stood with her owne offer, namely,

to be his Wife in honourable marriage. The Maide knowing sufficiently,

that hee could not be more desirous of the match, then her Mistresse

shewed her selfe to be, made answere in her name, that this motion

would bee most welcome to her.

Heereupon, the Gentlewoman her selfe, became the solicitour to her

Father and Mother, telling them plainly, that she was willing to bee

the Wife of _Anastasio_: which newes did so highly content them,

that uppon the Sunday next following, the mariage was very worthily

sollemnized, and they lived and loved together very kindly. Thus the

divine bounty, out of the malignant enemies secret machinations, can

cause good effects to arise and succeede. For, from this conceite of

fearfull imagination in her, not onely happened this long desired

conversion, of a Maide so obstinately scornfull and proud: but likewise

al the women of _Ravenna_ (being admonished by her example) grew

afterward more kinde and tractable to mens honest motions, then ever

they shewed themselves before. And let me make some use hereof (faire

Ladies) to you, not to stand over-nicely conceited of your beauty and

good parts, when men (growing enamored of you by them) solicite you

with their best and humblest services. Remember then this disdainfull

Gentlewoman, but more especially her, who being the death of so kinde a

Lover, was therefore condemned to perpetuall punishment, and hee made

the minister thereof, whom she had cast off with coy disdaine, from

which I wish your minds to be as free, as mine is ready to do you any

acceptable service.

Frederigo, _of the_ Alberighi _Family, loved a Gentlewoman, and was

not requited with like love againe. By bountifull expences, and over

liberall invitations, he wasted and consumed all his lands and goods,

having nothing left him, but a Hawke or Faulcon. His unkinde Mistresse

happeneth to come visite him, and he not having any other foode for her

dinner; made a daintie dish of his Faulcone for her to feede on. Being

conquered by this his exceeding kinde courtesie, she changed her former

hatred towardes him, accepting him as her Husband in marriage, and made

him a man of wealthy possessions._

The ninth Novell.

_Wherein is figured to the life, the notable kindnesse and courtesie,

of a true and constant Lover: As also the magnanimous minde of a famous

Lady._

Madame _Philomena_ having finished her discourse, the Queene

perceiving, that her turne was the next, in regard of the priviledge

granted to _Dioneus_; with a smiling countenance thus she spake. Now or

never am I to maintaine the order which was instituted when we beganne

this commendable exercise, whereto I yeeld with all humble obedience.

And (worthy Ladies) I am to acquaint you with a Novell, in some sort

answerable to the precedent, not onely to let you know, how powerfully

your kindnesses do prevaile, in such as have a free and gentle soule:

but also to advise you, in being bountifull, where vertue doth justly

chalenge it. And evermore, let your favours shine on worthy deservers,

without the direction of chaunce or Fortune, who never bestoweth any

gift by discretion; but rashly without consideration, even to the first

she blindly meets withall.

You are to understand then, that _Coppo di Borghese Domenichi_, who

was of our owne City, and perhaps (as yet) his name remaineth in great

and reverend authority, now in these dayes of ours, as well deserving

eternal memory; yet more for his vertues and commendable qualities,

then any boast of Nobility from his predecessors. This man, being

well entred into yeares, and drawing towards the finishing of his

dayes; it was his only delight and felicity, in conversation among

his neighbours, to talke of matters concerning antiquity, and some

other things within compasse of his owne knowledge: which he would

deliver in such singular order, (having an absolute memory) and with

the best Language, as verie few or none could do the like. Among the

multiplicity of his queint discourses, I remember he told us, that

sometime there lived in _Florence_ a yong Gentleman, named _Frederigo_,

Sonne to Signior _Philippo Alberigho_, who was held and reputed, both

for Armes, and all other actions beseeming a Gentleman, hardly to have

his equall through all _Tuscany_.

This _Frederigo_ (as it is no rare matter in yong Gentlemen) became

enamored of a Gentlewoman, named Madam _Giana_, who was esteemed (in

her time) to be the fairest and most gracious Lady in all _Florence_.

In which respect, and to reach the height of his desire, he made many

sumptuous Feasts and Banquets, Joustes, Tiltes, Tournaments, and all

other noble actions of Armes, beside, sending her infinite rich and

costly presents, making spare of nothing, but lashing all out in lavish

expence. Notwithstanding, shee being no lesse honest then faire, made

no reckoning of whatsoever he did for her sake, or the least respect

of his owne person. So that _Frederigo_, spending thus daily more,

then his meanes and ability could maintaine, and no supplies any

way redounding to him, or his faculties (as very easily they might)

diminished in such sort, that he became so poore; as he had nothing

left him, but a small poore Farme to live upon, the silly revenewes

whereof were so meane, as scarcely allowed him meat and drinke; yet

had he a Faire Hawke or Faulcon, hardly any where to be fellowed, so

expeditious and sure she was of flight. His low ebbe and poverty, no

way quailing his love to the Lady, but rather setting a keener edge

thereon; he saw the City life could no longer containe him, where most

he coveted to abide: and therefore, betooke himselfe to his poore

Countrey Farme, to let his Faulcon get him his dinner and supper,

patiently supporting his penurious estate, without suite or meanes

making to one, for helpe or reliefe in any such necessity.

