THE FIFTY-FOURTH NOUELL.

THE FIFTY-FOURTH NOUELL.The incontinencie of a duke and of his impudencie to attaine his purpose, with the iust punishement which he receiued for the same.Inthe Citie of Florence (the chiefest of all Thuscane) there was a Duke that maried the Lady Margaret the bastarde daughter of the Emperour Charles the fift. And bicause shee was very young, it was not lawfull for him to lye with her, but taryng till she was of riper yeres, he interteigned an vsed her like a noble gentleman. And who to spare his wife, was amorous of certaine other Gentlewomen of the citie. Amonges whom he was in loue with a very fayre and wyse Gentlewoman, that was sister to a Gentleman, a seruaunt of his, whome the Duke loued so well as himselfe, to whome he gaue so muche authoritie in his house, as his word was so wel obeied and feared as the Duke’s him self, and there was no secrete thing in the Duke’s minde, but he declared the same vnto him, who might ful wel haue bene called a second himself. The duke seing his sister to be a woman of great honestie, had no wayes or meanes to vtter vnto her the loue that he bare her (after he had inuented all occasions possible) at length he came to this Gentleman which he loued so well, and said vnto him: “My friend, if there were any thing in all the world, wherein I were able to pleasure thee, and woulde not doe it at thy request, I should be afraid to say my fantasie, and much ashamed to craue your help and assistance: but the loue is such which I bare thee, as if I had a wife, mother, or daughter, that were able to saue thy life, I would rather imploy them, than to suffer thee to die in torment: and if thou doe beare vnto me that affection which am thy maister, thinke verely that I doe beare vnto thee the like. Wherefore I will disclose vnto thee suche a secrete and priuie matter, as the silence thereof hath brought me into sutche plight as thou seest, whereof I doe loke for none amendement but by death or by the seruice whiche thou maiest doe me, in a certayne matter which I purpose to tell thee.” The Gentleman hearing the reasons of his maister, and seing his face not fayned,but all besprent with teares, tooke great compassion vpon him and sayd: “My Lorde, I am your humble seruaunt: all the goodes and worship that I haue doth come from you. You may saye vnto me as to your moste approued frende. Assure your self, that all which resteth in my power and abilitie, is already at your commaundement.” Then the Duke began to tell him of the loue that hee bare vnto his sister, which was of sutche force, as if by his meanes he did not enioye her, his life could not long continue. For he saide, that he knew right well that intreatie and presentes were with her of no regard. Wherfore he praied him, that if he loued his life, so well as he did his, to finde meanes for him to receiue that benefite, which without him he was in despaire neuer to recouer. The brother which loued his sister and honor of his kindred, more than the Duke’s pleasure, made a certain reuerence vnto him, humbly beseeching him to vse his trauaill and pain in all other causes sauing in that, bicause it was a sute so slaunderous and infamous, as it would purchase dishonor to his whole familie, adding further, that neither his hart nor his honor could serue him, to consent to do that seruice. The Duke inflamed with vnspeakeable furie, put his finger betwene his teeth, and biting of the nayle, said unto him in great rage: “Well then sithe I finde in thee no frendship, I know what I haue to doe.” The Gentleman knowing the crueltie of his Maister, being sore afraide, replied: “My Lorde, for so much as your desire is vehement and earnest, I will speake vnto her and brynge you aunswere of her mynde.” And as he was departing, the Duke sayde vnto him: “See that thou tender my life as thou wylt that I shall doe thyne.” The Gentleman vnderstanding well what that woorde did meane, absented him selfe a day or twaine to aduise what were best to be done. And amonges diuers his cogitations, there came to his remembraunce the bounden dutie which he dyd owe to his Maister, and the goodes and honours which he had receyued at his handes, on the other syde, hee considered the honour of his house, the good life and chastitie of his syster, who (he knewe well) would neuer consent to that wickednesse, if by subtiltie shee were not surprised, or otherwyse forced, and that it were a thing very straunge and rare, that he should goe about to defame hymselfe and the wholestocke of his progenie. Wherefore hee concluded, that better it were for hym to die, than to commit a mischief so great vnto his sister, whiche was one of the honestest women in all Italie. And therewithall considered how he might deliuer his countrie from sutch a tyrant, which by force would blemishe and spot the whole race of his auncient stock and familie. For he knew right wel that except the duke were taken away, the life of him and his affinitie could not be in securitie and safegarde: wherfore without motion made to his sister of that matter, he deuised how to saue his life and the reproche that should follow. Vpon the second daye he came vnto the duke, and tolde hym in what sorte he had practised with his sister, and that although the same in the beginning was harde and difficult, yet in the ende he made her to consent, vpon condicion that hee would keepe the same so secrete as none but hymselfe and he myght knowe of it. The duke desirous and glad of those newes, dyd sone belieue hym, and imbracing the messanger, promised to geue him whatsoeuer he would demaunde, praying hym with all speede that hee might inioye his desyred purpose. Whereupon they appointed a tyme: and to demaunde whether the duke were glad and ioyfull of the same, it were superfluous. And when the desired night was come, wherin he hoped to haue the victorie of her whom he thought inuincible, he and the gentleman alone withdrewe themselues together, not forgetting his perfumed coif and swete shirte wrought and trimmed after the best maner. And when eche wight was gone to bed, both they repayred to the appointed lodging of his Lady, where being arriued they founde a chamber in decent and comly order. The gentleman taking of the Duke’s night gowne, placed hym in the bedde, and sayde vnto hym: “My Lorde, I wil nowe goe seeke her, which can not enter into this chamber without blushing, howbeit I truste before to morrowe morning she wyll be very glad of you.” Which done, he left the Duke, and went into his own chamber, where he founde one of his seruantes alone, to whome he sayde: “Hast thou the harte to followe me into a place where I shall be reuenged vpon the greatest enemie that I haue in the worlde?” “Yea sir,” aunswered his man. Whereupon the Gentleman toke him with him so sodainly, as he had no leasure to arme himselfe with other weapon but with his onely dagger. And when the Duke heard him come againe, thinking he had brought her with hym that he loued so derely, hee drewe the curteine, and opened his eyes to behold and receiue that ioye which he had so long loked for, but in place of seeing her which he hoped should be the conseruation of his life, he sawe the acceleration of his death, which was a naked sworde that the Gentleman had drawen, who therwithall did strike the Duke, which was in his shirte voyde of weapon, although well armed with courage, and sitting vp in his bedde grasped the Gentleman about the body, and sayde: “Is this thy promise whiche thou hast kept?” And seeing that he had no other weapon but his teeth and nayles, he bitte the gentleman in the arme, and by force of his owne strengthe he so defended himselfe, as they bothe fell downe into the flower. The gentleman fearing the match, called for hys manne, who finding the Duke and his maister fast together, that he wyst not whether to take, he drewe them both by the feete into the middest of the chamber, and with his dagger assayde to cut the Duke’s throte. The duke who defended himselfe, till suche time as the losse of his bloud made him so weake and feeble that he was not able to contende any longer. Then the Gentleman and his man laide him againe into his bed, where they accomplished the effect of that murther. Afterwardes drawing the curteine, they departed and locked the dead body in the chamber. And when he saw that he had gotten the vicctorie of his enemy, by whose death he thought to set at libertie the common wealth, he supposed his facte to be vnperfect if he did not the like to fiue or sixe of them which were nerest to the Duke, and best beloued of him. And to attaine the perfection of that enterpryse, he bad his man to doe the like vnto them one after another, that hee had done to the Duke. But the seruaunt being nothing hardie or coragious, said vnto his maister: “Me thinke, sir, that for this time ye haue done enough, and that it were better for you now to deuise waye howe to saue your owne life, than to seeke meanes to murder any more. For if we do consume so long space of time to kill euery of them, as we haue done in murdering of the Duke, the day light will discouer our enterprise before we haue made an ende, yea although wee finde them naked andwithout defence.” The gentleman whose euill conscience made him fearfull, did beleue his seruaunt, and taking him alone with him, went to the bishop that had in charge the gates of the citie, and the vse of the Postes, to whom he sayd: “This euening (my Lord) newes came vnto me that mine owne brother lieth at the point of death, and crauing licence of the Duke to goe se him he hath giuen me leaue. Wherefore I beseche you commaunde the Postes to deliuer me two good horse, and that you will sende worde to the porter that the gates may be opened.” The bishop which estemed no lesse his request than the commaundement of the Duke his maister, incontinently gaue him a billet, by vertue wherof both the gates were opened, and the horse made ready according to his demaunde. And vnder colour and pretence of visiting his brother, he rode to Venice, where after he had cured himselfe of the duke’s bitinges fastened in his fleshe, he trauailed into Turkey. In the morning the duke’s seruauntes seing the time so late before their maister retourned, suspected that he was gone forth in visiting of some Ladye, but when they sawe he taried so long, they began to seke for him in euery place. The poore Duchesse into whose harte the loue of her husbande strongly did inuade, vnderstanding that he could not be founde, was very pensife and sorowfull. But when the Gentleman which he so dearely loued, was not likewyse seene abroade, searche was made in his chamber, where finding bloud at the chamber dore, they entred in, but no man was there to tell them any newes, and following the tract of the bloud the poore seruantes of the Duke went to the chamber dore, where he was, which dore they found fast locked, who incontinently brake open the same: and seing the place all bloudy, drew the curteine, and found the wretched carcasse of the Duke lying in the bedde, sleeping his endlesse sleepe. The sorrow and lamentation made by the duke’s seruauntes, carying the dead bodye into his palace, is easie to be coniectured. Wherof when the Bishop was aduertised, he repaired thether, and tolde how the Gentleman was gone awaye in the night in great haste, vnder pretence to goe to see his brother: whereupon it was euidently knowen that it was he that had committed the murder. And it was proued that his poore sister was neuer priuie to the facte, who although she was astonned with thesodaynes of the deede, yet her loue towardes her brother was farre more increased, bicause he had deliuered her from a Prince so cruell, the enemy of her honestie: for doing whereof he did not sticke to hazard his owne life. Whereupon she perseuered more and more in vertue, and although she was poore, by reason her house was confiscate, yet both her sister and shee matched with so honest and riche husbandes as were to be founde in Italie: and afterwardes they both liued in good and great reputation.THE FIFTY-FIFTH NOUELL.One of the Frenche kinge’s called Frauncis the firste of that name, declared his gentle nature to Counte Guillaume, that would haue killed him.InDigeon a town of Burgundie, there came to the seruice of king Frauncis, (whiche was father to Henry the second of that name, whiche Henry was kylled by Mounsier Mongomerie, in a triumphe at the Tilt, and graundfather to Charles theIX.that now raigneth in Fraunce) an Earle of Allemaigne called Guillaume, of the house of Saxon, whereunto the house of Sauoie is so greatly allied, as in old time they were but one. This Counte for so much as he was estemed to be so comely and hardy a Gentleman as any was in Almaigne, was in sutche good fauour with the king, as he tooke him not onely into seruice, but vsed him so nere his persone, as he made him of his priuy chamber. Vpon a day the Gouernour of Burgundie, the Lorde Trimouille (an auncient knight and loyall seruaunt of the kyng) like one suspicious and fearfull of the euill and hurte of his Maister, had daylie espies ouer his enemies, vsing his affaires so wysely, as very fewe thinges were concealed from hym. Among other aduertisementes, one of his friendes wrote vnto him that the Counte Guillaume had receiued certain sommes of money, with promise of more, if by any meanes he could deuise which waye to kill the king. The Lorde of Trimouile hearing of this, failed not to come to the kyng to giue him knowledge thereof, and disclosed it lykewyse to Madame Loyse of Sauoye his mother, who forgetting her amitie and aliaunce with the Almaigne Earle, besought the king forthwith to put hym awaye. The kyng prayed his mother to speake no more thereof, and sayde, that it was impossible that so honest a Gentleman would attempt to doe a deede so wicked. Within a while after, there came other newes of that matter, confirming the first: whereof the Gouernour for the intire loue he bare to his Maister, craued licence either to expel him the countrie, or to put him in warde. But the king gaue speciallcommaundement that he should not make any semblaunce of displeasure, for that hee purposed by some other meanes to knowe the truthe. Vpon a time when he went a hunting he girded about him the best sworde that hee had, to serue for all armes and assayes, and toke with him the Counte Guillaume, whome he commaunded to wayte vpon him, the firste and chiefest next his owne persone. And after he had followed the hart a certayne tyme, the kyng seing that his traynes was farre from hym, and no man neare him sauing the Counte, tourned hym selfe rounde about, and when hee sawe that hee was alone, in the mydde of the forest, hee drew out his sworde, and sayd to the Counte: “How saye you, (sir counte) is not this a fayre and good swoorde?” The counte feling it at the point, and well viewyng the same, aunswered that he neuer sawe a better in all his life. “You haue reason,” sayde the kyng, “and I beleue that if a Gentleman were determined to kyll mee, and did knowe the force of myne armes, and the goodnesse of myne harte accompanied with this sword, he would bee twyse well aduised before hee attempted that enterprise. Notwithstanding I would accompt him but a cowarde, wee being alone withoute witnesses, if he did not attempt that, which he were disposed to do.” The Counte Guillaume with bashfull and astonned countenaunce aunsweared: “Sir, the wickednesse of the enterprise were very great, but the folly in the execution were no lesse.” The king with those wordes fell in a laughter, and put the sword in the skaberd againe: and hearing that the chase drewe neare him, he made to the same so faste as he coulde. When he was come thether, he said nothing of that which had passed betweene theim, and verelye thoughte that the Counte Guillaume although that he was a stronge and stoute gentleman, yet he was no man to do so great an enterprise. But the Counte Guillaume, fearing to be bewrayed or suspected of the fact, next day morning repayred to Robertet the Secretarie of the kinge’s reuenues, and saide that hee had well wayed the giftes and annuities which the kinge would giue him to tarrie, but he perceiued that they were not sufficient to interteigne him for halfe a yeare, and that if it pleased not the king to double the same, hee should be forced todeparte, praying the sayde Robertet to know his grace’s pleasure so sone as he coulde, who sayd vnto him, that he himselfe could without further commission disbursse no more vnto him, but gladly without further delay he would repaire to the king: which he did more willingly, because he had seene the aduertisements of the Gouernor aforesaid. And so sone as the kinge was awake, he declared the matter vnto him in the presence of Monsier Trimouille and Monsier Bouinet, lord admirall, who were vtterly ignorant of that which the king had done. To whom the kinge said: “Loe, ye haue bene miscontented for that I would not put away the Counte Guillaume, but now ye see he putteth away himselfe. Wherefore Robertet (quoth the king) tell him, that if he be not content with the state which he receiued at his first entrie into my seruice, whereof many gentlemen of good houses would thinke themselues happie, it is meete that he seeke his better fortune, and tell him that I would be lothe to hinder him, but wilbe very well contented, that he seeke where he may liue better, accordingly as he deserueth.” Robertet was so diligent to beare this aunsweare to the Counte, as he was to present his sute to the kinge. The counte said that with his licence he would gladly go forthwith: and as one whom feare forced to depart, he was not able to beare his abode 24 houres. And as the king was sitting downe to dinner, fayning to be sorye for his departure, but that necessitie compelled him to lose his presence, hee toke his leaue. He went likewise to take leaue of the king’s mother, which she gaue him with so great ioy, as she did receiue him, being her nere kinsman and freind. Then he went into his countrie: and the king seing his mother and seruantes astonned at his sodaine departure, declared vnto them the Al Arme, which he had giuen him, saying, that although he was innocent of the matter suspected, soe was his feare greate ynoughe, to departe from a maister wyth whose condicions hitherto he was not acquainted.THE FIFTY-SIXTH NOUELL.A pleasaunt discours of a great Lord to enioy a Gentlewoman of Pampelunæ.Therewas in the time of king Lewes theXII.of that name, a young Lord, called the lorde of Auannes sonne to the Lorde Alebret, and brother to king John of Nauarre, with whom the said Lord of Auannes ordinarely remayned. Now this yong Lorde was of the age ofXV.yeares, so comely a personage, and full of curtesie and good behauiour, as he seemed to be created for none other purpose, but to be beloued and regarded: and so he was in deede of al those that did wel behold and note his commendable grace and condicion, but chiefly of a woman, dwelling in the citie of Pampelunæ in Nauarre, the wife of a rich man, with whom she liued honestly: and although she was but 23 yeres of age, and her husband very nere fiftie, yet her behauior was so modest, as she seemed rather a widow than a maried wyfe, who vsed not to frequent and haunte any mariages, banquets, or common assemblies without the company of her husbande, the vertue and goodnes of whom she so greatly esteemed, as she preferred the same before the beautie of al others. The husband, hauing experience of her wisedome, put such trust in her, as he committed al thaffaires of his house to her discretion: vpon a day this rich man with his wife, were inuited to a mariage of one that was nere kinne vnto him: to which place (for the greater honor of the mariage) repaired the yong Lord of Auannes, who naturally was giuen to dauncing, and for his excellencie in dauncing there was not his like to be found in his time: after dinner when they prepared to daunce, the Lord of Auannes was intreated thereunto by the rich man: the said lord asked him with what gentlewoman hee should lead the daunce. He aunsweared him: “My Lord if there were any one more beautifull, or more at my commaundement then my wyfe, I would present her vnto you, beseeching you to do mee so much honour as to take her by the hande.” Which the yong Lorde did, and by reason of his youthfull courage he toke morepleasure in vaultinge and dauncinge, then in beholding the beautie of the Ladies: and she whom he ledde by the hand, contrarywyse regarded more the grace and beautie of the said yong Lord, then the daunce wherin she was, albeit for her great wisedome she made therof no semblance at al. When supper time was come, the Lord of Auannes badde the companie farewell and went home to the castle: whether the riche man accompanied him vppon his moile: and riding homewards together, hee saide vnto him: “My Lord, this day you haue done so great honor vnto my kinsemen and mee, that it were great ingratitude is I should not offer my selfe with all the goods I haue to do you seruice: I knowe sir that such Lordes as you be which haue nere and couetous fathers, many times do lacke money which we by keeping of smal houshold, and vsing good husbandrie do heape and gather together. Now thus it is sir, that God hauing giuen mee a wife accordinge to my desire he would not in this world altogether indue mee with heauenly pleasures, but hath left me voyde of one ioy which is the ioye that fathers haue of children. I know sir that it is not my dutie, and belongeth not to my state to adopt you for such a one, but if it maye please you to receiue mee for your seruaunt, and to declare vnto me your small affaires, so farre as a hundred thousande Crownes shall extende, I will not sticke to helpe your necessities.” The yong Lorde of Auannes was very ioyfull of this offer, for he had suche a father as the other had described vnto him: and after he had giuen him hartie thanckes, he called him his friendlye father. From that time forth the sayd riche man conceiued such loue in the yong Lord, as daily he ceased not to inquire of his lacke and want, and hid not from his wyfe the deuocion which he bare to the said Lorde of Auannes, for which she rendred vnto him double thanckes. And after that time the said yong Lord lacked not what he desired, and many times resorted to that rich man’s to drincke and eate with him, and finding him not at home, his wyfe rewarded him with his demaunde: whoe admonished her by wyse and discrete talke to be vertuous, because he feared and loued her aboue all the women of the worlde. She which had God and her honor before her eyes, was contente with his sight and talke, wherin consisted the satisfaction of his honestie and vertuousloue: in such wise as she neuer made any signe or semblaunce, wherby he might thinke and iudge that shee had anye affection vnto him, but that which was both brotherlie and christian. During this couerte amitie, the Lord of Auannes through the foresaid ayde, was very gorgious and trimme, and approching the age ofXVII.yeares, began to frequent the company of Gentlewomen more then he was wont to do: and although he had a more willing desire, to loue that wyse and discrete dame aboue other, yet the feare which he had to lose her loue (if shee misliked her sute) made him to hold his peace, and to seeke els wher: and gaue himself to the loue of a Gentlewoman dwelling hard by Pampelunæ, which had to husband a yong gentleman, that aboue all thinges loued and delighted in dogges, horsse, and Hawkes. This noble Gentleman began (for her sake) to deuise a thousand pastimes, as Torneyes, running at the Tilt, Mommeries, Maskes, feastes and other games, at all which this yong dame was present: but because that her husband was very fantasticall, and saw his wyfe to be faire and wanton, hee was ialous of her honour, and kepte her in so straite, as the sayde Lord of Auannes colde get nothing at her hands but words, shortly spoken, in some daunce, albeit in litle time and lesse speache, the sayde Lorde perceyued that there wanted nothing for full perfection of their loue, but time and place: wherfore he came to his new adopted father the rich man, and said vnto him that he was minded with great deuocion to visite our Lady of Montferrat, intreating him to suffer his houshoulde traine to remaine with him, because he was disposed to go thither alone. Whereunto he willingly agreed: but his wyfe whose hart the great prophet loue had inspired, incontinently suspected the true cause of that voyage, and cold not forbeare to saye vnto the Lord of Auannes these woords: “My Lord, my Lorde, the pilgrimage of the Lady whom you worshippe, is not farre without the walles of the Citie, wherefore I beseech you aboue all thinges to haue regarde vnto your health.” Hee which feared her, and loued her, blushed at her words, and without talke by his countenaunce he seemde to confesse the trothe: whereupon he departed, and when he had bought a couple of faire Genets of Spaine he clothed himself like a horsekeeper and so disguisedhis face as no man knew him. The Gentleman which had maried that fonde and wanton gentlewoman, louinge aboue all thinges (as is sayde before) fayre horses, espyed those two Genets which the lord of Auannes did lead, and incontinently came to buy them: and after he had bought them, hee beheld the horse-keeper which rode and handled them passing well, and asked him if he were willing to serue him: the Lord of Auannes answeared yea, and added further how he was a poore horse-keeper vnskilfull of other science but of keepinge of horse, which practize hee could do so well, as he doubted not but he should content and please him: the Gentleman very glad thereof, gaue him charge of all his horse, and called forth his wyfe vnto him, vnto whom he recommended his horse and horsekeper, and told her that he himself was disposed to go to the castel: the gentlewoman so well to please her husband as for her owne delight and pastime, wente to loke vpon her horse and to behold her new horskeper, who seemed to be a man of good bringing vp, notwithstanding she knewe him not. He seing that she had no knowledge of him, came to do reuerence vnto her after the maner of Spaine, and taking her by the hand kissed the same, and by kissing of her hand, he disclosed himself so much as she knew him: for in dauncing with her many times he vsed the like curtesie: and then she ceased not to deuise place wher she might speake to him a part: which she did the very same euening: for being bidden to a feast wherunto her husband would faine haue had her to go, she fayned herselfe to be sicke and not able: and her husband loth to faile his frends request, said vnto her: “For so much (my good wyfe) as you be not disposed to go with me, I pray you to haue regard to my dogges and horse that they may lack nothing.” The Gentlewoman was very wel contented with that comission: howbeit without chaung of countenance she made him answere that sith in better things he would not imploie her, she would not refuse the least, to satisfie his desire: and her husband was no soner out of the gates, but she went down into the stable, where she founde faulte wyth diuers things: for prouision whereof she committed such seueral busines to her men on euery side, that shee remayned alone with the master horskeper: and for feare least any shouldcome vpon them vnwares, she said vnto