HISTORIE I.

IF our contemplation dive into elder times, and our curiositie turne over the varietie of ancient and moderne Histories (as well Divine as Humane) wee shall find that Ambition, Revenge, and Murther, have ever prooved fatall crimes to their undertakers: for they are vices which so eclipse our judgements, and darken our understandings, as we shall not only see with griefe, but find w [...]h repentance, that they will bring us shame for glory, afflicti­on for content, and misery for felicity: Now as they are power­full in men, so they are (so [...]etimes) implacable in women, who (with as much vanity as malice) delight in these sinnes: as if that could adde grace to their bodies, that de­formes their soules, or lustre and prosperity to their dayes, that makes shipwracke both of their fortunes and lives. It is with griefe and pity (yea not with passion, but com­passion) that I instance this in a Gentlewoman, who was borne to honour, and not to shame, had not these three aforesaid vices (like so many infernall furies) laine her glo­ry in the dust, and dragged her body to an untimely and infamous grave. It is a History that hath many sorrowfull dependances, and which produceth variety of diasasterous and mournefull accidents: wherein (by the just judgement of God) wee shall see Ambition bitterly scourged, Revenge sharpely rewarded, and Murther severely puni­shed; by whose example, if all that professe Religion, become lesse impious, and more truely religious, wee shall then lead the whole course of our lives in such peacefull and happy tranquility, as (arming our selves with resolution to live and die in the fa­vour of Heaven) wee need not feare either what earth, or hell can doe unto us. The History is thus.

[Page 2] NEere Auxone (a strong and ancient Towne upon the frontiers of Burgundy, and the free County) dwelt an aged grave Gentleman (nobly descended, and of very faire demaynes) named Monsieur de Grandmont, who had to his wife a vertuous Lady, termed Madammoyselle de Carnye, the onely daughter of Monsieur de Buserat, a worthy Gentle­man of the Citie of Dole: this married couple for a long time lived in the greatest height of content, that either Earth could afford, or their hearts desire, for as one way they grew opulent in lands and wealth, so another way they were indewed with three hopefull Sonnes, Grand Pre, Vileneufe, and Masseron, and with two daughters, Mada­moyselles de Hautefelia, and de Cressye: a faire posterity: they blest in their Parents, and their Parents hoping themselves blest in them: so as (to the eye of the world) this one family promised to make many, (especially sith the youngest of the five had already attained its tenth yeare) but God in his providence ordayned the contrary.

Grand Pre (as the first and chiefest pillar of the house) craves leave of his Father that he might serve his apprentiship in the warres, under the command of that incompara­ble Captaine, Grave Maurice then Earle of Nassaw, since Prince of Orenge, Vileneufe delighting in bookes, his Father thought fit to send to Pont-au Mousson, and thinking to retaine Masseron with him; he for his beauty was begg'd a Page by that valorous Mar­shall of France who so wilfully and unfortunately lost his head in the Bastile of Paris.

As for their two daughters, Hautefelia lived with her Parents; and de Cressye they presented to a great Lady of Burgundy, who was long since the most afflicted and sor­rowfull Wife and Mother to the Barons of Lux, Father and Sonne, who were both slaine by that generous and brave Lorayne Prince, the Knight of Guyse.

But behold the inconstancie of fortune, or rather the power and pleasure of heaven, which can soone metamorphose our mirth into mourning, our joyes into teares, and our hopes into despaire: for within the compasse of one whole yeare, wee shall see three of these five Children laid in their graves, and of three severall deaths, for Vile­neufe was drowned at Pont-au Mousson as hee bathed himselfe in the River: Masseron was killed in a Duell at Fontaine bleau by Rossat a Gascon, being Page to the Duke of Espernon: and Hautefelia dyed at home of a burning Feaver with her Parents: a triple losse, which doth not onely afflict their hearts and soules, but also seemes to drowne their eyes with a deluge of mournefull and sorrowfull teares.

Grandmont and de Carny his Wife, being thus made unfortunate and wretched by the death of three of their Children, they resolve to call home their other two, to bee comforts and props to their old age, but their hopes may deceive them. First, from the Baronesse of Lux comes de Cressye, who succeeding her sister, we must now terme by the name (or rather by the title) of Hautefelia; who hath a great and bloody part to act upon the Theater of this History: and after her very shortly comes Grand Pre from Holland, where (in divers services) hee left many honourable and memorable markes of his prowesse and valour behind him.

Vpon his arrivall to his Fathers house, the flowre of all the nobility and gentry of the Country, come to condole with him, for the death of his brothers and sister, as also to congratulate his happy returne (an office and complement which expresseth much affection and civility) they find Grand Pre a brave compleate Gentleman, not in outward pride, but in inward generositie and vertue, not in the vanity of fashions and apparell, but in the perfections and endowments of his mind and body: he is wholy addicted to the exercise of warre, and not to the art of courting of Ladies, his de­lights are in the campe of Mars and Bellona, and not in the Palace of Venus and Cupid, well knowing that the one will breed him honour and glory, the other shame and re­pentance; his pastimes are not crisping and powdering of his haire, quarrelling his tay­lor for the fashion of his clothes, dancing in velvet pumps, and tracing the street in a [Page 3] neat perfumed Boote with jangling Spurres; yea, hee resembleth not young spruce Courtiers, who thinke no heaven to brave Apparell, nor Paradise to that of their Mi­stresse beauty: for hee onely practiseth riding of great Horses, Tilting, running at Ring, displaying the Colours, tossing the Pike, handling the Musket, ordering of Ranke and File, thereby to make himselfe capable to conduct and embattaile an Army, and to environ, fortifie, or besiege a City or Castle, or the like; yea, hee spurnes at the Lute and Viall, and vowes there is no musicke to the rattling of the Drumme and Trumpet, and to the thundring of the Musket and Canon: but this warlike and mar­tiall humour of his shall not last long: Wherin wee may observe the vanity of our thoughts, the inconstancy of our delights, and the alteration and mutability of our resolutions; for now we shal shortly see Grand Pre hate that he loved, & love that he ha­ted; yea, we shall see him so plunge and drown himselfe in the beauty of a faire & sweet Gentlewoman, as he shall leave Holland for Burgundy, Warre for peace, Armes for Love, and Enemies for a Mistris: but time must worke this alteration and Metamorphosis.

The old Gentleman his father, seeing Grand Pre's martiall disposition, feares lest this ambitious and generous humour of his will induce him to seeke warres abroad, sith he findes none at home; and therefore, desirous of his company and presence, in that it will sweeten his former afflictions, and give life to his future hopes and content, he proffers him the choice of many rich and faire young Gentlewomen for his wife, of the best and most ancient families in and neare Auxone: but Grand Pre is deafe to these requests and motions, & thinkes it a disparagement and blemish to his valour, if hee should any way listen, or give eare thereto, the which his father perceiving and understanding, he bethinkes himselfe of a further invention, and so resolves at Winter to leave the Countrey, and to reside in the City of Dijon, (famous for the ancient seate of the Dukes of Burgundie, and for the present Court of Parliament) hoping that there, amongst the multitude of sweet Ladies & Gentlewomen, wherwith that City is adorned, his sonne Grand Pre might at last espye some Paragon of Nature, whose beauty might have power to subdue and captivate his affections, and indeed (as the se­quell will shew) the event answereth his expectation.

For on a Sunday morning in Lent, as Grand Pre went to the royall Chappell to heare Father Iustinian (a Capuchin Fryer) preach, he opposite to him espies a most delicat and beautiful yong Lady, slender of body, tall of stature, fair of taynt & complexion, having a quick & gracious eye, with pure and delicate haire of a flaxen colour, being infinitely rich in Apparell, yet farre richer in the perfections and excellencies of a true and perfit beauty; in a word, she was so amiable and so lovely, so sweet, and so pleasing to his eyes, as at her very first sight Grand Pre could not refraine from blushing, as being ra­vished with the sweetnesse of so sweet an object, so as his heart panted and beat with­in him, as being not accustomed to encounter with such beauties, or with such sudden passions and alterations.

Now by this time this young gentlewoman (whose name we shall anon know) could not but perceive with what earnestnesse and delight Grand Pre beheld her, and seeing him to be a proper young Gallant, and richly apparelled and followed, shee could not refraine from dying her Lilly cheekes with a Vermillian blush, which gave such grace to her beauty, and so inflamed our poore Grand Pre, as he could no longer resist the in­fluence of such amorous assaults; and now it is that his thoughts strike sayle to affe­ction, and his heart doth homage to beauty, so as he revokes his former opinion con­ceiv'd against the power and dignity of Love, which he now holds erronious, and in his heart vowes that there is no such felicity in the world, as to enjoy the Lady of his desires, whom his eyes and soule chiefely honour and adore: But if he be insnared and imprisoned in the fetters of her beauty, no lesse is she in those of his personage, only she [Page 4] is more coy and precise in the exterior demonstration there of: for as hee cannot keepe his eyes from gazing on her; so shee seemes but to looke on him by stealth, or if she transgresse that Decorum, she immediately, in outward apparance, checks her eyes from ranging beyond the lists of modesty and discretion.

But by this time, to the griefe of our new Lovers, the Sermon is ended, and all pre­pare to depart, so their eyes with much discontent and unwillingnesse, for that time take leave each of other: and here Grand Pre making a turne or two in the Church, is doubly tormented and perplexed, first with griefe, that he is deprived of his Mistris sight, and then with sorrow, that hee neither knowes her, nor her name: But as Love refines our wits, and gives an edge to our intentions, so he shewes her to his Page, and sends him to make secret enquiry what shee is. His Page speedily returnes, and in­formes him, that she is Madamoyselle Mermanda, eldest daughter to Mounsieur de Cres­sonuille, one of the chiefest Presidents of tthe Court of Parliament. Grand Pre ex­treamely rejoyceth to know what she was, and farre the more, in respect hee sees it no disparagement either to himselfe or his house to marry her: and therefore omitting all other designes and resolutions (and bidding farewell to the Warres) he resolves to seeke her in marriage; to which end, the next day, hee of set purpose, with a Gentle­man or two of his [...]mate and familiar friends, insinuates himselfe into her Fathers house, who being absent, whiles they entertaine the Mother, hee (under colour of o­ther conference) courts the Daughter: yea, now his affection to her is by many de­grees redoubled, because he sees the excellency of her minde is answerable to that of her person, and now shee comming likewise to know him, is as it were wrapt up in the contemplation of a thousand sweete contents, which so worke on her affection, (or rather on her heart) as if he thinkes himselfe happy in seeking such a Mistresse, she esteemes her selfe blest in finding such a servant.

Grand Pre findes his first entertainment from Mermanda to bee respective and plea­sing: and so authorized by her curtesy and advice, he taking time at advantage, goes to the old President her father, and bewrayes him his affection to his daughter, and the desire he hath to obtaine her for his wife: so having begunne his suit, he leaves his father Grandmont to finish it, and continually frequents the companion of his beautifull Mistresse Mermanda.

Her father Cressonville dislikes not this match, but deemes it both agreeable and honourable; onely hee knowes that Grandmont hath likewise one only daughter, and himselfe one onely sonne: so he infinitely desires to make this a double match, thereby to contract a more firme and stricter league betwixt their two houses; this is propo­sed and debated, as well betweene the young folkes, as the old Parents, and at last it takes effect, so as purposely omitting, first the conference, then the letters sent from Grand Pre to Mermanda, and from Mermanda to Grand Pre; from De Malleray (Cressonvilles sonne) to Hautefelia, and from Hautefelia to De Malleray; because the inserting thereof would make this briefe History swell into an ample volume. These Marriages, to the joy of the parents, and the sweet content of their sonnes and daughters, are pompously solemnized in Dijon, with all variety of feasting, dauncing, and masking, answerable to their degrees and dignities. But these Marriages shall not prove so fortunate as is ho­ped, and expected, neither was Hymenaeus invited thereunto, or if he were, he refused to come; and therfore Lucina will likewise save her labor, because she knowes that neither of these two young married Gentlewomen shall live to make use of her assistance.

And here before I proceed farther, I wish the event of this History would give the lye to this ensuing position, that there is no pride nor malice to that of a woman; but I have more reason to feare then hope to believe the contrary: for no sooner have our two young couples reaped the fruites of Marriage, and the felicity of their desires, but [Page 5] wee shall see the Sunne-shine of their joy overtaken with a difmall storme of griefe, sorrow and misfortune; whereby wee may obserue and learne, that there is no per­fect nor permanent felicity under the Sunne, but that all things in this world, yea, the World it selfe is subject to revolution and change. The manner is thus:

Hautefelia envies her sister in Law Mermanda's advancement, and contemnes her own; she likes not to give the hand to her, whom she knowes is by descent her inferiour, and to speake truth, preferres a Scarlet Cloake before a Blacke, and a Sword-man before a Pen-man; these ambitious conceits of hers, proceeding from hell, wil breed bad bloud, and produce mournefull effects; yea, peradventure strangle her, who imbraceth and practiseth them.

Mermanda is of a gracious and mild nature, Hautefelia of an imperious and revenge­full: never any marryed couple live more contented, nor past more pleasant dayes, then did Grand Pre and his fai [...]e Mermanda for the space of one whole yeare; wherein she bore her selfe so loving & courteous towards him, & he so kind and pleasant to her, as their sweet carriage, and honourable, and vertuous behaviour, was of all the world (Hautefelia only excepted) highly praysed and applauded. But Hautefelia envying Mer­manda's prosperity and glory, because she could neither parallel the one, nor equall the other, & seeing with no other eyes then those of ambition and envy, bethinks her selfe she might act her disgrace, and eclipse the splendor of her vertues and glory. When re­membring that the Baron of Betanford (dwelling not farre from Auxone) sometimes visi­ted her brother Grand Pre, as also that he very lately had done her two unkind offices; the one, by buying a Iewell from her, which shee was in price with, of a Gold-smith at Dijon Faire; and the other, for retayning a little fine white Frizland dog, which his Page had stolne from her: she thinks to give two strokes with one stone, and at one time to be revenged both of the Baron and of her sister in Law Mermanda.

Iudge, Christian Reader, what simple reasons and triviall motives this inconsiderate Gentlewoman hath for her malice, but she is resolute therein, and as she hath layd the foundation, so she will perfect the edifice of her malice & revenge: which to effect, she sends a servant of hers purposely nere Auxone, to her brother Grand Pre, and writes him a letter to this effect: She intreats him to come ride over to her, for she hath a secret of importance to reveale him, which shee holds not fit to commit to penne, and withall adviseth him to frame some excuse towards her husband for his suddaine comming.

Grand Pre arrives at Dijon, and is welcomed of his Brother and Sister, but he disco­vers her to bee more sorrowfull then accustomed; he is ignorant what these clouds of her discontent import, or from whence they arise: but he shall know too soone, and his curiosity shall pay deare to understand it. Supper ended, they fetch a walke in the gar­den, and so he is conducted to his Chamber, where his brother in Law De Malleray gi­ving him the good night, his sister Hautefelia with teares in her eyes informes him, that she knowes for certaine, the Baron of Betanford is too familiar with his wife Mermanda, yea, beyond the bounds of honesty, the which she must needs reveale him, because his honor is hers, which, as she is bound by nature, she wil cherish & preserve as her own life.

Grand Pre amazed at this strange & unlooked for newes, is like one lunatick, or rather stark mad, he stamps with his foot, throws away his hat, now casting himself on the bed, then on the floore; yea, & had not his sister prevented him, he had killed himselfe with his own sword: these are the wretched passions of jealousy, which transport our selves beyond our selves, & our reasons beyond the limits of reason: & now this vild & mali­cious sister of his (more out of policie then charity) useth many prayers & perswasions, brings him again to himself, and they conclude to keep it secret from all the world, but withal Grand Pre vows to be sharply revengd both of his wife, & the Baron of Betanford.

Hautefelia having thus broached her inveterat & implacable malice (laughing hereat [Page 2] [...] [Page 3] [...] [Page 4] [...] [Page 5] [...] [Page 6] like a Gipsie) betakes her selfe to her rest, leaving her brother not to sleepe, but to drive out the night in watchfulnesse and jealousy: who the next morne (sooner then his accustomed houre) riseth, takes his leave of his Brother and Sister, and so very pensive and sorrowfull rides home.

Mermanda findes her husband sad, and enquires the cause thereof: shee prayes him, that if any griefe or misfortune have befalne him, shee may participate and beare the one halfe thereof, as she doth of his joy and prosperity: and as she was wont to doe, proffereth to kisse him; but hee slights her, and with much unkindnesse and disdaine puts her off; whereat shee is amazed, as not acquainted with such discourtesy. After Supper (jealousy being his chiefest dish; and griefe, hers) hee makes three or foure solitary turnes in the Court, and then sends his Page for his wife, who betwixt com­fort and gtiefe, hope and dispaire, presently comes to him: He demands of her whe­ther she will walke with him; shee answereth, that his pleasure shall ever bee hers: and that shee will most joyfully and willingly wayt on him where hee pleaseth: hee brings her to a solitary Grove, and there having choller in his lookes, and fire in his tongue, hee chargeth her of dishonesty with the Baron of Betanford.

Poore Mermanda, as it were pierced to the heart with the thunderbolt of this newes, falls to the ground in a fainting swoone: yea, Grand Pre her husband hath much adoe to recover her, when, comming againe to her selfe, she with many volleyes of sighes, and rivolets of teares, purgeth her selfe of that imputation and scandall; shee blames his credulity and jealousy, tearmes her accusers devills and witches, invokes heaven and earth to beare witnesse of her innocency; and withall cleares the Baron of Be­tanford, vowing and protesting by her part and hope of heaven, that he never attemp­ted nor opened his mouth to make her the least shaddow of so unchast a motion.

Grand Pre, weighing her wordes, and seeing her bitter and sorrowfull teares, be­lieves his Wife, and so frees both her selfe and the Baron, prayes her to pardon him, and vowes that hee will love her dearer then before, and for ever forget and bury the memory thereof in perpetuall oblivion and forgetfulnesse.

But his wife Mermanda, notwithstanding this submission and reconciliation of her husband, is still vexed in minde, as finding it easy to admit griefe, but difficult to ex­pell it: she knowes not what to doe, nor of whom to take advice how shee should beare her selfe in this straight and perplexity; for well she knowes, that if the Baron of Betanford should come to visit her husband, as formerly he was accustomed to doe, it would revive and confirme his jealousy, although they were both as innocent as in­nocencie it selfe. Now she resolves to write the Baron a Letter to refraine her house: but then she thinkes it too much indiscretion and presumption to attempt it, or that the letter might be intercepted, or her husband have newes thereof; but againe fearing his comming, and encouraged through her innocencie, she resolves to write unto him: which shee doth to this effect.

The Baron receives this letter, prayseth Mermanda's discretion, and laughes at Grand Pre's folly, extolleth her innocencie, and condemnes his jealousy: hee will bee carefull to preserve a Ladies honour, especially one so truely chast and honourable as Mermanda: hee before had a purpose to see Paris, so now this occasion doth both crowne and confirme his resolution; hee makes ready his preparatives and baggage, and so takes Coach for that great City, which abounds with the greatest part of the Nobility of the whole Kingdome; but before his departure, he returnes Mermanda this Answer.

Mermanda very joyfully receives this Letter: but hers to the Baron producerh ef­fects, contrary to her hopes; for Grand Pre understanding of the Baron of Betanfords suddaine departure for Paris (as jealousy is full of eyes) hee feares a plot betwixt him and his wife, and so confirmes his former suspicion of her disloyalty: he therefore con­verts his love into hatred towards her, and now (to shew the fruits and effects of his jealousy) refuseth her his bed, then which, to a chast and vertuous wife, nothing can be more distastfull.

At this ingratefull discourtesy, poore Mermanda teares her haire, sigheth, weepeth, mourneth, and lamenteth in such pittifull sort, that it seemes nothing in the world is capable to comfort her, but she conceales her griefe as secretly as she may, onely he [...] pale cheekes and discontented lookes, as the outward heralds of her inward affection, doe silently discover and bewray it.

Her husbands father and mother, Grandmont and de Carnye, all this while know no­thing of this discontent betweene Grand Pre and Mermanda; but their malicious and wretched daughter Hautefelia (whose malice never sleepes) hath spyes in every cor­ner of her fathers house, who advertise her thereof: whereat she infinitely triumpheth and rejoyceth. But this joy of hers shall be but as breath on steele, or as smoake before the winde.

[Page 8] Grand Pre this meane time boyles with inveterate rage, and his jealousy carries him to such extreames, as he vowes to be revenged, first of Betanford, then of his wife, to which effect he pretends busines to Chaalons (as what will malice leave unpretended?) and taking a choice Horse, a Page and two Lackeyes with him, he passeth a contrary way, and comes first to Troy, then to Brie-count Robert (a dayes journey from Paris) where being very private in his Inne, he writes a Challenge, and taking aside his Page, delivers it him, and commands him, at breake of day to poast with all expedition for Paris; where being arrived, to go to the Crown of France in S. Honories street, & secret­ly to deliver i [...]to the Baron of Betanford, to take his answer, & to return the same night.

The Page to obey his Masters command, seemes rather to flie, then poast; he fitly findes out the Baron, and very fairely delivers him the Letter, who breaking up the seale, therein findes these words:

At the reading hereof, the Baron is so farre from the least shew or apprehension of feare, as hee is pleasant and jocund; yea, he causeth Grand Pre's Page to dine with him, and after dinner, takes him aside, and speakes to him thus: Tell thy Master, that I will not faile to meete him on Horse-backe without a second, at the houre and place appointed. The next morne he dispeeds away a choyce horse, which his Lackey leades, and about ten of the clocke, onely with his Chirurgion and Page, takes Coach, and comes that night to Carency, where he lodgeth.

The next morne being Thurseday (the day appointed to fight) Grand Pre, preten­ding to goe to the Church, sends away his Page to Carency, to awayt and attend the Baron, and so onely with his Chirurgion hies himselfe to the field; which he first en­tred, and immediately (before hee had fully made foure turnes) in comes Betanford, whom Grand Pre's Page had met at Carency, and now conducted thither, having onely his Chirurgion with him, and having left his Coach, Page, and Lackey a furlong off, with command not to stirre, till they heard from him.

The Chirurgions (in stead of two Gentlemen for their Seconds) dispose themselves according to the order and ceremonies of Duels) to search the Combatants for Coats of Male, or the like: but they might have eased themselves of this labour and curi­sity; for both the Gentlemen were too honorable, to have their valours tainted with this base poynt of cowardize, or treachery; yea, in meere contempt thereof, they both of purpose had left their Dublets behind them. And now beginnes a Combate, as memorable as bloudy, yea, performed with such valour, dexterity, and resolution, that as these times infinitely admire it, so succeeding ages will very difficultly believe it.

They come into the Field with a soft trot, and each having his Enemy in front, and being neere sixe score paces distant, they give spurres to their horses, and part like [...] flashes of lightning. At their first meeting, Grand Pre runnes Betanford thorow [...]e left shoulder, and Betanford onely wounds Grand Pre in the right checke, close under the eye; and beeing excellent Horse men, they turne short, and so [Page 9] againe, fall to it with bravery and courage: in which encounter Betanford receives a wide wound upon the brawne of his right arme, and Grand Pre another thorow his left side, which undoubtedly had proved mortall, and so ended the Combate with his life, had not his sword glanced on a ribbe, and so ranne outwards; and now they both re­tire to take breath, resolving to advance with more fury: they part againe, Betanford runnes Grand Pre thorow the necke, and hee Betanford thorow the small of the arme, where meeting with the sinewes and arteries, it causeth the sword to fall out of his hand, whereat hee is extreamely perplexed and amazed.

Here perchance some base fellow (who had never beene trained up in the Schoole of Honour, and therefore not deserved the title of a Gentleman) would have wrought upon the misfortune of this accident, and desired no better advantage to dispatch his Adversary: But Grand Pre, whose generosity in this I commend, as much as I detest his jealousy, doth highly disdaine to staine his honour and courage with this infamy, and so puts Betanford out of his apprehension and feare with these words; Baron, be couragious and cheerfull, for I will rather dye, then disgrace my selfe so much, to fight with an unarmed man, and so commands his Chirurgion to deliver him his sword a­gaine. Betanford is thankfull to him for this courtesy, and vowes he will never forget it.

Now although their wounds doe rather ingraine then imbroder their shirts with blood, yet their youth is so vigorous, their courage Io inflamed, and their hearts so re­solute and magnanimous, as they neither can, nor will yet rest satisfyed: in a word, they mannage their horses bravely, and act wonders with their swords; for by this time they having runne foure severall Careres: Betanford hath received seven wounds, and given Grand Pre ten: but the losse of all this bloud, (which now issued from their bodies rather by spowts then drops) is not capable to coole their courages: and so al­though with dust, sweat, blould, and wounds, they rather looke like Furies then men, yet they will not refraine fighting.

And now their Chirurgians grieving and pittying to see them, as it were drowned in their bloud, and well knowing that they had performed more then they thought possible for men, they both agree, and so running with their hats in their hands, humbly pray them to desist and rest satisfyed, by shewing them that their swords and coura­ges had already acted wonder beyond beliefe, and that it was pitty their praents, Prince, and Country should be deprived of such resolute and valorous Cavaliers, then whom, the world (upon so unfortunate an accident) hath seldome seen braver: but they speake to the winde, and receive no other thankes, but this checke from them both, that they are base fellowes, and know not what belongs to their function and duety; and so ra­ting and commanding them away, they once more divide themselves, and with fresh resolution and courage, againe set spurres to their horses; but this encounter proves more happy to Betanford, and more dangerous to Grand Pre: for as hee makes a thrust to Betanford, which mist and past under his right arme, without doing any other harme then piercing and cutting thorow his shirt, Betanford (with all the courage and dexterity he had) runne Grand Pre thorow the belly into the reynes, with which un­fortunate wound, as also with a false pace, his horse then mad, he fell from the Saddle to the ground speechlesse, sprawling and struggling, as if hee were upon the point to take his last farewell of the world: but he was not so happy, for he shall be cured of his wounds, and hereafter dye of a more mournefull and lamentable end.

Betanford, seeing Grand Pre fall, doubted that his wounds were mortall and so alights: whereat his Chirurgion with a loud voyce, cryed out. Dispatch him, Dispatch him: but he calls him villaine for his labour, when remembring the former cour [...] hee had received of Grand Pre, in regiving him his sword, hee like a true noble Gen­tleman vowes now to requite it, and so throwing it and his Ha [...]te awa [...] hee [Page 10] with out-spred armes ran to imbrace & assist him; yea, he preferres Grand Pre's life be­fore his owne, and with all possible speed commands his Chirurgion to bring and hast thither his Coach, and to his best power doth assist Betanford, in setting him up, in or­dering and binding up his wounds; his Coach being come, hee causeth him to bee layd in softly, and so hee in one Boote, and the two Chirurgions in the other, their Pages and Lackeyes attending them, they drive away to the very next country house, where they hush themselves up privately, and here Betanford resembling himselfe, con­jureth both the Chirurgions to use their best art and chiefest skill upon Grand Pre, and before hee would have his owne wounds looked unto, hee causeth his to bee opened, they doe it, and both concurre in opinion, that his last wound is mortall; he sees them dresse him, and vowes hee will not forsake him in this extremity, but will bee more carefull of him then of himselfe. Reciprocall and singular demonstrations of courtesy and honour in these two Caveliers, which will make their memories famous to posterity.

Betanford, seeing Grand Pre committed to sleep, causeth his owne wounds to be spee­dily searched and dressed, which are not found dangerous, and then takes order in the house, that Grand Pre bee furnished with all things necessary, as Chamber, curious at­tendance, and the like; yea, he ordereth matters so, that all things might be done with great secrecie and silence, nor permitting any of his owne, or Grand Pre's servants to bee seene forth the house, to the end that the newes of these their accidents might not bee bruted or vented.

About noone, Grand Pre's speech by little and little comes to him, and likewise his memorie, when Betanford absenting all from his Chamber, with his Hat in his hand came to his bed side, and having courteously saluted and comforted him, prayes and conjures him, as hee is a Gentleman of Honour, to tell him why and wherefore hee fought with him. Ah Baron (quoth Grand Pre) first sweare to mee on thine honour, thou wilt deliver me the truth of a question I will demand of thee, and then I wil shew thee. By my honour and fidelitie, replies Betanford, and as I hope for heaven, I will. Then Baron (quoth hee) diddest thou never wrong me and mine honour, in being too familiar with my wife Mermanda? The Baron with many solemne protestations and religious oathes, cleares both himselfe and Mermanda, and vowes, that his heart never thought it much lesse his tongue ever attempted it. Whereat Grand Pre very humbly intreats him to excuse and pardon him, sith he understood and beleeved the contrary, which was the onely cause of his discontent and challenge: adding withall, that hee will, till death, esteeme him as his most honourable friend, and, as long as he liues, will affect and loue his wife dearer than ever he had before. It is as great a happinesse to re­paire and reforme errours, as a misery to commit them.

The Baron of Betanford stayes very secretly ten dayes with Grand Pre at the Coun­trey house, when seeing his wounds hopefully cured and recovered, they resolve to de­part. Grand Pre kindly thankes Betanford for his life, and all other courtesies hee hath received of him, and hee as courteously doth the like to Grand Pre, for giving him his sword wherewith he preserved his owne, and so like honourable and intimate friends, they take leave each of other, the Baron taking horse for Paris, and freely lending Grand Pre his Coach to returne to Auxone. Thus wee see courtesie alwayes returneth with interest.

Grand Pre at his comming home, kisseth & fawneth on his wife Mermanda, acquaints her with the occasion and event of the combat, condemneth his owne folly, and extol­leth her chastitie, prayes her to forgive him againe this once for all, and vowes, that there lives not a braver Noble man in the world then the Baron of Betanford: and to speake truth, she deserves this submission and reconciliation, and he that praise.

[Page 11] At the knowledge here of, I know not whethet Mermanda (like a gracious and curteous wife) doe more grieve at her husbands wounds, then rejoyce at his recovery and life: and now he repenting and detesting his former errour, renewes his love, affection, and friendship to her, the which hee confirmeth and uniteth with a perpetuall and indisso­luble Gordion knot: neverthelesse the variety of her afflictions, and the excesse of her griefe and discontent, breeds her much weakenesse and sickenesse, which withereth the Roses and Lillies of her beauty.

But come wee from Mermanda's heavenly Vertues to Hautefelia's devillish Vices, which cannot be paralleld or compared, except by Antithesis: for as Mermanda repo­seth her selfe under the shaddow of her owne innocencie, and lives in perfect love and charity with the whole world, so her wretched Sister in law Hautefelia, seeing her hopes and purposes prevented, will not sleepe in her malice, but sets her wits and re­venge upon the Tenter-hookes, to finde out another expedient, to be rid of Mermanda, who (in her wicked conceit) shee thought was enemy to her content, and an eye-sore to her ambition and greatnesse.

We no sooner fly from God, but the devil followes us; & it proves alwaies a misera­ble folly to be wise in wickednes and sin: Hautefelia is resolute in her rage, and cannot or rather will not see heaven for hell, she be thinks her selfe of another invention to send Mermanda into another world, and so strikes a bargaine with La Fresnay an Apothe­cary for two hundred crowns to poyson her, who like a limbe of the devil doth under­take and promise it, the which (Ah griefe to thinke thereon) he in lesse then two months performeth; and so this vertuous and harmles young Gentlewoman is most unnaturally and treaherously bereaved of her life, and brought to a mournfull and lamentable end: Which inhumane murther, we shall see, God in his due time will miraculously detect, and severely revenge and punish.

Her Husband Grand Pre exceedingly bewayles her death, as also all her parents and friends; yea, so infinite were her Vertues, and so sweet her behaviour and carriage, as all that knew Mermanda lamented her decease, yet no way suspecting or knowing the violent and extraordinary cause thereof.

Now, whiles others mourne, Hautefelia exceedingly triumphs and rejoyces hereat: but this bloudy victory shal cost her deare. In the meane time, Mermanda's single death can neither quench her revenge, nor satisfy her ambition; for as shee liked not the Sister, so she (as before we have partly understood) never loved the Brother, her owne husband de Malleray, whom she observed, very bitterly wept and grieved at his sister Mermanda's death; she therefore, resolute to adde sinne to sinnne, resolves to cast the apple of discord betwixt Grand Pre her brother, and de Malleray her husband, knowing that if the first were slaine, shee were sole heire to her father, if the second, shee would have a noble Husband; a policie, whose invention is as diabolicall, as the execution thereof dangerous.

To which effect she informes her husband, that her Brother Grand Pre had killed his Wife Mermanda with his jealousy, that hee held her to bee the Baron of Betanford's strumpet, with whom for the same cause he had fought at Brie-count Robert, and which was more, it was shrewdly suspected he had poysoned her, the which she once thought for ever to have concealed, but that she knew her husband was, and ought to be n [...]rer to her then her brother. Good God, how far will the malice of this wretched woman extend, or to what a monstrous height will it grow?

De Malleray grieved to the heart for this heart-killing newes, because hee ever loved his Sister as dearely as his owne life, without considering and weighing whether his wifes words were drosse or gold, believes her; and so resolves very secretly to acqu [...] the President his father herewith, thereby thinking and presuming that hee would by order of Law call Grand Pre in question for the fact.

[Page 12] But old Cressonville (having as well his head in his eyes, as his eyes in his head:) see­ing that this suspition and accusation had no firme grounds, that it was an intricate bu­sinesse to finde out, that it would breed a scandall to his family, and especially to his deceased daughters reputation, sith it is the nature of calumnie to ayme at the most vertuous persons, as Cantharides doe at the fairest flowers; that it would rake up the dust of her tombe, and withall breed him an infinite number of potent and powerfull enemies: Therefore grounding his judgement upon these reasons, and his resolutions upon this his judgement, he holds it best to smother it in silence, and so to brooke his daughters death as patiently as he may.

De Malleray seeing his father so cold in this businesse, began to bee all in fire him­selfe, vowing that hee would maintaine the honour, and revenge the death of his one­ly Sister Mermanda; and his wife Hautefelia, with her impetuous and implacable ma­lice, blowes the coales, and sets an edge to this his resolution: when that very instant understanding his brother Grand Pre was that Evening arrived at Dijon, he (consulting with Nature, but not with Grace) by a Gentleman of his familiar acquaintance, sends him this Challenge.

Grand Pre, though newly recovered of his late wounds, accepts this Challenge, but not without extreame wonder to see De Malleray so passionate and resolute; he makes choice of single Rapier, and so they meet, where, without any other ceremony they throw off their dublets, and giue them to their Chirurgions, whom they command to stay without the next hedge, and not stirre from thence, till the death of the one proclaime the other victor.

The Sunne (that great and glorious lampe of heaven) swiftly poasts away from our Horizon to the Antipodes, of purpose not to see, or bee accessary to this bloody Tra­gedie, when our Champions unsheath their swords, and dispose themselves to fight both with judgement and resolution; De Malleray comes up fairely, proffers the first thrust, and gives Grand Pre a wound in his left thigh, and in exchange receives ano­ther from him in the necke, which he aymed fully at the brest, but that hee bore it up with his Rapier. Grand Pre at first gives backe, but seeing de Malleray insult and presse on him, he resolutely advanceth, and runnes him thorow the side: but the wound was so favourable, as though it caused much bloud, yet it brought no danger. They make a stand and take breath, and so they very resolutely to it againe: de Malleray having hi­therto the worst, doth now resolve to manage his busines with lesse violence and more judgement; when Grand Pre driving home to him, hee wardes bravely, and taking time at advantage, thrusts him in the left shoulder with a wide and deepe wound, but himselfe is hurt in the left arme with a wound, which ranne from his wrest to his elbow.

[Page 13] By this time their shirts are deepely besprinkled and gored with their bloud: but this will not appease their courages, they will try againe; for they never thinke e­nough as long as they can stand, and this encounter proves as fortunate for Grand Pre, as fatall for De Malleray: for he receives a deepe wound under his left pap, which car­ries his life and soule from this world to another; so as without speaking one word, he falls dead to the ground.

Grand Pre seeing De Malleray dead, gives thankes to God for his victory, and so mounts on horse-backe, and with his Chirurgion poasts towards Dole, a Parliament City of the free County; belonging now to the Arch Duke Albertus, leaving De Mal­leray's Chirurgion, not to cure, but to bury his Master, or at least to convey his dead body to Dijon, for President Cressonville his father to performe that office,

Who is no sooner advertised of his sonnes death, but with teares hee gives the Parliament to understand thereof, and craves justice for the Murther. The Parlia­ment decrees a power to apprehend Grand Pre; but hee is not desirous to lose his head on a Scaffold: for by this time hee hath recovered Dole, where having stayed some three moneths his parents and friends (by the favour of that generous and true noble Gallant, Mounsieur le Grand, his Majesties Lievetennant of that Province of Burgundy) procured and sent him his pardon.

But in this meane time come wee to his sister Hautefelia (the disgrace of her sexe, and the fire-brand of Hell) who no sooner understood the death of her husband, and the flight of her brother, shee having hardly the patience to see him layd in his grave, and resolving rather to breake her necke with malice, then her heart with sorrow, be­ing sure of her Dowry, packes up her Iewells, Plate, and chiefest Baggage, and so leaves Dijon, and goes home to her father neere Auxone, where during the age of her father and mother, and the absence of her brother, she most imperiously swayes and commands all.

But this her authority lasteth not long: for now home comes Grand Pre from Dole, at whose returne she findes matters altered, and her greatnesse and power diminished, and to her grief sees that she cannot so absolutely domineere as before; and which was farre worse, her brother in his absence at Dole, having smelt and understood her malice and inveterate hatred, both to Mermanda, the Baron of Betanford, De Malleray her hus­band, and likewise to himselfe (though nothing suspecting or dreaming of her poy­soning humour) he is so farre from acknowledging or respecting her for his sister, as he will neither indure her company or sight; which she making no shew to perceive, but like a Fury of hell, as she is, dissembling her malice and revenge, she is still constant, and persevers in her humour of bloud and Murther, and hath againe recourse to her exe­crable Apothecary La Fresnay, and to the devill her Doctor likewise, to make away her brother Grand Pre with poyson, as hee had already Mermanda his Wife, and gives him three hundred crownes to effect it. This damnable Apothecary, loving money well, and (as it seemes) the Devill better, doth ingage himselfe speedily to performe it, and, wretched villaine as he is, within two moneths he accomplisheth and finisheth it; and so as Mermanda ranne equall fortune with him in life, hee doth the like with her in death; for one deadly Drugge, one bloody Sister, and one devillish Apothecary gives a miserable and lamentable end to them both.

And now his blood thirsty sister Hautefelia (the authour of these cruell Murthers and Trageedies) thinking her selfe freed of all her enemies, and of all those who stood in the way of her advancement and preferment, shee (neither thinking either of her conscience or soule, of heaven or hell) domineeres farre more then before; yea, builds castles in the ayre, and flatters her selfe with this false ambition, that she must now be a Dutchesse, or at least a Countesse: But she reckons without God.

[Page 14] We have seene, nay we have here glutted our eyes with severall Murthers, whereof wee have beheld this wretched Gentlewoman Hautefelia to be the horrible and cruell author, and this execrable La Fresnay to be the bloody actor: these crimes of theirs, and the smoake of these their impious and displeasing sacrifices, have pierced the clouds, and ascended the presence of God, to sue and draw downe vengeance and confusion on their heads: for although Murther be for a time concealed, yet the fin­ger of God will in due time detect and discover it; for he will make inquisition for blood, and will severely and sharpely revenge the death of his children.

But Gods providence and justice in the discovery thereof, is as different as mira­culous: for sometimes hee protracts and deferres it of purpose, either to mollifie or to harden our hearts, as seemes best to his inscrutable will, and divine pleasure; or as may chiefly serve and tend to his glory: yea, somtimes he makes the Murtherer himselfe as well an instrument to discover, as hee hath beene an actor to commit murther: yea, and many times he punisheth one sinne by and in another, and when the Murtherer sits most secure, and thinks least of it, then he heapes coales of fire on his head, and sudden­ly cuts him off with the revenging sword of his fierce wrath and indignation.

And now that great and soveraigne Iudge of the World, who rides on the Winds in triumph, and hath Heaven for his Throne, and Earth for his foot stoole, will no longer permit Hauteselia and La Fresnay to goe unpunished for these their exe­crable Murthers: for the innocent and dead bodies of Mermanda and her husband Grand Pre out of their Graves cry to him for revenge, which, like an impetuous storme, or a terrible Thunder clap, doth in this manner suddenly befall and over­take them.

Some sixe weekes after Grand Pre's funeralls were solemnized, whereat his Sister Hautefelia (the better to cloke her villany) wept bitterly, and was observed to bee the chiefest Mourner; this hellish Apothecary La Fresnay, having gotten his money so easily, thought to spend it as prodigally; and so on a time, being in his cups at a Taverne at Dijon, and his braines swilling and swimming with strong Wine (as Drunkennesse is the Bawd and Vsher to other sinnes) he stealing from the rest of his company, com­mitted a Rape upon one Margaret Pivot, a girle of twelve yeares old, being the Vint­ners daughter of the Taverne wherein he sate tippling.

This young girle, with millions of teares throwes her selfe to the feet of her Pa­rents, and accuseth La Fresnay for the fact, who doe the like to those famous Senators of the Court of Parliament: so hee is apprehended; and being examined, with many vehement and bitter asseverations denyeth it: he is adjudged to the Racke, and at the second torment confesseth it, and so he is condemned to be hanged.

Two Capuchin Fryers prepare him for his end: they exhort him not to charge & bur­then his soule with concealing any other crimes, adding, that if he reveale and repent them in earth, God will remit them in heaven: these exhortations of theirs produce good effects; for though he have formerly lived like a devill, he will now dye like a Christian: and so with many teares revealeth, that at the instigation of Hautefelia, and for the lucre of five hundred crownes (which at two several times she gave him) he had poysoned Mermanda and her husband Grand Pre.

All the world is amazed, and the Parliament acquainted herewith, they alter their first Sentence, and so for his triple villanies condemne La Fresnay to bee broken alive upon the Wheele, and there to languish and dye without being strangled: which in Dijon is accordingly executed to the full satisfaction of Iustice.

A Provost likewise is forthwith dispatched from Dijon to Grandmonts house, to ap­prehend his daughter Hautefelia, and God would have it that shee was ignorant of La Fresnay's apprehension, and more, of his death. The Provost findes her dancing in her [Page 15] fathers garden, in company of many Gentlemen and Ladies: he sets hands on her; and so exchangeth her mirth into mourning, and her songs into teares: she is brought to Dijon, and examined by a President, and two Counsellors of the Parliament. She impudently and boldly denyes both Murders; saith La Fresnay is her mortall and pro­fessed enemy, and therefore not to bee believed. But the devill, who hath so long be­witched and deluded her, either will not, or rather now cannot save her with this poore evasion: shee is adjudged to the Racke, and at the first torment confes­seth it.

The Criminall Iudges of this great and illustrious Parliament, in detestation of these her execrable and bloudy crimes of Murther, pronounce sentence on her: so, after shee had repented her sinnes, and prepared her selfe to dye, her Paps are seared, and torne off with red hot Pincers, then shee is hanged, her body burnt, and her ashes throwne into the ayre.

Now to gather some profit by reading this History, or indeed, rather by the me­mory of the History it selfe, let us observe, nay let us imprint in our hearts and soules how busy the Devill was by ambition, covetousnesse, malice and revenge, to seduce and perswade Hautefelia and La Fresnay to commit these Murthers; and also how just God was in the detection and punishment thereof, that the feare of the one may terrifie us from imbracing and attemp­ting the other: to the end, that as they lived in sinne, and dyed in shame; so wee may live in righteousnes, and dye in peace, thereby to live in eter­nall felicity and glory.

GODS REVENGE AGAINST THE CRYING AND EXE­crable sinne of Murther.
HISTORIE II.

WHere Affection hath Reason for guide, and Vertue for object, it is approved of Earth, and applauded of Heaven: but where it ex­ceeds the bounds of Charity, and the lists of Religion, Men pitty it, Angels lament it, and God himselfe contemnes it: for if we are crossed in our love, why should discontent make us de­sperate? or to what end should we flie Reason to follow Rage, except we desire to ride poast to Hell, and to end our dayes on a shamefull and infamous Scaffold here on earth? It is an excellent felicity to grow from Vertue to Vertue, and a fatall misery to runne from Vice to Vice: Love and Charity are alwayes the true marks of a Christian, and Malice and Revenge, those of an Infidell, or rather of a Devill: but to imbrue our hands in innocent bloud, and to seeke the death of others, is to deprive our selves of our owne life, as the sequell of this History will declare, which I relate with pitty and compassion, sith I see the Stage whereon these Tragedies are acted and represented, not only sprinkled, but goared with great variety and effusion of bloud.

In Pavia (the second City of the Dutchy of Millan) the very last yeare that Count Fuentes (under the King of Spaine) was Viceroy of that State, Signior Thomaso Vituri, a noble Gentleman of that City, had one onely child, a daughter of the age of fifteene yeares, named Dona Christeneta, who was exceeding faire and beautifull, and indued with many excellent qualities & perfections, requisite in a Gentlewoman of her ranke: she was sought in marriage by many Gallants of the City: but a Cavalier of Cremona must beare her away, or at least her affection: The History is thus.

Signiour Emanuel Gasparino, a noble young Gentleman of Cremona, hearing of Vi­turi his wealth, and of his daughter Christeneta's Beauty and Vertues (the Adamants and Load-stones to drawe mens affections) resolveth with himselfe to seeke her [Page 17] for his wife: he acquaints none herewith, but an intimate deare friend of his, a young Gentleman of the same City, named Signior Ludovicus Pisani, by descent a Venetian, whom hee prayes to assist and accompany him to Pavia, in seeking and courting the faire Christeneta his Mistresse. Pisani tearmes himselfe much honoured and obliged to Gasparino, and very willingly grants his request; and so they prepare for their journy.

They come to Pavia: Vituri bids Gasparino welcome, and entertaines him respect­fully and courteously, as also Pisani; he thankes Gasparino for the honour he doth him in seeking his daughter, and like a carefull father takes time to consult hereon: but for Christeneta, she looks not so pleasing nor pleasantly on him as he expecteth; he is deep­ly in love both with her beauty and other perfections, but he finds her cold in her dis­course and answers, and very melancholly and pensive: he courts her often (and af­ter the Italian fashion, with variety of Musicke, Ditties, and ayres) but still he findes her averse, and contrary to his desires, as if her thoughts were otherwise fixed. Gaspari­no knowes not how to winne her affection, nor how to beare himselfe herein; he con­sults with Pisani, and prayes him to conferre with Christeneta, and to sound her affection: But it proves often dangerous, still indiscretion, to trust a friend in this case.

Pisani promiseth to performe the office of a friend, and to conferre effectually with Christeneta; he seekes opportunity and place, and findes both; he sets out to her Gaspa­rino's merits, and paints foorth his praises, and in a word, leaves nothing untouched, which hee thinkes may any way advance his friends content and affection: but hee findes Christeneta's minde perplexed and troubled; for shee often changeth colours, now red, then pale, and then pale, now red againe: yet hee observes that her eyes are still stedfastly fixed on him: hee prayes her that she will returne a pleasing answer for him to carry to his friend, and her lover Gasparino.

Christeneta would willingly speake, but cannot, for her heart and paps beat and pant, and her fighes very confusedly interrupt her words; but at last, dying her Lilly cheekes with a Vermillian blush, shee tells him that she is not ignorant of Gasparino's merits, who deserves farre her better, but that shee cannot consent to love him, in re­spect she hath fixed, but not ingaged her affection on another. Pisani still extolleth his friend Gasparino to the skie, and for all honourable parts preferres him before any Gen­tleman of Lombardy; and withall, with much industry and insinuation, endeavours to request and draw Christeneta to name him her servant, which she once thought to have done, had not Modesty (the sweetest and most precious ornament of a Virgin) for that time with-held her, when after two or three deepe sighes (the outward Heralds of her inward passions) she told him thus,

Pisani, it is a deare and neare friend of yours, who is the first that I have, and the last that I will affect; but I will not at present name him, onely if you please to meet me secretly to morrow, at eight of the clocke in the morne, in the Nunnes garden at Saint Clare, I will there informe you who it is: but in the meane time, and ever, forbeare to sollicite me any more for Gasparino, sith he shall not be my servant, nor will I be his Mi­stresse: and so for that time they part, and he confidently promiseth to meet her.

Gasparino demands Pisani how hee findes his Mistresse Christeneta: Hee answeres faithfully according as shee told him; but conceales their appoynted meeting in the Nunnes garden: and now because hee seeth it labour lost to research Christeneta, hee will not be obstinate in his suit, but will give a law to his passions and affections, rather then they shall prescribe any to him, and so resolves to take leave of her, because as well by her selfe, as by her father and mother, and now chiefely by Pisani, he sees shee is otherwise bent and affected, to which end he leaves Pavia, and returnes to Cre­mona. Leave we therfore Gasparino to his thoughts, and come we to those of Pisani and Christeneta, to see what their garden conference will bring forth.

[Page 18] Pisani cannot imagine what friend of his it should be that Christeneta loveth, but she knowes enough for them both; and it may be, too much for her selfe: she knowes it at least an immodest, if not a bold part for her to court Pisani, who ought rather to court her: but she thinkes it both wisedome and duety to give way to that which she cannot avoyd and prevent, and so preferres the zeale of her affection before the respect of her modesty: but that which makes her so resolute in the execution of this her amorous attempt is, to see that Gasparino hath found Pisani to sollicite for him to her, and shee can finde none but her selfe to sollicite for her selfe to Pisani: therfore bold in this her resolution, she beares so deep and so deare an affection to Pisani, that she thinkes every moment an houre, and every houre an age, before she see Pisani, that one person of the World, whom she loves more deare then all the world. Thus wishing night day, her house the Nunnery, and her chamber the garden: shee with much impatient patiency awayts the houre of eight, which shee knowes will bring her her joy or her torment, her felicity or her misery, her life or her death.

The Clocke strikes eight: Christeneta takes her Prayer-booke, and her Wayting­mayd, and so trips away to the Nunnery; but she doth now dispense with her devoti­on, to give content to her eyes, or rather to her heart, in seeing and injoying the de­sired company of Pisani, whom she esteemes the life of her content, and the content of her life, and so forsakes the Church, to goe to the Garden: Pisani, who never failed of his houre and promise to men, doth now disdaine to misse thereof to a Lady: for Christeneta hath scarce made three paces in the walkes of the Garden, but ere the fourth be finished, shee sees Pisani enter, shee blushes at his sight, and hee growes pale at her blushes: he findes her in a bower of Sycamors, Cypresses, and Vines, decked within with Roses, Lillies, and Gilly-flowers, hee gives her the good-morrow and the salute, the which, with a modest and sweet courtesy, she receives and returnes; he tells her he is come to performe his promise, and if it please her, to receive hers: shee would faine answer him, but her cheekes give blushes, where her tongue should words; but at last, darting a sweet looke on him (which was the Embassadour and Herald of her heart) she discovereth her selfe to him thus:

The person (Pisani) on whom I have fixed and settled my affection, doth exceeding­ly resemble you, is of your owne blood, and of your neerest and dearest acquaintance. Pisani presseth her to know his name; when after many glances, sighes, and blushes, shee tells him, his name is Pisani, and himselfe the man, prayes him to pardon her bold­nesse, and to give an honourable interpretation and construction to her affection, [...] withall, that when she first saw him, shee loved him; and now prayes him to be [...], that Christeneta may be a sollicitor for her selfe to Pisani, and not Pisani to Chri­steneta for Gasparino; yea, she confirmes her words with many sighes, and againe her sighs with many teares, which trickle downe her beautifull cheekes, like pearled drops of deaw upon blushing damaske Roses.

Pisani wonders at this unexpected newes, and knowes not how to beare himselfe in a businesse of this nature; hee sees that her beauty deserves love, and her descent and vertues respect: but withall, he is not so dishonourable to betray his friend; he won­ders at her affection, and is not ignorant that she deserves a more noble husband then himselfe, but seeing her languish for an answer, he returnes her thus: Although I acknow­ledge my selfe infinitely bound to you for that affection of yours, wherewith you please to honour mee, yet as honour is to be preferred before affection, so Christeneta must excuse Pisani, sith hee cannot bee a servant to her, but he must bee a traytor to Gasparino; and that respect excepted, in requitall of your favour, I will esteeme my selfe happy if I may lose my life for your service.

Yet hee is not so unkinde, but gives her a kisse or two at farewell which as much [Page 19] delights Christeneta, as his refusall doth afflict her: so they part. The rest, time must bring forth.

Now although Gasparino have left Pavia, yet he cannot forsake his affection to Chri­steneta, but cherisheth her memory, and in heart adoreth her Idaea; yea he loves her deepely and dearely, and indeed her perfections and beauty deserve love: but such is Christeneta's affection to Pisani, as she can take no truce of her thoughts: but despight of discretion and modesty (which perswade and counsell her to the contrary) she with­in ten dayes after purposely sends a confident Messenger to him, to Cremona with this Letter:

[...] Pisani receiveth this Letter: he wonders at her affection, and now consults betwixt Christeneta's love to him, and his respect to Gasparino: hee at first holds it incivility not to answer her Letter, and yet is very unwilling, in doing her right, to wrong his friend: but at last perusing her Letter, againe hee findes it so kinde, as hee deemes it not only ingratitude, but a degree of inhumanity for him not to returne her an answer: and therefote taking Pen and Paper, he writes to her thus.

[Page 20] Time with a swift foot vanisheth and passeth away; but Christeneta's affection to Pi­sani cannot: she in his Letter perceives a glimmering light of hope breake forth tho­row the obscure clouds of her despaire; but feare doth as soone eclipse and strangle, as propagate and produce it; onely, despight all apprehension and opposition, her thoughts doe still gaze and looke on Pisani, as the Needle of the compasse doth to the North; so as she can rest in no true tranquillity of minde, before she writes to him againe; the which, some fifteene dayes after, she doth to this effect.

At the receipt of this second Letter (which was so sweetly pleasing, and pleasing­ly sweet to his thoughts) he found the Bulwarkes and defences of his respect to Gaspa­rino razed and beaten downe, and a faire breach made and layd open for Christeneta to enter and take possession of the Castle of his heart; so now at one instant hee per­formes two severall attempts: for the farther hee flies from his friend Gasparino, the neerer hee approacheth to his Mistresse Christeneta; and therefore now wholly impa­radising his thoughts in the garden of her pure beauty, and taking the chiefest light of his content and felicity from the relucent lustre of her eyes, he thinkes it high time, no longer to beare out his Flag of defiance, but to strike sayle, and doe homage to the soveraigne of his thoughts, the which he doth in this Letter, that he purposely sends her in answer of hers by his Page.

[Page 21] If Pisani his first Letter overthrew Christeneta's despaire, this his second revives and confirmes her hopes; so that whereas heretofore she condemned her presumption in writing to Pisani, she now not only applauds her resolution therein, but also blesseth the houre that she attempted it; yea, she buildeth such castles of delight and content in her heart, and her heart in her soule, to thinke that shee should be his Wife, and hee her Husband, that shee anticipateth the houres, and blames the dayes for not presenting her with the sight and presence of her sweet Pisani, whom, above all earthly contents, she chiefely desireth.