While thus he continued in this extremity, it came to passe, that the

Husband to Madam _Giana_ fell sicke, and his debility of body being

such, as little, or no hope of life remained: he made his last will

and testament, ordaining thereby, that his Sonne (already growne to

indifferent stature) should be heire to all his Lands and riches,

wherein hee abounded very greatly. Next unto him, if he chanced to die

without a lawfull heire, hee substituted his Wife, whom most dearely he

affected, and so departed out of this life. Madam _Giana_ being thus

left a widow; as commonly it is the custome of our City Dames, during

the Summer season, shee went to a House of her owne in the Countrey,

which was somewhat neere to poore _Frederigoes_ Farme, and where he

lived in such an honest kind of contented poverty.

Hereupon, the young Gentleman her Sonne, taking great delight in

Hounds and Hawkes; grew into familiarity with poore _Frederigo_, and

having seene many faire flights of his Faulcon, they pleased him so

extraordinarily, that he earnestly desired to enjoy her as his owne;

yet durst not move the motion for her, because he saw how choycely

_Frederigo_ esteemed her. Within a short while after, the young

Gentleman, became very sicke, whereat his Mother greeved exceedingly,

(as having no more but he, and therefore loved him the more entirely)

never parting from him either night or day, comforting him so kindly

as shee could, and demanding, if he had a desire to any thing, willing

him to reveale it, and assuring him withall, that (if it were within

the compasse of possibility) he should have it. The youth hearing how

many times shee had made him these offers, and with such vehement

protestations of performance, at last thus spake.

Mother (quoth he) if you can doe so much for me, as that I may have

_Frederigoes_ Faulcon, I am perswaded, that my sicknesse soone will

cease. The Lady hearing this, sate some short while musing to her

selfe, and began to consider, what shee might best doe to compasse

her Sonnes desire: for well shee knew, how long a time _Frederigo_

had most lovingly kept it, not suffering it ever to be out of his

sight. Moreover, shee remembred, how earnest in affection he had beene

to her, never thinking himselfe happy, but onely when he was in her

company; wherefore, shee entred into this private consultation with

her owne thoughts. Shall I send, or goe my selfe in person, to request

the Faulcon of him, it being the best that ever flew? It is his onely

Jewell of delight, and that taken from him, no longer can he wish to

live in this World. How farre then voide of understanding shall I shew

my selfe, to rob a Gentleman of his sole felicity, having no other

joy or comfort left him? These and the like considerations, wheeled

about her troubled braine, onely in tender care and love to her Sonne,

perswading her selfe assuredly, that the Faulcon were her own, if shee

would but request it: yet not knowing whereon it were best to resolve,

shee returned no answer to her Sonne, but sate still in her silent

meditations. At the length, love to the youth, so prevailed with her,

that she concluded on his contentation, and (come of it what could)

shee would not send for it; but goe her selfe in person to request it,

and then returne home againe with it, whereupon thus she spake. Sonne,

comfort thy selfe, and let languishing thoughts no longer offend thee:

for here I promise thee, that the first thing I doe to morrow morning,

shall be my journey for the Faulcon, and assure thy selfe, that I will

bring it with me. Whereat the youth was so joyed, that he imagined, his

sicknesse began instantly a little to leave him, and promised him a

speedy recovery.

Somewhat early the next morning, the Lady, in care of her sicke Sons

health, was up and ready betimes, and taking another Gentlewoman with

her; onely as a mornings recreation, shee walked to _Frederigoes_ poore

Countrey Farme, knowing that it would not a little glad him to see her.

At the time of her arrivall there, he was (by chance) in a silly Garden,

on the backe-side of his House, because (as yet) it was no convenient

time for flight: but when he heard, that Madam _Giana_, was come

thither, and desired to have some conference with him; as one almost

confounded with admiration, in all haste he ran to her, and saluted her

with most humble reverence. Shee in all modest and gracious manner,

requited him with the like salutations, thus speaking to him. _Signior

Frederigo_, your owne best wishes befriend you, I am now come hither,

to recompence some part of your passed travailes, which heretofore you

pretended to suffer for my sake, when your love was more to me, then

did well become you to offer, or my selfe to accept. And such is the

nature of my recompence, that I make my selfe your guest, and meane

this day to dine with you, as also this Gentlewoman, making no doubt of

our welcome: whereto, with lowly reverence, thus he replyed.

