Chapter 3

of her message, spedely came to Cyrus with two thousand horsemen. They that were the Persian spies, sent to Cyrus, declaring what he was. Cyrus commaunded that forthwith he should be brought vnto his wife. When the wife and husbande sawe eche other, they imbraced like twoo that mette after suche troublesome aduentures. Then Panthea tolde her husbande the goodnes, temperance, and clemencie of Cyrus towarde her. Who hearing of her interteignement, sayde: “What shall I doe Panthea, to render thankes to Cyrus, for you and mee?” “What other thing (saide Panthea) but to indeuour your selfe, to bee suche a trustie frende to him, as he hath bene to you.” Then Abradatas went to Cyrus, and when he sawe hym, he tooke him by the right hande and sayde: “For the pleasures that you haue done mee, O Cyrus, I haue no more to saye, but that I assure my selfe vnto you, as your frende, your seruaunt and confederate: and what soeuer I see you desyre, I shall imploye my selfe, to the vttermoste of my power, to ayde and helpe you in the same.” To whome Cyrus sayde, “I accepte you, and for this tyme dismisse you, to goe and suppe with your wife: then you shall agayne be placed in my Tente about me amonges your frendes and myne.” And when Abradatas sawe the preparation of Cyrus, that hee made against his enemies, he addressed to make prouision of armure, and thinges meete for the fielde for hym selfe. His wyfe Panthea, had made of her treasure, a curate and helmet of golde, and likewyse his vambraces, and had furnished the horses of the chariot with brasen barbes.

When Cyrus had spoken diuerse oracions, for the incoraging of his armie, and had taken order, howe all thinges might prosperously succede, diuided his captaines into seuerall battailes, appointing euery of them their charge: Abradatas shewed him selfe verie braue, and marciall in his Chariot: who being about to put on a linnen breast plate, according to his countrie maner, his wife Panthea brought him an armure of golde, and a purple gowne down to his feete, after robe fashion, and a crimsen skarfe. These thinges had she priuely wrought for her husbande, knowing the measure of his harnesse, whiche when her husband sawe, he marueiled, and said to Panthea. “Wife, haue you not defaced your jewels, to make this armure?” “Truelye (said Panthea) I haue a more precious jewell then this; for if you proue a valiant gentleman to other, as you haue done a louing and trustie husband to me, you are my dearest jewell.” In saying thus, she armed him, and would that no man should haue sene her: for the teares trickled downe her chekes. Abradatas being in the fronte of the armie, armed after this maner, appered a gallant and braue captayne, whose nature and complexion agreed to his comelinesse. And taking the raines of the chariot in his hands, he prepared him selfe to mounte vp. Then Panthea, all other being commaunded to stande backe, saide: “Truely Abradatas, if there be women, that esteme their husbandes better then their owne liues, I thinke you knowe that I am one of them. Therefore what neede I to expresse euery particular thing: my factes, as I thinke, do perswade you more then woordes. And thus indeuouring my selfe towardes you, our mutuall loue is such, as I had rather be buried quicke with you, being a noble man, then to liue in shame. I regarde you with the beste, and my selfe not as the worste. Great thankes we owe to Cyrus, for his Princely interteignement of me, being a captiue and chosen for him selfe, not like a prysoner with shame, but free, without spot or blemishe to mine honor: and vsed me, as though I had bene his brothers wyfe. And after Araspas departed from him, whiche had the custodie of me, I promised him, that if hee would giue mee leue to sende for you, that you should become more loiall and assured to him, then euer Araspas was.” Abradatas delited with her chaste communication, and tenderly laying his hand vpon her head: looking vp to heauen, made this praier. “O most mightie Iuppiter, graunte that I may shewe my selfe an housbande meete for Panthea, and a frende worthy of Cyrus, who hath so curteously dealt with vs.” Thus speaking at the entrie of the chariot seate, he went vp, and being set downe, the gouernour of the chariot made fast the seate. Panthea hauing nowe nothing to embrace, kissed the chariot seate, and so he went forth. But Panthea followed him priuelie, till he tourned and spied her, to whome he sayde: “Be of good conforte Panthea, Adieu and farewell.” Then her Eunuches and women, conueighed her to her own chariot, couering the same with curteines.

Cyrus after the battaile and victorie, had against Cræsus, called diuerse of his men vnto him, and demaunded if they sawe Abradatas. “For I marueile (sayde hee) that he commeth not vnto me: for before the battell many times he appered in my presence.” Whereunto one of his men answered: “The cause is (sir) that he is not aliue, for hee was slayne in the battaile, as he inuaded the Ægiptians. The rest of his companie, except his owne souldiours, fled from him, when they sawe him incountre with the Ægiptian battaile. And then his wife Panthea tooke him vp, and laid him in her owne wagon; conueighing him to a certayne place, by the ryuer Pactolus. And (they say) that her Eunuches doe digge a graue to burie him. His wife sitteth vpon the ground, apparelled with those furnitures that he did weare, leaning her head vpon her knees.” With whiche wordes, Cyrus was driuen into greate sorowe, clapping him selfe vppon the thighe, and by and by mounted on his horse, and taking with him M. horsemen, he went to mourne for his frende Abradatas. Moreouer he commaunded Gadatas and Gobryas, to carrie the fairest apparell they coulde get, to his good and honest frende that was dead, and to assemble his oxen and horse, and all his beastes and cattell, whersoeuer they were, that they might be sacrificed to Abradatas. But when he sawe Panthea sitting vpon the ground and the dead corps lying by her, he wept for sorowe, and said: “Alake good woman, thou trustie and faithfull wife, doest thou thus depart and leaue vs alone.” And with those words he tooke her by the right hand, and therewithall was presented the dead hand of Abradatas, which the Ægiptians in the battaile had cut of: whiche when Cyrus sawe, hee then lamented more then he did before: and Panthea cried out. Who comforted by Cyrus, kissed the dead hand, bestowing the same againe in place, so well as she coulde, and sayde: “Thus it is chaunced Cyrus, but why do you beholde the dead body? This death I knowe (quoth she) hee hath suffred for my sake, being none of the lest aduentures whiche he hath hazarded for me. And perchaunce Cyrus, he would haue done no lesse for you. For I exhorted him (like a foole as I was) to attempte this aduenture, to thintent he might haue shewed him selfe a frende of worthy remembraunce; whiche request he accepted, to pleasure you and me: he hath valiantly bestowed his life and is dead, and I vnhappy caitife that gaue him first counsayle, do sitte here aliue.” Cyrus for a certayn space holding his peace, powred forth aboundance of teares, and then said: “This gentleman (lady Panthea) hath a commendable ende, for he died in victorie; but take these furnitures, and adorne him there withall:” for Gobryas and Gadatas were come with riche and costly apparel. Then hee sayde: “Bee sure he shalbe honoured with greater thinges then these. A monument also, according to his worthinesse, shalbe erected vpon his graue. Sacrifice shalbe offered, meete for a man so valiant and puissaunt. Thou likewyse shalt not be left comfortles; for in consideration of thy great chastitie and vertue, I will honour thee and appointe a garrison to conuey thee into what place thou arte disposed to goe.” To whom Panthea sayd: “Be of good chere Cyrus, I wyll not hide from you the place, wherein I am determined to bestowe my selfe.” Cyrus hearing her say so, went away pitying the woman that was bereued of suche a husbande, and lamenting the man that had lefte suche a wife behinde him, and was like no more to see her againe. But Panthea commaunded her Eunuches to go out of the place, till she had satisfied her selfe with teares, and lamentations for her husbande: for she prepared to kil her selfe, requiring her nursse to tarie by her, and commaunded her, that when she was dead, she should shroude her and her husbande in one garment. The nursse perswaded the Ladie, with humble wordes and supplications, from her determined death, but she could not preuaile: and when she sawe that her maistres tooke her woordes in ill parte, she satte downe and wepte. But Panthea with a sworde, whiche she had prepared long time for that purpose, killed her selfe, and laying her head vpon her husbandes breaste, she yelded from her chaste bodie, her innocent ghost. The Nursse seing that, cried out, and couered them both, as she was commaunded. Cyrus vnderstanding the woman’s facte, was amazed, and spedely went to see if she might be holpen. The Eunuches (being three in nomber) seing their maistres dead, they likewyse drewe out their swordes, and killed theimselues in the place, where they were commaunded to stande. In memorie of which facte, Cyrus erected a noble monument to the perpetuall prayse of chastitie and honest loue. Which (as Xenophon reporteth) remained to his daies, with their names ingrauen in Syrian letters.

THE TWELFTH NOUELL.

_Abdolominus is from poore estate, aduaunced by Alexander the Great, through his honest life, to be kyng of Sydone._

Alexander the mightie and noble Emperour, after he had subdued Darius the Persian kyng: at length came to Sydone, a famous citie, by reason of the auncient fame of the first founders. The same citie was vnder the gouernement of Strato, and mainteined by the puissaunce of Darius, who yelding more by force of the people, then by free wil, was thought vnworthy to raigne and rule there. Alexander at the request of his frende Ephestion, willed him to appointe one to be king, whom the citizens should thinke moste worthy of that state. After profers of Ephestion to diuers of the yonge gentlemen of that citie, and refusall made of their partes, they alledged that none ought to enioy the dignitie of their king, but such as were descended of the royall bloud. Thinking none to be more meete for that state then one Abdolominus, who being of the royall race, for pouertie was inforced to inhabite a litle cotage without the citie. His good life was the cause of his pouertie, as it is to many other: and labouring in his daily trauell, vnderstoode not the brute of the warre that troubled all Asia. Ephestion and the yonge gentlemen repaired vnto him with garmentes to garnishe him like a king, and founde him making cleane his garden, whome they saluted, and saide: “You must exchaunge your homelie clothes with these riche robes, wherewith wee here present you. Washe your bodie that nowe is foule and vncleane, take vppon you the courage of a kyng, and in this state (wherof you be worthy) expresse the same sobrietie and continencie you doe presently vse. And when you sitte in your regall seate, vsing the authoritie of life and death ouer your subiectes, do in no wise forget the fortune, wherin you were before you were made king, ne yet for what purpose you did receiue it.{”} The matter semed to Abdolominus like a dreame, and demaunded of theim, if their wittes were sounde, that did deride him in that sorte. But when he sawe them bynde by othe their doynges to bee of trouthe, he washed him self, and taking the garment, which was purple and golde, went with them into the place. The fame was diuersly bruted of this facte: some fauoured the cause, and some did froune against it. But suche as were riche, did reproue his pouertie and base estate, to those that were neare aboute Alexander, which made the kynge to sende for him. And when he had long beholden his manner and order sayd: “Your personage doth not degenerate from the fame of your progenitors, but I would fayne knowe, howe pacient you were in the tyme of your pouertie.” “I would to God (quoth Abdolominus) I could beare my prosperitie in lyke case now I am kyng. These handes did get that I desired. And hauing nothing, I lacked nothing.” Whiche woordes made Alexander conceiue a good opinion of hym, to whome he restored the riches of the kyng before, and diuers other thinges, taken awaye by the Persians.

THE THIRTEENTH NOUELL.

_The oration of the Scythian Ambassadours to Alexander the great, reprouing his ambicion, and desire of Empire._

Tvllie in the firste booke of his Offices, saieth, that very miserable, is ambicion and desire of honour: and that moste men, whiche be giuen to cupiditie of gouernement, honor and glorie, bee forgetfull of Iustice. The truthe of whiche graue wordes, vttred by a Prince of eloquence, the rude and barbarous Ambassadours of Scythia, in plaine and homelie talke, boldly did pronounce to king Alexander (surnamed Magnus) when hee was about to inuade their countrie. For when he had within three dayes finished twelue thousand boates, to transporte his armie ouer the famous ryuer of Tanais, (whiche deuideth Asia from Europa) against the poore Scythians, twenty Ambassadours of the Scythians came to Alexanders campe to speake with hym, to proue if they coulde by woordes withdrawe his entended purpose: Before whome when they were placed, the eldest of them spake these wordes.

“If the Goddes had giuen thee a bodie according to the immoderate desyre of thy mynde, the whole worlde coulde not be able to holde thee. With one of thy handes thou wouldest touche the Oriente, and with thy other hande the Occidente. And when thou haste gotten that, thou wylt desyre to knowe, where the brightnesse of the Diuine Maiestie is placed. Thus thou couetest after the thing, thou art not able to receyue. Out of Europa thou marchest into Asia, and out of Asia thou passest into Europa. Afterwardes, if thou doest vanquishe all mankynde, thou must make warre with woodes and Snowes, with Ryuers and wylde beastes. What? doest thou not knowe, that great trees growe long, and yet be rooted out of the grounde in a moment? He is a foole that looketh after the fruite, and doeth not measure the height of the tree wheron it groweth. Take hede lest whyle thou doest contende to clymme to the toppe, thou fallest downe with the bowes whiche thou doest imbrace. The lion also sometyme is made the foode of the smalest byrdes: and rust consumeth iron. There is nothing so firme, that is not in perill of the weake. What haue we to doe with thee? We neuer touched thy lande. What thou arte, and from whence thou commest, is it not lawefull for vs to bee ignoraunte, that liue in the waste wooddes? Wee can not be subiecte to any man, and wee desyre not to rule. Wee haue certaine giftes peculiar vnto vs, bicause thou shalt not be ignoraunte of the state of our nacion: the yoke of Oxen, the Plough, the Darte, and the Bowl: those things we vse, both with our frends and against our enemies. Vnto our frendes wee giue the fruictes, gotten with the labour of our Oxen. And with them in our Bowle, we sacrifice wine to the Goddes. Our enemies we strike with the Darte a farre of, and with the Speare nere at hande. After that sorte in tyme paste, wee ouercame the kyng of Scythia, and afterwardes the kyng of Media and Persia, and the waye was open vnto vs into Ægipt. But thou whiche doest boaste, that thou art come to persecute theues, art the common thefe of all nacions, whereunto thou makest thy repayre. The countrie of Lidia thou haste taken. Thou haste enioyed Syria. Thou doest possesse Persia, and the Bactrianes bee vnder thy power. Thou doest goe into India, and nowe thou extendest thy vnstable and gredie handes vppon our cattell. What neede haste thou of those ryches, whiche doe make thee so hungrie? Thou art the first of all men whiche with sacietie hast gotten famine, that the more thou hast, the more gredely thou couetest after thinges thou hast not. Doest thou not remember how long thou hast sticked about Bactria? And whiles thou goest about to bring them in subiection, the Sogdians begin to reuolte. Thus warre doth grow vnto thee of thy victorie. For be thou neuer so great, and puissant ouer other, yet there be none that can indure to be gouerned by straungers. Passe nowe Tanais, thou shalt perceiue what breadth it beareth, and yet thou shalt neuer ouertake the Scythians, whose pouertie is swifter then the armie, which carieth the spoyle of so many nacions. For when thou shalt thinke vs to be farre of, thou shalt see vs within thy campe, with like swiftnesse we folowe and flee awaye. I heare that our desertes and voide places, be mocked by the Greeke prouerbes, we couet rather those desertes and places vnhabited, then cities and plentifull soyles. Therefore holde fast thy fortune, for she is tickle and can not be holden against her will. Folow thou the counsaile that is good, specially whyles the time doth serue. Bridle thy felicitie, and thou shalt rule it the better. Our countriemen say, that Fortune is without feete, and that she hath onely handes and wynges, but when she stretcheth forth her hand, shee will not suffer her winges to be touched. Finally, if thou be a God thou oughtest to geue benefites to mortall men, and not to take away the commodities they haue already: but if thou bee a man, consider that thou art alway the same that thou arte. It is a foolishe part to remember those things, and to forget thy selfe. Those people that fele not thy warres, thou maiest use as thy frendes. For frendship is most firme and stable emonges equall, and those seeme to be equall that haue not vsed force and violence emonges them selues. Beware thou take them not for thy frendes whome thou doest subdue, and bring in obedience. There is no frendship betwene the maister and the seruaunt, and in peace the lawe of Armes is obserued. Beleue not that the Scythians doe bynde frendship with any othe: for they make their othe by obseruation of faith. The maner of the Greekes is to iustifie their factes, by inuocation of their Goddes to witnesse: but wee know, that Religion consisteth in faith her self. They which do not reuerence to men, do begile the Goddes. Thou hast no nede of him to be thy frende of whose frendship thou standest in doubt. Thou hast vs as kepers of Asia and Europa: for we should touche the countrie of Bactria, were it not for Tanais, whiche deuideth vs. And beyonde Tanais all is ours so farre as Thracia, and the fame is that Thracia bordreth vppon Macedonia: wee being neighbours, to bothe thy dominions, chose nowe whether thou wylte haue vs frendes or foes.” These were the woordes of the Scythians. Howe be it these homelie and plaine aduertisementes, could not diuerte kyng Alexander from his intended enterpryse, and according to his desired successe, he ouercame them.