Now if Christeneta were thus perplexed with the absence of her Pisani, no lesse is hee with that of his Christeneta: for remembring the freshnesse of her youth, and the sweetnesse of her beauty, hee in conceipt hateth Cremona, which before hee loved, and now loveth Pavia, which before hee hated: it is as great a griefe to him to bee with his other affaires without her, as it would rejoyce him to bee with her without them: yea, she runnes so deepely in his thoughts, and they on her beauty, as (if it were not immodesty) hee either wisheth himselfe impaled in her armes, or shee incloy­stered in his. And now to performe as much as his Letter hath promised, hee, with­out thinking or respecting of his old friend Gasparino, prepares all things ready to goe see his new Mistresse Christeneta.

Hee comes to Pavia, accompanied with three or foure of his neerest and dearest friends, visiteth Christeneta, whom hee saluteth and courteth with all kinde of honou­rable and amorous complements: Shee is joyfull, yea, ravished with his arrivall: he doth assure her of his perpetuall affection, and reciprocally himselfe of hers; yea, she so infinitely delights in his presence, and he so extreamely in hers, that shee now free­ly gives her selfe to Pisani, and he in exchange, as absolutely takes himselfe from Gaspa­rino, to give himselfe to Christeneta: so as she rejoycing in her purchase, and he trium­phing in his victory, they attend the time, wherein heaven and earth hath ordayned of two bodies to make them one.

But it is not enough for Pisani to be possessed of Christeneta's favour: for he must like­wise obtaine that of her parents, before either hee can enjoy his wishes, or she her de­sires, and so he goes honourably and secretly to worke with them: but he findes them not so tractable as Christeneta hoped, or himselfe desired: for old Vituri her father pre­ferring wealth before honour, and riches before vertues, dislikes this motion, alledging that Pisani's father dyed exceedingly in debt, that his chiefest Lands were ingaged and morgaged, that hee had many great Legacies to pay to his sisters, but which was worst of all, that Pisani himselfe loved the Court better then the Country, and that in his expences and apparell hee was extreamely prodigall, and frugall in neither: which considerations so swayed the judgement and opinion of Vituri, that knowing he might every day provide and procure a better match for his daughter, hee gives Pisani to un­derstand, that as yet hee hath no intent to marry his daughter, alledging her few yeares, and the like triviall reasons and excuses, whereby Pisani might plainely perceive, that hee had no intent to give him his daughter.

This refusall of Vituri doth wonderfully grieve Pisani, and afflict Christeneta, so as they see their hopes nipt in their blossomes, and their desires not in the way to reap such ef­ffects as they expected. Pisani distrusting his owne power, sets his parents and chiefest friends to draw Vituri to hearken unto reason: but his age cannot be deceived in that, which his judgement, and not his passion, suggesteth him: they have diverse confe­rences, but every day, in stead of bringing hopes, produceth more difficulties and de­spayre; and now that Pisani may see that his sure and research is displeasing to Vituri, he lookes not on him with so courteous an eye as accustomed: and which is worse, Chri­steneta is forbidden his company, and he her fathers house.

[Page 22] This goes to the hearts of our two lovers, but they brook it as patiently as they may, and hope that time will give end to these their discontents and afflictions. In the meane whiles, as fire suppressed doth often flame forth with more violence, so, sith they cannot personally visite one the other, they entertaine their affections by their Letters, who are so many in number, as I hold it fit rather to suppresse then divulge them. Thus whiles Pisani comforts himselfe, that there are no roses without prickles, and that hopes long expected are best welcome, but chiefely relying upon the affe­ction and constancie of his Mistresse: hee will not staine his valour with this poynt of cowardize, to be put off with the first repulse of Vituri, but resolveth to continue as constant in his affection, as he doth in his refusall; and so after he had stayed a month or two in Cremona, he bethinkes himselfe of an invention, whereby it is not impossible for him to obtaine his Mistresse of her father.

Pisani being inriched with the treasure of Christeneta's favour and affection, writes to her, that if shee can obtaine her Mothers consent, she peradventure may easily pro­cure that of her husband; who hearkening and relishing this advice with much zeale, puts it a foote; and as in few dayes she gained her Mother, so a moneth was not ful­ly past, before shee had likewise drawne her husband to approve and consent to this Match: So now our Lovers are againe revived and comforted; for the rubs being taken away, the difficulties removed, and the parents of both sides fully satisfyed, all things now seeme in so faire a forwardnesse and preparation, as if our two Lovers were shortly to injoy each other in marriage, or to injoy the fruits of mariage, which so ear­nestly and infinitely both affected and desired.

To which end, that their nuptials might bee solemnized with the greater pompe and glory, they provide themselves of variety of rich and sumptuous Apparell, the day is appoynted, and all the Nobility of Pavia and Cremona (as well their kinsfolkes as others) are invited to the Wedding: but their Parents shall come short of their de­signes, and these our two Lovers of their hopes: for this Mariage being not begunne in heaven, shall never be finished nor consummated in earth.

Wee have here so much spoken of Pisani, that it seemes wee have quite forgotten Gasparino, as if hee had no farther part to act in this History; but hee is not so fortu­nate: for this proceeding of Pisani to Christeneta is not so secretly managed, but hee hath newes thereof, who knowing there can bee no greater treason, after that of a subject to his Soveraigne, then for a friend to betray his friend, hee grieves, and is ex­treamely incensed at Pisani, to see he hath betrayed him of his Mistresse; the which he takes so bitterly and passionately, that hee vowes he will make him repent it. Iea­lousy and Revenge are alwayes bad Counsellers, and therefore can never prove good Iudges: But such is his love to Christeneta, and so deepely is her beauty imprinted and ingraven in his heart, as shutting his Judgement to Charity, and opening it to Revenge he is resolved, at what price soever, to call Pisani to a strict account for this affront and disgrace, and is resolved rather to dy, then live to see himself thus abused, by one whom God and nature hath made his inferior. Were we as apt to doe good as evill, we should bee Angels, not men; but resembling our selves (or rather hearkening too much to the Prince of darkenesse) we flye reason to follow rage, and many times procure our owne destruction, in seeking that of others.

Gasparino having thus his eyes and senses ore-clouded and vayled with the mis [...] of revenge, is transported with such bloudy passions and resolutions, as hee is some­times resolved to pistoll Pisani, either in the streete, or in his bed, and other times to hire two or three Ruffians to murther him the next time hee rides into the Countrey but at last casting his eyes from hell to heaven, and from Satan to God, hee trampleth those execrable resolutions under his feete, and banisheth them from his heart and [Page 23] thoughts, esteeming them as unworthy of him, as he were of the world, if he should commit them: and so for that time enters in a resolution with himselfe, no more to thinke on Christeneta, and lesse to bee revenged of Pisani, for betraying her from him.

Had Gasparino continued in this peaceable and Christian-like minde, hee had not exposed himselfe to so many dangers and misfortunes, nor given himselfe as a prey tó feede the malice and revenge of his bloody enemies: but now understanding that all Cremona and Pavia prattled and laughed at his disgrace, in seeing him thus baffled and abused by Pisani, hee thinkes that not onely himselfe, but his honour is dispara­ged, and wronged herein, and that he shall be extreamely condemned of cowardize, if in a Duell he call not Pisani to right him, and give him satisfaction: yea, the onely consideration of this poynt of honour (which many times is bought and sold at so deare a price, as the perill and losse both of body and soule) did so violently perswade and prevaile with him, that as revenge admits of no opposition, nor hearkens to any advice, so enquiring for Pisani, and understanding him to be in Pavia, he the more in­couraged and inflamed hereat, taking with him a resolute and confident Gentleman, and one onely Lackey, sets spurres to his Horse, and so hyes thither, resolving with himselfe to gaine his Honour in the same City, where hee had received his dis­grace.

Being arrived at Pavia, he is assured that Pisani is in the City, and inquiring more curiously after him, hee understands, that, that very instant hee is with his Mistresse Christenea, which so galled his thoughts, and inflamed his heart, as hee was once re­solved that very instant to send him a Challenge, and the sooner, because Christeneta might be an eye-witnesse of the delivery thereof: but to speake truth, Passion could not finde a better oportunity, nor Iudgement a worse, for him to draw his malicious contemplation into bloudy and impious action; and therefore respecting Christeneta, although shee had refused to respect him, and fearing if shee had the least notice or [...]kling thereof, she loved her Pisani so dearely, as she would hinder and prevent him from running into so imminent a danger, hee all that day hush'd himselfe up private­ly in his Inne, deferring the sending thereof till the morning, when delivering it to his cosin Sebastiano (the Gentleman that came with him from Cremona) hee prayes him instantly to finde out Pisani, and to deliver it to him as secretly and as fairely as hee could.

Sebastiano being no novice in these occasions and accidents, repaires to Pisani his Lodging, and findes him as he was issuing forth his Chamber, whom hee salutes, and delivers Gasparino's Challenge fast sealed. Pisani with a constant carriage, and firme countenance, receives it; and breaking off the Seales, steps aside and reades these Lines:

[Page 24] Pisani having received and perused this Challenge (like an Italianated Gallant, pre­ferring his honour before his life) very cheerefully, without any motion or show of alteration, either in his speeches or countenance, turnes to Sebastiano, and speakes to him thus; Sir, I pray tell Gasparino from me, that my selfe and Second will with sin­gle Rapiers meet him and his, at the houre and place appoynted.

Sebastiano returnes: and Pisani having accepted the Challenge, beares it so secretly, as Christeneta (the other halfe of his heart) understands not hereof: he findes out his deare and intimate friend Sfondrato, a valiant young Gentleman, issued of a very noble Family of Millan, who accompanyed him from Cremona, to whom hee relates the whole effect of this businesse, shewing him Gasparino's Challenge, and requesting him to honour him so much as to second him in this quarrell. Sfondrato very cheerefully and freely offereth, and ingageth himselfe; and so about noone Sebastiano and him­selfe, like honourable friendly enemies, meet to provide and match the Rapiers: but beare it so secretly and discreetly, as none whatsoever could once perceive their intents, or gather their resolutions. The houre approaching, they all take horse, and that day Pisani, because hee would bee no way prevented and hindred, doth pur­posely refraine to visit his Mistresse Christeneta. They poast to the Parke as to a Wedding, being the place of Rendez [...]vous of their meeting (so famous for the defeat of the French, and taking Prisoner of their King Francis the Second, by the Forces of the Emperour Charles the Fifth.)

Gasparino and Sebastiano are first in the Field: but Pisani and Sfondrato are not long after: so they all tye up their Horses to the hedge, pull off their Spurres, and cut away the timber-heeles of their Bootes, that they might not trip, but stand firme in their play: But ere they beginne, the Seconds search the Principalls, and they the Seconds; so they throw off their Dublets, and appeare all in their shirts, not as if they feared death, but rather as if they were resolved to make death feare them.

By this time Gasparino and Pisani draw: they make their approaches, and at the first incounter Pisani is hurt in the out-side of the left arme, and Gasparino in the right flanke, the bloud whereof appeared not, but fell into his hose: they againe separate themselves, and now trye their fortunes afresh; here Pisani receives two wounds, the one glancing on his ribs, the other in the brawne of his right arme, and Gasparin [...] one deepe one in his left shoulder; but these slight hurts they onely esteeme as scarres, not as wounds, and therefore seeing their shirts but sprinkled, not dyed with their blouds; they couragiously come on againe; but this bout proves favourable to them both; for Gasparino wards Pisani's thrust from him, and onely runnes Pisani thorow the hose, without doing him any other harme: and so they close, which Pisani doth purposely to exchange ground, thereby to have the Sunne in his backe, which was be fore in his eyes, and now they conclude to take breath.

Their Seconds withdraw not from their stations, neither can they yet imagine to whose side fortune will incline, they being well-neare as equall in wounds as courage; and now Pisani and Gasparino dressing their Rapiers, and wiping off the blood from them, beginne againe to make tryall on whom Victory is resolved to smile: but they alter the manner of the fight; for now Gasparino fights with judgement, and not with fury, and Pisani with fury, and not with judgement, whereas heretofore they both did the contrary. They traverse their grounds; Pisani is so violent, as hee hath almost put himselfe out of breath, but Gasparino is so wary and cautelous, as hee contents himselfe to breake his thrusts, and resolves not to make any but to the pur­pose, and upon manifest advantage; the issue answereth his hopes and expectation: for at the very next incounter, as Pisani runnes Gasparino in the necke, hee runnes Pi­sani [Page 25] thorow the body, a little below the left pap: and his sword meeting with Cav [...] Vena (which leads directly to the heart) makes a perpetuall divorce betwixt his body and his soule, and so hee falls starke dead to the ground. Gasparino knowing him dis­patched, sheathes up his rapier. But Sfondrato and his Chirurgion runue to his assi­stance, but the affection of the one, and the art of the other were in vaine: for Pisani his life had forsaken his body, and his soule was already fled from this world to another.

Whiles Sfondrato and the Chirurgion were stretching out the dead body of Pisani, and covering it up with their cloakes; Sebastiano runnes to Gasparino, and congratulates with him for his victory, extolling his valour to the skie: But Gasparino tells him, that these prayses appertaine not to him, but to a higher providence, and withall prayes him to bee carefull, and to mannage his life both with courage and discretion; and for himselfe, finding his wounds, no way desperate nor dangerous, hee is resol­ved not to suffer his Chirurgion to bind them up, till hee see the issue of the Combate betwixt his faithfull friend Sebastiano and Sfondrato.

By this time Sfondrato thinkes it high time to beginne: and being no way daunted with the misfortune and death of his friend Pisani, but rather encouraged and resolved to sell it dearely on the life of Sebastiano; hee drawes, and with his Rapier in his hand comes towards him. Sebastiano meetes him halfe way with a very fresh and cheerefull countenance, and so they approach one to the other: at their first incounter, Sebastia­no gives Sfrondrato a large and wide wound on his right side, but receives another from him thorow the left arme, a little above the elbow; but that of Sfondrato powred forth more bloud; and to be briefe, they both give and take divers wounds, and per­forme the parts of valorous Gentlemen.

But in the end, God, who would not give all the victory to one side, but will make both parties losers, to shew that he is displeased with these their bloudy actions, and uncharitable resolutions, which though Honour seeme to excuse, yet religion cannot; after they had three severall times taken breath, Sebastiano advancing a faire thrust to Sfondrato's brest, which onely pierced his shirt, and ravelled his skinne: Sfondrato re­quited him with a mournefull interest, for hee ranne him thorow at the small of the belly, and so nayled him to the ground, bearing away his life on the point of his Rapier.

Thus our foure Combatants, being now reduced to the number of two, Sfondrato expected that Gasparino would have exchanged a thrust or two with him: the which certainely hee had performed: But Gasparino finding that the losse of so much bloud made him then weak, and that it was now more then time for him to have his wounds bound up, they having taken order for the decent transporting of their dead friends, that night to Pavia: they, without speaking word one to the other, committ them­selves to their Chirurgions, and so their wounds being bound up, they take them with them, and, to save themselves from the danger of the Law, they take horse, and poast away, Gasparino to Parma, and Sfondrato to Florence, from whence they resolve not to stirre, before their friends have procured and sent them their pardons.

Leave we them there: and to follow the streame of this History, come we to Cremona and Pavia, which rings with the newes of the issues of these lamentable and tragicall combates; Pisani and Sebastiano are infinitely bewailed of their parents, and lamented of their friends, yea of their very enemies themselves, and generally of all the world, who either knew them, or heard of their untimely and unfortunate ends.

But all these teares are nothing, in comparison of those which our faire Christeneta sheds for the death of her sweet Pisani: For her griefes are so infinitely bitter, [...] teares her haire, disfigureth her face, weepes, mournes, howles, and cries so extre [...] [Page 26] that sorrow her selfe would grieve to see her sorrow; yea, she forsakes and abando­neth all company, throwes off all her rich and glittering garments, and takes on mourn­full and sad apparell: so as all the perswasions of the world are not capable to give her the least shaddow of consolation: for as shee affirmes, shee neither will, nor can be comforted; onely amidst her teares, if shee admit, or permit any passion to take place in her heart or thoughts, it is choller and revenge against Gasparino, who had be­reaved her of her onely joy, of her deare and sweet Pisani, whom she loved a thou­sand times more deare and tenderly then her selfe, and of him she vowes to be reveng'd in the highest degree: Whereby wee may here in Christeneta see the old phrase made good, and verifyed; That there is no affection nor hatred to that of a Woman: for where they love, they love dearely; and where they hate, hate deadly: But leave we her to her sorrowes, and come we againe to Gasparino, who in short time, having ob­tained his pardon, returnes from Parma to Cremona, where hee is joyfully received of his parents and friends.

He is no sooner arrived, but the remembrance of Christeneta's beauty doth flourish and revive in his heart; for although she had loved another, yet he could affect none but her selfe: when letting passe some sixe or eight moneths, and hoping that time (which is subject to nothing, and all things to it) might wipe off her teares, and blow away her sighes for the death of Pisani; hee resolves to renew his old sute to her, to which end he visits her first by friends, next by letters, and then in person. Christeneta (like a counterfeit Fury) dissembles her love to Pisani, and her hatred to him, and withall triumpheth and takes a pride to see how discreetly and closely she beares her malice: But our wisedome in sinne proves meere folly in the eyes of God, which though she will not now acknowledge, yet she shall hereafter bee inforced to doe it with repen­tance, and peradventure when it is too late. So being resolute in her inveterate indig­nation, her malice doth so out-brave her charity, and her revenge her religion, as shee cannot finde any rest in her thoughts, or tranquillity in her minde, before she see the death of Gasparino make amends and satisfaction for that of Pisani.

Gasparino having the eyes of his judgement hood-winked, and not foreseeing how dangerous it is to repose and relye on the favour of an incensed enemy (as our judge­ments are never clearest when we approach our ruine) is very importunate with Chri­steneta, that he may meet and conferre privately with her, which indeed is the onely opportunity that in heart she hath so long desired: and now it is that she conspires his ruine, and plots his destruction, wherein (perchance) seeking his death, she may pro­cure her owne.

Dissembling Wretch as she is, she seemes to be vanquished with his importunity; and therefore to shew her selfe courteous and kinde to him, she appoynts him to meet her in the Nunnes Garden at sixe of the clocke in the morning. But what courtesy, what kindnesse is this, to have honey in the tongue, and poyson in the heart? For she presently agrees with two wretched Ruffians, Bianco and Brindoli, for twice fifty Duc­kets to murther him. See here the implacable and damnable malice of this young Gentlewoman, who forgetting her soule and her God, becomes the Author of so exe­crable and lamentable a Murther.

Gasparino, drowning his sences and understanding in the contemplation of the content he should receive in injoying his Mistresse Christeneta's company, thinkes the night long ere the day appeare, and although the evening were faire and cleare, yet in the morne, Aurora had no sooner lept from the watry bed of Neptune, but the Skies were over-cast and vayled with obscure clouds, which imprison the Sunne and his golden beames, purposely not to behold so bloudy a Tragedie, as was then to bee acted.

[Page 27] Christeneta (who could not sleepe for revenge) is stirring in the morne betimes, and so is Bianco and Brindoli. They all meet in the Nunnes Garden, she walking in the Alleyes, and they hiding themselves out of sight: At last the Clocke strikes sixe, and immediately in comes Gasparino, with his Hat in his hand, and his Rapier by his side; he courts and salutes Christeneta with many amorous speeches, and sweet Comple­ments; shee prepares to receive him: but in stead of curteous entertainment, gives him a bloudy welcome,: Her words (or rather her watch-word) are these: Gaspa­rino (quoth shee) this Garden is the place where I had my first conference with Pisani, and where I purpose to have my last with you: At which words, Bianco and Brindoli rush forth of a Bowre, and with many wounds kill him dead at their feet; but hee had first the leisure to draw, and for a while very valiantly defended himselfe, giving each of them severall wounds. Christeneta seeing Gasparino felld to the ground, fearing that he was not fully dead, and to prevent his crying, she runnes to him, thrusts her Handkercher in­to his mouth, and to shew her selfe more like a Tygre then a Woman, and a Devill then a Christian, she with a small Ponyard, or Stilleto, stabs him many times thorow the body, and spurning him with her feet, utters this revengefull and bloudy speech: This I sacrifice to the memory of my deare Love Pisani. And so Bianco and Brindoli take this murdered body of Gasparino, and tying a great stone to it, threw it into the Well of [...]he Garden; and the better to conceale this damnable act, they flye by a Posterne [...]oore: and Christeneta thinking to cover and shrowd her sinne, under the cloake of Piety and devotion, forsakes the Garden; and so, unseene of any earthly eye, be­takes her selfe to the Nunnes Church, where she falls an her knees; but with so pro­phane a devotion, as shee did no way repent, but rather triumph at this Murther: But this her hypocrisy shall cost her deare.

Wee have here seene this horrible and cruell Murther committed and acted, and the Murtherers themselves by this time all fled, and gotten to their homes: Yea, Chri­steneta gloryeth in her revenge, and Bianco and Brindoli in their money; so as they now [...]hinke themselves free, and past all danger: but they shall be deceived in their hopes; for Divine providence hath decreed otherwise. And here we come to the detection and punishment of this Murther; wherein Gods mercy and justice, his providence and his glory, doe most miraculously shine and appeare.

The Nunnes being in their Cells at their Oraisons, heare the flynking of swords, and so they advertise their Abbesse or Governesse thereof, who gives the Alarum in the house. They descend to the Garden, to see what this rumour might be: they finde the Posterne open, and the Alleyes very much sprinkled and gored with blood; they suspect Murther, but neither finde nor see any, either living or dead: they send to ac­quaint the Prefect and Provost of the City herewith, who repayre to the Garden, and (as before) finde much bloud, but see nobody: they make strict inquiry and search in the Ditches, hedges, thickets, and vaults of the Garden, but finde nothing, only they forget to search the Well: Then, to finde what those Fighters were, they thinke of a Policie, as worthy of them, as they of their office, they give a secret charge to all the ehirurgions of the city to reveale them, if any having new wounds, came that night, or the next morning to them, to be cured; whereupon Rhanuti [...], one of the chiefest Chirur­gions, informes them, that he, about an houre since, had dressed Bianco and Brindoli (two souldiers of the city) of nine severall wounds, which they newly received. The Prefect and Provost advertised hereof, cause them to bee brought before them, whom they found both together, where (no doubt) they had consulted. They enquire who woun­ded them: They answer, they had a Quarrell betwixt themselves, and so they fought it out. Being demanded againe, where, and when they fought, they looked each on other, and knowing that Christeneta was safe at home, and Gasparino close in the well, they [Page 28] instantly replyed, It was in the Nunnes Garden at Saint Clayre, and at sixe of the clock in the morning, which agreeing to the Nunnes relation, gave end to this businesse, for that time especially. But though they delude and blinde the eyes of men, yet they cannot, nor shall not those of God: And now, although these murtherers have thus escaped, yet they prepare to forfake and leave Pavia, for feare to be afterwards disco­vered. But they shall be prevented in their subtleties, for the hand of God will spee­dily arrest them.

Now wee must observe, that Gasparino being found wanting two whole nights from his Lodging, and his Lackey gathering no newes of him at Vituri's house, where hee usually frequented to visite and court his Mistresse Christeneta, he informes the Host of the house hereof; and he like an honest man, doubting the worst (after the custome of Italy) acquainted the Prefect and Provost thereof, who, like judicious and wise Magistrates, examined Gasparino's Lackey when he last saw his Master, and where. The Lackey answeres, Hee parted from his Chamber yesterday morning betwixt five and sixe, with his Prayer-booke in his hand, as if hee were going to Church, but commanded him not to follow him; and since (hee saith) hee saw him not. And now, by the providence of God, the Lackeyes relation gives a lit­tle glimpse and glimmering light to the discovery of this Murther: for the Ma­gistrates see, that the houre of Gasparino's departure from his Chamber, and that of Bianco and Brindoli's fighting doe agree, as also his Booke and the Nunnes Church beare some shew of coherence and probability.

Whereupon they (guided as it were by the very immediat finger of God) resolve and determine to apprehend, and forthwith to imprison both Bianco and Brindoli, who the very next day had thought to have slipt downe the River to Ferara, and so to Venice.

They are examined concerning Gasparino: they vow he is a Gentleman they have neither knowne nor seene. The Magistrates hold it fit they should be put to the Rack; which is as speedily performed: but these stoute Villaines firmely and constantly maintaine their first speech; and although they make sute to be freed and released, yet the Prefect holds it necessary to continue them in prison; and withall, to make a more narrow and exacter search in the Nunnes Garden.

Christeneta, being at the first advertised that Bianco and Brindoli were dead, is there­at astonished and amazed, and so resolves to flye, but being advertised they had al­ready suffered torment, and revealed nothing, she againe resolves to stay, which in­deed she doth: but it is the Iustice and mercy of God that keepes this bloudy bird within her nest.

The Prefect and Provost (as being inspired from heaven) continue constant in their resolutions, to make a second search in the Garden for Murther; which they doe, and very curiously, leaving no place unsearched: at last it pleased the Lord to put into the Provosts minde to search the Well, which the day before they had omitted. Hee acquaints the Prefect herewith, who with much alacrity approves hereof, and so causing it to be searched, they at last in their hookes bring up some pie­ces of wrought blacke Taffeta: which by the Lackey was affirmed, and knowne to be the same his Master Gasparino, wore the last time he saw him: whereat they were more eagerly encouraged to search againe most exactly: which they doe, and at last bring up the dead body of Gasparino, when stripping off his cloths, they find his body pierced with thirteene severall wonuds: at the mournefull sight whereof, the whole assembly, but especially his Lackey, cannot refraine from teares, and yet all glorify God for finding of his body, as also for the discovery of the Murtherers, who now they confidently believe are Bianco and Brindoli. [Page 29] But see the farther mercies of God: for Bianco and Brindoli are but the hands which executed this Murther, and not the head which plotted it: therefore the Magistrates being sure of them, doe now resolve to hye to Prison, and to give them double tor­ment, thereby to discover out of what Quiver the first arrow of this Murther came. But behold the mercy and justice of God! they are eased of this labour, and the name of the malefactour brought them by a most miraculous and unheard of accident: for when the Magistrates and whole company had often visited Gaspari­no's naked body, and seene nothing but wounds, a little boy standing by (of some ten yeares of age) espyed a linnen cloth in his mouth, which hee shewed the compa­ny, which the Prefect causing to be pulled out, found it to be a Cambricke Handker­cher, and withall, a name in red silke Letters in one corner, which was the very true name of Christeneta.

See, see the goodnesse, O let us stand amazed and wonder at the mercies of God, to see what meanes and instruments hee ordayneth for the discovery of Murthers.

The Prefect and Provost send away speedily to apprehend her: shee is taken in the midst of her pleasures and pastimes, yea, from the arme of her Mother, and feete of her Father, to whom shee fled for safety, but in vaine; for shee is instantly committed close Prisoner, from whence wee shall not see her come foorth, till she come to her condigne punishment, on a shamefull Scaffold, for this her horrible offence of Murther.

And now the Prefect and Provost goe themselves to the prison, where Bianco and Brindoli are: they accuse them peremptorily for the Murther of Gasparino, whose body, they informe them, they have taken up out of the Well: but they againe denye it. They give them double torment, and conjure them to reveale this their Murther; but they are so strong of courage, or rather the devill is so strong in them, as they denye all, and neither accuse themselves, nor any other.

The Prefect and Provost, although they saw all circumstances concurre, that undoubtedly Christeneta had a deepe hand in this Murther, yet they examine her faire­ly, and promise her much favour, and their best friendship and assistance, if shee will reveale it: but she, as her two confederates, denyes all. They adjudge her to the Racke, whereunto she very patiently permits her selfe to bee fastened; but her dainty body and delicate limbes cannot indure the cruelty of this torment: and so shee confesseth all, that in revenge of Pisani's death, shee had caused Bianco and Brindoli to murther him in the Nunnes garden, as we have formerly understood.

And now comes Gods sentence from heaven, pronounced against these Murthe­rers, by the mouth of his Magistrates on earth, who for reparation and expiation of their horrible crimes of Murther, committed on Gasparino, adjudge Bianco and Brindoli to have their right handes cut off, then to bee hanged, and their bodies throwne into the River Po: And Christeneta (notwithstanding all the sollicitation which her father and friends made for her) to be first hanged, then burned, and her ashes throwne into the ayre: Which to the full satisfaction of Iustice, before an in­finite number of Spectators (who assisted at their mournefull ends) was accordingly executed, who yet could not refraine from teares, but as much approved and applau­ded Christeneta's affection to Pisani, as they detested and abhorred her inhumane and bloody revenge to Gasparino.

Bianco and Brindoli, as they lived unrighteously, so they dyed desperately, and could not be drawn to repent themselves of this their bloudy fact: But as I have understood, [Page 30] Christeneta was extreamely sorrowfull for her sinnes, but especially for this murther, whereof at her last breath shee infinitely and exceedingly repented her selfe: yea, I have beene informed, that shee delivered a godly and religious speech upon the Ladder, but I was not so fortunate to recover it. May all true Christians reade this History with profit, and profit in reading it, that so God may re­ceive the glory: and their soules the eternall comfort and consolation.

Amen.

GODS REVENGE AGAINST, THE CRYING AND EXE­crable sinne of Murther.
HISTORIE III.

IT is a just reward for the vanity of our thoughts, and a true re­compence for the errours of our youth, that wee buy pleasure with repentance, and the sweetnesse of sinne with the bitter­nesse of affliction: but if wee violate the Lawes of Christiani­ty, and abandon our selves to lust and fornication, then we shall see with shame, that men will not pitty us, and finde with griefe, that God will punish us. It is an excellent vertue in Maydens, not to listen to the lewd temptations of men; and in men, not to hearken to the sugered charmes of the devil▪ for commonly that folly gives the one shame, and this madnesse brings the other destruction: but if we first forget our selves, and then our God, by adding and heaping sinne upon sinne, as first, to per­petrate fornication, and after Murther, then assuredly our estate is so miserably wret­ched, and so wretchedly miserable, as we have no hope left for better fortunes, nor place for worse. And because Example is both pleasing to our memory, and profita­ble to our judgement, this mournefull ensuing History shall make good, and confirme it to us: therefore let us shut the doore of our thoughts against the power of sinne, and that of our hearts against the malice of Hell: and wee shall not onely make our fortunes immoveable in this World, but our felicity eternall in that to come.

In the South-east part of France, within a dayes journey of the famous City of Ly­ons, at the foote of the Mountaine of Tarara, upon the border and bosome of that sweet River Lignon, so famoused by the Minion of honour, and the darling of the Mu­ses, the Marquesse of Vrse, in his beautifull and divine Astrea: neere Durency (a cer­taine small Village) there dwelt a poore Country Farmer, named Andrew Mollard, who of late burying his Wife, had one only child left him by her, being a very faire young girle, about the age of twelve yeares old, named Iosselina, whom hee hoped should prove the staffe and prop of his age, and resolved when she grew up in yeares, [Page 32] and came to womans estate, to marry her to some of his neighbours sonnes, and at his death, to give her all that litle which either his parents, or his owne labor and industry had left or procured him.

Two or three yeares sliding away, in which time Mollard increasing in wealth, and his Daughter in yeares, shee was, and was justly reported to bee the fairest Nymph of those parts, and by all the rusticke Swaynes tearmed, the faire Iosselina, esteeming themselves happy, if they might see her, much more, if they might injoy her presence.

Now within a little League of Mollards house, dwelt an ancient and wealthy Gen­tleman, named Mounsieur de Coucie, who had many children: but among the rest, his eldest sonne, tearmed Mounsieur de Mortaigne, was a very hopefull and brave Gentle­man, who was first a Page to that generous Nobleman Mounsieur de la Guiche, some­times Governour of Lyons, and since his death a chiefe Gentleman to Mounsieur de Saint Ierrant, now a Marshall of France.

This Mortaigne having lived some yeares in Paris with his Lord the Marshall, where hee followed all honourable exercises, as Riding, Fencing, Dancing, and the like (whereby hee purchased himselfe the honourable title of a most perfect and accom­plished Gentleman) was at last desirous to see his father, partly, because he understood he was weake and sickely; but especially to bee at the Nuptialls of a sister of his, tear­med Madamoyselle de la Hay, who was then to be married to a Gentleman of Avergne, tearmed Mounsieur de Cassalis.

This Marriage being solemnized, Mortaigne having conducted his sister into Avergne, and now seeing his father strong and lusty, hee beginnes to dislike the Coun­trey, and to wish himsefe againe in Paris, where the rattling of Coaches, and the in­finity of faire Ladies did better delight and please him: hee craves leave of his fa­ther and mother to returne, which (because hee is the chiefest stay and comfort of their age) they unwillingly grant him, and so he prepares for his returne to Paris. But an unlooked for accident shall stop his journey for the present, and another, but farre more fatall, seconding and succeeding that, shall stop and hinder him from ever see­ing it.

For the night before hee was to depart, the morning de Coucye his father is most dangerously taken with a burning Feaver, and so neither he nor his mother will per­mit him to depart. Living thus in the Countrey, and few Gentlemen dwelling neere his fathers house, hee gives himselfe to Hunting and Hawking, Pastimes and exer­cises, which though before he loved not, yet now he exceedingly delights in: Now amongst other times, hee one day hunting in his fathers Woods (hollowing for his Dog which hee had lost in a Thicket) by chance sprung a Pheasant, who flying to the next Woods, hee sends for his Hawke, with an intent to flye at him; and so being not so happy as againe to set sight of him, hee ranged so farre, and withall so fast, that he was very thirsty, but saw no house neere him, that hee might call for wine; till at last he happened on that of Andrew Mollard, of whom we have former­ly made mention. Mortaigne, seeing a man walking in the next Vineyard, demanded if he were the man of the house, and prayed him to afford him a draught of Wine, alledging that he was very thirsty; Mollard knowing this young Gentleman by the Modell of his face, presumed to demand him if he were not one of Mounsieur de Cou­cye's sonnes: Hee answered yes, and that his name was Mortaigne. Mollard presently calling to minde that he was his fathers heire, very courteously (in his fashion) prayes him to enter his house, and so beeing set downe, hee sends his daughter Iosselina for wine, which she fetched, and they both drinke: where honest Mollard thinking his house blessed with so great (and as he thought, so good) a Gentleman, very cheere­fully [Page 33] proffers him peares, Grapes, Walnuts, and such homely dainties as his poore cottage could affoord. But wee shall see Mortaigne requite this courtesie of Mollard, with an extreame ingratitude.

Mortaigne, whose eye was seldome on Mollard, and never from his daughter, admires to see so sweet a beauty in so obscure a place: he cannot refraine from blushing, to be­hold the delicacy of her pure complexion: for though she were poore in cloathes, yet hee saw her rich in beauty, which made not onely his eyes, but his heart conclude, that shee was wonderfull faire; sith it is ever the signe of a true and perfect beauty, where the face graceth the apparrell, and not the apparrell the face. And now com­paring Iosselina's taynt to that of the gallant Ladies of Paris, he finds that the truth of nature exceeds the falshood of their Art: for thorow the Alablaster of her Front, Necke and Pappes, hee might perceive the azure of her veines, which like the win­dings of Meanders streames, swiftly range, and sweetly presents it selfe to his eye. And for her eies, or rather the Diamonds and Stars of her face, their splendor was so cleare, and their influence so piercing, as they not onely captivate his thoughts with love, but wound his heart with affection and admiration. But if Mortaigne gaze on the freshnesse and sweetnesse of Iosselina's beauty, no lesse doth she on the propernesse and perfecti­on of his youth, onely his eyes tilt at hers with more liberty, and hers on him with modesty, respect and secrecy: which Mortaigne well espying, hee vowes to obtaine her favour, or to lose his life in research thereof: but the end of such lascivious resolutions seldome prosper.

But see how all things favour Mortaignes affection, or rather his lust to Iosselina! for Mollard tells him, hee holds a small tenement neere adjoyning of his father, who hath now put him in sute of Law for two herriots, and therefore beseecheth him for his good word, and favour to his father in his behalfe. Mortaigne glad of this occasion to serve for a pretext and cloake for him, to have accesse to his house and daughter, promiseth him to deale effectually with his father for him, and the next time he pas­seth that way, to acquaint him what hee hath done therein: and so stealing a kisse or two from Iosselina, as her father went into the Court, and withall swearing to her, that hee loved her dearely, and would come often to see her; hee thanking Mollard for his good cheere, for that time departed.

But the further hee goes from Mollards house, the neerer his heart approcheth his daughter Iosselina. So his thoughts being stedfastly and continually fixed on her, hee beginnes to distaste his fathers house, yea, forsakes all company, and many times pre­tending to walke in the Parke and Woods, he steales away privately to see his new Mistresse. Hee visits her often, but especially when her father is at market, and gives her Gloves, Lawne, and silke girdles, yea hee never comes to her, but brings her some gift and present, thinking thereby the sooner to obtaine his desire▪ but as yet hee is still deceived: for although shee bee humble and simple, yet she is chast, and will not hearken to his allurements and inticements. Had Iosselina continued constant in this resolution, her life would have proved more happy, and her death lesse mourn­full.

Mortaigne perceiving Iosselina's coynesse and obstinacy, is thereat no way the lesse, but rather far the more insnared and inflamed with her beauty; and now perceiving, that all his Visits, Gifts, Speeches and prayers work no desired effect, he hath recourse to that old fallacy and subtill invention, wherby so many silly maids are abused and deceived; hee vowes, that if shee will permit him to enjoy his desire, hee will marry her not­withstanding that their birth and quallitie were so unequall and different: and this, and onely this battery and allurement, was that which van quished Iosselina's Chastitie, who, poore girle, caught with this snare, in hope to be a Gentlewoman, shooke hands with her may den-head, which shee should have prized and esteemed farre more pre­cious [Page 34] then her life: but shee shall pay deare for this her folly; for shee shall live Mor­taigne's strumpet and never dye his wife.

Mortaigne hath now his desire of Iosselina; and for the fruit of this their unchast pleasure, in short time her belly swells: Mollard her father discovers the Pad in the straw: hee grieves hereat, teares his white hayres, and vowes, his daughters infamy will shorten his dayes: he torments her with reprochings and threatnings, so as shee can find no rest, or tranquility in his house: shee advertiseth Mortaigne hereof, and re­quests his assistance, in this her affliction: Mortaigne by night steales her away, and sends her ten leagues off from Durency, placing her in a poore Kinsmans house of his, where shee is delivered of a young Sonne: But shee shall shortly see (with repentance) what it is to have a child e're a husband. In the meane time shee feedes her selfe with hope, that Mortaigne will shortly marry her, but hee resolves nothing lesse: for the Gallants of these times (who build their triumphs upon the shipwracke and ruines of maidens honour) will promise any thing, ere they enjoy their desire, but performe no­thing, when they have obtained it, but rather spurne at those pleasures, as at Nosegaies which they delight in the morne, and throw away ere night.

Calintha, (Mortaigne's Mother) all this while knowes nothing of these occurrences betwixt her sonne and Iosselina, and desires to see him married, that shee might have the felicity to see her selfea Grandmother: to which end, she resolves to seeke a wife for him; and makes a motion to Monsieur de Vassy, the Seneshall of la Palisse, to match her sonne with Madamoyselle la Varina his onely daughter. De Vassy dislikes not this motion: the young folkes see and love: so as in all humane sence and outward appea­rance, it seemes a short time will finish and conclude this match: But it was otherwise determined in heaven.

This newes doth amaze and terrifie Iosselina: but as misfortune seldome comes alone, shee likewise that very instant understands that Mollard her father (for very griefe of her foule fact) is dead, and hath dis-inherited her, leaving her nothing but the memo­ry of her shame, for her portion and dowry, and onely repentance to comfort her: And this indeed is the forerunnet of her future misery: Wherefote now if ever, it is for her to looke to her selfe and well fare, to which end shee resolves to write Mortaigne a Letter, to put him in minde of his promise, and to take compassion of her poverty, being already reduced to this misery, that shee hath not wherewithall to maintaine her selfe and child: her said Letter (word for word) I thought good to in­sert here, because the substance and perusall thereof deserves both pitty and com­passion.

Iosselina having penned this Letter to Mortaigne, shee desirous to draw hope and assi­stance from all par [...]s, thinkes it fit likewise to write another to Calintha his Mother, to the same effect: the which shee doth, and sends it by a confident messenger, with ex­presse charge to deliver them severally: the tenour thereof is thus:

Whiles Iosselina flatters her selfe with hope,, that these Letters will procure her her desire and comfort, Mortaigne and Calintha his mother receive them. As for Mortaigne hee like a base Gentleman (whose curtesy was now turned into inhumanity) as much triumpheth in his owne sinne, as rejoyceth in Iosselina's foolish ambition and poverty. It is a felicity to him to thinke, that hee hath abused her youth, and betrayed her cha­stity: and therefore hee now respecteth her so little, or rather dis-respecteth her so much, as her shame is his glory; her misery, his happinesse; and her affliction, his [Page 36] content; yea hee no more thinks of her, but with disdaine and envy: for the beauty Varina hath quite defaced and blotted out that of Iosselina, neither doth this cruelty of Mortaigne end in her, but it beginnes in the pretty babe his sonne: for he so farre degenerateth from the lawes and principles of Nature, as hee not onely hates the Mo­ther for the childes sake, but the child for his mothers sake: yea, hee is so farre from giving either of them maintenance, or both content, as hee scornes the Mother, and will no way either owne or relieve the child: and so burning his Letter, and for­getting the contents thereof, hee very ingratefully and cruelly resolves to answer it with silence, and this is the best comfort which Iosselina and the poore young babe her sonne receive from Mortaigne. But I feare the worst is to come.

If Iosselina and her babe receive such dis-respect, and inhumanity from Mortaigne, it is to bee feared and doubted, that they will meet with little better from his Mother Calintha, who no sooner received and read her letter, but full of wrath and indignation, shee in disdaine throwes it away from her: yea, her discontent and malice is so infla­med against Iosselina and her child, as fearing it may prove a blurre and blocke to Mor­taigne's marriage with Varina: shee not onely refuseth to relieve them, but is so cruell and inhumane, as shee wisheth them both in another World, as unworthy to live in this; but her choller is too passionate, and her passions too unaturall and cruell: for if shee would not relieve Iosselina whom her sonne Mortaigne had abused, yet in pitty, yea in nature, shee should have taken order for the maintenance of the child whom her sonne had begotten: for if the Mother had deserved her hatred, yet this poore babe was innocent thereof, and rather merited her compassion then her envy: or at least, if there had beene any sparke of humanity, grace, or good nature in her, if shee would not have beene seene courteous and harbarous to them her selfe; yet shee might dispence with her sonne, and winke if hee had performed it. But nothing lesse; for her malice is so great, and her rage so outragious and unreasonable, as shee refuseth it her selfe, and commands him to the contrary: so as being once resolute, not to cast away so much time to returne Iosselina an answer, shee at last in a humour, wherein disdaine triumphed over pitty, and inhumanity over charity, calls for pen and paper, and returnes her this bitter and cruell answer.

Poore Iosselina having received and perused Calintha's Letter, and seeing with­all Mortaigne so in humane, as hee disdaines to write to her; for meere griefe, and sorrow, shee, with her Babe at her brest, falls to the ground in a swoone, and had not the noyse thereof advertised those in the next roome to come to her assi­stance, shee had then and there ended her misery with her life, and not after­wards lived to see and indure so many sharpe afflictions, and lamentable wants and misfortunes.

Alas, Alas! she hath now no power to speake, but to weepe: yea, if her teares are not words, I am sure her words are sighes; for being abandoned of Mortaigne; and hated of his mother, she is so pierced to the heart with the consideration of that cruelty, and the remembrance of this disdaine, as shee teares her hayre, repents her selfe of her former folly, and curseth the houre that Mortaigne first saw her fathers house, or shee him: but this is but one part of her sorrowes and afflictions. Lo, here comes another, that is capable to turne her discontent into despaire, her despaire into rage, and her rage into madnesse.

For by this time Calintha understanding by her sonne, where Iosselina resided and sojourned, she so ordered the matter, as when Iosselina least thought thereof, shee and her Babe in a darke and cold night is most inhumanely turned out of the house where she was; yea, with so great barbarisme and cruelty, as shee was not suffered to rest, either in the Hay-loft, Barne, or Stable, or any other place within doore; but infor­ced to lye in the open field, where the bare ground was her bed, a Mole-hill her Pillow, the cold ayre her Coverlet, and the Firmament her Curtaines and Cano­pie. And now it is, and never before, that her eyes gush foorth whole Rivers of teares, and her heart and brest sends foorth many volleyes of deepe-fetched sighes; yea, having no other Tapers but the Starres of heaven to light her, shee lookes on her poore Babe for comfort, whose sight, God knowes, doth but redouble her sorrowes and afflictions, because it lyes crying at her brest for want of Milke, which (poore woman) shee had not to give it; when, being in this miserable case, and ac­companyed with none but with the Beasts of the Field, and the Birds of the aire, who yet were farre happyer then her selfe, because they were gone to their rest, and shee could receive none, she after many bitter sighes, groanes, and teares, uttered these spee­ches to her selfe.

Alas, alas, poore Iosselina! It is thy folly, and not thy fortune, that hath brought thee to this misery: for hadst thou had grace to use, and not to abuse thy beauty, thou mightst have seene thy selfe as happy, as now thou art wretched and miserable: but see what a double losse thou receivest for thy single pleasure, for the losse of thy cha­stity to Mortaigne, was that of thy father to thee: and now being deprived of both, what wilt thou doe, or whither canst thou flye for comfort? But alas, this is not all the misery; for as thy losse is double, so is thy griefe: for now thou must as well sorrow for thy child, as for thy selfe; yea Iosselina, forget to grieve for thy selfe, and remember to doe it for thy Babe, sith thou hast brought it into the world, and hast not wherewith to maintaine it. And then not able to proceed farther, she takes it up and kisses it, and raines teares on it's cheekes, though she cannot streame milk in its mouth, when againe recovering her speech, she continues thus:

Ay me, Iosselina, thou art both the Author and the cause of thine owne misery, and [Page 38] therefore thou must not blame heaven, but thanke thy selfe for it: for thy afflictions are so great, as wheresoever thou turnest thy thoughts or eyes, thou findest nothing but griefe, nothing but sorrow: for if thou think on Mortaigne, he lookes on thee with dis­daine, if on his mother Calintha, she with envie; yea, thou canst not behold the world without shame, thy poore infant without sorrow, nor thy selfe without repentance: nay, consider further with thy selfe, what thou hast gotten by casting (or rather by casting away) thy affection on Mortaigne: he found thee a Mayd, and hath left thee a strumpet; thou hast a child, and yet no husband: then thou wert so happy as to have a father, and now thy sonne is so miserable, as he can finde none: yea, then thou wert a friend to many, but now thou findest not one that will bee so to thee: and which is worse, thou hast not wherewithall to be so to thy selfe. Alas, alas, thou hast no house to goe to, no friend to trust to, no meat for thy selfe, nor milke for thy child: therefore poore Iosselina (quoth she) how happy should we both be, if thou wert bury­ed, and he unborne.

She would have finished her speech, but that teares interrupted her words, and sighs cut her teares in pieces.

By this time her Babe falls asleepe, but her griefes are so great, and her sorrowes so infinite, as shee cannot close her eyes, nor yet bee so much beholding either to Morpheus or Death to doe it for her; which perceiving, as also that the Moone was inveloped in a cloud, and that the Starres beginne to denye her the comfort and lu­stre of their sight, shee fearing to bee overtaken with raine, and perceiving a thicke Wood a pretty way off from her, she takes her Babe, and as fast as her weake and wea­ryed legs could performe (bitterly weeping and sighing) hies thither for shelter; but heaven prooves more kinde to her then earth: for loe, both the Moone and Starres assist and comfort her in this her sorrowfull journey. Being come to the Wood (which indeed was farther off then she thought) she beganne to bee weary, and there making a bed of leaves (which at that season of the yeare fell abundantly from the Trees) shee thereon for awhiles rested her selfe, but sleepe shee could not: and now if any thing in the world afforded her comfort, it was to see that her in­fant slept prettily, though not soundly: but here if her eyes craved rest, so her sto­macke craved meat: for it was now mid-night, and she had eaten nothing since noone: so pulling off her upper coate, shee wraps and covers her child as hot as shee could, who being fast asleepe, and laying it on the bed of leaves, shee goes from tree to hedge, and gathers Blacke-berries, Slowes, and wilde Chessnuts, wherewith in stead of better Viands, she satisfyed her hunger, and now she sees her selfe on the top of a Hill, at whose foote shee perceived a River, and a great stony Bridge over it, the which shee knew, as also that there was a little Village neere about a mile beyond it, which indeede in the midst of her miseries afforded her some comfort. So backe she hies to her childe, which she findes out by its crying, it wanting not onely his nipple but his Nurse, and so with many kisses takes it up in her armes, and hyes towards the bridge, and from thence to the Village, which she now remembers is ter­med Villepont, where shee arrives at five of the clocke in the morning, and lodged her selfe in a very poore Inne, being extremely glad, and infinitely joyfull that she had re­covered so good a harbour.

But money she hath none to pay her expences, and to lye in Innes upon credit, is to be ill attended, and worse look'd on: so she is inforced, yea, faine to sell away her Quaives, her bands, and her upper coate, to discharge her present occasions. Poore Iosselina, how happy hadst thou beene, if thou hadst had as much wit and chastity, as beauty, or rather more chastity, and lesse beauty! But it is now too late to remedy it, though never to repent it.

[Page 39] Iosselina knowing Villepont to be but seven leagues from Durency (the Parish where she was borne) is irresolute whether to stay here, or to goe thither. Want of meanes perswades her to the first: but knowing that Mortaigne's love was turned to hatred, and that it was dangerous for her to bee neere his incensed mother, shee resolves to stay in Villepont, and to write to her kinsfolkes and friends to assi [...]t her in this her mi­sery and necessity. In the meane time shee is inforced to content her selfe with a poore little out-chamber, where there is neither chimney nor window, but onely a small loope whereinto the Sunne scarce ever entred, and yet shee is extreamely well contented and glad hereof.

But wealth findes many friends, and poverty none: and yet, sith diversity of for­tunes is the true touchstone of friendship, wee may therefore more properly and tru­ly terme those our friends, who assist us in our necessity, and not who seeme to pleasure us in our prosperity: for those are reall friends, but these verball: those will per­forme more then they promise, and these promise much, and performe nothing.

But Iosselina is so wretched and unfortunate, as shee findes neither the one nor the other to assist her in this her misery: yea so farre shee is to receive either meanes or promises; as nothing is sent her, nor none will see her; so as miserable necessity in­forceth her to report and divulge the misfortune of her fortune, and to complain to all the world of Mortaigne's treachery, and of his Mother Calintha's cruelty; yea she threa­tens to send him his sonne, sith he will not afford her wherewith to maintaine it.

This is not so secretly carryed in Villepont, but De Vassye and Varina his daughter have newes hereof in La Palisse, which occasioneth her to grow cold in her affection, and he in his respect to Mortaigne, so as all things decline, and there is little hope or appearance, that this match shall goe forward. Mortaigne is two cleere-sighted, to be blind herein, yea he presently knowes, from what point of the Compasse this wind commeth, and is fully possessed, that Iosselina is the cause of these alterations and stormes: hee is ex­ceedingly inraged and inflamed hereat, and gives such way to his passion and choller, as these obstacles must be removed, and he vowes to destroy both Iosselina and her sonne. A bloudy resolution, not beseeming either a Christian, or a Gentleman: for was it not enough for him to rob Iosselina of her honour, and to put a rape on her chastity and vertue, but hee must likewise bereave her of her life, and so adde Murther to his lust? Alas, what a base Gentleman is this? yea, how farre degenerates he from true Gentility, to bee so cruell to her that hath beene so kind to him? But the Devill suggesteth to his thoughts, and they to his heart, that Varina is faire, and that there is no way nor hope left to obtaine her, before Iosselina and her brat bee dispatch­ed. Now if grace could not perswade him from being so cruell to Iosselina: (yet mee thinkes) nature should have with-held him from being so inhumane to his owne sonne: but his faith is so weake towards God, and the devill is so strong with him, that he cannot bee removed or withdrawne from his bloudy resolution, onely hee al­tereth the manner thereof: for whereas hee resolved first to destroy the Mother, then the child, now he will first dispatch the child, then the Mother. O Heavens, why should earth produce so bloudy and prodigious a monster!

Now the better to dissemble his malice, he thinkes to reclaime and pacifie Iosselina, and so gives order that shee and her child be lodged in a better Inne in the same village of Villepont, and signifies her that he hath gotten a Nurse, and hath provided mainte­nance for his sonne, and that shortly he will send his Lackey for him, but withall, that shee must keepe this very secret, because hee will not have his mother Calintha ac­quainted therwith. Iosselina rejoyceth, and seemes to be revived at this pleasing newes: yea, shee beginnes to forget her former misery, and flatters her selfe with this hope, [Page 40] that fortune will againe smile on her. So within three dayes, Mortaigne sends his Lac­key, La Verdure to her for the babe: the which with many kisses and [...]eares shee de­livereth him, hoping that Mortaigne his father would bee carefull of his maintenance, and not so much as once dreaming, or conceiving that he had any intent to murther it. But she shall find the contrary; for henceforth she shall never see her babe, nor her babe her.

La Verdure (the Lackey) following his Masters command, is not foure Leagues from Villepont, before, like a damnable miscreant, hee strangles it, and wrapping it in a Linnen cloth (which hee had purposely brought with him) throwes it into the River Lignon; but hee shall pay deare for Murthering of this sweete and inno­cent babe.

But it is not enough: for Mortaigne's divellish malice and revenge will not be quenched or satisfied, till he see the Mother follow the fortune of the sonne: to which end he agrees with her Oast La Palma, and his aforesaid Lackey La Verdure, to stifle her in her bed. The which, for two hundred frankes they performe, and bury her in his garden, shee being soundly sleeping, and poore soule, not so much as once dreaming of this her mournefull and lamentable end. What Tigers or monsters of na­ture are these; to commit so damnable a Murther, as if there were no God in heaven to detect them, nor earth nor hell to punish them?

But we shall see the contrary: yea, we shall see both the Murther, and the Mur­therers revealed and discovered by an extraordinary meanes; wherin Gods providence and glory will most miraculously resplend and shine.

As soone as La Verdure and La Palma had Murthered our harmelesse Iosselina, they both poast away to Durency, aswell to acquaint Mortaigne herewith, as also to receive their money (whereof the one halfe was payed them, and the other due.) This newes is so pleasing to him, as he cheerefully layes downe his promise: and so they both frol­like it in the village, La Verdure making no hast home to his Master Mortaigne, not La Palma to his old wife Isabella.