Madam, I doe not remember, that ever I sustained any losse or

hinderance by you, but rather so much good, as if I was woorth any

thing, it proceeded from your great deservings, and by the service in

which I did stand engaged to you. But my present happinesse can no way

bee equalled, derived from your super-abounding gracious favour, and

more then common course of kindnesse, vouchsafing (of your owne liberal

nature) to come and visit so poore a servant. Oh that I had as much to

spend againe, as heeretofore riotously I have run thorow: what a welcome

wold your poore Host bestow upon you, for gracing this homely house

with your divine presence? With these wordes, hee conducted her into

his house, and then into his simple Garden, where having no convenient

company for her, he saide. Madam, the poverty of this place is such,

that it affoordeth none fit for your conversation: this poore woman,

wife to an honest Husbandman will attend on you, while I (with some

speede) shall make ready dinner.

Poore _Frederigo_, although his necessity was extreame, and his greefe

great, remembring his former inordinate expences, a moity whereof

would now have stood him in some sted; yet hee had a heart as free and

forward as ever, not a jotte dejected in his minde, though utterly

overthrowne by Fortune. Alas! how was his good soule afflicted, that

he had nothing wherewith to honour his Lady? Up and downe he runnes,

one while this way, then againe another, exclaiming on his disastrous

Fate, like a man enraged, or bereft of senses: for he had not one peny

of mony neither pawne or pledge, wherewith to procure any. The time

hasted on, and he would gladly (though in meane measure) expresse his

honourable respect of the Lady. To begge of any, his nature denied it,

and to borrow he could not, because his neighbours were all as needie

as himselfe.

At last, looking round about, and seeing his Faulcon standing on her

pearch, which he felt to be very plumpe and fat, being voide of all

other helpes in his neede, and thinking her to be a Fowle meete for

so Noble a Lady to feede on: without any further demurring or delay,

he pluckt off her necke, and caused the poore woman presently to pull

her Feathers: which being done, he put her on the spit, and in short

time she was daintily roasted. Himselfe covered the table, set bread

and salt on, and laid the Napkins, whereof he had but a few left him.

Going then with chearfull lookes into the Garden, telling the Lady that

dinner was ready, and nothing now wanted, but her presence. Shee, and

the Gentlewoman went in, and being seated at the table, not knowing

what they fed on, the Falcon was all their foode; and _Frederigo_

not a little joyfull, that his credite was so well saved. When they

were risen from the table, and had spent some small time in familiar

conference: the Lady thought it fitte, to acquaint him with the reason

of her comming thither, and therefore (in very kinde manner) thus began.

_Frederigo_, if you do yet remember your former carriage towards me,

as also my many modest and chaste denials, which (perhaps) you thought

to favour of a harsh, cruell, and un-womanly nature: I make no doubt,

but you will wonder at my present presumption, when you understande the

occasion, which expressely mooved me to come hither. But if you were

possessed of children, or ever had any, whereby you might comprehend

what love (in nature) is due unto them: then I durst assure my self,

that you would partly hold mee excused.

Now, in regard that you never had any, and I my selfe (for my part)

have but onely one, I stand not exempted from those Lawes, which are in

common to other mothers. And being compelled to obey the power of those

Lawes; contrary to mine owne will, and those duties which reason ought

to maintaine: I am to request such a gift of you, which I am certaine,

that you do make most precious account of, as in manly equity you can

do no lesse. For, Fortune hath bin so extreamly adverse to you, that

she hath robbed you of all other pleasures, allowing you no comfort or

delight, but onely that poore one, which is your faire Faulcone. Of

which Bird, my Sonne is become so straungely desirous, as, if I doe

not bring it to him at my comming home; I feare so much the extreamity

of his sicknesse, as nothing can ensue thereon, but his losse of life.

Wherefore I beseech you, not in regard of the love you have born me,

for thereby you stand no way obliged: but in your owne true gentle

nature (the which hath alwayes declared it selfe ready in you, to do

more kinde offices generally, then any other Gentleman that I know)

you will be pleased to give her me, or at the least, let me buy her of

you. Which if you do, I shall freely then confesse, that onely by your

meanes, my Sonnes life is saved, and wee both shall for ever remaine

engaged to you.

When _Frederigo_ had heard the Ladies request, which was now quite out

of his power to graunt, because it had bene her service at dinner: he

stood like a man meerely dulled in his sences, the teares trickling

amaine downe his cheekes: and he not able to utter one word. Which

shee perceiving, began to conjecture immediately, that these teares

and passions proceeded rather from greefe of minde, as being loather

to part with his Faulcon, then any other kinde of matter: which made

her readie to say, that she would not have it. Neverthelesse shee did

not speake, but rather tarried to attend his answer. Which, after some

small respite and pawse, he returned in this manner.