THE FOURTEENTH NOUELL.

_The woordes of Metellus of mariage, and wiuing with the prayse and dispraise of the same._

In the presence of many learned men of Rome, Metellus surnamed Numidicus, for his victories and triumphe ouer Iugurtha king of Numidia, a countrie in Africa, in the tyme of his office of Censor, made an Oration before the Romain people, of mariage of wyues, vppon Occasion that hee hymselfe, by diuers of his frendes, was perswaded to that state. Against whiche hee used manye vehemente inuectiues and termes, whiche Aulus Gellius omitteth, for that hee was loth to offend (when report therof should be bruted) the nice eares, and louing mindes of the matrones, and dames of that citie: knowing well that both they, and their successours, would not forget reprochefullie to combate with his spirite and shadowe, when they were not able (being preuented by earthly vermine) by anye meanes to impeche his corps, in tombe fast closed and buried. But when I do remember, howe the same was said, and also noysed emongs a bande of heathen soules, whose mindes for want of godly skill, could not disgest such hainous blastes, as sounded in a time prophane, wherin no sacred voyce of christian lore was breathed vnto redemed flocke: I call to mynde that now I may in time of grace, right frankely write, without offence to humble state of matrone kinde, in these our daies, inspired with spirit of humble hart, whose eares no taunting talke can griue: wherefore with blushles face, and vnstaied penne, I meane the woordes, of that well learned wighte, in open audience to pronounce, and by this booke, to suche elected sort for to declame: but loth for to offende, as one well bet in mariage schole, I must, _a pœna & culpa_, forgiuenes craue: lest some shreude heathen dame (for other doubt I not) doe from her graue _Al’ Arme_ crie out: and then to fight with buried ghostes: my manhode will not serue, but by and by with posting legges, and flying fast I will retire. But doubtes here be brought foorth, where doubting cause is none. Gellius therfore in persone of the vnmaried knight, in wordes right fewe, this sentence of the maried state, doth vtter and proclayme.

“O ye Romaines, if we could be without wiues, then all we should wante that griefe. But bicause nature hath so prouided, that neither with them we can liue and passe our time conueniently, nor yet by any meanes be without them satisfied, we ought rather to make preparation, for perpetuall health, then for short pleasure.” With which wordes, diuers of the Romaines were displeased, and founde fault with Metellus who (for that he went about, to exhorte the people to mariage) ought not by any meanes, to confesse any griefes and incommodities to be in the same. But in these wordes he seemed rather to disswade and terrefie, then to perswade and incourage; but contrarely he ought, rather to haue affirmed no sorowes and perplexities, to be in wedlocke, and if perchaunce any chaunced to be, they were but light, and easie to be borne and suffered, which for greater commodities and pleasures, might full well be forgotten, and those that were, happed not through natures vice, but by the default and ill behauiour of some maried folke. Howbeit, Titus Castritius supposed that Metellus spake well and worthely. “For (said he) a Censor ought to speake like a Censor, a Rhetorician like one that professed Rhetorike: it is giuen to Rhetoricians, to vse false sentences, bolde, subtile and captious: if so be, they be likely, and may by any action moue the hartes of men.” Moreouer he sayde, “that it was a shame for a Rhetorician, in an euil matter, to leaue out any thing vntouched.” “But truely Metellus (quoth he) is a holy man indued with grauitie and fidelitie, and that it was not decent for so honorable a personage, as he was, to speake any thing to the Romaine people, but that hee thought to be true, and likely to seme true to all men: specially sithe he intreated of such a matter, as by daily knowledge, common experience, and frequented vse of life, might well be comprehended and knowen. Therfore in geuing to vnderstande, a griefe notorious to al men, he hath deserued by that oration, a fame of a diligent and faithfull man, bicause (to be short) he easely and redely perswaded, that a citie can not prosper and continue, without the vse of Matrimonie, which of all things is most assured and true.” This Titus Castritius was a teacher of Rhetorike in Rome, and in the same citie for declamation and teaching, was in greatest reputacion: a man of right great grauitie and authoritie: and of the Emperour Adrian, for his vertue and learning well estemed.

THE FIFTEENTH NOUELL.

_Of Lais and Demosthenes._

Phocion a peripatetique Philosopher, in a booke which he made, intituled Cornucopia, writeth this historie of Demosthenes and Lais the harlot of Corinthe, saying: that Lais by reason of her excellent beautie, and pleasaunt fauour, demaunded for the vse of her body, a great somme of money: vnto whom was resorte of all the ryche men of Græcia: but she woulde not admitte them to that facte, except they would first giue vnto her, her demaunde. The quantitie of whiche somme was exceading greate, whereof rose the prouerbe. _Non cuiuis homini contingit, adire Corinthum._

_Not euery man can well attaine To goe to Corinthe towne._

He that traueiled to Corinthe to Lais, not able to giue and bestowe, that somme vpon her went in vaine. To this woman that noble Philosopher Demosthenes secretly repayred, praying her to giue him leaue: but shee demaunding of him tenne thousand Denarios (amounting very nere to three hundred pounde of our money) astonied at the wantonnesse of the woman, and discouraged with the greatnesse of the somme, retourned backe again, saying: I come not to buye repentaunce so dere.

THE SIXTEENTH NOUELL.

_C. Fabritius and Æmillius Consuls of Rome, beyng promised that king Pyrrhus for a somme of money should be slaine (which was a notable enemie to the Romaine state) aduertised Pyrrhus thereof by letters, and of other notable thinges doen by the same Fabritius._

When Pyrrhus king of Epirus inferred warres vpon the Romaynes and was come into Italie, and there had prosperously fought, and atchieued the victory of two or three battailes, wherby the Romanes were brought to great distresse and most part of Italie had reuolted: one Timochares Ambraciensis, a frend of king Pyrrhus, secretely repaired to C. Fabritius then Consul, and told him, if he would giue him a reward, he would poyson the kinge, which hee said, he mighte easely bringe to passe because his sonnes, at table waited vpon king Pyrrhus cuppe. Hereof Fabritius wrote to the Senate requiring their aduise. The Senate depeached Ambassadours to the king commaunding them to saye nothing of Timochares, but to giue the kinge warning circumspectly to loke wel about him, to preuent such treason, as by those that were nerest him might be attempted. Thus much is written in the historie of Valerius Antiates. But Quadrigarius in the third booke, writeth that it was one Nicias and not Timochares, that went to Fabritius, and that those Ambassadours were not sente by the Senate, but by the Consuls, and that the kinge rendred praise and thanckes to the Romaines, restoring to them, all the prisoners, which he had taken. The Consuls that time were C. Fabritius and Æmilius. The tenour of which letters then sent to king Pyrrhus, the said Cl. Quadrigarius affirmeth to be this. “The Romaine Consuls send salutations to king Pyrrhus. We for thine iniuries, displeasures and wronges iustlie offended, for the valiaunte stomackes remayninge in vs, do studie and indeuour like enemies, to continue warres vpon thee: but it seemeth good vnto vs for the loue we beare to our faith, and for common example, to wishe thee well to do, whom by armes we be not able to vanquishe. There came vnto vs one Nicias, thy familiar frende, to demaunde rewarde of vs, if secretely he did kill thee: whiche we vtterlye denied, and required him for that fact, to loke for no reward at our hands. Whereupon wee thought good to giue thee aduertisement hereof, lest if any such thing did chaunce, the cities should not thincke that we were priuie to the fact: for wee delite not to fight with giftes, rewards and treason.--Thou in the meane time, except thou take heede, art like to die: Farewel.” This was the aunciente order amonges the Romaines, that neuer were pleased by the cowardly ouerthrow of other, to winne fame and glorye. And because I rede an other excellente historie of the same Fabritius, I haue thought good to adde the same to this Nouell. When peace was concluded, betwene the Romaines and the Samnites, the Ambassadours of the Samnites repaired vppon a time to this Fabritius, who after they had remembred vnto him diuers and sundrie thinges, frendlye done in their behalfe, they offered vnto him for reward, a great summe of money, intreating him to receiue the same: which the Samnites did (as the report was) because they sawe, that he wanted many thinges, for the furniture of his house and maintenaunce, thinking the same also not to be sufficiently decente for his estate and calling: which Fabritius perceyuing, with his bare handes, hee touched his eares and eyes, and then strooked his face downeward, his noase, his mouth and throate, and the rest of his bodie, to the bottome of his bealie, answearing the Ambassadours in this wise. “That whiles hee was able to rule and gouerne all those members which he touched, he was sure to lacke nothing: wherefore (quoth he) these members, which be profitable and necessarye for my vse, will not suffer mee to receiue this moneye, whereof they knowe I haue no neede.” Hereby reprehending the foolish indeuour of these Samnites, in offring to him a bribe, which hee was neur accustomed to take for any cause, what soeuer he accomplished. Who stil shewed himselfe a man sincere and incorrupt.

THE SEUENTEENTH NOUELL.

_A Scholemaister traiterously rendring the noble mens sonnes of Faleria to the hands of Camillus, was wel acquited and rewarded for his paines and labour._

Warres were addressed by the Romaines against the Falisques (a people of Italye, the ruines of the chiefe citie wherof do yet appeare sixe miles from Viterba) and an armye conscribed and sent thether, vnder the conduct of Furius Camillus. The Falisques vppon the approch of the Romaines, were constrayned to retire within their citie, thinking the same to be their most assured refuge. And they to continue their siege, incamped a mile from the citie, and determined throughly to besiege it, which in deede had like to haue beene of verye long continuance except fortune had giuen to the Romaine Captaine, for his tried and well approued valiaunce, victorie in time, which chaunced after this maner. It was a custome amonges the Falisques (obserued also in these oure dayes) to haue their children instructed by one Scholemaister, and him also to vse for their guide and companion in all games and pastimes. Amonges theym there was a Scholemaister, which taughte noble mennes sonnes, who in the time of peace, teachinge those children, and vsinge for theyr exercise to leade them abroade in the fieldes, kepte still that order, for all the warres before the gates, sometime wyth shorte walkes, sometime wyth longer for their disportes: and continuinge varietie of talke wyth his schollers longer then he was wont to do, at length he brought them to the Romaine campe, euen to the tent of Camillus, hoping thereby (by like) to haue beene well welcomed, and liberally rewarded: saying to Camillus, as detestable woords as the facte was traiterous and wicked: which was in effect--“That he was come with that present vnto him, to yelde those children into his hands whose parents were the principall of that Citie: and therby knew for certainty that the citie would surrender.” Camillus seeing that fact, and hearing those words, said vnto him. “Thou arte not come (villane) to a people and Captaine, with this thy trayterous offer, semblable to thy selfe. We haue no aliaunce with the Falisques confirmed by compacte or humaine promise, but amitie wherunto nature doth bind vs, is and shall be for euermore betweene vs. Warre so well as peace, hath his law and right: which we haue learned to obserue with no lesse Justice, then constancie. We make no warre against boies, whom wee spare, whensoeuer we inuade or take any cities: but against armed men we fight, yea, and against such, as without offence, or prouocation of our partes, assailed the Romaines campe at the siege of the Veiens. Thou hast vanquished them so much as lyeth in thee, with a new kinde of victorie atchieued by treason: but I will subdue them by pollicie of the Romaines, by vertue, indeuour and armes, euen as I did the Veiens.” When he had spoken those wordes, he caused this trayterous scholemaister to be striped starke naked, and binding his handes behinde him, deliuered him to the children, with roddes in their handes, to whippe him home to the citie. When hee was in this order retourned, the people of the citie flocked together to see this sight. Then the magistrates assembled in counsaile, vpon this straunge occasion, and where before they were incensed with maruailous wrath and furie, rather desirous of vtter ouerthrow, then peace. Now their mindes were quite altered, and peace vniuersally demaunded. The fidelitie of the Romaines, and iustice of Camillus, both in Forum and Court was celebrated, and by general conformitie, Ambassadours were sente into the campe to Camillus, and from thence by Camillus sufferance, to the Senate of Rome, of purpose to yelde themselues to their gouernment, who being brought before the Senate spake these woordes. “Wee (fathers conscripte) vanquished by you and your Captaine, (where at neither God nor man oughte to be offended) haue yelded our selues to you, thinking that wee shall liue more happie, and better contented vnder your gouernmente, then by our owne lawes and liberties: a thing that maketh the victor more glorious and praise worthie, then anye other. By the successe of these warres, two holsome examples bee manifested to mankinde. Ye doe preferre fayth in warres before certaine victorie, and we, induced by that faith, haue of our owne accord, presented victorie unto you. We be at your commaundement: sende hither commissioners, to receiue our weapons, our pledges and our citie, which standeth with the gates wide open. We hope well, that neither ye shall haue occasion to be miscontented with oure fidelitie, nor wee offended with your gouernment and Empyre.” For which facte greate thankes were attributed to Camillus, both by the Falisques and Romaynes.

Here appeared the face and true Image of that greate vertue, Justice, wherewith this noble man was truly affected. His noble nature was not able to abide any trayterous fact, done by vnnaturall Citizens, toward their owne countrie. No vngratitude of his owne countrie men, could withdrawe his nature from the zeale and loue he bare to his countrie. His condempnation by vnkinde Apuleius Saturninus the Tribune, for which he fledde to Ardea, could not let or impeach his magnanimitie from giuinge the Galles an ouerthrowe when they had sacked Rome, and sharpely besieged the Capitole: who in his absence (created Dictator,) by gathering together such Romaines as were fledde, vnwares set vpon the couetous Galles, as they were in controuersie for paimente of a golden summe of money, and thereby restored his countrie to libertie. Wherefore worthely might he be intitled, with the honourable name of a second Romulus. For as Romulus was the first builder and peopler of that citie, so was Camillus the vindicator and deliuerer of the same.

THE EIGHTEENTH NOUELL.

_The Historie of Papyrius Pratextatus._

The same historie is written by Cato, in an oration which he made to his souldiours against Galba, contayninge in effecte as foloweth. The Senatours of Rome vsed before this time, to enter into the Senate house with their sonnes, Prætextatis, that is, in long robes garded about the skirtes with purple silke. When the Senate debated of graue and waightie matters, they euer deferred the same till the next day, forbiddinge that those causes should not be published, before they were throughly decreed. The mother of this yong gentleman Papyrius, which had been with his father in the Senate house, asked of him, what the fathers had done in the Senate house that day? Papyrius aunswered, that in any wise, he ought not to tell the secretes of the same. The mother more desirous to know then she was before, went about by faire meanes, foule wordes and correction, to vnderstand the secretes of the Senate, and the cause why the same were kept so silente. Wherefore she more earnestlye endeuoured to learne the same of her sonne. The yong man by compulsion of his mother, toke occasion to inuent a pleasaunt and mery lie, in this wise. “Mother (quoth he) the Senate doth deliberate and consult, whether it be more commodious and profitable for the common wealthe, that one man should haue two wiues, or whether one wife shoulde haue two husbandes.” When the old Ladie heard this she was abashed, and in fearefull wise goeth to the other Ladies and matrones of Rome, tellinge them, where about their husbands did consult. The next day the women flocked together in great traines, and in lamentable wise repaired to the Senate, beseching them that one woman might rather be maried to two husbands, then two wiues to one man. The Senatours entring into the Court, marueyled what toyes were in the womens heads, to make that demaunde. The yong gentleman Papyrius stepped foorth, declaring how importunate his mother was, to know whereuppon they consulted the day before, and therefore he deuised that fained tale, to pacifie her desire. The Senatours hearing and perceyuing his good and honeste disposition, greatly commended and extolled his fidelity and witte. Howbeit, they made a lawe that from that time forth, none of their sonnes should come into the house with their father, but onely Papyrius. Who afterwardes receiued the surname of Prætextatus, to honour and beautifie his name, for his notable wysedome in keeping secretes, and holding his peace, in the time of that youthly age.

THE NINETEENTH NOUELL.