In the meane time (a month being past away) Mortaigne, hoping the way cleare, and al the rubs removed, that hindred him from obtaining his faire mistres Varina; he pro­cures his father De Coucye, and other of his friends to ride to La Palisse: hoping to fi­nish the match betwixt La Varina and himselfe: But hee and they are inforced to see themselves deceived of their hopes. For De Vassy and his daughter having heard that Iosselina and her sonne were conveyed away, and could no more be heard of, they (sus­pecting, and fearing that which indeed was falne out) in plaine tearmes, give Mortaigne the refusall, who galled to the heart herewith, doth now hang downe his head, and see his former bloudy errours and crimes; but it is two late, for the Lord hath bent his bow, and his Arrow is ready to Revenge them.

La Palma understanding of Mortaigne's arrivall from La Palisse, thinkes it high time for him to leave Durency, and to returne home to Villepont to his wife Isabella, who being an old woman, and hee a young man; was not onely impatient, but jea­lous of his long stay (which was well neere five weekes) and the rather for that hee departed, as shee thought, in company of Iosselina: who because shee was young and faire, shee vehemently suspected, hee had since entertained and stayed with But this jealousie of hers, God makes his instrument to discover this execrable Murther.

For La Palma comming home, his wife Isabella (as we have heard) being incensed with anger, and inflamed with jealousie, gives him this bitter entertainement and wel­come: La Palma (quoth shee) you were very unkind, so soone to forsake your Whore Iosseli­na. La Palma being pierced to the quicke with this bitter speech of his wife, like [Page 41] a lewde fellow, gave her first the lye, and then termed her whore in speaking it. She hath fire in her lookes, and hee thunder in his speeches. So after many bitter and scandalous injuries banded one to the other, shee addes rage to her words, and hee a boxe on the eare to his choller, where with he fell'd her as dead to the ground; yea, the servants, and all that beheld it, crye out amaine, as if her soule had already taken her last farewell of her body. At this tumult the neighbours assemble, and deeming Isabella dead, they lay hands on La Palma her husband, and carry him be­fore the Procurer, Fiscall of La Palisse, who was then in their Village of Villepont, who without further examination commits him to prison, and so goes in person to visit Isabella, who by this time is a little recovered, but not freed from the danger of death: She relates him all that had past betwixt her husband and her selfe: as also of his de­parture with Iosselina, and of his long stay in Durency; adding withall, that he hath heretofore many times beaten her, and now she hopes, that this blow will not goe unpunished: yea, her rage, or rather Gods providence carries her so fatre, as she con­stantly averres to the Magistrate, that if Iosselina be not her husbands strumpet, shee constantly beleeves hee is her Murtherer: and to conclude, saith, that her servant­mayd Iaqueta can say more.

Iaqueta examined, saith, that the night before her Masters departure for Du­rency, hee was at mid-night in Iosselina's Chamber, together with one La Verdure a Lackey, and that since Iosselina was neither seene nor heard of; and being farther de­manded if she knew whose Lackey La Verdure was, shee answered, he was Mounsieur Mortaignes Lackey, who was sonne to Mounsieur de Coucy. The Procurer Fiscall, con­fidering their severall depositions, doth shrewdly suspect there is more in the winde then is yet discovered: he leaves Isabella, and goes to her husband in prison, and after hee had sharpely checked him for beating his wife, he inquires and chargeth him with these two poynts; First, why hee and La Verdure were in Iosselina's Chamber at mid­night? and secondly, what was become of her, sith since that time shee hath neither beene seene nor heard of.

La Palma is terrifyed and amazed with these demands (and farre the more, be­cause he least expected them) the which apparently appeared in the alteration of his colour and complexion, which commonly bewrayes an inward perturbation of the mind and heart. He answereth not punctually to those poynts demanded of him: but runnes on with many bitter invectives against the rage and jealousy of his wife: and then being by the Procurer bid answer to those two poynts hee formerly de­manded of him: hee, after many frivolous and extravagant speeches, denyes that either hee or La Verdure were in Iosselina's Chamber, and that hee neither saw her departure, nor knew what was become of her, and withall prayes the Pro­eurer Fiscall to free and release him of his imprisonment: but he shall not escape at so cheape a rate.

For the Procurer, being very familiar with Mounsieur de Vassye his Colleague and fellow-Iudge of La Palisse, remembred that hee had formerly heard him speake of this Mounsieur Mortaigne, who lately sought his daughter La Varina in marriage; as also of his entertaining and rejecting this Iosselina, a Farmers daughter of Durency, by whom he had a base sonne: and now considering that at such an unseasonable houre his Lackey La Verdure should be in her Chamber in La Palma's house, and La Palma himselfe in his company, and shee never since seene or heard of, hee thinkes there is some fire hid and covered in these embers, and that there is some deeper mystery in this businesse, which as yet was not revealed.

Wherefore, like a wise Magistrate, he holds it fit, the same night to send La Pal­ma privately to La Palisse, as also his wife Isabella and Iaqueta for witnesses, and rides [Page 42] thither himselfe, to sit upon his processe, with whom the Lievtennant of that juris­diction joyned; but for Mounsieur de Vassye the Seneschall, hee (for the regard hee bore to Mortaigne, because hee vehemently suspected he had a deepe and chiefe hand in this businesse) would not bee present, but purposely absented himselfe at a house of his in the Countrey: the next morne La Palma is examined, as also the two wit­nesses, and Iaqueta is confronted with him, who stands firme to her former disposi­tion: But hee slatly denyes all. The Procurer and the Lievtennant adjudge him to the Racke. Hee indureth the first torment, but at the second confesseth that he and La Verdure had stifled, and murthered Iosselina in her bed, in his owne house, and had buried her in his Garden, and that they were set a worke and hyred to doe it by Moun­sieur Mortaigne, who gave them two hundred Frankes to effect it.

Loe here by the mercy and providence of God, La Palma's malice to his wife Isabella, and her jealousy to him, hath discovered and brought to light this cruell and bloudy Murther, which was so secretly contrived and so cunningly and devillish­ly acted upon the body of Iosselina: But hers being discovered, let us likewise see how that of her harmelesse and innocent Babe is likewise brought to light. The two Iudges themselves ride all night to Villepont, they search the Garden, and find the dead body of Iosselina, having no other Winding-sheet but her owne smocke. They send away the Provost to apprehend Mortaigne and his Lackey for this Murther, who meets La Verdure by the way, and seizes Mortaigne in his bed.

They are severally brought to La Palisse, and first La Verdure is confronted with La Palma, who denyes all: but they present his feet to the fire, and then he confes­seth not onely the Mu [...]ther of Iosselina, but likewise that of her infant sonne, whom hee first strangled, and then threw into the River Lignon: and this, said he, he did at the request of his Master Mortaigne, of whom for his part and labour, he received one hundred Frankes.

Wee have here found two of these Murtherers: and now what resteth there, but that the third, who is the Authour, and as it were the capitall great wheele of these bloody Tragedies, bee produced and brought to this Arraignement? The Procu­rer and Lievtennant repaire againe to the Prison, and charge Mortaigne with these two bloody Murthers: hee knowes it is in vaine to denye it, sith hee is sure his two exe­crable agents have already revealed it: therefore he ashamed at the remembrance of his cruell and unnatural crimes, doth with many teares very sorrowfully and penitent­ly confesse all.

It is a happinesse for him to repent these Murthers; but it had beene a farre grea­ter, if hee had never contrived and committed them: yea, the Iudges are amazed to heare the cruelty hereof, and the people to know it, and both send their prayses and thankefulnesse to God, that hee hath thus detected and brought them to light on earth.

And now comes the Catastrophe of their owne Tragedies, wherein every one of these Malefactors receives condigne punishment for their severall offences.

La Palma is condemned to bee hanged and burnt: La Verdure to bee broken on the Wheele, and his body to bee throwne into the River Lignon: and Mortaigne, though the last in ranke, yet the first in offence, to be broken on the Wheele, his body burnt, and his ashes throwne into the aire: which Sentence, in the sight of a great multitude of Spectators, was on a Market day accordingly executed and performed in La Palisse.

And this was the bloody end of Mortaigne, and his two hellish instruments, for murthering innocent Iosselina, and her silly and tender infant: May all Maydens learne by her example to preserve their chastities: and men, by La Verdures and La Palma's, [Page 43] not to be drawne to shed innocent blood for the lucre of wealth and money; and by Mortaignes, to bee lesse lascivious, inhumane, and bloody: thereby to prevent so exe­crable a life, and so infamous a death.

One thing I may not omit: La Palma on the Ladder extreamely cursed the ma­lice of his wife Isabella, who (he said) was the author of his death: and no lesse did La Verdure on the Wheele by his Master Mortaigne; but both of them were so despe­rately irreligious, as neither of them considered that it was their former sinnes, and the malice of the Devill, to whom they gave too much eare, that was the cause thereof.

And for Mortaigne, after he had informed the world, that hee extreamely grieved, that his Iudges had not given him the death of a Gentleman, which was to haue beene beheaded, he with many teares bewayled his infinite ingratitude, cruelty, and unna­turalnesse, both towards Iosselina, as also his and her young sonne: yet he prayed the world in generall to pray that God would forgive it him; and likewise requested the Executioner to dispatch him quickely out of this life; because hee confessed hee was unworthy to live longer.

Now let us glorifie our Creatour and Redeemer, who continually makes a strict inquisition for blood, and a curious and miraculous inquiry for Murther: yea, let us both feare him with love, and love him with feare, sith hee is as impartiall in his justice, as in distributing his mercies.

GODS REVENGE AGAINST THE CRYING AND EXE­crable sinne of Murther.
HISTORIE IV.

SIth in the day of Iudgement we shall answer at Gods great Tribunall, for every lewd thought our hearts conceive, and idle words our tongues utter, how then shall we dare appeare (much lesse thinke to scape) when we defile our bodies with the pollution of adultery, and taint our soules with the innocent bloud of our Christian brethren? when, I say, with beastly lust and adultery, we unsanctifie our san­ctified bodies, who are the receptacles and Temples of the holy Ghost, and with high and presumptuous hands, stabbe at the Majesty of God, by Murthering of man, who is his Image? This is not the Ladder to scale heaven, but the shortest way to ride poast to hell: for how can we give our selves to God, when in the heat of lust and fume of Revenge, we sell our hearts to the Devill? But did we ever love God for his Mercy, or feare him for his Iustice, we would then not onely hate these sinnes in our selves, but detest them in others: for these are crying and capitall offences, seene in heaven, and by the Sword of his Magistrates brought forth and punished here on earth. A lamentable and mournefull example whereof, I here produce to your view, but not to your imitation: may wee all read it to the re­formation of our lives, to the comfort of our soules, and to the eternall glory of the most Sacred and Individuall Trinity.

IN Valentia (an ancient and famous City of Spaine) there dwelt one Don Pedro de Alsemero, a Noble young Cavallier, whose father (Don Ivan Alsemero) being slaine by the Hollanders in the Sea fight at Gibralter, hee resolved to addict himselfe to Na­vall [Page 46] and sea actions, thereby to make himselfe capeable to revenge his fathers death: a brave resolution, worthy the affection of a sonne, and the Generosity of a Gen­tleman!

To which end hee makes two voyages to the West-Indies, from whence he re­turnes flourishing and rich, which so spread the sayles of his Ambition, and hoysted his fame from top to top gallant, that his courage growing with his yeares, he thought no attempt dangerous enough, if honourable, nor no honour enough glorious, except atchieved and purchased by danger. In the actions of Alarache and Mamora, he shew­ed many noble proofes and testimonies of his valour and prowesse, the which he con­firmed and made good by the receit of eleven severall wounds, which as markes and Trophees of Honour made him famous in Castile. Boyling thus in the heate of his youthfull bloud, and contemplating often on the death of his father, he resolves to goe to Validolyd, and to imply some Grando either to the King or to the Duke of Ler­ma, his great favorite, to procure him a Captaines place, and a company under the Arch-Duke Albertus, who at that time made bloudy warres against the Netherlanders, thereby to draw them to obedience: But as hee beganne this sute, a generall truce of both sides laid aside Armes, which (by the mediation of England and France) was shortly followed by a peace, as a Mother by the daughter: Which was concluded at the Hage by his Excellency of Nassaw and Marquis Spinola, being chiefe Commissioners of either party. Alsemero seeing his hopes frustrated, that the keyes of peace had now shut up the Temple of Warre, and that Muskets, Pikes, and corslets, that were wont to grace the fields, where now rusting by the walls, he is irresolute what course to take, resembling those fishes who delight to live in cataracts and troubled waters, but die in those that are still and quiet: For hee spurnes at the pleasures of the Court, and refuseth to haunt and frequent the companies of Ladies: And so not affecting, but rather disdaining the pompe, bravery and vanity of Courtiers, hee withdrawes himselfe from Validolyd to Valentia, with a noble and generous intent to seeke warres abroad, sith hee could find none at home, where being arived, although hee were often invited into the companies of the most noble and honorable Ladies both of the City and Country: Yet his thoughts ranne still on the warres, in which Heroike and illustrious profession, he conceived his chiefest delight and felicity: and so taking order for his lands and affaires, he resolves to see Malta that inexpugnable Rampier of Mars, the glory of Christendome, and the terrour of Turky, to see if hee could gaine any place of command and honour either in that Iland, or in their Gallies; or if not, he would from thence into Transilvania, Hungary, and Germany, to inrich his judge­ment and experience, by remarking the strength of their Castles and Cities, their or­ders and discipline in warre, the Potency of their Princes, the nature of their Lawes and customes, and all other matters worthy the observation both of a Travellour and a Souldier: and so building many castles in the ayre, he comes to Alicant, hoping to find passage there for Naples, and from thence to ship himselfe upon the Neapolitan Gallies for Malta.

There is nothing so vaine as our thoughts, nor so uncertaine as our hopes: for commonly they deceive us, or rather wee our selves in relying on them, not that God is any way unjust: (for to thinke so, were impiety) but that our hopes take false ob­jects, and have no true foundation, and to imagine the contrary, were folly: the which Alsemero finds true: for here the winde doth oppose him, his thoughts fight and vanquish themselves, yea the providence of God doth crosse him in his intended purposes, and gives way to that hee least intendeth.

For comming one morning to our Ladies Church at Masse, and being on his knees in his devotion, he espies a young Gentlewoman likewise on hers next to him who [Page 47] being young, tender and faire, hee thorow her thinne vaile discovered all the perfecti­ons of a delicate and sweet beauty, shee espies him feasting on the dainties of her pure and fresh cheekes; and tilting with the invisible lances of his eyes, to hers, he is in­stantly ravished and vanquished with the pleasing object of this Angelicall counte­nance, and now hee can no more resist either the power or passion of love.

This Gentlewoman (whose name as yet wee know not) is young and faire, and cannot refraine from blushing, and admiring to see him admire and blush at her. Alsemero dies in conceit with impatiency, that hee cannot enjoy the happinesse and meanes to speake with her, but hee sees it in vaine to attempt it, because shee is ingaged in the company of many Ladies, and hee of many Cavaliers: But Masse being ended, hee enquires of a good fellow Priest, who walked by, what shee was and whether she frequented that Church, and at what houre. The Priest informes him, that shee is Don Diego de Vermandero's daughter: hee beeing Captaine of the Castle of that Citie, that her name was Dona Beatrice-Ioana, and that shee is every morning in that Church and Place, and neere about the same houre.

Alsemero hath the sweetnesse of her beauty so deepely ingraven in his thoughts, and imprinted in his heart, that hee vowes Beatrice-Ioana is his Mistresse, and hee her servant: yea, here his warlike resolutions have end, and strike sayle. And now hee leaves Bellona to adore Venus, and forsakes Mars, to follow Cupid: yea, so fervent is his flame, and so violent is his passion, as hee can neither give nor take truce of his thoughts, till hee bee againe made happy with her sight, and blessed with her presence.

The next morne (as Lovers love not much rest) Alsemero is stirring very timely, and hoping to find his Mistresse: no other Church will please him but our Ladies, nor place, but where hee first and last saw her: but shee is more zealous then himselfe; For shee is first in the Church, and on her knees to her devotion, whom Alsemero gladly espying, hee kneeles next to her: and having hardly the patience to let passe one poore quarter of an houre (hee resolving as yet to conceale his name) like a fond Lover, whose greatest glory is in complements and Courting his Mistresse, hee boards her thus:

Faire Lady, it seemes, that these two mornings my devotions have beene more powerfull and acceptable then heeretofore; sith I have had the felicitie to bee placed next so faire and so sweet a Nymph as your selfe, whose excellent beauty hath so sodainely captivated mine eyes, and so secretly ravished my heart, that hee which heretofore rejected, cannot now resist the power of love; and therefore having en­ded my devotion I beseech you excuse mee, if I begin to pray you to take pittie of mee: sith my flame is so fervent, and my affection is so passionate, as either I must live yours, or not dye mine owne.

Beatrice-Ioana could not refraine from blushing under her vaile, to see an unknowne Cavalier board her in these tearmes in the Church: and as shee gave attentive eare to his speech, so shee could not for a while refraine from glancing her eye upon the sprucenesse of his person, and the sumptuousnesse of his apparell: but at last, accusing her owne silence, because shee would give him no cause to condemne it, shee with a modest grace, and a gracefull modesty, returnes him this answer:

Sir, as your devotions can neither bee pleasing to God, nor profitable to your soule, if in this place you account it a felicity to enjoy the sight of so meane a Gentlewo­man as my selfe, so I cannot repute it to affection but flattery, that this poore beauty of mine (which you unjustly paint forth in rich prayses) should have power either to captivate the eyes, or which is more, to ravish the heart of so noble a Cavalier as your selfe. Such victories are reserved for those Ladies, who are as much your equall, as I [Page 48] your inferiour: and therefore directing your zeale to them, if they find your affe­ction such as you professe to mee, no doubt but regarding your many vertues and me­rits, they will in honour grant you that favour which I in modesty am constrained to deny you.

Alsemero (though a novice in the art of Love) was not so ignorant and cowardly to bee put off with her first repulse and refusall, but rather seeing that the perfections of her minde corresponded with those of her beauty, hee resolves now to make triall of his wit and tongue, as heretofore hee had done of his courage and sword: and so joynes with her thus:

It is a pretty Ambition in you, sweet Lady, to disparage your beauty, that thereby it may seeme the fairer; as the Sunne, who appeares brighter by reason of the nights obscurity: and all things are best, and more perfectly discerned by their contraries: but I cannot commend, and therefore not excuse your policy, or rather your disrespect, to slight and poast me over from your selfe, whom I love, to those Ladies I neither know nor desire, which in effect is to give mee a cloud for Iuno. No, no, it is onely to you and to no other that I present and dedicate my service: and therefore it will be an in­gratitude as unworthy my receiving, as your giving, that I should be the object of your discourtesie: sith you are that of my affection.

To these speeches of Alsemero, Beatrice▪ Ioana returnes this reply:

It is not for poore Gentlewomen of my ranke and complexion, either to bee am­bitious, or politike, except it bee to keepe themselves from the snares of such Cavi­liers as your selfe, who (for the most part) under colour of affection, ayme to erect the trophees of your desires upon the tombs of our dishonours: onely I so much hate ingratitude, as you being to mee a stranger, charity and common courtesie commands me to thanke you for the proffer of your service: the which I can no other way either deserve or requite, except in my devotions and prayers to God, for your glory and prosperity on earth.

As shee had ended this her speech, the Priest ends his Masse; when Alsemero ari­sing, advanced to lift her up from kneeling, and so with his hat in his hand, (sequestring her from the crowd of people, who now began to depart the Church) he speaks to her to this effect:

Faire Ladie, as I know you to bee the Ladie Beatrice-Ioana, daughter to the noble Knight Don Diego de Vermanderos, Captaine of the Castle of this Citie: so I being a stranger to you, I admire that you offer so voluntary an injurie to your judgement and my intents, as to pervert my affection and speeches to a contrary sense: but my inno­cencie hath this consolation, that my heart is pledge for my tongue, and my deeds shall make my wordes reall. In the meane time, sith you will give mee no place in your heart, I beseech you lend me one in your Coach, and be at least so courteous, as to ho­nour me, in accepting my company to conduct you home to your fathers Castle.

Beatrice-Ioana, calling to minde the freenesse of her speeches, and the sharpnesse of his answer, not blushing for joy, but now looking pale for sorrow, repents her selfe of her errour, the which shee salves up the best she could in this Reply:

Noble Sir, when I am acquainted as well with your heart as with your speeches, I shall then not onely repent, but recant mine errour, in judging your selfe by others; in the meane time, if I haue any way wronged your merits and vertues, to give you some part of satisfaction, if you please to grace mee with your company to the Castle, (al­though it be not the custome of Alicant) I doe most kindly and thankfully accept ther­of: when Alsemero giving her many thankes, and kissing his hand, hee takes her by the arme, and so conducts her from the Church to her Coach.

It is both a griefe and a scandall to any true Christians heart, that the Church or­ordained [Page 49] for thankes giving and prayer unto God, should bee made a Stewes, or at least, a place for men to meet and court Ladies: but in all parts of the Christian world, where the Romane religion reigneth, this sinfull custome is frequently practised, especially in Italy and Spaine, where, for the most part, men love their Curtizans bet­ter then their God: and it were a happinesse for France, if her popish Churches were freed of thisabomination, and her people of this impiety. But againe to our History.

Wee will purposely omit the conference which Alsemero and Beatrice-Ioana had in the Coach, and allow them by this time arrived to the Castle: where first her selfe, then the Captaine her father, thanke him for his honour and courtesie: in requi­tall whereof, hee shewed him the rarities and strength of his Castle, and after some speeches and complements betweene them, hee was so happy as to kisse Beatrice-Ioana, but had not the felicity to entertaine her: and so he departs, his Lackey attending him with his Gennet to the counter-scarfe. So home hee rides to his lodging, where, whiles the winde holds contrary, wee will a little leave him to his thoughts, and they to resolve in what sort hee might contrive his sute for the obtayning of his new and faire Mistresse Beatrice Ioana, and likewise her selfe, to muse upon the speeches and extraordinarie courtesie, which this unknowne Cavallier afforded her, and begin to speake of Don Alonso P [...]racquo, a rich Cavallier of the Citie, who unknowne to Alseme­ro, was his rivall and competitor, in likewise seeking and courting Boatrice-Ioana for his Mistresse and wife.

This Piracquo being rich both in lands and money, and descended of one of the chiefest and noblest Families of Alicant, by Profession a Courtier, and indeed (to give him his due) a Cavallier indued with many brave qualities and perfections, was so highly beloved, respected and esteemed in that Citie, as the very fayrest and noblest young Ladies were, with much respect and affection, proffered him in marriage by their parents: but there was none either so precious or pleasing to his eye, as was our Beatrice Ioana, whom hee observed for beauty to excell others, and for Majestie and grace to surpasse her selfe, and indeed hee could not refraine from loving her, nor bee perswaded or drawne to affect any other: so as hee setled his resolution either to have her to his wife, or not to bee the husband of any. Yea, hee is so earnest in his sute, as scarce any one day passeth, but hee is at the Castle.

Vermandero thinkes himselfe much honoured of him, in seeking his daughter, yea, hee receives him lovingly, and entertaines him courteously; as knowing it greatly for her preferment, and advancement: and so gives Piracquo many testimonies of his favour, and many hopes that hee shall prevaile and obtaine his Mistresse. But Bea­trice-Ioana stands not so affected to him, rather shee receives him coldly; and when hee begins his sute to her, shee turnes the deafe eare, and never answereth him, but in generall tearmes: onely not peremptorily to disobey her parents, shee seemes to bee pleased with his company, and yet secretly in her heart wisheth him farther from her.

But Piracquo flattering himselfe in his hope, and as much doating on Beatrice-Ioana's beauty, as hee relyes on her fathers constant affection to him, hee is so farre from gi­ving over his sute to her, as hee continueth it with more earnestnesse and importunity, and vowes that hee will forsake his life ere his Mistresse: but sometimes wee speake true, when wee thinke wee jest: yet hee findes her one and the same: for although shee were not yet acquainted with Alsemero, yet shee made it the thirteenth Article of her Creed, that the supreame power had ordained her another husband, and not Pirac­quo: yea, at that very instant the remembrance of Alsemero quite defaced that of Pi­racquo, so that shee wholly refus'd her heart to the last, of purpose to reserve and give it to the first: as the sequell will shew.

[Page 50] Now by this time Vermandero had notice, and was secretly informed of Alsemero's affection to his daughter, and withall, that shee liked him farre better then Piracquo: which newes was indeed very distastefull and displeasing to him, because hee perfect­ly knew that Piracquo's meanes farre exceed that of Alsemero. Whereupon consider­ing that hee had given his consent, and in a manner ingaged his promise to Piracquo: hee, to prevent the hopes, and to frustrate the attempts of Alsemero, leaves his Castle to the command of Don Hugo de Valmarino his son, and taking his daughter Beatrice-Ioana with him, hee in his Coach very sodainely and secretly goes to Briamata: a faire house of his, tenne leagues from Alicant: where hee meanes to sojourne, untill hee had concluded and solemnized the match betwixt them: But hee shall never bee so happy, as to see it effected.

At the newes of Beatrice-Ioana's departure, Alsemero is extreamely perplexed and sorrowfull, knowing not whether it proceed from her selfe, her father, or both; yea, this his griefe is augmented, when hee thinkes on the suddennesse thereof, which hee feares may bee performed for his respect and consideration: the small acquaintance and familiari y hee hath had with her, makes that hee cannot condemne her of un­kindnesse: yet sith hee was not thought worthy to have notice of her departure, hee againe hath no reason to hope, much lesse to assure himselfe of her affection towards him: hee knowes not how to resolve these doubts, nor what to thinke or doe in a matter of this nature and importance: for thus hee reasoneth with himselfe; if hee ride to Briamata, he may perchance offend the father; if he stay at Alicant, displease the daughter: and although he be rather willing to run the hazzard of his envy, then of her affection, yet hee holds it safer to bee authorised by her pleasure, and to steere his course by the compasse of her commands: Hee therefore bethinkes himselfe of a meanes to avoyd these extreames, and so findes out a Channell to passe free betwixt that Sylla and this Carybdis; which is, to visit her by letters: hee sees more reason to embrace, then to reject this invention, and so providing himselfe of a confident mes­senger, his heart commands his pen to signifie her these few lines:

I know not whether it more grieved Beatrice-Ioana to leave Alicant, without taking her leave of Alsemero, then shee doth now rejoyce to receive this his Letter: for as that plunged her thoughts in the hell of discontent, so this raiseth them to the hea­ven of joy: and as then shee had cause to doubt of his affection, so now she hath not [Page 51] not onely reason to flatter, but to assure her selfe thereof: and therefore, though shee will not seeme at first to grant him his desire, yet shee is resolved to returne him an answere, that may give as well life to his hopes, as praise to her modestie. Her Letter is thus:

This Letter of Beatrice Ioana, gives Alsemero much dispaire, and little hope: yet though hee have reason to condemne her unkindnesse, hee cannot but approve her modestie and discretion, which doth as much comfort as that afflict him: so his thoughts are irresolute, and withall so variable, as hee knowes not whether hee should advance his hand, or withdraw his penne againe, to write to his Mistresse. But at last, knowing that the excellencie of her Beautie, and the dignitie of her Vertues deserve a second Letter: he hoping it may obtaine and effect that which his first could not, calls for paper, and thereon traceth these few lines:

Beatrice-Ioana seeing Alsemero's constant affection, holds it now rather discretion, then immodestie to accept both his service and selfe, yea, her heart so delights in the greeablenesse of his person, and triumphs in the contemplation of his vertues, that shee either wisheth her selfe in Alicant with him, or hee in Briamata with her: but considering her affection to Alsemero by her Fathers hatred, and her hatred to Pi­racquo, by his affection; shee thinkes it high time to informe Alsemero with what im­patiencie [Page 52] they both indeavour to obtaine her favour and consent, hoping that his discretion will interpose and finde meanes to stop the progresse of these their im­portunities, and to withdraw her fathers inclination from Piracquo, to bestow it on himselfe: but all this while she thinkes her silence is an injury to Alsemero, and there­fore no longer to bee uncourteous to him, who is so kinde to her, shee very secretly conveyes him this Letter:

It is for no others but for Lovers to judge how welcome this Letter was to Alse­mero, who a thousand times kissed it, and as often blest the hand that wrote it: he had, as wee have formerly understood, beene twice in the Indies; but now, in his conceipt, hee hath found a farre richer treasure in Spaine, I meane his Beatrice-Ioana, whom hee esteemes the joy of his life, and the life of his joy: but she will not prove so. He is so inamoured of her beauty, and so desirous to have the felicity of her presence, as the Winde comming good, the Ship sets sayle for Malta, and hee (to give a colour for his stay) feignes himselfe sicke, fetcheth backe his Trunkes, and remaineth in Ali­cant: and so burning with desire to see his sweetly deare and dearely sweet Mistresse, he dispatched away his confident Messenger to Briamata in the morning, to advertise her that hee will not faile to be with her that night at eleven of the clocke.

Beatrice Ioana is ravished with the joy of this newes, and so provides for his com­ming. Alsemero takes the benefit of the night, and she gives him the advantage of a Posterne doore, which answers to a Garden, where Diaphanta her Wayting­gentlewoman attends his arrivall. He comes: shee conducts him secretly thorow a private Gallery into Beatrice-Ioana's Chamber; where (richly apparelled) shee very courteously and respectfully receives him. At the beginning of their meeting they want no kisses; which they second with complements, and many loving conferences, wherein she relates him Piracquo's importunate sute to her, and her fathers earnestnesse, yea, in a manner, his constraint, to see the Match concluded betwixt them; hee be­ing for that purpose there, in her fathers house: Againe, after she hath alleadged and showne him the intirenesse of her affection to himselfe, with whom she is resolved to live and dye, shee lets fall some darke and ambiguous speeches, tending to this effect, that before Piracquo be in another world, there is no hope for Alsemero to injoy her for his wife in this. Lo here the first plot and designe of a lamentable and execrable mur­ther: which we shall shortly see acted and committed.

There needes but halfe a word to a sharpe and quicke understanding. Alsemero knowes it is the violence of her affection to him, that leades her to this disrespect and hatred to Piracquo, and because her content is his, yea, rather it is for his sake, [Page 53] that shee will forsake Piracquo, to live and die with him; Passion and affection blin­ding his judgement, and beautie triumphing and giving a law to his Conscience: hee freely proffereth himselfe to his Mistris, vowing, that hee will shortly send him a Challenge, and fight with him; yea, had hee a thousand lives, as hee hath but one, hee is ready, if shee please, to expose and sacrifice them all at her command and service. Beatrice-Ioana thankes him kindly for his affection and zeale, the which shee saith shee holds redoubled by the freenesse of his proffer: but being loath that hee should ha­zard his owne life, in seeking that of another, shee conjures him by all the love hee beares her, neither directly nor indirectly to intermeddle with Piracquo: but that he repose and build upon her affection and constancie: not doubting, but shee will so prevaile with her father, that hee shall shortly change his opinion, and no more perswade her to affect Piracquo, whom shee resolutely affirmes, neither life nor death shall enforce her to marry. And to conclude, although shee affirme, his pre­sence is dearer to her then her life; yet the better and sooner to compasse their desires, shee prayes him to leave Alicant, and for a while to returne to Valentia, not doubting but time may worke that, which perchance haste, or importunitie may never. Thus passing over their kisses, and the rest of their amorous conference, hee assured of her love, and shee of his affection, hee returnes for Alicant, packes up his baggage, which hee sends before, and within lesse then foure dayes, takes his journey for Valentia: where wee will leave him a while, to relate other acci­dents and occurrences: which (like Rivers into the Ocean) fall within the compasse of this Historie.

This meeting, and part of Alsemero's and Beatrice-Ioana's conference at her fathers house of Briamata, was not so secretly carried and concealed, but some curious or treacherous person neere him, or her, over-heare and reveale it: which makes her father Vermandero fume and bite the lip; but hee conceales it from Piracquo: and they still continue their intelligence and familiaritie: Vermandero telling him plaine­ly, that a little more time shall worke and finish his desire; and that sith his re­quest cannot prevaile with his daughter, his commands shall. But hee shall misse of his ayme.

There is not so great distance from Briamata to Alicant, but some of the noblest of the citie are advertised thereof: and one among the rest, in great zeale and affection to Piracquo, secretly acquaints Don Thomaso Piracquo his younger brother therewith, being then in the citie of Alicant: who hearing of this newes, whereof he imagined his bro­ther was ignorant, loath that he should any longer persever in his present errour, and to prevent his future disgrace, he like a faithfull and honest brother, takes occasion from Alicant to write him this ensuing letter to Briamata:

Piracquo, notwithstanding this his Brothers Letter of counsell and advice, is so farre from retyring in his sute, as hee rather advanceth with more violence and zeale: and as many mens judgements are dazled and obscured a little before their danger and misfortune, when indeed they have most need to have them sound and cleare: so hee is not capable to bee disswaded from re-searching his Mistresse, but rather re­sembleth those Saylors, who are resolute to endure a storme, in hope of faire weather: but he had found more security and lesse danger, if he had imbraced and followed the counsell that his brother gave him. For Beatrice-Ioana seeing she could not obtaine her desire in marying Alsemero, e're Piracquo were removed, doth now confirme that which formerly shee had resolved on, to make him away, in what manner, or at what rate so­ever. And now, after shee had ruminated, and runne over many bloodie designes: the devill, who never flies from those that follow him, proffers her an invention as exe­crable as damnable. There is a gallant young Gentleman, of the Garison of the Ca­stle, who followes her father, that to her knowledge doth deeply honour, and dearely affect her: yea, shee knowes, that at her request he will not sticke to murther Piracquo: his name is Signiour Antonio de Flores: shee is resolute in her rage, and approves him to be a fit instrument to execute her will.

Now, as soone as Vermandero understands of Alsemero's departure to Valentia, hee with his daughter and Piracquo returnes from Briamata to Alicant: where, within three dayes of their arrivall, Beatrice-Ioana, boyling still in her revenge to Piracquo, which neither the ayre of the Countrey nor Citie could quench or wipe off, shee sends for de Flores, and with many flattering smiles, and sugred speeches, acquaints him with her purpose and desire, making him many promises of kindnesse and courtesies, if he will performe it.

De Flores having a long time loved Beatrice-Ioaua, is exceeding glad of this newes, yea, feeding his hopes with the ayre of her promises, he is so caught and intangled in the snares of her beautie, that hee freely promiseth to dispatch Piracquo; and so they first consult, and then agree upon the manner how, which forth-with wee shall see per­formed: to which end, de Flores insinuates himselfe fairely into Piracquo's company and familiaritie as hee comes to the castle; where watching his hellish opportunitie, he one day hearing Piracquo commend the thicknesse and strength of the Walles, told him that the strength of that Castle consisted not in the Walles, but in the Casemates that were stored with good Ordnance to scoure the ditches. Piracquo very courteously prayes de Flores to be a meanes that he may goe downe and see the Casemates. De Flores like a bloudy Faukner, seeing Piracquo already come to his lure, tells him it is now din­ner time, and the bell upon ringing: but if he please, hee himselfe will after dinner ac­company him, and shew him all the strength and rarities of the Castle. Hee thankes de Flores for this courtesie, and accepts heereof, with promise to goe. So hee hies in to dinner, and de Flores pretending some businesse, walkes in the Court.

Whiles Piracquo is at dinner with Vermandero, de Flores is providing him of a bloo­dy banquet in the East Casmate, where, of purpose hee goes, and hides a naked sword and ponyard behinde the doore. Now dinner being ended, Piracquo finds out de Flores, and summons him of his promise: who tells him he is ready to wayt on him: so away they goe from the Walles to the Ravellins, Sconces and Bulwarkes, and [Page 55] from thence by a Posterne to the Ditches: and so in againe to the Casemates, where­of they have already viewed three, and are now going to the last, which is the Thea­ter, whereon wee shall presently see acted a mournefull and bloudy Tragedy. At the descent hereof De Flores puts off his Rapier, and leaves it behinde him, treacherously informing Piracquo thar the descent is narrow and craggy. See here the policie and villany of this devillish and treacherous miscreant.

Piracquo, not doubting nor dreaming of any treason, followes his example, and so casts off his Rapier: De Flores leades the way, and hee followes him; but, alas poore Gentleman, hee shall never returne with his life: they enter the Vault of the Casemate; De Flores opens the doore, and throwes it backe, thereby to hide his sword and Poniard. Hee stoopes and lookes thorow a Port-hole, and tells him, that that Peece doth thorowly scowre the Ditch. Piracquo stoopes likewise downe to view it, when (O griefe to thinke thereon!) De Flores steps for his Weapons, and with his Poniard stabs him thorow the backe, and swiftly redoubling blow upon blow, kills him dead at his feete, and without going farther, buries him there, right under the ru­ines of an old wall, whereof that Casemate was built. Loe here the first part of this mournefull and bloudy Tragedie.

De Flores (like a gracelesse villaine) having dispatched this sorrowfull businesse, speedily acquaints Beatrice-Ioana herewith, who (miserable wretch) doth hereat in­finitely rejoyce, and thankes him with many kisses; and the better to conceale this their vild and bloudy Murther, as also to cast a mist before peoples conceits and judge­ments, she bids him, by some secret meanes, to cause reports to be spread: first, that Piracquo was seene gone foorth the Castle gate; then, that in the City he was seene take boate, and went (as it was thought) to take the ayre of the sea. But this wit of theirs shall prove folly: for though men as yet see not this Murther, yet God in his due time will both detect and punish it.

By this time Piracquo is found wanting, both in the City and Castle; so these afore­said reports runne for currant, all tongues prattle hereof; Vermandero knowes not what to say, nor Piracquo's brother and friends what to doe herein: they every houre and minute expect newes of him, but their hopes bring them no comfort; and a­mongst the rest, our devillish Beatrice-Ioana seemes exceedingly to grieve and mourne hereat. Don Thomaso Piracquo with the rest of his friends, search every corner of the City, and send scouts, both by land and sea, to have newes of him. Vermandero the Captaine of the Castle doth the like, and vowes, that next his owne sonne, he loved Piracquo before any man of the world: yea, not onely his friends, but generally all those who knew him, exceedingly weepe and bewaile the absence and losse of this Ca­valier: for they thinke sure he is drowned in the sea.

Now in the middest of this sorrow, and of these teares, Beatrice-Ioana doth se­cretly advertise her Lover Alsemero hereof, but in such palliating tearmes, that there­by she may delude and carry away his judgement from imagining that shee had the least shaddow or finger herein: and withall prayes him to make no longer stay in Va­lentia, but to come away to her to Alicant. Alsemero wonders at this newes, and to please his faire Mistresse, believes part thereof, but will never believe all; but hee is so inflamed with her beauty, as her remembrance wipes away that of Piracquo; when letting passe a little time, hee makes his preparations for Alicant: but first hee sends the chiefest of his parents to Vermandero, to demand his daughter Beatrice-Ioana in marriage for him, and then comes himselfe in person, and in discreete and ho­nourable manner courts her Parents privately, and makes shew to seeke her pub­likely.

In fine, after many conferences, meetings, and complements, as Alsemero hath [Page 56] heretofore wonne the affection of Beatrice-Ioana, so now at last hee obtaines likewise the favour and consent of Vermandero her father. And here our two Lovers, to their exceeding great content, and infinite joy, are united, and by the bond of marriage, of two persons made one, their Nuptialls being solemnized in the Castle of Alicant with much Pompe, State, and Bravery.

Having heretofore heard the conference that past betwixt Alsemero and Beatrice-Ioana in the Church; having likewise seene the amorous Letters that past betwixt them, from Alicant to Briamata, and from Briamata to Alicant; and now considering the pompe and glory of their Nuptialls, who would imagine that any averse accident could alter the sweetnesse and tranquillity of their affections, or that the Sunne-shine of their joyes should so soone be eclipsed, and overtaken with a storme? But God is as just as secret in his decrees.

For this marryed couple had scarce lived three moneths in the pleasures of Wed­locke (which if vertuously observed is the sweetest earthly joy) but Alsemero, like a fond husband, becomes jealous of his wife; so as hee curbes and restraines her of her liberty, and would hardly permit her to conferre or converse with, yea, farre lesse, to see any man: but this is not the way to teach a woman chastity: for if faire words, good example, and sweete admonitions cannot prevaile, threatnings and im­prisoning in a Chamber will never; yea, the experience thereof is daily seene, both in England, France, and Germany, where generally the Women use (but not abuse) their liberty and freedome, granted them by their husbands, with much civility, af­fection, and respect.

Beatrice-Ioana bites the lip at this her husbands discourtesy: shee vowes she is as much deceived in his love, as hee in his jealousie, and that shee is as unworthy of his suspicion, as hee of her affection; hee watcheth her every where, and sets Spyes over her in every corner: yea, his jealousy is become so violent, as hee deemes her unchast with many, yet knowes not with whom: but this tree of Iealousie never brings forth good fruite. Shee complaines hereof to her father, and prayes him to be a meanes to appease and calme this tempest, which threatens the Ship-wracke, not onely of her content, but (it may be) of her life. Vermandero beares himselfe dis­creetly herein; but he may as soone place another Sunne in the Firmament, as roote out this fearefull frenzie out of Alsemero's head: for this his paternall admonition is so farre from drawing him to hearken to reason, as it produceth contrary effects; for now Alsemero, to prevent his shame, and secure his feare, suddenly provides a Coach, and so carries home his wife from Alicant to Valentia. This sudden depar­ture grieves Vermandero, and galles Beatrice-Ioana to the heart, who now lookes no longer on her husband with affection, but with disdaine and envie. Many dayes are not past, but her father resolves to send to Valentia, to know how matters stand betwixt his daughter and her husband: hee makes choyce of De Flores to ride thither, and sends Letters to them both.

De Flores is extreamely joyfull of this occasion, to see his old Mistresse Beatrice-Ioana, whom hee loves dearer then his life: hee comes to Valentia, and finding Alse­mero abroad, and she at home, delivers her her fathers Letter, and salutes and kisseth her, with many amorous imbracings and dalliances (which modesty holds unwor­thy of relation) she acquaints him with her husbands ingratitude; he rather rejoy­ces then grieves hereat, and now revives his old sute, and redoubleth his new kisses: shee considering what hee hath done for her service, and joyning therewith her hus­bands jealousie, not onely ingageth herselfe to him for the time present, but for the future, and bids him visite her often. But they both shall pay deare for this familia­rity and pleasure.

[Page 57] Alsemero comes home, receives his fathers Letter, sets a pleasing face on his dis­contented heart, and bids him welcome: And so the next day writes backe to his fa­ther Vermandero, and dispatcheth De Flores; who for that time takes his leave of them both, and returnes for Alicant.

He is no sooner departed, but Alsemero is by one of his Spies, a Wayting gentle­woman of his Wifes, whom hee had corrupted with money, advertised that there past many amorous kisses, and dalliances betweene her Mistresse and De Flores: yea, she reveales all that ever shee saw or heard: for shee past not to bee false to her Lady, so she were true to her Lord and Master. And indeede this Wayting-gentlewoman was that Diaphanta, of whom wee have formerly made mention, for conducting of Alsemero to her Ladies chamber at Briamata. Alsemero is all fire at this newes, he con­sults not with judgement, but with passion; and so rather like a devill then a man, flies to his Wife's chamber, wherein furiously rushing, hee with his sword drawne in his hand, to her great terrour and amazement, delivers her these words.

Minion (quoth hee) upon thy life tell me what familiarity there hath now past be­twixt De Flores and thy selfe: whereat shee, fetching many sighes, and shedding many teares, answers him, that by her part of heaven, her thoughts, speeches, and actions have no way exceeded the bounds of honour and chastity towards him; and that De Flores never attempted any courtesy, but such as a brother may shew to his owne naturall sister. Then, quoth hee, whence proceedes this your familiarity? Whereat she growes pale, and withall silent. Which her husband espying, Dispatch, quoth hee, and tell me the truth, or else this sword of mine shall instantly finde a pas­sage to thy heart. When loe, the providence of God so ordayned it, that shee is re­duced to this exigent and extreamity, as shee must be a witnesse against her selfe, and in seeking to conceale her whoredome, must discover her Murther; the which she doth in these words:

Know Alsemero, that sith thou wilt inforce mee to shew thee the true cause of my chast familiarity with De Flores, that I am much bound to him, and thy selfe more: for he it was, that at my request, dispatched Piracquo, without the which (as thou well knowest) I could never have enjoyed thee for my husband, nor thou me for thy wife: And so she reveales him the whole circumstance of that cruell Murther, as wee have formerly understood; the which she conjures and prayes him to conceale, sith no lesse then De Flores and her owne life depended thereon, and that shee will dye a thousand deaths, before consent to defile his bed, or to violate her oath and promise given him in marriage.

Alsemero both wondering and grieving at this lamentable newes, sayes little, but thinkes the more; and although hee had reason and apparance to believe, that shee who commits Murther, will not sticke to commit Adultery, yet upon his Wife's so­lemne oathes and protestations, hee forgets what is past; onely hee strictly chargeth her, no more to see, or admit De Flores into her company; or if the contrary, hee vowes hee will so sharpely bee revenged of her, as hee will make her an example to all posterity.

But Beatrice-Ioana, notwithstanding her husbands speeches, continueth her intel­ligence with De Flores; yea, her husband no sooner rides abroad, but he is at Valen­tia with her; and they are become so impudent, as what they did before secretly, they now in a manner doe publikely, or at least, with Chamber-doores open. Dia­phanta knowing this to be a great scandall, as well to her Masters honour, as house, a­gaine informes him thereof; who vowes to take a most sharpe revenge of this their infamy and indignity, as indeed he doth: for hee bethinkes himselfe (thereby to ef­fect it) of an invention, as worthy of his jealousie, as of their first crime of Murther, [Page 58] and of their second of Adultery: hee injoyneth Diaphanta to lay wayt for the ve­ry houre that De Flores arrives from Alicant to Valentia, which shee doth; when in­stantly pretending to his Wife a journey in the Country, hee very secretly and si­lently having his Rapier and Ponyard, and a case of Pistols ready cha [...]ged in his poc­ket (seeming to take Horse) husheth himselfe up privately in his Studie, which was next adjoyning, and within his Bed-chamber.

Beatrice-Ioana, thinking her husband two or three Leagues off, sends away for De Flores, who comes instantly to her: they fall to their kisses and imbracings, shee rejoycing extreamely for his arrivall, and hee for her husband Alsemero's departure: she relates him the cruelty and indignitie her husband hath shewed and offered her, the which De Flores understands with much contempt and choller, as also with ma­ny threats. Alsemero heares all, but doth neither speake, cough, neeze, nor spit. So from words they [...]all to their beasily pleasures, when Alsemero no longer able to containe himselfe, much lesse to be accessary to this his shame, and their villany, throwes off the Doore, and violently rusheth forth; when finding them on his Bed, in the mid­dest of their adultery, he first dischargeth his Pistols on them, and then with his Sword and Ponyard runnes them thorow, and stabs them with so many deepe and wide wounds, that they have not so much power or time to speake a word, but there lye weltring and wallowing in their bloud, whiles their soules flie to another world, to relate what horrible and beastly crimes their bodies have committed in this. Thus by the providence of God, in the second Tragedie of our Historie, wee see our two Murtherers murthered, and Piracquo's innocent bloud revenged in the guiltinesse of theirs.

Alsemero, having finished this bloudie businesse, leaves his Pistols on the Table, as also his Sword and Ponyard all bloudy as they were; and without covering or re­moving the breathlesse bodies of these two wretched miscreants, he shuts his Cham­ber doore, and is so farre from flying for the fact, as hee takes his Coach, and goes directly to the Criminall Iudge himselfe, and reveales what he had done; but con­ceales the Murther of Piracquo. The Iudge is astonished and amazed at the report of this mournefull and pittifull accident: hee takes Alsemero with him, returnes to his house, and findes those two dead bodies fresh smoaking and reeking in their bloud: the newes hereof is spread in all the City. The whole people of Valentia flocke thither to bee eye-witnesses of these two murthered persons; where some behold them with pitie, others with joy, but all with astonishment and admiration, and no lesse doe those of Alicant, where this newes is speedily poasted; but all their griefes are nothing to those of Don Diego de Vermandero's (Beatrice-Ioana's father) who infinitely and extreamely grieves, partly for the death, but specially for the crime of his daughter.

The Iudge presently commits Alsemero prisoner in another of his owne Chambers, and so examining Diaphanta upon her oath, concerning the familiaritie betwixt De Flores and Beatrice-Ioana: shee affirmes constantly, that now and many times before, shee saw them commit adultery: and that shee it was that first advertised Alsemero her Master heereof. Whereupon, after a second examination of Alsemero, they, upon mature deliberation, acquite him of this fact: so hee is freed, and the dead bodies ca­ried away and buried.

But although this earthly Iudge have acquitted Alsemero of this fact, yet the Iudge of Iudges, the great God of Heaven, who seeth not onely our heart, but our thoughts, not onely our actions, but our intents, hath this and something else to lay to his charge: for hee (in his sacred providence, and divine Iustice) doth both remember and observe, first how ready and willing Alsemero was to ingage himselfe to Beatrice-Ioana [Page 59] to kill Piracquo: then, though he consented not to his Murther, yet how he con­cealed it, and brought it not to publike arraignement and punishment, whereby the dead body of Piracquo might receive a more honourable and Christian like Sepulchre: and if these crimes of his be not capable to deserve revenge and chastisement, Loe, hee is entring into a new, wilfull, and premeditated Murther, and doth so dishonou­rably and treacheroubly performe it, as we shall shortly see him lose his life upon an infamous Scaffold, where hee shall finde no heart to pitty him, nor eye to bewaile him.

If we would be so ignorant, wee cannot be so malicious to forget that loving and courteous Letter, which Don Thomaso Piracquo wrote his Brother Alonso Piracquo from Alicant to Briamata, to with-draw himselfe from his suite to Beatrice-Ioana; and although his affection and jealousie to prevent his Brothers disgrace, was then the chiefe occasion of that his Letter, yet sith he was since disastrously and misfortunate­ly bereaved of him, of that deare and sweet Brother of his, whom he ever held and esteemed farre dearer then his life, his thoughts, like so many lines, concurre in this Centre, from whence hee cannot bee otherwise conceited or drawne, but that Be­atrice-Ioana and Absemero had a hand, and were at least accessaries, if not authours of his losse: upon the foundation of which beliefe hee rayseth this resolution, that hee is not worthy to bee a Gentleman, nor of the degree and title of a Brother, if hee crave not satisfaction for that irreparable losse which hee sustayneth in that of his Brother; and the sooner is hee drawne thereunto, because hee believes, that as Al­semero was ordayned of old to chastize Beatrice-Ioana, so hee was by the same Power reserved to bee revenged of Alsemero. Whereupon, although it bee not the custome of Spaine to fight Duels (as desiring rather the death of their enemies then of their friends) he resolves to fight with him; and to that end, understanding Alsemero to be then in Alicant, sends him this Challenge:

Alsemero accepts this Challenge, and promiseth that hee and his Rapier will not faile to meete him; yet as hee one way wondereth at Piracquo's valour and resoluti­on, so another way he considereth the great losse hee hath received in that of his Bro­ther, and the justnesse of his quarrell against him; who although hee were not ac­cessary to his Murther, yet he is, in concealing the cruelty thereof: and indeed this villany makes him lose his accustomed courage, and thinke of a most base cowar­dize, and treacherous stratagem: But this dishonourable resolution and designe of his shall receive an infamous recompence, and a reward and punishment as bitter as just.

[Page 60] They meet at the houre and place appointed: Piracquo is first in the Field, and Al­semero stayes not long after; but hee hath two small Pistols charged in his pockets, which in killing his enemy shall ruine himselfe. They draw, and as they approach, Alsemero throwes away his Rapier, and with his hat in his hand prayes Piracquo to heare him in his just defence, and that hee is ready to joyne with him to revenge his Brothers Murtherers. Piracquo being as courteous as couragious, and as honourable as valiant, likewise throwes away his Rapier, and with his Hat in his hand comes to meet him: but it is a folly to unarme our selves in our enemies presence; for it is better and fit­ter that hee stand to our courtesie, then we to his: when Piracquo fearing nothing lesse then Treason, Als [...]mero drawes out his Pistols, and dischargeth then, the first thorow his head, and the second thorow his brest; of which two wounds he speaking onely thus, O Villaine, O Traytour! falls downe dead at his feet. Loe here the third bloudy part of this History.

It is a lamentable part for any one to commit Murther: but for a Gentleman to destroy another in this base and cruell manner, this exceedes all basenesse and cruelty it selfe: yea, it makes him [...]s u [...]worthy of his honour, as worthy of a Halter.

The newes of this bloudy [...]ct rattles in the streets of Alicant, as Thunder in the Fir­mament: Piracquo's Chi [...]gion being an eye-witnesse hereof reports the death of his Master, and the treachery of Alsemero: all Alicant is amazed hereat, they extoll Thomaso Piracquo's valor, and his singular affection to his dead Brother, and both detest & curse the treachery and mem [...]ry of Alsemero. The criminall Iudges are advertized hereof, who speedily send poast after him: but hee is mounted on a swift Genner, and like Bellerophon on his winged Pegasus doth rather flie then gallop: but his hast is in vaine, for the justice of the Lord wil both stop his Horse, and arrest him. He is not recovered halfe way from Alicant towards Valentia, but his Horse stumbles and breakes his fore­leg, and Alsemero his right arme; hee is amazed, perplexed, and inraged hereat, and knowes not what to doe, or whither to flie for safety: for hee sees no bush nor hedge to hide him, nor lane to save him; and now he repents himselfe of his fact, but it is too late: his Horse fayling him, he trusteth to his legs, and so throwing off his cloake, runnes as speedily as hee may: but the foulenesse of his fact doth still so affright him, and terrifie his conscience, as hee is afrayd of his owne shaddow, lookes still backe, imagining that every stone he sees is a Sergeant come to arrest him; yea, his thoughts, like so many Bloud-hounds, pursue and follow him, swearing exceedingly, partly through his labour, but especially through the affliction and perturbation of his mind; yea, every poynt of a minute hee both expecteth and feares his apprehension.

Neither is his feare or expectation vaine; for loe, hee at last perceives foure come galloping after him as fast as their Horses can drive. So they finding first his poore Horse, and now espying his miserable selfe, hee sees hee is invironed of all sides, and thinkes the earth hath brought forth Cadmean men to apprehend him; yet remembring himselfe a Gentleman, and withall a Souldier, hee resolves rather to sell his life dearely in that place, then to be made a Spectacle upon an infamous Scaffold: but this courage and resolution shall neither prevaile, or rescue him.

Hee to this effect drawes his Rapier, the which the foure Sergeants will him to yield, and render up to the Kings lawes and justice: but hee is resolute to defend him­selfe: They threaten him with their Pistols; but their sight doe as little amaze him, as their report and bullets. So they alight from their Horses, and environ him with their Swords, and having hurt two of them, and performed the part of a desperate Gladiator, the third joyning with him, they breake his Rapier within a foote of the Hilt, whereat hee yields himselfe. Alsemero thus taken, is the same night brought backe to Alicant, in whose Gates and Streets a wonderfull concourse of people [Page 61] assemble to see him passe, who as much pitty his person, as execrate and condemne his fact.