Madame, since the houre, when first mine affection became soly devoted

to your service; Fortune hath bene crosse and contrary to mee, in

many occasions, as justly, and in good reason I may complain of her.

Yet all seemed light and easie to be indured, in comparison of her

present malicious contradiction, to my utter overthrow, and perpetuall

molestation. Considering, that you are come hither to my poore house,

which (while I was rich and able) you would not so much as vouchsafe to

look on. And now you have requested a small matter of mee, wherein shee

hath also most crookedly thwarted me, because she hath disabled mee, in

bestowing so meane a gift, as your selfe will confesse, when it shall

be related to you in very few words.

So soone as I heard, that it was your gracious pleasure to dine with

me, having regard to your excellency, and what (by merit) is justly due

unto you: I thought it a part of my bounden dutie, to entertaine you

with such exquisite viands, as my poore power could any way compas,

and farre beyond respect or welcome, to other common and ordinarie

persons. Whereupon, remembring my Faulcon, which nowe you aske for; and

her goodnesse, excelling all other of her kinde; I supposed, that she

would make a dainty dish for your dyet, and having drest hir, so well

as I could devise to do: you have fed hartily on her, and I am proud

that I have so well bestowne her. But perceiving now, that you would

have her for your sicke Sonne; it is no meane affliction to mee, that I

am disabled of yeelding you contentment, which all my lifetime I have

desired to doe.

To approve his words, the feathers, feete, and beake were brought

in, which when she saw, she greatly blamed him for killing so rare

a Falcon, to content the appetite of any woman whatsoever. Yet she

commended his height of spirit, which poverty had no power to abase.

Lastly, her hopes being frustrate for enjoying the Faulcon, and fearing

besides the health of her Sonne: she thanked _Frederigo_ for his

honourable kindnesse, returning home againe sad and melancholly. Shortly

after, her sonne either greeving that he could not have the Faulcone,

or by extreamity of his disease, chanced to dye, leaving his mother a

most wofull Lady.

After so much time was expired, as conveniently might agree with sorrow

and mourning; her Brethren made many motions to her, to joyne her

selfe in marriage againe, because she was extraordinarily rich, and

as yet but yong in yeares. Now, although she was well contented never

to be married any more; yet being continually importuned by them, and

remembring the honourable honesty of _Frederigo_, his last poore, yet

magnificent dinner, in killing his Faulcone for her sake, shee saide to

her Brethren. This kinde of widdowed estate doth like me so well, as

willingly I would never leave it: but seeing you are so earnest for my

second marriage, let me plainly tell you, that I will never accept of

any other husband, but onely _Frederigo di Alberino_.

Her brethren in scornfull manner reprooved her, telling her, that hee

was a begger, and had nothing left to keepe him in the world. I knowe

it well (quoth she) and am heartily sorry for it. But give me a man that

hath neede of wealth, rather then wealth that hath neede of a man. The

Brethren hearing how shee stoode addicted, and knowing _Frederigo_

to bee a worthy Gentleman, though poverty had disgraced him in the

Worlde: consented thereto, so she bestowed her selfe and her riches on

him. He on the other side, having so noble a Lady to his Wife, and the

same whome he had so long and deerely loved: submitted all his fairest

Fortunes unto her, became a better husband (for the world) then before,

and they lived and loved together in equall joy and happinesse.

Pedro di Vinciolo _went to sup at a friends House in the City. His

Wife (in the meane while) had a young man (whom shee loved) at supper

with her._ Pedro _returning whom upon a sudden, the young man was

hidden under a Coope for Hennes._ Pedro, _in excuse of his so soone

comming home, declareth, how in the House of_ Herculano _(with whom

he should have supt) a friend of his Wives was found, which was the

reason of the Suppers breaking off._ Pedroes _Wife reproving the error

of_ Herculanoes _Wife; An Asse (by chance) treads on the young mans

fingers, that lay hidden under the Hen-Coope. Uppon his crying out,_

Pedro _steppeth thither, sees him, knowes him, and findeth the fallacy

of his Wife: with whom (neverthelesse) he groweth to agreement, in

regard of some imperfections in himselfe._

The tenth Novell.