him: “Go into my garden and tarie my comming in the litle house at the ende of the alley.” Which he did so diligently as hee had no leasure to thancke her, and after that she had giuen order to the yeomen of the stable, shee went to see the dogges, counterfaiting like care and diligence to haue them wel intreated: in such wise as she seemed rather a mayde of the chamber then a maistresse of the house: which done shee returned into her chamber, where she made her self to be so werie, as she went to bed, saying that she was disposed to sleepe. All her women left her alone except one in whom she reposed her greatest trust, and vnto whom she said: “Go downe into the garden, and cause him whom you shall finde at the end of the alley, to come hither.” The mayde wente downe and founde the Maister horskeeper there, whom forthwith shee brought vnto her maistresse: and then the gentlewoman caused her mayd to go forth to watch when her husbande came home. The lord of Auannes seing that he was alone with his maistres, put of his horsekeeper’s apparrel, plucked from his face his false nose and beard, and not as a feareful horsekeeper, but like such a Lord as he was, without asking leaue of the Gentlewoman, boldly laied him downe beside her: where hee was of that foolishe woman receiued so ioyfully, as his estate and goodly personage did require, continuing with her vntil the retorne of her husband: at whose comming putting vpon him againe his counterfaite attire, left the pleasure which by policie and malice he had vsurped. The gentleman when hee was within, hearde tell of the dilligence which his wife had vsed vppon his commaundemente, and thanked her very hartelie. “Husband (said the gentlewoman) I do but my dutie, and do assure you that if there be no ouerseer to checke and commaunde your negligent seruaunts, you shal haue neyther dogge nor horse well kept and ordred: forasmuche as I knowe their slouth, and your good wil, you shalbe better serued then you haue bin heretofore.” The gentleman who thought that he had gotten the best horsekeeper of the worlde, asked her how she liked him. “I assure you sir (quoth she) he doth his busines so well as any seruaunt, howbeit he had neede to be called vppon, for you know seruaunts in these dayes without an ouerseer, wilbe be slow and carelesse.” Thus oflong time continued the husbande and wyfe in greater amitie and loue then before, and gaue ouer all the suspicion and ialousie which hee had conceyued, because before time his wyfe louinge feastes, daunces and companies, was become intentife and diligente about her household: and perceiued that now many times she was contented in homely garmentes to go vp and downe the house wher before she was accustomed to be 4 houres in trimming of herselfe: whereof shee was commended of her husbande, and of euery man that knew not how the greater deuill had chased awaye the lesse. Thus liued this yonge dame vnder the hypocrisie and habite of an honest woman, in suche fleshlye pleasure as reason, conscience, order and measure, had no longer resting place in her: which insaciat lust the yong Lord of delicate complexion was no longer able to susteine, but began to waxe so pale and feeble, as he needed no visarde for disfiguring of himselfe. Notwithstanding the folish loue which he bare to that woman so dulled his sence, as he presumed vppon that force which fayled in the monstruous giant Hercules, whereby in the ende constrayned with sicknes and councelled by his maistresse, which loued not the sicke so well as the hole, demaunded leaue of his maister to go home to his frends: who to his great griefe graunted him the same: and caused him to make promise that when he was recouered hee should returne againe to his seruice. Thus went the Lord of Auannes on foote away from his maister, for he had not paste the lenght of one streate to trauaile. And when he was come to the rich man’s house his new father, he found none at home but his wyfe, whose vertuous loue shee bare him was nothing diminished for al his voyage: but when she saw him so leane and pale, she could not forbeare to say vnto him: “Sir, I knowe not in what staye your conscience is, but your body is litle amended by this pilgrimage, and I am in doubte that the way wherein you traueiled in the night, did wearie and paine you more, then that vppon the daye: for if you had gone to Hierusalem on foote, you mighte perhappes haue returned more Sunne burned, but more leane and weake it had bin impossible. Now make accompt of your pilgrimage here, and serue no more such Sainctes, for in place of raysinge the deade from life, they do to death those thatbe on liue: moreouer I shall saye vnto you, that if your bodye were neuer so sinfull, I see well it hath suffred such penaunce, as I haue pitie to renewe anye former payne.” When the Lorde of Auannes had hearde all her talke he was no lesse angrie with himselfe then ashamed, and saide vnto her: “Madame, I haue sometimes heard tell that repentaunce insueth sinne, and now I haue proued the same to my cost, praying you to excuse my youth that could not be corrected but by experience of that euill, which before it would not beleeue.” The Gentlewoman chaunging her talke, caused him to lye downe vppon a fayre bedde, where he lay the space ofXV.dayes, feedinge onely vppon restoratiues: and the husband and wyfe kept him so good companye, as one of theim neuer departed from him: and albeit that he had committed those follies, (suche as you haue heard) against the minde and aduise of that wyse and discrete dame, yet shee neuer diminished the vertuous loue which shee bare him, for shee still hoped that after he had spent his yonger dayes in youthly follies, he would retire at length when age and experience should force him to vse honest loue, and by that meanes would be altogether her owne. And during those fifteene dayes that he was cherished in her house, she vsed vnto him womanly and commendable talke, onely tending to the loue of vertue, which caryed such effect as he began to abhorre the follie that he committed: and beholding the gentlewoman which in beautie passed the other wanton, with whom he had delt before, he imprinted in minde more and more the graces and vertues that were in her, and was not able to keepe in harte the secrete conceipt of the same, but abandoning all feare, he sayd vnto her: “Madame, I see no better means, to be such one, and so vertuous as you by wordes desire me for to be, but to settle my harte, and giue my selfe to be holie in loue with vertue, and the qualities therunto appertinent. I humblie beseech you therfore (good madame) to tel me if your selfe wil not vouchsafe to giue me al your ayde and fauor that you possiblie can, for thobteyning of the same.” The maistresse very ioyful to heare him vse that language, made him aunswere: “And I do promise you sir, that if you wilbe in loue with vertue as it behoueth so noble a state as you be, I wil do you the seruice that I can to bring you thereuntowith such power and abilitie as God hath planted in mee.” “Well madame,” saide the Lorde of Auannes, “remember then your promise, and vnderstande that God vnknowen of the Christian but by fayth, hath dayned to take flesh, like to that our sinful which we beare about vs, to thend that by drawing our flesh into the loue of his humanity, he may draw also our minde to the loue of his diuinitie, and requireth to be serued by thinges visible to make vs loue by fayth that diuinity which is inuisible: in like maner the vertue which I desire to imbrace all the dayes of my life, is a thing inuisible and not to be seen but by outward effects. Wherfore needeful it is, that she now do put vpon her some body or shape to let herselfe be knowen amonges men: which in deede she hath don by induing herself with your form and shape, as the most perfect that she is able to find amonges liuing creatures. Wherfore I do acknowledge and confesse you to be not onely a vertuous creature, but euen very vertue it self. And I which see the same to shine vnder the glimsing vaile of the most perfect that euer was: I will honor and serue the same during my life, forsaking (for the same) all other vaine and vicious loue.” The gentlewoman no lesse content then marueling to here those words dissembled so wel her contented minde as she said vnto him: “My Lord, I take not vpon me to aunswere your diuinity, but like her that is more fearefull of euill then beleful of good, do humblie beseech you to cease to speake to me those words of prayse, that is not worthy of the least of them. I know right wel that I am a woman, not onely as another is, but so imperfect, as vertue might do a better acte to transforme me into her, then she to take my forme, except it be when she desires to be vnknowen to the world: for vnder such habite as mine is, vertue cannot be knowen, according to her worthines: so it is sir, that for mine imperfection, I wil not cease to bere you such affection, as a woman ought or maye do that feareth God, and hath respect to her honour: but that affection shal not appere, vntill your harte be able to receiue the pacience which vertuous loue commaundeth. And now sir I know what kinde of speach to vse, and thincke that you do not loue so well, your owne goodes, purse or honour, as I doe with all my hart tender and imbrace the same.” Thelord of Auannes fearefull with teares in eyes, besought her earnestly that for her woordes assuraunce, shee woulde vouchsafe to kisse him: which she refused, saying that for him, she would not breake the countrie’s custome: and vppon this debate the husband came in, to whom the Lord of Auannes said: “My father, I knowe my selfe so much bounde to you and to your wife, as I besech you for euer to repute me for your sonne.” Which the good man willingly did. “And for surety of that amitie, I pray you,” said Monsier D’Auannes, “that I may kisse you.” Whiche he did. After he said vnto him: “If it were not for feare to offend the Law, I would do the like to my mother your wyfe.” The husbande hearinge him saye so, commaunded his wyfe to kisse him, which she did although she made it straunge, either for the Lord’s desire or for husband’s request to do the same: then the fier (which words had begunne to kindle in the harte of the poore Lorde) beganne to augmente by that desired kisse, so strongly sued for, and so cruelly refused: which done the sayde Lord of Auannes repayred to the Castell to the kinge his brother, where he told many goodly tales of his voyage to Montferrat, and vnderstode there, that the kinge his brother was determined to remoue to Olly and Taffares, and thinking that the iorney woulde be longe, conceiued great heauines, which made him to muse how he mighte assaye before his departure, whether the wise Gentlewoman bare him such good will, as shee made him beleeue shee did: and therefore hee toke a house in the streate where she dwelt, which was old and ill fauoured and built of Timber: which house about midnight of purpose he set on fier, wherof the crye was so great throughout the Citie as it was hard within the rich man’s house. Who demaunding at his window wher the fier was, vnderstode it to be at the Lord of Auannes, wherunto he incontinentlye repayred with all the people of his house, and found the yonge Lord in his shirt in the middest of the streat, whom for pitie he toke betweene his armes, and couering him with his nighte Gowne, caried him home to his house with al possible speede, and saide vnto his wife which was a bed: “Wife, I giue you to kepe this prisoner, vse him as my selfe.” So sone as he was departed the sayd Lord of Auannes, who had good wil to beinterteigned for her husband, quicklie lept into the bed, hoping that the occasion and place would make that wise woman to chaunge her minde, which he founde to be contrary: for so sone as he lept into the bed of thone side, shee speedelie went out of the other, and putting on her night Gowne she repaired to the bed’s head, and said vnto him: “How now sir, do you thincke that occasions can chaunge a chaste harte? beleeue and thincke that as gold is proued in the Fornace, euen so an vnspotted hart in the middest of temptacion: wherein many times an honest hart sheweth it selfe to be more strong and vertuous, then els where, and the more it is assailed by his contrary, the coulder be the desires of the same: wherefore be you assured that if I had bin affected with other minde then that which many times I haue disclosed vnto you, I would not haue fayled to finde meanes to haue satisfyed the same: praying you that if you will haue me to continue the affection which I beare you, to remoue from your minde for euer not onely the will but the thoughte also, for any thinge you be able to doe to make me other then I am.” As she was speaking of these words her women came into the chamber, whom she commaunded to bring in a colacion of all sortes of comficts and other delicats: but that time hee had no appetite either to eate or drincke, hee was fallen into suche dispaire for fayling of his enterprise: fearing that the demonstracion of his desire, would haue caused her to giue ouer the secrete familiaritie betweene them. The husbande hauinge ceased the fier, retorned and intreated the Lord of Auannes that night to lodge in his house, who passed that night in such nomber of cogitacions as his eyes were more exercised with weeping then sleeping, and early in the morninge he bad them farewell in their bedde, where by kissing the Gentlewoman hee well perceiued that she had more pitie upon his offence, then euill will against his person, which was a cole to make the fier of loue to kindle more fiercely. After dinner he rode with the king of Taffares, but before his departure he went to take his leaue of his newe alied father and of his wyfe: whoe after the furst commaundement of her husband, made no more difficultie to kisse him then if he had bin her owne sonne. But be assured the more that vertue stayed hereye and countenaunce to shew the hidden flame, the more it did augment and become intollerable, in such wyse as not able to indure the warres which honour and loue had raysed within her hart, (who notwithstanding was determined neuer to shewe it, hauing lost the consolacion of her sight, and forgeuen the talke with him for whom she liued) a continuall feuer began to take her, caused by a Melancholicke and couert humor, in such wyse as the extreme partes of her body waxed cold, and those within burnt incessantly. The Phisitions (in the hands of whom man’s life doth not depend) began greatly to mistrust health by reason of a certaine opilacion which made her melancholicke: who counceiled the husbande to aduertise his wife to consider her conscience, and that she was in the handes of God (as thoughe they which be in health were not in his protection): the husbande which intirely loued his wyfe, was wyth their woordes made so heauye and pensife, as for his confort he wrote to the Lord of Auannes, beseechinge him to take the paynes to visite them, hoping that his sight would greatly ease and relieue the disease of his wife. Which request the Lord of Auannes immediatly vppon the recepte of those letters slacked not, but by poste arriued at his father’s house: at the entrye whereof hee founde the seruauntes and women makinge great sorrowe and lamentacion accordinglie as the goodnes of their maistresse deserued: wherewith the sayde Lorde was so astonned as he stoode stil at the doore like one in a traunce, vntil he sawe his good father: who imbracing him beganne so bitterlie to weepe, that he was not able to speake a worde. And so conueied the sayd Lorde of Auannes vp into the Chamber of his poore sicke wyfe: who casting vp her languishing eyes looked vppon him: and reaching his hand vnto her, she strayned the same with all her feeble force, and imbracinge and kissinge the same made a marueylous plainte, and sayd vnto him.“O my Lord, the houre is come that all dissimulacion must cease, and needes I must confesse vnto you the troth, which I to my greate paine haue concealed from you: which is, that if you haue borne vnto me greate affection, beleeue that mine rendred vnto you, hath bin no lesse: but my sorrow hath farre surpassed your griefe, the smarte whereof I do feele now against myne hart and will: wherefore, my lord, yee shall vnderstand, that GOD and minehonour would not suffer mee to disclose the same vnto you, fearing to increase in you that which I desired to be diminished: but knowe yee, my Lorde, that the woordes which so many tymes you haue vttered vnto mee, haue bred in me such griefe, as the same be the Instrumentes and woorkers of my death, wherewyth I am contente sithGoddid giue mee the grace not to suffer the violence of my Loue, to blotte the puritye of my conscience and renowne: for lesse fire then is wythin the kindled harte of mine, hath ruinated and consumed most famous and stately buildinges. Nowe my hart is well at ease, sithe before I dye, I haue had power to declare myne affection, which is equall vnto yours, sauing that the honor of men and women be not a like: beseechinge you, my Lorde, from henceforth not to feare to addresse your selfe to the greatest and moste vertuous Ladies that you can finde: for in such noble hartes do dwell the strongest passions, and there the same be moste wisely gouerned: and God graunt that the grace, beautie and honestie, which be in you, do not suffer your loue to trauell wythout fruite: haue in remembrance good, my Lord, the stabilitie of my constante minde, and do not attribute that to crueltie which ought to be imputed to honor, conscience and vertue: which are thinges a thousande times more acceptable, then the expence and losse of transitorie life. Nowe, farewell, my Lorde, recommendinge vnto your honour the state of my husband your good father, to whom I pray you to reherse the troth of that which you doe know by mee, to the intent that he may be certefied how dearely I haue loued God and him: for whose sake I beseech you to absente your selfe out of my sight: for from henceforth I do meane holye to giue my selfe to the contemplacion of those promises which God hath louingly decreed, before the constitucion of the world.” In saying so shee kissed him, and imbraced him wyth all the force of her feeble armes. The sayde Lorde, whose hart was dead for compassion, as her’s was in dying through griefe and sorrow, without power to speake one onely worde, withdrew himselfe out of her sight and laye downe vpon a bed within an inner chamber: where he fainted many times. Then the gentlewoman called for her husbande, and after she had giuen him many goodly lessons, shee recommended him to the Lord of Auannes, assuringe him thatnexte to his parson, of all the men in the worlde shee had him in greateste estimacion: and soe kissinge her husbande shee badde him farewell. And then was brought vnto her the holye Sacramente, which shee receyued with such ioye, as one certaine and sure of her Saluacion, and perceyuinge her sighte begynne to fayle, and her strength diminishe she pronounced aloude:In manus tuas, &c. At which crie the Lorde of Auannes rose vp from the bedde, and piteously beholding her, he viewed her with a swete sighe, to rendre her gloriouse ghost to him which had redemed it. And when he perceiued that shee was dead, hee ran to the dead bodie, which liuing he durst not approche for feare, and imbraced and kissed the same in such wise, as muche a doe there was to remoue her corps out of his armes: wherof the husband was very much abashed, for that he neuer thought that he had borne his wife such affection. And in saying vnto him: “My Lord, you haue done enough:” they withdrew them selues together. And after long lamentation, the one for his wife, and the other for his Lady: the Lord of Auannes told him the whole discourse of his Loue, and howe vntill her death she neuer graunted him not so muche as one signe or token of loue, but in place therof a rebellious minde to his importunate sutes: at the rehersall whereof, the husbande conceiued greater pleasure and contentment than euer he did before: which augmented or rather doubled his sorrow and griefe for losse of such a wife. And all his life time after, in al seruices and duties he obeyed the Lord of Auannes, that then was not aboue eightene yeres of age, who retourned to the Courte, and continued there many yeares without will to see or speake to any woman, for the sorrow which he had taken for his Lady, and more then two yeres he wore blacke for mourning apparell. Beholde here the difference betweene a wise and discrete woman, and one that was wanton and foolish, both which sortes expressed different effectes of loue: whereof the one receiued a glorious and commendable death, and the other liued to long to her great shame and infamie. The one by small sute sone won and obteyned, the other by earnest requestes and great payne pursued and followed. And till death had taken order, to ridde her from that pursute, she euer continued constant.THE FIFTY-SEUENTH NOUELL.A punishment more rigorous than death, of a husband towarde his wife that had committed adulterie.KingCharles of Fraunce, the eight of that name, sent into Germany a gentleman called Bernage, lorde of Cyure besides Amboise: who to make speede, spared neither daye nor nighte for execution of his Prince’s commaundement. In sutch wyse as very late in an euening he arriued at the Castle of a Gentleman, to demaunde lodging, which very hardly he obtained. Howbeit, when the gentleman vnderstode that he was the seruaunt of such a kyng, he prayed him not to take it in ill parte the rudinesse of his seruantes because vppon occasion of certain his wiue’s frends which loued him not, he was forced to kepe his house so straight. Then Bernage tolde him the cause of his iourney, wherein the Gentleman offered to doe to the king his maister all seruice possible. Leading him into his house where he was feasted and lodged very honorably. When supper was ready, the Gentleman conueyed him into a parler wel hanged with fayre Tapistrie. And the meate being set vpon the table, and he required to sit down, he perceiued a woman comming forth behind the hanging, which was so beautifull as might be seene, sauing that her head was all shauen, and apparelled in Almaine blacke. After bothe the Gentlemen had washed, water was brought to the Gentlewoman, who when she had washed she sat down also, without speaking to any, or any word spoken vnto her againe. The Lorde Bernage beholding her well, thought her to be one of the fayrest Ladies that euer he sawe, if her face had not bene so pale and her countenaunce so sadde. After she had eaten a litle, she called for drinke, which one of the seruauntes brought vnto her in a straunge cup: for it was the head of a dead man trimmed with siluer, wherof she drancke twice or thrice. When she had supped and washed her handes, making a reuerence to the Lord of the house, shee retourned backe againe that way shee came, without speaking to any. Bernage was so much amased at that straunge sighte, as he waxed very heauie andsadde. The gentleman who marked hym, sayde vnto hym: “I see well that you be astonned at that you saw at the table, but seyng your honest demeanour, I wyll not keepe it secrete from you, because you shal not note that crueltie to be done without greate occasion. This gentlewoman whiche you see, is my wyfe, whom I loued better than was possible for any man to loue his wyfe. In such sorte as to marry her I forgat all feare of friendes, and brought her hither in despite of her parentes. She likewyse shewed vnto me suche signes of loue, as I attempted a thousande wayes to place her here for her ioye and myne, where wee lyued a long tyme in suche reste and contentation, as I thought my self the happiest Gentleman in Christendome. But in a iourney whiche I made, the attempt whereof myne honour forced me, shee forgot bothe her selfe, her conscience, and the loue whiche shee bare towardes mee, and fell in loue with a Gentleman that I brought vp in this house, whiche her loue vpon my retourne I perceiued to be true. Notwithstanding the loue that I bare her, was so great as I had no mistrust in her, tyll sutch tyme as experience did open myne eyes, and sawe the thynge that I feared more than death. For whiche cause my loue was tourned into furie and dispayre, so greate, as I watched her so nere, that vppon a daye fayning my selfe to goe abroade, I hydde my selfe in the chamber where now shee remayneth. Into the whiche sone after my departure shee repayred, and caused the Gentleman to come thether. Whome I did beholde to doe that thinge, which was altogether vnmeete for any man to doe to her, but my selfe. But when I sawe him mounte vppon the bed after her, I stepped forth and tooke him betwene her armes, and with my dagger immediatly did kill him. And because the offence of my wife semed so great as the doing of her to death was not sufficient to punish her, I deuised a torment which in mine opinion is worse vnto her than death. For thus I vse her, I doe locke her vp in the chamber wherein she accustomed to vse her delightes, and in the companie of hym that she loued farre better than me. In the closet of which chamber I haue placed the Anatomie of her friend, reseruing the same as a precious Iewell. And to the ende shee may not forget him at meales, at the table before my face, she vseth his skulle insteade of a cup to drinke in, to the intent she may behold him (aliue) in the presence of hym whom through her owne fault she hath made her mortal enemy, and him dead and slain for her sake, whose loue she preferred before mine. And so beholdeth those twoo thinges at dinner and supper which ought to displease her moste, her enemie liuing, and her friend dead, and al through her own wickednesse, howbeit I doe vse her no worse than my self, although shee goeth thus shauen: for the ornament of the heare doth not appertaine to an adultresse, nor the vayle or other furniture of the head to an unchast woman. Wherefore she goeth so shauen, in token she hath lost her honestie. If it please you, sir, to take the payne to see her, I wil bring you to her.” Whereunto Bernage willingly assented. And descending into her chamber whiche was very richely furnished, they founde her sitting alone at the fier. And the Gentleman drawing a Curteine, whiche was before the Closet, he sawe the Anatomie of the dead man hanging. Bernage had a great desire to speake vnto the Ladye, but for feare of her husband he durst not. The Gentleman perceiuin the same, said vnto him: “If it please you to speake vnto her, you shal vnderstand her order of talke.” Therwithall Bernage sayde vnto her: “Madame, if your pacience be correspondent to this torment, I deme you to be the happiest woman of the worlde.” The lady with teares trickeling down her eyes with a grace so good and humble as was possible, spake thus vnto him: “Sir, I doe confesse my fault to be so great, as all the afflictions and torment that the Lorde of this place (for I am not worthy to call him husbande) can doe vnto me, be nothing comparable to the sorrowe I haue conceiued of myne offence.” And in sayinge so, she began pitifully to weepe. Therewithall the Gentleman toke Bernage by the hande, and led him forth. The next day morning he departed about the businesse which the king had sent him. Notwithstanding, in bidding the Gentleman fare well, he sayde