The Senate is assembled, and Alsemero brought to appeare, who considering the hainousnesse of his treacherous and bloudy fact; which the Devill had caused him to commit, hee stayes for no witnesses, but accuseth himselfe of this Murther, the which from point to point hee confesseth; and so they adjudge him to lose his head: but this is too honourable a death for a Gentleman who hath so treacherously and basely dishonoured and blemished his Gentility. As hee is on the Scaffold, pre­paring himselfe to dye, and seeing no farther hope of life, but the image of death be­fore his eyes, knowing it no time now, either to dissemble with God, or to feare the Law, hee, to the amazement of all the world, tells the people, that although he kil­led Don Thomaso Piracquo, yet hee had no hand in the Murther of his brother Don A­lonso, whom (hee sayd) De Flores, at the instigation of his wicked and wretched wife Beatrice-Ioana, had murthered and buryed in the East Casemate of the Castle; and withall affirmed, that if hee were guilty in any thing concerning that Murther, it was onely in concealing it, which hee had done till then, and whereof (hee sayd) he now most heartily repented himselfe, as being unwilling any longer to charge his soule with it, sith hee was ready to leave this world, and to goe to another, and so besought them all to pray unto God to forgive him, whose sacred Majesty, hee confessed, hee had highly and infinitely offended; and wished them all to beware, and flie the temp­tations of the Devill, and to become better Christians by his example.

The Iudges advertised hereof, cause his head to be strucken off for murthering of Don Thomaso Piracquo; and his body to be throwne into the Sea, for concealing that of Don Alonso; which was accordingly executed: and from the place of Execution they immediately goe to the Castle, and so to the East Casemate, where causing the stones to be removed, they find the mournfull murthered body of Don Alonso Piracquo, which they give to his kinsfolkes to receive a more honourable Buriall, according to his ranke and degree: and from thence they returne to the Churches, where the Bodies of De Flores and Beatrice-Ioana were interred (after they were brought backe from Valentia) the which, for their horrible Murther, they at the common place of Execu­tion cause to bee burned, and their ashes to be throwne into the ayre, as unworthy to have any resting place on earth, which they had so cruelly stayned and polluted with innocent bloud.

Loe here the just punishment of God against these devillish and bloudy Mur­therers! at the sight of whose executions, all that infinite number of people that were Spectatours, universally laud and prayse the Majesty of God, for purging the earth of such unnaturall and blou­dy Monsters.

GODS REVENGE AGAINST THE CRYING AND EXE­crable sinne of Murther.
HISTORIE V.

HOw farre are they from having peace with God, and all his creatures, when they lay violent hands on their owne wives: yea, when they murther them in their beds, in stead of reposing their secrets and affections in [...]heir bosomes! These are hellish resolutions, and infer­nall stratagems, that nature neither allowes, nor grace approves. For besides the Vnion betwixt God and his Church, there is none so absolute and perfect on earth, as is that of Man and Wife: for as this world hath made them two persons, so God hath conjoyned and made them one; and therefore what madnesse, nay what cruelty is it to be so cruell to those, who (if not our selves) are at least our second selves? Charity (the daughter of heaven) teacheth us to love all the world, but especi [...]lly those who are our kinsfolkes or friends. Religion (the mother of Charity) steps a degree farther, and injoyneth us to love those who hate us; yea, these likewise are not onely the rules of nature, but the precepts of grace: therefore to kill those who love us, and to dep [...]ive those of life, who (did occasion present) are ready to sacrifice theirs for the preservation of ours, it must needs pro­ceed rather from a monster then a man, or rather from a devill then a monster: but such devills and such monsters are but too rife and common in these our sinfull times. And amongst others, I here produce one for ex [...]mple, who for that cruell and inhu­mane fact of his, by the justice of God, was justly rewarded with a halter. And may all those, who perpetrate the like crime, partitipate of the same, or of a worse pu­nishment.

IN the Parish of Spreare, some fifteene miles distant from the beautifull and noble City of Brescia (in the Territories of the Venetians) there dwelt a poore countrey man, termed Alibius, who could vaunt of no other wealth left him by his deceased parents, but that hee was a man of a comely stature and proportion, and withall, that they were of an honest fame and reputation: so if his vertues had answered theirs, his poverty had never proved so pernicious and fatall an enemy to him, as to ruine [Page 64] his fortunes with his life, and his life with his fortunes: or had the vices of his soule not contaminated or stayned the perfections of his body, my pen had slept in si­lence, and his History layne raked up in the dust of his grave: but sith his actions have exceeded the bounds both of nature and grace, yea, sith hee hath learned of the De­vill to imbath his hands in poyson, and to imbrue them in innocent bloud, I (incou­raged by the connivencie and silence of others) not out of any want of charity to the memory of dead Alibius, but in detestation of his bloudy resolution and actions, and chiefely and especially to the comfort and instruction of the living, who may ab­horre his crime by the sight of his punishment: I have adventured and resolved to give this a place among the rest of my tragicall Histories, that Italie, as well as Brescia, and Spreare (and peradventure the whole Christian world with Italie) may understand thereof.

This Alibius, as soone as he had attained the age of five and twenty yeares, mar­ryed an honest Mayden, termed Merilla, being a Farmers daughter of the same Parish of Spreare, with whom he had but small meanes, and shee (to speake truth) but little wit, and lesse beauty; yet she was neither so poore, but that she deserved a good hus­band, nor so hard favoured, but shee might content an honest one. And indeede, had Alibius his care and industry answered Merilla's providence and frugality, or his lustfull eye not strayed either beyond his vow given her in marriage, or her indifferent beauty, this Match might have proved as fortunate, as it hath since succeeded misera­ble and ruinous.

For Alibius, whose thoughts flew a pitch above his birth, ranke, and meanes, had not lived many yeares in wedlocke, till his prodigality and vanity had wasted and dissipated the greatest part of that small estate hee had; so as necessity looking now on him, because formerly he disdayned to looke on it, knowing better how to play, then worke, or rather not how to worke, but play; and seeing that his present meanes could not maintayne him, nor his future hopes promise it, he as a true truant, and a perfect prodigall, disdayning to want when hee hath it, and when he hath it not, sets up this lewd and unthrifty resolution with himselfe, to set all at sixe and seven. But this prodigall humour of his doth as much grieve his Wife, as delight him: for now shee sees that her spinning at home could neither serve nor satisfie his expen­ces abroad, and that all her care and labour was by farre too little to maintayne his vanity; which shee (poore good woman) perceiving, yea, more then so, con­trary to her hopes, now feeling, shee with faire wordes, and secret and sweete perswasions endeavoureth to reclaime him from it; but this course of hers workes a contrary effect: for if before hee played the prodigall in her absence, now hee playes the Tyrant in her presence: for hee not onely rejoyceth, and stops his eares against her counsell, but rates and reviles her with vilde and contemptuous spee­ches, such as indeed are infinitely unfit either for a husband to give, or a wife ro re­ceive. And this, as I have beene informed, was the first distast betwixt Alibius and Merilla.

But wee need not goe farre for a Second: There is no pestilent Infection, nor infe­ctious Pestilence to that of haunting and frequenting bad company; for it is a rocke, wherein many have suffered Shipwracke; it is a Fountaine that sends foorth many poysoned streames to those that tast or drinke thereof; yea, it is a Tree, whose fruit is by so much the more bitter to the stomacke, as it seemes pleasing to the palate, like Pilles of poyson candy'd in Sugar: and as that which most delights, most confounds the sense; so use breeding an habite, and habite a second nature, vicious company, whom wee take to bee our dearest friends, doe in fine prove our most dangerous ene­mies, and so much the more dangerous, sith when wee would forsake them, wee can­not; [Page 65] which our Alibius will at last finde true in himselfe: yea, wee shall see him inforced to acknowledge it, as having bought and purchased it with a woefull and la­mentable experience: for now hee beginnes to love Swearing, Whoredome, and Drunkennesse, that before hee hated; and to hate the Gospel of Christ, and the Pro­fessours thereof, that before hee loved. A most wretched exchange, where we take from our soules, to give to our senses; and a woefull bargaine, where wee sell God, to buy the Devill.

Poore Merilla grieving to see that she could not unsee these his ungodly courses, as also that it not onely consumed the small remaynder of his meanes, but likewise lost his friends, and darkened and eclipsed his reputation, thinkes it not onely a part of her duety, but of her affection to him, to request some vertuous friend, or godly neighbour of theirs to deale with him herein, thereby to endeavour to perswade him from these his irregular and prophane courses: But as those who are sicke, are so de­prived of their tast, as they cannot discerne betweene sweet and bitter; So Alibius, sicke of the Lethargie of these his enormous and dissolute Vices, was so farre from rellishing this wholesome counsell, as he not onely rejected it, but scoffed and reviled the partie who gave it him: and it being not so secretly (or peradventure not so wise­ly) mannaged, but hee comming to understand it proceeded from his wife Merilla, hee tooke it so passionately and outragiously, to see his follies revealed by her, who was bound to conceale them, as most uncivilly and inhumanely checking her, hee in the heat of his displeasure and revenge, some moneths forsakes her company, and many her bed; whereat, such was her tender affection to him, and his disrespect to her, as I know not whether she more grieved, or he rejoyced.

The motives of his third distast to his Wife, were grounded upon her barren­nesse and sterility; as if it were in her power to give him a Child, when Gods plea­sure and providence was to give none to her, without considering that the barren­nesse and fruitfulnesse of a woman comes all from the Lord, or without remembring that some Children are borne for a curse, as others for a blessing to their parents: or as if his earthly vanity could teach Gods secret Divinity, what were fittest for him, and yet these reasons cannot prevaile against his unreasonable selfe; and there­fore this, amongst the rest of his distastes, hee, or rather the Devill for him, throwes in against his Wife: That if hee had a Child, hee should bee a good husband, and not before: as if hee desired and sought some pretext and colour, though never so unjust and un­godly, to cover his vices and prodigality; or in the eyes of the World to bolster out and apologize his iarring and squaring with his Wife: yea, his impudencie was growne to the height of this impiety, that hee often affirmed, his Wife was the cause of his poverty; for if she would give him no Child, God would give him no prosperity.

Now, as all women by nature generally desire Children; so it is a great affliction (I will not say a curse) to them, if they have none. But these unjust speeches of Ali­bius, doe justly and infinitely afflict his Wife Merilla, who (that no farther discord might trouble the harmony of their wedlocke) sends her teares to earth, and her prayers to heaven, that her Blessed Saviour would bee pleased to blesse her with a Child; when God, seeing his prophane hypocrisy, which he will revenge, and un­derstanding her religious zeale, which hee will reward, out of the inestimable trea­sure of his Mercie and providence, grants her her request, and him his desire: so as in short time she sees her selfe the mother, and him the father of a young daughter, termed Emelia.

The fourth reason of his distast of his Wife, was, that seeing time runne on in his swift cariere, and his prodigality still remayning, as also that his maske of his Wife's [Page 66] sterilitie was taken away; hee that was heeretofore so desirous of a child, now thinks this one to bee one too many, because (saith hee) hee can no way endure the crying and trouble thereof. But is there any thing so unnaturall or ridiculous as this? Now, if hee murmure at this his child, during her infancie, hee will much more storme at her, when shee comes up to riper yeares: and observing that her mother doth subtract from his prodigality, to adde to her maintenance, this doth againe extreamely vexe and afflict him: so that his child, whom hee pretended should bee the cause of his joy and prosperity, is now that of his griefe; and as hee thinks, of his farther pover­ty and misery: the which, poore Merilla his wife, to her unspeakeable and ineffable griefe, palpably perceiveth, aswell in his uncharitable and malicious speeches, banded to her for her daughter Emelia's sake, as to Emelia for her sake: But what know wee, whether God hath purposely sent this daughter, to revenge the injuries and wrongs that her father intendeth to her Mother?

His fift, and (as yet) his last distaste against his wife, proceeds from his observing that her beauty is withered and decayed; not that heretofore he knew her faire: but that shee is not so faire now, as when hee first married her: as if time and age had not power to wither the blossomes of our youth, as the Sunne hath to daver the freshest Roses and Lillies. But as all his former distastes towards his wife, bewray his inclination to prodigality and prophanenesse: so this last of his doth manifestly dis­cover his addiction to lust, and his affection to Whoredome: for it is impossible for our wives to seeme foule in our eyes, except there bee some other seemes fayrer: as blacknesse seemes blacker when it is compared and paralelled with whitenesse: and this indeed is the Vulture and Viper that stickes so close to his brest, and so neere to his heart, yea, this is his darling and bosome sinne that will strangle him, when it makes greatest shew to kisse and imbrace him.

Alibius, powerfully sollicited by these five severall distastes conceived against his wife Merilla, who poore woman rides at an Anchor in the tranquillity of her in­nocency, whiles hee (in the heate and height of his youth) floated in the Ocean of his voluptuousnesse and sensualitie, but especially provoked by his owne poverty and penury; who now beganne to appeare to him in a leane and miserable shape: hee leaves his wife and family, and betakes himselfe to the service of Gentlemen; thinking thereby to stoppe the current of his prodigality, and to finde out the inven­tion and meanes, futurely to get that which formerly hee had expended: which re­solution of his had beene indeed commendable, if the integrity of his heart had beene answerable to the sweetnesse of his tongue: but wee shall see the contrary, and finde by his example, that Snakes alwaies lurke under the fayrest and gree­nest leaves.

During which time, hee serves some Gentlemen of worth and quality, but one of especiall accompt and reputation; not distant above three small miles from the City of Brescia, who being an excellent House-keeper, and a good member of the com­mon-weale, there Alibius (had hee had as much Grace as Vanity, or as much Religion as impiety) might have forgotten his old vices, and have learned new Vertues: but if hee delighted to become excellent in any thing, it was first to bee a perfect Carver and Wayter, then to bee decent in his apparell; and last of all, to bee smooth in his speeches, and affable and pleasing in his complements, without any regard at all, either to reforme the vanity of his thoughts, or to controule his disolute and dangerous actions.

Having thus pastaway many yeares abroad in service, and very seldome or never either seene Spreare, or visited his Merilla and Emelia: hee at last seeing of the one side, that age beganne to Snow on his head; and that the greatest wealth of a Ser­ving-man, [Page 67] was, to have onely a new Livery, and a full belly, to have many verball, but no reall friends, resolved to leave his service, as also his wife and daughter in Spreare: and so to travell to Venice, hoping there in some honest place, and imployment, to serve the Seigniorie, or at least some one of the Magnifico's or Clarissimo's: but then considering the charge of the journey, the weakenesse of his purse, and the uncertainty of his ad­vancement and preferment, hee resolves for a time to sojourne in Brescia; and to watch if any occasion or accident presented, whereby hee might repaire and raise his fortunes.

Hee had not long lived in this City (which for antiquity, beauty, situation, wealth and fidelity (after Venice it selfe) gives not the hand to any of her sister Cities of that state:) but his eyes (as the lustfull sentynells of his heart) espie so many beauties, as he began to loath his owne wife Merilla, and to wish her in another world, that hee might have another wife in this. Loe, here the divell beginnes with him anew to perswade him to hate his wife.

Abiding thus in Brescia, it fell out that hee, who bore the silver rod in token of honour, and Iustice (or rather of honour to Iustice) before the podestate or chiefe Ma­gistrate of this City dyed: and to this Office Alibius (because hee knew himselfe a grave and personall man) aspired: and what through the respect of his gravitie, through his smooth tongue, and fayre speeches: but especially by making many friends to the Podestate and Senators, he at last obtained it: a place indeed, more ho­nourable then profitable, and yet worth at least one hundred Zechines, per annum, be­sides his diet. This preferment makes Alibius looke aloft, and so hee scornes his poore wife Merilla, as if there were no paritie and simpathie betwixt her rags and his robes: yea, hee would not see Spreare, nor suffer her to see Brescia, and the devill was so busie with him, or hee with the devill, that in hope of a richer and fayrer wife, hee resolves to poyson her according as hee heretofore had many times thought and premeditated: and that which egged and threw him on, with more violence and pre­cipitation, was a proud conceit of himselfe, and of his much dignity and preferment. But as povertie many times befalls us for our good, so sometimes, wealth and prospe­rity bring us misfortune and misery.

Not long after, another accident falls out, which doth likewise much rejoyce him: An honest Cittizen of Brescia, of his owne name, though no way his kinsman, dies, (and as since it hath beene shrewdly imagined, not without vehement suspicion of poy­son) leaving a rich widdowe, named Philatea: and for the familiarity and good conceit he had of our Alibius, as also induced thereunto through his hypocritall shew of honesty and piety, makes him sole overseer of his will: so neatly and smoothly did our Alibius worke and insinuate himselfe into his favour: But the maske of this his hypocrisie shall bee soone puld off.

Alibius seeing Philatea young, rich and faire, hee lookes on her more often then on her husbands testament: and so wishing his wife Merilla in his adopted kinsmans grave, and himselfe in Philatea's bed, hee bends his purposes and intents that way, as so ma­ny lines that runne to their Center: yea, so strongly hath the devill possessed him with these hellish designes and bloody resolutions, as his love to Philatea, defacing his respect to Merilla, hee sees her a blocke in his way, and a stop to his preferment, and so concludes that shee must hee remooved and dispatched: to which effect, to draw his sinfull contemplation into bloudy action, hee rides over to Spreare to her; and un­der colour of tender love and affection, hee in Milke, Wine, and rosted Apples, gives her poyson; when seeing it would not worke his desired effect, hee after takes an oc­casion, purposely to quarrell with her, and so very lamentably (in presence of their daughter Emelia) reviles and beates her, and returnes to Brescia, still hoping that the [Page 68] poyson yet might operate, and disperse it selfe in her veines, and that shortly hee should heare newes of her death. Loe here Alibius his first attempt in seeking to mur­ther his Wife.

In this meane time hee layes close siedge to Philatea's Chastity, who not so honest as faire, is soone drawne to sinne, and prostitutes her selfe to his beastly pleasure, and having no regard to her reputation, conscience, or soule, consents to this bitter­sweet sinne of Adultery; the which lascivious familiarity is so long continued be­twixt them, till at last Philatea's straight Bodies become too small, and her Apron too short for her; when seeing it high time to provide for her fame, shee acquaints Alibius herewith, and askes his advice, whether shee shall marry with one of her servants: Alibius meaning to keepe the Farme for himselfe, whereof hee had alrea­dy taken possession, bids her not to take care for a husband, but to bee of good comfort, and that farre within her time, hee would provide a place for her to lay downe her great belly; yea, so secret, as her owne heart could either wish or desire.

But if our miserable Alibius were before resolved to murther his poore harme­lesse Wife Merilla, this newes, and these speeches of Philatea, sets him all on fire; and so (having consulted with the Devill) hee vowes she shall not live: to which end, he provides himselfe of stronger poyson, and in a darke night (when as he flatters him­selfe with hope, that the Heavens were so unjust and inhumane to conspire with him in the Murther of his Wife) he takes horse in the East Suburbe of Brescia, and so rides toward Spreare.

But see the justice, and withall the providence and mercie of our indulgent God! who vouchsafed, and yet resolved to restraine and divert him from this his bloudy enterprise, by an accident as strange as true: for a mile out of Brescia, as Alibius rides by the common place of execution, his Horse stumbles, and falls under him right a­gainst it, with which fall his shoulder is out of joynt. Oh what a caveat was this for Alibius, if hee had had the least sparke of grace to have made good use hereof! But the Devill had bewitched his understanding and judgement: for hee could see by no other eyes, but by those of revenge and bloud.

Arriving at his house at Spreare, hee, contrary to his hopes, findes his daughter Emelia with her mother (who by this time was marryed likewise to a poore Coun­trey man of Spreare) whose sight and presence was, for that time, a stop to the exe­cution of her fathers poysoning designe on her mother; for hee feared that she had formerly discovered and suspected this his purpose and resolution, as indeed shee had: wherefore hee forbore to administer it, onely because hee would not lose all his la­bour, hee againe quarrells with his Wife, and after hee had reviled her with many scandalous and contumelious speeches, hee in the presence of his (mournefull) daugh­ter, doth exceedingly beate her; who (weeping to see her mother weepe) infinitely grieved to be an eye-witnesse of this inhumane and barbarous cruelty of her father: And so for that time Alibius againe permitted his Wife to live: But this will prove no pardon, but onely a short reprivall for her.

Returning againe to Brescia, it is not long before Philatea doth againe importune him to provide for the concealing and salving of her shame, alleadging that her time drew on, and that it was more then time to provide her a husband. Alibius, at these her second assummons, beginnes to looke about, and resolves at what rate, or in what manner soever, now to send his Wife into another world; yet (as I thinke, or ever understood) conceales his purpose from Philatea. Miserable wretch! had he not participated more of the nature of a Tyger, then a man, or of a Devill then a Ty­ger, hee would never have layd violent hands on his owne Wife, whom earth and [Page 69] heaven had made flesh of his flesh, and of two bodies one; yea, or had hee had so much grace to have considered, that the silver wand he bore before the Podestate, was for the scourging and punishing of sinne: Me thinks it should have made him more charitable, and not so bloudy to attempt it. But what will not lust enterprise, and Revenge execute, if wee neither feare God with our heartes, nor love him with our soules?

Preseverance in Grace and vertue is excellent, but in sinne lamentable. Alibius hath had yeares and time enough to wipe away his cruelty towards his wife: but the longer hee lives, the deeper roote it takes in him, yea, hee will neither give the flower of his youth, nor the branne of his age to God, but that to pleasure, this to Revenge and Murther, and both to the devill: for now hee is resolute to finish this mourne­full and bloudy Tragedy, that hee hath so long desired, and so often attempted: and now indeed the fatall time approacheth, wherein innocent Merilla, by the Murtherous hand of her husband, must be sent out of this World to see a bet­ter.

Alibius having waited on the Podestate to supper, takes horse, a little before the gates of the City were shut; and having his former poyson in his pocket, away hee rides to Spreare: but to act his villany with the greater secrecy, he masketh and disguiseth himselfe: approaching his house, he in the next Meddow ties up his horse to a tree, and so knockes at doore. Poore Merilla his wife was in bed and a sleepe with (a little Girle) her Grandchild, named Pomerea, the daughter of her daughter Emelia, whom, without a Candle, shee sends downe to open the doore, assuring her selfe (as indeed it proved too true for her) that it was her husband Alibius. Pomere [...] opening the doore, lets one in, but whom shee knows not: and then for feare retires to the kitchin, which shee shuts fast on her. So Alibius mounts to his wives Chamber, and after some words gives her a potion (some say of milke) bitterly sugred with poyson, and for­ceth it downe her: who poore soule is amazed hereat, and with her weake strength cryes out for helpe, but in vaine. Hee being divellishly resolved now to make sure worke, takes a billet out of the Chimney, and so dispatcheth and kils her in her bed (without giving her any time to commend her soule unto God) and so very hastily rusheth forth the doore.

Pomerea, fearing that which was happened, lights a candle, and ascends up the Cham­ber, where shee sees the lamentable spectacle of her Murthered Grand-Mother, hot, reeking and smoaking in her bed: whereat shee is amazed, and makes most wofull cries and mournefull lamentations: when wringing her hands, and bitterly sighing and weeping, shee knowes not what to doe, or what not to doe in this her bitter and wretched perplexity, in which meane time Alibius going for his horse, findes onely the halter: for his horse is grazing in the Meddow: hee diligently seekes him, but cannot a long time set sight of him; which indeed doth much astonish and amaze him: but at last hee findes him, and so gallops away to Brescia: where the better to delude the World, and to cast a mist before their eyes, hee is againe dy sixe of the Clocke in the morning waiting upon the Podestate, and conducting him to the Domo, or Cathe­drall Church of that City. But this policy of his shall not prevent his detection and punishment.

In this meane time, Pomerea runnes to the neerest neighbours, and divulgeth the Murther of her Grandmother. Many of the neighbours flock thither, to see this blou­dy and woefull spectacle: the Corrigadors of Spreare are acquainted herewith: they send for Chirurgions, who visit the dead body, and report shee is both poisoned and beaten to death: they examine poore Pomerea, who relates what shee sees and knowes: the [...] send every where to search for the Murtherer. By this time the newes hereof [Page 70] comes to Brescia. Alibius (like a counterfet miscreant) is all in teares, yea, hee sheweth such living affection to the memory of his dead wife, as hee sends every where to find out the Murtherer. But God will not have him escape, for in due time wee shall see him brought forth and appeare to the world in his colours.

Alibius, notwithstanding his teares in his eyes, having still a hell in his conscience, is afrayd, least Emelia his daughter (measuring the subsequent by the antecedent) hold him to bee her mothers Murtherer; and because the Corrigadors of Spreare (suspecting her) have taken sureties for her apparance: he, the better to insinuate with her, useth her with more then wonted courtesie and affabillity, imagining, that if her mouth were stopped, he needed not feare any others tongue: But this politike sleight of his shall not prevaile.

Now by little and little, Time, (the consumer of all things) beginnes to were away the crying rumor of this Murther: and so Alibius thinking himselfe secure, e're three moneths be fully expired, forgetting Merilla, takes Philatea to his second wife: which being knowne in Brescia, many curious heads of that City (though not upon any sub­stantiall ground, but onely out of presumptive circumstances) vehemently suspect that Alibius had a deepe hand in the Murther of his late wife Merilla: but they dare not speake it alowd, because hee was well beloved both of the Podestate himselfe (for that yeere being) and generally of all the Senators.

But as Murther pierceth the Cloudes, and cryes for revenge from Heaven, so wee shall see this of Alibius, miraculously discovered, and e're long, severely punished: for when hee thought the storme past, and saw the Skies cleere, when, I say, hee imagined that all rumours and tongues were hushed up in silence, and that hee thought on no­thing else, but to passe his time sweetly and voluptuously with his new and faire wife Philatea, then, when all other meanes and instruments wanted, to bring this his obscure and bloudy fact to light: Lo, by the Divine providence of God, we shall see Alibius himselfe be the cause, and instrument of his owne discovery.

For after hee had married Philatea (which I take to bee the first light of suspecting him of his wife Merilla's Murther) (if my information bee true, as I confidently be­leeve it is) this is the second: Alibius under the pretext of other businesse, sends for one Bernardo, of the parish of Spreare, to come to him to Brescia. Now, for our better light and information herein, as also for the more orderly contriving of this History, we must understand, that this Bernardo was an old associate and dissolute companion of Alibius: whom (as it is well knowne by those who knew them) hee had many times used and made his stickler and agent in many of his former lewde courses and enter­prises: not that I any way thinke hee had any hand in the present Murther of Merilla: for then (I know) such is the Candour and Wisedome of the Corrigadors of Spreare, and such is the cleere judgement and zeale of the Senators of Brescia to justice, that hee had never escaped, but had beene apprehended and brought to his tryall.

Wee must farther understand, that this Bernardo was likewise a companion of E­melia's husband: yea, scarce any one day past, but they were knowne and seene toge­ther in tippling houses, and other such lewd and vicious places, whereas drinke was still a most treacherous and unsecret Secretary.

It may bee that what Merilla told her husband privately, hee discovered it publike­ly to Bernardo: who comming (as wee have formerly heard) to Brescia, after his con­ference with Alibius, hee fell to his old vaine of tippling and carowsing, and there without the North gate of Brescia (which lookes towards Bergamo) having more mo­ney then wit, and more wine then money, in the middest of his cups, told hee was a Contadyne, or Countreyman of Spreare: that hee knew Alibius as great as now hee bore himselfe, and that hee Murthered his poore wife in the Countrey, to have this [Page 71] fine one in the City. Which speeches of his hee reiterated and repeated often: yea, so often, as they fell not to the ground, but some of his [...]ewd companions tooke no­tice thereof; and one amongst the rest, being inwardly acquainted with Alibius, went and secretly advertised him hereof: who (under-hand) sends away for Bernardo where hee was, and wrought so with him, as since that time he was never seene in Brescia. But this report of his remained behind him.

A second light which Alibius gave to the discovery of this his Murther, was, that thinking the way cleere, and all suspicion vanished, he converted his affection into con­tempt, and his courtesie to disrespect and unkindnesse towards his daughter Emelia, by taking away the greatest part of that small meanes hee gave her towards her mainte­nance: which uncharitable and unnaturall part of his, threw this poore woman into so bitter a perplexitie, as knowing in her conscience that her father was her Mothers Murtherer, shee exceedingly apprehended and feared, lest hee would attempt to dis­patch her likewise: the which shee farre the more doubted, because her father had bayled her, but not as yet freed her from her appearance before the Corrigadors of Spreare. But here, as simple as shee was, shee enters into many considerations with her selfe; that to accuse her father, would be as great a disobedience in her, as it was a cruelty in him to Murther her mother. She is a long time in esolute, either to advance or retire in this her purpose and enterprise: and here shee consults betwixt nature and grace, betwixt the Lawes of Earth and heaven, what shee should doe, or how she should beare her selfe in a matter of so unnaturall a nature. It grieves her to bee the meanes of her fathers death, of whom shee had received her being: and yet shee sorroweth not to reveale the murtherer of her mother, of whom shee enjoyed her life. But though sense and nature cannot, yet Reason and Religion will reconcile, and cleere these doubts: yea, evaporate those mists, and disperse these clouds from our eyes, and makes us see cleere, that Earth may not conceale Murther, sith God receives glory both in the detection and punishment thereof

Some will say, this daughter did ill to accuse her father. But who will not affirme that he did farre worse, to Murther her mother? Neither was it a delight, but a tor­ment to her, to effect it: for shee enters into this resolution with teares, and perseve­reth therein with sighes and lamentations: but if shee were at first resolute herein, this resolution of hers is exceedingly confirmed, when shee sees her father so suddainely married, and her mother in law ready to lay downe her great belly, especially when shee heare [...] the reports of his suspicion bruted in Brescia. So now shee can no longer containe her selfe, but goes to the next Corrigador, and reveales him, that her father Alibius was the Murtherer of her mother Merilla.

The Corrigador being a wise and grave Gentleman, wondering at this lamentable newes, retaines Emelia in his house, and writes away to the Podestate of Brescia hereof: who receives this news on a Saturday at night. The Sunday morning he acquaints the Prefect and chiefest Senators therof: who repayre to his house. The probabilities and circumstances are strong against Alibius. So they all conclude to imprison him: he is at the doore, ruffling in his garded gown and velvet cap, with his silver wand in his hand (as if hee were fitter to checke others then to be controuled himselfe:) wayting to conduct the Podestate to the Domo. Alibius little dreames how neere hee is to danger, or danger to him: hee is by an Isbiere or Serjeant called in to speake with the Pode­state: and although his conscience inwardly torment him, yet hee puts a good (or at least a brazen) countenance on all, and so very cheerefully comes before him: at his first arrivall, his velvet cap and silver wand (those dignified markes of honour and ju­stice) are taken from him, and consequently his office: (because these are rewards onely proper to vertue, and not to vice) hee is examined by those worthy Magistrates, [Page 72] who beare gravity in their lookes, wisedome in their speeches, and justice in their acti­ons. Alibius hath many smooth words, for the defence of his crime, which with the ayd and varnish of his gracefull gesture, hee strives to extenuate and palliate, but in vaine: for hee hath to doe with those Magistrates, who cannot bee deluded, or carri­ed away, either with the sugar of a lye, or the charme of an evasion. So they com­mit him close prisoner, where hee hath both time and leasure to thinke on the foule­nesse of his fact, and the unnaturalnesse and barbarisme of his cruelty.

The Munday following, the Corrigadors of Spreare send Emelia to Brescia, where, the next day the Podestate, Prefect and Senators examine her: they first exhort her to consider, that shee speakes before God: and although Alibius bee her earthly father, yet he is her heavenly: they conjure and sweare her to speake the truth, and no more: and because they see her a simple illiterated woman, they informe her what the vertue and nature of an oath is. When Emelia falling on her knees, wringing her hands, and stedfastly looking up towards heaven, she (bitterly weeping & sighing) for a pretty while, had not the power to utter a word: The Prefect with milde exhortations and speeches encourageth her to speake, when with many teares and inrerrupted sighes, she at last proffereth these words, My father hath often beaten my Mother, and even layne her for dead: and at other times, hee hath given her poyson, and hee it is and no other that hath now Murthered her. One of the Senators, (some say it was the Podestate, who as much favoured Alibius, as hated his crime:) bade Emelia looke to her conscience, and her conscience to God, and withall to consider, that as Merilla was her Mother, so Alibius was her Father. Whereat shee bitterly weeping, againe said, that what she had already spoken was true, as shee hoped to injoy any part of heaven. So they binding her to give evidence at the great Court of the Province, which some foure moneths after was to be held in the Castle of their Citie, they dismisse her.

In which meane time Alibius is visited in prison by divers of his acquaintance: yea, some of the chiefest Senators themselves afford him that honour and charity, they deale with him about his crime: but in vaine, for hee takes heaven and earth to wit­nesse, that hee is innocent, yea, hee seemes to bee so religious and conscionable in his speeches, as hee drew many of inferiour ranke and understanding to beleeve, that his accusation was not true, and his imprisonment unjust and false. But God will shortly unmaske his hypocrisie, and to his shame and confusion, lay open and discover to the whole World, his unnaturall and bloudy cruelty.

And now the time is come, that the Duke and Seigniory of Venice are used to de­pute and send forth Criminall Iudges, to descend and passe thorow the provinces of their territories and dominions: to sit upon all capitall malefactors, and to punish them according to their deserts. A custome indeed held famous, not onely in the Christian, but in the whole universall world: and whereby the Venetian Sate doth un­doubtedly receive both glory, vigour, and life, sith it not onely preserveth their peace, and propagateth their tranquillity; but also rooteth out and exterminateth all those that (by their lewd and dissolute actions) seeke to impugne and infringe it.

Thus these high and Honourable Iudges (being in number two for every division) having dispatcht their businesse (or rather that of the Seigniories) in Padua, Vincensa, Virona and Bergamo, are now arrived in Brescia, in the Castle whereof, (which is both beautifull and conspicuous to the eye) they keepe their Forum and Tribunall. And because this Citie is exempted from the Province, as being particularly indowed with a peculiar jurisdiction, and honoured with many honourable priviledges and pre­rogatives: therefore (Merilla being Murthered in the Province) Alibius is fetched out of his first prison, and by one of the chiefest and gravest Senators deputed for that [Page 73] purpose by the Podestate, and Senate, conducted and conveyed to the Castle, there to bee arraigned by those two great Iudges: and although this aforesaid Senator was so wise and religious, as hee seemed to have the art of perswasion in his speeches: yet by the way, using his best oratory and charity to draw Alibius from denyall, to confes­sion, and from that to contrition and repentance, his heart was still so perverse and obdurate, as hee notwithstanding persevered in his willfull obstinacy, and peremptori­ly continued and stood upon the points of his innocency, and justification. So strong was the Divell yet with him:

But whiles an infinite number of spectators gaze on Alibius as hee is in the Ca­stle: and hee cheerefully and carelesly conversed with some of his acquaintance, as if the innocency of his conscience were such, as his heart felt no griefe nor preturbati­on: Lo, he is called to his arraignement, whereunto that World of people, who were then in the Castle, flocke and concurre.

His thoughts are so vaine, and his vanity so ambitious, as hee comes to the barre in a blacke beaten Satin sute, with a faire Gowne, and a spruce set Ruffe, having both the haire of his head and his long gray beard neately kombed and cut, yea, with so pleasant a look, and so confident a demeanour, as if he were to receive, not the sentence of his guiltinesse and death, but that of his innocency and inlargement. These honou­rable Iudges cause his Inditement to bee read, wherein his poysoning and Murthering of his wife, is branched and depainted out in all its circumstances, whereat his courage and confidence is yet (notwithstanding) so great, as by his lookes hee seemes no way moved, much lesse astonished or afflicted: the witnesses are produced: first, his owne daughter Emelia, who with teares in her eyes stands firme to her former disposition, that hee had often beaten her Mother almost to death, and now had killed and poyso­ned her; agreeing in every point with her disposition given to the Podestate and Pre­fect of Brescia: which to refell, her father Alibius, with many plausible and sugred speeches, tells his Iudges, that his daughter is incensed or lunatike; or else that shee purposely seekes his life, to enjoy that small meanes hee hath after his death, and so runnes on in a most extravagant and impertinent apologie for himselfe, with many in­vective and scandalous speeches against her, and concludes, that hee was never owner of any poyson.

His Iudges, out of their honourable inclination, and zeale to sacred justice, permit him to speake without interruption: when having ended, they beginne to shew him the foulenesse of his fact: yea, like heavenly Orators, they paint him out the de­villish nature & monstrous crime of Murther: the which they say he redoubleth by de­nying it, not withstanding that they have evidence as cleere as the Sun to convince him thereof: and so they call for two Apothecaries boyes, who severally affirme, they sold him Rattes-bane at two severall times.

But the divell is still so strong with Alibius, as though his conscience doth hereat af­flict and torment him: yet, there is no change nor signe thereof, either seene in his countenance, or discerned in his speeches, but still hee persevers in his obstinacy; and in a bravery pretends to wipe off the Apothecaries boyes evidence with this poore e­vasion, that hee bought and used it onely to poyson Rattes: And so againe with many smooth words, humble crouches, and hypocriticall complements, hee useth the prime of his subtilty and invention to make it appeare to his Iudges, that he had no way im­brued his hands in the bloud of his wife: But this will not availe him, for hee is be­fore Lynce-eyed Iudges, whose integrity and wisedome can pierce thorow the fog­gy mists of excuses, and the obscure Clouds of his far-fetched shifts, and cunningly­compacted evasions.

And now to close and winde up this History, after the Iury impannelled had am­ply [Page 74] heard, aswell the witnesses against Alibius, as his defence for himselfe: and that all the world could testifie that his Iudges gave him a faire triall, they return and report him guilty of Murthering his wife Merilla; whereat hee is put off the barre, and so for that time sent backe to his prison: and yet the heate of his obstinacy being here­at no way cooled, the edge of his deny all any way rebated, nor the obduratenesse of his heart, the least thing mollified: hee, by the way as hee passeth, beating his brest, and sometimes out-spreading his armes, saith, it is not his crime, but the malice of his Devillish daughter that hath cast him away: yea, although many of his compassionate and Christian friends doe now now againe in prison worke and perswade him to con­fession, by aleadging him, that God is as mercifull to the repentant, as severe to the im­penitent and obstinate, yet, all this will not prevaile.

The second morne after his conviction, hee is brought againe from his prison, to the Castle, and so to the barre, to receive his Iudgement, where one of the two most honourable Iudges shew him:

That it is his hearkning to the Devill, and his forsaking of God, that hath brought him to this misery; paints and points him out his dissolute life, his frequenting of bad company, his prodigality and adultery: but above all, his masked hypocrisie, which hee saith, in thinking to deceive God, hath now deceived himselfe: yea, in heavenly and religious speeches, informes him how mercifull and indulgent God is to repentant sinners: that hee must now cast off his thoughts from earth, and ascend and mount them to heaven, and no longer to think of his body, but of his soule; and so after a learned and Christian-like speech, as well for the instruction of the living as the consolation of Alibius, who was now to prepare himselfe to dye: hee pronoun­ceth, that for his execrable Murther committed on his owne wife Merilla, hee should hang till hee were dead: and so besought the Lord to bee mercifull to his soule.

And now is Alibius againe returned to his prison, but still remaineth obstinate and perverse, affirming to all the World. that as hee hath lived, so hee will dye innocent­ly: But God will not suffer him to dye, without confessing and repenting this his bloudy and unnaturall Murther.

These his grave and religious Iudges, out of an honourable and Christian charity, send him Divines, to prepare his body to the death of this world, and his soule to the life of that to come: they deale most effectually, powerfully and religiously with him in prison: and although they found, that the devill had strongly insnared and char­med him, yea, and as it were, hardned his heart to his perdition: yet God, out of his infinit and ineffable mercies, addeth both power and grace to their speeches, and ex­hortations, so as his eyes being opened, and his heart pierced and mollified: they at last so prevaile with him, that being terrified with Gods justice, and incouraged and comforted with his mercies: he with teares, sighs and groanes confesseth this murther of his wife, and not onely bitterly repents it, but also doth thank these Godly Divines, for their charity, care, and zeale for the preservation and saving of his soule, and doth upon his knees beseech them to pray unto the Lord to forgive him.

Wee have seene Alibius Murther his wife Merilla: wee have seene his apprehension, imprisonment, triall, conviction, and condemnation, for this his execrable and bloudy fact: wherein wee may observe how the justice of God still triumpheth o're the temp­tation and malice of the Devill, and how Murther, though never so secretly acted, and concealed, will at last be detected and punished. What resteth there now, but that after wee have hereby made good use of this example, wee see Alibius fetched from his prison, and conveyed to the place of execution: (whereat (as wee have heard) hee formerly stumbled in jest, but must now in earnest) where, although it were timely in the morn, (as having the favour to dye alone, and at least three houres before the [Page 75] other condemned malefactors) an infinite number of the Citizens of Brescia, (of all rankes and of both sexes) assembled to see Alibius take his last farewell of this World.

At his ascending up the ladder, his faire gray beard and comely presence drew pit­ty from the hearts, and teares from the eyes of the greatest part of the spectators, to see that the Devill had so strongly inchanted and seduced him to lay violent hands on his wife, and to see so grave and so proper an aged man thus misfortunately and un­timely cast away.

His speech at his end was briefe and short; onely hee freely confest his crime, and with infinite sighes and teares besought the world to pray for his soule: hee lamented the Vanity of his youth, and the dissolutenesse of his age: told them, that his neglect of prayer to God, and his too much confidence in the devill, had brought him to this shamefull end; and therefore besought them againe and againe to beware by his exam­ple: and so having solemnely freed his second wife Philatea from being any way ac­quainted or accessary with the murther of his first wife Merilla: he recommending his soule into the hands of his Redeemer, dyed as penitently as hee had lived dissolutely and prophanely.

And thus was the life and death of Alibius: the which I was the more willingly induced to publish, partly, because I was an eye-witnesse, both of his arraigne­ment and death, (as I returned from my travells,) but more especially, in hope that his example and Historie may prove to bee as great a consolation to the Godly, as a terrour to the un­righteous.

HISTORIE VI.

WHere Lust takes up our desires, and Revenge and Murther sei­zeth on our resolutions, it is the true way to make us wretched in this life, and our soules miserable in that to come: for if Cha­stity and Charity (the two precious Vertues and ornaments of a Christian) steere not our actions on Earth, how shall (nay, how can) we hope to arrive to the harbour of Heaven? or if wee a­band on these celestiall Vertues, to follow and imbrace those in­fernall Vices, what doe wee but take our selves from felicity to misery, and consequently give our selves from God to Satan? But did wee seriously (and not trivially) consider that there is a Heaven to reward the Righteous, and a hell to punish the ungodly, wee would neither defile our hearts, nor pollute our soules with the thought, much lesse with the action of such beastly and inhumane crimes: but in this sinnefull age of ours, the number is but too great of lascivious and impious Chri­stians, who delight in the affection and practice thereof: among whom I here repre­sent the History of an execrable Gentlewoman, and her wretched and unfortunate Lover, who were both borne to honour, and not to infamy: had they had as much grace to secure their lives, as vanity and impiety to ruine them. The History is blou­dy, and therefore mournefull: but if we detest their crimes, we need not feare their pu­nishments: for God is as gracious and propitious to protect the innocent, as just and severe to chastise the guilty.

IN Italy, the beauty of Europe, and in the City of Venice (the glory of Italy, the Nymph of the Sea, and the pearle and diamond of the world) in the latter yeares of the raigne of noble Leonardo Donato, who, as Duke, sate to the helme of that potent and powerfull Estate) so famous for banishing the Iesuits, and for opposing himself against the intrusion and fulminations of Pope Paulus Quintus, in the just defence and mainte­nance of the prerogatives and priviledges of the Seignory) There was at that time a gen­tleman, [Page 88] a younger brother, yet of well neere fifty yeares old, of the noble Fa mily of the Beraldi, named Signior Iacomo Beraldi, who dwelt above the Rialto Bridge (that fa­mous Master piece of Architecture) upon the Canalla Grando, who in the Aprill of his youth tooke to Wife the Dona Lucia, daughter to Seignior Lorenzo Bursso, a Gentle­man of Padua, by whom hee had seven Children, foure Sonnes, and three Daugh­ters; so as his Wife and he esteeming themselves happy in their Issue, past away their time in much content and felicity: but God (for some secret and sacred reasons to his Divine Majesty best knowne) converting his smiles into frownes, within the space of seven yeares, takes away sixe of their Children, so as their eldest daughter onely remained living, being a young Gentlewoman of some eighteene yeares old; named Dona Victoryna.

This young Gentlewoman, being noble, rich, and faire (three powerfull and attra­ctive Adamants to draw the affections of many Cavaliers) according to her desert, had divers Gallants who sought her in Marriage: but she was of nature proud, chollericke, disdainfull, and malicious; Vices enow to ruine both a beauty and a fortune: but of all her sutors and servants, he whom she best loved and affected, was one Seignior Sypontus, a Gentleman of the City, who was more noble then rich, and yet more debosht and vicious then noble; but otherwise a very proper young Gallant: but the perfections of the body are nothing to bee compared to the excellent qualities and indowments of the minde, for those are but the varnishes and shaddowes of a meete men, but these the perfections and excellencies of a wise man, and therein noble; sith indeed wisedome is one of the truest degrees, and most essentiall parts of Nobility. Now if Victoryna love Sypontus, with no lesse reciprocall flame and zeale doth Sypontus affect Victoryna: for as his eyes behold the delicacie of her personage, and the sweetnesse of her beauty; so his heart loves either, and adores both: yea, so deep an impression hath she ingraven in his thoughts and contemplations, that he is never merry till he see her, nor pleased till he injoy the felicity of her company; which Victorina rejoyceth to see, and observes with infinite content and delectation. Sypontus thus intangled in the snares of Victorina's beauty, and she likewise in those of his perfections, he resolves to court her, and seeke her in Marriage, which he performes with much affection, zeale, and constancie, leaving no industry, care, curiosity, or cost unattempted, to inrich and crowne his desires with the precious and inestimable treasures of her love. I should make this short discourse swell into an ample History, to particularize, or punctually relate the Letters, Sonnets, Presents, Meetings, Dancings, Musicke, and Banquets, which past twixt these two Lovers, and wherewith Sypontus entertained his deare Mi­stresse Victoryna: I will therfore purposely omit it, and cover my selfe with this excuse, which may satisfy my Reader, to consider that Sypontus (as before) was an Italian, whose custome and nature rather exceede, then come short, in all amorous ceremonies and complements: And therefore againe to resume my History, I must briefely declare, that after the protraction and recesse of a yeares time Victorina consenteth to Sypontus, to bee his Wife, so farre forth as hee can obtaine those of her father and mother: a fit and vertuous answer of a daughter, wherein I know not whether she bewray more mo­desty and discretion in her selfe, or respect and obedience to her parents.

Sypontus infinitely pleased with this sweet newes and delightfull melody, is as it were ravished and rapt up into heaven wirh joy, when flattering himselfe with this poore hope, that as Victoryna was curteous, so he should finde her parents kinde to him; hee, with much respect and honour, repaires to Beraldi and Lucia, and in faire and discreet termes acquaints them with his long affection to their daughter Victoryna; whom (with as much earnestnesse as humility) hee prayes to bestow her on him for his wife: but this old Couple are as much displeased at Sypontus his motion, as their Daughter [Page 89] Victoryna rejoyceth thereat, and so they returne him their denyall in stead of their con­sent; only in generall termes they thanke him for his love and honour, and certifie him that they have otherwise disposed of their daughter. Sypontus bi [...]es the lip, and Victo­rina hangs her head at this their bitter and distastfull answer: but hee is too generous and amorous to bee put off with this first repulse. Whereupn he imployes his Parents and kinsfolkes (whereof some were of the chiefest ranke of Senatours and Magnifico's) to draw Beraldi and Lucia to consent to this Match; but in vaine: for they are deafe to those requests, and resolute in their denyall, grounding their refusall upon Sypontus his poverty: for they see he is become poore; because in the last trans-marine Warres, the Turkes tooke from his father and himselfe most of his Lands and Possessions neere Scuttari in Dalmatia: and therefore they resolve to provide a richer husband for their Daughter. The iniquity of our times are as strange as lamentable: for in matters of Marriage, parents, without due regard either to the natures or affections of their chil­dren, still preferre gold before grace, and many times Riches before Vertue and Nobili­ty, which concurre and meet in one personage: but diverse of these Marriages, in the end, finde either shame, misery, or repentance, and sometimes all.

Sypontus stormes as much as Victoryna grieves at his refusall: but to frustrate that, and provide for this, Beraldi deales with Seignior Iovan Baptista Souranza to marry his daughter Victorina, who is a Gentleman of a good house, but farre richer then Sypon­tus; but withall farre different in age: for Sypontus is but twenty eight yeares old, and Souranza neere threescore. So as gold playing the chiefest part in this contract, Souran­za is sure of Victoryna for his wife, ere he know her, or hardly hath seene her. Beraldi advertizeth his daughter of his will and pleasure herein: so Souranza sees her with af­fection and joy, and she him with disdaine and griefe: and thus this old Lover the first time entertaines his young Mistresse with kisses, and she him with teares. He is no soo­ner departed, but Victorina very sorrowfully and pensively throwes her selfe to her Pa­rent [...] feet, and with showres of teares very earnestly and passionately beseeches them, that they will not inforce her to marry Souranza, whom (she affirmes) she cannot love, much lesse obey, prayes them to consider what a misery, nay, what a hell it will be to her thoughts and selfe, to have him in her bed, and Sypontus in her heart. When she could no further proceed, because her sighes cut her wordes in pieces, and so griefe daunting her heart, and her feare to Souranza, and affection to Sypontus, casting a milke-white Vayle over her Vermillian cheekes, she sinkes to the earth in a faynting cold swoone: when her hard-hearted and cruell parents (more with astonishment then commisera­tion and pitty) step to her ass [...]stance, and againe bring her to her sences: who not for­getting where her speeches ended, she remembers to beginne and continue them thus: O my deare Parents, name not Souranza for my husband, but if you will needes give me one, then by all that bloud of yours, which streameth in all the veines of my body, of two let me injoy one, either Sypontus, or my Grave; he the beginner of my joyes, or this the ender of all my miseries and sorrowes; neither is it disobedience in mee, but feare of cruelty in your seves, that throwes me on the exigent of this request and resolution: whereon I pray, consider by the bonds of nature, and not by the rules of avarice and inhumanity. But her father and mother (without any respect to her youth and teares, or regard to her affection and prayers) love Souranza's wealth so well, as as they will hate Sypontus his poverty, and in it himselfe: and therefore checking Victo­ryna for her folly, and taxing her of indiscretion, their command and authority gives a law to her obedience and desires: And to conclude, they are so bitter, and withall, so cruell to her, that within few dayes they violently inforce her to marry Souranza. But this inforced Match will produce repentance and misery of all sides.

As it is a duty in children to honor and obey their parents, so it is no lesse in parents [Page 90] carefully to regard, and tenderly to affect their children: but in Matches that are con­cluded with wealth without affection, there Parents ought proceede with judge­ment, not with passion, with perswasion, not with force: for can there bee any hell upon earth comparable to that of a discontented bed, or is it not a griefe to Parents, through their cruelty, to see their children live in despaire in stead of hope, in affliction in stead of joy; and to dye miserably, whereas they might have lived pleasantly and prosperously? Tis true that young folkes affections are not still well grounded, but for want of advice and counsell many times meet with misery for felicity: yet sith Marriage is a Contract, not for a day, but for ever, not for an houre, but for the tearme and lease of our lives; therefore Parents, in matching their children, should be rather charitable then greedy for the world, and rather compassionate then ridged: but e­nough of this, and againe to our History.

Wee have seene Victorina, with an unwilling willingnesse, inforc'd to marry Sou­ranza: wee shall not goe far [...]e, before we see what sharpe calamities and bitter afflicti­ons and miseries this Match produceth: The argument and cause briefely is thus; Victo­rina lyes with her husband Souranza, but cannot love him: from whence (as so many lines from their centre) spring forth many mournsull and disastrous accidents: the litle ring of Matrimony incloseth many great and waighty considerations, and among others this is not one of the least: disparity in yeares makes no true harmony in affections; for there is no affinity twixt Ianuary and May, and it is a matter, though not impossible, yet difficult for youth and age to sympathize: Soranza's best performance of the rites and dueties of Marriage, is but desire; yea, his age cannot sufficiently estimate, much lesse reward the daynties of Victorina's youth; for he is more superstitious then amorous, as delighting rather to kisse an Image in the Church, then his wife in his bed, and not to betray the truth. I must crave leave of modesty, to averre that she findes little diffe­rence twixt a Mayd and a Wife, so as her lust out-braving her chastity, and sensu­ality trampling her vertues and honour under foote, whereas her affection should looke from Sypontus to Souranza, both she and it contrariwise looke from Souranza to Sypontus. Dissembling pleasures, which strangle when they seeme to imbrace and kisse us, bitter Pills candide in Sugar, Cordialls to the sence, but Corrosives to the soule! Yea, Victorina in forgetting her modesty, will not remember her vow in Marriage; for had she beene as vertuous as young, or as chast as faire, it had not onely beene her ver­tue, but her duety, to have smothered the defects, and concealed the imperfections and impotencie of her old husband: Chastity would have perswaded her to this, but incontinencie and lust draw her to a contrary resolution.

Sypontus likewise stormes and grieves at this unwished and unequall Match of old Souranza with his young and faire Victorina; yea, he hates him so much, and loves her so tenderly and dearely, as hee would, but cannot prevent it: for (as before) they are marryed; and hee in stead of the Laurell is inforced to weare the Willow: but his griefe findes this comfort, and her discontent this consolation, that sith Victoryna is not his Wife, she is his Mistresse; and sith Sypontus is not her Husband, hee is her Servant, or (to use the Venetian phrase) shee is his Courtizana, and hee her Enamorata: but such leagues and contracts of vicious affections seldome make happy ends; for as they be­ginne in lust, so commonly they terminate in infamy and misery. Sypontus often famili­arizeth with Victoryna, yea, their familiarity is such, as I in modesty will not report, sith in chastity I cannot, and although they beare their affections and pleasures secret, yet custome breeding a habit, and that a second nature, Souranza is now no sooner abroad, but Sypontus is at home, so as in effect Souranza is but the shaddow, and Sypontus the substance of Victoryna's husband: but these lascivious Lovers shall pay deare for their affections; Sypontus for entertaining and keeping another mans Wife, and Victoryna [Page 91] for breaking her vow in wedlocke to her husband, in defiling his bed, and contamina­ting her body with the foule sinne of Adultery.