_How Plutarche did beate his man, and of pretie talke touching signes of anger._

Avlus Gellius demaunding of the Philosopher Taurus, whether a wise man could be angrie? Taurus after he had disputed much of that affection, turned to Gellius and said: “This is mine opinion of the angrie man: but what the Philosopher Plutarche iudgeth thereof, I thincke it not a misse to tell thee. Plutarche had a bondman which was an vnthrift and wicked verlet, but geuen to learning and to disputation of Philosophie, whom vppon a time he did beate, making him to put of his coate, and to be whipped, for what offence I know not: he began to beate him: the fellow cryed out, that he had deserued no cause, why he ought to be so beaten. At length in continuance of his beating, he gaue ouer his crying complaintes, and began to vtter earneste and serious woordes, saying. ‘It was not Plutarche the Philosopher, that beate him: (he said) it was a shame for Plutarche to be angrie, and how he had heard him many times dispute of that vice of anger, and yet he had written a goodly booke thereof:’ with manye such words. ‘Why, (quoth Plutarche, with gentle and quiet debating of the matter:) thou lubbor, do I seeme to be angry with thee? Doest thou either by my countenaunce, by my talke, by my colour, or words, perceyue that I am angrie? Nether mine eyes be fierce, nor my mouth troubled: I cry not out a loude: I chaufe not in rage or fume: I speake no vnseemely woordes, whereof I take repentaunce: I tremble not. All which be signes and tokens of anger: which pretie notes of that vnseemely passion, ought to minister to all men, occasion to auoyde that vice.’”

THE TWENTIETH NOUELL.

_A pretie tale drawne out of the Larke of Æsope._

Æsope of Phrygia is not vnworthely demed a wise man. For so much as he admonisheth and perswadeth those thinges that be profitable, not seuerely or imperiously as Philosophers doe, but by pretye and pleasaunt fables he indueth the mindes of men with holsome and prouident instructions. As by this fable of the birdes neste, he pretily and aptly doth premonish that hope and confidence of thinges attempted by man, ought to be fixed and trusted in none other but in him selfe. A litle birde (saith he) called the Larke, builded her neste in a Wheate field, and when the Wheate was ready to be ripped, her yonge began to fledge. Therefore flyinge abroade to seeke meate for them, shee warned them that if there fortuned anye newes to be done or spoken in her absence, they should giue diligent heede thereunto, and to tell her when she retourned. Within a while after, the Owner of the corne called a yong man, his sonne, vnto him, (saying) “Doest thou see this Wheate now ripe and ready to be cut, lacking nothing but helpe to reape the same? Gette thee therefore to morowe in the morninge (so soone as the daye doth breake) vnto my frendes and neighbours, and praye them to come and helpe me in with this Corne:” and so departed. When the damme retourned, the yonge Larkes in trembling and fearefull wise, peping and chirping about their mother, prayed her to make hast to seeke some other place: for the owner of the Wheat had sent for his frends, to be there the next day by times to haue it in. Their damme bad them to be of good cheere: “If the owner (quoth she) do referre it to his frendes, I am sure the Wheate shal not be cutte downe to morowe, and therefore wee shall not neede to feare.” The next day the damme flew abrode again for foode, and the owner waited at the houre appointed for his frendes. The Sunne was vp, whose beames shone hot, and nothing was done: his frendes came not. Then he said againe to his sonne: “Me thincke sonne (quoth he) our neighbours be slepers and tarrie long. Goe, call I pray thee, our kinsfolke and cosins, that they maye helpe vs to morowe betimes.” Which saying the yong Larkes ones againe afraid, tolde their damme when she returned: the damme still perswaded them to be of good cheere and not to feare: “For kinsfolke in these dayes, be so slacke to do good deedes (quoth she) and to helpe their owne stocke and kinred, that they bee loothe to take paines, specially at so short and sodaine warning: neuerthelesse, faire byrdes, (quoth shee) harken what shalbe said againe and tell mee.” The next morning the old Larke went forth againe for food and forage, and the kinsfolke and cosins came not, according to the owners request. At length the owner saide to his sonne: “Adieu my frendes and kinsemen: to morow in the morning, bring hither two Sickles, the one for mee, and the other for thy selfe, and wee with our owne hands, wil cut downe this Wheate.” The mother Larke, hearing her yong ones tel this tale at her retourne: “Ye marie my babes (quoth shee) now it is time to be gone: for the thing whereof the owner hath spoken so long, shal now be done in deede, sith he purposeth to do the same himselfe, and trusteth to none other.” Whereuppon the Larke toke vp her yong ones, and went to inhabite in some other place. And the corne accordinglye, was cutte downe by the owner. This fable Æsope reporteth, premonishing men to beware of lighte hope, and vaine truste, to be reposed in frends and kinsfolke. And the same Q. Ennius in his Satyres, very elegantlye in trim verses hath described the two laste, whereof worthie to be had in harte and memorie, I haue thought good to remember.

_Alwayes fixe fast in breast, in prompt and ready wise: This prouerbe olde and true, a sentence of the wise: The thing do not expect, by frends for to atchieue: Which thou thyselfe canst doe, thy selfe for to relieue._

THE TWENTY-FIRST NOUELL.

_A merie geste, vttered by Hanniball to king Antiochus._

Antiochus making great preparation and furniture, to inferre warres vpon the Romaines, decked his armie with Siluer and Golden Ensignes and Pendentes, wherein he had plentie of wagons, chariots and Elephantes with towers, his bande of horsemen glittered gloriouslie, with golden bridles, trappers, barbes, and such like. The king beholdinge, in glorious and reioysing wise, his gaye and beautifull armie: loked towards Hannibal, and said: “How saiest thou Hannibal? thinkest thou that these thinges be not ynough and sufficient to match with the Romaynes?” Hannibal mocking and deluding the cowardnes and weakenes of his souldiours, clad in those precious and costlie furnitures, saide. “All these thinges be ynough and ynough againe for the Romaines, although they were the most couetous men of the world.” The king vnderstoode Hannibal, that he had meant of the nomber of his souldiours, and of their brauerie. But hee meant of the pray and spoile, which the Romaines should winne and gette.

THE TWENTY-SECOND NOUELL.

_The marueilous knowledge of a Lion, being acquainted with a man, called Androdus._

There chaunced to be certaine playes and games at Rome, wher were many monstruous and cruel beastes: but amonges all those beastes, the hugenesse and cruell aspectes of the Lions were had in greatest wonder, especially of one: which Lion was of an huge and greate bignesse, hauinge a terrible voyce, his clawes stretched forth, his bristles and heare vprighte, beholdinge with his fierce and deadly eyes, all the multitude standing by. There was brought in to fight with the lion amonges al the rest, one Androdus a Dacian borne, the bondman of a great personage, of the Consular order, whom the Lion beholding a farre of, sodenly stoode still: and afterwards by litle and litle, in gentle sort he came vnto the man, as though he had knowen him: Wagging his taile like a Spaniel fawning vpon his maister, and licked the handes and legges of the poore felow, which for feare was almost dead. This Androdus perceyuing the flatteries of this fierce beast, recouered comforte, and earnestly viewed and marked the Lion. Then they began to enter into mutual acquaintaunce, one reioycing at an others meting. Upon which straung euent, the people raysed great shoutes and acclamations: wherupon Androdus was called before the Emperoure, and demaunded the cause, why that most cruell beast did in that sorte, fawne and fauour him aboue all other.

Androdus tould a maruaylous and straunge historye of the cause thereof, saying: “If it please your Maiestie, when my Lorde and maister did by the office of Proconsull gouerne Africa, I throughe his causelesse stripes and dailye whippinges, was forced to runne awaye. And when I had gotten pardon of the liefetenaunte of that countrie, to remaine there, I withdrew my selfe into the deserts and voide places: and lacking meate to ease the paine of hunger, I determined by some meanes, to seeke mine owne death. It chaunced about the midde of the day, when the Sunne was feruent hot, I entred into a Caue, which was farre from habitation, verye wide and large. Whereunto, within a while after, this Lion resorted, hauing one of his feete bloudie and hurt: for paine whereof, he vttered much mone and sorrow, bewayling the griefe, and anguishe of the sore. When I saw the Lion my hart began to quake for feare, but beinge come in, as it were into his owne habitation (for so it shoulde appeare,) perceyuinge me to go aboute to hide myselfe a farre of, he like a milde and gentle beast came vnto me, holding vp his foote, reaching the same to me, as though he desired helpe and reliefe at my handes. Wherewithall I plucked out of his foote a stubbe, which stucke betweene the pawes thereof, and taking a litle salue, which I had in my bosome, I thrust it into the bottome of the wounde, and diligently without any further feare, I dryed vp the wound, and wiped away the bloud thereof: wherewith the lion being eased, resting his foote in my handes, he laye downe to refreshe him selfe. From that day duringe the space of three yeares, the Lion and I continued together, and liued with like fare: the fattest and best morsels of those beastes, which he prayed, he did euer bring me into the Caue: which meate because I had no fire, I rosted in the heate of the Sunne, and did eate the same with good stomacke. But when I began to waxe weary of that kinde of diet, vpon a time the Lion being abroad, I forsoke the Caue, and trauailing almost the space of three dayes, I was espied and taken of the souldiours, and brought home to my maister out of Africa to Rome: who immediatlie condempned mee to be deuoured of beastes. And now I perceiue that this lion sithens I lefte his companie is taken, and doth acquite that good tourne and cure, which I shewed him then.” The people hearing the discourse of this straunge fact, made suite that the felow might be pardoned, and set at libertie: and the Lion by generall voyce was giuen vnto him for reward. Afterwards Androdus caried the Lion abrode the citie in a litle corde, and had muche money giuen him: and the Lion was decked and beautified with flowers, and euery man that met them, did vse to say:--“This is the Lion the frend of this man, and this is the man, the Phisition of the Lion.”

THE TWENTY-THIRD NOUELL.

_A pretie disputation of the philosopher Phauorinus, to perswade a woman not to put forth her child to nursse, but to nourishe it herselfe with her owne milke._

It was told to the Philosopher Phauorinus, that the wife of one of his Sectators and scholers was brought a bedde of a sonne. “Let vs go (quoth Phauorinus) to visite the childwife, and to gratulate the father for the ioy of his sonne.” When they were entred the house, after hee had saluted the good man, according to the custome, he asked the wife how she did, and prayed the Gods to sende her good footing, and then inquired of her trauel, and painfull panges. When he vnderstode that her trauel was greate, and her bodye weake with watchinge, howbeit somewhat comforted with sleepe which she had taken, he determined to enter into further talke. “I doubt not gossip (quoth he) but that you purpose to nourish your sonne your selfe.” The mother of the woman hearing him say so, began to pray pardon, and said, that her doughter might not both sustaine paine in the birth, and also trouble to nourish it herselfe. “I pray thee mother, said Phauorinus, to suffer thy doughter to be the whole and intire mother of her owne sonne. What kinde of halfe and vnperfecte mothers be they, which so sone as they be deliuered do, against nature, by and by thruste the child awaye from them? Can they nourishe with their owne bloud, the thing which they see not, and wil they not vouchsafe to bestow their milke vppon that, which is now a lyuing creature, crying out before their faces for the mothers helpe, and dutie? O thou vnkinde woman, doest thou thincke that nature hath giuen thee two breastes for nothinge els, but to beautifie and adorne thy bodie, and not to giue sucke to thy children? In like sort many prodigious and monstruous women, haue dried vp and extinguished that moste sacred fountaine of the body, the educatour of mankinde: not without peril of their persons: as though the same were a disgracing of their beautie and comlinesse. The like also some do attempt by deuises and subtile secretes to extrude theyr conceptions, that the swelling of their body might not irrigate and wrinckle their faces, and that their paineful labours and great burdens, do not make them looke olde in their youthly dayes. And like as it is generally to be abhorred, that man in his first beginnings, (when he is fashioned and inspired with life, and in the handes of the cunning and wise woman, dame Nature,) should be killed and slaine: euen so with not much lesse detestation it is to be had and compted, when he is perfecte and borne and the childe of thine owne bloude, to be depriued from his due sustenance. But it is no matter (wil som say) with whose milke hee be nourced, so hee receiue milke and liue. The like may be said to that man which is so dull in perceyuing the prouidence of nature, that what matter had it been in whose bodye, and with whose bloud, he himselfe had been formed and brought into light. Hath not she which nowe respireth, and with beauty waxeth white and fayre, the same bloud now in her breastes, which was before remayninge in her wombe? Is not the wysedome of nature manifest in this, that after the cunning workman the bloud, hath framed in the inward parts euery body of man, straight way when the time of byrthe approcheth, the same bloude infudeth himselfe into the vpper partes, and is readie to nourishe the rudimentes of lyfe and lighte, offeringe acquaintaunce and familiar sustinance to the new borne? Wherefore in vaine is not that report and beliefe, that like as the force and nature of the generation seede is able to shape the similitudes of the mind and body, euen so the qualities and properties of the Milke, do auayle to like effect. Which thinge is not onelye marked in men, but also in brute beastes. For if Kiddes be sockled vp wyth Ewes Milke, and Lambes wyth Goates, the woll of thone will grow more rough and hard, and the heare of the other more tender and soft. In trees also and fruites, there is for the most part, a greater force and power in the nature of the soile and water where they grow, eyther for the pruning and planting, then there is if straunge impes and seedes be grifted and sowen there. And many times you see, that a fruitfull tree, caried and set in an other place, decayeth, throughe the nature of the ground more barren. What reason is this then, to corrupt the noble nature of this borne childe, whose body and minde, is well begunne wyth naturall beginninges to infect the the same wyth the degenerate food of straung Milke. Specially if she to whom you shall put forth this childe to giue sucke, be eyther a bonde and seruile woman, and (as commonly it chauncheth) of a forren and barbarous nation, be she wicked, ill fauoured, whorish or drunken. For diuers times without difference, children be put foorth to suche Noursses, whose honestie and conditions, in the tyme of the putting foorth, be vtterly vnknowen. Shall we suffer therefore, this our infant to be corrupted with pestiferous milke? Shall we abyde a newe nature and spirite, to bee renued in his mynde and bodye, deriued from that whiche is moste vile and wicked? Muche like to the same, whiche many tymes wee see and wonder, howe diuers chyldren borne of chaste and honest women, haue bodies and qualities farre discrepant from their honest parentes. Wherefore very trimlie and cunningly Maro folowing Homeres verses, doth say, speaking of the cruel nature of Achilles:

_Sir Peleus that gentle knight, was not thy father sure, Nor yet thy dame faire Thetis was whose grace the Goddes did lure: The raging Sea, and stonie rockes, did bring thee forth to light: Thy nature is so bloudie bent, so fierce in cruell fight._

He did not herein reprehende the birth of Achilles, but the nature of the cruell and sauage beaste that broughte him vp; for he added this of his owne.

_And the Hircan Tigres did giue him sucke._

And truely the condicion of the Noursse, and nature of the milke, disposeth almost the greater part of the childes condition, whiche (notwithstanding the fathers seede, and creation of the bodie and mynde, within the mothers wombe) doth nowe in the beginning of his nouriture, configurate and frame a newe disposition in him. Moreouer who can saye the contrarie, but that such women as put their children from them, deliuering them to bee nourced of other, doe cut of, naye, rather doe wype awaye and extinguyshe, that bande and increase of mynde and affection, that doeth consociate and ioyne in nature, the parentes towarde their children. For when the childe is put forth to an other place and remoued from the mothers sighte, the vigor and tendernesse of her affection, is by litle and little forgotten, and out of memorie, and the derest care of her tender babe, groweth to vtter silence. The sending awaye of the chylde to an other Nourice is not muche inferiour to the forgetfulnesse that chaunceth when death dothe take it awaye. Agayne, the affection, the loue, and familiaritie of the chylde, is prone to her that giueth it sucke. And so as it is euidently seene in them that be put foorth, the chylde taketh no knoweledge, or desire of the owne mother, that brought it forth. Therefore, when the elementes and beginnings of natural pietie and loue be ones abandoned and defaced, howe soeuer suche children, in that sorte brought vp, shall seeme to loue the parentes, yet for the moste part, it is no pure and naturall affection, but rather a suposed and Ciuile loue.” Thus this noble Philosopher giueth counsayle to euery good mother, not to be ashamed or grieued, to bringe vp her childe with her own Milke, after her greatest payne past, whom before with her owne bloud, she disdained not to feede in her owne bodie.

THE TWENTY-FOURTH NOUELL.