_Reprehending the cunning shifts, of light headed and immodest Women,

who, by abusing themselves, doe throw evill aspersions on all the Sexe._

The Queenes Novell being ended, and all the company applauding the

happy fortune of _Frederigo_, as also the noble nature of Madam _Giana:

Dioneus_, who never expected any command, prepairing to deliver his

discourse, began in this manner. I know not, whether I should terme

it a vice accidental, and ensuing through the badnesse of complexions

uppon us mortals; or elsee an error in Nature, to joy and smile rather

at lewd accidents, then at deeds that justly deserve commendation,

especially, when they doe not any way concerne our selves. Now, in

regard that all the paines I have hitherto taken, and am also to

undergoe at this present, aymeth at no other end, but onely to purge

your mindes of melancholly, and entertaine the time with mirthful

matter: pardon me I pray you (faire Ladies) if my Tale trip in some

part, and favour a little of immodesty; yet in hearing it, you may

observe the same course, as you doe in pleasing and delightfull

Gardens, plucke a sweete Rose, and yet preserve your fingers from

pricking. Which very easily you may doe, wincking at the imperfections

of a foolish man, and smiling at the amorous subtilties of his Wife,

compassionating the misfortune of others, where urgent necessity doth

require it.

There dwelt (not long since) in _Perugia_, a wealthy man, named _Pedro

di Vinciolo_, who (perhaps) more to deceive some other, and restraine

an evill opinion, which the _Perugians_ had conceived of him, in matter

no way beseeming a man, then any beauty or good feature remaining in

the woman, entred into the estate of marriage. And Fortune was so

conforme to him in his election, that the woman whom he had made his

wife, had a young, lusty, and well enabled body, a red hairde wench,

hot and fiery spirited, standing more in neede of three Husbands, then

he, who could not any way well content one Wife, because his minde

ran more on his money, then those offices and duties belonging to

wed-lock, which time acquainting his Wife withall, contrary to her owne

expectation, and those delights which the estate of marriage afforded,

knowing her selfe also to be of a sprightly disposition, and not to be

easily tamed by houshold cares and attendances; shee waxed weary of

her Husbands unkind courses, upbraided him daily with harsh speeches,

making his owne home meerely as a hell to him.

When shee saw that this domesticke disquietnesse returned her no

benefit, but rather tended to her owne consumption, then any amendment

in her miserable Husband; shee began thus to conferre with her private

thoughts. This Husband of mine liveth with me, as if he were no

Husband, or I his Wife; the marriage bed, which should be a comfort to

us both, seemeth hatefull to him, and as little pleasing to me, because

his minde is on his money, his head busied with worldly cogitations,

and early and late in his counting-house, admitting no familiar

conversation with me. Why should not I be as respectlesse of him, as

he declares himselfe to be of me? I tooke him for an Husband, brought

him a good and sufficient dowry, thinking him to be a man, and affected

a woman as a man ought to doe, elsee he had never beene any Husband of

mine. If he be a Woman hater, why did he make choyce of me to be his

Wife? If I had not intended to be of the World, I could have coopt my

selfe up in a Cloyster, and shorne my selfe a Nunne, but that I was not

borne to such severity of life. My youth shall be blasted with age,

before I can truly understand what youth is, and I shall be branded

with the disgracefull word barrennesse, knowing my selfe meete and able

to be a Mother, were my Husband but worthy the name of a Father, or

expected issue and posterity, to leave our memoriall to after times in

our race, as all our predecessours formerly have done, and for which

mariage was chiefly instituted. Castles long besieged, doe yeeld at

the last, and women wronged by their owne Husbands, can hardly warrant

their owne frailty, especially living among so many temptations, which

flesh and bloud are not alwayes able to resist. Well, I meane to be

advised in this case, before I will hazard my honest reputation, either

to suspition or scandall, then which, no woman can have two heavier

enemies, and very few there are that can escape them.

Having thus a long while consulted with her selfe, and (perhaps)

oftner then twice or thrice; shee became secretly acquainted with an

aged woman, generally reputed to be more then halfe a Saint, walking

alwayes very demurely in the streetes, counting (over and over) her

_Pater nosters_, and all the Cities holy pardons hanging at her girdle,

never talking of any thing, but the lives of the holy Fathers, or the

wounds of Saint _Frances_, all the World admiring her sanctity of

life, even as if shee were divinely inspired: this she Saint must be

our distressed womans Councellour, and having found out a convenient

season, at large she imparted all her mind to her, in some such manner

as formerly you have heard, whereto shee returned this answere.

Now trust me Daughter, thy case is to be pittied, and so much the

rather, because thou art in the floure and spring time of thy youth,

when not a minute of time is to be left: for there is no greater an

error in this life, then the losse of time, because it cannot be

recovered againe; and when the fiends themselves affright us, yet if

we keepe our embers still covered with warme ashes on the hearth, they

have nor any power to hurt us. If any one can truly speake thereof,

then I am able to deliver true testimony; for I know, but not without

much perturbation of minde, and piercing afflictions in the spirit;

how much time I lost without any profit. And yet I lost not all, for I

would not have thee thinke me to be so foolish, that I did altogether

neglect such an especiall benefit; which when I call to minde, and

consider now in what condition I am, thou must imagine, it is no small

hearts griefe to me, that age should make me utterly despised, and no

fire afforded to light my tinder.