It had bin good & safe for them, if they had not begun these their beastly pleasures, but to give no end to them, must needs prove dangerous & ruinous: to commit this sin of Adultery is odious, but to persevere therein, is most abominable before God: the reason hereof is as true as pregnant; for if the reward of a single sin be death, the re­doubling thereof must needs be double damnation: but as it is the nature of Adultery to be accompanied and waited on by other sins, so Victoryna is not only content to love Sypontus, but she makes a farther progression in impiety, and will needes hate her hus­band Souranza; who poore honest Gentleman, sicke with the Gout, and a Cough of the Lungs, is now distastfull, and which is worse, odious to her: so that shee which should be a cordiall to his age, his age is now a corrosive to her youth, and she so farre forgets both her selfe and her duety, as she rather contemnes then loves him, and as he rejoyceth in her sight, so she delights in nothing so much as in his absence, and Sypontus presence: shee makes her discontents and malice to her husband knowne to Sypontus, who doth pitty, but will not remedie them: all her speeches tend to wish her selfe in another world, or her husband not in this. Sypontus is not ignorant whereat she aymes; but although he enjoy the wife, yet he cannot finde in his heart, but is too conscienci­ous to murther the husband: had hee remained in the constancie of this resolution, he had been happy, and not so miserable and unfortunate to end his dayes with shame and infamy. But now behold, an unexpected accident drawes and throwes him on headlong to perpetrate this execrable Murther, for (as the Gentrie and Nobility of Venice are for the most part Merchants) so Sypontus receiveth sudden and sorrowfull newes of two great losses befalne him, in the Levant Seas, in two severall ships, the one comming from All [...] ­po, taken by the Turkish Pyrates of Rhodes, the other from Alexandria, taken, as is suppo­sed, by one of the Duke of Ossunas Neopolitan Gallies, scowring the Ilands of the Archipe­lagus, in which two Vessels he lost at least seventy thousand Zeckynes, it being the two third parts of his whole estate: and now to maintaine his greatnesse, and beare up his port and reputation, knowing Souranza to be infinitly rich, and his wife Victorina yong, amorous, and faire, he agrees with the devill, and so resolves to murther him, and then to marry her; which he knowes she above any earthly matter chiefely desires. Lo here the foundation and project of a Murther, as lamentable as execrable! Necessi [...]y in base spirits may be a powerfull, but in those more vertuous and noble, it should never bee a pernicious and prodigious counselour: for there is as much generosity and fortitude in supporting poverty with patience, as there is covetousnesse in being ambitious to purchace wealth with infamy.

At the next enterview and meeting of Sypontus and Victorina, she like a bad woman, a wicked wife, and a wreched creature, redoubleth him her complaints and discontents against her husband; and because Sypontus knowes it wisedome to strike whiles the Iron is hot, as also that Time must be taken by the forelocke, he like a wretched Poli­tician layes hold of this occasion and opportunity, and so consenteth to the Murther of her husband, when from this bloudy resolution, they passe to the manner how to ef­fect it: they consult on this lamentable businesse. Victorina (industrious in her malice) proposeth to poyson him, and so to bury him in her little garden: but Sypontus dislikes this project, and profers her to murther him in his Gondola, as he comes from Luifizi­na: whereon they agree. So some ten dayes after, Victorina advertiseth him, that her husband is to goe to his house of pleasure in the Countrey, neere Padua, on the banke of the River Brenta, where hee is onely to stay three dayes. Sypontus imbraceth this oc­casion, and continually wantonizing with his wife in his absence, promiseth her to meet her husband at his returne, and then to dispatch him; which newes with a longing de­sire [Page 91] this miserable Curtezan Victorina attends him with as much impatience as impu­dencie. Sypontus in the meane time (in favour of twice ten Zeckynes) is prepared of two wicked Gondoliers or Watermen, who deepely vow and sweare to conceale this Murther. So the precise day of Souranza's departure from his Countrey house being come, Sypontus, not to faile of his promise to Victorina, in the execution of his bloody and damnable attempt, takes his Gondola, and hovers in the direct passage betwixt Lu­cifizina and Venice, for Souranza his arrivall, who, poore harmelesse Gentleman, loved his young wife so tenderly and dearely, as hee thought this short time long that hee had wanted from her: but hee hath seene his last of her, and allasse, alasse, hee shall see an end of himselfe: for about five of the clocke in the evening (it being Summer time) his usuall houre of returne, hee takes Gondola at Lucifizina, for Venice, and neere midway twixt both, Sypontus espies him, and the sooner, because it being hot weather, and no wind stirring, Souranza had caused his courtaines to bee withdrawne. Sypontus (inflamed with boyling malice and Revenge) with all possible celerity makes towards his Gondola, the which disguised and masked hee enters, and there with his Ponyard very divellishly stabs him three severall times at the heart, when falling downe to his feet, hee most barbarously cut of his beard, and nose (that hee might not bee knowne) and so throwes him into the Sea; as also his Waterman after him, that they might tell no tales: when having finished these execrable Murthers, hee with his Gondola, with all possible speed hyes first to Murano, and so lands by the Patriarchy, from thence by the Arsenall, and so to his owne house behind Saint Servi's Church, thereby to cast a fayrer varnish on this villany, by landing and comming into the Citie another way, when being arrived at his house, hee that night by a confident servant of his, sends Victoryna this Letter.

Victoryna infinitly rejoyceth at this newes, and the better to cloke her malice, under the vaile of secrecie, shee laments and complaines to her father of her husbands long absence. Souranza's Parents are by Beraldi acquainted herewith, they begin to finde the time of his stay very long, and now resolve to send his nephew, Scignior Andrea Souranza up the river Brenta, to know the cause thereof: hee passeth and repasseth the Sluce of Lucifizina, and brings word that hee departed thence for Venice, in a Gondola, foure dayes since: Victoryna his wife grieves, and weepes at his absence, so doe his owne Parents and friends, who enqui [...]e of all sides, but finde comfort or newes from none what is become of him. And here, Reader, before thy curiosity carry thee further, I conjure thee to stand astonished and wonder, at the inscrutable and wonder­full judgement of God, in the detection of this Murther. For Fishermen some eight dayes casting out their nets betwixt the Ilands of La Lazareto and Saint George Majore, bring up this dead body of Murthered Souranza, being well apparelled: but chiefly [Page 92] for their owne discharge, they bring the dead corps to Venice, and lan [...] him at Saint Markes stayres; where they extend and expose his body to bee knowne of passengers: now behold further Gods miraculous providence, in the discovery and finding out hereof: for amongst the numberlesse number of spectators and walkers, who dayly and almost hourely frequent and adorne that famous Burse and incomparable P [...]lace, it happened that Andrea Souranza cast his eye on this dead and sea-withered body: on whom hee lookes with as much stedfastnesse as curiosity, as if Nature had made his li­ving body a part of that dead; or as if his hot bloud had some sympathy and affinity with that of the dead personage, which long since the coldnesse of the Sea had con­gealed and frozen: but at last espying a red spot in his necke (under his right eare) that hee brought into the world with him, and which all the influence and vertue of the water of the Sea had not power to deface and wash away: as also observing a wart over his left eye-lid, which Nature had given his birth, and his youth his age: hee passionately cryes out before the world, that it is the body of his Vncle, Seig [...]ior Iovan Baptista Souranza: so it is visited by his Parents and friends, and knowne to bee the same: so they carry him to an adjoyning house, and there devesting it naked, finde that hee hath t [...]ree severall wounds in his body, either of a Sword or Ponyard, which gives matter of talke, and administreth cause of admiration in all the City: so they bury him honourably according to his ranke and degree, and all knowing him to bee Murthered, infinitly bewaile his untimely, and lament his mournefull death: but e­specially his wife Victoryna, who having formerly plaid the strumpet, then the Murthe­resse, now takes on the maske, and assumes the representation of an Hypocrite; out­wardly seeming to dye for sorrow, when God, and her foule ulcerated conscience knowes, that inwardly her heart leapes for joy, thus to bee depriv'd and freed of her old husband. Yea, and the more to bleare the eyes, and eclipse the judgement of the world, for casting the least shadow of suspicion on her for this unnaturall Murther: shee and her whole family take on blacke and mourning Attire, and for her selfe in two moneths after, never goes forth her house, except to the Church where her hus­band was buryed: where her Hppocrisie is so infinitely feigned, and dissembling, that she is often observed to bedew and wash his Tombe with her teares: but these Crocadile teares of hers, and these her false and treacherous sorrowes shall not availe her: for although Gods divine and sacred Majestie bee mercifull in his justice, yet hee is so just in his mercies, as neither the politique secrecie of Sypontus, nor the Hypocri­ticall sorrowes of Victoryna, for this cruell Murther, shall goe either unmasked or un­punished: but in their due appointed time, they shall be brought forth in their colours, and made publique examples, as well of infamy, as destruction for the same: the manner is thus:

The deceased Signiour Iovan Souranza hath a younger brother, named Signiour Hi [...] ­ronymo Souranza: who having carefully and curiously observed, that his sister in law Victoryna, never perfectly nor dearely loved his brother her husband, and that shee was neither so familiar, nor dutifull to him, as it behoov'd her, during the tearme of her marriage: which partly hee attributed to the disparity of their yeares, in respect of the frozennesse of his age, and the heat and freshnesse of her youth. He began vehe­mently to suspect her of this Murther, which hee often revolv'd and ruminated in his minde, as if the suggestion and perswasion thereof, not onely bore probability but truth with it: to which end, as the affection of a true friend (much more of a brother) should passe beyond the Grave, and not remaine intomb'd, and buried in the dust thereof, hee is resolv'd to put his best wits and invention upon the tenter-hookes, to discover and reveale the same: to which end, hee breakes with Victorina's Gentle­woman, who wayted on her in her Chamber, and who indeed was his owne Neece Fe­licia, [Page 94] to know what Gentlewomen chiefly frequented her Lady. Felicia informes her Vnkle, that Signyor Sypontus is many nights with her, that there is much affection and familiarity betweene them, and that he sends her many Letters. Her Vncle glad-of this glimmering light, which hee hopes will produce a greater and perfecter, conjures her to intercept some of his Letters, for the more effectuall discovery of his brother, and her Vnkles death. So Felicia promiseth her best care and fidelity herein, and shortly effecteth it: for in few dayes after, being sent by her Lady Victoryna to a Cas­ket of hers, to fetch her a new paire of Romish Gloves, shee opening an Ivory Box, therein findes a Letter; which shee reads, and seeing it signed by Sypontus, shee thinks it no sinne to be false to her Lady, and true to her Vnkle, and so very secretly and safe­ly sends it him; which indeede was the very Letter wee have formerly seene and read: and now is his jealousie and suspicion confirm'd. So vowing and Sacrifizing Revenge to his dead and Murthered brother, away hee goes to three chiefe Iudges of the forty, who sit on criminall causes, and very passionately accuseth Sypontus and Vi­ctoryna for the Murther, committed on the person of his Brother Signiour Iovan Bapti­sta Souranza, at Sea: whereupon they are both committed prisoners, but sequestred in severall Chambers. Sypontus is first examined, then Victoryna: they both very con­stantly deny the Murther, and with many sugred words, and subtill evasions, intimate and insinuate, their innocencies therein: so the next day the Iudges produce Sypontus his owne Letter; the sight whereof extreamely afflicteth and vexeth him: but hee is constant in his denyall, and resolute in that constancy, and so takes on a brazen face; and with many asseverations and imprecations, againe and againe denies it, averring it is not his hand, but a meere imposture and invention of his enemies, who have counterfaited it, purposely to procure his ruine and destruction: yet inwardly to him­selfe he feareth all is discovered, and that there is no meanes left him to escape death, whose Image and forme hee now too apparantly and fatally sees before his eyes. So hee is sent backe to his prison, and his Iudges in the interim consult on his fact; where hee is no sooner arrived, but bolting his Chamber privately to himselfe, hee con­sidering that either Victoryna, or some for her, had betrayed him by his owne Let­ter, hee in the bitter fury of choller and passion, throwes away his Hat, now crosseth his armes, and then beates his brest, and stamping with his feet, at last very low to him­selfe bandeth forth these speeches:

And is it possible, that I must now lose my life through Victoryna her folly and treachery, into whose hands I repos'd both my secrets and it? Have I done what I have done for her her sake, and is this the requitall she gives me? And sith there is no other witnesse, must mine owne Letter bee produced in justice against mee? What will I not doe? what have I not done for her sake? Woe is me, that I should live to be rewarded with this monstrous and inhumane ingratitude; when for sorrow and indig­nation, not able to containe himselfe, hee takes Pen and Paper, and writes Victoryna this ensuing Letter.

But observe here the errour of Sypontus his judgement: for whiles hee imputes i [...] to Victoryna's treachery, that this his Letter will occasion his death; hee is so irreligi­ous and impious, as hee lookes not up to heaven, to consider that the detection there­of proceeds from Gods immediate finger and providence. No: No. For the di­vell yet holds his thoughts so fast captivated and intangled in the snares of Victoryna's beauty, as hee hath not yet the grace to looke from his crime, to his repentance; nor consequently from Earth to Heaven: but like a prophane Libertine and unrege­nerate person, being within a small point of time neere his end, hee yet thinkes not of his soule, nor of God, but onely dallies away the remainder of his houres, in the mi­serable contemplation of his fond affection and beastly sensuality.

By this time Victoryna hath receiv'd his Letter; at the newes and reading where­of, such is the passion of her frenzy, which shee (though unjustly) tearmes love: that shee is all in teares, sighes, and lamentable exclamations: she knowes it impossi­ble for any other of the world to bee the revealer of Sypontus his Letter, but onely her Mayd Felicia, whom in her uncharitable Revenge, shee curseth to the pit of hell: but that which addes a greater torment to her torments, and a more sensible degree of affliction to her miserable sorrowes, is, to see that her Sypontus (whom by many de­grees she loves far dearer then her life) finisterly snspecteth her fidelity towards him: yea so farre, as hee not onely calls her affection but her treachery in question: and this indeed seemes to drowne her in her teares. But yet notwithstanding so fervent is her love towards him, as the feare of his death drawes her to a resolution of her owne: so if Sypontus dye, shee vowes shee will bee her owne accuser, and so not live, but dye with him. Strange effects of love, or rather of folly, sith love being irregular, and taking false objects, (in its true character) is not love, but folly: to which end, calling for inke and paper, she bitterly weeping, indites and sends him these few lines, in answer of his.

[Page 96] Sypontus, in the middest of his perplexities and sorrowes, receives this Letter from Victoryna, the sweetnesse of whose affection and constancy, much revives his joy, and comforteth him. For now her innocency defaceth his suspicion of her ingratitude and treachery: and withall hee plainely sees, and truly beleeves, that it was Felicia, not Victoryna, who brought this Letter to Light. But when hee descends to the latter part of her Letter, and finds her resolution to dye with him, then hee condemnes his former errour in taxing her, and in requitall, loves her so tenderly and dearely, that he vowes hee will bee so farre from accusing her, as accessary of her husbands Murther, as both the Racke, and his death shall cleare and proclaime her innocency. Had the ground of these servent and reciprocall affections of Victoryna and Sypontus, beene laid in vertue, as they were in vice; or in chastly, and not in lust and adultery, they would have given cause to the whole world, as justly to prayse, as now to dispraise them, and then to have beene as ambitious of their imitation, as now of their contempt and detestation.

So Sypontus (as before) having fully and definitively resolved not to accuse, but to cleare Victoryna of this Murther, as also that hee would dye alone, and leave her youth and beauty to the injoying of many more earthly pleasures: hee expecting hourely to bee sent for before his Iudges, to sit upon his torment or death, thinking himselfe bound both in affection and honour, to signifie Victoryna his pleasure herein, he craves his [...]aylors absence, and with much affection and passion, writes her this his last Letter:

Hee had no sooner sent away this his Letter to Victoryna, but hee himselfe is sent for to appeare before his Iudges, who upon his second examination and denyall, ad­judge him to the Racke; which hee indures with admirable patience and constancy. Yea, hee cannot bee drawne to confesse, but stands firme in his denyall, and not onely cleares himselfe, but also acquits Victoryna: Hieronym [...] Souranza doth notwithstanding earnestly follow and solicite the Iudges, and God, out of his immense mercy and pro­found providence so ordaineth, that their consciences suggest and prompt them, that Sypontus is the actor of this execrable Murther. Whefore the next day they admini­ster him double torment: when loe, his resolution and strength fayling him, hee ac­knowledgeth the letter his, and confesseth it was himselfe that had Murthered Seignior [Page 97] Iovan Baptista Souranza: but withall protesteth constantly that Victoryna is innocent, and no way accessary hereunto. The Iudges rejoyce at Sypontus his confession, as much as they grieve at the foulenesse of his fact: and so, although they were also de­sirous to hang him, yet considering hee was a Venecian Gentleman, (and consequently had a great voyce in the great Counsell of the Seigniory) they adjudge him the next day to lose his head, betwixt the two Columes at Saint Markes Place, and so for that night send him backe to his prison, to prepare himselfe to dye. Sypontus is no sooner departed from them, but they consult on Victoryna, whether shee were guilty, or in­nocent of her husband Souranza's Murther, but they differ in opinion: some would likewise have her Racked: but others of them more advised and modest, reply that Sypontus his Letter intimated onely his affection to Victoryna, but no way her malice to her dead husband Souranza, nor that shee was any way guilty or accessary to his Murther: so they resolve to forbeare her, and not to put her to the torment, except Sypontus accuse her at his execution. Now the very night that hee was to die the next morne, hee infinitely desires his Iaylor to permit him to conferre with Victoryna, and to take his last leave of her, which is denyed him, as having received command from authority to the contrary; whereat extreamely grieving, hee is called away by some Divines, whom the charity of that grave Senate send him, to prepare and direct his soule, in her passage and transmigration to Heaven. So passing the night in teares and prayers for the foulenesse of his crime, the morne being come, and nine of the clock strucken, hee is brought to the scaffold, where a world of people concurre and flock from all parts of the City, to see this wretched and unfortunate Gentleman act the last Sceane and part of his life upon this infamous Theater. Heere Sypontus freely confesseth his foule Murther of Souranza, but is yet so vaine and wretched, as hee takes it to his death, that Victoryna is absolutely innocent hereof: hee seemes to bee very repentant and sorrowfull for all his sinnes in generall, and for this Murther in particular.

For expiation and reward hereof, his head is severed from his body: a just recom­pence and punishment for so vicious and bloudy a Gentleman, who adhering to adul­tery more then chastity, to revenge then charity, and to the devill then God, forgot himselfe so farre, as to commit this execrable and lamentable Murther.

Now, the order and Decorum of our History, leades us from dead Sypontus, to living Victoryna, who, I know not whether more grieve at his death, or rejoyce, that on the Racke and scaffold hee hath acquitted her of her husbands Murther. In a word, it is remarkeable to behold the vanity and inconstancy of this female Monster: for con­trary to her vowes, and repugnant to her Letters and teares, Sypontus is no sooner dead, but her affection towards him dyes with him: yea, his bloud is scarce fo soone cold, as her zeale and friendship: for shee now holds it a pure folly to cast away her youth and life, if shee may preserve the one, and save the other; and therefore resolves to try her best art and wit, to make her innocencie passe currant with her Iudges: yea, so desirous and ambitious is shee to live, as her female heart hath drawne on this mascu­line fortitude and generosity, that if occasion present, shee will constantly both out-dare and out-brave the torments of the Racke, thereby to prevent her death.

Some three daies after Sypontus was executed, the Iudges againe sit and consult on Victoryna, but finding no evidence nor witnesse to accuse her, they at first are of opi­nion to discharge and free her: onely they deeme it requisite to terrifie, but not to torment her with the Racke, before they give her her liberty: whereunto they all a­gree. So they send for her, and threaten her with the Racke: but shee vowes, that all the torments of the world shall never inforce her to confesse an untruth, and that [Page 98] shee never had the least suspicion that Sypontus was guilty of this execrable Murther of her husband: her Iudges will not yet beleeve her; so they cause her to be carryed to the Racke: whereunto shee very cheerefully and patiently permits her selfe to bee fa­stened, bidding the Executioner doe his worst: which constancie of hers, her Iudges seeing and hearing, they, in pitty and commiseration, as well of her youth and beau­ty, as to her descent, and the teares and prayers of venerable old Beraldi her father, cause her to bee loosed, and so in open Court acquit and discharge her.

Here wee see this wretched Courtizans Victoryna acquitted of her Iudges for her husbands Murther, so as triumphing more in her good fortune, then her innocencie, shee now thinkes the storme of her punishment past and ore-blowne, and that no fu­ [...]e can possibly bee reserved for her, or shee for it: but her hopes will deceive her: for although shee have made her peace with Earth, yet shee hath not with Heaven; and although she have deluded the eyes of her Iudges, yet she shall not those of God; but when his appoynted houre, and her due time is come, then her crimes and sins, her adultery and Murther shall draw down vengeance from heaven to her confusion. In the meane time wee shall see this Monster, and disgrace of her sexe, make such bad use of her former danger, as shee will againe adde bloud to bloud, and Murther to Murther; but God will reserve not onely the rod of his wrath for her correction, but the full viols of his indignation for her confusion; as the sequell will shew thee.

Sixe moneths are scarce past, since the Murther of her husband Souranza, and the execution of her Enamorata Sypontus, but shee hath already quite forgotten these two mournefull ard tragicall accidents: and which is more, shee is so frolike and youth­full, as shee hath throwne off her mourning attire, and drawne on her rich apparell and glittering jewels, whereof the curiosity of the nobler sort of Gentlemen and La­dies of the Citie take exact observation: and although Beraldi and Lucia, her fathe [...] and mother, herein taxe her of indiscretion and immodesty, yet shee thinkes he [...] selfe exempt of their commands, and therefore will doe it, out of the ambitious privi­ledge of her owne uncontrolable authority and wilfulnesse. Besides, her thought are so youthfull, and her carriage so light, as notwithstanding shee came (as it were but now from burying of her first husband, yet shee is resolved without delay, t [...] have a second: her father and mother checke her of levity and incivility in imbra­cing this resolution: but in vaine: for her impudencie returnes them this immodest an­swer, that shee will not trifle away her time, but marry. They advize her to bee cau­tious, and to doe nothing rashly in this her second match, that the misfortune an [...] scandall of her first may no more reflect on her. But shee will make choyce for he [...] selfe by the eyes of her youth, and not by those of their age; by those of her own [...] fancie, and not by these of their election. Her husband Souranza dyed rich, both [...] lands and monies, and his Widdow Victoryna, without any opposition, injoyeth all: [...] shee needs not looke out for Suters, for there are Gallants enow who sue and seek [...] her: but of them all, hee whom shee best and chiefly affecteth, is one Seignior Loud­vicus Fassino, a very neat and proper young Gentleman of the Citie, rich, and we [...] descended; his parents and kinsmen for the most part being Clarissimo's and Senator [...] and all of them Gentlemen of Venice; and him Victoryna desires, and resolves to mak [...] her husband, grounding her chiefest reason and affection on this resolution and foun­dation, that as Souranza was too old for her, so Fassino was young enough, and there­fore fit to bee her husband, and shee his wife, measuring him wholly by his exterio [...] personage, and not so much as once prying either into his vices or vertues. Fassin [...] who carryed a vicious and pernicious heart under a pleasing gesture and tongue, an [...] loving Victoryna's wealth more then her beauty, observing her affection and respect t [...] him, seekes, courts, and wins her. Her Parents understanding hereof, as also th [...] [Page 99] Fassino is a vicious and debosht Gentleman, with all their possible power and authori­tie, they seeke to divert their daughter from him. But shee is deafe to their requests, and resolved, that as shee followed the streame of their commands in her first match, so shee will now the current of her owne pleasures and affections in this her second: and so, to the wonder of Venice, and the griefe of all her parents and friends, before shee had above ten dayes conferred with Fassino, shee marries him. But this match shall not succeed according to their desires: for Victoryna shall shortly repent it, and Fassino as­soone rue and smart for it; sith it is a maxime, that sudden affections proove seldome prosperous: for if they have not time to settle and take root, they are incident assoone to fade as flourish, especially if they are contracted and grounded more for lust then love, and more for wealth then vertue.

The first moneth of this marriage, Fassino keepes good correspondence and obser­vance with his wife, but thence-foorth hee breakes Pale, and rangeth: for the truth is, although hee were but a young Gentleman, yet (which is lamentable) hee was an old whore-master: which lascivious profession of his, threatens the ruine, not onely of his health, but of his fortune and reputation: so now, when hee should bee at home, he is abroad: yea, not onely by day, but by night, that upon the whole, Victoryna is more a widdow then a wife: at which unlook'd and unwish'd for newes, shee not onely bites the lip, but very often puts finger in her eye and weeps: for it gripes & grieves her at heart, to see her selfe thus slighted, neglected, and abused by Fassino, whom, of all the Gallants of the Citie, shee had elected and chosen for her husband: shee is infinitely grieved hereat, and yet her griefe and sorrow infinitely exceeds her jealousie: and now as gracelesse as shee is, shee thinks God hath purposely sent her this lascivious Fassino for her second husband, as a just plague and punishment, to revenge her adultery com­mitted against Souranza her first: so, had shee had more grace, and lesse vanitie and im­pietie, she would have made better use of this consideration, and not so [...]oone forgotten it, and in it, her selfe.

Now as it is the nature of jealousie, to haue more eyes then Argus, and so to prie and see every where: Victoryna, her curiositie, or rather her malice heerein, finds out, that her Husband Fassino familiarly frequenteth and useth the company of many Courtezans, especially of the Lady Paleriana, one of the most famous and reputed beauties of Venice: and this newes indeed strikes her at the very gall with sorrow and [...]exation; faine shee would reforme and remedy this vice of her husband, but how shee knowes not, for shee sees little or no hope to reclaime him, sith he not onely ten­derly loves Paleriana, but which is worse, shee apparantly sees, that for her sake, hee [...]ontemnes her selfe and her company: for when hee comes home, he hath no delight [...] her, but onely in his Lute or Bookes, which is but to passe his melancholly, for his Lady Paleriana's absence, till hee againe revisit her: so as wholly neglected, and as I [...]ay truly say, almost forsaken of her husband, shee knowes not what to doe, nor how [...] beare her selfe in those furious stormes of her griefe, and miserable tempest of her [...]ealousie. But of two different courses to reclaime him from this his sinne of whore­ [...]ome, shee takes the worst: for in stead of counselling and distwading her Hus­ [...]and, shee torments him with a thousand scandalous and injurious speeches: but [...]is, in stead of quenching, doth but onely bring oyle to the flame of his lust: for if [...]ee repayred home to her seldome before, now hee scarce at all comes neere her: [...] as shee is a Wife, yet no Wife: and hath a Husband, yet no Husband: but this is [...]ot the way to reclaime him, for faire speeches and sweet exhortations may prevaile, [...]hen choller cannot.

And now it is, that this wretched and execrable Lady againe assumes bloudy reso­ [...]ions against her second Husband, as shee had formerly done against her first, vowing [Page 100] that he shall die, ere shee will live to bee thus contemned and abused of him: yea, her hot love to him is so soone growne cold, and her servent affection already so frozen, that now shee thinkes on nothing else but how to be revenged, and to be rid of him; and is so impious and gracelesse, as she cares not how, nor in what manner soever shee send him from this world to another: for the devill hath drawne a resolution from her, or rather she from the devill, that here he shall not much longer live. Good God! what an impious and wretched fury of hell will Victoryna proove her selfe here on Earth? for the blood and life of one husband cannot quench the thirst of her lust and revenge, but shee must and will imbrue her hands in that of two: as if it were not e­nough for her to trot, but that shee will needs gallop and ride post to hell. O what pi­tie is it to see a Lady so wretched and execrable! O what an execrable wretchednesse is it, to see a Lady so inhumane, and so devoyd of pitie! But the devill is strong with her, because her faith is weake with God: therefore she will advance, shee will not re­tire in this her bloody designe and resolution. Wherefore wee shall shortly see Fassino his adulterie punished with death, by his wife Victoryna's revenge; and this murther of hers justy rewarded and revenged with the punishment of her owne: the bloodyer our actions are, the severer Gods judgements, and the sharper his re­venge will bee.

Of all sorts and degrees of inhumane and violent deaths, this wretched Lady Victo­ryna thinks poyson the surest, and yet the most secret to dispatch her husband. This in­vention came immediately from the devill, and is onely practised by his members: of which number shee will desperately and damnably make herselfe one: her lust and re­venge, like miserable Advocates, and fatall Orators, perswade her to this execrable at­tempt, wherein by cutting off her husbands life, she shall find that shee likewise casts a­way her owne. So neither Grace nor Nature prevailing, shee sends for an Apothecary, named Augustino; and when she hath conjured, and he promised his secrecie, shee ac­quaints him, that her new husband Fassino keeps Courtisans to her nose, and daily and hourely offereth her many other insupportable abuses and disgraces; in requitall and revenge whereof she is resolved to poyson him, and prayes him to undertake and per­forme it, and that she will reward him with three hundred Zekynes for his labour.

Of all professions and faculties, there are good and bad: Augustino loves God too wel, herein to obey the devil: he hath too much grace, to be so impious and gracelesse, and vowes, that he will not buy gold at so deare a rate, as the price of blood; so as a good Christian, and true child of God, he not onely refuseth Victoryna's motion and proffer, but in religious termes seeks to divert and perswade her from this her bloody attempt. But she is resolute in her malice, and wilfull in her revenge, and therfore will performe it her selfe, sith this Augustino will not: so (by a second hand) she procures poyson from a strange Empericke, whereof the Citie of Venice, more then other of Italy, aboundeth: so she onely waits for an opportunitie, which very shortly, though, alas, too too soone, presents it selfe; the manner thus:

It is impossible that Fassino his dissolute life, and extreme deboshing can keepe him long from sicknesse; for this punishment is alwayes incident and hereditary to that sinne. Hee complaines thereof to his wife Victoryna, who receives this newes rather with gladnesse, then commiseration and pitie: and so taking his bed, hee prayes her to make him some comfortable hot broath for his stomack: which newes she heares, and imbraceth inwardly with joy, outwardly with disdaine. For albeit shee layes hold of this opportunitie to poyson him, yet she dissembles her malice; and the better to colour her villany, because she knowes it the smoother and shorter way to be reven­ged in poysoning him, shee will not make the broath herselfe, but commands her maid Felicia to doe it, (of whom wee have formerly spoken, in the discovery of Sypontus his [Page 101] Letter to her Vnkle Hieronymo Souranza:) which treacherous office of hers, our malici­ous and devillish Victoryna her Lady and Mistresse, hath now a plot in her head, to re­quite with an execrable and hellish recompence: for whiles Felicia is boyling of the broath, her Lady Victoryna trips to her chamber and closet, and fetcheth out the poy­son, inveloped in a paper, whereof shee takes two parts and brings downe with her, and whiles she had purposely sent Felicia from the fire, shee runnes and throwes it into the broath, which for the present no whit altered the colour thereof: so Fassino calling for it, this poore innocent Gentlewoman Felicia, (not suspecting or dreaming of poy­son) gives it him, which (as ignorant thereof) hee sups up; and this was about nine or ten of the clocke in the morning.

Now whiles Felicia is acting this mournfull Tragedie in Fassino his chamber, her Lady Victoryna is acting another in hers; for shee takes the other third part of the poyson, and secretly opening Felicia's trunke, puts it into a painted boxe which shee found therein, and so lockes it againe, hoping (though indeed with a wretched and hel­lish hope) that her hu [...]band being dead, his body opened, and the poyson found in her trunke, shee would give out that Felicia had poysoned him with broath that morne, and this found in her chest, would make her guiltie of the murther; for the which she knew she must needs die. See, see, the devillish double malice of this wretched Ladie Victoryna, as well to her husband Fassino, as her mayd Felicia! But as finely as the de­vill hath taught her to spinne the thread of this her malice and revenge, yet though her plot have taken effect and hold of her husband, neverthelesse shee shall in the end fayle of hers to innocent Felicia: in the interim, though to the eyes of the world it seeme at first to succeed according to her desires by the bye, yet it shall not in the maine: but that murther, and this treason of Victoryna shall not goe long either unde­tected, or unpunished.

This poyson working in Fassino his stomacke and body, begins by degrees to cut off his vitall spirits, so as his strength failes him, his red cheekes already looke pale and earthly, and his body infinitely swels: he cals for his wife Victoryna, who with all haste and expedition tells her secretly, that hee feares, Felicia hath poysoned him with the broath she gave him in the morning; and so requesteth her to send for his Parents and friends to bee present at his death, for live hee could not. Victoryna, like a dissembling shee-devill, teares her hayre for anger, and for meere sorrow seemes to drowne her selfe in her teares at this newes, kisseth and fawnes on her husband, and in all possible haste sends away of all sides for his kinsefolkes and friends, who hastily repayre thi­ther, and finde Fassino almost dead: so they, with teares, inquire his sicknesse; when with open voyce his wife Victoryna cries out, that her wretched mayd Felicia had with broath, that morne, poysoned him; which Fassino his memory and tongue yet serve him to confesse and averre, word for word, as his wife Victoryna had related them: whereat they are all sorrowfull, and weepe, and then, and there cause Felicia to bee ap­prehended and shut fast in a chamber; who (poore harmelesse yong Gentlewoman) is amazed at the terrour and strangenesse of this newes, and cries out and weepes so bit­terly, as she seemes to melt her selfe into teares, only she knowes herselfe innocent, and yet feares that this malice and revenge proceeds to her from her Lady Victoryna. Whiles Felicia is thus under sure keeping, her Master Fassino dyes: which newes is soone dispersed and divulged abroad, to the griefe and admiration of the whole Citie. The next morne the criminall Iudges are advertised hereof, who repaire to Fassino his house, who by this time is dead, & there see his breathles carkasse, which they o [...]daine to be opened: the poyson is apparantly found on his stomack, in its naturall & pristine colour; when examining first Fassino, then Victoryna's parents, they report Fassino his owne words uttered a little before his death, that Felicia had that morne poysoned him [Page 102] with broth: which is averred by Victoryna, who saith, she saw her give it him. So they send away poore Felicia to priso [...], but yet with a vehement suspicion, that this poyso­ned arrow came out of Victoryna her owne quiver, which they the sooner beleeve, in respect of her former troubles, and [...]spicion for the murther of her first husband Sou­ranza: So the Iudges returne and b [...]ake themselves, that very instant, to their Tribu­nall of Iustice, in the Dukes Palace of Saint Markes: where they send for Felicia, who is brought them, unaccompanied of any: for as misfortune would, both her Vnkle Hieronymo, and her Cousin Andrea [...], w [...]re then at Corfu, imployed in some pub­like affaires for the Seigniory. The Iudge [...] examine Felicia, concerning the broth and poyson she gave her Master. Shee bitterly sighing and weeping, confesseth the broath, but denies the poyson; vowing by h [...]r part and hope of heaven, shee never touched nor kn [...]w what poyson was, and desired no favour of them, if it were found or proo­v [...]d against he [...]; withall, she acquaints them, that she feares it is a tricke of malice and revenge, clapt on her by her Lady Victoryna, for the discovery of Sypontus his letter. And to speake truth, the Iudges in their hearts partly adhere and concurre with her in this opinion: they demand her whether her Lady Victoryna touched this broath, either by the fire, or the bed? Shee, according to the truth, answers, that to her knowledge or sight, she touched it not, nor no other but her selfe. So they send her againe to prison, and retur [...]e speedily to Fassino his house; where committing Victoryna to a sure guard, they ascend her chamber and closet, search all her trunkes, caskets and boxes, for poy­son, but find none: and the like they doe to Felicia's trunkes, which they breake open, shee having the key; and in a boxe find a quantitie of the same poyson, whereby it was apparant shee absolutely poysoned her Master Fassino. The Iudges having thus found out and revealed, as they thought, the true author of this murther, they descend, a­gaine examine Victoryna, and so acquit her. Poore Felicia is advertised hereof; where­at shee is amazed and astonished, and thinkes that some witch or devill cast it there for her destruction. Shee is againe sent for before her Iudges, who produce the poyson found in her trunke: she denies both the poyson and the murther, with many sighs and teares: so they adjudge her to the racke, wh [...]ch torment she suffereth with much pati­ence and constancie; notwithstanding, her Iudges considering that shee made and gave Fassino the broath, that none touched it but her selfe, that hee dyed of it, and that they found the remainder of the poyson in her trunke, they thinke her the murtherer; so they pronounce sentence, that the next morne shee shall bee hanged at Saint Markes place. Shee poore soule is returned to her prison; she bewailes her misfortune thus to die, and be cast away innocently, taxing her Iudges of injustice, as her soule is ready to answere it to God.

All Venice pratleth of this cruell murther committed by this yong Gentlewoman; but for her Lady Victoryna, shee triumphs and laughs like a Gypsey, to see how with one stone shee hath given two strokes, and how one poore drug hath freed her this day of her husband Fassino, and will to morrow of Felicia, of whom she rejoyceth in her selfe, that now shee hath cryed quittance for the discovery of Sypontus his Letter, which procured his death: but her hopes may deceive her, or rather, the devill will deceive both her and her hopes too. How true or false, righteous or sinfull our actions bee, God in his due time will make them appeare in their naked colours, and reward those with glory, and these with shame.

The next morne, according to the laudable custome of Venice, the mourners of the Seigniory accompany our sorrowfull Felicia to the place of execution, where she mo­destly ascendeth the ladder, with much silence, pensivenesse & affliction: at the sight of whose youth and beautie, most of that great infinitie of Spectators cannot refraine from teares, and commiserating and pitying, that so sweet a young Gentlewoman should [Page 103] come to so infamous and untimely a death: when Felicia lifting up her hands, and e­recting her eyes and heart towards heaven, she briefly speaks to this effect: Sheetakes Heaven & earth to witnesse, that she is innocent of the poysoning of her Master Fassino, and ignorant how that poyson should bee brought into her Trunke; that as her know­ledge cannot accuse, so her Conscience will not acquit her Lady Victorina of that fact, onely she leaves the detection and judgement thereof to God, that being ready to for­sake the world, si [...]h the world is resolved to forsake her, shee as much triumphs in her innocencie, as grieves at her misfortune: and that she may not only appeare in Earth, but be found in Heaven a true Christian, shee first forgives her Lady Victorina, and her Iudges, and then beseecheth God to forgive her all her sinnes, whereunto shee humbly and heartily prayes all that are present, to adde their prayers to hers: and so shee begins to take off her band, and to prepare her selfe to die.

Now, Christian Reader, what humane wisdome, or earthly capacitie would here con­ceive or thinke, that there were any sublunary meanes left for this comfortlesse Gentle­woman Felicia, either to hope for life, or to flatter her selfe that she could avoid death? But loe, as the children of God cannot fall, because he is the defender of the innocent, and the protector of the righteous, therefore we shall see to our comforts, and finde to Gods glory, that this innocent yong Gentlewoman shall be miraculously freed of her dangers, and punishment, and her inveterate arch enemy Victoryna brought in her stead, to receive this shamefull death, in expiation of the horrible murthers of her two hus­bands, which God will now discover, and make apparant to the eyes of the world: for as the Fryers and Nunnes prepare Felicia, to take her last farewell of this world, and so to shut up her life in the direfull and mournfull Catastrophe of her death; Behold, by the providence and mercie of God, the Apothecarie Augustino (of whom this ou [...] Hi­storie hath formerly made an honest and religious mention) arrives from Cape [...]stria: and having left his ship at Malmocco, lands in a Gondola at Saint Markes stayres; when knowing and seeing an execution towards, he thrusts himselfe in amongst the crowd of people: where beholding so young and so faire a Gentlewoman, ready to die: he demaunds of those next by him, what shee was, and her crime: when being answe­red, that her name was Felicia, a wayting Gentlewoman to the Lady [...]orina, who had poysoued her Master Fassino: at the very first report of the [...] Victoryna, and her husband Fassino, Augustino his blood flasheth up in his face, and his heart be­gan to beat within him, when demanding if no other were accessary to this murther: hee was informed, that her Lady Victoryna was vehemently suspected thereof: but she was cleared, and onely Felicia, this young Gentlewoman found guiltie thereof: which words were no sooner delivered him, but God putting into his heart and remem­brance, that this Lady Vectorina would have formerly seduced him for three hundred Zeckynes, to have poysoned her husband Fassino, hee confidently beleeving this young Gentlewoman innocent heereof, with all possible speed, as fast as his legges could drive, hee runnes up to the Southeast part of the corner of the Gallery of the Dukes Palace, where the Officers sit to see execution done; the which he requesteth for that time to stop, because he hath something to say concerning the murther of Signiour Fas­sino. Whereupon they call out to the Executioner to forbeare: which b [...]ed inf [...] ad­miration in all the Spectators, as wondring at the cause and reason therof, when in con­stant and discreet termes, Augustino informes the Iudges, that hee thinks [...] inno­cent, and her Lady Victoryna guiltie of this murther, and so [...] [...]m [...]er, time, and place where Victorina her selfe seduced him to poyson her [...] F [...]no, how she proffered him three hundred Zeckynes to performe it, which hee refused, and to the utmost of his power, sought to disswade her from thi [...] bloody and execrable businesse. The Iudges are astonished at the strangenes of this newes, which they begin [Page 104] confidently to beleeve, and so blesse the houre of Augustino's arrivall, that hath with­held them from spilling the innocent bloud of Felicia, when commanding her from the place of execution, to her prison, they instantly give order for the Lady Victoryna's apprehension, who already had built trophees and triumphs of joy in her heart, to see that all her bloudy designes so well succeeded. But now is the Lords appoynted time come, wherein al her cruell Murthers, whoredome, treachery, and hypocrisie, shall be brought to light and punished: yea, now it shall no longer be in her power, or in that of the devill, her Schoolmaster & Seducer, either to diminish the least part of her punish­ment, or to adde the least moment or poynt of time to her life. Shee is all in teares at her apprehension, but they rather ingender envie, then pittie in her Iudges: And so from the delights and pleasures of her house, she is hastily conveyed to prison.

Her Iudges, in honour to the sacred dignity of Iustice (the Queene of Earth, and the daughter of Heaven) confront her with Augustino, who averres his former deposi­tion, as constantly in her face, as shee denies it impudently in his. But this will not prevaile her: for now God hath made the probabilities, or rather the sight of her crime too apparant. So without any regard to her prayers, teares, or exclamations, they ad­j [...]dge her to the Racke, where the tendernesse of her limbs, the sharpnesse of her tor­ments, but especially the griefes and pinches of her conscience, make her acquit Feli­cia, acknowledge Augustino his evidence, and condemne her selfe to be the author both of her first husbands stabbing, as also her seconds poysoning: her Iudges as much praise God for her confession, as they detest and are astonished at the falsenesse of these her horrible crimes. So with much joy they first free innocent Felicia of her unjust impri­sonment; and then knowing it pitty that so wretched a Lady as Victoryna should live a­ny longer, they, for her abominable cruelties and inhumanities, condemne her the next morne to be hang'd and burnt on Saint Markes Place. At the knowledge and divulging of which newes, as her father, mother, and kinsfolkes extreamely grieve, so all Venice blesse and glorifie God, first, that innocent Felicia is saved, and guilty Victoryna detected and condemned to the shame and punishment of a deserved death.

The same night the Priests and Friers deale with her about the state of her soule, and its pilgrimage and transmigration to heaven: they find that her youth, lust, and revenge hath taken a strange possession of the devill, and hee in them: for she still loves the memory of Sypontus, and envies and detests that of her two husbands, Souranza and Fassino: but they deale effectually with her, and in their speeches depainting her forth the joyes of heaven, and the torments of hell, they at last happily prevaile, and so make her forsake the vanity and impiety of these her passions, by rellishing the sweet shown of Gods mercies: so the next morne shee is brought to her execution; where the world expecting to heare much matter from her, she is very pensive and contempla­tive, and sayes little, onely she prayes Felicia to forgive her; as also all the Parents of her two Husbands, Souranza and Fassino, and likewise of Sypontus; but chiefly shee in­vokes God her Saviour and Redeemer, to pardon these her horrible sinnes of adulte­ry and murther, and beseecheth all that are present to pray for her soule; and so ac­cording to her sentence, she is first hang'd, then burnt: whereat all that great affluence and concourse of people praise the providence and justice of God, in cutting off this female monster and shame of her sexe Victoryna: whose tragicall and mournefull Hi­story may we all reade and remember, with detestation, that the example hereof bee our forewarning and caveat, not to trust in the deceiveable lusts of the flesh, and the treacherous tentations of the devill, but to rely on the mercies and promises of God which will never faile his elect, but will assuredly make them happy in their lives, bles­sed in their deathes, and constantly glorious in their resurrections.

GODS REVENGE AGAINST THE CRYING AND EXE­crable sinne of Murther.
HISTORIE VII.

HOw foolishly and impiously doth our malice betray our selves, or the devill our soules, when we maliciously betray others? for wee are as farre from Grace as Wisedome, when wee permit either irre­gular affection, or unlawfull passion, to hale us on to choller, chol­ler to revenge, and revenge to Murther: Nay, how exempt are we of Religion, and devoyd of all Christian piety and charity, when our thoughts are so eclipsed, and our judgements darkened, when our consciences are so defiled, and our soules so polluted with revenge, that the eldest sister seekes to poyson her younger, and this younger afterwards murthereth her owne and only brother, be­cause in a Duell he had formerly slaine her Lover? Alasse, alasse, these are bloudy acci­dents, which not only fight against Grace, but Nature, not only against earth, but Hea­ven, and not only against our soules, but against God; neither are these the only Tra­gedies that our insuing History reporteth and relateth: for wee shall therein farther see a wretched Wayting-gentlewoman poysoned by her more wretched Lady and Mi­stresse, together with her execrable Agent, a bloudy and gracelesse Empericke: and all justly revenged, and severely punished by the sword of Gods wrath and indignati­on. Wherein the Christian Reader may observe, as well to Gods glory, as his owne consolation, that never pretended or actuall Murthers were either contrived more se­cretly, perpetrated more closely, detected more miraculously, or punished more strangely and severely: so as if the devill have not fully possest our hearts and soules, or if our thoughts and resolutions doe yet retaine the least sparke of Grace and Chri­stianity, we shall flie their crimes by the sight and feare of their punishments, refetch [Page 106] our wandring and erronious senses, from hell to earth, purposely to erraise them from Earth to Heaven; and so religiously to give and consecrate, both them, and our selves, and soules, from sinne to righteousnesse, and consequently (with as much felicitie as glorie) from Satan to God.

THere dwelt in the Citie of Avero in Portugall, an ancient Nobleman, termed Don Gasper de Vilarezo, rich in either qualitie of earthly greatnesse, as well of blood as revenewes, who was neerely allied to the Marquesse of Denia (in Spaine) as marrying a Neece of his named Dona Alphanta, a Lady exquisitely endued with the ornaments of Nature, and the perfections of Grace: for she was both faire and vertuous, that adding lustre to these, and these returning and reflecting embellishment to that, which made her infinitely beloved of her husband Vilarezo, and exceedingly honoured of all those who had the honour to know her; and to crowne the felicitie of their affections and marriage, they had three hopefull children, one sonne, and two daughters: he termed Don Sebastiano, and they the Donas, Catalina, and Berinthia: Hee having attained his fifteenth yeare, was by his Father made Page to Count Manriques de Lopez, and con­tinually followed him at Court, and they from their tenth to their thirteenth yeares, lived sometimes at Coimbra, otherwhiles at Lisbone, but commonly at Avero with their Parents, who so carefully trained them up in those qualities and perfections, requisite for Ladies of their ranke, as they were no sooner seene, but admired of all who saw them.

But before wee make a farther progression in this Historie, (thereby the better to unfold and anatomize it) I hold it rather necessarie then impertinent, that wee take a cursory, though not a curious survey of both these young Ladies perfections and im­perfections, of their vices and vertues, their beautie and deformitie: that as objects are best knowne by the opposition of their contraries: so by the way of comparison wee may distinguish how to know, and know how to distinguish of the disparitie of these two sisters, in their inclinations, affections, and delineations.

Catalina was somewhat short of stature, but corpulent of body: Berinthia tall, but slender: Catalina was of taint and complexion, more browne then faire: Berinthia not browne, but sweetly faire, or fairely sweet: Catalina had a disdainefull, Berinthia a gracious eye: Catalina was proud, Berinthia humble. In a word, Catalina was of hu­mour extreamely imperious, ambitious, and revengefull, and Berinthia modestly cour­teous, gracious and religious. So these two young Ladies growing now to bee capa­ble of marriage, many gallant Cavaliers of Avero become Servants and Suiters to them, as well in respect of their Fathers Nobilitie and wealth, as for their owne beau­ties and vertues: yea, their fame is generally so spread, that from Lisbone, and most of the chiefest Cities of Portugall, divers Nobles and Knights resort to their Father Don Vilarezo's house, to proffer up their affections to the dignitie and merits of his daugh­ters. But his age finding their youth too young to bee acquainted with the secrets and mysteries of marriage▪ puts them all off, either in generall termes, or honourable excu­ses, as holding the matching of his daughters of so eminent and important considera­tion, as hee thinkes it fit hee should advisedly consult, and not rashly conclude them: which affection and care of Parents to their Children, is still as honourable as com­mendable.

Don Sebastiano their brother, being often both at Madrid, Vallidolyd and Lisbone, be­comes very intimately and singularly acquainted with Don Antonio de Rivere [...], a noble and rich young Cavalier, by birth likewise a Portugall, of the Citie of Elvas, who was first and chiefe Gentleman to the Duke of Bragansa; and the better to unite and per­petuate their familiaritie, hee proffers him his eldest sister in marriage, and prayes him [Page 107] at his first conveniencie, to ride over to Avero to see her, offering himselfe to accom­pany him in this journey, and to second him in that enterprize, as well towards his father as sister. Don Antonio very kindly and thankfully listeneth to Don Sebastiano's courteous and affectionate proffer; and knowing it so farre from the least disparage­ment, as it was a great happinesse and honour for him to match himselfe in so noble a Family, they assigne a day for that journey, against when, Don Antonio makes readie his preparatives and traine in all respects answerable to his ranke and generositie. They arrive at Avero, where Don Gasper de Vilarezo, for his owne worth, and his sonnes report, receives Don Antonio honourably, and entertaines him courteously: he visiteth and saluteth, first the mother, then the two young Ladies her daughters: and although hee cannot dislike Catalina, yet so precious and amiable is sweet Ber [...]nthia in [...] eye, as hee no sooner sees, but loves her: yea, her piercing eye, her vermillion ch [...]ke, and delicate stature, act such wonders in his heart, as hee secretly proclaimes himselfe her Servant, and publikely shee his Mistresse: to which end hee takes time and opportu­nitie at advantage, and so reveales her so much in termes, that intimate the servencie of his zeale, and endeare the zeale of his affection and constancy. Berinthia entertaines his motion and speeches with many blushes, which now and then cast a rosiat vaile ore the milke-white lillies of her complexion; and to speake truth, if Antonio bee inamou­red of Berinthia, no lesse is shee of him: so as not only their eyes, but their contemp [...] ­tions and hearts seeme already to sympathize, and burne in the flame of an equall af­fection. In a word, by stealth hee courts her often. And not [...]o de [...]aine my Reader in the intricate Labyrinth of the whole passages of their loves, Antonio for this time finds Berinthia in this resolution, that as she hath not the will to grant, so she hath not the power to deny his suit: the rest, time will produce.

But so powerfully doe the beautie and vertues of sweet Berinthia worke in [...] his affections, that impatient of delayes, hee findes out her father and mother, and in due termes (requisite for him to give, and they receive) demaunds their daughter Be­rinthia in marriage. Vilarezo thanking Antonio for this honour, replies, that of his two daughters, hee thinkes Berinthia his younger as unworthy of him, as Catalina his eldest worthily bestowed on him. Antonio answeres, that as he cannot deny but Catalina is faire, yet hee must confesse that Berinthia is more beautifull to his eye, and more plea­sing to his thoughts. Vilarezo lastly replies, that he will first match Catalina, ere Berin­thia, and that he is as content to give him the first, as not as yet resolved to dispose of the second: and so for this time, they on these termes depart, Vilarezo taking Antonio and his sonne Sebastiano with him to hunt a Stag, whereof his adjacent Forrest hath plentie. But whiles Antonio his body pursues the Stag, his thoughts are flying after the beautie of his deare and faire Berinthia; who as the Paragon of Beautie and Nature, sits Em­presse, and Queene-Regent in the Court of his contemplations and affections: hee is wounded at the heart with Vilarezo his answere, and Berinthia to the gall, when he cer­tified her of her fathers resolution, onely modestie (that sweet companion, and preci­ous ornament of Virgins) to the extremitie of her power, endeavored to keepe A [...]to­nio from perceiving or suspecting so much. Antonio prayes his deare friend Sebastiano to perswade his father to give him his sister Berinthia to wife: hee performes the true part of a true friend and a Gentleman, but in vaine: for his father Vilarezo is resolute, first to marry Catalina; when Antonio, not of power so soone to leave the sight and presence of his sweet Berinthia, must invent some matter for his stay. And indeed as Love is the whetstone of wit to give an edge to Invention; so Antonio, to in [...]oy the presence of his faire Berinthia, is inforced to make shew that hee neglects her, and affe­ [...]teth Catalina: and so converseth often with her; but still in generall termes, wherea [...] hee builds many castles of hope and content, in the ayre of her thoughts. For i [...] Be­rinthia [Page 108] loved Antonio, no lesse doth Catalina; strange effects of affection, where two si­sters deeply and dearely love one Gentleman, and when but one, and peradventure nei­ther of them shall enjoy him.