_Of Sertorius a noble Romaine capitaine._

Like as in a good captaine, chosen out by any prince and monarche, to serue in his warres and exploytes, manhode and valiaunce is to be desired and wished: euen so in the same a politique minde, to forecaste and preuente, as well the saufetie and good gouernement of his owne charge, as the anoyaunce of the enemie is to be desired. Cicero in his oration _Pro lege Manilia_, affirmeth fower thinges, mete to be in a Generall or Lieutenaunte. That is to saye: _Scientia rei militaris, virtus, authoritas, fœlicitas_, Knowledge of warfare, Manhode, Authoritie, and good Fortune. Knowledge and experience, in choyce of his souldiours, in trayning the ignoraunt, in lodging the campe, in politique order howe to dispose the Scoutes and watche, in making the approche, and defence of the armie lodged, with other necessarie orders, incident to the same. In manhode, boldlie to aduenture, warely to retire, paciently to suffer misfortune, hardly to lie, sparely to fare, stoutlie to abide stormes and colde weather. In authoritie wiselie to gouerne, gently to speake, iustly to threaten, deseruedly to punishe, mercifully to forgiue, liberally to deuide, and louingly to be obeied. And in felicitie and good successe, to honour God: to be faithfull to the prince, to preuente the enemy, not to triumphe before the victorie. To be constant in froward fortune, and coragious in extremitie. Al which and many other, are very mete and requisite in him, that shalbe put in trust, by his soueraigne Lorde or Ladie, to aduenture the painful charge of a Deputie, General, Lieutenaunt, or Captaine. Whereof, or in the chiefest of the same this noble gentleman Sertorius, a captaine of the Romaine citie, in time of Marius and Sylla, when the citie of Rome were at ciuile discention, had greate skil and knowledge. For besides his experience in the warres (as Plutarche saith in his life) hee was very abstinente from pleasures, and continente in other disorders, a rare thing in men of his calling. But because I purpose not to staye in the full discourse of his vertues and qualities, I meane but to touche in this Nouell, so muche as Aulus Gellius (in whom I am now conuersant) doth of him make remembraunce. Referring the studious reader, desirous to know the state of his life and doinges, to the plentifull recorders of such memorable and worthie personages: Plutarche _de vitis illustrium_, and Appianu’s _de ciuili Romanorum bello_. Which beinge Greeke authours, be very eloquently translated in the Latine, thone by Gulielmus Xilander 1561, and thother by Sigismundus Gelenius 1554. This Sertorius was of a pregnaunt witte, and therewithall a noble Captaine, very skilfull in the vse and gouernement of an armye. In distresse and harde aduentures hee practised for pollicie, to make lies to his souldiours, to proue if they coulde preuaile. He vsed counterfait letters, to imagine dreames, and to conferre false religions, to trye if those thinges could serue his tourne, in comforting and couraging his souldiours. Amonges al the factes of Sertorius, this insuing was very notable and famous. A white Stagge of exceeding beauty and liuely swetenesse, was giuen vnto him by a Lusitanian: He perswaded euery man, that the same was deliuered vnto him by the Goddes, and how the Goddesse Diana had inspired that beaste to admonishe and teache what was meete and profitable: and when he wente about to cause his souldiours to aduenture anye hard and difficile exploit: he affirmed, that the Stagge had giuen him warning thereof, which they vniversally beleued, and willingly obeyed, as though the same had been sent downe from the Gods in deede. The same Stagge vpon a time, when newes came that the enemye had made incursion into his campe, amased with the haste and turmoile, ranne awaye and hid him selfe in a marishe harde adioyning. Afterwardes being sought for, hee was supposed to be dead. Within fewe dayes after, tidinges was brought to Sertorius that the Stagge was founde. The messenger was commaunded by him to holde his peace, and threatened to be punished, if he did disclose it. The next day, the same messenger was appointed sodainly, to bring the Stagge into the place, where he and his frendes, did consulte together. When they were assembled he tolde them howe the daye after that he had lost his Stagge, he dreamed that he was come againe, and according to his custome, tolde him that was needefull to be done. Then Sertorius making a signe, to haue the order fulfilled, whiche he had geuen the daye before, by and by the Stagge brake into the chamber. Wherewithall a great shoute was made, and an admiration raysed of that chaunce. Whiche credulitie of the barbarous countries, serued Sertorius tourne in his weightie affaires. A worthy matter also, is to be remembred of him, that no Souldiour that euer serued him, of those vnciuile countries (that tooke his part) did neuer reuolte or forsake him, although those kinde of people be moste inconstant.

THE TWENTY-FIFTH NOUELL.

_Of the bookes of Sybilla._

In auncient Chronicles, these things appere in memorie, touchinge the bookes of Sybilla. A straunge and vnknowen old woman, repaired to the Romaine kyng Tarquinius Superbus, bearing in her armes nine bookes, which she sayde were deuine Oracles, and offered them to be solde. Tarquinius demaunded the price. The woman asked a wonderfull somme. The king making semblaunce as though the olde woman doted, began to laughe. Then shee gotte fyre in a chafing dishe, and burned three bookes of the nyne. She asked the kyng again, if he would haue the sixe for that prise, wherat the king laughed in more ample sorte, saying: “that the olde woman no doubt did dote in deede.” By and by she burned other three, humbly demaunding the king the like question, if he would buye the reste for that price. Wherevpon the kyng more earnestlye gaue hede to her requeste, thinking the constante demaundes of the woman not to be in vain, bought the three bookes that remained for no lesse price, then was required for the whole. Therewithall the woman departed from Tarquinius, and was neuer seene after. These bookes were kept in the Capitole at Rome, whereunto the Romaines resorted, when they purposed to aske counsayle of the Goddes. A good example for wyse men to beware, howe they despyse or neglecte auncient bookes and monumentes. Many the like in this Realme haue bene defaced, founde in Religious houses, whiche no doubte woulde haue conduced great vtilitie and profite both to the common wealth and countrie, if they had bene reserued and kepte, whiche bookes by the ignoraunt, haue ben torne and raised, to the great griefe of those that be learned, and of them that aspire to learning and vertue.

THE TWENTY-SIXTH NOUELL.

_A difference and controuersie betwene a maister and a scholler, so subtile that the iudges coulde not geue sentence._

Diuers thinges be written, whiche although they seme of litle importaunce, yet they be wittie and comfortable to recreate honest mindes and deserue to be had in remembraunce. Emongs whiche Aulus Gellius (who reporteth tenne of the former Histories, selected out of his booke _De noctibus atticis_) remembreth this pretie controuersie. In Athenes there was a yong man, called Euathlus, who being desirous to be an Orator, and a pleading Aduocate, to the intent he might postulate, according to the accustomed maner of Athenes in those daies, accorded vpon a price, with a renowned Oratour named Protagoras, that he should instruct him that arte, for a price agreed vpon betwene them, vpon condicion that the Scholler should pay the one half of the money before hande vnto his maister, and the reste at such time as he should proue to be an Aduocate, so well instructed, as the first matter, which he did pleade, he should obtaine sentence on his side, and gayne for his labour and industrie. But if sentence were pronounced against hym, he should not be bound to paye the same. Vppon this conclusion, the Maister taughte hym with greate diligence, the vttermoste of his knowledge in that arte. The Scholler againe learned and receyued his teaching, with greate prompitude and readinesse of witte. When Protagoras hadde taught him the vttermost of his knowledge: the Scholler Euathlus, to defraude hym of the reste of his money, determined neuer to be Aduocate, whose craft Protagoras perceiuing, cited him by writte, to appeare before the iudge, to aunswere the reste of the bargaine. When they were both come in the Iudges presence, Protagoras spake to his scholer in this wyse: “Euathlus, the bargaine betweene vs, thou canst not chose but confesse and acknowledge, whiche in effect is this. It was agreed that I should teache thee, the arte of pleading, and in the first matter whiche thou diddest pronounce and sentence giuen on thy parte, thou shouldest paye me the other halfe of the money (for the first moitie I receiued before hande) and nowe to auoyde the satisfaction thereof (although thou knowest, that I haue full well deserued it) thou to defraude me of my duetie, refusest to be an Aduocate. But I wil tell thee, this thy determination is but vayne and frustrate: for I haue intangled thee in suche nettes, as thou canst not escape: but by one meane or other thou shalt be forced to pay mee. For if the Iudge doe condempne thee, then maugre thy head thou shalt be constrayned: and if contrariwyse sentence be giuen on thy side, thou shalt be likewyse bounde to paye me, by thy verie couenaunt, sithens thou art bounde, when thou pleadest first, and sentence should be giuen in thy behalfe. Doe nowe then what thou liste, for in fine thou fhalt be forced to paye me, in despite of thy teethe.” All the assistantes held with Protagoras, affirming his suite to be very reasonable. Notwithstanding Euathlus with a bolde spirite, aunswered for him selfe in this maner: “Sir Protagoras, it semeth vnto you that I am conuicted, but staye a whyle and giue me leaue to speake: and then you shall perceiue in what wyse I will confounde your argument. Here you haue brought your action against me, wherof I truste vpon my reasonable answere before the Iudges, to be discharged. For if by this your pleading, by circumstaunces and arte of an Oratour, whiche you haue vsed in all your discourse, the matter shall fall so out as sentence be giuen on your side, then the bargayne made betwene vs is voyde and of none effecte, bicause I losing the profite of my firste pleading: wherein by our agrement sentence should be geuen on my behalfe, the same bargaine is not accomplished. For you should be payde the moitie of the money behinde, with that commoditie, which I did gayne by my first pleading: for whiche cause, there is no reason but I must bee discharged of your demaunde.” After this debating of the matter, the Iudges wayed with argumentes of both parts whiche semed so doubtfull vnto them, that knowing not howe to giue sentence, they suspended the processe.

The same Aulus Gellius, reciteth an other lyke question, whiche hee referreth to Plinie, as the firste authour thereof. There was a lawe (sayeth hee) in a certayne citie, that what so euer hee were, that committed any valiaunte facte of armes, the thyng that he demaunded, whatsoeuer it were, should be graunted vnto him. It chaunced that a certayne persone did this worthy acte, and required that a man’s wife (whom he derely loued) should be giuen vnto him: whiche wyfe by force and vertue of the lawe, was accordingly deliuered. But afterwardes the man, from whome his wyfe was taken, did the lyke facte, and demaunding his wyfe to be redeliuered vnto him agayn, sayde vnto him that had her: “If thou wilt obserue the lawe, thou must of force deliuer vnto me, my wyfe, but if thou do not like the lawe, thou oughtest yet to render her vnto me, as mine owne.” The other aunswered him in like sorte: “If thou obserue the lawe, this woman is myne, for I haue first wonne her by the lawe: but if thou do not approue the lawe, thou hast no right to demaunde her, shee nowe being myne.”

THE TWENTY-SEUENTH NOUELL.

_Seleucus king of Asia, gaue his wife to his owne sonne in mariage, being his mother in lawe: who so feruently did loue her, that he was like to die, whiche by a discrete and wyse inuention, was discouered to Seleucus by a Phisition._

Although the wyse Philosopher Plutarche, elegantly and brieflye describeth this historie, in the life of Demetrius: yet bicause Bandello aptlye and more at large doth discourse the same, I thought good to apply my pen to his stile. Who saith that Seleucus king of Babylon, a man verie victorious in battaile, was amongs the successors of Alexander the great, the moste happie and fortunate: He had a sonne called by his father’s name Antiochus. After the deceasse of his wife, his sonne increased and gaue great hope of valiaunce in future time, to become a valiant gentleman worthy of suche a father. And being ariued to XXIIII. yeres of age, it chaunced that his father fell in loue with a very faire yonge gentle woman, discended of great parentage (called Stratonica) whom he tooke to wife, and made her Queene, and by her had one sonne. Antiochus seing his mother in lawe, to be (besides her great beautie) a curteous and gentle Lady, began to be very amerous of her, whose hart war so set on fire (without apparent shew) that incredible it is to expresse the loue that he bare her. And yet he thought that loue to be vnnaturall because she was his father’s wife, and therefore durst not discouer it to any man. And the more secrete he kept it the more the heate began to boile and consume him. But bicause he sawe that loue had fixed so deepe footing, that he was not well able to retire, hee determined after long sorow and great turmoile, to seke some quiet hauen to reste his weather beaten barke, that had ben tossed with the waues of pensife and sorowfull cogitacions. His father had many kingdomes and Prouinces innumerable vnder his Empire. At whose handes Antiochus craued licence to visite some of them for his disport and recreation, of purpose to proue if he could auoide that vnseasonable loue, wherewith his hart was suppressed. But he was no soner out of his father’s house, but his harte was vexed with greater tormentes then before, being depriued from the sight of faire Stratonica, whose presence did better content him, then all the pleasures and sportes of the worlde. Neuerthelesse, desirous to vanquishe his indurate affections, he continued abroade for a certaine time, during whiche space, vnable to quenche the fire, he led a more desolate and troublesome life, then he did before. In the end victorious loue toke him prisoner and caried him home againe to his father’s house. Who seing the great loue that his father bare to his wife, and the ioyfull tyme that hee spent with faire Stratonica, transported into many carefull panges, many times complained to him selfe in this wise. “Am I Antiochus the sonne of Seleucus? Am I he that my father loueth so well, honoreth so much, and estemeth better then al his realmes and dominions? Alas if I be Antiochus in deede, the sonne of so louing a father, where is the duetifull loue, and bounden reuerence that I ought to beare vnto him? Is this the duetie of a sonne towardes his father? Ah wretche and caitife that I am. Whether hath grosse affection, vayne hope, and blynde loue caried me? Can loue be so blynde? Shall I be so voyde of sence, that I know not my mother in law from an other woman who loueth me no lesse, and entertaigneth me so wel, as if she were mine own mother, that laboured with painful panges, to bring me into light? Which being true, as it is most true, why then do I loue her? nay rather more then loue her. Why doe I seke after her? What meane I to hope for her? Why doe I precipitate so fondlye into the snares of blynde and deceiptfull loue, and into the trappe of deceiptfull hope? Can I not perceyue that these desyres, these vnstayed appetites, and vnbrydeled affections, doe proceade from that whiche is dishonest? I see well enough that the waye I take leadeth mee into great inconuenience. And what reproche should I sustayne, if this vnreasonable loue were made common to the world? Ought not I rather to suffer infamous death, then to see my father depryued of suche a wyfe, whome hee so derely loueth? I wyll giue ouer this vnsemely loue, and reuerting my mynde to some other wyght, I wyll accomplishe the duetie of a good and louinge sonne towardes his father.” Reasoning thus with hym selfe, hee determyned wholly to giue ouer his enterpryse. And hee had no soner purposed so to doe, but sodaynly the beautie of the Lady appeared, as it were in a vision, before the face of his mynde, and felte the flames to growe so hotte, as hee, vppon his knees, craued a thousande pardons of the louing God, for the abandoning of his gentle enterpryse. And therewithal contrarie imaginations began to ryse, whiche so contended with mutuall resistaunce, as they forced hym thus to saye. “Shall not I loue this Ladie, because shee is my fathers wife? Shall not I prosecute my suite, for all that shee is my mother in lawe? Ah cowarde, fayntharted, and worthy to bee crowned a Prince of follye, if therefore I should giue ouer my former mynde. Loue prescribeth no suche lawe to her suters as pollicie doth to man. Loue commaundeth the brother to loue the sister, loue maketh the doughter to loue the father, the brother his brothers wife, and many times the mother, her sonne in lawe: whiche being lawfull to other, is it not lawful to me? If my father being an old man, whose nature waxeth cold, hath not forgotten the lawes of loue, in louing her whom I loue: shal I being a yong man, subiect to loue, and inflamed with his passions, be blamed for louing her? And as I were not blame worthy, if I loued one that were not my fathers wife, so must I accuse Fortune, for that she gaue her not to wyfe to an other man, rather then to my father, bicause I loue her, and would haue loued her, whose wyfe so euer she had bene. Whose beautie (to say the trouth is such) whose grace and comelinesse so excellent, that shee is worthy to be receiued, honoured, and worshipped of all the worlde, I thinke it then conuenient for me to pursue my purpose, and to serue her aboue al other.” Thus this miserable louer, trauersing in seuerall mindes, and deluding his own fansie, chaunged his mynde a thousand times in an hower. In thende, after infinite disputations to him selfe, he gaue place to reason, considering the great disconuenience that would insue his disordinate loue. And yet not able to geue it ouer: And determining rather to die, then to yelde to such wicked loue or to discouer the same to any man. By litle and litle he consumed, as sleting snow against the warme Sone: wherwith he came to suche feble state, that he could neither slepe, nor eate, and was compelled to kepe his bedde, in suche wyse, that with superfluous paine he was brought to marueylous debilitie. Whiche his father perceiuing, that loued him very tenderly, conceiued great griefe and sorowe: and sent for Erasistratus, (which was a very excellent Phisition and of great estimation) whom very instantly he praied diligently to loke vnto his sonne, and to prouide for him such remedie as was conuenient for the greatnesse of his disease. Erasistratus viewyng and beholding all the partes of the yonge gentlemans body, and perceiuing no signe of sickenes, eyther in his vrine or other accident, whereby hee coulde iudge his body to be diseased; after many discourses, gaue iudgement, that the same infirmitie proceaded from some passion of the mynde, whiche shortelye woulde coste hym his life.