vnto hym: “Sir, the loue whiche I beare vnto you, and the honor and secretes wherewith you haue made me priuie, doth force me to saye vnto you howe I doe thinke good (seing the great repentance of the poore Gentlewoman your wife) that you doe shewe her mercie. And bicause you be yong and haue no children, it were a verie great losse and detrimentto lose such a house and ligneage as yours is. And it may so come to passe, that your enemies thereby in time to come may be your heires, and inioye the goodes and patrimonie whiche you doe leaue behinde you.” The Gentleman which neuer thought to speake vnto his wife, with those wordes paused a great while, and in thend confessed his saying to be true, promising him that if she would continue in that humilitie, he would in time shew pittie vppon her, with whiche promise Bernage departed. And when he was retourned towardes the king his maister, hee recompted vnto him the successe of his iourneyes. And amonges other thinges he tolde him of the beautie of this Ladie, who sent his Painter called Iohn of Paris, to bring him her counterfaicte: which with the consent of her husband, he did. Who after that long penaunce, for a desire he had to haue children, and for the pitie hee bare to his wyfe which with great humblenesse receiued that affliction, tooke her vnto hym agayne, and afterwardes begat of her many children.THE FIFTY-EIGHTH NOUELL.A President of Grenoble aduertised of the ill gouernement of his wife, took such order, that his honestie was not diminished, and yet reuenged the facte.InGrenoble (the chiefe citie of a Countrie in Fraunce called Daulphine, which citie otherwise is named Gratianapolis) there was a President that had a very fayre wyfe, who perceiuing her husbande beginne to waxe olde, fell in loue with a yong man that was her husband’s Clark, a very propre and handsome felowe. Vpon a time when her husband in a morning was gone to the Palace, the clarke entred his chamber and tooke his Maister’s place, whiche thing one of the presidente’s men, that faithfully had serued him the space ofXXX.yeres like a trustie seruant perceiuing, could not keepe it secret, but tolde his Maister. The President whiche was a wise man, would not beleue it vpon his light report, but sayde that he did it of purpose to set discord betwene him and his wife, notwithstanding if the thing were true as he had reported, he might let him see the thing it selfe, whiche if he did not, he had good cause to thinke that he had deuised a lye to breake and dissolue the loue betwene them. The seruaunt did assure him that he would cause him to see the thing wherof he had tolde him. And one morning so sone as the President was gone to the Court, and the Clarked entred into his chamber, the seruaunt sent one of his companions to tel his maister that he might come in good time, to see the thing that he had declared vnto him, he himself standing stil at the doore to watch that the partie might not goe out. The President so sone as he sawe the signe that one of his men made vnto him, fayning that he was not wel at ease, left the audience, and spedely went home to his house, where he founde his olde seruaunt watching at the chamber dore, assuring him for truth that the Clarke was within, and that he should with spede to goe in. The President sayd to his seruant: “Do not tarrie at the dore, for thou knowest ther is no other going out or comming in but onely this, except a litle closetwherof I alone do beare the keye.” The president entred the chamber, and found his wife and the Clarke a bed together, who in his shirt fell downe at the president’s feete, crauing pardon, and his wife much afraid began to weepe. To whome the President sayde: “For so muche as the thing which thou hast done is such, as thou maist well consider, that I can not abyde my house (for thee) in this sort to be dishonored, and the daughters which I haue had by thee to be disauaunced and abased: therfore leaue of thy weeping, and marke what I shall doe. And thou Nicolas (for that was his Clarke’s name) hide thy selfe here in my closet, and in any wise make no noyse.” When he had so done, he opened the dore and called in his olde seruaunt, and sayde vnto him: “Diddest not thou warrant and assure me that thou wouldest let me see my Clarke and wyfe in bedde together? And vppon thy words I am come hether, thinking to haue killed my wife, and doe finde nothing to be true of that which thou diddest tell me. For I haue searched the chamber in euery place as I will shewe thee.” And with that he caused his seruant to looke vnder the beddes, and in euery corner. And when the seruant founde him not, throughly astonned, he sayde to his maister: “Sir, I sawe him goe into the chamber, and out he is not gone at the dore: and so farre as I can see he is not here: therefore I thinke the Diuel must nedes carrie him awaye.” Then his maister rebuked him in these words: “Thou art a villayn, to set such diuision betwene my wife and me, wherefore I doe discharge thee from my seruice, and for that which thou hast done me, I will paye the thy dutie, with the aduauntage: therefore get thee hence, and take hede that thou doest not tarrie in this town aboueXXIIII.houres.” The President for that he knew him to be an honest and faithfull seruaunt, gaue him five or sixe yeares wages, and purposed otherwise to preferre him. When the seruaunt (with ill will and weping teares) was departed, the President caused his Clark to come out of his Closet: and after he had declared to his wife and him, what hee thought of their ill behauiour, he forbad them to shewe no likelyhode of any such matter, and commaunded his wyfe to attire and dresse her selfe in more gorgeous apparell, than she was wontto weare, and to haunt and resort to company and feastes, willing the Clarke to make a better countenaunce on the matter then hee did before, but whensoeuer he rounded him in the eare and bad him depart, he charged him after that commaundement not to tarry foure houres in the towne. And when he had thus done, he retourned to the palace Courte, as though there hadde no sutche thing chaunced. And the space of fiftene dayes (contrary to his custome) he feasted his frendes and neighbours, and after euery those bankettes, he caused the minstrels to play, to make the Gentlewomen daunce. One daye he seing his wife not to daunce, he commaunded his Clarke to take her by the hande, and to leade her forth to daunce, who thinking the President had forgotten the trespasse past, very ioyfully daunced with her. But when the daunce was ended, the President faining as though he would haue commaunded him to doe some thing in his house, bad him in his eare to get him away and neuer to retourne. Now was the Clark very sorowfull to leaue his Ladye, but yet no lesse ioyfull he was that his life was saued. Afterwardes when the President had made all his frendes and kinsfolkes, and all the countrey, beleue what great loue he bare to his wife, vppon a faire day in the moneth of May, he went to gather a sallade in his garden, the herbes whereof after she had eaten, she liued not aboueXXIIII.houres after, whereof he counterfaited suche sorrowe, as no man could suspect the occasion of her death. And by that meanes he was reuenged of his enemy, and saued the honour of his house.“¶ I will not by this Nouell (said Emarsuitte) prayse the conscience of the President, but herein I haue declared the light behauiour of a woman, and the great pacience and prudence of a man: Praying you good Ladies all, not to be offended at the truthe.” “If all women (quo Parlamente) that loue their Clarkes or seruauntes, were forced to eate such sallades, I beleue they would not loue their gardens so well as they doe, but woulde teare and plucke vp all the herbes bothe roote and rinde, to auoyde those thinges that by death might aduaunce the honor of their stock and ligneage.” “If sallades be so costly (quod Hircan) and so daungerous in May, I will prouoke appetite with other sawces, or els hunger shall be my chiefest.”THE FIFTY-NINTH NOUELL.A gentleman of Perche suspecting iniurie done vnto him by his friend, prouoked him to execute and put in proufe the cause of his suspicion.Besidesthe countrie of Perche, there were two Gentlemen, which from the tyme of theyr youthe lyued in sutche great and perfect amitie, as there was betwene them but one harte, one bed, one house, one table, and one purse. Long time continued this perfect frendship: betwene whom there was but one will and one woorde, no difference in either of them: in so muche as they not onely semed to be two brethren, but also they appeared in al semblances to be but one man. One of them chaunced to mary: notwithstanding they gaue not ouer their frendship, but perseuered in their vsual amitie as they were wont to doe: and whan they happened to be strained to straight lodging, the maried gentleman would not stick to suffer his friend to lie with him and his wife. But yet you ought for frendship sake to consider that the maried man lay in the mids. Their goodes were common betwene them, and the mariage did yelde no cause to hinder their assured amitie. But in processe of time, the felicitie of this worlde (whiche carieth with it a certaine mutabitie) could not continue in the house, which was before right pleasaunt and happy: for the maried man forgetting the faithfull fidelitie of his friend, without any cause conceiued a greate suspicion betwene hym and his wyfe, from whom he could not dissemble the case, but sharpely tolde her his mynde. She therewithall was wonderfully amazed: howbeit, he commaunded her to doe all thinges (one thing excepted) and to make so muche of his companion as of himselfe. Neuerthelesse he forbade her to speake vnto hym except it were in the presence of many. All which she gaue her husbande’s companion to vnderstande, who would not beleue her, knowyng that hee had neither by thought or deede done anye thing whereof his companion had cause to be offended. And likewise because he used to kepe nothing secrete from hym, he tolde him what hehad sayde, praying hym to tell him the truthe of the matter, because he purposed neither in that, ne yet in any other thing, to geue occasion of breach of that amitie which of long time they had imbraced. The maried Gentleman assured him that he neuer thought it, and how they which had sowen that rumor, had wickedly belied him. Whereunto his companion replied: “I knowe wel enough that Ielousie is a passion so intollerable as loue it selfe. And when you shall conceiue that opinion of Ialousie, yea and it were of my selfe, I should do you no wrong, for your selfe were not able to kepe it. But of one thing which is in your power, I haue good matter whereof to complayne, and that is because you will concele from me your maladie, sith there was no passion or opinion which you conceiued, that before this time you kept secret from me. Likewise for my owne parte if I were amorous of your wife, you ought not to impute it as a fault vnto me, because it is a fier which I bare not in my handes, to vse at my pleasure. But if I kepe it to my selfe from you, and indeuour to make youre wife knowe it by demonstration of my loue, I might then be accompted that vntrustiest friend that euer liued: and for me I doe assure you that shee is a right honest and a good woman, and one that my fansie doth lest fauour (although she were not your wife) of all them that euer I sawe. But now sithens there is no cause, I do require you that if you perceiue any suspicion, be it neuer so litle, to tell me of it, because I would so vse myself, as our frendship which hath indured so long tyme, might not bee broken for a woman: and if I did loue her aboue any thing in the worlde, yet surely I would neuer speake worde vnto her, bicause I doe esteme our frendship better then the greatest treasure.” His companion swore vnto him very great othes that he neuer thought it, praying him to vse his house as he had done before. Whereunto he aunswered: “Sithe you will haue me so to doe, I am content: but I praye you if hereafter you doe conceiue any sinistre opinion in me, not to dissemble the same, which if you doe I will neuer continue longer in your companie.” In processe of time, liuing together according to their custome, the maried Gentleman entred againe into greater Ielousie than euer he did, commaunding his wife to beare no more that countenauncetowards him that she was wont to doe. Whiche commaundement she tolde her husbande’s companion, praying him after that time to forbeare to speake vnto her, for that she was forbidden to doe the like to him. The gentleman vnderstanding by wordes and certaine countenaunces, that his companion had not kept promise, he sayd vnto him in great choler: “To be Ialous (my companion) is a thing naturall: but bicause thou diddest sweare vnto me by othes not to dissemble, I can by no meanes forbeare any longer: for I did euer thinke that betwene thyne harte and mine, there could be no let and interruption: but to my great griefe and without anye fault on my part, I doe see the contrarie. For as muche as thou art not only very Ialous betwene thy wife and mee, but also thou wouldest dissimulate and couer the same, so that in the ende thy maladie and disease continuing so long, is altered into mere malice, and lyke as oure loue hath bene the greateste that hathe bene seene in oure tyme, euen so our displeasure and hatred is nowe moste mortall. I haue done so mutche as lyeth in mee, to auoyde this inconuenience, but sithe thou hast suspected me to be an ill man, and I haue still shewed my selfe to be the contrary, I doe sweare, and therwithal assure thee, by my faith, that I am the same thou thinkest me to be, and therefore from henceforth take hede of me: for since suspicion hath separated the from my loue and amitie, despite shall deuide me from thine.” And albeit that his companion would haue made him beleue the contrarie, and that hee mistrusted hym nothing at all, yet he withdrewe his part of his moueables and goodes that before were common betweene them, so that then both their hartes and goodes were so farre separated as before they were vnited and ioyned together. In such wyse as the vnmaried Gentleman neuer ceassed till he had made his companion cockolde, according to his promise.THE SIXTIETH NOUELL.The piteous death of an Amorouse Gentleman, for the slacke comfort geuen him to late, by his beloued.BetweneDaulphine and Prouence, there was a gentleman, more riche and better furnished with beautie, vertue, and good condicions, then with the goodes of fortune: who fill in loue with a gentlewoman that for this time shall want a name, for respecte of her parentes that are come of honorable houses, and the Gentleman’s name also shalbe vntolde, for like respecte, although altogether not so honorably allied, as the Gentlewoman that he loued, and yet the historie very certen and true. And bicause his degree was not so high as hers, hee durst not discouer his affection: for the loue which he bare her, was so good and perfect, as rather would he haue bene tormented with the panges of death, then couet the least aduauntage that might redounde to her dishonor. And seing his state to base in respecte of hers, had no hope to marry her. Wherefore he grounded his loue vpon none other foundation and intent, but to loue her with all his power so perfectlye as was possible, which in the ende came vnto her knowledge. And the Gentlewoman knowing and seing the honest amitie which he bare her, to be ful of vertue, ioyned with chast and comly talke, felt her selfe right happie to be beloued and had in prise, of a personage so well condicioned, practising dayly cherefull countinaunce towardes him (whiche was the best rewarde he pretended to haue) whereof he conceiued great ease and contentment. But malice the cancred enemy of all reste and quiet, could not long abide this honest and happie life. For some frowning at his good happe, (as malice euer accompanieth a well disposed mynde) tolde the mother of the mayden, howe they marueiled that the Gentleman should bee so familiar in her house, inferring therewithall that the beautie of her daughter was the only cause, with whom they sawe him many times to vse secrete and priuat speach. The mother which by no meanes doubted the honestie of the Gentleman, no more then shee didof her own children, was very sorie to vnderstand that some shold be offended at that their familiarity. She thought therfore to shunne the cause of their offence. And at length, (fearing that slaunder might be raised of malice) she required the Gentleman for a tyme to haunt no more her house, as he was wont to doe. A thing to him of harde digestion, knowing his own innocencie, and lesse desert to be estranged from the house, for respect of the honest talke he vsed to the yonge gentlewoman. Notwithstanding, to stoppe the rage of malicious tongues, he withdrew himself, till he thought the brute was ceased, and then retourned after his wonted maner: whose absence nothing abridged his auncient good will. And he began no soner to be familiar there again, but he vnderstode that the mayden should be maried to a Gentleman, that was not so ritche and noble (as semed to hym) and therfore he thought he should receiue great wrong, if she were bestowed vpon that Gentleman, and not on hym, that had bene so long a sutor. And thereupon conceiued corage to preferre hym selfe in playne tunes, if choyse were geuen to the maiden. Howebeit, the mother and other of her kynne, sollicited and chose the other gentleman because (in dede) he was more welthie. Whereat the poore gentleman fretted with displeasure, seing that his Ladie should for worldly mucke be defrauded of her greatest ioye, by little and little without other maladie, began to languishe, and in litle tyme was so altered, as in his face appeared the visage of death. Neuerthelesse he could not forbeare the house of his beloued, but continually from time to time made his repaire thether to fede himselfe with the baulme of that beautie, which he thought would prolong his dayes, but it was the onely abridgement. In thend the poyson he sucked by the viewe of that beautie, consumed his strength, and force failing him, was constrained to kepe his bedde. Whereof he would not aduertise her whome he loued, for greuing her, knowing well that she would bee tormented with the newes. And so suffring him selfe to runne the race of past recourye, lost also his appetite to eate or drinck, and therewithall his slepe and rest fayled, in suche plight as within short space he was consumed in visage and face, as it grewe to be vglie and cleane out of knowledge. Brought tothis lowe estate, one of his frends certified the mother of his mistres, that was a very charitable and kinde Gentlewoman, and loued so well the man, as if all their parentes and kinne had bene of her’s and the mayden’s opinion they would haue preferred the honestie of him, before the great substance of the other. But the frendes of the father’s side by no meanes would consent vnto it. Yet the good Gentlewoman and her daughter (for all the other’s frowardnes) vouchsafed to visit the poor gentleman whom they founde, rather declining towards death, then in hope of life. And knowing his ende to approche, he was shriuen and receiued the holy Sacrament, purposing of present passage by panges of death, neuer to see any of his frendes againe. Being in this case and yet seing her, whome he counted to be his life and sauftie, felte suche soudden recouerie, as hee threwe hym selfe alofte his bedde and spake these wordes vnto her: “What cause hath drieuen you hither (mistres myne) by takyng paines to visite him, who hath one of his feet alreadie within the graue, the other stepping after with conuenient speede, for execution whereof you bee the onely Instrument.” “Howe so, sir?” sayde the mother. “Is it possible that hee, whom we so derely loue, can receiue death by our offences? I pray you sir to tell me, what reason leadeth you to speake these wordes.” “Madame,” sayde he, “so long as I could, I dissembled the loue that I bare to my deare mistres your daughter: so it is that my parentes and frendes speaking of a mariage betwene her and me, haue clattred thereof moe nedeles woordes then I desired, by waying the mishap that might insue, and nowe doth happe past all hope not for my particular pleasure, but bicause I knowe with none other she shalbe so well intreated nor beloued as she should haue bene with me. The benefit which I see she hath lost, is the most perfect frende the best affected seruaunt that euer shee had in this worlde, the losse wherof summoneth death to arrest the carcase, that should haue bene imployed for her seruice, which intierly was conserued and should haue bene for her sake: but sithe nowe it can serue her to no purpose, the simple losse shall redounde to greatest gaine. I meane my selfe (good Ladies bothe) that lieth bewrapped in death before your faces, whose witheredclammes hath catched the same within her reach, and hath warned the clocke to tolle the dolefull bell for his poor lovyng ghoste, nowe stretchynge out for the winding shete to shrowde his maigre corps, all forworne with the watche and toile, that such poore men (affected with like care) do feele. It is my selfe, that erst was rouing amid the troupe of Courtlie knightes decked with comely face, whose hewe dame Nature stayned with the colours of her golden art. It is I that of late was loued of that Nymphe, and earthie Goddesse, who with courtinge countenaunce imbraced the place where I did stande, and kissed the steps wherein I trode. It is my selfe I saye, that whilom in painefull blisse, did bath my selfe, and fedde mine eyes with the happie viewe of the heauenliest creature that euer God did make. And by forgoing of those ioyes byto tomuch mishap, and sacred famine of cursed mucke, I am thus pined as ye see, and wrapte in hopeles state.” The mother and doughter hearinge this complainte, did their indeuour to cheere him vp, and the mother sayde unto him: “Be of good courage sir, and I promise you my fayth, that if God giue you health, my doughter shal haue none other husband but you, and behold her here, whom I commaunde to make you present promise.” The mayden weeping with a virginall shamefastnes, consented to her mother’s hest. But knowing when he was recouered, that he should not haue her, and that the mother was so liberal of her fayre words, to recomfort him and assaye if she might restore him: he said vnto them, that if those words had bin pronounced three monethes past, he had bin the lustiest and most happie gentleman of Fraunce: but helpe offred so late, was past beliefe and hope. But when he saw, that they went about to force him to beleeue it, he said vnto them: “Now that I see ye go about to promise the good tourne which can neuer chaunce vnto mee, yea although consent ioyned with vnfayned promise desires the effect, for respect of the feeble state wherein I am: yet let me craue one thing at your hands, farre lesse then that ye offer, which hitherto I neuer durst be so bolde to aske.” Whereunto they both assented and swore to performe it, intreating him not to be ashamed to requyre it. “I humbly beseech ye (quoth hee) to deliuer her into mine armes whom ye haue promised to be mywife, and commaunde her to imbrace and kisse me.” The mayden not vsed to such priuie sutes, ne yet acquainted with such secrete facts, made some difficultie, but her mother gaue her expresse commaundement to doe it, perceyuing in him no likelihode or force of a man to liue. The maiden then vpon that commaundement, aduaunced herselfe uppon the bedde of the poore pacient, saying vnto him: “Sir, I beseech you to be of good cheere.” The languishing creature, so hard as he could for his extreeme debilitie, stretched forth his faint consumed armes, and with al the force of his body imbraced the cause of his death, and kissinge her with his colde and wanne mouth, held her so long as he could, and then spake vnto the mayden: “The loue which I haue borne you hath bin so great, and the good will so honest, as neuer (mariage excepted) I wished anye other thinge of you, but that which I presentlye haue, throughe the wante whereof and with the same I will ioyfully render my spirite to God, who is the parfaicte Loue, and truest Charitie, whoe knoweth the greatnes of my loue and the honestie of my desire: humblie beseeching him, (that nowe I hauing my desire betweene mine armes,) to interteigne my ghost within his blessed bosome.” And in saying so he caught her againe betweene his armes with such vehemencie, as the feeble hart not able to abide that assault, was abandoned of all powers and mouinges: for the instant ioye so dilated and stretched forth the same, as the siege of the soule gaue ouer, making his repaire and flighte to his Creator: and because the senceles bodye rested withoute life, it gaue ouer his holde. Howbeit the loue, which the Damosell had still kept secrete, at that time shewed it self so strong and mightie, as the mother and seruauntes of the dead Gentleman had much a do to separate that vnion, but by force they haled away the liuing, almost deade with the deade. After the funerall was done with honourable exequies: but the greatest triumph was spent in teares, weepinges and cryes, specially by the gentlewoman, which so much more were manifeste after his death, as before in his life time they were dissembled, bestowinge them as an expiacion or sacrifice, to satisfie the wrong she had done vnto him. And afterwards (as I haue heard tell) she was maried to one, for mitigacion of her sorow, that neuer was partakerof the ioye of her harte. See here good Ladies an Image of perfect loue, that so muche had seazed vpon thaffections of this amorous Gentleman, as the pange neuer gaue ouer, till death (the rest of all troubles) had diuided life from the body. Yet some perchaunce for the desperate part of this hopeles louer, will terme him to be a fonde louing foole: and say that it is not meete that they should neglecte theyr liues for womens sakes, which were not created but for their helpe and comforte. And that being true as verifyed and auouched by Scriptures, there is no cause of feare to demaunde that of them, which God hath enioyned them to giue vs. In deede a sensuall loue, and such as is grounded to satisfye beastly luste, is a thinge horrible to Nature, and abhominable in the sight of him that made both those creatures, whom he fraughted with reason and knowledge for the refusall of those vices, which are onely to be applied to beastes voyde of reason. But loue founded in the soyle of Vertue, for auoyding carnall lust exercized in the state of Wedlocke, or first begonne and practized for that ende, is very ciuil and to be honoured. And if that loue attaine not equall successe, through parents default or vnkindnes of frendes or other humane accidents, if that loue so perce the hart, or otherwyse afflict the pacient with dispaire of helpe, and so occasioneth death, it is not to be termed follie or dotage, but to be celebrated with honourable titles. The honest amitie then of this gentleman, borne long time to this gentlewoman, meriteth euerlasting praise: for to finde such great chastitie in an amorous hart, is rather a thing deuine then humaine. A mocion moued aboue amongs the heauenly route, and not anacwrought in the grosenes of man’s infirmitie.