But as Catalina is the pretext, so Berinthia is both the sole object and cause of An­tonio's stay, whom hee courts and layeth close siege to, as often as opportunitie makes him happie in the desired happinesse and felicitie of her company: Shee gives him blushes for his sighes, and sometimes (although a man) the fervencie of his affection was such, as hee cannot refraine from returning her teares for her blushes: when albeit love perswades him to stay longer in Avero, yet discretion calls and commaunds him away to Lisbone: and all the fruit of his journey that he shall carry thither with him, is this, that for injoying of faire Berinthia to his wife, hee conceives farre more reason to hope, then to despaire. Next death, there is no second affliction so grievous or bit­ter to Lovers, as seperation and parting: this Berinthia feeles, but will not acknow­ledge; and this Antonio acknowledgeth, because feeles. After Supper, taking her to a window, hee secretly prayes her to honour him with the acceptance of a poore Scarfe, and plaine paire of Gloves (which notwithstanding were infinitely rich, and wonder­fully faire) in token of his affection; and she, the morne of his departure, by Diego his Page, sends him a Handkerchiefe, curiously wrought with hearts and flames of silke and gold, in signe of her thankfulnesse: he promiseth Berinthia to write, and see her shortly; and Catalina intreats him to be no stranger to Avero. To Catalina hee gives many words, but few kisses; to Berinthia many kisses, but more teares: His depar­ture makes Berinthia sad, as grieving at his absence; and Catalina joyfull, as hoping of his returne: Catalina triumphs for joy, hoping that Antonio shall be her husband; and Berinthia now begins to looke pale with sorrow, fearing shee shall not bee so happy to bee his wife. By this time breakfast is served in, when Sebastiano comes, takes Anto­nio and his two sisters, and carries them to the Parlour, where Vilarezo and his wife Alphanta attend Antonio's comming. They all sit downe; and although their fare bee curious, yet Antonio's eyes feed and feast upon more curious dainties; as the sparkling eyes, flaxen haire, and vermillion cheekes of Berinthia's incomparable beautie, which is observed of all parts, except of Berinthia, who is so secret and cautious in her carri­age, as although her affection, yet her discretion will not permit her modestie either to observe or see it. Breakfast ended, Antonio taking Vilarezo, and his wife Alphanta apart, first gives them infinite thankes for his honourable and courteous entertainment, and then very earnestly againe prayes them not to reject his suit for their daughter Berinthia. Vilarezo and his wife pray Antonio to excuse his bad reception, which they know comes many wayes short of his deserts and merits, and also request him to imbrace their motion for their daughter Catalina. Thus after many other comple­ments, he takes his conge of Vilarezo, kisseth his wife and two daughters, first Catali­na, then Berinthia, who though last in yeares, yet is the first Lady in his desires and thoughts, and the onely Queene of his affections. So they are as it were inforced to make a vertue of necessitie, and to take a short farewell, in stead of a more solemne, which either of them wished, and both desired; but their eyes dictate to their hearts, what their tongues cannot expresse: and so Antonio and Sebastiano take Coach, and away for Lisbone, Antonio as much triumphing in the beautie of his faire Berinthia, as his friend Sebastiano grieves, that of his two Sisters, Antonio would not accept of Ca­talina, nor his father consent to give him Berinthia for his wife: notwithstanding, they confirme their familiaritie and friendship with many interchangeable and reciprocall protestations; that sith they cannot be brothers, they will live and die deare and inti­mate friends: but I feare the contrary.

Being arrived at Lisbone, Antonio feeles strange alterations in his thoughts and pas­sions. [Page 109] For now hee is so intangled in the fetters of Berinthia's beautie and vertues, that hee will see no other object but her Idea, nor (almost) speake of any Lady, but of her selfe; and in these his amorous contemplations hee both rejoyceth and triumpheth; but againe remembring the assurance of Vilarezo his refusall, and the incertaintie of Berinthia's affection and consent, his hopes are nipt in their blossomes, and his joyes as soone fade as flourish; he wisheth that Avero were Lisbone, and either himselfe in Avero with Berinthia, or shee in Lisbone with him. To attempt the one, hee holds it as great a folly, as a vanitie to wish the other: But hee bethinkes himselfe of a remedie for this his perplexitie, and reputes himselfe obliged in the bonds, as well of respect, as love, to write to his faire Berinthia: and then againe hee feares that it will find a diffi­cult passage and accesse to her, because of her Fathers distaste, and Sisters jealousie: but the Sunne of his affection doth soone dispell and dissipate these doubts, or rather disperse them as clouds before the winde: and now to prevent those who might at­tempt to intercept his Letters, hee bethinkes himselfe of an invention, as worthy, as commendable in a Lover: hee writes Berinthia a letter, and accompanying it with a rich Diamond, sends it her by Diego his owne Page to Avero, whom purposely and feignedly hee causeth to arme himselfe with this pretext and colour, that he is in love with Ansilva the Lady Catalina's wayting Gentlewoman, and hath now gotten leave of his Master to come to Avero to seeke her in marriage: where after some fifteene dayes he arrives, and very secretly delivers his Masters Ring and Letter to Berinthia, who (sweet Lady) was then tost with the winde of feare, and the waves of sorrow, that in all this time shee heard not from Antonio, doubting indeed lest the change of ayre, places, and objects might have power to change his affection, when now blushing for joy, as much as before shee looked pale for sorrow, she takes the Ring and Letter, and kissing both, secretly flies to her Chamber, when bolting the doore, shee with as much affection as impatience breaking up the seales, therein finds these lines:

Berinthia having againe and againe perused and ore-read this Letter, gives it a thou­sand kisses for his sake who wrote and sent it her, and so very secretly lockes it up in her Casket, as also the Diamond, and now attends an opportunitie to conferre pri­vately with Diego, when hee will resolve to returne to his Master at Lisbone, that shee may returne him an answere, though not so sweet as hee expects, yet not so bitter as hee feares: in the meane time Diego delivereth her father Vilarezo his Masters letter, in favour of his (pretended) sute to Ansilva, as also in thankfulnesse of his entertaine­ment, [Page 110] without naming either Catalina, or Berinthia his daughters, or once mentioning his returne to Avero: whereat Vilarezo grieves, and Catalina bites the lip. But Berinthia cannot but smile to see Antonio his invention, for the safe delivery of his letters, nor yet refraine from laughing in her selfe, to see how cunningly his Page Diego courts An­silva: for hee makes such demonstration of love to her, and shee is so enamoured of him, that Catalina thinkes a short time will finish this match, but hee and her sister Be­rinthia know the contrary. Diego at the end of three dayes is desirous to depart, and Berinthia extremely glad of his resolution to stay no longer: so shee takes her selfe to her chamber, and writes this letter to her Antonio in answer of his.

Having folded up and sealed her Letter, shee findes out Diego, and beckens him to follow her to the garden; where, in one of the Bowers shee delivers him this letter, together with a Rose of Opales, the which in token of her love, shee conjures him with safetie and speed to deliver to his Master Don Antonio. Diego having his dispatch of Berinthia, soone gives Ansilva hers, promising to returne some three weekes after; at which time hee prayes her to expect him: when thanking Vilarezo for his kind en­tertainment, and he bidding him tell his Master hee would be glad to see him in Avero, he leaps to horse, and so poasts away for Lisbone.

I cannot relate with what incredible and infinite joy Antonio receives this Letter and Ring from Berinthia: and to write the truth, I thinke the letter scarce contained so many sillables, as hee often read it over and kissed it: hee sees Berinthia's modestie re­splend and shine in her affection, and her affection in her modesty towards him, where­in hee glories in that, rejoyceth in this, and triumphs in both: but although hee bee sure of her affection, yet hee is not of himselfe; for hee sees her Letter containeth many verball complements, but all of them not one reall promise: and therefore hee cannot repute his tranquillitie and felicitie complete, ere hee bee crowned with this happinesse: besides, hee feares that his absence and her fathers presence, may in tract of time by degrees coole the fervencie of Berinthia's affection; and yet then, hee as soone checkes his owne timiditie, in conceiving the least suspicion of her constancie: now hee thinkes to acquaint his intimate friend and her deare brother Sebastiano with their affections, but then hee condemnes that opinion, and revokes it as erronious and dangerous, and contrary to the rules of love, in sailing without the compasse of Berinthia's advice and commands, by the which hee holds it both safetie and discre­tion to steere his course and actions: Againe, hee so infinitely and earnestly longs to resee his deare and sweet Mistresse, as hee resolves to ride over againe to Avero: but [Page 111] the obstinacie of Vilarezo, and the jealousie of Catalina, make him end that journey ere hee began it. In this perplexitie and contestation of reasons, hee is irresolute what, or what not to doe; but in fine, considering that delayes are dangerous in mat­ters of this nature, hee packes up his baggage, and taking his farewell of Sebastiano, under pretext of his health, leaves Lisbone and the Duke his Lord and Master, and retires to his owne home at Elvas, (where his father dying some three yeeres before, had left him sole heyre to many rich Mannors and Possessions) purposely heereby to bee neere to Avero, that hee might give order for all things, and let slip no occa­sion in the processe and prosecution of his affection. The second day after his arri­vall to Elvas, it being welneere a moneth since hee sent his first, and till then his last Letter to Berinthia, hee now againe dispatcheth his Page Diego with his second Letter to her, by whom hee sends her a chaine of rich pearle, and a paire of gold bracelets richly enammeled. Diego's arrivall is pleasing to Ansilva, but extremely joyfull to Be­rinthia; onely it nipt Catalina's hopes, because shee could not understand by him any certaine resolution or assurance of his Masters comming thither. Diego hath no soo­ner saluted his Ansilva, but (as his more important businesse) hee seekes meanes to speake with Berinthia, which shee her selfe proffereth him: he delivers her his Masters tokens and letter, which sh [...]e very joyfully receiveth, and so trips away to her cham­ber; where opening the seales, shee therein finds these words:

Berinthia having read this Letter, shee approoves of Antonio's feare, and attributes it to the fervencie and sinceritie of his affection: shee esteemes her selfe infinitely happy in her good fortune, and choyce of so brave a Cavalier for her servant, whom shee hopes a little time will make her husband; to which end shee will no longer feed him with delayes, but now resolves, by his Page Diego at his returne to signi­fie him so much: and in a word, to send him her heart, as shee hath already received his. But shee knowes not what the Interim of this time will bring forth.

Passe wee from Berinthia to her Sister Catalina, whose affection is likewise such to Antonio, as by this time shee hath perswaded and induced her Father Vilarezo to write him a Letter in her behalfe by Diego, thereby to draw his resolution, whether hee intend to seeke her for his wife or no; or at least to invite him to Avero. And al­though his affection to her sister Berinthia be kept from her, yet she not onely suspects, but feares it. Glad shee is of the opportunitie of Diego his being there, to convey her [Page 112] Fathers Letter to his Master: and yet that joy of hers is soone dissolved into griefe, because all this time he never vouchsafed to write to her: her affection to him flattreth her still with hope, and yet her judgement in her selfe still suggesteth her despaire; for shee hath alwayes the image of this conceit in her imagination, that Antonio loves her Sister Berinthia, and not her selfe: her suspicion makes her subtill, and so shee deales with Ansilva, to draw the truth heere of from Diego, who having learned his lesson, acteth his part well, and I know not, whether with more fidelitie or discretion, flatly denies it: but loe, here betides an accident, which bewrayes the whole mysterie and History of their affections. On a Sunday morning, when Berinthia was descended to the garden to gather flowers, against her going to Church with her Father and Mo­ther, her Sister Catalina rusheth into her Chamber, to seeke the Historie of Cervan­tez, which the day before shee had lent her; and not finding it either on the Table, or the Window, seekes in the pocket of her gowne, that shee wore the day before; and there unwittingly, and unexpectedly finds the last Letter that Antonio had sent her; whereby shee perceived, it was in vaine for her to hope to enjoy Antonio, sith shee now apparantly saw that hee was her sister Berinthia's, and shee his. Catalina is hereat both sorrowfull and glad; sorrowfull, that shee should lose Antonio, and glad that shee had found his Letter. And now to shew her affection to him, and her malice to her sister, shee will trie her wits, to see whether shee can frustrate Berinthia, and so obtaine Antonio for her selfe. The passions of men may easily be found out and detected, but the secrets and malice of women difficultly. To which end Catalina shewes this letter to her Father, who exceedingly stormes hereat, and with many checkes and frownes curbes Berinthia of her libertie, and resolves in his first letter to Antonio, to forbid hi [...] his house, and her company, except hee will leave Berinthia, and take Catalina: and suspecting that his Page Diego's courting of Ansilva, was but onely a policie and co­lour, thereby to convey Letters betwixt his daughter Berinthia and his Master; he once thought to give him his Conge, and prohibit him his house, had not Catalina prayed the contrary, who would no way displease her wayting-Gentlewoman Ansilva, because she was to use her aid and assistance in a matter of great importance: the unlocking and dilating whereof is thus:

Catalina her affection to Antonio, and consequently her malice to her sister Berinthi [...] is so violent, that as her father hath bereaved her of a great part of her libertie, so she is so bloudy and cruell, as she vowes to deprive her of her life: a hellish resolution i [...] any woman, but a most unnaturall and damnable attempt of one Sister to another but wanting Faith, which is the foundation and bulwarke; and Religion, which is the preservative and Antidote of our soules, she runnes so wilfully hood-wink'd from God to the devill, as she will advance, and disdaines to retire, till her malicious and jealous thirst be quenched with her sisters blood: to which end she perswades and bribes An­silva with a hundred duckets, to poyson her sister Berinthia, and promiseth her so much more, when she hath effected it: whereunto this wretched and execrable yong waiting Gentlewoman consenteth, and in briefe, promiseth to performe it: But God hath o­therwise decreed and ordained. To which end she sends into the City for some strong poyson by an unknowne messenger, which is instantly brought her in a small galley pot. But let us heere both admire and wonder at Gods miraculous discovery and prevention thereof: For that very night, when Ansilva had determinately resolved to have poysoned the Lady Berinthia, Diego seekes out his Mistresse Ansilva, and finds her solitarily alone in one of the close over-shadowed Bowers of the garden, whom hee salutes and entertaine; with many amorous discourses, and more kisses; in the mid­dest whereof his nose fell suddenly on bleeding, whereat hee admired, and shee grie ved; till at last having bloodied all his owne handkerchiefe, Ansilva rusheth hastily t [...] [Page 113] her pocket for hers for him, which suddenly drawing forth, her affection to Diego ha­ving made her quite forget her poyson, shee with her handkerchiefe drawes out the galley-pot, which falling on the floore of the bower, (that was paved with square stones) it immediatly burst in pieces; when Diego's Spaniell licking up the poyson, in­stantly sweld, and died before them. Whereat Diego grew amazed, but farre more An­silva, who blushing with shame, & then growing pale for feare, could not invent either what to say or doe, at the strangenesse and suddennesse of this accident. Diego presseth her to know for whom this poyson was provided, and of whom shee had it, Her an­sweres are variable, and are so farre from agreeing, as they contradict each other, which breeds in her the more feare, and in him astonishment. Hee conjures her by all the bonds of their affection, to discover it, with many millions of protestations pro­fesseth it shall dye with him; hee addes vowes to his requests, oathes to his vowes, and kisses to his oathes, so as mayds can difficultly conceale any thing from their Lovers; but especially fearing that hee might peradventure suspect that this poyson was meant and intended him: shee at last vanquished with his importunacy, and this consideration, discovereth (as we have formerly understood) that her Lady Catalina had wonne her, therewith to poyson her sister Berinthia, because shee suspected shee was better beloved of his Master Don Antonio then her selfe. Diego is infinitely astonished at the strangenesse of this newes, and like a true and faithfull Page to his Master, ha­ving drawne this worme from Ansilva's nose, and this newes from her tongue, un­der colour to seeke a remedy to stop his blood, giving her many kisses, and promising her his speedy returne, hee leaves her in the garden, and so very speedily finds out Be­rinthia, to whom (with as much truth as curiositie) hee from poynt to poynt re­veales it, praying her to bee carefull not to receive any thing, either from Catalina, or Ansilva, and withall to write, for the next morne hee will hye to Elvas, to re­veale it to his Master. Berinthia trembles at the report of this strange and unexpected newes: so having first thanked God for the discovery of this poyson, and her Si­sters malice, shee promiseth him a Letter to his Master, and heartily thankes him for his fidelitie and affection towards her, the which shee voweth to requite; and for a pledge and earnest thereof, drawes off a Diamond from her finger, and gives it him for this good office.

No sooner hath Aurora leapt from the watry bed of Thetis, and Phoebus discovered his golden beames in the azured Firmament of Heaven, but Diego causeth his Horse to bee made ready, and tells Ansilva, that his father hath sent for him to meet him at la Secco, and that hee will not fayle to bee backe with her within three dayes, being ready to depart.

Hee, under colour of giving order for his horse, leaves her, and steales into Berin­thia's Chamber, whom (poore Lady) feare would not permit to take any rest or sleepe that night, the which shee had partly worne out and imployed in writing her minde to her deare Antonio, and knowing her selfe not safe in Avero with her father and sister, shee resolved to commit her honour and her life into his protection: yea, she had no sooner finished and sealed her Letter to that effect, but Diego comes and knockes softly at her chamber doore. Berinthia in her night gowne and attire is ready for him: shee admits him, commends his care, gives him her Letter to his Master, and prayes him to use all possible diligence in his returne: and so having received all her com­mands, hee secretly descends the stayres; and taking leave of Vilarezo, and lastly, kis­sing his Mistresse Ansilva, hee leapes to horse, rides the first Stage, there leaves his Gennet, and takes Poast.

Leave we Diego poasting towards Elvas, and come we to Catalina, whose malice fin­ding no rest, nor her revenge remedy, shee that very morne, assoone as Ansilva came [Page 114] into her chamber, demands whether shee be prepared to performe her owne promise, and her hopes? She answereth her Lady, that lesse then three dayes shall effect it, and give a period to all her sister Berinthia's. Whereat shee is exceedingly glad, but all this while ignorant what Diego hath seene, and Berinthia knowes to this effect. Ansil­va presuming on Diego his sidelity, and building on his secresie; and therefore lesse suspecting his journey to Eluas, remaines still so gracelesse and impious in her bloudy resolution, as shee now not onely presumes, but assures her selfe that Berinthia is neere the ebbe of her dayes, and the setting of her life: and therefore like an execrable A­gent of the Devill, she hath now made ready and provided her selfe of a second poy­soned potion, which shee no way doubts but shall send her to her last sleepe. But this female Monster, this bloudy shee-Empericke may bee deceived in her art.

In the interim of which time Diego arrives at Eluas, and findes out his Master, to whom hee very hastily delivers Berinthia's Letter; the which Antonio having kissed, breakes off the seales, and there, contrary to his hopes, but not to his desires, reades these lines:

Antonio is amazed at this strange and unexpected newes, and curiously gathers all the circumstances thereof from his Page, when love, feare, hope, sorrow, and joy act their severalll parts, as well in his heart as countenance; when prizing Berinthia's life and safetie a thousand times before his owne, hee with great expedition dispatcheth away Diego the same night to Avero, with this ensuing letter, which he commands him deliver his Mistresse Berinthia, with all possible speed and secrecie.

Whiles Diego is poasting to Avero, Antonio his Master is preparing to follow him, taking (the next morne) his Coach with six horses, and three resolute Gentlemen his friends to assist him, with each his Rapier and case of Pistols. Diego first arrives at Avero, yea, a day and two nights before him. Ansilva checks him for his long stay; and Berinthia a thousand times thanks him for his speedy returne. He delivers her his Masters Letter, and prayes her to prepare her selfe against the prefixed houre. Shee reades her Antonio's Letter with much joy and comfort, which her lookes testifie, and her heart proclaimeth to her thoughts: shee will not be slacke or backwards in a mat­ter which so deeply imports her well-fare and content; and so with all possible secre­sie packes up the chiefest of her apparell and jewels in a small trunke, or casket, and wisheth the houre come, that shee were either in Antonio's armes, or he in hers: and for Diego, he casteth so subtill a mist & vaile before Ansilva's eyes, as it is impossible either for her, or her Lady Catalina to perceive any thing. But loe, a second treachery is pro­vided, to effect that which the first could not: and indeed, which went neere to have performed it, had not God miraculously and indulgently reached forth his hand to pre­vent it: for Catalina still persevers in her inveterate and deadly malice towards her sister Berinthia, as if God had not yet taught her, or rather, that she would not learne the way from Satan; or Grace instructed and directed her from the impietie of so foule a sinne, as the murthering of her owne and onely sister. For the very night that Antonio had promised and assigned to fetch Berinthia, as shee had by times retired her selfe to her chamber, under colour to go to bed, and ready to put on her night abiliments, in comes Ansilva, sent by her good and kinde (or rather wicked and cruell) sister, with a sweet Posset, (or rather a deadly poyson in her hand, in a silver covered cup) telling her, that her Lady had drunk the one halfe, and sent her the other, it being (as she affirmed) very cold and refreshing for the liver, against the hotnesse of the weather. But Berinthia be­ing forewarned, is armed by her former danger; yet shee seemes joyfull thereof, and so accepts it, returning her sister Catalina thanks, saying, shee will drinke it ere shee goe to bed; onely she prayes Ansilva first to fetch her prayer booke and gloves, which in the morne shee had left in her sisters chamber. So whiles shee is wanting, shee privately powres it into a silver bason in her Studie, and washing the cup three or foure seve­rall times, shee fills some Almond milke therein; and Ansilva being returned, takes the said cup, and prayes her to tell her Sister, that shee drinkes it to her health, and withall, gives her the good night: and so likewise doth Ansilva to her. But what a good night thought shee in her heart and conscience, when shee knew Berinthia should never see day more? So away shee trips to her Lady Catalina, who demaunds her if the businesse bee dispatched, and her sister gone to her rest? Who replies, shee hath drunke her last, and is gone to her eternall rest. But they are both deceived in their malicious Arithmaticke: For although Catalina extremely rejoyce in the confi­dent and assured death of her sister, yet God ordaineth, that their bloody hopes shall deceive them: as marke the sequell, and you shall see how.

About an houre after Ansilva's departure, by Berinthia's order and appoyntment, [Page 116] in wonderfull secret sort in comes Diego to her Chamber, to awayt the houre of his Masters arrivall, and to assist her in her escape and departure. Berinthia acquaints him with the potion her Sister Catalina had right now sent her by Ansilva: hee is asto­nished at this newes, as being assured it was poyson, and humbly prayes her to make proofe hereof on Catalina's Parrot, which that afternoone shee had brought with her into her Chamber: and so by her consent Diego takes the Parrot, and with a spoone forceth some downe its throat: who poore harmelesse bird, immediately swells and dyes before them. They both wonder hereat, and Berinthia at one instant both grieves and rejoyceth, grieves at her Sister Catalina's malice and crueltie, and rejoyceth for her happie deliverance: first praysing God as the Author, then thanking Diego as the instrument thereof: and so they throw the remainder of the poyson out at the win­dow, and lay the dead Parrot on the table. And now Berinthia attending and away­ting the houre of her happinesse, which is that of her Antonio's arrivall, and of her owne departure, with as much desire as impatiencie; Diego often looking on the houre­glasse, and Berinthia a thousand times on her Watch. So at last with a longing, lon­ging desire, the joyfull houre of twelve is come, wherein Antonio arrives: hee sees the happy light of her candle, and shee heares the sweet musicke of his Pistoll, which re­viveth and ravisheth these two Lovers, in the heaven of unexpressable joy and con­tent, when all things being hush'd up in silence, and every person of the house soundly sleeping, Diego softly takes up the small trunke, and Berinthia as secretly followes him: and so they wonderfull privately slip into the first Court, and from thence to the po­sterne doore of the garden, where Antonio with a thousand kisses receives her in his armes, having no other light but the lustre of her eyes to light them: for the Moone, that bright Cynthia, had conspired and consented to Berinthia's escape, and therfore pur­posely withdrawne her brightnesse by hiding and invelloping her selfe in the darke­nesse of an obscure cloud. Antonio locking this sweet prize, this his deare and swee [...] Berinthia in his armes, hee with the three Gentlemen his friends, conduct her to the end of the street; and Diego following them with the Casket, where they all privatly and silently take Coach, and having opened the Citie gate with a silver key, away they speed for Eluas with all possible celerity; but I write with griefe, that as these affecti­ons of Antonio and Berinthia begin in joy, so (I feare) they will end in as much sorrow and misery.

Leave we them now in their journey for Eluas: and returne we to Avero to bloudy Catalina, and wretched Ansilva, who lying remote from Berinthia's Chamber, could not possibly heare so much as the least step of her descent and departure: although their malice were so extreame as to write the truth, they all that night could not sleepe for joy that Berinthia was dispatched: so they prepare themselves against the morne, to heare some pittifull out-cries in the house for Berinthia's death: but seeing it neere ten of the clocke, and no rumour nor stirre heard, they both (as they were accustomed) went into her Chamber, thinking to feast their eies upon the lamentable object of this breathlesse Gentlewoman: but contrary to their bloudy hopes, they finde the nest, I meane the bed, emptie, and Berinthia not dead, but escaped and flowne away: Onely Catalina, in stead of her Sister, findes her owne Parrot dead on the table: they are a­stonished at this newes, and looke fearefully and desperately each on other. Ansilva for her part protests and vowes, that shee saw Berinthia drinke the poyson. But finding Berinthia's small trunke wanting, and hearing Diego gone, then Catalina knowes for cer­taine, that shee was escaped, and her poysoning plot detected and prevented. So they give the alarum in the house, and shee goes directly and acquaints her Father, Mother, and Brother of her Sister Berinthia's flight, but speakes not a word of the poyson, or of the Parrots death. Vilarezo grieves to see himselfe robbed of his daugh­ter, [Page 117] and Sebastiano of his Sister: but when they understand that Diego was gone with her, then they are confidently assured, that Antonio hath carried her away, which is confirmed them by the Porter of the Citie, who told them, that 'twixt twelve and one, a Coach with a Lady, and foure Cavaliers, and a Page (drawne by sixe horses) past the gate very speedily. Vilarezo and his sonne Sebastiano storme at this affront and disgrace: they consult what to doe herein: so first they resolve to send one to Elvas, to know yea or no, whether Berinthia bee there with Antonio? The messenger sent, returnes, and assures them thereof, as also, that Antonio is retyred from Elvas, to a Castle of his without the walls of the Citie, where it is reported hee keepes the Lady Berinthia with much honour and respect. Had old Vilarezo had his health and strength, he would himselfe in person haue undertaken this journey, but being sicke of the Gowt, he sends his sonne Sebastiano to Elvas, accompanied with six resolute Gen­tlemen, his neere allies and friends, to draw reason of Antonio for this affront and dis­grace, and so either by Law, Force, Policie, or perswasion, to bring backe Berinthia. Sebastiano knowing Berinthia to bee his Sister, and Antonio his former ancient and in­timate friend, with a kind of unwilling willingnesse accepts of this journey: he comes to Elvas, and findes his former intelligence true, hee repayres to Antonio's Castle, ac­companied with his sixe associates. Antonio admits them all into the first Court, and onely two more of them into the second; where hee salutes them kindly, and bids them all welcome to his Castle. Sebastiano layes before him the foulenesse of his fact, in stealing away his Sister in that clandestine and base manner, the scandall which hee hath layd upon her, and consequently on all their family and blood, tells him that his father and himselfe are resolued to have her againe at what price soever; and therefore conjures him, by the respect of his owne honour, and by the conside­ration and remembrance of all their former friendship, to deliver him his Sister Be­rinthia. Antonio answereth Sebastiano, that it was an honourable affection, and no base respect which led him to assist his Sister Berinthia in her flight and escape: that he ne­ver was nor would bee a just scandall either to her, her family, or blood; that his malicious Sister Catalina was the authour and cause thereof, who by her wayting Gentlewoman Ansilva had twice sought to poyson her: and therefore, sith he could not deliver her with her owne safetie, and his honour and conscience, hee was re­solved to protect her in his Castle, against any whosoever, that should seeke either to enforce or offend her.

Sebastiano is perplexed at this strange newes, and wondereth at Antonio's resolution: so doe the two Gentlemen with him: hee desires Antonio that hee may see and speake with his Sister Berinthia; the which hee freely and honourably grants: and so taking him by the hand, they enter the Hall: where Berinthia having notice hereof (accom­panied with two of Antonio his Sisters) assoone comes, and with a cheerefull coun­tenance advanceth towards her Brother: hee salutes her, and shee first him, then the other two Gentlemen her Cousins. Sebastiano prayes Antonio, that hee may conferre apart with his Sister. Antonio replies, that his Sister Berinthia's pleasure shall ever bee his. Shee willingly consents hereeunto, when hee taking her by the hand, conducts her to the farthest window, and there shewes her her disobedience to her Father, her dishonour to her selfe, and griefe to her friends, for this her unadvised and rash flight, and so perswades her to returne: and that if shee intend to marry Antonio, this is not the way, but rather a course as irregular as shamefull. His Sister Berithia delivers him at full the cause of her departure, and very constantly confirmes what An [...] had formerly told him of her Sister Catalina's two severall attempts to poyson her by her wayting Gentlewoman Ansilva, though with more ample circumstance and dilation: and to testifie the truth, Diego is produced, who vowes and protests the [Page 118] same. Sebastiano checkes her of folly and crueltie, shewes her, that in seeking to wrong others, shee onely wrongs her selfe; that in inventing and casting a feigned crime on her Sister Catalina, shee makes her owne conspicuous and true; that she hath no safetie but in her returne: whereunto with many reasons hee seekes to perswade and induce her.

His Sister Berinthia againe answereth him, that there is no safetie for her in Avero, and that she cannot expect greater then shee finds in Elvas: shee prayes him to thinke charitably and honourably of her departure: and if ever her Father will love her, shee requests him not to hate, but to love Antonio, whose Castle shee finds a Sanctua­ry, both for her honour and life; taking God and his Angels, her conscience and soule to witnesse, that her Sister Catalina's crime is true and not feigned. Sebastiano seeing Antonio resolute, and his Sister wilfull and obstinate, begins to take leave, tel­ling her, that hee will leave her to her folly, that to her shame, and her shame to her repentance, and so concludes to goe into the Citie, to resolve on what hee hath to doe, for her good and his owne honour. Antonio prayes him to dine in his Castle with his Sister: but hee refuseth it, saith hee hath given the first breach to their friendship, and his owne honour, which hee shall repent, if not repaire, and so departs. Being come into the Citie, hee consults this businesse with the Gentlemen his associats, and both himselfe and they are of opinion to send one poast to acquaint his Father here­with, and so to crave his pleasure and resolution, how hee shall beare himselfe heere­in. It is ever an excellent poynt both of wisedome and discretion, for a sonne to steere his actions by the compasse of his Fathers commands. His cousin Villandras undertakes this journey to Avero. Old Vilarezo is perplexed and grieved at this re­port, and in stead of comfort, receives more affliction, his care, curiositie, passion and griefe: severally examineth first Catalina, then Ansilva, who (like theeves in a faire, or murtherers in a Forrest) hee findes equally constant in their deniall, being so devoyd of grace, and repleat of impietie, as they confirme and maintaine their innocencies with many bitter oathes and asseverations: so hee returnes Villandras to Elvas, with this Letter to his sonne Sebastiano.

Whiles Sebastiano is consulting how to free his Sister Berinthia from the power of Antonio, speake wee a little of Catalina, who (as skilfull in subtiltie as malice) seeing her treachery and bloodie intents revealed, thinkes it now high time to make away and poyson Ansilva; grounding her resolution on this maxime, both of policie and estate, That dead folkes doe neither harme, nor tell tales. Behold heere the justice and pro­vidence [Page 119] of God! she, who laid snares for others, must now be taken in them her selfe: a punishment which the sinne of this wretched Gentlewoman findes, because deser­veth: there is no vice nor malice, but have their pretexts and colours. Catalina finds fault with too or three red pimples that Ansilva hath in her face, which she wil have ta­ken away. She sends for an Empericke, one Pedro Sarmiata, and proffereth him one hun­dred Duckets to poyson her, which like a limbe of the devill he undertakes; and in­fusing poyson in some potions, hee administreth it her: shee the very next day dyes: a fit reward and punishment for so gracelesse and bloody a Gentlewoman, who (as we have formerly seene) made no religion nor conscience, to attempt two severall times to poyson the faire and vertuous Berinthia.

Whiles this Tragedie is acting at Avero, Sebastiano begins to act another in Elvas, but a thousand times lesse impious, and more honourable: For having received his Fathers order by Villandras, hee now sends him into the Castle, to take Antonio's, and Berinthia's last resolution; hee is admitted to them: Villandras directs his speech first to Berinthia, then to Antonio, to whom hee relateth his message, and Sebastiano's plea­sure. Berinthia returnes him this answere: Cousin Villandras, recommend mee cour­teously to my brother Sebastiano, and tell him, my first answere and resolution is, and shall be my last. And (quoth Antonio) I pray ye likewise informe him from me, that Berinthia's will is my law, and her resolution mine, and that I will bee as carefull, as willing and ready, to lose my life in defence and preservation of hers. Villandras re­turnes, and acquaints Sebastiano with this their last resolutions; from which hee allea­geth it is impossible for them to bee disswaded or diverted. Sebastiano is beaten with two contrary and irresolute windes, what to doe in a businesse of this nature, either to recover his sister by Law, or by Armes: by Law, he holds it a course both coward­ly and prejudiciall: by Armes, hee sees hee must kill himselfe or his friend: to un­dertake the first, would bee the laughter of Antonio; and not to attempt the second, the shame of all Portugall and Spaine: hee therefore preferres generositie before rea­son, and passion above judgement, and so resolves to fight with Antonio: to which end hee makes choyce of his Cousin Villandras for his Second, and the next morne sends him to the Castle with this Challenge:

Antonio receives this Challenge, beares it privately, from all the world, especially from his sweet Berinthia, who (poore Lady) little imagines or suspects her brother and lover are rushing foorth for her sake: Hee returnes this answere by Villandras, that hee cannot graunt Sebastiano his first request, nor will not denie him his second. So hee chuseth a Cousin-germane of his, a valiant young Gentleman, tearmed Don Belasco, who willingly and freely ingageth himselfe in this quarrell. So hee and Villan­dras [Page 120] that night (with as much friendship as secresie) meet in the Citie, and resolve on the Rapiers; and other ceremonies requisite in Duels. The morne appeares, when our Combatants leape from their beds to the field; where, a little before sixe (being the appointed houre) all parties appeare: the Seconds performe their office in visiting the Principals, who cast off their doublers and draw, and so traversing their ground, they, with judgement and generositie, fall to their businesse; at the first cloze, Antonio is wounded in the right arme, and Sebastiano in the left side, which glaunced on a rib: at the second, Sebastiano wounds Antonio 'twixt the breast and shoulder, a little aboue his right pap, and hee him cleane thorow the body, of a large and dangerous wound, whence issued foorth abundance of blood: so they divide themselves and take breath: They againe fall to it, and at this third close, Sebastiano repayes Antonio with a mournfull and fatall interest: for hee runnes him thorow the body on the left side, a little below the heart; whereof staggering, he falls, and so Sebastiano dispatcheth him, and nailes him to the ground starke dead. Villandras congratulates with him for his victory, which Sebastiano with much modestie, ascribes to the power and providence of God, and not to the weaknesse of his owne arme. Bellasco is no way daunted with the misfortune and death of his Principall, but rather like a generous Gentleman and valiant Second, resolves to sell it dearely to Villandras. They are not long unsheathing of their Rapiers: for as soone as Bellasco hath covered up Antonio with his cloake, they approach at their very first meeting. Bellasco slightly hurts Villandras in the right shoul­der, and Villandras him thorow the bodie and reynes with a fatall wound, wherewith his sword fell from him, and hee to the ground; when fearing and presaging his death, he with a faint language begs his life of Villandras, who at the sight and hearing hereof, throwes away his owne Rapier, and stoupes to assist him. But in vaine; for it is not in his power to give him his life: for by this time hee is dead, and his soule departed to another world. This tragicall newes is soone knowne and bruited in Elvas, whereof the Criminall Iudges of that Citie remit Sebastiano with as much ease, as Villandras with difficultie (in favour of money and friends) and obtaine their pardons. And now the newes hereof likewise flies to Antonio's Castle, where his dead body, and that of Bellasco, are speedily conveyed and brought, to the griefe and sorrow of all those of the Castle, who bitterly weepe for the disaster of their Lord and Master. But all these teares are nothing to those of Antonio's two sisters; nor theirs any thing, in comparison of these of our sweet Berinthia, who is no sooner advertised hereof, but shee falls to the ground with sorrow, and there wrings her hands, beats her breast, and teares off her haire, in such mournfull and pitifull sort, that Crueltie her selfe could not refraine from teares, to see the numberlesse infinitie of hers: Counsell, advice, perswasion cannot perswade her to give a moderation to her mourning, or limits to her sorrowes: for they are so violent, as their extremitie exceeds all excesse. Shee will see the dead body of her deare Antonio; all those of the Castle are not capable to divert her eyes from this wofull and pitifull object; at the sight whereof shee falles to the ground on her knees, and gives his breathlesse body a thousand kisses: yea, shee washeth his sweet cheekes with a whole deluge and inundation of her salt teares: shee cannot speake for sighing, nor utter a word for weeping; onely wringing her hands, shee at last breathed foorth these mournfull and passionate speeches: O my deare Antonio, my sweet and deare Antonio, Antonio, would God my death had ransomed and preven­thine, O my Antonio, my Antonio.

Leave we Berinthia to her passionate sorrowes, and sorrowfull passions, from which her brother Sebastiano will soone awake her; who by this time, as Victor and Con­queror, is come to the Castle gate, and demaunds her, where he sees himselfe refused, and the draw-bridges and approaches drawne up, and rampired with Barricadoes: he [Page 121] craves ayd of the Criminall Iudges, who send the Provost with an armed company of Souldiers: so they force the Castle gate with a Petard, where sorrowfull Berinthia is delivered into the handes of her joyfull and rejoycing brother Sebastiano, who with sweet perswasions and advice seeks to exhale and dry up her teares: but her affection is so great, as she is not capable of consolation. In a word, shee cannot looke on her Brother with the eye of affection, but of revenge and indignation; yea, shee wish­eth her selfe metamorphosed from a Virgine to a man, that shee might bee revenged of her Brother for the death of her deare Lover Antonio. Sebastiano leaving the dead bodies of Antonio and Belasco to their Graves, takes Coach with his incensed and sor­rowfull Sister Berinthia; and so leaves Elvs and returnes towards Avero: where his Father Vilarezo and his Mother Alphanta welcome him home with prayse, and their Daughter Berinthia with checkes and frownes, who (the best she may) smothers her discontents; but yet vowes to be revenged of her Brother, for killing the life of her joy, and joy of her life, Antonio. But all vowes of this bloudy nature and quality are better broken then kept, which if Berinthia had had the grace to have considered, and made good use of, doubtlesse her hand had proved more joyfull, and not so fatall and miserable.

Come we now to Catalina, who seeing the object of her affection, Antonio, dead, and her Sister Berinthia returned, who, for his sake, was that of her living malice, she secret­ly confesseth her fault to her sister, in seeking formerly twice to have poysoned her by Ansilva, craves pardon of her, vowing henceforth to convert her malice to affection, and so reconciles her selfe to her; whereunto her Sister Berinthia willingly con­descendeth. Catalina hath made her peace with her Sister, but shee hath not contra­cted and concluded it with God for Ansilva's death. Earth may forget this Murther, but Heaven will not. Gods judgements are as just as secret, and as true as wonder­full; for hee hath a thousand meanes to punish us, when wee thinke our selves safe and furthest from punishment: which our wretched Catalina, and her execrable Em­pericke Sarmiata shall see verifyed in themselves. For the smoke of this their blou­dy Crime of Murther hath pierced the Vaultes and Windowes of Heaven, and is ascended to the Nostrells of the Lord, who hath now bent his Bowe, and made ready his Arrowes to revenge and punish them. The manner is thus:

A Sister of Ansilva's, named Isabella, is to be marryed in Avero, who invites the Ladies Catalina and Berinthia to her Wedding. Berinthia is too sorrowfull to bee so merry, as desirous rather to goe to her owne Grave, then to any others Nuptialls: so shee stayes at home, onely her Sister Catalina takes Coach, with an intent to accom­pany the Bride-woman to Church: but see the Providence and Iustice of God, how it surpriseth and overtakes this wtetched Gentlewoman Catalina! for as shee was in her way, the Sunne is instantly eclipsed, and the Skyes overcast, and so a terrible and fearefull Thunder-bolt pierceth her thorow the brest, and layes her neere dead in her Coach: her Wayting-mayds and Coach-man having no hurt, are yet amazed at this strange and dismall accident; so they thinke it fit to returne. Catalina is for a time speechlesse, he Parents are as it were dead with griefe and sorrow hereat, shee is committed to her bed, and searched, and all her body above her wast is found cole­blacke: the best Physicians and Chirurgians are sent for, they see her death-strooken with that Planet, and therfore adjudge their skill but vaine: her strength and senses fall from her, which Catalina having the happinesse to perceive, and grace to feele, will no longer be seduced with the devils temptations. The Divines prepare her soule for Heaven, and now shee will no longer dissemble with man or God; shee will not charge her conscience with so foule a Crime as Murther, the which shee knowes will prove a stop to the fruition of her felicity. She confesseth, shee twice procured her [Page] [Page] [Page 122] Wayting-gentlewoman Ansilva to poyson her Sister Berinthia; and since that, she hath given Sarmiata one hundred Duckets to poyson the said Ansilva, which he performed, and whereof shee humbly begs pardon of all the world, and religiously of God, whom shee beseecheth to bee mercifull to her soule: and so, though shee lived pro­phanely and impiously, yet shee dyed repentantly and religiously. Vilarezo and Al­phanta, her old parents, grieve and storme at her death, but more extreamely at the manner thereof, and especially at the confession of her bloudy crimes, as well towards living Berinthia, as dead Ansilva, onely their Daughter Berinthia is silent hereat; glad, that shee is freed of an enemy, sorrowfull, to have lost a Sister: they are infinitely vexed to publish their daughter Catalina's crimes, yet they are inforced to it, that there­by this Sarmiata, this Agent of Hell, may receive condigne punishment for his blou­dy offence here on earth. So they acquaint the Criminall Iudges hereof, who de­cree order and power for his apprehension. Sarmiata is revelling and feasting at Isa­bella's wedding; to which hee is appoynted and requested to furnish the Sweet-meats for the Banquets: but hee little thinkes what sowre sawce there is providing for him. Wee are never neerest danger, then when wee thinke our selves furthest from it: and although his sinnefull security was such, as the Devill had made him forget his mur­ther of Ansilva, yet God will, and doth remember it; and lo, here comes his storme, here his apprehension, and presently his punishment. By this time the newes of Ca­talina's suddaine death (but not of her secret confession) is published in Avero, and ar­rived at the Bride-house, which gives both astonishment and griefe to all the world; but especially to Sarmiata, whose heart and conscience now rings him many thunde­ring peales of feare, terrour, and despaire: his bloudy thoughts pursue him like so many bloudhounds, and because he hath forsaken God, therfore the devill will not for­sake him; he counselleth him to flie, and to provide for his safety; but what safety so unsecure, dangerous, or miserable for a Christian, as to throw himselfe into the De­vills protection? Sarmiata hereon fearing that Catalina had revealed his poysoning of Ansilva, very secretly steales away his Cloake, and so slips downe to a Posterne doore of the little Court, hoping to escape; but hee is deceived of his hopes: for the eye of Gods providence findes him out. The House is beleaguerd for him by Officers, who apprehend him as hee is issuing forth, and so commit him close priso­ner. In the afternoone the Iudges examine him upon the poysoning of Ansilva, and the receipt of one hundred Duckets, to effect it, from Catalina, which shee at her death confessed. Hee addes sinne to sinne, and denyes it with many impious oathes and fearefull imprecations; but they availe him nothing: his Iudges censure him to the Racke, where, upon the first torment hee confesseth it, but with so gracelesse an impu­dencie, as he rather rejoyceth then grieves hereat: where we may observe how strong­ly the Devill stickes to him, and how closely hee is bewitched to the Devill: so for reparation of this foule crime of his, hee is condemned to be hanged, which the next morne is performed right against Vilarezo his house, at a Gallowes purposely erected; and which is worse then all the rest, as this lewd villaine Sarmiata liv'd prophanely, so hee dy'd as desperately, without repenting his bloudy fact, or imploring pardon or mercy of God for the same. O miserable example! O fearefull end! O bloudy and damnable miscreant! Wee have seene the Theater of this History gored with great variety of bloud, the mournefull and lamentable spectacle whereof is capable to make any Christian heart relent into pitty, compassion, and teares. But this is not all, wee shall yet see more, not that it any way increaseth our terrour, but rather our con­solation, sith thereby wee may observe that Murther comes from Sathan, and its pu­nishment from God.

Catalina's confession and death is not capable to deface or wash away Berinthia's [Page 123] malice and revenge to her brother Sebastiano, for killing of her deare and sweet Love Antonio. Other Tragedies are past, but this as yet not acted, but to come: Lo now at last (though indeed too too soone) it comes on the Stage. The remembrance of Antonio and his affection is still fresh in her youthfull thoughts and contemplations, yea, his dead Idea is alwayes present and living in her heart and brest: 'tis true, Seba­stiano is her brother; 'tis as true she saith, that if hee had not kill'd Antonio, Antonio had beene her husband. Againe shee considereth, that as Antonio's life preserved hers from death; so her life hath beene the cause of his: and as hee lost his life for her sake, why should not she likewise leave hers for his? or rather, why should shee per­mit him to live, who hath bereaved her of him? But her living affection to her dead friend is so violent, and withall so prejudicate and revengefull, as shee neither can, nor will see her Brother, who kill'd him, but with malice and indignation. In stead of consulting with nature and grace, shee onely converseth with choller and passion; yea, she is so miserably transported in her rage, and so outragiously wilfull in her resolu­tion, as she shuts the doore of her heart to the two former vertues, to whom she should open it, and openeth it to the two latter vices, 'gainst whom shee should shut it. A mi­sery equally ominous and fatall, where Reason is not the Mistresse of our Passions, and Religion the Queene of our Reason. Shee sees this bloudy attempt of hers, where­into shee is entring, is sinfull and impious; and yet her faith is so weake towards God, and the Devill so strong with her, as shee is constant to advance, and resolute not to re­tire therein. Oh that Berinthia's former Vertues should bee disgraced with so foule a Vice! and oh that a face so sweetly faire should bee accompanyed and linked with a heart so cruelly barbarous, so bloudily inhumane! for what can shee hope from this a [...]mpt in killing her brother, but likewise to ruine her selfe? nay, had shee had any sparke of wit or grace left her, shee should consider, that for this foule offence her body shall receive punishment in this world, and her soule, without repentance, in that to come: but shee cannot erect her eyes to heaven, shee is all set on revenge; so the Devill hath plotted the Murther of her brother Sebastiano, and shee, like a most wret­ched and inhumane sister, will speedily act it. The manner is thus; (the which I can­not remember without griefe, nor pen without teares) Shee provides her selfe of a long and sharpe knife, the which, some ten daies after the death o [...] [...] sister Catalina, 'twixt foure and five of the clocke in the morning, shee hides in o [...] of her sleeves; and the better to cover and overvaile her villany, shee in the same hand takes her Lute, and so enters her brothers Chamber, and findes him sleeping, being a pretty way di­stant from hers, and his Page Philippo in a lower Chamber under him, resolving that if shee had found him waking, she would play on her Lute, and affirme, she came to give him the good morrow. But Sebastiano his fortune, or rather his misfortune was such, that hee was then soundly sleeping, without dreaming, or once thinking what should befall him; when his wretched and execrable sister Berinthia, stalkes close to him, and laying her Lute softly on the window, drawes out her devillish knife foorth her sleeve, and as a shee-devill incarnate, cuts his throat, to the end hee might neither crye nor speake; and so, though with a female hand, yet with a masculine courage, she (with as much malice as hast) gives him seven severall wounds thorow the body, and as neere the heart as shee could▪ whereof hee twice turning himselfe in his bed, n [...] ver sprawled more: and then taking up her Lute, and leaving him reeking in his bloud, shee after this her hellish fact, hyes her selfe to her Chamber.

This cruell Murther is not so closely perpetrated and acted, but Philippo, Sebastiano's page, hears some extraordinary stirring & struggling in his Masters chamber, & so leaps out of his bed, & taking his cloak on his shoulders, & his Rapier in his hand, he a [...]ends the Stay [...]; where Berinthia hath not made so grea [...] speed▪ but hee sees h [...] [...]ing [Page 124] her Chamber, and throwing her doore after her: whence running to his Masters Chamber, hee findes the doore open, and his Master most cruelly murthered in his bed, of eight severall wounds; at which bloudy and lamentable spectacle hee makes many bitter and pittifull outcryes, whereat all the house is in allarum, and the folkes and servants repaire thither of all sides. By this time Berinthia hath shifted her out­ward Taffeta gown, sprinkled all with bloud, and wrapt her bloudy knife close in it, and for the more secrecie, throws it into her Closestool, and so awayts the comming up of her Father and Mother, whom the mournfull eccho and sorrowfull newes of their son Sebastiano's cruell m [...]ther, had with an ocean of teares wafted to his Chamber, with whom Berinthia likewise, all blubber'd with teares, enters. They are all amazed at the sight of this bloudy and breathlesse corps, and wringing their hands, Father, Mo­ther, Daughter, and Servants looke one on another in this calamity, and at this sor­rowfull disaster. They search every Chamber, Vault, and Doore of the House, and finde no body, nor print of drops of bloud whatsoever; when Philippo the Page cries out, that hee feares it is the Lady Berinthia, who hath murthered her Brother, and his Master Sebastiano, for that hee saw her flying to her Chamber as hee ascended the Stayres. Vilarezo and Alphanta his wife are doubly amazed at this report, but grace­lesse Berinthia is no way daunted or astonished hereat, but affirmes, she likewise heard some stirring in her Brothers Chamber, which made her arise and come to the Stayr [...] head, where seeing Philippo, she being in her night attire, modesty made her retire to her Chamber. They all believe the sugar of her words, and the circumstance of her excuse; yet they will not proclaime her innocencie, till they have searched her Cham­ber, and all her Trunks, where they finde no Knife, Stilletto, Dagger, or any other offe [...] ­sive Weapon; and so her Father and Mother acquit her: but God will not. Not­withstanding they must advertise the Criminall Iudges of this lamentable and blo [...] dy murther of their sonne, which they doe. So they arrive, visit the dead body, and cause all the House to bee searched: but as soone as they heard Philippo's speeches and suspicion of Berinthia, then, considering her affection to Antonio, and her brother Se­bastiano's killing of him at Elvas, they attribute this to bee her fact, as proceeding from passionate revenge; when the sequell and circumstances thereof being apparent in themselves, the [...] [...]t regarding her Fathers prayers, her Mothers requests, and her owne teares, seiz [...] her, and so send and commit her close Prisoner: where, wret­ched Gentlewoman, shee hath a whole night left and given her, to see and consider the foulnesse of her fact, and to prepare her selfe to her answer: which whether it will breede in her confession or denyall, obstinacie or repentance, as yet I know not. So from her imprisonment, come we to her answer.

Avero rings with the newes of this foule and bloudy Murther. All bewayle, all lament the death of Sebastiano, as a Gentleman, who was truely noble, truely gene­rous: but his Father Vilarezo and Mother Alphanta seeme to drowne themselves in their teares, at these mournefull accidents, strange crosses, and unheard of afflictions of theirs▪ For though they will not believe, yet they deepely feare, that their daugh­ter Berinthia was the murtherer of her brother Sebastiano: and as affection seemes to di [...]ert them from this opinion, so reason indeavoureth to perswade and confirme them in the contrary. The next mo [...]e the Iudges sit, and send for Berinthia, who comes accompanyed with her parents, and many of her kinsfolkes: they againe examine her, and confront her with Philippo; shee is firme in her denyall, and her Iudges finde circu [...]tances, but no probability nor witnesse against her, sufficient to convict her of this crime; yet directed by the finger of God, they condemne her to the Racke. One of her Iudges pittying her descent, youth, and beauty, as much as he detests this Murther, intreats that her Chamber may be first curiously searched, ere shee exposed [Page 125] to the Racke. This advice and request is heard and followed with approbation. Hee, and two other Officers, accompanyed with some of her friends, repaire to Vilarezo his house, and Berinthia her Chamber; they leave no place, Trunke, Chest, or Boxe unsearched: yea, their curiositie, or to say truer, their zeale and fidelity to Iustice de­scends so low, as to visite her Close-stoole, which, for want of the key, they breake open; and behold the providence and Iustice of God! here they finde Berinthia's bloudy Gowne, and therein very closely wrapt up that hellish Knife, wherewith shee perpetrated this inhumane murther on her onely brother. They praise and glorifie God for the discovery hereof, and so returne to their Tribunall of Iustice, bringing these bloudy evidences with them, which Berinthia mought all this while have remo­ved, if God, to his glory, and her shame, had not all this time purposely blinded the eyes of her judgement to the contrary. At the sight hereof shee, without any tor­ment, confesseth the Murther, and with many teares repents herselfe of it; adding withall, that her affection to Antonio led her to this revenge on her brother: and ther­fore beseecheth her Iudges to have compassion on her youth. But the foulenesse of her fact, in those grave and just personages, wipes off the fairenesse of her request: So they consult, and pronounce Sentence against her, That for expiation of this her cruel mur­ther on the person of her brother, she the next morne shall bee hanged in the publike Market place. So all praise God for the detection of this lamentable Murther, and for the condemnation of this execrable Murtheresse: and those, who before looked on her youth and beauty with pitty, now behold her foule crime with hatred and dete­station; and as they applaud the sincerity of her former affection to Antonio, so they farre more detest and condemne this her inhumane cruelty to her owne brother Sebastiano. But what griefe is there comparable to that of her Father and Mother? whose age, content, and patience is not onely battered, but razed downe with the se­verall assaults of affliction; so as they wish themselves buryed, or that their Chil­dren had beene unborne: for it is rather a torment then a griefe to them, that they, whom they hoped would have beene props and comforts to their age, should now prove instruments and subjects to shorten their dayes, and consequently to draw their age to the miseries of an untimely and sorrowfull grave. But although they have ta­sted a world of griefe and anxiety, first for the death of their Daughter Catalina, and then of their onely Sonne Sebastiano; yet it pierceth them to the h [...]rt and gall, that this their last Daughter and Child Berinthia should passe by the passage of a hal­ter, and end her dayes upon so ignominious and shamefull a Stage as the Gallowes; which would adde a blemish to the lustre of their bloud and posterity, that time could never have power either to wipe off, or wash away: which to prevent, Vilarezo and his wife Alphanta use all their friends and mortall powers, towards the Iudges, to con­vert their Daughters Sentence into a lesse shamefull and more honourable death. So although the Gallowes bee erected, Berinthia prepared to dye, and a world of people, yea, in a manner, the whole people of Avero concurr'd and seated to see her now take her last farewell of the world; yet the importunacie and misery of her parents, her owne descent, youth, and beauty, as also her end [...]ered affection and servent love to her Lover Antonio, at last obtaine compassion and favour of her Iudges. So they re­voke and change their former decree, and sweeten the rigour thereof with one more honourable and milde, and lesse sharpe, bitter, and shamefull, and definitively adjudge her to be immured up betwixt two walls, and there with a slender dyet to end the re­mainder of her dayes. And this Sentence is speedily put in execution; whereat her parents, friends, and acquaintance, yea, all that knew her, very bitterly grieve and lament; and farre the more, in respect they cannot be permitted to see or visit her, or shee them; onely the Physicians and Divines have admittance and accesse to her, [Page 126] those, to provide earthly physicke for her body; and these, spirituall for her soule. And in this lamentable estate she is very penitent and repentant for all her sinnes in gene­rall, and for this her vile murther of her Brother in particular: yea, a little imprison­ment, or rather the spirit of God hath opened the eyes of her faith, who now defy­ing the Devill who had seduced and drawne her hereunto, shee makes her peace with God, and assures her selfe, that her true repentance hath made hers with him. So, unaccustomed to bee pent up in so strait and darke a Mew, the yellow Iaundies, and a burning Feaver surprise her: and so she ends her miserable dayes.