Whereof he aduertised Seleucus. Who louing his sonne after a fatherly maner, and speciallye, because he was indued with vertue and good condicions, was afflicted with vnspeakeable griefe. The yong gentleman was a marueilous towarde youth, so actiue and valiaunte as anye that liued in his tyme, and therewithall verie beautifull and comely. Whiche made hym to be beloued of all men. His father was continuall in his chamber, and the Queene her selfe oftentimes visited him, and with her own handes serued him with meates and drinkes: whiche bicause I am no Phisition, I knowe not whether the same did the yong man any pleasure, or whether it did him hurt or good. But I suppose, that her sight was ioyfull vnto hym, as of her in whom he had placed his comfort, all his hope, quietnesse, and delight. But beholding before his eyes so many times the beautie of her whome so greatly he desired to enioye, hearing her speake that was the cause of his death, and receiuing seruice of meates and drinkes at her handes whome he loued better then the balles of his eyes: vnto whom he durst not make any request or praier, whether his grief surmounted all other, and therefore continually pined and consumed, I thinke it of reason to be beleued. And who doubteth but that he feling him self to be touched with those her delicate handes, and seing her to sitte by him, and so many times for his sake to fetche so many syghes, and with suche swete woordes to bidde hym be of good chere, and that if he wanted any thing to tell her, and praied him with pleasaunt woordes, to call for that he lacked, and that for his sake she would gladly accomplish what he desired: who douteth I say, but he was marueilously tormented with a thousande cogitations? Nowe conceiuing hope, and now dispaire, and still concluding with him selfe, rather to dye then to manifeste his loue. And if it bee a griefe to all yonge men, (be they of neuer so meane and base condicion) in theyr youthlye tyme, to lose their lyfe, what shall we thynke of Antiochus, beyng a younge man of freshe and flourishyng age, the sonne of a ryche and mightie kyng, that looked if hee escaped after the death of his father to bee heyre of all, did willingly craue death, of that small disease: I am assured that his sorowe was infinite. Antiochus then beaten with pitie, with loue, with hope, with desyre, with fatherly reuerence, and with a thousande other thynges (lyke a shyppe tossed in depest Seas) by litle and litle beganne to growe extremely sicke. Erasistratus that sawe his bodye whole and sounde, but his minde greuously weakened, and the same vanquished with sundrie passions. After hee had with him selfe considered this straunge case, hee for conclusion founde out that the yonge man was sicke of loue, and of none other cause. Moreouer he thought that many times, wise and graue men, through ire, hatred, disdaine, melancholie, and other affections, could easily faine and dissemble their passions, but loue if it be kept secrete, doth by the close keping therof, greater hurt then if it be made manifest. And albeit that of Antiochus he coulde not learne the cause of his loue, yet after that imagination was entred into his head, he purposed to finde it out by continual aboade with him, and by great diligence to obserue and marke all his actions: and aboue all to take hede to the mutacion of his poulces, and whereupon their beating did alter. This deliberation purposed, he sat downe by the bed side, and tooke Antiochus by the arme, and helde him faste where the poulses ordinarily do beate. It chaunced at that very instant, that the Queene Stratonica entred into the chamber, whom so sone as the yonge man sawe comming toward him, sodainly the poulse which were weake and feble, began to reuiue through mutation of the bloud. Erasistratus feling the renforcing of the poulce, to proue howe long it would continewe, he remoued not at the comming of the Queene, but still helde his fingers vpon the beating of the poulces. So longe as the Queene continued in the chamber, the beating was quicke and liuely, but when she departed, it ceased, and the wonted weakenes of the poulces retourned. Not long after the Queene came againe into the chamber, who was no soner espied by Antiochus, but his poulces receiued vigor, and began to leape, and so still continued. When she departed the force and vigor of the poulce departed also. The noble phisition seing this mutation, and that still it chaunced vpon the presence of the Queene: hee thought that he had founde out the cause of Antiochus sickenesse: but he determined better to marke the same the next daye, to be the better assured. The morowe after, Erasistratus satte downe againe by the yonge gentleman and took him again by the arme, but his poulce made no motion at all. The king came to see his sonne, and yet for all that his poulces were still: and beholde the Queene came no soner in, but sodainly they reuiued, and yelded suche liuely mouing, as if you woulde haue sayde:--“Yonder is shee that setteth my harte on fyre. Beholde where she is that is my life and death.”--Then Erasistratus was wel assured and certaine that Antiochus was feruently inflamed with his mother in lawe, but that shame constrained him to conceale the hotte firebrandes that tormented him, and to keepe theim close and secrete. Certified of this opinion, before he would open the matter, he considered what way were best to geue knowledge therof to king Seleucus. And when hee had well debated of this matter, he deuised this waye: hee knew that Seleucus loued his wife beyonde measure, and also that Antiochus was so deare vnto him as his own life. Whereupon he thus sayde vnto the kyng. “Noble Seleucus, thy sonne is affected with a greuous maladie, and that (which is worse) I deme his sickenesse to be incurable.” At whiche woordes, the sorowefull father began to vtter pitifull lamentation, and bitterly to complayne of Fortune. To whome the Phisition sayde.--“If it please you (my Lorde) to vnderstande the occasion of his disease, this it is: The maladie that affecteth and languisheth your sonne, is Loue: and the loue of such a woman, which except he enioy, there is no remedie but death.” “Alas (quoth the kinge, weeping with bitter teares) and what woman is shee, but that I maye procure her for him, which am kinge of all Asia, and am able with intreatie, money, giftes, or other pollicie whatsoeuer, to make her obediente and willinge to my sonnes requeste. Tell me onely the name of the woman, that I maye prouide for my sonnes health, yea, thoughe it coste me all my goodes and realme to, if otherwise shee cannot be gotten: for if he die what shall I doe with my kingdome.”

Whereunto Erasistratus aunswered. “If it like your grace, your sonne is in loue with my wife, but because the loue of another man’s wife seemeth vnto him vnreasonable, he dareth not to manifest it for shame, but rather wisheth to die, then to open his minde. Howbeit, I by certaine euidente signes, do well perceiue it.” When Seleucus hearde these words, he said. “O Erasistratus! thou being so worthie a man, to whom fewe in goodnesse and humilitie be comparable, so deare and wel beloued of mee, and beareth the bruite to be the very hauen and harborough of wisedome, wilt thou not saue my sonne, which is a yonge man, nowe vppon the floure of his youth, and most worthy of life: for whom the empyre of all Asia is worthely reserued? O Erasistratus! the sonne of thy frend Seleucus, is thy king, who through loue and silence, is at the pointe of death, thou seest that for modestie, and honestie sake, at this his last and doubtfull passage, he had rather chose to die, then by speaking to offend thee, and wilte thou not helpe him? This his silence, this discretion, that his reuerence which hee sheweth, oughte to moue thee to compassion. Thincke my wel beloued Erasistratus, that if he loue ardently, that he was forced to loue: for vndoubtedly, if he could not loue, he would doe the best he could not to loue: yea, and with all his endeauour to resist it: but who is able to prescribe lawes to loue? Loue I knowe, not onelye forceth men, but also commaundeth the immortal Gods: and when they be not able to resist, what can man’s pollicie preuaile? Wherefore, who knoweth not what pitie mine owne deare Antiochus doth deserue? who being constrained, can none otherwise do: but to be silent in loue, is a most euident signe of a noble and rare vertue. Dispose thy minde therefore, to helpe my sonne: for I assure thee that if thou do not loue the life of Antiochus, Seleucus life must needes be hated of thee: he cannot be hurt, but I likewise muste be touched with griefe.” The wise Phisition, seing that his aduise came to passe as he thought before, and that Seleucus was so instant vpon him for the health of his sonne: the better to proue his minde and his intention, spake vnto him in this wise. “It is a common saying, my most dradde soueraigne Lord, that a man when he is whole, can giue to him that is sicke and weake, very good counsel. You perswade me to giue my welbeloued wife to another man, and to forgoe her whom I moste feruently doe loue, and in lackinge her, my life also must faile. If you do take from me my wyfe, you take with her my life. Doubtfull it is my Lord, if Antiochus your sonne were in loue with the queene Stratonica, your graces’ wyfe, whether you would be so liberall vnto him of her, as you woulde that I should be of mine.” “I would it were the pleasure of the Gods (sodenly aunswered Seleucus) that he were in loue with my best beloued Stratonica, I sweare vnto thee, by the reuerence that I haue always borne to the honourable memorie of my father Antiochus, and my graundfather Seleucus: and I sweare by all the sacred Gods, that freelye and forthwith, I would render her into his hands (althoughe shee be the dearest beloued vnto mee,) in suche wise as all the worlde should know what the dutie of a good and louing father ought to be to such a sonne, as is my intirely beloued Antiochus: whoe (if I bee not deceiued) is moste worthie of all helpe and succour. Alas! this is a great vertue, in concealing that notable passion as an earnest affection of loue: and is it not worthie to be consecrated to eternall memorie? Is he not worthie of all helpe and comfort? Doth hee not deserue to be pitied and lamented of all the worlde? Trulye he is worse then a cruel enemie, naye he is rather more fierce and vnnatural then a sauage beast, that at such moderate behauiour as my sonne vseth, wil not take compassion.” Many other wordes the good father spake, manifestly declaring, that he for the health of his sonne, would not onely sticke to bestowe his wife, but also willingly his lyfe for his preseruation. Wherefore the Phisition thought it not good any longer to keepe secrete the cause, but toke the king aside, and said vnto him in this wyse. “The health of your sonne (my deare Lorde and Soueraigne) is not in my handes, but the same resteth in you, and in your wife Stratonica: whom (as I, by certaine signes doe manifestly know,) he ardentlie doth loue. Your grace now doth knowe from henceforth what to do, if his life be dere vnto you.” And telling the king the maner of his loue, he ioyfully toke his leaue. The king now doubted but of one thing, which was how to perswade his sonne to take Stratonica to wife: and howe to exhorte his wyfe, to take his sonne to husbande. But it chaunced for diuers causes, that easelye ynough he perswaded them both. And perchaunce, Stratonica made a good exchaunge, in taking a yong man, to forsake him that was olde. After Seleucus had made the accord betwene his wife and his sonne, he caused al his army to assemble, which was very great: to whom he said in this maner. “My dere and louinge souldiours, which sith the death of Alexander the great, haue (with mee) atchieued a thousande glorious enterprises: I thincke it meete and conueniente that yee be partakers of that which I purpose to bringe to passe. Ye doe knowe that vnder mine Empyre, I have LXXII. kingdomes, and that I beinge an olde man, am not able to attende so greate a charge: wherefore (louinge companions) I purpose to deliuer and ridde you from griefe of idlenesse, and my selfe from trouble and toyle, reseruing to mee onely so much as lyeth betweene the Sea and the riuer Euphrates. All the rest of my dominions I giue to my sonne Antiochus, vppon whom in marriage, I haue bestowed my wife Stratonica, which thinge ought to contente you, because my will and pleasure is such.” And when he had tolde them the loue and sicknes of his sonne, and the discrete deuise of the gentle Phisition, in the presence of all his armie, the mariage was celebrated betwene Stratonica and Antiochus. Afterwards he crowned them both kinge and Queene of Asia, and with royall pompe and triumphe, the desired mariage was consummate. The armye hearing and seing these thinges, very highly commended the pietie of the father towards his sonne. Antiochus then continued with his welbeloued wife in ioy and quietnes, liuing together in great felicitie. This was not hee that for matters of Ægipt did make warres with the Romaines: but he that onely inferred warres vpon the Gallatians, which out of Europa passed into Asia, out of which countrie hee chased them, and ouercame them. Of this Antiochus came Seleucus, which was father of Antiochus surnamed the great, that attempted very notable warres against the Romaines, and not his great graundfather, that maried his mother in law. Finally this Seleucus (of whom I recompt this historie) by giuing his wife to his sonne, did accomplish a miraculous act, and worthy (in deede) of sempiternall remembraunce, and greatlye to bee commended therefore, who although he had achieued infinite victories ouer his enemies, yet there was none of them all so great as the victorie of himselfe, and his passions. For certainly Seleucus did vanquish his owne appetites, by depriuing himselfe of his wife, whom hee loued and esteemed, aboue all worldly thinges.

THE TWENTY-EIGHTH NOUELL.

_Of the straunge and beastlie nature of Timon of Athens, enemie to mankinde, with his death, buriall, and Epitaphe._

Al the beastes of the worlde do applye theimselues to other beastes of theyr kind, Timon of Athens onely excepted: of whose straunge nature Plutarche is astonied, in the life of Marcus Antonius. Plato and Aristophanes do report his marueylous nature, because hee was a man but by shape onely, in qualities hee was the capitall enemie of mankinde, which he confessed franckely vtterly to abhorre and hate. He dwelt alone in a litle cabane in the fieldes not farre from Athenes, separated from all neighbours and company: he neuer wente to the citie, or to any other habitable place, except he were constrayned: he could not abide any mans company and conuersation: he was neuer seen to goe, to any mannes house, ne yet would suffer them to come to him. At the same time there was in Athenes another of like qualitie, called Apemantus, of the very same nature, differente from the naturall kinde of man, and lodged likewise in the middes of the fields. On a day they two being alone together at dinner, Apemantus said vnto him: “O Timon what a pleasant feast is this, and what a merie companie are wee, being no more but thou and I.” “Naie (quoth Timon) it would be a merie banquet in deede, if there were none here but my selfe.”

Wherein he shewed how like a beast (in deede) he was: for he could not abide any other man, beinge not able to suffer the company of him, which was of like nature. And if by chaunce hee happened to goe to Athenes, it was onelye to speake with Alcibiades, who then was an excellente Captaine there, wherat many did marueile: and therefore Apemantus demaunded of him, why he spake to no man, but to Alcibiades. “I speake to him sometimes, said Timon, because I know that by his occasion, the Atheniens shall receiue great hurt and trouble.” Which wordes many times he told to Alcibiades himselfe. He had a garden adioyning to his house in the fields, wherin was a Figge tree, wheruppon many desperate men ordinarily did hange themselues: in place whereof, he purposed to set vp a house, and therefore was forced to cutte it downe, for which cause hee went to Athenes, and in the markette place, hee called the people about him, saying that hee had newes to tell them: when the people vnderstoode that he was about to make a discourse vnto them, which was wont to speake to no man, they marueiled, and the citizens on euery parte of the citie, ranne to heare him: to whom he saide, that he purposed to cutte downe his Figge tree, to builde a house vpon the place where it stoode. “Wherefore (quoth he) if there be any man amonges you all in this company, that is disposed to hange himselfe, let him come betimes, before it be cutte downe.” Hauing thus bestowed his charitie amonges the people, hee retourned to his lodging, wher he liued a certaine time after, without alteration of nature; and because that nature chaunged not in his life time, he would not suffer that death should alter, or varie the same. For like as he liued a beastly and chorlish life, euen so he required to haue his funerall done after that maner. By his last will, he ordeined himselfe to be interred vpon the sea shore, that the waues and surges might beate and vexe his dead carcas. Yea, and that if it were possible, his desire was to be buried in the depth of the Sea: causing an Epitaphe to be made, wherin was described the qualities of his brutishe life. Plutarche also reporteth an other to be made by Calimachus, much like to that which Timon made himselfe, whose owne soundeth to this effect in Englishe Verse.

_My wretched catife dayes, expired now and past: My carren corps intered here, is fast in grounde: In waltring waues of swel- ling Sea, by surges cast, My name if thou desire, The Gods thee doe confounde._

THE TWENTY-NINTH NOUELL.