The incontinencie of a duke and of his impudencie to attaine his purpose, with the iust punishement which he receiued for the same.

Inthe Citie of Florence (the chiefest of all Thuscane) there was a Duke that maried the Lady Margaret the bastarde daughter of the Emperour Charles the fift. And bicause shee was very young, it was not lawfull for him to lye with her, but taryng till she was of riper yeres, he interteigned an vsed her like a noble gentleman. And who to spare his wife, was amorous of certaine other Gentlewomen of the citie. Amonges whom he was in loue with a very fayre and wyse Gentlewoman, that was sister to a Gentleman, a seruaunt of his, whome the Duke loued so well as himselfe, to whome he gaue so muche authoritie in his house, as his word was so wel obeied and feared as the Duke’s him self, and there was no secrete thing in the Duke’s minde, but he declared the same vnto him, who might ful wel haue bene called a second himself. The duke seing his sister to be a woman of great honestie, had no wayes or meanes to vtter vnto her the loue that he bare her (after he had inuented all occasions possible) at length he came to this Gentleman which he loued so well, and said vnto him: “My friend, if there were any thing in all the world, wherein I were able to pleasure thee, and woulde not doe it at thy request, I should be afraid to say my fantasie, and much ashamed to craue your help and assistance: but the loue is such which I bare thee, as if I had a wife, mother, or daughter, that were able to saue thy life, I would rather imploy them, than to suffer thee to die in torment: and if thou doe beare vnto me that affection which am thy maister, thinke verely that I doe beare vnto thee the like. Wherefore I will disclose vnto thee suche a secrete and priuie matter, as the silence thereof hath brought me into sutche plight as thou seest, whereof I doe loke for none amendement but by death or by the seruice whiche thou maiest doe me, in a certayne matter which I purpose to tell thee.” The Gentleman hearing the reasons of his maister, and seing his face not fayned,but all besprent with teares, tooke great compassion vpon him and sayd: “My Lorde, I am your humble seruaunt: all the goodes and worship that I haue doth come from you. You may saye vnto me as to your moste approued frende. Assure your self, that all which resteth in my power and abilitie, is already at your commaundement.” Then the Duke began to tell him of the loue that hee bare vnto his sister, which was of sutche force, as if by his meanes he did not enioye her, his life could not long continue. For he saide, that he knew right well that intreatie and presentes were with her of no regard. Wherfore he praied him, that if he loued his life, so well as he did his, to finde meanes for him to receiue that benefite, which without him he was in despaire neuer to recouer. The brother which loued his sister and honor of his kindred, more than the Duke’s pleasure, made a certain reuerence vnto him, humbly beseeching him to vse his trauaill and pain in all other causes sauing in that, bicause it was a sute so slaunderous and infamous, as it would purchase dishonor to his whole familie, adding further, that neither his hart nor his honor could serue him, to consent to do that seruice. The Duke inflamed with vnspeakeable furie, put his finger betwene his teeth, and biting of the nayle, said unto him in great rage: “Well then sithe I finde in thee no frendship, I know what I haue to doe.” The Gentleman knowing the crueltie of his Maister, being sore afraide, replied: “My Lorde, for so much as your desire is vehement and earnest, I will speake vnto her and brynge you aunswere of her mynde.” And as he was departing, the Duke sayde vnto him: “See that thou tender my life as thou wylt that I shall doe thyne.” The Gentleman vnderstanding well what that woorde did meane, absented him selfe a day or twaine to aduise what were best to be done. And amonges diuers his cogitations, there came to his remembraunce the bounden dutie which he dyd owe to his Maister, and the goodes and honours which he had receyued at his handes, on the other syde, hee considered the honour of his house, the good life and chastitie of his syster, who (he knewe well) would neuer consent to that wickednesse, if by subtiltie shee were not surprised, or otherwyse forced, and that it were a thing very straunge and rare, that he should goe about to defame hymselfe and the wholestocke of his progenie. Wherefore hee concluded, that better it were for hym to die, than to commit a mischief so great vnto his sister, whiche was one of the honestest women in all Italie. And therewithall considered how he might deliuer his countrie from sutch a tyrant, which by force would blemishe and spot the whole race of his auncient stock and familie. For he knew right wel that except the duke were taken away, the life of him and his affinitie could not be in securitie and safegarde: wherfore without motion made to his sister of that matter, he deuised how to saue his life and the reproche that should follow. Vpon the second daye he came vnto the duke, and tolde hym in what sorte he had practised with his sister, and that although the same in the beginning was harde and difficult, yet in the ende he made her to consent, vpon condicion that hee would keepe the same so secrete as none but hymselfe and he myght knowe of it. The duke desirous and glad of those newes, dyd sone belieue hym, and imbracing the messanger, promised to geue him whatsoeuer he would demaunde, praying hym with all speede that hee might inioye his desyred purpose. Whereupon they appointed a tyme: and to demaunde whether the duke were glad and ioyfull of the same, it were superfluous. And when the desired night was come, wherin he hoped to haue the victorie of her whom he thought inuincible, he and the gentleman alone withdrewe themselues together, not forgetting his perfumed coif and swete shirte wrought and trimmed after the best maner. And when eche wight was gone to bed, both they repayred to the appointed lodging of his Lady, where being arriued they founde a chamber in decent and comly order. The gentleman taking of the Duke’s night gowne, placed hym in the bedde, and sayde vnto hym: “My Lorde, I wil nowe goe seeke her, which can not enter into this chamber without blushing, howbeit I truste before to morrowe morning she wyll be very glad of you.” Which done, he left the Duke, and went into his own chamber, where he founde one of his seruantes alone, to whome he sayde: “Hast thou the harte to followe me into a place where I shall be reuenged vpon the greatest enemie that I haue in the worlde?” “Yea sir,” aunswered his man. Whereupon the Gentleman toke him with him so sodainly, as he had no leasure to arme himselfe with other weapon but with his onely dagger. And when the Duke heard him come againe, thinking he had brought her with hym that he loued so derely, hee drewe the curteine, and opened his eyes to behold and receiue that ioye which he had so long loked for, but in place of seeing her which he hoped should be the conseruation of his life, he sawe the acceleration of his death, which was a naked sworde that the Gentleman had drawen, who therwithall did strike the Duke, which was in his shirte voyde of weapon, although well armed with courage, and sitting vp in his bedde grasped the Gentleman about the body, and sayde: “Is this thy promise whiche thou hast kept?” And seeing that he had no other weapon but his teeth and nayles, he bitte the gentleman in the arme, and by force of his owne strengthe he so defended himselfe, as they bothe fell downe into the flower. The gentleman fearing the match, called for hys manne, who finding the Duke and his maister fast together, that he wyst not whether to take, he drewe them both by the feete into the middest of the chamber, and with his dagger assayde to cut the Duke’s throte. The duke who defended himselfe, till suche time as the losse of his bloud made him so weake and feeble that he was not able to contende any longer. Then the Gentleman and his man laide him againe into his bed, where they accomplished the effect of that murther. Afterwardes drawing the curteine, they departed and locked the dead body in the chamber. And when he saw that he had gotten the vicctorie of his enemy, by whose death he thought to set at libertie the common wealth, he supposed his facte to be vnperfect if he did not the like to fiue or sixe of them which were nerest to the Duke, and best beloued of him. And to attaine the perfection of that enterpryse, he bad his man to doe the like vnto them one after another, that hee had done to the Duke. But the seruaunt being nothing hardie or coragious, said vnto his maister: “Me thinke, sir, that for this time ye haue done enough, and that it were better for you now to deuise waye howe to saue your owne life, than to seeke meanes to murder any more. For if we do consume so long space of time to kill euery of them, as we haue done in murdering of the Duke, the day light will discouer our enterprise before we haue made an ende, yea although wee finde them naked andwithout defence.” The gentleman whose euill conscience made him fearfull, did beleue his seruaunt, and taking him alone with him, went to the bishop that had in charge the gates of the citie, and the vse of the Postes, to whom he sayd: “This euening (my Lord) newes came vnto me that mine owne brother lieth at the point of death, and crauing licence of the Duke to goe se him he hath giuen me leaue. Wherefore I beseche you commaunde the Postes to deliuer me two good horse, and that you will sende worde to the porter that the gates may be opened.” The bishop which estemed no lesse his request than the commaundement of the Duke his maister, incontinently gaue him a billet, by vertue wherof both the gates were opened, and the horse made ready according to his demaunde. And vnder colour and pretence of visiting his brother, he rode to Venice, where after he had cured himselfe of the duke’s bitinges fastened in his fleshe, he trauailed into Turkey. In the morning the duke’s seruauntes seing the time so late before their maister retourned, suspected that he was gone forth in visiting of some Ladye, but when they sawe he taried so long, they began to seke for him in euery place. The poore Duchesse into whose harte the loue of her husbande strongly did inuade, vnderstanding that he could not be founde, was very pensife and sorowfull. But when the Gentleman which he so dearely loued, was not likewyse seene abroade, searche was made in his chamber, where finding bloud at the chamber dore, they entred in, but no man was there to tell them any newes, and following the tract of the bloud the poore seruantes of the Duke went to the chamber dore, where he was, which dore they found fast locked, who incontinently brake open the same: and seing the place all bloudy, drew the curteine, and found the wretched carcasse of the Duke lying in the bedde, sleeping his endlesse sleepe. The sorrow and lamentation made by the duke’s seruauntes, carying the dead bodye into his palace, is easie to be coniectured. Wherof when the Bishop was aduertised, he repaired thether, and tolde how the Gentleman was gone awaye in the night in great haste, vnder pretence to goe to see his brother: whereupon it was euidently knowen that it was he that had committed the murder. And it was proued that his poore sister was neuer priuie to the facte, who although she was astonned with thesodaynes of the deede, yet her loue towardes her brother was farre more increased, bicause he had deliuered her from a Prince so cruell, the enemy of her honestie: for doing whereof he did not sticke to hazard his owne life. Whereupon she perseuered more and more in vertue, and although she was poore, by reason her house was confiscate, yet both her sister and shee matched with so honest and riche husbandes as were to be founde in Italie: and afterwardes they both liued in good and great reputation.