Lo, these are the bitter fruits of Revenge and Murther, which the undertakers (by the just judgement of God) are inforced to tast and swallow downe, when in the heat of their youth, and height of their impiety they least dreame or thinke thereof: by the sight of which great effusion of bloud, yea, by all these varieties of mourne­full and fatall accidents, if wee will divorce our thoughts from Hell to Earth, and wed our contemplations and affections from Earth to Heaven, wee shall then, as true Christians, and sonnes of the eternall God, runne the race of our mortality in peace in this world, and consequently bee rewarded with a glorious Crowne of im­mortall felicity in that to come.

GODS REVENGE AGAINST THE CRYING AND EXE­crable sinne of Murther.
HISTORIE VIII.

IT is an infallible Maxime, that if wee open our hearts to sinne, we shut them to godlinesse; for as soone as wee follow Satan, God flies from us, because we first fled from him: but that his mer­cie may shine in our ingratitude, hee by his servants, his holy Spirit, and himselfe, seekes all meanes to reclaime us, as well from the vanitie of our thoughts, as from the prophanenesse and impuritie of our actions: but if wee become obstinate and ob­durate in our transgressions, and so like Heathens, fall from vice to vice; whereas wee should as Christians, grow up from vertue to vertue; then it is not hee, but our selves that make ship wracke both of our selves and soules; of our selves in this life, of our soules in that to come; then which no misery can bee so great, none so unfortunate and miserable. It is true, the best of Gods children are sub­ject to sinne; but to delight and persevere therein, is the true way as well to hell as death. All have not the gift of pure and chaste thoughts, neither can wee so conserve or sanctifie our bodies, but that concupiscence may, and will sometimes assayle us (or rather the devill in it) but to pollute them with fornication, and to transforme them from the Temples of the holy Ghost, to the members of a harlot, this, though cor­rupt Nature seeme to allow or tolerate, yet Grace doth not onely deny, but detest. But as one sinne is seldome without another, either at her heeles or elbow; so too too often it falles out, that M [...]rther accompanieth Fornication and Adulterie: as if one of these foule crimes were not enough to make us miserable, but that in stead of going, wee will needs ride poast to hell. A woefull President, and lamentable and mournfull Example whereof, I heere produce to the view of the world, in three unfortunate personages, in a lascivious Ladie, and two lewd and debosht young Gentlemen, who all very lamentably cast themselves away upon the Sylla of Forni­cation, and the Charybdis of Murther: for they found the fruits and end of their beastly pleasures farre more bitter, then their beginning was sweet: yea, and be­cause at first they would not looke on repentance, at last shame lookes on them, and [Page 128] they, when it is too late, both on a miserable shame, and a shamefull misery. May we all reade it to Gods glory, and consequently to the reformation of our lives, and the consolation and salvation of our owne soules.

IN the beautifull Citie of Avignion, (seated in the Kingdome of France, and in the Province of Provence) being the Capitall of the Dutchie of Venissa, belonging to the Pope, and wherein for the terme of welneere eightie yeeres, they held their Pontificall See, there dwelt a young Gentlewoman of some twentie yeeres of age, tearmed Madamoyselle Laurieta, whose father and mother being dead, was left alone to her selfe, their onely childe and heire, being richer in beautie then lands, and in­dued with many excellent qualities and perfections, which gave grace and lustre to her beautie, as her beautie did to them: For shee spake the Latine and Italian tongue perfect, was very expert and excellent in singing, dancing, musicke, painting, and the like, which made her famous in that Citie. But as there needs but one vice to eclipse and drowne many vertues; so this faire Laurieta was more beautifull then chaste, and not halfe so modest as lascivious. It is as great a happinesse for children to enjoy their Parents, as a miserie to want them: For Laurieta's Father and Mother had been infinitely carefull and curious to traine her up in the Schoole of Vertue and Pietie, and wherein her youth had (during the terme of their lives) made a happie entrance, and as I may say, a fortunate and glorious progression: But when God, the great Moderator, and soveraigne Iudge of the world, had in his eternall Decree and sacred Providence taken them out of this world, then Laurieta was left to the wide world, and to the vanitie thereof, without guide or governour, exposed to the varie­tie of the fortunes, or rather the misfortunes of the times, as a Ship without Pilot [...]r Helme, subject to the mercy of every mercilesse winde and wave of the Sea: yea, and then it was that shee forgot her former modestie and chastitie, and now began to a­dore the Shrines of Venus and Cupid, by polluting and prostituting her body to the beastly pleasures of lust and for [...]cation, wherein (it grieves mee to relate) shee tooke a great delight and felicitie. But shee shall pay deare for this bitter-sweet vice of hers: yea, and though it seeme to begin in content and pleasure, yet wee shall assuredly see it end in shame, repentance and misery: for this sinne of Whoredome betrayes, when it seemes to delight us, and strangleth, when it makes greatest shew to imbrace us: so sweet and pure vertues, are modestie and chastitie; so foule and fatall vices▪ are con­cupiscence and lust. But hee with whom shee was most familiar, and to whom shee imparted the greatest part of her favours, was to one Monsieur de Belluile, a proper yong Gentleman, dwelling neere the Citie of Arles, by birth and extraction, noble, but o­therwise more rich then wise: who comming to Avignion, no sooner saw Laurieta, but hee both gloried in the sight of her singular, and triumphed in the contemplation of her exquisite and incomparable beautie, making that his best content, and this his sweetest felicitie; that, his soveraigne good; and this, his heaven upon earth: so as losing himselfe in the labyrinth of her beautie, and as it were drowning his thoughts in the sea of his concupiscence and sensualitie, hee spends not onely his whole time, but a great part of his wealth, in wantonizing and entertaining her: a vicious and foule fault, not onely peculiar to Belluile, but incident and fatall to too many Gallants, as well of most parts of Christendome in generall, as of France in particular; it being indeed a disasterous and dangerous rocke, whereon many inconsiderate and wretched Gentlemen have suffered shipwrack, not only of their reputations, healths and estates, but many times of thei [...] lives.

In the meane time, Laurieta (more jealous of her same, then carefull to preserve her chastitie) is advertised, that Belluile is not content to cull the dainties of her beautie [Page 129] and youth, but hee forgets himselfe and his discretion so farre, as to vaunt thereof, by letting fall some speeches, tending to the blemish and disparagement of her honour: so as vaine and lascivious as shee is, yet the touching of this string, affords her harsh and distastfull melodie: For shee will seeke to cover her shame by her hypocrisie and so resolves to make him know the foulenesse of his offence, in that of his basenesse and ingratitude. To which end, at her first interview and meeting of him, shee not onely checks him for it, but forbids and banisheth him her company: which indeed had been a just cause and opportunitie for him to have converted his lust into chasti­tie, and his folly into repentance. But hee is too dissolute and vicious, to bee so hap­pily reclaimed from Laurieta; and therefore hee is resolved, not onely to justifie his innocencie, but thereby also to persevere in his sinne: Hee is acquainted with many Gentlemen, who forgetting themselves, conceive a felicitie and glory, to erect the trophees of their vanities upon the disparagement of Ladies honours: yea, he seemes to be so farre from being guiltie of this errour, as hee taxeth and condemnes others, in being guiltie or accessary thereunto. So, although his Mistresse Laurieta remaine still coy, strange and haggard to him, yet hee persevereth in his affection to her; who at last judging of his innocencie by his constancie; and of that, by his many letters and presents which hee still sent her; as also observing that she had no firme grounds, nor could produce any pregnant or valable witnesses of this report; shee againe ex­changeth her frownes into smiles, and so receives and intertaines him into her favour, onely with this premonition and caution, That if ever heereafter shee heard of his folly or ingratitude in this kinde, shee would never looke him in the face, ex­cept with contempt and detestation. So these their dis-joynted affections, as well by oathes as protestations, are againe confirmed and cimented: but such lustfull contracts, and lascivious familiarities and sympathies, seldome or never make pro­sperous ends.

Now to give forme and life to this Historie: Not long after, a brave young Gen­tleman of Mompillier, named Monsieur de Poligny, having some occasion, comes to A­vignion, who frequenting their publike Balles or Dancings, no sooner saw our faire and beautifull Laurieta, but hee falls in love with her, and salutes and courts her: and from thencefoorth deemes her so fayre, as hee useth all meanes to become her servant, but not in the way of honour and Marriage, rather with a purpose to make her his Courtezan then his Wife. But hee sees himselfe deceived in the irregular passion of his affection: for Laurieta is averse, and will not bee either tractable or flexible to his desires: so as his suite is vaine, and shee so deafe to his requests, as nei­ther his prayers, sighs, Letters, nor Presents are capable to purchase her fa­vour. Poligny infinitely grieves heereat, which notwithstanding makes the flame of his lust rather increase then diminish: so as after much pensivenesse, hee be­gins to beat his witts, and to awaken his invention, how hee may crowne his desires by enjoying Laurieta, when loe, an occasion presenteth it selfe to him un­expected.

Madamoyselle la Palaisiere, a rich young Gentlewoman neere Pont Saint Esprit, living in Avignion, and seeing Poligny at the dauncing, doth exceedingly fall in loue with him; yea, [...]hee so admires the sweetnesse of his favour, and the excellencie of his personage, as shee rejoyceth in nothing so much; and to write the truth, in nothing else but in his company: so as, had not modestie with-held her, shee would have prooved her owne Advocate, and have informed him thereof her selfe. Poligny re­ceives so many secret signes and testimonies of her affection, by private glances and the like, as hee cannot bee ignorant thereof: but his love, or rather his lust to Lau­rieta, hath so absolutely taken up his heart and thoughts, as it hath left no place nor [Page 130] corner for la Palaisiere: so as here wee may observe and remarke a different commix­ture, and disparitie of affections. Poligny loves Laurieta, and not shee him: la Palai­siere affects Poligny, and not hee her: what these passions and occurrences will produce, wee shall shortly see.

La Palaisiere, having her heart pierced thorow with the love of Poligny, knowing him to bee Laurieta's servant, and shee the Mistresse of Belluile, either out of her af­fection, or jealousie, or both, resolves at next meeting to acquaint Poligny with it, ther­by purposely to withdraw his affection from her to her selfe: The occasion is proffe­red, and opportunitie seemes to favour and second her desires. Some three dayes af­ter, the Iesuites (who as the Mountebanks and Panders of Kingdomes and Estates, leave no invention, nor Ceremony unattempted, to seduce and bewitch the affections of the world) cause their Schollers to act a Comedie in their Colledge in this Citie, whereat all the Nobilitie and Gentrie of the Citie and adjacent Countrey assemble and meet. Thither comes Poligny, hoping to see Laurieta, and la Palaisiere to see Po­ligny: but Laurieta that day is sicke, and Belluile stayes with her to comfort her. So first comes Poligny, and seeing hee could not see his Laurieta, sits downe pensively: then comes la Palaisiere, and seeing Poligny a farre off, prayes her brother, who con­ducted her, to place her neere him. Poligny can doe no lesse then salute her, and shee triumphing in her good fortune, takes the advantage of this occasion, and in sweet and sugered termes (after many pauses, sighs and blushes) gives him to understand, that shee knew his affection to Laurieta, and withall, that Belluile and no other was her servant and favourite. This speech of hers strikes Poligny to the quicke; so as there­at hee not onely bites the lip, but hangs his head: yea, this unexpected newes, as al­so Be [...]uile and Laurieta's absence, so nettle him, and frame such a Chymera of extrava­gant passions in his heart and thoughts, as hee could not have the patience to sit ou [...] the Comedy, but feigning himselfe sicke, departs to his Chamber: where a thou­sand jealousies ingendered of his affection, perplexe and torment him; when remem­bring la Palaisieres speeches, and being infinitely desirous to know the truth of Belluile his affection to Laurieta, and of hers to him, hee sees no meanes, nor person so fit to reveale the same, as Lucilla, Laurieta's Wayting-mayd. This Lucilla, Poligny winns with gold, in consideration whereof, shee reveales him all, how Belluile was her chie­fest Minion and Favourite: and yet, for some words hee the other day in ignorance or Wine, let fall to the prejudice of her honour, shee was like to casheere and discard him. Lucilla having thus forgotten her owne fidelitie, in bewraying the dishonour of her Mistresse; Poligny understanding Belluile to bee a coward of his hands, though not of his tongue; and in a word, not to bee so compleate a Gallant as hee supposed him, hee of a subtill and malicious invention resolves to worke on him; and so con­ceives a plot, which wee shall see presently put in execution and acted: hee very poli­tikely puts a good face on all his discontents and passions: and although Laurieta would not see him, yet hee fairely intrudes himselfe into Belluile's company, and of purpose becomes familiar with him. So they very often meet: for they sence, dance, ride, vault and hunt together: so as at last none are so great Consorts and Camme­rades as they. But Poligny thinking every houre a yeere, before hee had played his prize, makes a partie at Tennis with Belluile for a collation, and beats him; and so ta­king two Gentlemen, La Fontaine, and Borelles, his friends with them, away they go [...] all foure to a Taverne. Poligny as secret as malicious in this his plot, in the middest of their mirth speakes thus to Belluile, Sir, quoth hee, I am sorry for your losse of this Collation: but if it please you to honour mee with your company to morrow to Orenge, a Citie which I much desire to see, I will pay you the dinner in requitall there­of. Belluile very readily and willingly consents hereunto, and La Fontaine and Borell [...] [Page 131] vow they will likewise have their share, both of the journey and dinner. So the next morne they all take horse for Orenge: but first Belluile gives his Mistresse Laurieta the good morrow, and acquaints her with his journey. They view this old Citie, the ancient patrimony and Principalitie of the Illustrious Princes of Orenge, from whence they derive their name: where Poligny having given order for the dinner, away they goe, visite the Castle, and salute the deputed Governour thereof Monsieur [...]osberghe; they see the part of the Amphitheatre yet standing, the Cathedrall Church, the double Wall of the Citie, and the old Romane Arch not farre off, with all other re­markable objects and monuments; and by this time the Cooke and their stomackes taxe them of their long stay. So they returne to their Inne, fall to their Viands, and like frolike Gentlemen, wash them downe with store of Claret: and now Poligny, as mal [...]cious in heart, as pleasant in countenance and conversation, heere casts foorth his lure and snare to surprize and intangle Belluile. O quoth hee, how happie the Gentlemen of Italy are to us of France, sith after dinner every one goes freely to his Courtizan without controulment! I know not, quoth la Fontaine, what Orenge is, but I thinke Avignion is not destitute of good fellow W [...]nches, who make Venus their queene, and Cupid their god. Surely no, replies Belluile, for I am confident, that for Iewes and Courtizans, for the greatnesse of it, it may compare with the best Citie of Italy: for from the Lady to the Kitchin-mayd I dare say they'l all proove tractable. Nay, quoth Borelles, except still our holy Sisters the Nunns. Not I faith, quoth hee, nor my Mistresse neither. Indeed, replies Poligny, if I knew you had a Mistresse of that complexion, I would adventure a glasse of Claret to her health. When Belluile (out of a phantastick French humour) affirmed he had a Mistris, whose beauty was so excellent, as he knew hee could not receive shame to name her; and if you please to honour her selfe and mee with her health, I proclaime that Madamoyselle Laurieta is my Mistresse, and my selfe her servant.

Of wise and Christian Gentlemen, what prophane speeches and debosht table-talke are these they use heere, as if their glory consisted in their shame, or their best ver­tues were to bee discovered in the worst of vices? For howsoever the Viands they did eate, may preserve the health of their bodies, yet this dissolute communication of theirs must needs poyson and destroy that of their soules: for as they should praise God in the receit of the one; so contrariwise they incense and displease his sa­cred Majestie in giving him the other: yea, this is so farre from Christianitie and heaven, as it is the high and true way to Atheisme and hell: for whores and healths, instead of prayer and thankesgiving, are the prodigious and certaine forerunners of a seared conscience, and the dangerous and execrable symptoms of a leprous soule.

Birds are taken by their feet, and men by their tongues. Belluile having so base­ly and sottishly abused himselfe in the disparaging of his Mistresse Laurieta, Poligny hath his errand, for which hee purposely came to Orenge. So dinner ended, they ve­ry pleasantly returne for Avignion. That night Poligny cannot sleepe for joy, or ra­ther for revenge: For now hee presumes to know how to worke himselfe into Lau­rieta's favour, by unhorsing Belluile. It is a dishonest and base part to betray our friend, and under the cloake of friendship and familiarity, to harbour and retaine malice a­gainst them: but this irregular and violent passion of love in young and unstayed judgements, many times beares downe all other respects and considerations. For if Religion and Conscience bee contemned, what hope is there that either honesty bee regarded, or friendship observed, sith it is the onely ciment and sinewes there­of? But Poligny is as resolute as malicious in his purpose; and therefore the next morne by his Lackey, sends the Lady Laurieta this Letter:

In the extremitie and excesse of those three different passions, griefe, choller and astonishment, Laurieta receives and reads this Letter, and like a dissolute Gentlewo­man, being more carefull of her reputation to the world, then of her soule towards God, shee knowes not whether shee have more cause and reason either to approve Po­ligny's affection, or to condemne Belluiles folly: it grieves her to the heart to have be­stowed her favours on so base and ingratefull a Gentleman as Belluile; vowes shee will make him repent it, and is resolute that this vanity and folly of his, shall cost him deare; yea, shee is so impatient in these her fumes of griefe and revenge, that shee thought once with all expedition to have sent for Belluile, to make him as well see the fruits of his owne ingratitude, as to taste the effects of her revenge and indignation: but shee holds it requisite and fit, and her selfe in a manner bound first to thanke Poligny for his courtesie, by returning him a Letter in answer of his, which shee spee­dily dispatcheth him by his owne Lackey, to this effect:

Whiles Poligny receives Laureta's Letter with much content, and many kisses, as triumphing to see how hee hath baffled Belluile by working him out, and consequent­ly himselfe into her favour, wee will for a while leave him, to consider whether the end of his treachery to Belluile will proove as fortunate and pleasing to him, as the beginning promiseth. And in the meane time we will a little speake of Laurieta, to see [Page 133] what course and resolution shee meanes to hold and observe with Belluile. It is not e­nough that shee hath written Poligny a Letter, but her envy and contempt towards Belluile is so implacable, as shee with much hast and secrecie sends for him: her re­quests to him are commands; yea, hee needes no other spurres but those of his lust, and of her beauty, to make him rather flye, then poast to her presence; when not so much as once dre [...]ing of his former foolish speeches delivered against his Mistresse Laurieta, muc [...] [...]se of Boligny's treason conspired and acted against him, hee thinkes to kisse her, [...]om so often hee hath formerly kissed; but his hopes and her disdaine deceive hi [...] for she peremptorily slights him; when having fire in her lookes, and thunder in her speeches, shee chargeth him with this scandall delivered by him at O­ [...]nge, in presence of Polig [...]y, against her honour and chastity. And is this (quoth she) the reward a Lady shall deserve and receive by imparting her favours to a Gentleman? and is this the part of a Gentleman, to erect the Trophees of his glory upon his Mi­stresse disgrace? or are these the fruits of thy sighs and teares, or the effects of thy requests, oaths, and Letters? Yea, such was then her furious rage, and devillish re­venge, as shee was provided of a Stilletto, to have there stab'd him to the heart in her Chamber, had not her Wayting mayd Lucilla, with her best oratory and perswasion, powerfully diverted her to the contrary, by alledging her the imminencie of the dan­ger, which the foulenesse and haynousnesse of that fact brought her into. Belluile is a­mazed at this news, when now proving as prophane to God, as before he was base and [...]efull to Laurieta, he, with many oaths and imprecations, denies these speeches, and this stander; and with much passion protesteth of his innocencie. But this will not sa­t [...]fie Laurieta; for to make his shame the more notorious in his guiltinesse, shee pro­d [...]ceth him Poligny's Letter; whereat Belluile hangs the head, and seemes to let fall the plumes, not onely of his Pride, but of his courage and justification; yet hee bit­terly and vehemently persevereth in his denyall: but all this is not capable to appease or content Laurieta; and which is worst of all, nothing can possibly doe it, except he make good her honour, and his owne innocencie, by a combate or Duell against Po­ligny. So Belluile sees himselfe driven to a narrow and a shrewd push: Hee hath wrong­ed Laurieta, and knowes not how to right her: Poligny hath wronged him, and there is no way left for him to right himselfe, but by challenging and fighting with Poligny. But he loves Laurieta dearely, and therfore must resolve to fight, or lose her. As for his owne part, to give him his true character and description, he is rather a City swaggerer, then a Field souldier, loves rather to have a faire Sword, then a good one, and to weare it onely for shew, not for use; he is ambitious of nothing more, then to be reputed ra­ther then found valiant: In a word, for a Tave [...]e quarrell, or a Stewes brawle hee is excellent; but to meet his enemy in the field with a naked Sword, that doth not one­ly daunt, but terrifie him. The greatest comfort and consolation he findes in this his perplexity, is, that hee knowes hee hath many fellowes and companions, who are as white-liver'd and as very cowards as himselfe: of which numbers, hee flattereth him­selfe with this poore base hope, that it is not impossible for Poligny to bee one. But what is this to give satisfaction to Laurieta, except it may shew himselfe to bee Belluile, but not a Gentleman? But all these considerations notwithstanding, hee loves Lauri­eta so tenderly and dearely, as not daring see her, till hee had met Poligny, he pluckes up his spirits, and infusing more mettle and courage into his resolutions then accusto­med, resolves to fight with him: to which end, having at length fitted himselfe of an excellent Rapier, whose temper (with as much truth as laughter) I confesse was farre better then that of his heart, hee, by his Lackey some three dayes after, sends Poligny this Challenge.

Poligny receives this challenge, and admires to see Belluiles resolution, from which all former reports could never draw assurance; it is not feare that casts his head in [...] these doubts, or these doubts into his head: for hee is too generous to bee a dastard▪ and too Eagle-bred to turne Craven; for rejoycing in having made Belluile swallow a Gudgin, and triumphing in presuming himselfe seated in the throne of Laurieta's fa­vour, makes him as resolute to receive this Challenge, as willing and ready to per­forme it; onely the remembrance that Belluile sent it him by a Lackey, and not by [...] Gentleman, throwes him into as much disdaine as choller: but hee resembling him­selfe, passeth over this respect without respect, and so bids the Lackey tell his Master▪ that he will not faile to meet him at the houre and place appointed.

The night doth, or should bring counsell: Belluile wisheth his Challenge unse [...] ▪ but it being out of his hands, it is out of his power to revoke or recall it. Poligny is [...] a contrary temper, and glad in his acceptance thereof, desires that his Sword were [...] action, as well as his courage in contemplation. So out-passing the night, which B [...] ­uile passeth ouer with as much feare, as Poligny with generosity, the Curtaines of the night being with-drawne, and the day appearing, ere five have strucken, Belluile not­withstanding is first on the Bridge, and Poligny immediately after him: they are with­out Seconds, and therefore they briefely unbrace, but not uncase their Doubl [...]s, Belluile will bee valorous in words; and so according to his challenge, and the right of Duells, offereth Poligny the sight and choyce of his Rapier. Poligny is too brave to dye in his debt, upon the poynt of honour and magnanimity, and therfore gives him his, a [...] contented with the refusall. So (courtesie for a while contending with valour) they both assume and accept of their owne Rapiers; when dividing themselves, they joyn [...] with resolution and fury. At first comming up, Poligny gives Belluile the first wound in his right Shoulder, without receiving any, whereat hee is more affrighted then Po­ligny rejoyced; at the second, hee receives another wound in the left side, but is not yet so happy to see, or assure himselfe, that his Rapier hath once touched Poligny's body, or which is lesse, his clothes: whereupon, considering Poligny's generosity, and comparing the bad grounds of his quarrell with the faintnesse and basenesse of his courage, hee throwes off his Sword, prayes Poligny to desist; for hee holds himselfe satisfyed. When Poligny disdayning to taint his honour with the least shaddow of dishonour, in receiving Belluiles shame, gives him the happinesse and fruition of h [...] life: and so they part. Lo here the first fruits of their foolish and lascivious affecti­ons [Page 135] to Laurieta: but I feare the second will prove more bitter and bloudy▪ Belluile going home with his shame and repentance, and Poligny with his honour and glory, they hush themselves up in silence, Poligny at his Chamber, and Belluile at his Chirurgions house to dresse his wounds, hoping that as they in their fight saw no body, so that none had seene them; but they are deceived: for two Souldiers from the Castle walls not onely espy them fighting, but know them. So they divulge it in the City, whereof Laurieta being advertised, she sends a confident Gentleman, a cousin germane of hers, to finde out Belluile and to know the truth and issue of his combate; but indeed his cowardise hath purchased him so much shame, as hee will not bee seene, much lesse spoken with­all: which Lauricta understanding, beginnes conceive that the two Souldiers report was true, and that undoubtedly hee and Poligny had met and fought in her behalfe: whereupon ghessing at the truth, that Poligny had given Belluile the foyle, she was once of opinion to have written to Poligny, to bee informed of the particulars and successe of their combat, which so much imported as well her honour as her content. But Po­ligny's affection prevents her curiosity: for as she was calling for pen and paper, hee in person ascends the stayres to her Chamber, where, after a complementall and courte­ous salute, he informes her (as we have formerly understood) that hee hath given Bell­uile two wounds for her sake, and now his life for his owne. She demands if he himself were not hurt; hee answers, No. At both which good newes shee infinitely rejoy­ceth, and in token of her thankfulnesse permits him to gather many kisses, as well from the roses of her cheekes, as the cherries of her lips: and so from thenceforth he vowes to be her professed servant; and she promiseth him to bee, though not his Mistresse, yet at least his friend. And here they unite and combine their affections: but that con­tract, and this familiarity, written onely in vice, and sealed in lust, we shall shortly see cancelled and annihilated, with as much pitty, as infamy and misery, as the sequell of this History will shew and demonstrate.

Whiles thus Laurieta and Poligny are triumphing in Belluiles foyle, and their owne familiarity and affection, how is it possible but he must infinitely grieve for his losse of Laurieta, and la Palaisiere as much sorrow to see her selfe deprived and out of hope of her Poligny? But they brooke their afflictions and passions with variable resolutions; for whiles la Palaisiere is imbathing her selfe in her teares and discontents, Belluile is resolute to quench his revenge in Poligny's blood. For forgetting as well his God as his soule, his honor as himself, he intends to doe it by the bye, and not by the maine, by execra­ble treachery, not by magnanimous generosity; yea, the devil is so strong with his faith because that is so weake with his Saviour and Redeemer, as shutting the doores of his humanity and charity, hee opens them to Choller, Revenge, and Murther; yea, and henceforth he is so inraged, and his lookes are so gastly and distracted▪ as if his thoughts were conducting and incouraging his hands to perpetrate some bloody stratagem and designe: which is observed and doubted by his chiefest familiars and intimate friends, as also by la Palaisiere, whose company hee sometimes frequents, not so much out of affection to her, as for consolation from her to himselfe, sith wee are subject both to hope and believe that our afflictions are partly eased and diminished by the sight and relation of that of others, as sympathizing and participating with them; first in their flames of love, then of griefe and sorrow, in being disdayned of those wee love. Neither could Belluile so cunningly or closely rake up the fiery sparkes of his malice [...]nd revenge, under the embers of silence and secrecie, but her affection to Poligny, and [...]ealousie of his good, made her so tender▪ ear'd, and sharpe-sighted, as she over-heard [...]ome words that either in jest o [...] earnest [...]ell from Belluile's [...]ongue, whereby it was ap­ [...]arent to her, that hee intended no good, but portended a secret fatall malice to him, [...]ich a little time might too too soone and une [...]pectedly discover: whe [...]upon her [Page 136] love to Poligny was so deare and honourable, although hee were so firmely intangled in the beauty of Laurieta, as he would not vouchsafe, rather disdayned to love her selfe, that she thought the discovery of Belluiles malice to Poligny, so much imported Polig­ny's good, as she held her selfe bound, as well in duty as affection, to reveale and relate it him; which she doth in this Letter:

Poligny breaking up the seales of this Letter, laughes to see la Palaisieres affection, and to understand Belluiles malice; and being besotted with Laurieta, hee lost both his wit and judgement in the sight and contemplation of her beauty, yea, he is growne so fond in his affection, and respect towards her, as hee is arrived to the Meridian of this simplicity, to deeme it a kinde of treason to conceale any secret from her: to which end, he shewes her la Palaisieres Letter, which hee makes his pastime, and shee her May­game; yea, so vaine is her folly, and so foolish her vanity, to see the passages and e­vents of these their passions, as shee not onely exceedes the decorum of discretion, but of modestie in her laughter: and which is more, when shee againe considereth how Belluile loves her selfe, and not she him, la Palaisiere Poligny, and not hee her, it makes her redouble her mirth and exhilaration in such sort, as shee seemes to burst with the violence and excesse thereof: but this mirth of hers shall be shortly wayted and at­tended on with misery and mourning. But Poligny notwithstanding sees himselfe doubly obliged to la Palaisiere, as well for her affection to him, as her care of him, and so holds himselfe obliged in either of these respects and considerations, to requite her with a Letter: the which now unknowne to Laurieta, hee writes, and sends her to this effect:

Having thus dispeeded her his Letter, the vanity of his thoughts, and the beastlinesse of his concupiscence and sensuality, not onely surpriseth his reason, but captivates his judgement; so as Laurieta's sight defacing Belluiles memory, hee thinkes so much on her affection, as hee respects not his malice: but this Vice and that errour shall cost him deare. For whiles hee is feasting his eyes on the daynties and rarities of Lau­rieta's beauty, Belluiles heart hath agreed with the devill to prepare him a bloudy Ban­quet: Grace cannot containe him within her limits; therfore Impiety dallies so long with him, and hee with Impiety, that at last this bloudy sentence is past in the court of his hellish resolutions, That Poligny must dye. The devills assistance is never wan­ting in such infernall stratagems: for this is an infallible maxime, as remarkeable as ru­inous, That hee allwayes makes us fertile, not barren to doe evill, never to doe good. At first Belluile thinkes on poyson or Pistoll to dispatch Poligny: but hee findes the first too difficult to attempt; the second, too publike to performe. Sometimes hee is of opinion to ascend his Chamber, and murther him in his bed; then to shoot him ou [...] at window as he passeth the street: but to conclude, understanding that he often comes very late in the night from Laurieta, he thinkes it best to run him thorow with his Ra­pier, as he issueth forth her house. And to make short, hereon he resolves.

Now to put the better colour on his villany, hee retires himselfe from Avignion, and lives privately some sixe dayes in Orenge, giving it out, that hee was gone to the City of Aix in Provence, where, at that famous court of Parliament he had a Processe for a title of Land, shortly to bee adjudged; and so in a darke night, taking none but his Lacky with him, he being disguised, in favour of money, passeth the gate of Avigni­on, and giving his horse to his Lackey, being secretly informed that Poligny was with Laurieta, he goes directly to her doore, and there at the corner of a little street stands with his Rapier drawne under his cloake, with a revenging and greedy desire of blood to awayt Poligny's comming forth. The Clocke striking one, the doore is opened, and Poligny secretly issueth foorth without candle, having purposely sent away his Lac­key, who had then unwittingly carried away his Masters Rapier with him. Hee is no sooner in the street, but Bellnile, as a murtherous villaine, rusheth foorth, and so like a limbe of the Devill, sheathes his Rapier in his brest; when Poligny more hurt then amazed, and wanting his Sword, but not courage, indeavoureth by struggling to close with his assassinate; and so cries out for assi [...]ance: but the dead of the night favoureth his butcherly attempt, when withdrawing his Sword, hee redoubleth his cruelty, and so againe runnes him in at the small of the belly, thorow the reines, whereat hee pre­sently falls downe dead to his feete, having the power to groane and crye, but not to utter a word. Which Belluile espying, and knowing him dispatcht, runnes to his horse, which his Lackey held ready at the corner of the next streete, and so rides to the same gate hee entred, which was kept ready for him; which passing, hee with all expedition drives away for Orenge: from whence, the next morne before day, hee takes poast for Aix, the better to conceale and o're▪ vaile this damnable Murther of his. But this policie of his shall deceive his hopes, and returne him a fatall reward [Page 138] and interest. For although he can bleare the eyes of men, yet he neither can, nor shall those of God, who in his due time will out of his sacred justice repay and punish him with confusion.

By this time the streete and neighbours have taken the allarum of this tragicall ac­cident: so Candles and Torches come from every where, only Laurieta having play­ed the Whore before, will see me now (though falsely) to play the honest woman: for she, to cover her shame, will not discover that her selfe or any of her house are stir­ring: and so although shee understood this newes, and privately and bytterly wept thereat, yet shee keepes fast her doores and, like an ingratefull strumpet will permit none of her servants for a long time to descend. The Criminall Iudge and President of the Ciiy is advertised of this Murther. The dead Gentleman is knowne to bee Mounsieur Poligny, and being beloved, hee is exceedingly bewayled of all who knew him, and inquiry and search is made of all sides, and the Lievtennant Criminall shewes himselfe wise, because honest, and curious, because wise in the perquisition of this blo [...] ­dy Murther: but as yet time will not, or rather God, who is the Creator and giver of time, is not as yet pleased to bring it to light; only Laurieta knew, and la Palasiere suspe­cted, and all those who were of the counsell of the one, or the acquaintance of the o­ther, doe likewise both feare and suspect, that onely Belluile was the bloody and exe­crable author thereof; but to report or divulge so much, although they dare, they will not.

As for la Palasiere, her thoughts are taken up and preoccupated with two severall passions: for as she grieves at Poligny's death, so shee rejoyceth that she hath no hand, nor was any way accessary to his Murther; rather, that if hee had sayled by the com­passe of her advice, hee had undoubtedly avoyded the shipwracke of his life, and pre­vented the misfortune of his death; what to thinke of Belluile shee knowes not, b [...] if hee were her friend before, hee hath now made and proclaimed himselfe her e [...] ­my, by killing her deare and onely friend Poligny: and therefore is resolved, that as shee could never perfectly b [...]ooke his company, so now this bloudy fact shall make her detest both it and him. But let us a little leave her, and descend to speake of L [...] ­rieta, to see how shee brookes the murther of her intimate friend Poligny: for sith she [...] assuredly knowes and believes that this cruell Murther was performed by no other, b [...] by her professed enemy Belluile, or by some of his bloudy agents, love and revenge conspire to act two different Scenes upon the Theater of her heart: for in memory and deepe affection to her Poligny, her pearled teares and mournefull sighes infinite­ly deplore and bewayle his disastrous end; so as sorrow withering the roses of her cheekes, and griefe making her cast off her glittering, to take on mournefull attire, she could not refraine from giving all Avignion notice how pleasing Poligny's life was to her, by the excesse of her lamentations and afflictions demonstrated for his death; o [...] if her sighes found any consolation, or her teares recesse or truce, it was administred her by her revenge, which shee conceived and intended towards Belluile, for this his bloudy fact. So as consulting with Choller, not with Reason, with Nature, no [...] with Grace, with Satan, not with God, shee vowes to bee sharpely revenged of him, and to make him pay deare for this his base and treacherous Murther; yea, the fumes and fury of her revenge are so implacable, and transport her resolutions to so bloudy an impetuositie, that resembling her sexe and selfe, shee inhumanely and sacrilegious­ly darts forth an oath, which her heart sends to her soule, and her soule from Earth to Hell, that if the meanes finde not her, she will infallibly find out the meanes to quench and dry up her teares for Poligny's death, in the bloud of Belluile: which, sith she is so de­voyd of reason, religion, and grace, I feare we shal shortly see her attempt and performe. But leaving her in Avignion, let us finde out Belluile in Aix, who is a Gentleman so pro­phane [Page 139] in his life, and debosht in his actions and conversations, as in stead of repenting he triumphs at this his Murther; yea, hee is become so impious and impudent, as hee grieves not thereat, but onely that he had not sooner dispatched his rivall Poligny: but the better to delude the world, that neither his hand or sword were guilty in sending Poligny from this world in a bloudy winding sheet, his thoughts like so many hounds pursuing his conscience, and his conscience his soule, hee thinkes himselfe not safe in Aix, where the sharpe-sighted Presidents, and Councellours of that illustrious Se­nate of Parliament might at last accuse and finde him out for the Authour of this blou­dy Murther; and therefore leaves both it and Provence, and so rides to the City of Lyons, accompanyed with none but his two Lackeyes, who, to write the truth, act [...]d no part in Poligny's mournfull Tragedy; neither doth he yet thinke himselfe safe there: but within a moneth after the Murther, thinking directly and securely to flye from the eyes and hands of justice, thereby to avoyd the storme of his punishment, hee againe takes horse for that great City and Forrest Paris, where he hoped the infinite number of People, Streets, Coaches, and Horses would not only secure his feare, but prevent his danger, and that here, as in a secure Sanctuary and safe harbour, he might quietly ride at anchor in all peace and tranquillity: but (as before) the time is not yet come of his pu­nishment; for it may bee, God, out of his inscrutable will and Divine providence, will, when hee best pleaseth, returne him from whence hee came, and by some extra­ordinary accident make him there feele the foulenesse of his fact, in the sharpenesse and suddennesse of his punishment; which, as a fierce gust and bitter storme, shall then surprise him, when hee least suspects or dreames thereof. But in this interim of his re­sidence, he forgets his new fact of Murther, to remember his old sinnes of Concupi­scence and Whoredome; and so rather like a lascivious Courtier, then a civill morall Christian, hee cannot see the Church for the Stewes, nor the Preachers or Priests for Panders and Strumpets. But this vanity of his shall cost him deare, and hee shall be so miserable to feele the punishment, sith hee will not be so happy to seeke the meanes to avoyde it: for now sixe moneths having exhausted and dissipated the greatest part of his gold, and his credit comming short of his hopes, it seems the aire of Paris is displea­sing to him, sith he cannot be agreeable to it; and therfore (necessity giving a law to the vanity of his desires) he beginnes to loath the Ile of France, to love the Province of Provence, and to leave Paris to see Avignion. And now it is, that the devill, that subtle and fatall seducer, steps in, and at one time bewitching both his reason and judgement, presents him afresh with the freshnesse and delicacie of Laurieta's beauty, which so in­kindleth and revives the sparks of his affection, that lay raked up in the ashes of silence, as he vowes there is no beauty to hers; and if hee chance espie any faire Ladies, either at Court, or in the City, he presently affirmeth, and infinitly protesteth, they come farre short of his Laurieta's delicacie, perfection, and grace; so as his purse tyrannizing o're his ambition, and his concupiscence o're his judgement, he not so much as once dreaming of the implacable hatred she formerly bo [...]e him, and thinking it impossible for her to conceive, much lesse to know that he murthered Poligny, he is constant and resolute to reseeke the felicity to live in her favour and affection, or to dye in the pursute thereof; but that will prove as impossible, as this apparent and feasable. So as absence adding fire to his lust, and excellencie to her beauty, he is resolute to send one of his Lackeyes to Avignion; partly to returne with money, and so to meete him at Lyons, Mo [...]lins, or Nevers; but more especially, in great secrecie to deliver a Letter to his fa re and sweet L [...]urieta, and to bring him backe her answer, as if hee were still at Paris, and not in his journey downewards. When meaning as yet to conceale his Murther of Poligny, hee calling for pen and paper, traceth her thereon these lines:

With this his Letter hee sends a Diamond Ring from his finger, and so dispatcheth his Lackey, who is not long before hee arrive at Avignion, where very secretly he de­livers Laurieta his Masters Token and Letter; and treacherous fury as shee is, shee kis­seth both, and breaking off the Seales, reades the contents, whereat she infinitly seemes to rejoyce, and so questioneth with the Lackey about his Masters returne; who being taught his Lesson, told her that that depended on her pleasure, sith hers was his, and withall prayes her for an answer; for that two dayes hence hee was againe to returne to his Master for Paris: the which shee promiseth. The Lackey gone, she cannot re­fraine from laughing, yea, she leaps for joy, to see how Belluile is againe so besotted, to throw himselfe into her favour and mercy, and to observe how willing and forward he was to runne hoodwink'd to his untimely death and destruction: for the Devill hath fortifyed her in her former bloudy resolution; so that hap what will, shee vowes she will not faile to kill Belluile, because hee had slaine her Poligny, and already she wisheth him in Avignion, that she might see an end to this her wished and desired Tragedy. In the meane time she prepares her hypocriticall and treacherous Letter, and a rich Wat­chet Scarfe imbroydered with flames of silver. So his Lackey repayreth to her, to whom she delivereth both, with remembrance of her best love to his Master, and that shee hoped shortly to see him in Avignion. The Lackey being provided of his Masters Gold, and this Scarfe and Letter, trips away speedily for Lyons, where hee findes his Master privatly husht up in a friends house, expecting his returne; he is glad of his owne gold, but more of Laurieta's Letter, when thinking every minute a yeare before he had read it, he hastily breaking off the seales, findes these lines therein contayned:

At the reading of this her Letter hee is beyond himselfe, yea beyond the Moone for joy; so as hee wisheth nothing so much, as himselfe in her armes, or shee in his. So hee fits himselfe with a couple of good horses, puts his Lackeyes into new Sutes, and knowing that time and his absence had washed away the remembrance of Polig­ny's murther, he speeds away for Avignion; where the first night of his arrivall he pri­vately visiteth Laurieta, 'twixt whom there is nothing but kisses and imbracings; yea, shee so treacherously and sweetly lulles him [...]leepe with the Syren melody of her de­ceiptfull speeches, as she prayes him to visit her often, and that a little time shall crowne him with the fruits of his desire: so for that night they part. The n [...]xt day he repaires to her againe, when amidst the confluence of many millions of kisses, shee prayes and conjures him to discover her what hee hath done for her sake; when he tying her by oath to secrecie, and she swearing it, he relates her that it was hims [...]fe, that in affection to her had slaine Poligny, as he issued forth her lodging: when having wrested and ex­torted this mystery from him, it confirmes her malice▪ and hastneth on her resolution of his death, which his lascivious thoughts have neither [...]he grace to foresee, nor the reason to prevent: shee espyes hee hath still a Pistoll with him, and desires to know why hee beares it; who answereth her, it is to defend himselfe from his enemies▪ and that hee will never goe without it. So againe they fall to their kisses, and hee to his re­quests of a further and sweeter favour of her; which shee for that time againe denyes him, adding withall, that if hee will come to her after dinner to morrow, shee will so dispose of matters, as his pleasure shall be hers, and she will not be her owne, but his. So being surprised and ravish [...]d with the extasie of a thousand sweete approaching pleasures, hee returnes to his Chamber, and shee to her malice: where whiles he gluts himselfe with his hope of delight, shee doth no lesse with her desire of revenge. And now ruminating on the manner of his death, she thinkes nothing so fit or easie to dis­patch him, as his owne Pistoll: and so thinking shee should need her Wayting-mayd Lucilla's assistance (of whom this our History hath formerly made mention) shee ac­quaints her with her purpose, the next day to murther Belluile in her Chamber: and so with the lure of gold, and many faire promises, drawes her to consent hereunto, and injoines her to be provided of a good Ponyard under her gowne for the same purpose, if need should require; which Lucilla promiseth. Now this night, as Belluile could not sleepe for joy, so could not Laurieta for revenge, who is so weighed downe to malice and murther, as she wisheth the houre come for her to reduce her devillish contempla­tion into bloody action. But this houre shall come too soone for them both: for as Lovers are impatient of delayes, so Belluile hath no sooner dined, but taking his horse and two Lackeyes, hee sayes he will take the aire of the fields that afternoone, but will first call in and see his Mistresse Laurieta. So hee alights at her doore, and without the least feare of danger or apprehension of death, very joyfully ascends Lauriet [...]'s cham­ber; who, dissembling wretch as shee is, very kindly meets and receives him: and the better to smother and dissemble her murtherous intent, is not onely prodigall in taking but in giving him kisses. Belluile, like a dissolute and lascivious Gentleman, whispers Laurieta in her eare, that hee is come to receive the fruits of his hopes, and of her pro­mise [Page 142] and curtesie: when considering that his horse and two Lackyes were at doore, she returnes him this in his eare, that she is wholly his, and that it is out of her power to de­nye or refuse him any thing, onely shee prayes him to send away his Lackeyes, because their familiarity needed no witnesses. Thus whiles hee calls them up, to bid them carry away his horse to the gate that leades to Marseilles, and there to awayt his comming, Laurieta steps to her Wayting-mayd Lucilla, and bids her make ready her Ponyard, and stand close to her: for now (quoth she) the houre is come that I will be revenged of Belluile for my Poligny's death: the which she had no sooner spoken, but Belluile returnes to her; when redoubling his kisses, hee little, or rather not at all fea­ring he was so neere death, or death him, being ready to retire himselfe to a withdraw­ing Chamber, which Laurieta treacherously informed him she had purposely provided for him, he takes his Pistoll, and layes it on the Table of the outer Chamber, where­in they then were; which shee espying, as the instrument she infinitely desired to fin­ger, takes it in her hand, and prayes him to shew her how to shoote it off: so taking it from her, he told her, if shee pleased, hee would discharge it before her, for her sake. Why (quoth she) is it charg'd? Yea, replyes Belluile, with a single bullet. Nay then (quoth Laurieta) put in one bullet more, and if you can espye any Crow out of the window, either on the house or Church top, if it please you, I will play the man, and shoot at it for your sake: When poore Belluile, desirous to please her in any thing, looks out the window, and espies two Crowes on the crosse of the Augustine Fryers Church, which he very joyfully relates Laurieta; and so at her request claps in a second bullet more: for (quoth [...]he) if I strike not both, I will be sure to pay one; and so prayes him to leane out at window, to see how neere shee could feather them: which (miserable Gentleman) he performing, the Pistoll being bent, shee behind him dischargeth it di­rectly in his own reines. Whereat he amazedly staggering, Lucilla seconding her bloo­dy Mistresse, steps to him, and with her Ponyard gives him five or sixe wounds tho­row the body; so as without speaking or groaning, he falls dead at their feet. Where­at Laurieta triumphing and leaping for joy, uttereth these bloudy and prophane spee­ches: O Poligny, whiles thou art in heaven, thus have I done in earth for thy sake, and in revenge of thy cruell death! Which having performed, they more cruelly then cru­elty her selfe, drag his breathlesse carkasse, reeking in his bloud, downe the stayres, in­to a low obscure Cellar, where making a shallow grave, they there bury him in his clothes, and so pile up a great quantity of Billets on him; as if that wooden monu­ment had power to conceale their Murther, and his body from the eyes and suspicion of all the world. Good God! what devills incarnate, and infernall Furies are these, thus to imbrue their hands in the blood of this Gentleman? But as close as they act and contrive this their bloody and inhumane Murther on earth, yet heaven will both detect and revenge it: for when they least dreame thereof, Gods wrath and vengeance will surprise them, to their utter confusion and destruction, and it may be sooner then they are aware of.

For the two Lackeyes having stayed at the City gate with their Masters horse till night, they returne and seeke him at Laurieta's house, where they left him; Laurieta in­formes them hee stayed not an houre after them, and since shee saw him not; which newes doth infinitely afflict and vexe them. But they returne to his lodging, and like duetifull and faithfull servants, betwixt hope and feare, awayt his returne that night, and all the next day; but in vaine. And now they beginne to be amazed at his long and unaccustomed absence, and so consult this important businesse to some Gentlemen, their Masters confident and intimate friends; who together with them repayre to Laurieta's house, and againe and againe demand her for Mounsieur de Belluile: but they finde her constant in her first answer, and yet guided by the finger and providence of [Page 143] God, they bewray a kinde of perturbation in her lookes, and discover some distracti­on and extavagancie in her speeches: whereupon calling to their mindes her former discourtesie to him for Poligny's sake, and his fighting with him on the Bridge for hers, as also this sudden and violent suspected murther of him, they suspect and feare there is more in the winde then as yet they know; and so acquaint the Criminall Iudges here­with, who as wise Senatours, having severally examined both her and her Mayd Lu­cilla, and Belluile's Lackeyes, they conclude to imprison Laurieta; which is instantly performed: whereat she is extreamly amazed and terrifyed; but howsoever, she is re­solute to deny all, and constant to stand upon her justification and innocencie. So her Iudges adjudge her to the torments of the Racke, which (with a masculine, yea, with a hellish fortitude) shee indureth, without revealing the least shaddow, either of feare or guiltinesse; but they detaine her still prisoner, and hope that God will make time dis­cover the Murther of Belluile; for eight dayes being now past, they are become con­fident that hee is not in this world, but in another. In the meane time her bloudy Wayting-mayd Lucilla hath continuall recourse to her Lady Laurieta in prison, where, like impious and prophane wretches, they interchangeably sweare secrecie each to o­ther, sith on eithers discovery depends no lesse then both their deaths.

Whiles this newes is generally divulged in Avignion, Provence, Daulphine, and Langue­ [...]k, and no newes at all to be had or gathered of Belluile, La Palaisiere, who shined with as many vertues as L [...]urieta was obscured with Vices, out of compassion and Christian charity, some three weeks after visiteth Laurieta in prison, although she partly believed and knew, that she never affected or loved her▪ when ayming to adde consolation to her afflictions, as God would have it, Laurieta, out of her ignorance or folly, returnes la [...] this unlooked for answer: That her selfe was as innocent of Belluile's death, as shee was of Poligny's. Which words being over-heard by some curious head of the company, were instantly carryed and reported to the Criminall Iudges, who instantly cause la Palaisiere to bee apprehended and brought before them, whom they examine upon Poligny's death; which doth no way aff [...]ight or afflict her, because her conscience was untainted, and her selfe as innocent as innocencie her selfe thereof. They deale further with her, to understand the passages of former businesses betwixt her selfe, Po­ [...]gny, and Belluile. Shee gives them a true and faithfull account thereof, yea, and re­lates them as much and no more, then this History hath formerly related us; and to verifie and confirme her speeches, like a discreet young Gentlewoman, she gives them the keyes of a Trunke of hers, wherein shee sayth is her copy of a Letter shee wrote to Poligny, and his answer againe to her, which shee prayes them to send for, for her bet­ter cleering and discharge. The Iudges send speedily away for these Letters, which are found, produced, and read, directly concurring with the true circumstance of her former deposition: whereupon with much applause and commendation they acquit and discharge her. But if la Palaisiers Vertues have cleered her, Laurieta's Vices (which the Iudges begin to smell out by Poligny's Letter) doe the more narrowly and streight­ly imprison her; and yet knowing that la Palasiere neither had, nor could any way ac­cuse her, for either of these two Murthers, she sets a good face on her bad heart, and so very bravely frollikes it in prison, and to speake truth, with farre more joy, and lesse feare then heretofore: but to checke and overthrow these vaine triumphs of hers in their birth, and to ni [...] them in their b [...]ds, newes is brought her that her Wayting mayd Lucilla is secretly fled; which her Iudges understanding, they now more vehemently then ever heretofore suspect, that (without doubt) Laurieta was the authour, and her Mayd Lucilla the accessary of Belluile's Murther: and so they set all the city and coun­trey for her apprehension. And this newes indeed makes Laurieta feare that shee will i [...]allibly be taken, which doth afflict and ama [...]e her, and indeed here at shee cannot re­fraine [Page 144] from biting her lip, and hanging downe her head. But see the miraculous and just judgement of the Lord, upon this wretched and bloudy Lucilla! for she, for feare fly­ing, as it is supposed, that night from Avignion to Orenge, to her parents, was there drow­ned, and the next morne found and taken up dead in one of the Fenny Lakes betwixt the two Cities. Which newes being reported to Laurieta, she againe converts her feare into hope, and sorrowes into joyes, as knowing well that dead bodies can tell no tales. But the wisedome and integrity of the Iudges, by the apparencie of Laurieta's crime in that of her Wayting-mayds flight, againe command her to be racked: but the de­vill is yet so strong with her, and she with the devill, that she againe indures the cruel­ty of these torments with a wonderfull patience, with an admirable constancie and re­solution, and so couragiously and stoutly denying her crime, and peremptorily main­taining her innocencie and justification, her Iudges, led by the consideration of the sharpnesse and bitternesse of her torments, as also that they could finde no direct proof or substantiall evidence against her, beginne to conceive and imagine that it might be the Wayting-mayd, and not the Mistresse, that had sent Belluile into another world; and so resolve, the weeke following, if they heard nothing in the meane time to accuse Laurieta, to release and acquit her: which Laurieta understanding, the torments which her limbes and body feele are nothing in respect of those contentments and joyes her heart and thoughts conceive; and already building castles and triumphs in her hea [...] and contemplations, for the hope and joy of her speedy inlargement, she, in her appare [...] and behaviour, flaunts it out farre braver then before. But she hath not yet made he [...] peace with her Iudges, neither have they pronounced her Quieta est. And alas, how foolishly and ignorantly doth the vanity of her hopes deceive and betray her, when [...] the foulenesse of her soule, and contamination of her conscience, every houre and minute prompt her, that God, the Iudge of Iudges, who hath seene, will in his good time and pleasure both detect and punish as well her whoredome as her murther, in he [...] death! And lo, here comes both the cause and the manner thereof, wherein Gods pro­vidence and justice doe miraculously resplend and shine.

For Laurieta being indebted to her Land-lord Mounsieur de Riehcourt, as well for a whole yeares rent, as for three hundred Livres in money, which hee had lent her, be­ing impatient of her delayes, but more of her disgrace, lets out that part of his house, which shee held of him, to the Deane of Carpentras, who for his healths sake came to sojourne that Winter in Avignion; and despairing of her inlargement, and to satisfie himselfe, beginnes to sell away her household-stuffe, yea, to the very Billets which she had in her Cellar, which he retaines for himselfe; whereof when his servants came to cleere the Cellar, they removing the last Billets, finde the earth newly removed and opened in the length and proportion of a Grave: wherof wondring, they presently informe their Master, who viewing the same, as God would have it, hee instantly ap­prehended and believed, that Laurieta had undoubtedly killed Belluile, and there buri­ed him: when not permitting his servants to remove the least jot of earth, he as a dis­creet and honest Citizen, with all possible celeritie trips away to the Criminall Iudges, and acquaints them herewith; who concurring with Richcourt in his opinion and belief, they dispeed themselves to his house and Cellar, where causing the new opened earth to be removed, behold, they find the miserable dead body of Belluile there inhumanely throwne in and buried in his cloaths, which causing to be taken off, thereby to search his body, they find himshot into the reines with two Pistoll bullets, and his body stabd and p [...]erced with sixe severall wounds of a Rapier or Ponyard: they are amazed at this pitifull and lamentable spectacle; and so resting confident it could be no other but Lau­rieta and her Mayd Lucilla, that had committed this cruell Murther, they very privately and secretly cause Belluiles dead body to bee conveyed to the prison, and there, when [Page 145] Laurieta least dreamt thereof, expose it to her sight, and in rough termes charge and crie out upon her for this Murther; but this monster of nature, and shee-devill of her sexe, hath yet her heart so obdurated with revenge, and her soule so o're-clouded and benumm'd with impiety, as shee is nothing daunted or terrifyed with the sight hereof; but with many fearefull imprecations and asseverations stands peremptorily in her innocencie, and out of the heat of her malice and choller termes them devills or witches, that are her accusers. But her Iudges, who can no longer be deluded with her vowes, nor will no more give eare to her perfidious oaths, command to have her Paps seared off with hot burning Pincers, thereby to vindicate the truth of her cruell murther, from the falsehood of her impious and impudent denyall thereof. Whereat amazed and astonished, and seeing this cruell torment ready to bee inflicted and pre­sented her, God was so indulgent to her sinnes, and so mercifull to her soule, as the de­vill flying from her, and she from his temptations, shee rayning downe many rivolets and showres of teares from her eyes, and evaporating many volleyes of sighes from her heart, throwing her selfe downe on her knees to the earth, and lifting up her eyes and handes unto Heaven, with much bewayling and bitternesse, shee at last confesseth to her Iudges, that shee and her Wayting-mayd Lucilla were the murtherers of Bellu­ile, and for the which shee sayd, that through her humble contrition and hearty repen­tance, shee hoped that God would pardon her soule in the life to come, though shee knew they would not her body in this. Whereupon the Iudges, in horrour and exe­cration of her inhumane and bloudy crime, pronounce sentence of death upon her, and condemne her the next day after dinner, first to be hanged, then burnt in the same street, right against her lodging, Monsieur de Richcourts house; and likewise, sith Lu­cilla was both an accessary and actour in this bloudy Tragedy, that her body should be taken up out of her Grave, and likewise burnt with hers in the same fire: which ac­cordingly was executed in the presence of an infinite number of people both of the Citizens, and adjacent neighbours of Avignion; Laurieta uttering upon the Ladder a short, but a most Christian and penitent speech to the people, tending first to disswade them all by her example from those foule and crying sinnes of whoredome, revenge, and murther; and then to request and perswade them, that they would assist her with their religious and devout prayers in her soules passage and flight towards Heaven: yet adding withall, that as her crime, so her griefe was redoubled, because as she had killed Belluile for Poligny's sake, so she was sure that Belluile had killed Poligny for hers.