_The mariage of a man and woman, hee being the husband of xx. wiues: and shee the wife of xxii. husbandes._

Men commonly do reproue the honour of widowes, because they being twise or thrise wedded, doe marrie againe: and albeit by outward apparaunce, they which soe blame them seeme to haue reason, yet no man ought to iudge the secrecie of the hart. Mariage is holy and ought be permitted, and therfore by any meanes not to be reproued. Although it cannot be denied, but that the chast life is most perfecte, notwithstanding, that perfection in nothing doth diminishe the other. The widowe marying againe doth not offende God by mariage, and to the world she committeth the lest faulte. And because, manye olde and aunciente widowes, in these dayes, may not after three or fower mariages be dismaied and terrified from that state, I will recite an Historie, auouched by S. Hierome, in an Epistle _Ad Gerontiam viduam de monogamia_, whom for his holines and vertue, wee ought to beleue. It is also pretely set forth by Pietro Messia de Seuiglia, an excellent authour, a gentleman of Spaine, in the 34 Chapter of the first parte of his worke, called _La Selua di varie Lezzioni_. S. Hierome sayth, that in the time of Pope Damasus, he sawe and knew in Rome, one woman lawfully maried to XXII. men, and was the widowe of XXII. husbands: there was also a man which had had XX. wiues, and was then the widower of the XX. Both which being free, and of equall state and condition, they made suite one to other: and that either of them might proue whether should be the victor, in buryinge ech other, they maried together, which mariage was in great admiration amonges the Romaines: who musinge which of them should die first, promised that at the funerall, they would beautie the corpes, both with their presence, and also with tokens of victorie. It chaunced (sore against her will I dare say) that the woman died first. At the celebration of whose buriall, all the Romaine husbandes laied their heades together, howe they mighte exornate and garnish the funeralles. They concluded, to goe before the corpes with Laurel garlands vppon their heades, singing verses of praise for the obtaining of such a victorious conquest. Now where the women went, I cannot tell: for I finde written, that _populus totius vrbis præcedebat feretrum_; wher _populus_, as I take it, signifieth the whole route of men and women. And yet I thincke womens’ hartes coulde skarce aforde to go before: therefore I thincke they came behinde like mourners, bearinge braunches without leaues, their beades in their handes, praying for all christen soules. But giuing women leaue to mourne for such an ouerthrow, I woulde wishe all my frendes that be widowes, to folow the noble Romaine matrone and widowe called Annia, who (when her frendes and familiers, exhorted her to marie againe, because She was yong and beautifull) aunsweared that she would not. “For, quoth she, if it be my fortune to haue a good husband, as I had before, I shall still be afraied, lest death should take him away: but if it be my chaunce to matche with one that is euill, howe can I be able quietly to beare that, hauing had so good a husbande before.” Declaringe thereby, that being ones well matched, great heede ought to be taken, how to chose the nexte, leaste in making hastie choise, leasure for repentaunce should folow.

THE THIRTYETH NOUELL.

_How Melchisedech a iewe, by telling a pretie tale of three kinges, saued his life._

Saladine, whose valiaunce was so great, that not onely the same from base estate aduaunced him to be Souldan of Babilon, but also thereby hee wanne diuers victories ouer the Saracene kinges and christians: who throughe his manifolde warres and magnificent triumphes, hauing expended al his treasure, and for th’execution of one exploite, lackinge a great summe of money, knewe not where to haue the same so redily as he had occasion to imploy it. At length he called to remembraunce a rich iewe named Melchisedech, that lent out money for interest in Alexandria, whose greedie and couetous nature was such, that with his good will he would not do it, and to force him the Souldan was very loth. Howbeit, compelled by necessity, he cast his wits about him to finde a meanes how the iew might serue his tourne, and thereuppon founde out a sleight and waye by a colourable force. Who causing the iew to be called before him, intertayned him familiarly, making him to sit downe besides him, and said to him these words. “Sir, I do learne by report of diuers, that you are verye wise and well learned in thinges touching God, for which cause I would gladly know of you which of the three lawes you iudge to be most sincere and true: the Iewishe law, the Saracene law, or the Christian lawe?” The Iewe which in deede was very wise, perceiued wel that Saladine went about to intrappe him in wordes, thereby to raise some quarell against him, and thought that it was not good for him to praise one of those lawes more then another, leste Saladine mighte take aduauntage of him. Wherefore, to make a wise and discrete aunswere that he might not be ouer shotte, he sharpened his wittes, and sodainly came into His remembraunce this aunswere. “My Lorde, the question which you haue proponed is excellent, and to declare vnto you that which I knowe, I muste tell you a tale, the better to open my meaninge, which if it shall please you to heare, is this. I doe remember (if I be not deceiued) that many times I haue heard tell, how vppon a time there was a Noble man which was very rich, and had amonges his other treasures, a verye beautifull ringe of great price and estimation: which for the valour and beautie, hee was very desirous perpetually, to leaue vnto his successors: willing and ordeining that the same sonne which should haue that ring by the gift of his father, after his decease, should be taken and reputed for his heire, and should be honoured and magnified of the reste as the chiefest. He to whom the same ring was left, obserued semblable order in his posteritie, and did the like that his predecessor had done before him. In short time, this Ryng succeded from hand to hand to many successors. And last of al it came to the hand of one that had three goodly sonnes, vertuous and very obedient to their father, who loued them all indifferently and in equall maner, which knowing the order for the disposition of that Ring, curious to be best esteemed and beloued, euery of them prayed his father so well as seuerally they could, (which then was aged) that when hee died he would giue him the Ring. The good man which loued one no better then another, knew not which of them to chose, to whom he might dispose it, and thought best to promise the same to euery of them to satisfie all three. Secretely he procured an excellente Goldsmith to make two other Rings, which accordinglye were made so like vnto the first, as the owner himselfe vnnethes knew one from the other. And when he was vpon his death bedde, he secretly gaue to euery of his sonnes a Ring. Who after the death of their father desirous to enter the inheritaunce and honour, one goinge about to displace another, euery of them to declare what title he had to enioy the same, brought forth his Ringe: and the ringes were founde so like, that the true Ring could not be knowen. Therefore the processe for the title remained in doubt and yet continueth till this daye. And so I say vnto you my Lord of the thre lawes giuen by God the father to those three people, whereof you haue made the question: euery of those Nations thinketh to enioy the inheritaunce of God, and to obserue the true lawe and his commaundementes: but which of them hath the truest law, that remaineth in doubt like the question of the Rings.” Saladine perceyuing that Melchisedech knew right well how to auoide the snare which hee had laied for him: determined therefore to open and disclose vnto him his necessitie, to proue if he would do him that pleasure: which hee did, telling him his intent and meaninge, if he had not framed him that wyse aunsweare. The Iewe liberally lent him the summe of moneye that he demaunded, which Saladine wholie repaied vnto him againe, besides other very great rewardes that he gaue him, vsing him still for his frende, and afterwards maintayned him next his person, in great and honourable state.

THE THIRTY-FIRST NOUELL.

_One called Guglielmo Borsiere with certaine wordes well placed, taunted the couetous life of Ermino Grimaldi._

Longe sithens there was a gentleman at Genoua called M. Ermino Grimaldi, whoe as all men thoughte, was the richest of possessions and ready money within that citie, and therin farre excelled all other citizens which then were knowen in Italie. And as he did surpasse al other Italians in substance and wealth, so in auarice and wretchednes he surmounted beyond measure the most couetous and miserable of the worlde. For he kept his purse so close that he did not onely neglecte to do good to other, but also to himselfe, by sparinge many things necessary for his owne person: he indured much hardnes in meate and drinke because he would spend nothinge: contrary to the common custome of the Geneuois, who be wonte very nobly and honourably to maintaine themselues in apparell and fare. For which cause his surname Grimaldi deseruedly was taken away, and was called of euery man nothing els but M. Ermino the couetous. It chaunced in those dayes, that as he by spending nothing multiplied his goods. There ariued at Genoua an honest gentleman and well spoken, a Courtier of good interteignement, named Guglielmo Borsiere, (nothing like the Courtiers in these dayes that to their great shame, for their corrupt and rude maners would be called and reputed gentlemen, which in deede maye bee counted Asses, broughte vppe and noseled rather in the filthye conditions of the vilest menne, then in Courtes.) In those dayes Courtiers occupied themselues, in treatinge of peace and endinge of quarelles that bredde strife and dissention amonges gentlemen, or in makinge of mariages, amities, and attonementes, and with mery woordes and pleasaunt, did recreate troubled mindes, and exhilarated with pastimes other Courtiers, not with sharpe reprehensions, but like fathers rebuking the liues of the wicked, and that for no gaine or reward. Where some of the Courtiers of oure age do imploye their time, in ill reportes one of another, and do disseminate debate and strife, vtteringe a thousande vnhappie and vile wordes, yea and that (which is worst of all) in common audience. Their maner is to reproue and checke one an other with iniuries, reproches and nipping girdes, with false and deceiuable flatteries, villanously and dissemblingly, to begile poore and needie gentlemen. He is also the proprest man and best beloued of some great men of like conditions, and of them is best rewarded that can vse the vilest and most abhominable talke, or can do semblable deeds, which redoundeth to the great shame and dishonour, of the chiefe and principall that beare the swaie in Courte: proofe wherof is euident enough for that the vertues past, haue forsaken the presente sort, who liue in the ordure and filth of all vices. But to procede in that which I haue begon, (although vpon iust occasion I haue a litle more digressed then I thought,) I say that the foresaid Guglielmo Borsiere, was honoured and visited of the gentlemen of Genoua, who making his abode for a certaine time in the Citie, and hearing tel of the miserie and couetousnes of M. Ermino, had great desire to see him. M. Ermino hearing tell that this Guglielmo Borsiere was an excellente man, and therefore (although a couetous man) yet hauing in him some sparke of gentilitie, he receiued him with friendlye woords and good countenaunce, entringe into communication with him of diuers and sundrie matters, and in talking brought him with certaine other Citizens to one of his houses which was very faire and newe, where (after hee had shewed him his house) he said vnto him: “M. Guglielmo, you that haue seene and heard many things, can you shew vnto me any new deuise neuer seene before, that I may cause the same to be painted in the hall of this my house.” To whom M. Guglielmo (hearing his fonde demaunde) aunsweared: “Sir I can shewe you nothing but that which hath beene knowen before, excepte Nesinges or such like. But if it please you sir I wil gladly teach you one, which I thincke you neuer saw.” M. Ermino glad to heare of that, said: “I pray you sir tell mee what it is,” (not thinking he would haue made that aunswere). To whom M. Guglielmo redely said: “Cause the figure of Liberality to be painted.” At which aunsweare M. Ermino was so sodenlye ashamed, as he was forced to chaunge his minde in maner cleane contrarye to his accustomed vse, and trade of life, saying: “M. Guglielmo, I will cause the same to be painted in such wise, as neither you nor any man els, shall haue occasion iustly to obiect the same against me.” And from that time forth (such was the force of that taunt) hee was the most liberall and bountefull gentleman that dwelte in Genoua, and one that honoured straungers and citizens more then euer did any in his time.

THE THIRTY-SECOND NOUELL.

_Maister Alberto of Bologna, by a pleasaunt aunsweare made a gentlewoman to blushe, which had thoughte to haue put him out of countenaunce, in telling him that he was in loue with her._

Not manye yeares paste there was at Bologna a notable Phisition, renowmed throughe out the whole worlde, called Maister Alberto, whoe beinge old, almost LX. yeares of age, had such an excellent wit, that although naturall heate was expired in his bodie, yet hee disdayned not to conceiue some amorous flames of loue. Seing at a banket a verye fayre gentlewoman a widowe called (as some saye) Madonna Margherita de Ghisilieri, she pleased his fansie so well, that he fixed her so fast in the siege of his remembraunce, as if he had been a yonge man of rype and youthlye yeares. In such wise as that nighte he coulde take no reste, if the day before hee had not seene the faire and beautifull face of this faire gentlewoman. For which cause sometimes a foote, and sometimes on horsebacke as he thought best, he continually vsed to passe before her lodginge, which was the cause that shee and diuers other gentlewomen did marke th’occasion of his ofte passing to and fro that waye. And many times they iested and dalied amongest them selues to see a man of such yeares and experience to be in loue, thinking that the displeasaunt passion of loue, could fasten no hold but in the fonde mindes of yonge people and no where els. Wherefore Maister Alberto daily passing to and fro the house of that gentlewoman, it chaunced vppon an holye daye, that shee sittinge with other dames before her doore, and sawe Maister Alberto a farre off, comming towards them, she with the rest determined curteously to receiue him, and reuerently to salute him, and afterwardes merely to talke and sporte of his loue, which accordingly they did. The gentlewoman rising vp conueyed him into a court, of ayre fresh and pleasaunt, where they caused to be brought forth excellent wynes and comfites, and in the ende with manye cherefull and pleasaunt woordes, one of them asked him how it was possible, he could be in loue with that fayre gentlewoman, speciallye sithens manye fayre and trimme yonge menne, did loue her. Maister Alberto perceyuinge himselfe touched and gested at, very honestlye aunsweared with smyling countenaunce: “Maistres, no wyse man whatsoeuer hee be oughte to marueile whye I am in loue, especiallye with you (lookinge vppon her whom hee loued) because your beautye and woorthines dothe well deserue the same. And althoughe naturally the forces which be incident to exercises of Loue, do faile and decaie in olde men, good wil therfore is not in them depriued, nor the iudgement in knowledge, the which ought to be beloued. But because they haue greater experience then yonge men haue, therefore by nature they better know the qualitie of loue. The hope that moueth mee an olde man to loue you, that is soe well beloued of yong men, is this: I haue many times been conuersaunte in places where I haue seene gentlewomen for their collation and pleasure after dinner, oftentimes to eate Lupines and Leekes, and albeit that in the Leeke, there is nothing good or holsome, yet the heade thereof is less hurtful, and most pleasaunt to the mouth, whereof generally (through a folish lust) ye women holde the heade in your hands and chawe the leaues, which not onely be euil and nought, but also of an ill fauoured smel and sauour. And what doe I knowe (maistres) if in the choise of your frendes ye do the like? which if ye do, no doubt it is I, whom you haue chosen to be your frende, and haue forsaken all other.” This gentlewoman somwhat ashamed blushing with the rest, said: “Maister Alberto, you haue ful wel and curteouslye paied vs home, and aunsweared oure presumptuous obiection. Notwithstandinge I doe esteeme and accept your amitie and loue, as I oughte to regard the loue of a wise and honest personage. And so (mine honestie and honour saued) al that I haue to do you pleasure, is to be assured at your commaundement.” Therewithall M. Alberto rose vp, thanking the gentlewoman, and with much sport and pleasaunt talke taking his leaue of the company departed. In this maner the gentlewoman giuing ouer her scoffes and tauntes, whereby she thoughte to putte Mayster Alberto out of conceyt, was put to silence her selfe. Whereof I (in the name of Pansilo Filostrato and Dioneo) by waye of intreatie do beseech yee Ladies, Pampinea, Fiammetta, Philomena, and other gentlewomen, to beware howe ye doe contriue your holy day talke, by waste wordes issuing forth your delicate mouthes, in carping, gauding, and iesting at young gentlemen, and speciallye olde men, and Maister Alberto of Bologna, that for loue like the grene stalkes or graye heades of Lekes, doe desire to sauer your mouthes, and by honest recreation and pleasure to gratifie your comlie personages, lest before the banket be done, and all the comfites spente, ye departe with blushing cheekes, hanging downe your heades, not shaming to looke your mother in the face from whence you came: I meane the earth. Where dame nature hath formed you by your comely grace, and your fayre face, to beholde eche man, and to vtter pleasaunt talke intermixed with honestie and vertue.

THE THIRTY-THIRD NOUELL.