One of the Frenche kinge’s called Frauncis the firste of that name, declared his gentle nature to Counte Guillaume, that would haue killed him.

InDigeon a town of Burgundie, there came to the seruice of king Frauncis, (whiche was father to Henry the second of that name, whiche Henry was kylled by Mounsier Mongomerie, in a triumphe at the Tilt, and graundfather to Charles theIX.that now raigneth in Fraunce) an Earle of Allemaigne called Guillaume, of the house of Saxon, whereunto the house of Sauoie is so greatly allied, as in old time they were but one. This Counte for so much as he was estemed to be so comely and hardy a Gentleman as any was in Almaigne, was in sutche good fauour with the king, as he tooke him not onely into seruice, but vsed him so nere his persone, as he made him of his priuy chamber. Vpon a day the Gouernour of Burgundie, the Lorde Trimouille (an auncient knight and loyall seruaunt of the kyng) like one suspicious and fearfull of the euill and hurte of his Maister, had daylie espies ouer his enemies, vsing his affaires so wysely, as very fewe thinges were concealed from hym. Among other aduertisementes, one of his friendes wrote vnto him that the Counte Guillaume had receiued certain sommes of money, with promise of more, if by any meanes he could deuise which waye to kill the king. The Lorde of Trimouile hearing of this, failed not to come to the kyng to giue him knowledge thereof, and disclosed it lykewyse to Madame Loyse of Sauoye his mother, who forgetting her amitie and aliaunce with the Almaigne Earle, besought the king forthwith to put hym awaye. The kyng prayed his mother to speake no more thereof, and sayde, that it was impossible that so honest a Gentleman would attempt to doe a deede so wicked. Within a while after, there came other newes of that matter, confirming the first: whereof the Gouernour for the intire loue he bare to his Maister, craued licence either to expel him the countrie, or to put him in warde. But the king gaue speciallcommaundement that he should not make any semblaunce of displeasure, for that hee purposed by some other meanes to knowe the truthe. Vpon a time when he went a hunting he girded about him the best sworde that hee had, to serue for all armes and assayes, and toke with him the Counte Guillaume, whome he commaunded to wayte vpon him, the firste and chiefest next his owne persone. And after he had followed the hart a certayne tyme, the kyng seing that his traynes was farre from hym, and no man neare him sauing the Counte, tourned hym selfe rounde about, and when hee sawe that hee was alone, in the mydde of the forest, hee drew out his sworde, and sayd to the Counte: “How saye you, (sir counte) is not this a fayre and good swoorde?” The counte feling it at the point, and well viewyng the same, aunswered that he neuer sawe a better in all his life. “You haue reason,” sayde the kyng, “and I beleue that if a Gentleman were determined to kyll mee, and did knowe the force of myne armes, and the goodnesse of myne harte accompanied with this sword, he would bee twyse well aduised before hee attempted that enterprise. Notwithstanding I would accompt him but a cowarde, wee being alone withoute witnesses, if he did not attempt that, which he were disposed to do.” The Counte Guillaume with bashfull and astonned countenaunce aunsweared: “Sir, the wickednesse of the enterprise were very great, but the folly in the execution were no lesse.” The king with those wordes fell in a laughter, and put the sword in the skaberd againe: and hearing that the chase drewe neare him, he made to the same so faste as he coulde. When he was come thether, he said nothing of that which had passed betweene theim, and verelye thoughte that the Counte Guillaume although that he was a stronge and stoute gentleman, yet he was no man to do so great an enterprise. But the Counte Guillaume, fearing to be bewrayed or suspected of the fact, next day morning repayred to Robertet the Secretarie of the kinge’s reuenues, and saide that hee had well wayed the giftes and annuities which the kinge would giue him to tarrie, but he perceiued that they were not sufficient to interteigne him for halfe a yeare, and that if it pleased not the king to double the same, hee should be forced todeparte, praying the sayde Robertet to know his grace’s pleasure so sone as he coulde, who sayd vnto him, that he himselfe could without further commission disbursse no more vnto him, but gladly without further delay he would repaire to the king: which he did more willingly, because he had seene the aduertisements of the Gouernor aforesaid. And so sone as the kinge was awake, he declared the matter vnto him in the presence of Monsier Trimouille and Monsier Bouinet, lord admirall, who were vtterly ignorant of that which the king had done. To whom the kinge said: “Loe, ye haue bene miscontented for that I would not put away the Counte Guillaume, but now ye see he putteth away himselfe. Wherefore Robertet (quoth the king) tell him, that if he be not content with the state which he receiued at his first entrie into my seruice, whereof many gentlemen of good houses would thinke themselues happie, it is meete that he seeke his better fortune, and tell him that I would be lothe to hinder him, but wilbe very well contented, that he seeke where he may liue better, accordingly as he deserueth.” Robertet was so diligent to beare this aunsweare to the Counte, as he was to present his sute to the kinge. The counte said that with his licence he would gladly go forthwith: and as one whom feare forced to depart, he was not able to beare his abode 24 houres. And as the king was sitting downe to dinner, fayning to be sorye for his departure, but that necessitie compelled him to lose his presence, hee toke his leaue. He went likewise to take leaue of the king’s mother, which she gaue him with so great ioy, as she did receiue him, being her nere kinsman and freind. Then he went into his countrie: and the king seing his mother and seruantes astonned at his sodaine departure, declared vnto them the Al Arme, which he had giuen him, saying, that although he was innocent of the matter suspected, soe was his feare greate ynoughe, to departe from a maister wyth whose condicions hitherto he was not acquainted.

A pleasaunt discours of a great Lord to enioy a Gentlewoman of Pampelunæ.