With men it is not so, they are borne apt for a thousand occasions, as

well for the present purpose we talke of, as infinite other beside;

yea, and many of them are more esteemed being aged, then when they

were yong. But women serve onely for mens contentation, and to bring

children, and therefore are they generally beloved, which if they

faile of, either it is by unfortunate marriage, or some imperfection

depending on nature, not through want of good will in themselves. We

have nothing in this world but what is given us, in which regard, we

are to make use of our time, and employ it the better while we have

it. For, when we grow to be old, our Husbands, yea, our very dearest

and nearest friends, will scarcely looke on us. We are then fit for

nothing, but to sit by the fire in the Kitchin, telling tales to the

Cat, or counting the pots and pannes on the shelves. Nay, which is

worse, rimes and songs is made of us, even in meere contempt of our

age, and commendation of such as are young, the daintiest morselse

are fittest for them, and we referred to feed on the scrappes from

their trenchers, or such reversion as they can spare us. I tell thee

Daughter, thou couldst not make choyce of a meeter woman in all the

City, to whom thou mightest safely open thy minde, and knowes better

to advise thee then I doe. But remember withall, that I am poore, and

it is your part not to suffer poverty to be unsupplyed. I will make

thee partaker of all these blessed pardons, at every Altar I will say

a _Pater noster_, and an _Ave Maria_, that thou maist prosper in thy

hearts desires, and be defended from foule sinne and shame, and so shee

ended her Motherly counsell.

Within a while after, it came to passe, that her Husband was invited

foorth to Supper, with one named _Herculano_, a kind friend of his,

but his Wife refused to goe, because shee had appointed a friend to

supper with her, to whom the old woman was employed as her messenger,

and was well recompenced for her labour. This friend was a gallant

proper youth, as any all _Perugia_ yeelded, and scarcely was he seated

at the Table, but her Husband was returned backe, and called to be

let in at the doore. Which when shee perceived, shee was almost halfe

dead with feare, and coveting to hide the young man, that her Husband

should not have any sight of him, shee had no other meanes, but in an

entry, hard by the Parlour where they purposed to have supt, stood a

Coope or Hen-pen, wherein she used to keepe her Pullen, under which he

crept, and then shee covered it with an old empty sacke, and after ran

to let her Husband come in. When he was entred into the House; as halfe

offended at his so sudden returne, angerly she saide: It seemes Sir you

are a shaver at your meate, that you have made so short a supper. In

troth Wife (quoth he) I have not supt at all, no, not so much as eaten

one bit. How hapned that? said the woman. Mary wife (quoth he) I will

tell you, and then thus he began.

As _Herculano_, his wife, and I were sitting downe at the Table, very

neere unto us we heard one sneeze, whereof at the first we made no

reckoning, untill we heard it againe the second time, yea, a third,

fourth, and fifth, and many more after, whereat we were not a little

amazed. Now Wife I must tell you, before we entred the roome where we

were to sup, _Herculanoes_ wife kept the doore fast shut against us,

and would not let us enter in an indifferent while; which made him

then somewhat offended, but now much more, when he had heard one to

sneeze so often. Demanding of her a reason for it, and who it was that

thus sneezed in his House: he started from the Table, and stepping to

a little doore neere the staires head, necessarily there made, to set

such things in, as otherwise would be troublesome to the roome, (as in

all Houses we commonly see the like) he perceived, that the party was

hidden there, which wee had heard so often to sneeze before.

No sooner had he opened the doore, but such a smell of brimston came

foorth (whereof we felt not the least savour before) as made us

likewise to cough and sneeze, being no way able to refraine it. She

seeing her Husband to be much moved, excused the matter thus, that (but

a little while before) shee had whited certaine linnen with the smoake

of brimstone, as it is an usuall thing to doe, and then set the pan

into that spare place, because it should not be offensive to us. By

this time, _Herculano_ had espied him that sneezed, who being almost

stifled with the smell, and closenesse of the small roome wherein he

lay, had not any power to helpe himselfe, but still continued coughing

and sneezing, even as if his heart would have split in twaine. Foorth

he pluckt him by the heeles, and perceiving how matters had past, he

saide to her. I thanke you Wife, now I see the reason, why you kept us

so long from comming into this roome, let me die, if I beare this wrong

at your hands. When his Wife heard these words, and saw the discovery

of her shame; without returning either excuse or answere, foorth of

doores she ran, but whither, we know not. _Herculano_ drew his Dagger,

and would have slaine him that still lay sneezing; but I disswaded

him from it, as well in respect of his, as also mine owne danger,

when the Law should censure on the deede. And after the young man was

indifferently recovered; by the perswasion of some Neighbours comming

in: he was closely conveyed out of the house, and all the noyse quietly

pacified. Onely (by this meanes, and the flight of _Herculanoes_ wife)

we were disappointed of our Supper; and now you know the reason of my

so soone returning.