_Rinaldo of Esti being robbed, arriued at Castel Guglielmo, and was succoured of a wydowe: and restored to his losses, retourning saulfe and sounde home to his owne house._

In the tyme of Azzo Marques of Ferrara, there was a marchaunt named Rinaldo of Esti, come to Bologna to do certaine affaires. Whiche when hee had dispatched, in retourning homewardes, it chaunced as he departed out of Ferrara, and riding towardes Verona, hee mette certayne men on horsebacke, whiche semed to be Marchauntes, but in verie deede were arrant theues: with whome he kepte companie, and without suspicion what they were, rode together familiarly talking. These good felowes seing this Marchaunt and thinking that he had money about hym, determined to robbe him, when they sawe their aduauntage, and to the intent he should not suspecte them, they rode lyke graue men of honest conuersation, debating with him of honest causes, and faithfull, shewing them selues counterfactely, to be lowly and gentle. Uppon whiche occasion, he thought him selfe moste happy that he had mette with such companie, because he and his seruaunt rode together alone. And as they were talking of diuers matters (as chaunceth in communication) they fel in talke of prayers, that men do make vnto God. And one of the theues (for they were three in nomber) sayd vnto Rinaldo: “And you gentleman, what praier bee you accustomed to saye, when you ryde by the waye?” To whom Rinaldo answered: “To tel you the truth, I am a man very playne, and rude in those matters, and I haue a fewe prayers at my fingers endes: suche as myne auncestours vsed before me. And I let go currant II. S. for XXIIII D. But neuerthelesse, I haue alwayes accustomed, when I ryde by the way, to say in the morning at my going forth of my lodging, a _Pater noster_ and an _Aue Maria_, for the soule of the father and mother of sainct Iulian: and after that, I pray to God and sainct Iulian, to sende me good lodging the night folowing. And full oft in my time I haue founde, in trauailing of Countries many great daungers, all whiche hauing escaped, it hath bene my fortune always (when night approched) to chaunce vppon good lodging: whiche maketh me stedfastly beleue that sainct Iulian (vnto whose honour I saye the same) hath obteined this benefite of God for me, and I thought that daye wherein I neglected, to saye in the morning that prayer, I could neither saulfely trauell, ne yet at night obtain good harborough.” He that demaunded the question, asked him: “And haste thou said them this morning?” “Yea verely,” answered Rinaldo. Then he whiche already knewe howe the matter would go, said to him selfe, thou shalt haue enough to doe anone, for if thou haue not sayde them this morninge, it may so happe that thou shalt lodge full ill this night. And afterwardes hee saide, “I haue likewyse trauayled in my dayes a great waye, and neuer said those praiers, but I haue heard many men greatly prayse them (although) I could neuer perceiue but that I haue bene well lodged. And peraduenture this night you shal proue, which of vs two shal haue best lodging, you that haue sayd them, or I which haue not said them. It is most true that I haue accustomed, in stede of that praier, to saye that verse _Dirupisti_, or the antheme _Intemerata_, or the _De profundis_, which are (as my graundmother did teach and instructe me) of verie great effecte and vertue.” And speaking thus of diuers thinges, alwayes riding, expecting the place and time, to accomplish their wicked intent: it chaunced that approching nere to Castel Guglielmo, when they had passed ouer a ryuer, these three theues, late in the euening in a darke place, did sette vppon him and robbed him, dismounting him from his horse, and left him there in his shyrte. And as they were going awaye, they sayde vnto hym: “Goe and seeke if thy sainct Iulian, will helpe thee to good lodging this nighte, for our saincte wyll helpe vs to good.” And repassing through the Riuer, they went their waye. The seruaunt of Rinaldo, seyng the theues sette vppon his maister (like a cowarde) helped him nothing, but tourned his brydle and neuer left galloping vntill he came to Castell Guglielmo: where because it was nighte, he lodged in an Inne, without any further care for his Maister. Rinaldo being stil there in his shyrte, bare footed and bare legged, in the great Frost and Snowe, not knowing what to doe, and seing night already approche, quaking, and his teethe clacketing in his head, began to looke about hym, if he coulde see anye place there for hym to resorte for succour, that he might not dye for colde: but (seyng none at all, because a litle before, the warres had with fyre consumed all thynges) being sore afflicted for colde, he began to make spede towardes the Castell Guglielmo, not knowyng that his seruaunt was fledde thither: thynking that if he might come in, God would sende hym some succour, but darke night ouertooke him a good waye of, before hee coulde come to the Castell, almoste the space of a mile, by whiche meanes he arriued there verye late, the gates being shutte vp and the bridges drawen, that he could not goe in. By reason whereof hee was verie sorowefull and discomforted, lamentable casting his eyes about, to espie if it wer possible that at the lest he might shroude him selfe free from the snowe: and by chaunce he sawe a house vpon the walles of the Castell, vnder whiche he determined to reste tyll it was daye, and repairing thether, he found vnder the house a doore, (whiche was locked) vnder which doore gathering a litle strawe that he founde thereabout, he sat down very heauie and pensife: making his complaint many tymes vnto saincte Iulian, that the faith which he reposed in him had nowe deceiued him. But saincte Iulian taking pitie vpon him, without any further delaye, prepared him (as it chaunced) a good lodging: for there dwelled in that Castell a woman whiche was a wydowe so faire a persone as might be seene, whom the Marques Azzo lou d as his life, and kepte her there for his owne pleasure. And the same woman dwelte in the house, vnder the porche wherof Rinaldo was gone to reste him selfe, vnto whome the daye before, the Marques resorted to disport him selfe that night, and in her house had secretly caused a bathe to be made, and a great supper to be prepared. All which being readie, and the good wyfe expecting nothing els but the comming of the Marques, it chaunced that one of his men called at the gates of the Castell, with newes to the Marques, that sodainly he must ryde awaye; wherefore he sent woorde to the wydowe, that shee should not attende his comming: who, not a litle displeased with the message, not knowing what to doe, determined to enter the Bathe whiche was prepared for the marques, and when she had supped to goe to bedde. This Bathe was harde by the doore whereunto poore Rinaldo was approched. The widowe being in the Bathe, hearing the plaintes and trembling voyce of Rinaldo, thought it had been the noyse of a Storke. Whereupon she called her mayde and saide vnto her: “Goe vp, and looke ouer the walles, to know who is at the doore and what he would haue.” The mayde, according to her maistres commaundement, went to the doore, and the night being somewhat cleare, sawe Rinaldo sitting in his shyrte, bare legged, shaking for colde, as is before said, and asked him what he was. Rinaldo with his teethe shyuering in his head, coulde scarse well speake, or vtter a woorde, but yet so brieflie as he coulde, he tolde her what he was, howe and for what purpose he was come thither. Afterwardes he piteously began to praye her (if she could) not to suffer him that night to sterue for colde. The maide pitying his estate, returned to her maistres, and tolde her what she sawe: who likewyse hauiug compassion vppon him, remembring that she had the keye of the dore (whiche sometimes serued the turne, when the marques was disposed secretly to come in) she sayde to her mayde: “Go open the doore softly, for we haue prepared a supper, and here is no man to eate it: and also here is lodging sufficient to harbour him.” The mayde greatly praysing her maistres for her curtesie, wente forth and opened the doore. And when he was let in, they sawe him to be almoste frosen for colde: sayinge vnto him, dispatche good felowe, goe into the Bathe, being yet hotte. Whiche thinge he right willingly did, not looking that he should be bidden againe, and being recomforted with the warmth therof, he felt him selfe reuiued from death to life. The good wyfe caused certayne apparel of her late dead husband, to be searched out for him, and when he had put them on, they were so mete, as though they had bene made of purpose, and waiting what it should please the good wife to commaunde him, he began humbly to thanke God and saincte Iulian, that hee was deliuered from that euill nighte (contrarie to his expectation) to so good a lodging. After this the fayre wydowe, somewhat reposing her selfe, caused a great fyre to be made in one of her great chambers, into the whiche shee came, and demaunded her mayde what maner of man he was. The maid aunswered: “Maistres, nowe he is in good apparell, he is a verie handsome felowe, and seemeth to be of good reputation and honestie.” “Goe thy wayes (quod her maistres) and call hym hether. Bidde him come to the fyre, and tell hym that he shall suppe with me, for perchaunce he hath eaten no meate this nighte.” Rinaldo came into the chamber, and seing the wydowe, he made to her great reuerence: thanking her for her kindnesse shewed vnto him. When the wydowe had seene him, and heard him speake, perceiuing him to be suche a one as her mayde reported, shee intertaigned him in curteous wyse, causing him familiarly to sitte downe before the fire, and demaunded what mishap brought him to that place. To whome Rinaldo rehersed the whole discourse. For she had heard at the comming of Rinaldo his seruaunt to the Castell, a brute of his roberie, whiche made her to beleue him the better: She tolde him also, that his man was come to the towne, and howe hee might easely finde him the next morning. And after meate was serued to the table, Rinaldo and she washed together, and then sat down to supper. He was a goodly personage, faire and pleasaunt to beholde, yonge and of good behauiour, vpon whom the woman many times did cast her eyes, and liked him well. To be shorte, this lecherous Lady, burning inwardlye with amourous desyre, abused her selfe with hym, in steede of the Marques. But when the morning began to shewe foorth her light, the wydowe, to the intent no suspicion might bee hadde, gaue him certayne base and course apparell, and filled his purse with money, praying him to kepe her counsell, and first tolde him whiche way he should take to seeke his man, letting him out at the doore whereat he came in. Who seming as though he had traueiled a great waye that morning, when the gates were opened, went into the Castell, and founde his seruaunte. And then putting vppon hym suche apparell as was in his male, and being about to mounte vpon his man’s horse, it came to passe, like as it had bene a diuine miracle, that the three theues, whiche had robbed him the night before, were taken for doing an other robberie a little whyle after, and were brought to the Castell, and vppon their confession, his horse, apparell, and money, were restored to him againe, losing nothing but a payre of garters. Wherefore Rinaldo thanking God and saint Iulian, mounted vppon his horse and retourned whole and saulfe to his owne house. And the nexte daye, the three theues were conueied foorth, to blesse the worlde with their heeles.

THE THIRTY-FOURTH NOUELL.

_Three yonge men hauing fondlye consumed all that they had, became verie poore, whose nephewe (as he retourned out of Englande into Italie,) by the waye fell into acquaintaunce with an abbote, whome (vpon further familiaritie) he knewe to be the king of Englandes doughter, whiche toke him to husbande. Afterwardes she restored his vncles to all their losses, and sent them home in good state and reputation._