Therewas in the time of king Lewes theXII.of that name, a young Lord, called the lorde of Auannes sonne to the Lorde Alebret, and brother to king John of Nauarre, with whom the said Lord of Auannes ordinarely remayned. Now this yong Lorde was of the age ofXV.yeares, so comely a personage, and full of curtesie and good behauiour, as he seemed to be created for none other purpose, but to be beloued and regarded: and so he was in deede of al those that did wel behold and note his commendable grace and condicion, but chiefly of a woman, dwelling in the citie of Pampelunæ in Nauarre, the wife of a rich man, with whom she liued honestly: and although she was but 23 yeres of age, and her husband very nere fiftie, yet her behauior was so modest, as she seemed rather a widow than a maried wyfe, who vsed not to frequent and haunte any mariages, banquets, or common assemblies without the company of her husbande, the vertue and goodnes of whom she so greatly esteemed, as she preferred the same before the beautie of al others. The husband, hauing experience of her wisedome, put such trust in her, as he committed al thaffaires of his house to her discretion: vpon a day this rich man with his wife, were inuited to a mariage of one that was nere kinne vnto him: to which place (for the greater honor of the mariage) repaired the yong Lord of Auannes, who naturally was giuen to dauncing, and for his excellencie in dauncing there was not his like to be found in his time: after dinner when they prepared to daunce, the Lord of Auannes was intreated thereunto by the rich man: the said lord asked him with what gentlewoman hee should lead the daunce. He aunsweared him: “My Lord if there were any one more beautifull, or more at my commaundement then my wyfe, I would present her vnto you, beseeching you to do mee so much honour as to take her by the hande.” Which the yong Lorde did, and by reason of his youthfull courage he toke morepleasure in vaultinge and dauncinge, then in beholding the beautie of the Ladies: and she whom he ledde by the hand, contrarywyse regarded more the grace and beautie of the said yong Lord, then the daunce wherin she was, albeit for her great wisedome she made therof no semblance at al. When supper time was come, the Lord of Auannes badde the companie farewell and went home to the castle: whether the riche man accompanied him vppon his moile: and riding homewards together, hee saide vnto him: “My Lord, this day you haue done so great honor vnto my kinsemen and mee, that it were great ingratitude is I should not offer my selfe with all the goods I haue to do you seruice: I knowe sir that such Lordes as you be which haue nere and couetous fathers, many times do lacke money which we by keeping of smal houshold, and vsing good husbandrie do heape and gather together. Now thus it is sir, that God hauing giuen mee a wife accordinge to my desire he would not in this world altogether indue mee with heauenly pleasures, but hath left me voyde of one ioy which is the ioye that fathers haue of children. I know sir that it is not my dutie, and belongeth not to my state to adopt you for such a one, but if it maye please you to receiue mee for your seruaunt, and to declare vnto me your small affaires, so farre as a hundred thousande Crownes shall extende, I will not sticke to helpe your necessities.” The yong Lorde of Auannes was very ioyfull of this offer, for he had suche a father as the other had described vnto him: and after he had giuen him hartie thanckes, he called him his friendlye father. From that time forth the sayd riche man conceiued such loue in the yong Lord, as daily he ceased not to inquire of his lacke and want, and hid not from his wyfe the deuocion which he bare to the said Lorde of Auannes, for which she rendred vnto him double thanckes. And after that time the said yong Lord lacked not what he desired, and many times resorted to that rich man’s to drincke and eate with him, and finding him not at home, his wyfe rewarded him with his demaunde: whoe admonished her by wyse and discrete talke to be vertuous, because he feared and loued her aboue all the women of the worlde. She which had God and her honor before her eyes, was contente with his sight and talke, wherin consisted the satisfaction of his honestie and vertuousloue: in such wise as she neuer made any signe or semblaunce, wherby he might thinke and iudge that shee had anye affection vnto him, but that which was both brotherlie and christian. During this couerte amitie, the Lord of Auannes through the foresaid ayde, was very gorgious and trimme, and approching the age ofXVII.yeares, began to frequent the company of Gentlewomen more then he was wont to do: and although he had a more willing desire, to loue that wyse and discrete dame aboue other, yet the feare which he had to lose her loue (if shee misliked her sute) made him to hold his peace, and to seeke els wher: and gaue himself to the loue of a Gentlewoman dwelling hard by Pampelunæ, which had to husband a yong gentleman, that aboue all thinges loued and delighted in dogges, horsse, and Hawkes. This noble Gentleman began (for her sake) to deuise a thousand pastimes, as Torneyes, running at the Tilt, Mommeries, Maskes, feastes and other games, at all which this yong dame was present: but because that her husband was very fantasticall, and saw his wyfe to be faire and wanton, hee was ialous of her honour, and kepte her in so straite, as the sayde Lord of Auannes colde get nothing at her hands but words, shortly spoken, in some daunce, albeit in litle time and lesse speache, the sayde Lorde perceyued that there wanted nothing for full perfection of their loue, but time and place: wherfore he came to his new adopted father the rich man, and said vnto him that he was minded with great deuocion to visite our Lady of Montferrat, intreating him to suffer his houshoulde traine to remaine with him, because he was disposed to go thither alone. Whereunto he willingly agreed: but his wyfe whose hart the great prophet loue had inspired, incontinently suspected the true cause of that voyage, and cold not forbeare to saye vnto the Lord of Auannes these woords: “My Lord, my Lorde, the pilgrimage of the Lady whom you worshippe, is not farre without the walles of the Citie, wherefore I beseech you aboue all thinges to haue regarde vnto your health.” Hee which feared her, and loued her, blushed at her words, and without talke by his countenaunce he seemde to confesse the trothe: whereupon he departed, and when he had bought a couple of faire Genets of Spaine he clothed himself like a horsekeeper and so disguisedhis face as no man knew him. The Gentleman which had maried that fonde and wanton gentlewoman, louinge aboue all thinges (as is sayde before) fayre horses, espyed those two Genets which the lord of Auannes did lead, and incontinently came to buy them: and after he had bought them, hee beheld the horse-keeper which rode and handled them passing well, and asked him if he were willing to serue him: the Lord of Auannes answeared yea, and added further how he was a poore horse-keeper vnskilfull of other science but of keepinge of horse, which practize hee could do so well, as he doubted not but he should content and please him: the Gentleman very glad thereof, gaue him charge of all his horse, and called forth his wyfe vnto him, vnto whom he recommended his horse and horsekeper, and told her that he himself was disposed to go to the castel: the gentlewoman so well to please her husband as for her owne delight and pastime, wente to loke vpon her horse and to behold her new horskeper, who seemed to be a man of good bringing vp, notwithstanding she knewe him not. He seing that she had no knowledge of him, came to do reuerence vnto her after the maner of Spaine, and taking her by the hand kissed the same, and by kissing of her hand, he disclosed himself so much as she knew him: for in dauncing with her many times he vsed the like curtesie: and then she ceased not to deuise place wher she might speake to him a part: which she did the very same euening: for being bidden to a feast wherunto her husband would faine haue had her to go, she fayned herselfe to be sicke and not able: and her husband loth to faile his frends request, said vnto her: “For so much (my good wyfe) as you be not disposed to go with me, I pray you to haue regard to my dogges and horse that they may lack nothing.” The Gentlewoman was very wel contented with that comission: howbeit without chaung of countenance she made him answere that sith in better things he would not imploie her, she would not refuse the least, to satisfie his desire: and her husband was no soner out of the gates, but she went down into the stable, where she founde faulte wyth diuers things: for prouision whereof she committed such seueral busines to her men on euery side, that shee remayned alone with the master horskeper: and for feare least any shouldcome vpon them vnwares, she said vnto him: “Go into my garden and tarie my comming in the litle house at the ende of the alley.” Which he did so diligently as hee had no leasure to thancke her, and after that she had giuen order to the yeomen of the stable, shee went to see the dogges, counterfaiting like care and diligence to haue them wel intreated: in such wise as she seemed rather a mayde of the chamber then a maistresse of the house: which done shee returned into her chamber, where she made her self to be so werie, as she went to bed, saying that she was disposed to sleepe. All her women left her alone except one in whom she reposed her greatest trust, and vnto whom she said: “Go downe into the garden, and cause him whom you shall finde at the end of the alley, to come hither.” The mayde wente downe and founde the Maister horskeeper there, whom forthwith shee brought vnto her maistresse: and then the gentlewoman caused her mayd to go forth to watch when her husbande came home. The lord of Auannes seing that he was alone with his maistres, put of his horsekeeper’s apparrel, plucked from his face his false nose and beard, and not as a feareful horsekeeper, but like such a Lord as he was, without asking leaue of the Gentlewoman, boldly laied him downe beside her: where hee was of that foolishe woman receiued so ioyfully, as his estate and goodly personage did require, continuing with her vntil the retorne of her husband: at whose comming putting vpon him againe his counterfaite attire, left the pleasure which by policie and malice he had vsurped. The gentleman when hee was within, hearde tell of the dilligence which his wife had vsed vppon his commaundemente, and thanked her very hartelie. “Husband (said the gentlewoman) I do but my dutie, and do assure you that if there be no ouerseer to checke and commaunde your negligent seruaunts, you shal haue neyther dogge nor horse well kept and ordred: forasmuche as I knowe their slouth, and your good wil, you shalbe better serued then you haue bin heretofore.” The gentleman who thought that he had gotten the best horsekeeper of the worlde, asked her how she liked him. “I assure you sir (quoth she) he doth his busines so well as any seruaunt, howbeit he had neede to be called vppon, for you know seruaunts in these dayes without an ouerseer, wilbe be slow and carelesse.” Thus oflong time continued the husbande and wyfe in greater amitie and loue then before, and gaue ouer all the suspicion and ialousie which hee had conceyued, because before time his wyfe louinge feastes, daunces and companies, was become intentife and diligente about her household: and perceiued that now many times she was contented in homely garmentes to go vp and downe the house wher before she was accustomed to be 4 houres in trimming of herselfe: whereof shee was commended of her husbande, and of euery man that knew not how the greater deuill had chased awaye the lesse. Thus liued this yonge dame vnder the hypocrisie and habite of an honest woman, in suche fleshlye pleasure as reason, conscience, order and measure, had no longer resting place in her: which insaciat lust the yong Lord of delicate complexion was no longer able to susteine, but began to waxe so pale and feeble, as he needed no visarde for disfiguring of himselfe. Notwithstanding the folish loue which he bare to that woman so dulled his sence, as he presumed vppon that force which fayled in the monstruous giant Hercules, whereby in the ende constrayned with sicknes and councelled by his maistresse, which loued not the sicke so well as the hole, demaunded leaue of his maister to go home to his frends: who to his great griefe graunted him the same: and caused him to make promise that when he was recouered hee should returne againe to his seruice. Thus went the Lord of Auannes on foote away from his maister, for he had not paste the lenght of one streate to trauaile. And when he was come to the rich man’s house his new father, he found none at home but his wyfe, whose vertuous loue shee bare him was nothing diminished for al his voyage: but when she saw him so leane and pale, she could not forbeare to say vnto him: “Sir, I knowe not in what staye your conscience is, but your body is litle amended by this pilgrimage, and I am in doubte that the way wherein you traueiled in the night, did wearie and paine you more, then that vppon the daye: for if you had gone to Hierusalem on foote, you mighte perhappes haue returned more Sunne burned, but more leane and weake it had bin impossible. Now make accompt of your pilgrimage here, and serue no more such Sainctes, for in place of raysinge the deade from life, they do to death those thatbe on liue: moreouer I shall saye vnto you, that if your bodye were neuer so sinfull, I see well it hath suffred such penaunce, as I haue pitie to renewe anye former payne.” When the Lorde of Auannes had hearde all her talke he was no lesse angrie with himselfe then ashamed, and saide vnto her: “Madame, I haue sometimes heard tell that repentaunce insueth sinne, and now I haue proued the same to my cost, praying you to excuse my youth that could not be corrected but by experience of that euill, which before it would not beleeue.” The Gentlewoman chaunging her talke, caused him to lye downe vppon a fayre bedde, where he lay the space ofXV.dayes, feedinge onely vppon restoratiues: and the husband and wyfe kept him so good companye, as one of theim neuer departed from him: and albeit that he had committed those follies, (suche as you haue heard) against the minde and aduise of that wyse and discrete dame, yet shee neuer diminished the vertuous loue which shee bare him, for shee still hoped that after he had spent his yonger dayes in youthly follies, he would retire at length when age and experience should force him to vse honest loue, and by that meanes would be altogether her owne. And during those fifteene dayes that he was cherished in her house, she vsed vnto him womanly and commendable talke, onely tending to the loue of vertue, which caryed such effect as he began to abhorre the follie that he committed: and beholding the gentlewoman which in beautie passed the other wanton, with whom he had delt before, he imprinted in minde more and more the graces and vertues that were in her, and was not able to keepe in harte the secrete conceipt of the same, but abandoning all feare, he sayd vnto her: “Madame, I see no better means, to be such one, and so vertuous as you by wordes desire me for to be, but to settle my harte, and giue my selfe to be holie in loue with vertue, and the qualities therunto appertinent. I humblie beseech you therfore (good madame) to tel me if your selfe wil not vouchsafe to giue me al your ayde and fauor that you possiblie can, for thobteyning of the same.” The maistresse very ioyful to heare him vse that language, made him aunswere: “And I do promise you sir, that if you wilbe in loue with vertue as it behoueth so noble a state as you be, I wil do you the seruice that I can to bring you thereuntowith such power and abilitie as God hath planted in mee.” “Well madame,” saide the Lorde of Auannes, “remember then your promise, and vnderstande that God vnknowen of the Christian but by fayth, hath dayned to take flesh, like to that our sinful which we beare about vs, to thend that by drawing our flesh into the loue of his humanity, he may draw also our minde to the loue of his diuinitie, and requireth to be serued by thinges visible to make vs loue by fayth that diuinity which is inuisible: in like maner the vertue which I desire to imbrace all the dayes of my life, is a thing inuisible and not to be seen but by outward effects. Wherfore needeful it is, that she now do put vpon her some body or shape to let herselfe be knowen amonges men: which in deede she hath don by induing herself with your form and shape, as the most perfect that she is able to find amonges liuing creatures. Wherfore I do acknowledge and confesse you to be not onely a vertuous creature, but euen very vertue it self. And I which see the same to shine vnder the glimsing vaile of the most perfect that euer was: I will honor and serue the same during my life, forsaking (for the same) all other vaine and vicious loue.” The gentlewoman no lesse content then marueling to here those words dissembled so wel her contented minde as she said vnto him: “My Lord, I take not vpon me to aunswere your diuinity, but like her that is more fearefull of euill then beleful of good, do humblie beseech you to cease to speake to me those words of prayse, that is not worthy of the least of them. I know right wel that I am a woman, not onely as another is, but so imperfect, as vertue might do a better acte to transforme me into her, then she to take my forme, except it be when she desires to be vnknowen to the world: for vnder such habite as mine is, vertue cannot be knowen, according to her worthines: so it is sir, that for mine imperfection, I wil not cease to bere you such affection, as a woman ought or maye do that feareth God, and hath respect to her honour: but that affection shal not appere, vntill your harte be able to receiue the pacience which vertuous loue commaundeth. And now sir I know what kinde of speach to vse, and thincke that you do not loue so well, your owne goodes, purse or honour, as I doe with all my hart tender and imbrace the same.” Thelord of Auannes fearefull with teares in eyes, besought her earnestly that for her woordes assuraunce, shee woulde vouchsafe to kisse him: which she refused, saying that for him, she would not breake the countrie’s custome: and vppon this debate the husband came in, to whom the Lord of Auannes said: “My father, I knowe my selfe so much bounde to you and to your wife, as I besech you for euer to repute me for your sonne.” Which the good man willingly did. “And for surety of that amitie, I pray you,” said Monsier D’Auannes, “that I may kisse you.” Whiche he did. After he said vnto him: “If it were not for feare to offend the Law, I would do the like to my mother your wyfe.” The husbande hearinge him saye so, commaunded his wyfe to kisse him, which she did although she made it straunge, either for the Lord’s desire or for husband’s request to do the same: then the fier (which words had begunne to kindle in the harte of the poore Lorde) beganne to augmente by that desired kisse, so strongly sued for, and so cruelly refused: which done the sayde Lord of Auannes repayred to the Castell to the kinge his brother, where he told many goodly tales of his voyage to Montferrat, and vnderstode there, that the kinge his brother was determined to remoue to Olly and Taffares, and thinking that the iorney woulde be longe, conceiued great heauines, which made him to muse how he mighte assaye before his departure, whether the wise Gentlewoman bare him such good will, as shee made him beleeue shee did: and therefore hee toke a house in the streate where she dwelt, which was old and ill fauoured and built of Timber: which house about midnight of purpose he set on fier, wherof the crye was so great throughout the Citie as it was hard within the rich man’s house. Who demaunding at his window wher the fier was, vnderstode it to be at the Lord of Auannes, wherunto he incontinentlye repayred with all the people of his house, and found the yonge Lord in his shirt in the middest of the streat, whom for pitie he toke betweene his armes, and couering him with his nighte Gowne, caried him home to his house with al possible speede, and saide vnto his wife which was a bed: “Wife, I giue you to kepe this prisoner, vse him as my selfe.” So sone as he was departed the sayd Lord of Auannes, who had good wil to beinterteigned for her husband, quicklie lept into the bed, hoping that the occasion and place would make that wise woman to chaunge her minde, which he founde to be contrary: for so sone as he lept into the bed of thone side, shee speedelie went out of the other, and putting on her night Gowne she repaired to the bed’s head, and said vnto him: “How now sir, do you thincke that occasions can chaunge a chaste harte? beleeue and thincke that as gold is proued in the Fornace, euen so an vnspotted hart in the middest of temptacion: wherein many times an honest hart sheweth it selfe to be more strong and vertuous, then els where, and the more it is assailed by his contrary, the coulder be the desires of the same: wherefore be you assured that if I had bin affected with other minde then that which many times I haue disclosed vnto you, I would not haue fayled to finde meanes to haue satisfyed the same: praying you that if you will haue me to continue the affection which I beare you, to remoue from your minde for euer not onely the will but the thoughte also, for any thinge you be able to doe to make me other then I am.” As she was speaking of these words her women came into the chamber, whom she commaunded to bring in a colacion of all sortes of comficts and other delicats: but that time hee had no appetite either to eate or drincke, hee was fallen into suche dispaire for fayling of his enterprise: fearing that the demonstracion of his desire, would haue caused her to giue ouer the secrete familiaritie betweene them. The husbande hauinge ceased the fier, retorned and intreated the Lord of Auannes that night to lodge in his house, who passed that night in such nomber of cogitacions as his eyes were more exercised with weeping then sleeping, and early in the morninge he bad them farewell in their bedde, where by kissing the Gentlewoman hee well perceiued that she had more pitie upon his offence, then euill will against his person, which was a cole to make the fier of loue to kindle more fiercely. After dinner he rode with the king of Taffares, but before his departure he went to take his leaue of his newe alied father and of his wyfe: whoe after the furst commaundement of her husband, made no more difficultie to kisse him then if he had bin her owne sonne. But be assured the more that vertue stayed hereye and countenaunce to shew the hidden flame, the more it did augment and become intollerable, in such wyse as not able to indure the warres which honour and loue had raysed within her hart, (who notwithstanding was determined neuer to shewe it, hauing lost the consolacion of her sight, and forgeuen the talke with him for whom she liued) a continuall feuer began to take her, caused by a Melancholicke and couert humor, in such wyse as the extreme partes of her body waxed cold, and those within burnt incessantly. The Phisitions (in the hands of whom man’s life doth not depend) began greatly to mistrust health by reason of a certaine opilacion which made her melancholicke: who counceiled the husbande to aduertise his wife to consider her conscience, and that she was in the handes of God (as thoughe they which be in health were not in his protection): the husbande which intirely loued his wyfe, was wyth their woordes made so heauye and pensife, as for his confort he wrote to the Lord of Auannes, beseechinge him to take the paynes to visite them, hoping that his sight would greatly ease and relieue the disease of his wife. Which request the Lord of Auannes immediatly vppon the recepte of those letters slacked not, but by poste arriued at his father’s house: at the entrye whereof hee founde the seruauntes and women makinge great sorrowe and lamentacion accordinglie as the goodnes of their maistresse deserued: wherewith the sayde Lorde was so astonned as he stoode stil at the doore like one in a traunce, vntil he sawe his good father: who imbracing him beganne so bitterlie to weepe, that he was not able to speake a worde. And so conueied the sayd Lorde of Auannes vp into the Chamber of his poore sicke wyfe: who casting vp her languishing eyes looked vppon him: and reaching his hand vnto her, she strayned the same with all her feeble force, and imbracinge and kissinge the same made a marueylous plainte, and sayd vnto him.“O my Lord, the houre is come that all dissimulacion must cease, and needes I must confesse vnto you the troth, which I to my greate paine haue concealed from you: which is, that if you haue borne vnto me greate affection, beleeue that mine rendred vnto you, hath bin no lesse: but my sorrow hath farre surpassed your griefe, the smarte whereof I do feele now against myne hart and will: wherefore, my lord, yee shall vnderstand, that GOD and minehonour would not suffer mee to disclose the same vnto you, fearing to increase in you that which I desired to be diminished: but knowe yee, my Lorde, that the woordes which so many tymes you haue vttered vnto mee, haue bred in me such griefe, as the same be the Instrumentes and woorkers of my death, wherewyth I am contente sithGoddid giue mee the grace not to suffer the violence of my Loue, to blotte the puritye of my conscience and renowne: for lesse fire then is wythin the kindled harte of mine, hath ruinated and consumed most famous and stately buildinges. Nowe my hart is well at ease, sithe before I dye, I haue had power to declare myne affection, which is equall vnto yours, sauing that the honor of men and women be not a like: beseechinge you, my Lorde, from henceforth not to feare to addresse your selfe to the greatest and moste vertuous Ladies that you can finde: for in such noble hartes do dwell the strongest passions, and there the same be moste wisely gouerned: and God graunt that the grace, beautie and honestie, which be in you, do not suffer your loue to trauell wythout fruite: haue in remembrance good, my Lord, the stabilitie of my constante minde, and do not attribute that to crueltie which ought to be imputed to honor, conscience and vertue: which are thinges a thousande times more acceptable, then the expence and losse of transitorie life. Nowe, farewell, my Lorde, recommendinge vnto your honour the state of my husband your good father, to whom I pray you to reherse the troth of that which you doe know by mee, to the intent that he may be certefied how dearely I haue loued God and him: for whose sake I beseech you to absente your selfe out of my sight: for from henceforth I do meane holye to giue my selfe to the contemplacion of those promises which God hath louingly decreed, before the constitucion of the world.” In saying so shee kissed him, and imbraced him wyth all the force of her feeble armes. The sayde Lorde, whose hart was dead for compassion, as her’s was in dying through griefe and sorrow, without power to speake one onely worde, withdrew himselfe out of her sight and laye downe vpon a bed within an inner chamber: where he fainted many times. Then the gentlewoman called for her husbande, and after she had giuen him many goodly lessons, shee recommended him to the Lord of Auannes, assuringe him thatnexte to his parson, of all the men in the worlde shee had him in greateste estimacion: and soe kissinge her husbande shee badde him farewell. And then was brought vnto her the holye Sacramente, which shee receyued with such ioye, as one certaine and sure of her Saluacion, and perceyuinge her sighte begynne to fayle, and her strength diminishe she pronounced aloude:In manus tuas, &c. At which crie the Lorde of Auannes rose vp from the bedde, and piteously beholding her, he viewed her with a swete sighe, to rendre her gloriouse ghost to him which had redemed it. And when he perceiued that shee was dead, hee ran to the dead bodie, which liuing he durst not approche for feare, and imbraced and kissed the same in such wise, as muche a doe there was to remoue her corps out of his armes: wherof the husband was very much abashed, for that he neuer thought that he had borne his wife such affection. And in saying vnto him: “My Lord, you haue done enough:” they withdrew them selues together. And after long lamentation, the one for his wife, and the other for his Lady: the Lord of Auannes told him the whole discourse of his Loue, and howe vntill her death she neuer graunted him not so muche as one signe or token of loue, but in place therof a rebellious minde to his importunate sutes: at the rehersall whereof, the husbande conceiued greater pleasure and contentment than euer he did before: which augmented or rather doubled his sorrow and griefe for losse of such a wife. And all his life time after, in al seruices and duties he obeyed the Lord of Auannes, that then was not aboue eightene yeres of age, who retourned to the Courte, and continued there many yeares without will to see or speake to any woman, for the sorrow which he had taken for his Lady, and more then two yeres he wore blacke for mourning apparell. Beholde here the difference betweene a wise and discrete woman, and one that was wanton and foolish, both which sortes expressed different effectes of loue: whereof the one receiued a glorious and commendable death, and the other liued to long to her great shame and infamie. The one by small sute sone won and obteyned, the other by earnest requestes and great payne pursued and followed. And till death had taken order, to ridde her from that pursute, she euer continued constant.