When she had heard this whole discourse, then she perceived, that other

Women were subject to the like infirmity, and as wise for themselves,

as shee could be, though these and the like sinister accidents might

sometimes crosse them, and gladly she wished, that _Herculanoes_ Wifes

excuse, might now serve to acquite her: but because in blaming others

errors, our owne may sometime chance to escape discovery, and cleare

us, albeit we are as guilty; in a sharpe reprehending manner, thus

she began. See Husband, here is hansome behaviour, of an holy faire

seeming, and Saint-like woman, to whom I durst have confest my sinnes,

I conceived such a religious perswasion of her lives integrity, free

from the least scruple of taxation. A woman, so farre stept into

yeeres, as shee is, to give such an evill example to other younger

women, is it not a sinne beyond all sufferance? Accursed be the houre,

when she was borne into this World, and her selfe likewise, to be so

lewdly and incontinently given; an universall shame and slaunder, to

all the good women of our City.

Shall I terme her a woman, or rather some savage monster in a womans

shape? Hath shee not made am open prostitution of her honesty, broken

her plighted faith to her Husband, and all the womanly reputation shee

had in this World? Her Husband, being an honourable Citizen, entreating

her alwayes, as few men elsee in the City doe their wives; what an

heart-breake must this needes be to him, good man? Neither I, nor any

honest man elsee, ought to have any pity on her; but (with our owne

hands) teare her in peeces, or dragge her along to a good fire in the

market place, wherein she and her minion should be consumed together,

and their base ashes dispersed abroade in the winde, least the pure

Aire should be infected with them.

Then, remembring her owne case, and her poore affrighted friend, who

lay in such distresse under the Hen-coope; shee began to advise her

Husband, that he would be pleased to goe to bed, because the night

passed on apace. But _Pedro_, having a better will to eate, then to

sleepe, desired her to let him have some meate, else hee must goe to

bed with an empty bellie; whereto shee answered. Why Husband (quoth

shee) do I make any large provision, when I am debard of your company?

I would I were the wife of _Herculano_, seeing you cannot content your

selfe from one nights feeding, considering, it is now over-late to make

any thing ready.

It fortuned, that certaine Husbandmen, which had the charge of

_Pedroes_ Farme house in the Countrey, and there followed his affaires

of Husbandry, were returned home this instant night, having their Asses

laden with such provision, as was to be used in his City-house. When

the Asses were unladen, and set up in a small Stable, without watering;

one of them being (belike) more thirsty then the rest, brake loose,

and wandering all about smelling to seeke water, happened into the

entry, where the young man lay hidden under the Hen-pen. Now, he being

constrained (like a Carpe) to lie flat on his belly, because the Coope

was over-weighty for him to carry, and one of his hands more extended

forth, then was requisite for him in so urgent a shift: it was his hap

(or ill fortune rather) that the Asse set his foote on the young mans

fingers, treading so hard, and the paine being very irkesome to him, as

he was enforced to cry out aloude, which _Pedro_ hearing, he wondered

thereat not a little.

Knowing that this cry was in his house, he tooke the candle in his

hand, and going foorth of the Parlour, heard the cry to be louder and

louder; because the Asse removed not his foote, but rather trod the

more firmely on his hand. Comming to the Coope, driving thence the

Asse, and taking off the old sacke, he espyed the young man, who,

beside the painfull anguish he felt of his fingers, arose up trembling,

as fearing some outrage beside to be offered him by _Pedro_, who

knew the youth perfectly, and demanded of him, how he came thither.

No answer did he make to that question, but humbly entreated (for

charities sake) that he would not doe him any harme. Feare not (quoth

_Pedro_) I will not offer thee any violence: onely tel me how thou

camest hither, and for what occasion; wherein the youth fully resolved

him.

_Pedro_ being no lesse joyfull for thus finding him, then his wife was

sorrowfull, tooke him by the hand, and brought him into the Parlour,

where shee sate trembling and quaking, as not knowing what to say in

this distresse. Seating himselfe directly before her, and holding the

youth still fast by the hand, thus he began. Oh Wife! what bitter

speeches did you use (even now) against the wife of _Herculano_,

maintaining that shee had shamed all other women, and justly deserved

to be burned? Why did you not say as much of your selfe? Or, if you

had not the heart to speake it, how could you be so cruell against

her, knowing your offence as great as hers? Questionlesse, nothing

else urged you thereto, but that all women are of one and the same

condition, covering their owne grosse faults by farre inferiour

infirmities in others. You are a perverse generation, meerely false in

your fairest shewes.