There was sometyme in the citie of Florence, a knight called Sir Tebaldo, who as some saie, was of the house of Lamberti: and as other affirme, of Agolanti. But leauing the variaunce of whether house he was, true it is, that hee was in that time a notable riche and wealthy knight, and had three sonnes. The firste called Lamberto, the seconde Tebaldo, and the thirde Agolante, all faire and goodly yonge men: and the eldest of whiche was not XVIII. yeares of age. When the sayde Sir Tebaldo died, to them (as his lawefull heires) he lefte all his landes and goodes. Who being verie ryche in readie money and possessions, continued their life without gouernement at their owne pleasures, and without brydle or stay they began to consume their goodes. They kepte a greate and franke house, and many Horses of great value, with Dogges and Haukes of sundrie kyndes, giuing liberall giftes, and obseruing diuerse gestes at Tilte and Torney: doing also that whiche not onely did appertayne and belonge to Gentlemen, but also that whiche was incident to the trade and course of youthe. They continued not long in this order, but their substaunce lefte them by their father, was very muche consumed. And their reuenues (not able to mainteine their expences) began to decrease, whereupon they were fayne to morgage and sell their inheritaunce, in suche wyse as in the ende they grewe to extreme pouertie. And then penurie did open their eyes, in like sorte as before riches had closed them vp. For whiche cause, Lamberto vpon a daye did cal his other twoo brethren vnto him, and tolde them of what honour their father was, to what value his rychesse did amounte, and nowe to what pouertie they were come through their disordinate expences: giuing them counsaile (so well as he could) that before miserie did growe any further vpon them, by selling that whiche was lefte, they shoulde goe their waye: whiche they did. And without leaue taken of any man, or other solempnitie, they departed from Florence, and taried in no place before they were arriued in Englande. Where taking a litle house in the citie of London, they liued with litle expences, and began to lende out their money to vsurie: and Fortune was so fauourable vnto them by that trade, that in few yeares they had gayned a verie notable somme of money, whiche made them one after an other, to retire agayne to Florence with their substaunce: where they redemed a great part of their inheritaunce, and bought other lande, and so gaue them selues to mariage: continuing neuerthelesse in Englande, their money at interest. They sent thither to be their factour, a yonge man their nephewe, called Alexandro. And they three dwelling still at Florence, began agayne to forget to what miserie their inordinate expences hadde brought them before. And albeit they were charged with housholde, yet they spent out of order, and without respect, and were of great credite with euery Marchaunt: whose expences, the money that Alexandro many times did send home, did helpe to supporte for certaine yeares, which was lent out to diuers gentlemen and Barons of the countrey, vpon their Castelles, Manours, and other reuenues, wherof was receiued an incredible profite. In the meane time the three brethren spent so largely, as they borowed money of other, fixing all their hope from Englande. It chaunced that warres happened betwene the king of England, and one of his sonnes, whiche bredde muche diuision in that lande, some holding of one parte, and some of an other. By meanes whereof, all the Manours and morgaged landes, were taken awaye from Alexandro, hauing nothing wher vpon any profite did ryse. Howebeit he dailye trusted that peace shoulde bee concluded betweene the father and the sonne, and that all thinges should be surrendred, as well the principall as the interest: determining vppon that hope not to departe the Countrie. The three brethren whiche were at Florence, not limitting any order to their disordinate expences, grewe daylye worse and worse. But in processe of tyme, when all hope was paste of their recouerye, they loste not onely their credite, but the creditours desirous to be payde, were fayne to sende them to pryson. And because their inheritaunce was not sufficient to paye the whole debte, they remayned in pryson for the reste, and their wiues and children wer dispersed, some into the countrie, and some hether and thether, out of order, not knowing how to do, but to abide a poore and miserable life for euer. Alexandro which of long time taried for a peace in Englande, and seing that it came not to passe, considering also with him selfe (ouer and besides his vaine abode, for recouerie of his debtes) that he was in daunger of his life, he purposed to retourne into Italie. And as he trauailed by the waye alone, and departed from Bruges, by fortune he perceiued an abbot clothed in white, in like maner about to take his iourney, accompanied with many Monkes, and a great traine: hauing much cariage and diuers baggages before. After whome rode twoo olde knightes, the kinsmen of the king, with whom Alexandro entred acquaintance by reason of former knowledge, and was receiued into their companie. Alexandro then riding with them frendlye, demaunded what Monkes they were that rode before with so great a trayne, and whether they went. To whome one of the knightes aunswered, that he which rode before, was a yonge gentleman their kinsman, which was newly chosen Abbot of one of the best Abbaies in England. And because he was verie yonge, and not capable by the decrees, of suche a dignitie, they went with him to Rome, to obteine of the holy father a dispensation for his age, and for a confirmation of that office. But they willed him to disclose the same to no man. And so this newe Abbot, riding sometimes before and sometimes after, as wee see ordinarelie that Lordes doe when they trauell in the countrie, it chaunced that the Abbot espying Alexandro riding besides him, which was a faire yonge man, honest, curteous, and familier, who at the first meting did so marueilously delight him, as any thing that euer he sawe in his life, and calling him vnto him, he began familiarly to talke, and asked what he was, from whence he came, and whether he went. To whom Alexandro declared liberally all his state, and satisfied his demaunde, offering vnto him (although his power was litle) al the seruice he was able to do. The Abbot hearing his courteous offer and comely talke, placed in good order, considering more particulerly the state of his affaires, and waying with him selfe, that albeit his traine was small yet neuerthelesse he semed to be a gentleman, and then pitying his mishappes, he recomforted him familiarly, and saide vnto him: That hee ought dailye to liue in good hope, for if he were an honest man, God would aduaunce him againe not only to that place from whence fortune had throwen him downe, but also to greater estimation: praying him that sithens he was going into Thuscane, whether he likewyse went, that it would please him to remaine in his companie. Alexandro thanked him humblie of his comfort, and said vnto him that he was redie to imploy him selfe where it should please him to commaunde. The Abbot thus riding, (into whose minde newe thoughts entred vpon the sight of Alexandro) it chaunced, after manie daies iournies, they arriued at a village that was but meanly furnished with lodging. The Abbot desirous to lodge there, Alexandro intreated him to light at the Inne of an hoste which was familiarly knowen vnto him, and caused a chamber to be made redie for him selfe in the worste place of the house. And the Marshall of the Abbot’s lodgings, being alreadie come to the towne, (which was a man very skilfull in those affaires) he lodged al the traine in that village, one here, an other there, so well as he could. And by that time the Abbot had supped, night was farre spente, and euerie man repaired to his lodging. Alexandro demaunded the hoste wher he should lie? To whom the hoste made aunswere “Of a trouthe Maister Alexandro I knowe not, for you see that all my house is so full, as I and my housholde are faine to lie vpon the benches: howe be it, I haue certaine garrettes, harde adioyning to the lorde Abbottes chamber, where I may place you very well, and I wyll cause my folkes to beare thither a pallet, where if you please, you may lodge this night.” To whome Alexandro said. “But how shall I passe through the Abbot’s chamber, the rowme being so streight as not one of his Monkes is able to lie there. But if I had knowen it before, the Curteins had bene drawen, I would haue caused his Monkes to haue lien in the Garret, and I my self would haue lodged where they do.” Wherunto the hoste saide, “It is doen nowe, but (me thinke) you may if you liste lie there so well, as in any place of the house. The Abbot being asleepe, and the Courteins drawen, I wyll softly and without noyse conueye a pallette thyther.” Alexandro perceiuing that the same might be done, without any anoiaunce to the Abbot, agreed and conueyed him selfe, so secretlye as hee coulde, through the chamber. The abbot whiche was not a sleepe (but gaue him selfe to thinke and imagine vpon his newe desires) heard the wordes that were spoken, betweene the hoste and Alexandro, and likewise vnderstanding where Alexandro lay, was verie well contente in him selfe, and began to saye: “The Lorde hath sent me a tyme fauourable to satisfie my desyres, whiche if I doe not nowe receiue, peraduenture the like will neuer be offred againe.” Wherfore perswading with him selfe to take that present occasion, and supposing likewyse, that euery man was a sleepe, he called Alexandro so softlie as he could, and willed him to come and lie beside him: who after many excuses, when his clothes were of came vnto him. The Abbot laying his arme ouer him, began to attempte suche amorous toyes, as be accustomed betweene twoo louers: whereof Alexandro meruayled muche, and doubted that the Abbot being surprysed with dishonest loue, had called him to his bedde of purpose to proue him. Whiche doubt the Abbot (either by presumption, or some other acte done by Alexandro) vnderstanding: incontinently began to smyle, and to putte of his shyrte whiche he ware, and toke Alexandro’s hande, and laide it ouer his stomacke, saying vnto him: “Alexandro, cast out of thy mynde thy vnhonest thought, and fele here the thing which I haue secrete.” Alexandro laying his hande ouer the Abbottes stomacke, perceiued that he had twoo breastes, rounde and harde, the skinne whereof was verie fine and tender, whereby he perceiued that hee was a woman, whom incontinently hee embraced, and without looking for any other inuitation, he would haue kissed her, but she saide vnto him: “Before thou approche any nearer, marke what I shall saye vnto thee. I am a woman and not a man, as thou maiest perceiue, but being departed a maid from my house, I am going to the Pope, to praye him to place me in mariage. But when I first viewed thee, the other daye, whether it was through thy good fortune, or my mishap, loue attached me in suche wyse as neuer woman loued man, as I do thee, and therefore I do purpose to take thee to husbande before all other: but if thou wilt not take me to wife get the hence and retourne to thyne owne bedde.” Alexandro although hee knewe her not, yet hauing regarde vnto the companie and traine that folowed her, iudged her to be some noble and riche Ladie: on the other parte, he sawe that she was a personage right beautifull and faire, therefore without any further consideration, he answered. “That for so muche as her pleasure was such, he was verie well contented.” Shee then sitting vp in her bedde, hauing a litle table (wherin the picture of Christe was painted) indowed him with a ringe, doing the order of espousalles, and afterwards embracing one an other, to their great contentation and pleasure, they ioyfully continued together that night. And after they had deuised and concluded the order and meanes to order their affaires from that time foorth, Alexandro, so sone as it was daye, rose vp and went out of the chamber that waye he came in, without knowledge to any man where he lay that night. Then right ioyfull and glad, he proceaded in his iourney with the abbot and his companye, and within fewe daies arriued at Rome. And when they had remained there a certain time, the Abbot taking with him but the twoo knightes and Alexandro, went to the Pope: where doing to him their due reuerence, the Abbot began to speake in this wyse. “Holie father (as your holinesse doth better knowe then any other) euery man that purposeth to liue an honest life, ought to auoyde (so muche as lieth in him) all occasions that may drawe him to the contrary. Which to th’intent I that am desirous to leade an honest life, may fully performe, am secretly fled and arriued here, in the habite wherin you see, with a good porcion of the king of Englandes treasure, who is my father: that your holines may bestow me in mariage, for so muche as my father woulde giue me to wife (which am a yonge gentlewoman as you see) to the Scottishe king, a very riche and welthy Prince, but yet very olde and decrepite. And his olde age was not so much the occasion of my departure, as the feare which I conceiued (through the frailtie of my youth to be maried vnto him,) to commit a thing that should be contrarie to the lawe of God, and the honour of the bloud roiall of my father. And in coming hitherwardes, being in this deepe deliberation with myself, almighty God, who only knoweth assuredly, what is nedeful and necessary for vs al, did place before mine eies (through his gracious mercy as I trust,) him that he thinketh mete to be my husband, which is this yonge gentleman (pointing to Alexandro) whom you see standing besides me. The honestie and worthinesse of whome is well able to matche with any great lady, how honorable so euer she be, although per aduenture, the nobilitie of his bloud is not so excellent as that which procedeth from the roiall and Princely stock. Him then haue I chosen to be my husband, him I will haue and none other, whatsoeuer my father shall say, or any other to the contrarie. Wherefore the principall occasion that moued me to come hither, is now dispatched. But I will accomplishe and performe the rest of my voyage, as well to visite the holy and reuerent places (wherof this citie is ful) and your holinesse: as also that the contract of mariage (hitherto only made in the presence of God, betwene Alexandro and me,) may be consumate openly in the presence of you, and consequently in the sight of all men: Wherfore I humbly beseche your fatherhode, to be agreable vnto that whiche it hath pleased God and mee to bring to passe, and that you would giue vs your benediction, to the intent we may liue together in the honour of God, to the perfection and ende of our life.” Alexandro greatly marueiled, when he vnderstoode that his wife was the doughter of the king of Englande, and was rapte with an vnspeakeable ioye. But much more marueiled the two knightes, which were so troubled and appalled, that if they had bene in any place els, sauing in the presence of the Pope, they woulde haue killed Alexandro, and peraduenture the lady her self. On the other part the Pope was verie much astonned, both at the habite and apparell of the Lady, and also of her choise. But knowing that the same could not be vndone, he was content to satisfie her request. And first of all he comforted the two knightes, whom he knewe to be moued at the matter, and reduced them in amitie, with the lady and Alexandro: then he gaue order what was beste to be done. And when the mariage daie, by him appointed, was come, hee caused the Ladie to issue forth, clothed in roiall vestures, before al the Cardinalles, and many other great personages that were repayred to the great feaste, of purpose by hym prepared. Whiche Ladie appeared to be so fayre and comelie that not without deserte shee was praysed and commended of all the assemblie. In like maner Alexandro, gorgeouslie apparelled, both in outwarde apparaunce and condicions, was not like one that had lent monie to Vsurie, but of a more Princelie grace and was greatelye honoured of those twoo knightes, where the Pope solempnely celebrated (againe) the espousalles. And after that ryche and royall mariage was ended, he gaue them leaue to departe. It seemed good to Alexandro, and likewise to the Lady, to goe from Rome to Florence, in whiche citie, the brute of that accidente was alreadie noysed, where being receiued of the citizens with great honour, the Ladie deliuered the three brethren out of prison, and hauing firste payde euerie man their debte, they with their wiues, were repossessed in their former inheritaunce. Then Alexandro and his wife, with the good will and ioyfull gratulations of all men departed from Florence, and taking with them Agolante, one of their vncles, arriued at Paris, where they were honourably interteigned of the Frenche king. From thence the twoo knightes went into England, and so perswaded the king, that they recouered his good will towardes his doughter: and sending for his sonne in lawe, hee receiued them both with great ioy and triumphe. And within a whyle after, he inuested his saide sonne with the order of knight hode, and made him Earle of Cornewale, whose wisedome proued so great, as hee pacified the father, and the sonne whereof insued, surpassing profite and commoditie for the whole Realme, whereby also he gained and got the loue and good will of all the people; and Agolante his vncle, fully recouered all debtes, due vnto him in Englande. And the Earle when he had made his vncle knightes suffered him to retourne in riche estate to Florence. The Earle afterwardes liued with his wife in great prosperitie (and as some do affirme) both by his own pollicie and valiaunce, and with the aide of his father in lawe, he recouered and ouercame the Realme of Scotlande, and was there crowned Kyng.

THE THIRTY-FIFTH NOUELL.

_Landolpho Ruffolo being impooerished, became a pirate and taken by the Geneuois, was in daunger of drowning, who sauing himselfe vpon a litle coafer full of rich iewels, was receiued at Corfu, and beinge cherished by a woman, retourned home very riche._

It is supposed, that the sea coast of Reggium (in Calabria) in the most delectable part in all Italy, wherin (hard by Salerno) there is a countrye by the Sea Side, which the inhabitauntes doe terme the coast of Malfy, so full of litle cities, gardeines, fountaines, riche men and marchauntes, as any other people and countrie. Among which said cities, there was one called Rauello, where in time past (althoughe in these dayes there be very rich men), there dwelte a notable man of substaunce, called Landolpho Ruffolo: who being not contented with his riches, but desirous to multiplye them double, was in hazarde to lose himselfe, and all that he had. This man, (as all other marchauntes be accustomed) after he had considered with himselfe what to doe, boughte a very greate shippe, and sraughted the same with sondrye kindes of marchaundize of his owne aduenture, and made a voyage to the Isle of Cypri, where he found (besides the commodities which he brought) many other shippes arriued there, laden with such like wares: by which occasion it happened, that hee was forced not onelye to sell the same good cheape, but also was constrained (if hee woulde dispatch his goodes) to giue them almost for nought, whereby he thoughte that he was vtterly vndone. And being greatly troubled for that losse, not knowing what to doe, and seing how in so litle a time, of a rich man he was come to begger state, he thoughte either to die, or els by piracie to recouer his losses, to the intent he might not returne to the place poore, from whence he was departed riche. And hauing founde a copeseman for his great barque, with the money thereof, and with other which hee receiued for his marchandise, he boughte a small pinnas, meete for the vse of a pirate, which he armed and furnished with al thinges necessary for that purpose: and determined to make himselfe riche with the goodes of other men, and chiefelye hee ment to set vppon the Turkes: whereunto fortune was more fauourable then to his former trade: and by chaunce, by the space of one yeare, he robbed and toke so many Foistes and galleis of the Turkes, as he had recouered not onely that which he loste by marchaundise, but also more then twise so muche as whereunto those losses did amounte.

Wherfore, well punished with the first sorow of his losses, knowing his gaines to multiplie, as he needed not returne the seconde time, he thoughte with himselfe that the same which he had gotten was sufficiente: and therefore determined presently to returne to his owne house with his gotten goods. And fearing the hinderance which he susteined in traffique of Marchaundise, hee purposed to imploie his moneye no longer that wayes, but in that barque wherewith hee had gained the same, with his ores hee tooke his course homeward: and being vppon the maine Sea, in the night the wind rose at the Southeast, which was not onely contrary to his course, but also raised such a tempest, as his smal barque was not able to indure the Seas. Wheruppon he toke harborough in a Creke of the Sea, whiche compassed a litle Ilande, there expecting for better wind. Into which creke within a while after, with much a do for auoyding of that tempest, arriued two great Argoseis of Genoa, that were come from Constantinople: the mariners of which greate shippes, when they sawe the litle barque, they closed vp the waye, that the pinnas could not goe out. And then vnderstanding of whence he was, and knowinge by report, that he was very riche, determined (being men naturally giuen to spoile and loue of money,) to take her. And setting a shore part of their men, well armed and furnished with crossebowes, they conueied themselues to keepe and defende that none within the Pinnas (except they woulde be shot through) was able to escape: then retiring into their skiftes, with helpe of the Tide they approched Landolpho his barque, which without any great difficultie, in a small space they toke with all the company, not loosing so much as one man. And carying Landolpho aborde one of their cockes, and all within borde his little Pinnas, they soncke the same and al the Mariners, and kept Landolpho, suffering him not to haue about him any kind of armure, not so much as an haberion. The next day the winde chaunged, and the shippes hoisted vp sailes toward Leuant, and all that day prosperouslie sailed on their voyage. But vpon the closing of the night, a storme rose againe, and separated the two ships, one from another, and by force of the wind, it chaunced the ship wherein poore Landolpho was, strake with great violence vpon a sande, in the Iland of Cephalonia: and as one would throw a glasse against a wall, euen so the shippe opened, and fell in peeces, whereby the sorowfull Mariners that stoode aboue, (the seas being couered with goodes, coaffers and plancks of the ship that swam aboue water, which chaunceth many times in such like accidents, the night being darke and the billowes going high and streinable,{)} such as were able to swim, began to take holde of those thinges which Fortune gaue vnto them. Amonges whom wretched Landolpho, seinge death before his face (which he so greatly desired, and so many times craued the day before, rather then to retourne home in that poore estate) was afraied, and caught hold of a borde amonges the rest, trusting it might chaunce that God woulde pardon him of drowninge, and sende him some refuge for his escape. And as hee was a horseback, and fletinge vpon a plancke, so wel as he could, (driuen here and there with the Sea and winde) he helde faste the same till it was day lighte: which when he perceiued, he looked about him and saw nothing but the cloudes, the Seas, and a coaffer, swimminge aboue water, which was driuen so nere him, that it made him manye times to feare that it would be his ouerthrow. And the nerer it came, the more hee laboured to put it backe (so well as he could) with his hande, although his force and power was gone: but how soeuer it chaunced, a gale of winde blew out of the skies, and strake the coaffer against the borde whereuppon Landolpho was, who by that meanes driuen backe, was forced to giue ouer the plancke, and with a billow was beaten vnder the water, and afterwardes, remounting aloft againe, hee swam more through feare then force. And seing the borde caried a farre of from him, fearinge lest he should not be able to fasten the same againe, he drewe toward the coafer which was nere ynough vnto him, and laying his breaste vpon the couer thereof, he made it go (so right as he could) with his armes. And in this maner driuen by the Sea, now here now there, without eating (as hauing not wherwithall) and drinking more then he would, he continued al that day and night following not knowing wher he was, for he sawe nothing but sea. The next morning, eyther by the will of God, or throughe the windes force, Landolpho (which was then transfformed into a sponge) holding faste with both his handes the brimme of the coafer, (like as we see them that feare to be drowned, do take hold of the next thinge that commeth to hande,) arriued at the shore of the Isle of Corfu, wher by fortune, a poore woman was scowring her vessell with Sand and salt water, who seing him draw nere, and perceyuing in him no forme or fashion of a man, was afraid, and crying out ranne backe. He not able to speake, and see but very litle, could say nothinge, but as the Sea droue him nere the shore, the woman discryed the likenes of a coafer, and beholding the same more aduisedlye, saw at length his armes vpon the same and therewithal his face, marueiling with her selfe who it should be: wherfore moued with compassion, she wente into the Sea a litle waye, which then was calme, and catching him by the heare, she pluckte him and the coafer to lande: and with much a doe vnfolded his armes that were about the coafer, causing her maide that was with her to carrie the coafer vpon her head: and she bare him to lande, (like a litle childe,) which done, she put him into a hotte house, and with warme water, by frotting and robbing him, his naturall heate, and other his sences lost, began to come againe into their former course. And when he saw time she toke him out, cherishing and comfortinge him with wynes and brothes, and so well as shee could, made him at length to recouer his force in such wise as he knew wher he was. Then the woman deliuered him his coafer, which he had saued, and badde him to seeke his aduenture. And thus this good wife delt with Landolpho, who litle esteemed the coafer, but yet he considered that it coulde not be of so small value, but that it was able to beare his charges for certaine dayes. Howbeit, feelinge it to be lighte, he was cleare voyde of hope to haue anye succour and reliefe thereof. Neuerthelesse (when the good wyfe was out of the doores) he brake open the same to see what was within, where he found many precious Jewels, some bound together and some loose, wherein he had pretie skill: and knowing them to be of great value, giuing thanckes to God, which had not yet forsaken him, was wholy recomforted. Howbeit, for so much as in a litle space he had bin twise cruellye distressed and tormented by Fortune, fearing the third time, he thought that it was needeful for him to take heede how to dispose his things in safetie till he came home to his owne house. Wherefore hauing bestowed those precious Jewels in certaine ragges and cloutes so well as he could, he said to the good wife that he had no neede of the coafer, but if shee woulde giue him a bagge, he would bestow the same vppon her: which the good wife willingly