A punishment more rigorous than death, of a husband towarde his wife that had committed adulterie.

KingCharles of Fraunce, the eight of that name, sent into Germany a gentleman called Bernage, lorde of Cyure besides Amboise: who to make speede, spared neither daye nor nighte for execution of his Prince’s commaundement. In sutch wyse as very late in an euening he arriued at the Castle of a Gentleman, to demaunde lodging, which very hardly he obtained. Howbeit, when the gentleman vnderstode that he was the seruaunt of such a kyng, he prayed him not to take it in ill parte the rudinesse of his seruantes because vppon occasion of certain his wiue’s frends which loued him not, he was forced to kepe his house so straight. Then Bernage tolde him the cause of his iourney, wherein the Gentleman offered to doe to the king his maister all seruice possible. Leading him into his house where he was feasted and lodged very honorably. When supper was ready, the Gentleman conueyed him into a parler wel hanged with fayre Tapistrie. And the meate being set vpon the table, and he required to sit down, he perceiued a woman comming forth behind the hanging, which was so beautifull as might be seene, sauing that her head was all shauen, and apparelled in Almaine blacke. After bothe the Gentlemen had washed, water was brought to the Gentlewoman, who when she had washed she sat down also, without speaking to any, or any word spoken vnto her againe. The Lorde Bernage beholding her well, thought her to be one of the fayrest Ladies that euer he sawe, if her face had not bene so pale and her countenaunce so sadde. After she had eaten a litle, she called for drinke, which one of the seruauntes brought vnto her in a straunge cup: for it was the head of a dead man trimmed with siluer, wherof she drancke twice or thrice. When she had supped and washed her handes, making a reuerence to the Lord of the house, shee retourned backe againe that way shee came, without speaking to any. Bernage was so much amased at that straunge sighte, as he waxed very heauie andsadde. The gentleman who marked hym, sayde vnto hym: “I see well that you be astonned at that you saw at the table, but seyng your honest demeanour, I wyll not keepe it secrete from you, because you shal not note that crueltie to be done without greate occasion. This gentlewoman whiche you see, is my wyfe, whom I loued better than was possible for any man to loue his wyfe. In such sorte as to marry her I forgat all feare of friendes, and brought her hither in despite of her parentes. She likewyse shewed vnto me suche signes of loue, as I attempted a thousande wayes to place her here for her ioye and myne, where wee lyued a long tyme in suche reste and contentation, as I thought my self the happiest Gentleman in Christendome. But in a iourney whiche I made, the attempt whereof myne honour forced me, shee forgot bothe her selfe, her conscience, and the loue whiche shee bare towardes mee, and fell in loue with a Gentleman that I brought vp in this house, whiche her loue vpon my retourne I perceiued to be true. Notwithstanding the loue that I bare her, was so great as I had no mistrust in her, tyll sutch tyme as experience did open myne eyes, and sawe the thynge that I feared more than death. For whiche cause my loue was tourned into furie and dispayre, so greate, as I watched her so nere, that vppon a daye fayning my selfe to goe abroade, I hydde my selfe in the chamber where now shee remayneth. Into the whiche sone after my departure shee repayred, and caused the Gentleman to come thether. Whome I did beholde to doe that thinge, which was altogether vnmeete for any man to doe to her, but my selfe. But when I sawe him mounte vppon the bed after her, I stepped forth and tooke him betwene her armes, and with my dagger immediatly did kill him. And because the offence of my wife semed so great as the doing of her to death was not sufficient to punish her, I deuised a torment which in mine opinion is worse vnto her than death. For thus I vse her, I doe locke her vp in the chamber wherein she accustomed to vse her delightes, and in the companie of hym that she loued farre better than me. In the closet of which chamber I haue placed the Anatomie of her friend, reseruing the same as a precious Iewell. And to the ende shee may not forget him at meales, at the table before my face, she vseth his skulle insteade of a cup to drinke in, to the intent she may behold him (aliue) in the presence of hym whom through her owne fault she hath made her mortal enemy, and him dead and slain for her sake, whose loue she preferred before mine. And so beholdeth those twoo thinges at dinner and supper which ought to displease her moste, her enemie liuing, and her friend dead, and al through her own wickednesse, howbeit I doe vse her no worse than my self, although shee goeth thus shauen: for the ornament of the heare doth not appertaine to an adultresse, nor the vayle or other furniture of the head to an unchast woman. Wherefore she goeth so shauen, in token she hath lost her honestie. If it please you, sir, to take the payne to see her, I wil bring you to her.” Whereunto Bernage willingly assented. And descending into her chamber whiche was very richely furnished, they founde her sitting alone at the fier. And the Gentleman drawing a Curteine, whiche was before the Closet, he sawe the Anatomie of the dead man hanging. Bernage had a great desire to speake vnto the Ladye, but for feare of her husband he durst not. The Gentleman perceiuin the same, said vnto him: “If it please you to speake vnto her, you shal vnderstand her order of talke.” Therwithall Bernage sayde vnto her: “Madame, if your pacience be correspondent to this torment, I deme you to be the happiest woman of the worlde.” The lady with teares trickeling down her eyes with a grace so good and humble as was possible, spake thus vnto him: “Sir, I doe confesse my fault to be so great, as all the afflictions and torment that the Lorde of this place (for I am not worthy to call him husbande) can doe vnto me, be nothing comparable to the sorrowe I haue conceiued of myne offence.” And in sayinge so, she began pitifully to weepe. Therewithall the Gentleman toke Bernage by the hande, and led him forth. The next day morning he departed about the businesse which the king had sent him. Notwithstanding, in bidding the Gentleman fare well, he sayde vnto hym: “Sir, the loue whiche I beare vnto you, and the honor and secretes wherewith you haue made me priuie, doth force me to saye vnto you howe I doe thinke good (seing the great repentance of the poore Gentlewoman your wife) that you doe shewe her mercie. And bicause you be yong and haue no children, it were a verie great losse and detrimentto lose such a house and ligneage as yours is. And it may so come to passe, that your enemies thereby in time to come may be your heires, and inioye the goodes and patrimonie whiche you doe leaue behinde you.” The Gentleman which neuer thought to speake vnto his wife, with those wordes paused a great while, and in thend confessed his saying to be true, promising him that if she would continue in that humilitie, he would in time shew pittie vppon her, with whiche promise Bernage departed. And when he was retourned towardes the king his maister, hee recompted vnto him the successe of his iourneyes. And amonges other thinges he tolde him of the beautie of this Ladie, who sent his Painter called Iohn of Paris, to bring him her counterfaicte: which with the consent of her husband, he did. Who after that long penaunce, for a desire he had to haue children, and for the pitie hee bare to his wyfe which with great humblenesse receiued that affliction, tooke her vnto hym agayne, and afterwardes begat of her many children.

A President of Grenoble aduertised of the ill gouernement of his wife, took such order, that his honestie was not diminished, and yet reuenged the facte.

InGrenoble (the chiefe citie of a Countrie in Fraunce called Daulphine, which citie otherwise is named Gratianapolis) there was a President that had a very fayre wyfe, who perceiuing her husbande beginne to waxe olde, fell in loue with a yong man that was her husband’s Clark, a very propre and handsome felowe. Vpon a time when her husband in a morning was gone to the Palace, the clarke entred his chamber and tooke his Maister’s place, whiche thing one of the presidente’s men, that faithfully had serued him the space ofXXX.yeres like a trustie seruant perceiuing, could not keepe it secret, but tolde his Maister. The President whiche was a wise man, would not beleue it vpon his light report, but sayde that he did it of purpose to set discord betwene him and his wife, notwithstanding if the thing were true as he had reported, he might let him see the thing it selfe, whiche if he did not, he had good cause to thinke that he had deuised a lye to breake and dissolue the loue betwene them. The seruaunt did assure him that he would cause him to see the thing wherof he had tolde him. And one morning so sone as the President was gone to the Court, and the Clarked entred into his chamber, the seruaunt sent one of his companions to tel his maister that he might come in good time, to see the thing that he had declared vnto him, he himself standing stil at the doore to watch that the partie might not goe out. The President so sone as he sawe the signe that one of his men made vnto him, fayning that he was not wel at ease, left the audience, and spedely went home to his house, where he founde his olde seruaunt watching at the chamber dore, assuring him for truth that the Clarke was within, and that he should with spede to goe in. The President sayd to his seruant: “Do not tarrie at the dore, for thou knowest ther is no other going out or comming in but onely this, except a litle closetwherof I alone do beare the keye.” The president entred the chamber, and found his wife and the Clarke a bed together, who in his shirt fell downe at the president’s feete, crauing pardon, and his wife much afraid began to weepe. To whome the President sayde: “For so muche as the thing which thou hast done is such, as thou maist well consider, that I can not abyde my house (for thee) in this sort to be dishonored, and the daughters which I haue had by thee to be disauaunced and abased: therfore leaue of thy weeping, and marke what I shall doe. And thou Nicolas (for that was his Clarke’s name) hide thy selfe here in my closet, and in any wise make no noyse.” When he had so done, he opened the dore and called in his olde seruaunt, and sayde vnto him: “Diddest not thou warrant and assure me that thou wouldest let me see my Clarke and wyfe in bedde together? And vppon thy words I am come hether, thinking to haue killed my wife, and doe finde nothing to be true of that which thou diddest tell me. For I haue searched the chamber in euery place as I will shewe thee.” And with that he caused his seruant to looke vnder the beddes, and in euery corner. And when the seruant founde him not, throughly astonned, he sayde to his maister: “Sir, I sawe him goe into the chamber, and out he is not gone at the dore: and so farre as I can see he is not here: therefore I thinke the Diuel must nedes carrie him awaye.” Then his maister rebuked him in these words: “Thou art a villayn, to set such diuision betwene my wife and me, wherefore I doe discharge thee from my seruice, and for that which thou hast done me, I will paye the thy dutie, with the aduauntage: therefore get thee hence, and take hede that thou doest not tarrie in this town aboueXXIIII.houres.” The President for that he knew him to be an honest and faithfull seruaunt, gaue him five or sixe yeares wages, and purposed otherwise to preferre him. When the seruaunt (with ill will and weping teares) was departed, the President caused his Clark to come out of his Closet: and after he had declared to his wife and him, what hee thought of their ill behauiour, he forbad them to shewe no likelyhode of any such matter, and commaunded his wyfe to attire and dresse her selfe in more gorgeous apparell, than she was wontto weare, and to haunt and resort to company and feastes, willing the Clarke to make a better countenaunce on the matter then hee did before, but whensoeuer he rounded him in the eare and bad him depart, he charged him after that commaundement not to tarry foure houres in the towne. And when he had thus done, he retourned to the palace Courte, as though there hadde no sutche thing chaunced. And the space of fiftene dayes (contrary to his custome) he feasted his frendes and neighbours, and after euery those bankettes, he caused the minstrels to play, to make the Gentlewomen daunce. One daye he seing his wife not to daunce, he commaunded his Clarke to take her by the hande, and to leade her forth to daunce, who thinking the President had forgotten the trespasse past, very ioyfully daunced with her. But when the daunce was ended, the President faining as though he would haue commaunded him to doe some thing in his house, bad him in his eare to get him away and neuer to retourne. Now was the Clark very sorowfull to leaue his Ladye, but yet no lesse ioyfull he was that his life was saued. Afterwardes when the President had made all his frendes and kinsfolkes, and all the countrey, beleue what great loue he bare to his wife, vppon a faire day in the moneth of May, he went to gather a sallade in his garden, the herbes whereof after she had eaten, she liued not aboueXXIIII.houres after, whereof he counterfaited suche sorrowe, as no man could suspect the occasion of her death. And by that meanes he was reuenged of his enemy, and saued the honour of his house.