When she saw that he offered her no other violence, but gave her such

vaunting and reproachfull speeches, holding still the young man before

her face, meerely to vexe and despight her: shee began to take heart,

and thus replied. Doest thou compare me with the wife of _Herculano_,

who is an olde, dissembling hypocrite? yet she can have of him

whatsoever she desireth, and he useth her as a woman ought to be, which

favour I could never yet find at thy hands. Put the case, that thou

keepest me in good garments, allowing me to goe neatly hosed and shod;

yet well thou knowest, there are other meete matters belonging to a

woman, and every way as necessarily required, both for the preservation

of Houshold quietnesse, and those other rites betweene a Husband and

Wife. Let me be worser garmented, courser dieted, yea, debarred of all

pleasure and delights; so I might once be worthy the name of a Mother,

and leave some remembrance of woman-hood behind me. I tell thee plainly

_Pedro_, I am a woman as others are, and subject to the same desires,

as (by nature) attendeth on flesh and bloud: look how thou failest in

kindnesse towards me, thinke it not amisse, if I doe the like to thee,

and endeavour thou to win the worthy title of a Father, because I was

made to be a Mother.

When _Pedro_ perceived, that his Wife had spoken nothing but reason,

in regard of his over-much neglect towards her, and not using such

houshold kindnesse, as ought to be between Man and Wife, he returned

her this answer. Well Wife (quoth he) I confesse my fault, and

hereafter will labour to amend it; conditionally, that this youth,

nor any other, may no more visite my House in mine absence. Get me

therefore something to eate, for doubtlesse, this young man and thy

selfe fell short of your supper, by reason of my so soone returning

home. In troth Husband, saide shee, we did not eate one bit of

anything, and I will be a true and loyall Wife to thee, so thou wilt

be the like to me. No more words then wife, replyed _Pedro_, all is

forgotten and forgiven, let us to supper, and we are all friends.

She seeing his anger was so well appeased, lovingly kissed him, and

laying the cloth, set on the supper, which shee had provided for her

selfe & the youth, and so they supt together merrily, not one unkind

word passing betweene them. After supper, the youth was sent away in

friendly manner, and _Pedro_ was alwayes afterward more loving to his

Wife, then formerly he had been, and no complaint passed on either

side, but mutuall joy and houshold contentment, such as ought to be

betweene man and wife.

_Dioneus_ having ended his Tale, for which the Ladies returned him no

thankes, but rather angerly frowned on him: the Queene, knowing that

her government was now concluded, arose, and taking off her Crowne of

Lawrell, placed it graciously on the head of Madam _Eliza_, saying. Now

Madam, it is your turne to command. _Eliza_ having received the honour,

did (in all respects) as others formerly had done, and after she had

enstructed the Master of the Houshold, concerning his charge during the

time of her regiment, for contentation of all the company; thus she

spake.

We have long since heard, that with witty words, ready answers, and

sudden jests or taunts, many have checkt & reproved great folly in

others, and to their owne no meane commendation. Now, because it is

a pleasing kind of argument, ministring occasion of mirth and wit:

my desire is, that all our discourse to morrow shall tend thereto. I

meane of such persons, either Men or Women, who with some sudden witty

answer, have encountred a scorner in his owne intention, and layed

the blame where it justly belonged. Every one commended the Queenes

appointment, because it savoured of good wit and judgement; and the

Queene being risen, they were all discharged till supper time, falling

to such severall exercises as themselves best fancyed.

When supper was ended, and the instruments layed before them; by the

Queenes consent, Madam _Æmillia_ undertooke the daunce, and the Song

was appointed to _Dioneus_, who began many, but none that proved to any

liking, they were so palpably obscene and idle, savouring altogether

of his owne wanton disposition. At the length, the Queene looking

stearnely on him, and commanding him to sing a good one, or none at

all; thus he began.

_The Song.

Eyes, can ye not refraine your hourely weeping?

Eares, how are you deprivde of sweete attention?

Thoughts, have you lost your quiet silent sleeping?

Wit, who hath robde thee of thy rare invention?

The lacke of these, being life and motion giving:

Are sencelesse shapes, and no true signes of living.

Eyes, when you gazde upon her Angell beauty;

Eares, while you heard her sweete delicious straines,

Thoughts (sleeping then) did yet performe their duty,

Wit, then tooke sprightly pleasure in his paines.

While shee did live, then none of these were scanting,

But now (being dead) they all are gone and wanting._

After that _Dioneus_ (by proceeding no further) declared the finishing

of his Song; many more were sung beside, and that of _Dioneus_ highly

commended. Some part of the night being spent in other delightfull

exercises, and a fitting houre for rest drawing on: they betooke

themselves to their Chambers, where we will leave them till to morrow

morning.

_The end of the Fifth Day._