“¶ I will not by this Nouell (said Emarsuitte) prayse the conscience of the President, but herein I haue declared the light behauiour of a woman, and the great pacience and prudence of a man: Praying you good Ladies all, not to be offended at the truthe.” “If all women (quo Parlamente) that loue their Clarkes or seruauntes, were forced to eate such sallades, I beleue they would not loue their gardens so well as they doe, but woulde teare and plucke vp all the herbes bothe roote and rinde, to auoyde those thinges that by death might aduaunce the honor of their stock and ligneage.” “If sallades be so costly (quod Hircan) and so daungerous in May, I will prouoke appetite with other sawces, or els hunger shall be my chiefest.”

A gentleman of Perche suspecting iniurie done vnto him by his friend, prouoked him to execute and put in proufe the cause of his suspicion.

Besidesthe countrie of Perche, there were two Gentlemen, which from the tyme of theyr youthe lyued in sutche great and perfect amitie, as there was betwene them but one harte, one bed, one house, one table, and one purse. Long time continued this perfect frendship: betwene whom there was but one will and one woorde, no difference in either of them: in so muche as they not onely semed to be two brethren, but also they appeared in al semblances to be but one man. One of them chaunced to mary: notwithstanding they gaue not ouer their frendship, but perseuered in their vsual amitie as they were wont to doe: and whan they happened to be strained to straight lodging, the maried gentleman would not stick to suffer his friend to lie with him and his wife. But yet you ought for frendship sake to consider that the maried man lay in the mids. Their goodes were common betwene them, and the mariage did yelde no cause to hinder their assured amitie. But in processe of time, the felicitie of this worlde (whiche carieth with it a certaine mutabitie) could not continue in the house, which was before right pleasaunt and happy: for the maried man forgetting the faithfull fidelitie of his friend, without any cause conceiued a greate suspicion betwene hym and his wyfe, from whom he could not dissemble the case, but sharpely tolde her his mynde. She therewithall was wonderfully amazed: howbeit, he commaunded her to doe all thinges (one thing excepted) and to make so muche of his companion as of himselfe. Neuerthelesse he forbade her to speake vnto hym except it were in the presence of many. All which she gaue her husbande’s companion to vnderstande, who would not beleue her, knowyng that hee had neither by thought or deede done anye thing whereof his companion had cause to be offended. And likewise because he used to kepe nothing secrete from hym, he tolde him what hehad sayde, praying hym to tell him the truthe of the matter, because he purposed neither in that, ne yet in any other thing, to geue occasion of breach of that amitie which of long time they had imbraced. The maried Gentleman assured him that he neuer thought it, and how they which had sowen that rumor, had wickedly belied him. Whereunto his companion replied: “I knowe wel enough that Ielousie is a passion so intollerable as loue it selfe. And when you shall conceiue that opinion of Ialousie, yea and it were of my selfe, I should do you no wrong, for your selfe were not able to kepe it. But of one thing which is in your power, I haue good matter whereof to complayne, and that is because you will concele from me your maladie, sith there was no passion or opinion which you conceiued, that before this time you kept secret from me. Likewise for my owne parte if I were amorous of your wife, you ought not to impute it as a fault vnto me, because it is a fier which I bare not in my handes, to vse at my pleasure. But if I kepe it to my selfe from you, and indeuour to make youre wife knowe it by demonstration of my loue, I might then be accompted that vntrustiest friend that euer liued: and for me I doe assure you that shee is a right honest and a good woman, and one that my fansie doth lest fauour (although she were not your wife) of all them that euer I sawe. But now sithens there is no cause, I do require you that if you perceiue any suspicion, be it neuer so litle, to tell me of it, because I would so vse myself, as our frendship which hath indured so long tyme, might not bee broken for a woman: and if I did loue her aboue any thing in the worlde, yet surely I would neuer speake worde vnto her, bicause I doe esteme our frendship better then the greatest treasure.” His companion swore vnto him very great othes that he neuer thought it, praying him to vse his house as he had done before. Whereunto he aunswered: “Sithe you will haue me so to doe, I am content: but I praye you if hereafter you doe conceiue any sinistre opinion in me, not to dissemble the same, which if you doe I will neuer continue longer in your companie.” In processe of time, liuing together according to their custome, the maried Gentleman entred againe into greater Ielousie than euer he did, commaunding his wife to beare no more that countenauncetowards him that she was wont to doe. Whiche commaundement she tolde her husbande’s companion, praying him after that time to forbeare to speake vnto her, for that she was forbidden to doe the like to him. The gentleman vnderstanding by wordes and certaine countenaunces, that his companion had not kept promise, he sayd vnto him in great choler: “To be Ialous (my companion) is a thing naturall: but bicause thou diddest sweare vnto me by othes not to dissemble, I can by no meanes forbeare any longer: for I did euer thinke that betwene thyne harte and mine, there could be no let and interruption: but to my great griefe and without anye fault on my part, I doe see the contrarie. For as muche as thou art not only very Ialous betwene thy wife and mee, but also thou wouldest dissimulate and couer the same, so that in the ende thy maladie and disease continuing so long, is altered into mere malice, and lyke as oure loue hath bene the greateste that hathe bene seene in oure tyme, euen so our displeasure and hatred is nowe moste mortall. I haue done so mutche as lyeth in mee, to auoyde this inconuenience, but sithe thou hast suspected me to be an ill man, and I haue still shewed my selfe to be the contrary, I doe sweare, and therwithal assure thee, by my faith, that I am the same thou thinkest me to be, and therefore from henceforth take hede of me: for since suspicion hath separated the from my loue and amitie, despite shall deuide me from thine.” And albeit that his companion would haue made him beleue the contrarie, and that hee mistrusted hym nothing at all, yet he withdrewe his part of his moueables and goodes that before were common betweene them, so that then both their hartes and goodes were so farre separated as before they were vnited and ioyned together. In such wyse as the vnmaried Gentleman neuer ceassed till he had made his companion cockolde, according to his promise.

The piteous death of an Amorouse Gentleman, for the slacke comfort geuen him to late, by his beloued.

BetweneDaulphine and Prouence, there was a gentleman, more riche and better furnished with beautie, vertue, and good condicions, then with the goodes of fortune: who fill in loue with a gentlewoman that for this time shall want a name, for respecte of her parentes that are come of honorable houses, and the Gentleman’s name also shalbe vntolde, for like respecte, although altogether not so honorably allied, as the Gentlewoman that he loued, and yet the historie very certen and true. And bicause his degree was not so high as hers, hee durst not discouer his affection: for the loue which he bare her, was so good and perfect, as rather would he haue bene tormented with the panges of death, then couet the least aduauntage that might redounde to her dishonor. And seing his state to base in respecte of hers, had no hope to marry her. Wherefore he grounded his loue vpon none other foundation and intent, but to loue her with all his power so perfectlye as was possible, which in the ende came vnto her knowledge. And the Gentlewoman knowing and seing the honest amitie which he bare her, to be ful of vertue, ioyned with chast and comly talke, felt her selfe right happie to be beloued and had in prise, of a personage so well condicioned, practising dayly cherefull countinaunce towardes him (whiche was the best rewarde he pretended to haue) whereof he conceiued great ease and contentment. But malice the cancred enemy of all reste and quiet, could not long abide this honest and happie life. For some frowning at his good happe, (as malice euer accompanieth a well disposed mynde) tolde the mother of the mayden, howe they marueiled that the Gentleman should bee so familiar in her house, inferring therewithall that the beautie of her daughter was the only cause, with whom they sawe him many times to vse secrete and priuat speach. The mother which by no meanes doubted the honestie of the Gentleman, no more then shee didof her own children, was very sorie to vnderstand that some shold be offended at that their familiarity. She thought therfore to shunne the cause of their offence. And at length, (fearing that slaunder might be raised of malice) she required the Gentleman for a tyme to haunt no more her house, as he was wont to doe. A thing to him of harde digestion, knowing his own innocencie, and lesse desert to be estranged from the house, for respect of the honest talke he vsed to the yonge gentlewoman. Notwithstanding, to stoppe the rage of malicious tongues, he withdrew himself, till he thought the brute was ceased, and then retourned after his wonted maner: whose absence nothing abridged his auncient good will. And he began no soner to be familiar there again, but he vnderstode that the mayden should be maried to a Gentleman, that was not so ritche and noble (as semed to hym) and therfore he thought he should receiue great wrong, if she were bestowed vpon that Gentleman, and not on hym, that had bene so long a sutor. And thereupon conceiued corage to preferre hym selfe in playne tunes, if choyse were geuen to the maiden. Howebeit, the mother and other of her kynne, sollicited and chose the other gentleman because (in dede) he was more welthie. Whereat the poore gentleman fretted with displeasure, seing that his Ladie should for worldly mucke be defrauded of her greatest ioye, by little and little without other maladie, began to languishe, and in litle tyme was so altered, as in his face appeared the visage of death. Neuerthelesse he could not forbeare the house of his beloued, but continually from time to time made his repaire thether to fede himselfe with the baulme of that beautie, which he thought would prolong his dayes, but it was the onely abridgement. In thend the poyson he sucked by the viewe of that beautie, consumed his strength, and force failing him, was constrained to kepe his bedde. Whereof he would not aduertise her whome he loued, for greuing her, knowing well that she would bee tormented with the newes. And so suffring him selfe to runne the race of past recourye, lost also his appetite to eate or drinck, and therewithall his slepe and rest fayled, in suche plight as within short space he was consumed in visage and face, as it grewe to be vglie and cleane out of knowledge. Brought tothis lowe estate, one of his frends certified the mother of his mistres, that was a very charitable and kinde Gentlewoman, and loued so well the man, as if all their parentes and kinne had bene of her’s and the mayden’s opinion they would haue preferred the honestie of him, before the great substance of the other. But the frendes of the father’s side by no meanes would consent vnto it. Yet the good Gentlewoman and her daughter (for all the other’s frowardnes) vouchsafed to visit the poor gentleman whom they founde, rather declining towards death, then in hope of life. And knowing his ende to approche, he was shriuen and receiued the holy Sacrament, purposing of present passage by panges of death, neuer to see any of his frendes againe. Being in this case and yet seing her, whome he counted to be his life and sauftie, felte suche soudden recouerie, as hee threwe hym selfe alofte his bedde and spake these wordes vnto her: “What cause hath drieuen you hither (mistres myne) by takyng paines to visite him, who hath one of his feet alreadie within the graue, the other stepping after with conuenient speede, for execution whereof you bee the onely Instrument.” “Howe so, sir?” sayde the mother. “Is it possible that hee, whom we so derely loue, can receiue death by our offences? I pray you sir to tell me, what reason leadeth you to speake these wordes.” “Madame,” sayde he, “so long as I could, I dissembled the loue that I bare to my deare mistres your daughter: so it is that my parentes and frendes speaking of a mariage betwene her and me, haue clattred thereof moe nedeles woordes then I desired, by waying the mishap that might insue, and nowe doth happe past all hope not for my particular pleasure, but bicause I knowe with none other she shalbe so well intreated nor beloued as she should haue bene with me. The benefit which I see she hath lost, is the most perfect frende the best affected seruaunt that euer shee had in this worlde, the losse wherof summoneth death to arrest the carcase, that should haue bene imployed for her seruice, which intierly was conserued and should haue bene for her sake: but sithe nowe it can serue her to no purpose, the simple losse shall redounde to greatest gaine. I meane my selfe (good Ladies bothe) that lieth bewrapped in death before your faces, whose witheredclammes hath catched the same within her reach, and hath warned the clocke to tolle the dolefull bell for his poor lovyng ghoste, nowe stretchynge out for the winding shete to shrowde his maigre corps, all forworne with the watche and toile, that such poore men (affected with like care) do feele. It is my selfe, that erst was rouing amid the troupe of Courtlie knightes decked with comely face, whose hewe dame Nature stayned with the colours of her golden art. It is I that of late was loued of that Nymphe, and earthie Goddesse, who with courtinge countenaunce imbraced the place where I did stande, and kissed the steps wherein I trode. It is my selfe I saye, that whilom in painefull blisse, did bath my selfe, and fedde mine eyes with the happie viewe of the heauenliest creature that euer God did make. And by forgoing of those ioyes byto tomuch mishap, and sacred famine of cursed mucke, I am thus pined as ye see, and wrapte in hopeles state.” The mother and doughter hearinge this complainte, did their indeuour to cheere him vp, and the mother sayde unto him: “Be of good courage sir, and I promise you my fayth, that if God giue you health, my doughter shal haue none other husband but you, and behold her here, whom I commaunde to make you present promise.” The mayden weeping with a virginall shamefastnes, consented to her mother’s hest. But knowing when he was recouered, that he should not haue her, and that the mother was so liberal of her fayre words, to recomfort him and assaye if she might restore him: he said vnto them, that if those words had bin pronounced three monethes past, he had bin the lustiest and most happie gentleman of Fraunce: but helpe offred so late, was past beliefe and hope. But when he saw, that they went about to force him to beleeue it, he said vnto them: “Now that I see ye go about to promise the good tourne which can neuer chaunce vnto mee, yea although consent ioyned with vnfayned promise desires the effect, for respect of the feeble state wherein I am: yet let me craue one thing at your hands, farre lesse then that ye offer, which hitherto I neuer durst be so bolde to aske.” Whereunto they both assented and swore to performe it, intreating him not to be ashamed to requyre it. “I humbly beseech ye (quoth hee) to deliuer her into mine armes whom ye haue promised to be mywife, and commaunde her to imbrace and kisse me.” The mayden not vsed to such priuie sutes, ne yet acquainted with such secrete facts, made some difficultie, but her mother gaue her expresse commaundement to doe it, perceyuing in him no likelihode or force of a man to liue. The maiden then vpon that commaundement, aduaunced herselfe uppon the bedde of the poore pacient, saying vnto him: “Sir, I beseech you to be of good cheere.” The languishing creature, so hard as he could for his extreeme debilitie, stretched forth his faint consumed armes, and with al the force of his body imbraced the cause of his death, and kissinge her with his colde and wanne mouth, held her so long as he could, and then spake vnto the mayden: “The loue which I haue borne you hath bin so great, and the good will so honest, as neuer (mariage excepted) I wished anye other thinge of you, but that which I presentlye haue, throughe the wante whereof and with the same I will ioyfully render my spirite to God, who is the parfaicte Loue, and truest Charitie, whoe knoweth the greatnes of my loue and the honestie of my desire: humblie beseeching him, (that nowe I hauing my desire betweene mine armes,) to interteigne my ghost within his blessed bosome.” And in saying so he caught her againe betweene his armes with such vehemencie, as the feeble hart not able to abide that assault, was abandoned of all powers and mouinges: for the instant ioye so dilated and stretched forth the same, as the siege of the soule gaue ouer, making his repaire and flighte to his Creator: and because the senceles bodye rested withoute life, it gaue ouer his holde. Howbeit the loue, which the Damosell had still kept secrete, at that time shewed it self so strong and mightie, as the mother and seruauntes of the dead Gentleman had much a do to separate that vnion, but by force they haled away the liuing, almost deade with the deade. After the funerall was done with honourable exequies: but the greatest triumph was spent in teares, weepinges and cryes, specially by the gentlewoman, which so much more were manifeste after his death, as before in his life time they were dissembled, bestowinge them as an expiacion or sacrifice, to satisfie the wrong she had done vnto him. And afterwards (as I haue heard tell) she was maried to one, for mitigacion of her sorow, that neuer was partakerof the ioye of her harte. See here good Ladies an Image of perfect loue, that so muche had seazed vpon thaffections of this amorous Gentleman, as the pange neuer gaue ouer, till death (the rest of all troubles) had diuided life from the body. Yet some perchaunce for the desperate part of this hopeles louer, will terme him to be a fonde louing foole: and say that it is not meete that they should neglecte theyr liues for womens sakes, which were not created but for their helpe and comforte. And that being true as verifyed and auouched by Scriptures, there is no cause of feare to demaunde that of them, which God hath enioyned them to giue vs. In deede a sensuall loue, and such as is grounded to satisfye beastly luste, is a thinge horrible to Nature, and abhominable in the sight of him that made both those creatures, whom he fraughted with reason and knowledge for the refusall of those vices, which are onely to be applied to beastes voyde of reason. But loue founded in the soyle of Vertue, for auoyding carnall lust exercized in the state of Wedlocke, or first begonne and practized for that ende, is very ciuil and to be honoured. And if that loue attaine not equall successe, through parents default or vnkindnes of frendes or other humane accidents, if that loue so perce the hart, or otherwyse afflict the pacient with dispaire of helpe, and so occasioneth death, it is not to be termed follie or dotage, but to be celebrated with honourable titles. The honest amitie then of this gentleman, borne long time to this gentlewoman, meriteth euerlasting praise: for to finde such great chastitie in an amorous hart, is rather a thing deuine then humaine. A mocion moued aboue amongs the heauenly route, and not anacwrought in the grosenes of man’s infirmitie.

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