And thus, Christian Reader, were the dissolute lives and mournefull deaths of these two unfortunate Gentlemen, Poligny and Belluile, and of this lascivious and bloudy Cur­ [...]izan Laurieta, and her Wayting-mayd Lucilla. A tragicall History, worthy both of our observation and detestation; and indeed, these are the bitter fruits of Lust, Whore­ [...]ome, and Revenge, and the inseparable companions which infallibly awayt and at­tend them; the very sight and consideration whereof are capable, not onely to admi­nister consolation to the righteous, but to strike terror to the ungodly. O there­fore, that wee may all beware by these their fatall and dangerous sinnes: for this is the onely perfect and true way to prevent and avoyde their punishments.

GODS REVENGE AGAINST THE CRYING AND EXE­crable sinne of Murther.
HISTORIE IX.

WEe need not send our curiosity (or our curiosity us) to seek Tygers and Monsters in Africa; for Europe hath but too many, who are so cruell and inhumane, not only to imbrue, but to imbath them­selves in the innocent bloud of their Christian brethren. And as Religion prohibites us to kill, and commands us to love our enemies; with what audacious and prophane impiety dare wee then murther our friends, nay those of our owne bloud, and who are the greatest part of our selves? And although Italy have late­ly afforded many tragicall presidents, and fearefull Examples of this nature (whe [...]of I have given some to my former, and reserved others to my future bookes) yet in my conceipt it hath produced none more bloudy and inhumane then this, whether we re­spect the Murthers or the persons. For here wee shall see a wretched and execrable old man so besotted in lust, and flaming in malice and revenge, as being both a husband and a father, hee by a hellish young Gentlewoman (his strumpet) poyson [...]th both his owne wife and his owne sonne: It was his vanity which first inkindled the fire of his lust; it is then his Impiety which gives way to the Devill to blow the coales thereto, and so to convert it into Murther. O that Sinne should so triumph o're Grace, and not Grace o're Sinne! O that Age and Nature should not teach us to bee lesse bloudy, and more compassionate and charitable! And alas, alas, by Poyson, that drug of the De­vill, who first brought the damnable invention thereof from hell, to be practised here on earth onely by his agents and members! Wee shall likewise see him killed by his daughter in law, for formerly poysoning of her husband: Lust seduced him to perpetra [...]e those; Affection, or rather bloudy Revenge, drew her on to performe this, and conse­quently to her punishment due for the same. Had they had more Grace and Religion, they would not have beene so inhumane; but falling from that, no marvell if they fell to be so wretched and miserable: for if we die well, we seldome live ill; if live ill, we usually never die well: for it is the end that crowns the beginning, not the beginning the end. Therfore if we will be happy in our lives, and blessed in our deaths, we must follow [Page 148] Vertue, and flie from Vice, love Chastity and Charity, and hate Lust and Envie, pre­ferre Heaven before Earth, our Soules before our Bodies, and defie Satan, with a holy resolution both to feare and love God.

SAvoy is the Countrey, and Nice the City (seated upon the Mediterrane [...]m Sea, being the strongest Bulwarke against France; and the best For [...]resse and Key of Italy) where the Scene of this insuing Tragicall History is layd: the which to refetch from the Head-spring and Fountaine of its originall, it must carry our curiosity and understan­ding over those famous Mountaines, the Alpes, and from thence to the City of Saint Iohn de Mauriena; where of late and fresh memory dwelt an aged Gentleman, of rich re­venues and great wealth, named Seignior Antonio de Arconeto, who had newly by his de­ceased Wife, the Lady Eleanora de Bibanti, two Children, to wit, a Son, and a Daughter; that, named Seignior Alexandro, and this, the Lady Perina; a little different in yeares, for he was eighteen, and she but fifteen; but more in qualities and conditions, for he was by nature perverse and chollericke, but she, milde, courteous, and gracious: Againe, they differed much in the lineaments and proportion of their bodies; for Alexandro, like his Father, was short, crook-backt, and hard-favour'd; and Perina resembling her mo­ther, tall, straight-wasted, and faire: so as it being a principle and Maxime in Nature, that parents (for the most part) love those Children best, who best resemble them; as the mother Eleanora preferr'd Perina in her affection before Alexandro, so contrariwise their father Arconeto did Alexandro before Perina. But as God had called Eleanora out of this life, and left her husband Arconeto to survive her; so Alexandro's joy prov'd his sister Perina's mise [...]y and affliction for he was so happy to see himself tenderly cherished and affected, and she so unfortunate to perceive her selfe slighted and disrespected of her fa­ther: wherein, as I praise Arconeto's intimate love to his sonne, so I cannot but discom­mend, and withall pitty his immerited and unnatural neglect to his daughter: wherein, as Alexandro triumphed in the one, judge judicious Reader, if Perina had not cause enough to grieve and lament at the other. But as the drift and scope of this History looks ano­ther way, so for my part, who have u [...]dertaken to pen it, it is the least of my intent [...] purpose to give instructions and direction, how parents should beare themselves in their affections towards their children; onely, because I may not here too palpably bewray mine ignorance in my silence, I hope, nay, I am confident, that with as much truth a [...] safety I may conclude, it is a happinesse both for parens and children, where parents beare their aff [...]ctions equally to their children: for loving one, and hating another, the joy of the one proves oftentimes the others sorrow; and in giving that too muc [...] hope, we many times administer this too much cause of despaire; or if the inclinati­ons and aff [...]ctions of parents be more narrowly tyed, and strictly linked to preferre and love one child above the other, yet sith they are the equall issue of their loynes, and wee the onely parents of their youth, wee should bee as well cautious in the distributi­on of our favors, a in the demonstration of our disrespects towards them. But enough of this digression; and now againe to our H [...]story.

As Alexandro growes up in yeares, so he doth in ambition and ostentation: for if he play the Brav [...]sho abroad among Gentlemen and Ladies, so authorizd by his fathers ha­tred of his sister, he at home becomes a petty tyrant to her; yea, his carriage is so sterne and imperious towards her, as if she were rather his slave then his sister, or his laundres and hand-mayd, then any part of himselfe, which notwithstanding it was both a daily griefe to her heart, and a continuall torment to her thoughts, yet Perina's sweet perfecti­ons, and gracious vertues and behavior, make her digest and brook all with wonderfull constancie, and an admirable patience: for wel she knowes that if she should complain [...] her father of her brothers unkindnes towards her, she should thereby reape no other re­medy [Page 149] and redresse but this, that the one would laugh, and the other triumph thereat; and that the issue therof would proove her complaints to be the May game of the one, and mocking-stock of the other. But God hath ordayned briefly to ease her of a great part of her undeserved discontents and afflictions: for lo, her brother Alexandro, debau­ching and surfeting at a Banquet at Susa, returnes home, surprised of a hot pestilent Fever, which notwithstanding the care of his Father, or the art of his expertest Phy­sicians, hee in three dayes is taken out of this life.

And now guided by the light of nature, and the instinct of common sense and rea­son, who would not surmise or thinke, but that Arconeto, having buryed his sonne A­lexandro, should now love his onely daughter and child Perina farre dearer and ten­derer then before. But alas, nothing lesse: for hee is not so kinde, and therefore shee cannot be so happy; yea, which is worse, although his words be her commands, and his pleasure her law, yet hee contemnes both her and her obedience, and never lookes on her with love and affection, but still with disdaine and envie: yea, in a word, his di­stast is so extreame and bitter against her, as hee is never best pleased, then when shee is furthest from him; so as her absence may delight and content him, but her presence cannot. Which unnaturall disrespect; and unjust cruelty of her father towards her, doth so nip the joyes of her youth, and the blossomes of her health and beauty, as, poore young Gentlewoman, she becomes infinite melancholly, and extreme weake and sick­ly; which being observed and pittyed of all her kinsfolkes and friends, as being her Fathers onely child, and heire to all his Lands and Riches, an Aunt of hers, being her mothers sister, and likewise her God-mother, termed the Lady Dominica, a Widow­woman of the same City; workes so with her brother in law Arconeto, that hee is con­tent to permit his daughter Perina to reside and dwell with her: whereat, as the Aunt is not a little glad, so the Neece beyond measure infinitely rejoyceth, and triumphs thereat, both hoping that her absence may, and will procure her fathers affection, which her presence could not; and that having more liberty and lesse bondage, shee might a­gaine in a short time recover her former health and content; or else that God, out of his divine providence, and pleasure in heaven, might call and allot her out some gallant Husband here on earth, with whom, in the contents and pleasures of Marriage, shee might end her future dayes in as much tranquillity and felicity, as she had formerly li­ved in discontent and affliction: and indeed the events, though not in the first, yet in the two last poynts, answereth their expectations.

The Lady Dominica hath formerly contracted a Daughter of hers, named Dona Ber­tha, to a Cavallier of the City of Nice, termed Seignior Bartholome [...] Spelassi, by descent noble, and of good revennues and wealth. And now the appoynted time is come for their Marriage: to which end, up comes Spelassi from Nice to Saint Iohn de Mauriene, assisted and followed by many gallant young Gentlemen of his kinsfolks and friends, and, in a word, with a Trayne well befitting his ranke and quality, where these Nup­tialls are solemnized with great variety of pompe and pleasure; as Feasting, Dancing, Masks, Running at the Ring, and the like: for in these amorous and Court-like Revels, the Savoyards (as participating both of the French and Italian humours) take a singu­lar delight and felicity: But as many times one Wedding occasioneth and produ­ceth another, so Fortune, or to speake more properly and truely, God ordayned, that the Lady Dominica appoynted her Neece Perina, to conduct the Bride-groome her Sonne in law, Spelassi, to the Church; and hee had allotted one of the noblest and eminent Cavalliers that came with him, named Seignior Francisco de Castelnovo, to per­forme the same ceremonie to his Bride the Dona Bertha, being a Knight of Malta, na­tive of the City of Nice, and son and heire to Seignior Iacomo de Castel [...]o, a very an [...] fe [...]t and rich Baron of Savoy. Now as Perina was a most beautifull and [...]aire young La­dy, [Page 150] so was our young Castelnovo a very proper and gallant Cavallier; and sith the occa­sion of this Marriage, and the fortunacie and opportunity of their united office, by a kinde of destinated and happy priviledge, authorized each to be familiar in the others company and presence: so, as Lovers beginne to court first in jest, then in earnest, the hearts and brests of this sweet young couple are in the end equally surprised with the flame of affection; yea, his personage and dancing, and her beauty and singing, mu­tually inkindle this fire of love in their thoughts and contemplations, which either imagineth, and both perceive and understand, by the dumbe Oratorie and silent Rhe­toricke of their eyes: Which Castelnovo knowing her descent and quality answerable to his, hee intends to seeke her in Marriage. When not any longer to surpresse or con­ceale their affections, they after dinner dancing in company of divers others in the gar­den, he singleth the Lady Perina, his new Mistresse, apart in a Bower closely overvail'd with Vines, Cicamores, and Cypres Trees, and there 'twixt sighs and words, reveales his deepe affection to her. But to avoyd the prolixious relation of this their Garden en­te [...]view and conference, although at first Perina's modesty (the sweetest ornament and vertue of a Lady) was such, as shee not onely kept her selfe, but likewise her affecti­ons to her selfe, yet her courteous and thankefull answeres, wayted and seconded by many delicious blushes, and amorous sighes, although not publikely, yet privately in­form'd her I over Castelnovo, that shee likewise loved him: so as during the tearme of fifteene dayes, which Spelassi and hee remayned in Saint Iohn de Mauriene, hee ne­ver l [...]ft courting her, till hee had obtayned her affection, and consent to bee his wife; drawne thereunto by these two attractive and seducing reasons: First, that Castelnovo was a gallant and proper Cavallier, as also her equall in descent and meanes; and then that shee should live in Nice with a Husband who dearely loved her, and no longer in Saint Iohn de Mauriene with a Father who extremely hated her: Neither can these our young Lovers beare their affections so secret, but the whole company, especially the Lady Dominica her Aunt perceives it, and deeming it a fit Match for her Neece, rejoy­ceth thereat. Castelnovo secretly acquaints her therewith, and intreates her best assi­stance therein towards her brother Arconeto; which shee promiseth, and forthwith at­tempteth: when Castelnovo, taking time at advantage, seconds her in his suite for the Daughter, to her old Father.

Now her Father Arconeto (degenerating from the naturall affection of a Father to­wards his Daughter) is so willing to depart with her to any Husband, that hee may no more see her, nor bee troubled with her presence, as thinking a farre worse Match good enough, hee thinkes this infinitely too good for her; and so at the least shaddow of the very first motion consents thereunto: which not onely banisheth Perina's old griefe, but confirmeth Castelnovo's new joyes; yea they, like two sweete and vertu­ous Lovers, so extremely rejoyce and triumph thereat, as he riding home poast to Nice, to acquaint his owne Father Seignior Iacomo de Castelnovo therewith, and swiftly re­turning againe to Saint Iohn de Mauriene with his consent and approbation, this Mar­riage of Castelnovo and Perina is there almost as soone solemnized, as that of Spelassi and Bertha, though indeed more obscure, and with farre lesse pompe and bravery, in resp [...]ct of the perversenesse and distast of her froward old Father Arconeto. So fif­teene dayes being expired since Spelassi and Castelnovo their first departure from Nice, they leave Saint Iohn de Mauriene, to returne and conduct their Brides home to Nice, robbing that, to inrich this City with two such beautifull and gallant Ladies, as were Bertha and Perina.

Now the better to adde life and forme to this History, or rather to approch the more materiall and essentiall parts thereof, we must here leave to speake of Spelassi and Bertha, and wholly tye our thoughts and curiosity to Castelnovo and Perina, two principall and [Page 151] unfortunate Personatours, who both have mournefull parts to act upon the Stage and Theater of Nice: for this Marriage of theirs is not begunne with the tenth part of so many joyes, as wee shall shortly see it wayted and attended on, yea, dissolved and fini­shed both with teares and bloud.

Castelnovo having brought home his faire and deare Perina to Nice, she is very honou­rably welcomed, and courteously received and entertayned of his old Father, Seig­nior Iacomo de Castelnovo, and of the Lady Fidelia his Mother, and so are all her kinsfolkes and friends who accompany her; yea, there wants no feasting nor revel­ling in Nice, to testifie how much they congratulate and rejoyce at their sonnes good fortune and happines. And for Castelnovo and Perina themselves, why they are so ravish­ed in the content, and drowned in the joyes and delights of Marriage, as though they have two bodies, yet they have but o [...]e heart, desire, and affection; yea, they are so extreamely in love each with other, as they believe there is no Heaven upon earth, to that of each others presence. But they shall be deceived herein: for there are Tragi­call stormes arising, to trouble the serenity of this Marriage, and the felicity and tran­quillity of these affections.

For it is both with griefe and shame, that I must bee so immodest, and therefore unfortunate to relate, that the old Baron Iacomo de Castelnovo, aged of some three­score and eight yeares, hath so farre forgotten his God and himselfe, his conscience and his soule, grace and nature, religion and humanity, as gazing on the fresh and de­licious beauty of our sweete Lady Perina, his owne sonnes wife, hee gives the reignes both of his obscene desires, and inordinate affections, to lust after her. O how my heart trembles, to thinke how he that is white with the snow of a venerable age, should now lasciviously idolatrize to beauty! how he that hath (as it were) one foot in his grave, should lustfully desire to have the other in his Sonnes bed! how hee that hath his veines dryed up and withered, and nothing living in him but desire, should yet of all the beauties of the world, desire onely to enjoy that of his Sonnes wife! how hee, that hath scarce any time left him to bee repentant and sorrowfull for his old sinnes, will now anew make himselfe guiltie of these foule sinnes of Adultery, and I may in a manner say of Incest! how hee that hath not given the flower of his youth, will yet still lasciviously and wilfully refuse to bestow the branne of his age on his God! Alas miserable Castelnovo, wrerched old man, or rather lubritious and beastly Lecher, thus to drowne thy thoughts in the hell of concupiscence and adultery, when it were farre fitter thou shouldest lift them up to heaven, in the sacrifice of prayer, and other pious and religious contemplations! But all this will not prevaile to stop the current of his voluptuousnesse, and the progression of his sensuality: for without respect of his God, or regard of his soule, hee is resolute in his desires to make a strumpet of his Daughter in Law, and to make his Sonnes wife his whore: but God will deceive his hopes, and prevent his villany.

Now the better, and sooner to drawe her to his lascivious desires, hee is won­derfull courteous and affable to her, still walking and talking with her, yea, and many times kissing her, whereof both her Husband and selfe are infinitely joyfull, but espe­ally Perina, because shee findes a great alteration in her fortune, in that her Father in Law Castelnovo proves as courteous to her, as her owne Father Arconeto is cruell. But poore innocent soule, and sweet and chast Lady, little dost thou either dreame, o [...] thinke on his lascivious intent against thine honour and chastity. Old Castelnovo wal­lowing in the filthinesse, and burning in the fire of his new lust, and losing himselfe and his thoughts in the Labyrinth of his Daughter in law Perina's beauty, hee thinkes on nothing so much, nay, on nothing else, but how to obtaine her to his lasci­vious will: but not daring, or rather fearing to acquaint her with his inordinate and [Page 152] beastly purpose, whiles his son her husband is at home present with her, he forgeth and frames a plot, both unnaturall and treacherous, to make him imbrace and follow the Wars in wayting on the Duke Charles Emanuel, or the Prince Amadee Victor his son and heire, who with their warlike troopes were resolute to expell the Duke of Feria, Viceroy of Millan, with his Spanish Regiments out of Vercele, Casall, and the other Townes of Piedmont, to which end his lustful affection to Perina made him eloquent in perswading, and powerfull in drawing her husband to this Martiall action, so full of honour and glory; adding that his honour, and the service of his Prince and Countrey, called him to the Field, and that he should not wholly drowne himselfe in the beauty of his young Wife, and the pleasures of Marriage. His sonne Castelnovo not at all suspe­cting, or dreaming what a dangerous Snake lay lurking under the greene leaves of his fathers sugered speeches and perswasions, like a noble and generous Knight as he was, needes no other advocate but his owne honour and Martiall disposition to imba [...]ke him in these Warres: and although the beauty, requests, and teares of his young La­dy were vehement sollicitours to divert him, yet hee is resolute to leave her for three or foure moneths. And so making ready his armes, traine, horses and preparatives, hee giving her many kisses, and shee returning him a world of sighes and teares, leaves Nice, and so findes out the Duke and his Army in Piedmont; where for a little time we will leave him.

It is a question very disputable, and which by my weake capacity and judgemt cannot well bee decided, whether this departure of young Custelnovo to the Warres, made his father more glad, or his wife sorrowfull: for as shee was all in teares, so was hee in mirth and jollity, being so vaine in his lust, and s [...] lustfull in his vanity, as [...] trimmes up his beard, and goes nearer and withall more youthfull in his apparell then accustomed; yea, his lust had so metamorphosed him, as if it had a prophane influ­ence, and secret power to renew old age in him. But alas, alas, what perfection of chastity can wee expect or hope for in youth, when wee see no better signes and fr [...]s in one of threescore and eight yeares? But I will follow the streame of our Histo­ry, though indeed the relation of this old lascivious Lechers Lust and Vanity to his daughter in law Perina, equally afflict me with griefe and pitty to publish it.

I am then constrained to write and averre, that although meere shame and unna­turalnesse doe as yet with-hold this wretched fathers tongue, from vomiting foorth his adulterated lust to his faire and chast daughter in law Perina, yet his lust is so im­modestly lascivious, as hee cannot keepe himselfe out of her company, nor being in it, refraine from kissing her: but to see the innocencie, and observe the purity of her thoughts, shee neverthelesse not so much as any way suspects or dreames of his lascivious intent, although indeed shee thinkes this courtesie of his somewhat exceeds the priviledge of a Father, and the duety of a Daughter; but measuring this by the cruelty of her owne Father, shee, poore silly soule, thinkes her selfe in this respect now as happy, as heretofore shee was miserable. Onely the absence of her deare husband Castelnovo doth both torture and torment her, and the more, for that hee is in the Field at Warres; when, God knoweth, shee desireth and wisheth hee should bee at home with her in peace.

But whiles Perina lookes from Savoy to Piedmont, from Nice to Vercelli, and from her selfe to her Lord and Husband, her other selfe, wee must not forget, because o [...] History will remember, her Mother in law Fidelia, which now wee must admit and re-conduct to act her part upon the Theatre hereof: who observing her Husbands immodest and unwise familiarity demonstrated to the young Lady Perina, her sonne [...] Wife, as also his alteration in humours and apparell; but chiefely his unaccustome [...] distraction and sighes in his rest and repose; shee, more out of vertuous wisedome [Page 153] then foolish jealousie, ay mes at his vaine lust towards this young Lady her Daughter in law: whereat shee both admires with griefe, and wonders with the anxiety of af­fliction and sorrow, to see her old Husband, in the winter of his age, so so [...]ish and beastly to lust after his owne sonnes young Wife, to see that no respect of heaven, no regard of conscience, nor apprehension of damnation and hell, had the grace or pow­er, either to kill these lascivious thoughts in their conception, or to [...]rangle them in their birth, to fee that hee who was ready to goe to his bed of death, should now (like the Salamander in the fire) bee burning with desire, to goe to that of Lust and Adulte­ry, and to see him fo devoyde of piety, as he must needs joyne Incest with Adultery, as if one of these beastly sinnes alone were not enough enormous and prodigious to make his life miserable and his death wretched. And although she have cause enough of sorrow in her selfe, yet when shee thinkes of her Husbands age, and Daughters youth, of his lust, and her chastity, and which is more, of the most degenerate and un­naturall part of a Father, to seeke to pollute and defile his owne Sonnes bed, and con­sequently his owne honour. This indeede goes neere her, and this, and onely this makes her looke on him, both with envie and pitty: but her age having taught her to love discretion, and to hate and disdaine jealousic, she beares this as patiently as shee may, till at last seeking and finding out a fit opportunity, shee both with teares in her eyes, and griefe in her speeches, very secretly checks him for these his inordinate and lascivious desires towards the young Lady Perina, their Daughter in law.

But as it is the nature of sinne so to betray and inveagle our judgements, that wee flatter our selves with a false conceit, none can perceive it in us; so this old lecher her Husband, thinking that hee had danced in a net, from the jealousie and suspicion of all the world, in thus affecting his Sonnes wife, hee like a lewd and wretched old varlet, is so farre from rellishing these his old wifes speeches and exhortations, or from be­ing reclaymed thereby, as hee disdayneth both them and her, and from henceforth is so imperious, and withall bitter to her, as hee never lookes on her with affection, but envie: which neverthelesse she (as a modest wife, and grave Matrone) holds it a part not onely of her love, but of her duety, by sweete speeches, and soft meanes of perswasion, to divert him from this fond and lascivious humour of his. But observe the vanity of his lasciviousnesse, and the impiety of his thoughts and resolutions: for all her prayers and perswasions serve only rather to set, then rebate the edge of his lust, and rather bring oyle to increase, then water to quench the flame of his immodest and irregular affection, so as seeing that she stood in the way of obtayning his beastly plea­sures, he, like a prophane and barbarous Husband, termes her no more his wife, but his Medea; and which is worse, hee, out of the heat both of his lust and choller, vowes he will soone remove her from this world to another.

And here the devill, ambitious and desirous of nothing so much, as to fill up the emyty roomes of his vast and infernall kingdome, by miserable and execrable degrees takes possession first of his thoughts, then of his heart, and lastly of his soule; so as being constant in his indignation and choller, and resolute in this his impious and blou­dy revenge, hee meanes to dispatch and murther her, who for the terme of forty two yeares had beene his most loving wife, and faithfull bed-fellow: but withall hee will act it so privately, as not having as yet discovered his affection to his daughter Perina, hee will therefore conceale both from her and all the world the Murther of this his wife Fidelia, except only to those gracelesse and execrable Agents he meant imploy in this mournefull and bloudy businesse.

To which end (with a hellish ratiocination) ruminating and revolving on the man­ner thereof, hee having runne over the circumstances of many violent and tragicall deaths, at last resolves to poyson her; and deemes none so fit to undertake it, as her [Page 154] owne Wayting-gentlewoman Ierantha: the which authorized by his former lascivi­ous dalliance with her, as also in favour of five hundred Ducats, that he will give her, hee is confident shee will undertake and finish; neither doth hee faile in his bloudy hopes. For what with the honey of his flattering speches, and the sugar of his Gold, she, like an infernall Fury, and a very Monster of her sexe, most ingratefully and inhumanely consents thereunto; so as putting poyson into Whitebroth, which some mornings she was accustomed to make and give her Lady, it spreading into her veines, and exhaling the radicall humour of her life and strength, within eight dayes carries this aged and vertuous Matrone to her Grave, and her soule to Heaven. But her Mur­therers shall pay deare for this her untimely end.

The Lady Perina, and all the Lady Fidelia's kinsfolkes and friends infinitely la­ment and bewayle her death; and indeed so doth the whole City of Nice, where for her descent and vertues shee is infinitely beloved and affected: but all these teares of theirs are nothing in comparison of those of her wicked and execrable Husband Castel­novo, who, although he inwardly rejoyce, yet he outwardly seemes to bee exceeding­ly afflicted and dejected. But as hee hath heretofore acted the part of a Murtherer, and now of an hypocrite; yet, have we but a little patience, and we shall see that detected, this unmasked, and both panished.

Whiles this mournefull Tragedy is acted in Nice, the mediation of the French King and Pope reconcile the differences, give end to the Warres, and conclude peace betwixt Spaine and Savoy. So home returnes the Duke of Feria, to Millan; the noble Duke of Savoy, and the generous Princes his Sonnes, to Turin; the Marshall de Desdiguieres, and the Baron of Termes into France; and consequently home comes our Knight Castelnovo to Nice: where thinking to rejoyce with his young wife, hee is so unfortunate to mourne for the death of his old mother; but God knowes, that neither of them know the least sparke or shadow of her cruell and untimely Murther, and lesse, the cause there­of. Now for his lascivious and bloudy father, albeit, to cast a vaile before his thoughts, and his intents and actions, hee publikely mournes for his wifes death, and rejoyceth for his Sonnes returne; yet contrariwise hee privately mournes for this, and rejoy­ceth for that. But to leave the remembrance of Fidelia, to assume that of our Peri­na; I know not whether shee grieved more at her Husbands absence, or rejoyce at his presence, sith her affection to him was so tender and fervent, as in her heart and soule shee esteemed that as much her hell, as this her heaven upon earth: but these joyes of hers are but fires of straw, or flattering Sun-shines, which are suddenly either washed away with a showre, or eclipsed and banished by a Tempest: for whiles her hopes flat­ter her beliefe of her Husbands continuall stay and residence with her, her Father in lawes lust to her, foreseeing and considering that it was impossible to thinke to obtaine her at home, e're her Husband, his Sonne, were againe imployed and sent abroad, makes all his thoughts aime, and care and industry tend that way, as if time had no power to make him repent the former murther of his wife, or Grace influence to re­nounce the future defiling and dishonouring of his Daughter in law.

But hee is as constant in his lust to her, as resolute in his dispatching and sending a­way of him; onely hee must finde out some pregnant, vertuous, and honourable pre­text and colour for the effecting of his designe and resolution, because he well knowes his Sonne Castelnovo is as wise and generous in himselfe, as amorous of his beautifull young Lady Perina: but his lust, which is the cause of his resolution, or rather his va­nity, which is the authour of his lust, at one time suggests him these two severall im­ployments for his Sonne: either to send him into France with the Prince Major, who was larely contracted, and shortly to espouse MadameChristiene the Kings second Sister; or else under the insinuation of some great Pensions and Offices that were shortly to [Page 155] bee disposed of in Malta, againe to send him backe thither: and his harping on these two strings, was the onely musicke and melody which hee now gave his Sonne; who after hee had a moneth or two at most, recreated himselfe in the sweet compa­ny of his deare and sweet wife Perina, hee least of all aiming whereat his father ai­med, by his absence againe gives way, and consents to his desires of his departure: onely the choyce of these two different imployments is yet questionable and unre­solved of 'twixt the father and the sonne. For as the sonnes curiosity desireth to see the Court of France, which as yet he hath not seen; so his fathers lust and malice is to have his returne honourably to Malta, from whence hee hath formerly received his honour of Knighthood, and there to obtaine a Pension during the terme of his life. The sonne imbrace [...]h the pleasures of the journey of France, before the profit and honour of the Voyage of Malta. But [...]he father ayming at other ends, preferres this of Malta before that of France; so as time working an impression in his thoughts, and his fathers desire a kinde of naturall command in his will, and of filiall obedi­ence in his resolution, hee at last resolves on Malta. But as neither of these two enter­prises of young Castelnovo is pleasing, but distastefull to his young and faire Lady Peri­na; So if her affliction and misery bee such, as of the two her husband must needes attempt and prosecute one, then sith hee may goe into France by land, and cannot to Malta, but by sea, shee at last, with an inforced willingnesse (sympathizing with his first inclination) likewise desireth that the object of his journey, and the period of his Voyage bee France, and not Malta; as relying rather in hearing from him to stand at the speed and fidelity of a Post, then at the inconstancie of the windes, and the mercie of the seas. So all things prepared and ready for his Voyage, Perina importu­nately begging, and her husband Castelnovo confidently promising his speedy returne, shee conducting him over the Hill to Villafranca in her Coach, they there, with many re [...]ocall kisses, fighes and teares, take leave each of other; hee imbarking himselfe upon a French Galley, bound from Marseilles to Malta, (which stopt there accidental­ly) and shee committing him to the auspicious favour of the wind and sea, very sor­rowfully returnes for Nice.

Thus leaving the sonne floating and wasting on the seas, let us againe returne to his unnaturall and beastly father, who seeing his wife gone to Heaven, and his sonne to Malta, and all things hitherto to succeed according to his lascivious desires, doth now assure himselfe, that either by faire or soule meanes hee will reape his pleasure of his beautifull daughter in law Perina. To which end hee gives her the sole governe­ment and superintendance of his house, with intent and hope the sooner to governe, and surer to command her: and so forgetting modesty, and his lust giving a law to his conscience, fifteene dayes are scarce past, till finding her in her chamber playing on her Lute, hee, after some pauses, coughes, and kisses, bewrayes and vomitteth her forth his fervent affection and desire.

But for mine owne part, I highly disdaine to pollute and vilifie this History with the obscene and lascivious speeches, wherewith this old lecher Castelnovo courts this young Lady Perina his daughter in law, as holding them as unworthy of my relation, as of my Readers knowledge; of my modest pen, as of their chaste eares, onely judging of their nature and quality by their effects. The beastlines and unexpectednesse thereof, first made Perina extremely blush for shame and choller, and then immedi­ately againe looke pale with griefe and disdaine; when not able to brooke, or hear­ken to his lewde speeches, much lesse his hatefull presence, shee, in the defence and preservation of her chastity, which shee preferred before her life, giving him a sharpe a [...]swer, and a bitter deniall, and grieving to see a father so gracelesse and impio [...]s, to s [...]ke to defile his owne sonnes bed in her dishonour, shee throwes away [...] L [...]; [Page 156] and so very hastily and chollerickly abandoneth his presence, and her owne chamber. At which hee bites his lip for rage, and hangs downe his head for indignation. But at last, sinne and the devill raigning in him, makes that hee will not take this her first re­pulse for his last answer and denyall: but resolute to persevere in his lubricitie, hee in every walke, garden and roome, frequents and haunts her as her ghost, as thinking to obtaine that from her through his importunity, which hee could not by his perswasi­on: but this his impudencie shall not prevaile.

Now as his sinfull motion infinitely grieved her, so his perseverance and importu­nacie therein doth doubly afflict and torment her: how to appease this storme, to quench the fire of his lust, and deface the remembrance and feeling of her griefe, she knowes not. For alas, alas, shee is so unhappy, as her owne father Arconeto, and her Aunt Dominica are at S ^t. Iohn de Mauriene, her sweet and deare husband in Malta, and her mother in law, the Lady Fidelia in heaven; so as shee hath no intimate nor secret familiars, nor any bosome friend to reveale these her sorrowes and afflictions. Once shee thought to steale away from Nice, so to passe the Mountaines, and to flye backe to Saint Iohn de Mauriene: but againe considering the dishonour, and withall, the danger to undertake this journey, as also the cold reception and entertainement shee should there finde of her owne hard hearted father, who would rather deride then pittie her afflictions: shee altereth this her resolution, and so resolves a little longer to stay in Nice, hoping and praying, that God would rectifie her father in law Castelnovo's judge­ment, and reforme the errours of his lascivious thoughts and desires. And so for her part, hating the father as much as shee loved the sonne her husband, hee could not bee more prodigall of his lewde speeches and tentations to her, then shee was of her sighes and teares to understand and repell them. A thousand times shee wisheth her selfe in Malta, with the Knight her husband, or hee in Nice with her: and could her bo­dy so soone have flowne or sailed thither as her thoughts, hee had long since injoyed the happinesse of her presence, and shee the felicitie of his fathers absence. But [...] shee is two miserable to bee so fortunate, shee hath yet this consolation left her to sweeten the bitternesse of her afflictions, and this hope to revive and comfort her a­gainst her despaire, that her Letter may procure his speedy returne from Malta to Nice, Whereon resolving, although the occasion and grounds thereof were as strange as shamefull, shee secretly steales to her chamber, and locking her doore to her, takes her pen and paper, and rather with teares then Ink, writes him these few lines:

Having written this her Letter, shee findes a confident and intimate friend of her husbands, a Gentleman named Seignior Benedetto Sabia, who undertakes the safe con­veyance, [Page 157] and secret delivery thereof into Malta to Castelnovo: so giving it him with store of gold, to defray the charge of his journey, as also a paire of gold bracelets for a token to her Knight and husband, he imbarkes for Genoua, so to Naples, and from thence in a Neopolitan Galley, arrives in short time, to the renowned and famous Ile of Malia, the inexpugnable Bulwarke of Christendome, and the curbe and bridle of au­dacious insulting Turky, where finding out the Knight Seignior Francisco de Castelnovo, hee effectually and fairely delivers him his Ladies letter, bracelets, and message, who withdrawing himselfe to a window, hath no sooner broken up the seales and read the letter, but hee is at first much perplexed at the unexpected newes thereof: hee reades it o're againe and againe, and findes it so obscure, as hee cannot gather or conceive her meaning therein, but at last construing it onely to bee a wile and fetch of her af­fection, to re-fetch and call him home to Nice to her: hee loath as yet to lose and a­bandon his hopes of preferment in that Iland, which now the great Master hath pro­mised him, dispatcheth Sabia backe for Nice, and plucking off a rich Emerauld from his finger, delivers it him for his Lady Perina, as a token of his deare and fervent affe­ction, and with it a letter in answer of hers.

In the Interim of Sabia his absence to Malta, our old lascivious Baron Castelnovo is not idle in Nice, in still seeking to draw our Lady Perina to his adulterous desire, and will, yea, hee is become so obscene in his requests and speeches, as they not onely ex­ceed chastity, but civility: so as shee (poore Lady) can finde no truce, nor obtaine a­ny intermission from these his beastly sollicitations; but resolving still to preserve her honour with her life, her pure chastity shines cleerer in the middest of these his im­pure temptations, then the Sunne doth, being invironed and incompassed with many obs [...]e clouds: but shee thinkes every houre a yeere, before shee see her Knight Ca­s [...] safely returned from Malta, when lo, Sabia arriving at Villafranca, trips over to Ni [...], and understanding Perina privately bolted up in her Chamber, he repaires to her, and there delivers her, her Knight Castelnovo's Ring and Letter, although not him­selfe; when tearing off the Seales, she therein findes these words:

[Page 158] Having o're-read her Letter, shee, the better to dissemble her secret passions and griefes, very courteously conferres with Sabia: of whom having for that time thank­fully taken her leave, shee for meere sorrow and affliction, throwes her selfe on her bed, from thence on the floore, to see her hopes deceived of her husbands returne; and now shee knowes neither what to say or doe in this her misery and perplexity: for she sees that her father in lawes obstinacie, and consequently her sorrowes grow from bad to worse, that hee is so farre from reclayming, as hee is resolute in his lascivious and beastly sollicitations: So that seeing his faire speeches and entreaties cannot prevaile with her, hee exchangeth his resolution and former language, and so addes threats to his requests, and frownes to his smiles, as if force should extort and obtaine that, which faire meanes could not, yea, and sometimes he intermingleth and administreth her such heart-killing menaces, as shee hath now reason not onely to doubt of his lust, but also to feare his revenge: which considering, shee, as well to preserve her honour, as to provide for the safety of her life, will once againe prove the kindnesse of her owne unkinde father Arconeto, and so determineth to leave Nice, and to flye unto Sa [...]nt Iohn de Mauriene: now to assist her and accompany her in this her secret escape, she thinkes none so fit as Sabia, who for her husbands affection, and her owne vertues, willingly consenteth to her: so shee preparing her apparell, and he her traine, they in a darke night (when pale faced Cynthia inveloped her selfe in a multitude of black and obscure clouds, purposely to assist and favour her in this her laudable and honourable flight) take horse, and so with great expedition passe the Mountaines, and recover Sain [...] Iohn de Mauriene; where though shee bee not truely welcome to her owne father Ar­conet [...], yet her honour and her life are truely secured from the lust and revenge of he [...] lascivious father in law Castelnovo: neverthelesse the cause and manner of her escape, but chiefly the consideration of her husbands absence in the passage of this businesse, doth still so bitterly afflict her, as shee is become pale and sickely: whereupon shee is resolute, once againe to send backe Sabia to Malta to her knight and husband, with▪ second letter, in hope it may effect and procure his returne, which her first could not: and so calling for pen and paper, she traceth thereon these few lines:

[Page 159] Whiles Sabia is againe speeding toward Malta with Perina's second Letter to her husband Castelnovo, wee will a little speake of old Castelnovo the father, who seeing his daughter in law Perina fled, and consequently his hopes with her, hee is extremely per­plexed and afflicted hereat: All the house and City is sought for her, and hee him­selfe breakes off the lockes of her Chamber doore, where hee findes the nest, but the bird flowne away, her bed, but not her selfe: so as his thoughts doubly torment and astonish him, first to be frustrated of his hopes and desires to injoy her, then, because shee will bewray his lascivious suite and affection to her Husband his sonne, which of all sides will procure him not onely shame, but infamy; yea, now it is, although be­fore he would not, that he sees his errour, and vanity, in attempting to make shipwrack of her honour and chastity, which is the Glory, and should be the Palladium of Ladies: but it is too late to recover her againe: And therefore although hee know how to re­pent, yet he is ignorant how to remedy or redeeme it, sith his attempt and enterprise was not onely odious to God, but infamous to men, opposite to Grace, and repug­nant and contradictory to Nature. Besides, this his lustfull folly proceeding from him­selfe, lookes two wayes, and hath a double reflection, first on Perina the wife, then on Castelnovo her husband, and his owne sonne, who, he is assured will bee all fire hereat; yea, this crime of his is of so high and so beastly a nature, as hee knowes not what to say to him, or how to looke him in the face, when he shall arrive from Malta, which his guilty conscience tells him will bee shortly; neither doth the Calculation or Arithme­tick of his feare deceive him: for by this time is Sabia againe arrived at Malta, where hee delivers Castelnovo his wife's second Letter; the which doth so nettle and sting his heart to the quicke, at the bitter and unexpected newes it relates, as hee esteemes himselfe no longer himselfe, because hee is not with his deare wife, who is the one halfe, yea, the greatest part of himselfe. Wherefore, admiring who in Nice, yea, in his fathers house should bee so impudently laseivious, to seeke to blemish his honour, in that of his Ladies, hee, making her sighes and teares his, with all expedition and haste provides for his departure from Malta; and yet his love, his feare, or both con­ducing and concurring in one, makes him instantly resolve to dispatch and returne Sa­bia, as the harbinger to proclaime his comming: the which he doth, and chargeth him with this Letter to his faire wife, and deare Lady Perina:

[Page 160] So according to this his Letter, as first Sabia imbarkes from Malta to Nice, before him, so he likewise arrives at Genoua the day after he did at Nice, from whence poasting o're the Mountaines, hee arrives at Saint Iohn de Mauriene, where, at his father in law Arconeto's house, he findes his deare and sweet Lady Perina, who every minute of time, with much impatient longing and desire, expected his arrivall (as having the night be­fore received his second and last Letter by Sabia, which advertised her thereof) so like true and faithfull Turtle Doves, esteeming each others presence their most soveraigne felicitie they fall to their billing and kisses, to informe themselves how sweet this their happy meeting was each to other. And here our Knight Castelnovo cannot bee so cu­rious or hasty to inquire, as his Lady Perina was to relate the cause of her sudden de­parture from Nice to Saint Iohn de Mauriene, occasioned by the unnaturall lust and lasci­viousnesse of his Father (as wee have formerly understood) the which, with many sighs and teares, shee depaints forth to him in all its circumstances and colours. Hee is amazed at this strange and unexpected newes, and farre the more to think that his owne father should (in the winter of his age) attempt or seeke to defile his honour and bed, in the person of this his faire and chast Lady Perina: he wondereth to see so little grace in so many yeares, and that if Nature had not, yet Religion should have had power to banish these lascivious thoughts from his heart and memory: so with out-spred armes he tenderly imbraceth and kisseth her, highly extolling her chastity, and applau­ding the discreet carriage of her escape: being himselfe resolute to stay in Saint I [...] de Mauriene with her father Arconeto, and not to returne to Nice to his owne father Ca­stelnovo. But hee shall as soone infringe as make this his resolution; for by this time his father understanding of his Sonnes returne from Malta, to Saint Iohn de Mauri [...] and knowing that his Lady Perina had not fail'd to bewray him his lascivious suit and desire, attempted against her honour, as also grieving at the remembrance of his for [...]er folly and future shame, in knowing what a foule seandall both it and his sonnes absen [...] would procure and ingender him, he resolves to confesse his crime, and so by the medi­ation of a perswasive and satisfying Letter, to indeavour to reclaime them againe fr [...] Saint Iohn de Mauriene to Nice: when calling for pen and paper, hee writes these se [...] insuing lines, and sends them his Sonne by a Gentleman of his:

[Page 161] This vertuous and religious Letter of the Father prevailes with the Sonne, and his faire and chast Lady; so as their secrecies and discretions hush up this businesse in si­lence, and within eight dayes they both returne from Saint Iohn de Mauriene to Nice: where they are conrteously welcomed, and respectively received and entertayned of their father, whose contrition for his former folly is outwardly so great, as hee hath teares in his eyes at the remembrance thereof: so as making good the promise of his Letter, he very penitently and sorrowfully implores their pardon and remission; which they instantly graunt him with as much willingnesse as alacrity. So the report and thought hereof is obscured and vanished, as if it had never been; and all things and par­ties so reconciled, as to common sense nothing in the world is capable to trouble the tranquillity of this reconciliation and atonement. But alas, alas, we shall very briefly see the contrary: For old Castelnovo the Father, notwithstanding all these religious promi­ses, and sincere shewes of repentance and teares, is so far from being the man he seemes to be, as although hee have made his peace with his sonne and Daughter, yet, ay mee, I write it with griefe, he hath not with his conscience, nor his conscience with God: for although he have a chast and religious tongue, yet he still retaineth a lascivious and adulterate heart; yea, hee is so farre from conversion and reformation, as the new sight and review of the Lady Perina's fresh and delicate beauty doth revive those sparkes, and refresh those flames of his lust, which seemed to be raked up in the embers of her absence. And what is this, but to be a Christian in shew, and a miscreant in effect? to hide a foule soule under a faire face? and to make Religion and Hypocrisie, a fatall and miserable cloke for his villany? But though he dissemble with God, yet wee shall see, and hee finde, that God will not dissemble with him; and in thinking to b [...]tray God, Satan in the end will betray him. The manner is thus:

As he resumes his old suit, and newly burnes in love and lustfull desire, to erect the Trophees of his lascivious and incestuous pleasures upon the ruines of his Daughter in lawes chastity and honour; so he likewise sees it impossible to thinke to performe, or hope to accomplish it, as long as his sonne her husband lives: and therefore, losing his judgement either in the Labyrinth of her beauty, or in the turbulent Ocean of his owne concupiscence and lust, hee, contrary to the rules of Grace, and the lawes and principles of nature, swaps a bargaine with the Devill to poyson him. To which end, to shew himselfe the monster of men, and the bloudiest president of a most degenerate Father, which this, or many precedentages ever produced or afforded, he hath againe recourse to his Hellish Agent Ierantha, in favour of five hundred Ducats, to send the Sonne into Heaven after the Mother, and to make him equall with her, as in na­ture, so in (the dissolution thereof) death: A bloudy designe, and mournefull pro­ject, which wee shall presently bee inforced to see acted upon the Theater of this History.

But Ierantha is at first so repentant for the death of the Mother, as shee will not con­sent to that of the Sonne. And had shee continued in this religious resolution, shee had lived more fortunately, and not dyed so miserably and shamefully, as wee shall briefely see. For our old Lecher Castelnovo, her Master, seeing his Gold could not this second time prevaile with Ierantha, being equally inflamed as well with lust to Perina, as with malice and revenge to his Sonne Castelnovo her husband, hee is so implacable therein, as hee promiseth to marry her, if shee will attempt and performe it. So although his first battery fayled, yet his second doeth not: For the Devill had [...]ade her so ambitious of Greatnesse and Honour, that of a simple wayting Gen­tlewoman to become a great Lady, she consents heereunto; and, which is a thou­sand pitties to report, within lesse then sixe dayes performes it; when (God knowes) [Page 162] the innocencie of this harmelesse young Gentleman his sonne never dreamt or sus­pected it.

At the sight of this his sudden death, his Lady Perina is ready to dye for griefe; yea to drowne her selfe in the Ocean and deluge of her teares; tearing her haire, and striving to deface the excellencie of her beautie, with a kinde of carelesse neglect, as if shee were resolute not to survive him. And if the Lady Perina bewrayed many deplorable demonstrations of sorrow for the death of her husband, no lesse, doth his father Castelnovo for that of his sonne; onely their griefes (comformable to their passions) are diametrically different and opposite: for hers were fervent and true, as proceeding from the sinceritie of her affection; and his hypocriti­call and faigned, as derived from the profundity of his malice and revenge to­wards him. And not to transgresse from the Decorum and truth of our History, old Castelnovo could not so artificially beare and over-vaile his sorrowes for his Sonnes death, but (the premises considered) our young afflicted widdow and Lady vehemently suspecteth hee hath a hand therein; and likewise partly be­leeves that Ierantha is likewise accessary and ingaged therein, in respect she lookes more aloft, and is growne more familiar with her Lord and Master then be­fore. And indeed as her sorrows increase her jealousie, so her jealousie throws her into a passionate and violent resolution of Revenge, both against him and her, if shee can bee futurely assured that they had Murthered and poysoned the Knight her husband.

Now to bee assured heereof, shee thus reasoneth with her selfe; that if her Father in law were the Murtherer of his Sonne her husband, his malice and hatred to him proceeded from his beastly lust to her selfe; and that hee now dispatched, hee would againe shortly revive and renew his old lascivious suit to her: which if hee did, shee vowes to take a sharpe and cruell Revenge of him, which shee will limit with no lesse then his death. And indeed wee shall not goe farre to see the event and truth answer her suspicion. For within a moneth or two after her husband was laid in his untimely grave, his old lustfull and las­civious father doth againe burst and vomit forth his beastly sollicitations against her chastity and honour: which observing, shee somewhat disdainefully and coyly puts him off, but yet not so passionately nor chollerickely as before, onely of purpose to make him the more eager in his pursuit, thereby the better to draw him to her lure, that shee might perpetrate her malice, and act her Re­venge on him, and so make his death the object of her rage and indignation, as his lust and malice were the cause of the sorrowes of her life. But unfortunate and miserable Lady, what a bloudy and hellish enterprize dost thou ingage thy selfe in, and why hath thy affection so blinded thy conscience and soule, to make thy selfe the authour and actour of so mournefull and bloudy a Tragedy? For alas alas, sweet Perina, I know not whether more to commend thy affecti­on to thy husband, or condemne thy cruell malice intended to his father. For O griefe! O pitty! where are thy vertues, where is thy Religion, where thy conscience, thy soule, thy God, thus to give thy selfe over to the hellish ten­tations of Satan? Thou which heretofore fled'st from adultery, wilt thou now follow Murther? or because thy heart would not bee accessary to that, shall thy soule bee now so irreligious and impious, to bee guilty of this? But as her fa­ther in law is resolute in his lust towards her, so is shee likewise in her revenge towards him, and farre the more, in that shee perceives Ierantha's great belly suf­ficiently proclaimes that shee hath plaid the strumpet; and which is worse, shee [Page 163] feares, with her execrable and wretched Father in Law: so as now no longer able to stop the furious and impetuous current of her revenge, shee is so gracelesse and bloudy, as shee vowes first to dispatch the Lord and Master, then the Wayting-Gentlewoman, as her thoughts and soule suggest her they had done first the Mo­ther, then the Sonne: so impious are her thoughts, so inhumane and bloudy her re­solutions.

Now in the interim of this time the old Lecher her father is againe become impu­dent and importunate in his suit. so our wretched Lady Perina degenerating from her former vertues, and indeed from her selfe, she, after many requests and sollicitations, very feignedly seemes to yeild, and strike sayle to his desire; but indeed with a bloody intent to dispach him out of this world. So having concluded this sinfull fatall Match, there wants nothing but the finishing and accomplishing thereof: onely they differ in the manner and circumstances: the Father is desirous to goe to the Daughter in lawes bed, the Daughter to the Father in lawes; but both conclude that the night, and not the day shall give end to this lascivious and beastly businesse; his reason is, to avoyd the jealousie and rage of Ierantha, whom now, although she bee neere her time of de­liverance; hee refuseth to marry her; but the Lady Perina's if, that she may pollute and staine his owne bed with his bloud, and not hers; but especially, because shee may have the fitter meanes to stab and murther him: and hereon they conclude. To which end, not only the night, but the houre is appoynted betwixt them: which being come, and Castelnovo in bed, burning with impatience and desire for her arrivall, hee thinking on nothing but his beastly pleasures, nor she, but on her cruell malice and revenge: she softly enters his chamber, but not in her night, but her day attire, having a Pisa Ponyard close in her fleeve; when having bolted his Chamber doore, because none should di­vert her from this her bloudy designe; she approaching his bed, and hee lifting him­selfe up purposely to welcome and kisse her, shee seeing his brest open and naked, like an incensed fury, drawes out her Ponyard, and uttering these words: Thou wretched Whore-master and Murtherer, this life of mine owne honour, and the death of my deare Knight and husband, thy some. And so stabbing him at the heart with many blowes shee kills him starke dead, and leaves him reeking in his hot bloud, without giving him time to speake a word; onely hee fetcht a screeke and groane or two, as his soule tooke her last farewell of his body. Which being over-heard of the servants of the house, they ascend his chamber, and finde our inhumane Perina issuing foorth, all gored with the effusion of his bloud, having the bloudy Ponyard, which was the fatall Instrument of this cruell Murther in her hand. They are amazed at this bloody and mournefull spe­ctacle: so they seize on her, and the report hereof flying thorow the City, the Crimi­nall Iudges that night cause her to bee imprisoned for the fact, which she is resolved no way to denye, but to acknowledge, as rather glorying then grieving thereat.

Ierantha, at the very first understanding hereof, vehemently suspects that her two poysoning Murthers will now come to light; and so, as great as her belly is, she, to provide for her safety, very secretly steales away to a deare friends house of hers in the City, which now from all parts rattleth and resoundeth of this cruell and unnaturall Murther; yea, it likewise passeth the Alpes, and is speedily bruited and knowne in Saint Iohn de Mauriene, where although her father Arconeto would never heretofore affect her, yet he now exceedingly grieves at this her bloudy attempt and imminent danger: but her irregular affection, and inhumane revenge, will not as yet permit her conscience to informe and shew her the haynousnesse of her cruell and bloody fact. But God will be more mercifull to her and her soule.

Some two dayes after shee is arraigned for the same, where she freely confesseth-it, [Page 164] having nothing to alledge for her excuse, but that shee perfectly knew, that her Fa­ther in law Castenovo and his Strumpet Ierantha had at least poysoned the Knight her husband, if not likewise the Lady Fidelia his mother; the which although they had some reason and ground to suspect, because of Ierantha's sudden slight, yet sith this could no way diminish, or extenuate her Murther of her Father in law, they con­demne our unfortunate Lady Perina to bee hanged, and so re-send her to prison, to prepare her selfe to dye. But the advice of some, and the friendship and compas­sion of others, as pittying her youth and beauty, and commending her chastity and affection to her Knight and Husband, counsell and perswade her to appeale from the Sentence of the Court of Nice, to the Senate of Chambery (which is the Soveraigne and Capitall of Savoy) whither wee shall shortly see her conducted and brought.

In which meane time let us observe the wonderfull justice and providence of God shewed likewise upon this execrable Wayting-gentlewoman Ierantha, for so cruelly poysoning the Lady Fidelia, and the Knight Castelnovo her Sonne; who, although search were every where made for her, yet she having husht her selfe up privately, albeit her bloudy thoughts and guilty conscience for the same continually torture and torment her, yet shee is so impious and gracelesse, as shee no way feares the danger of the law, and much lesse the severe tempest of Gods indignation and revenge, which now not­withstanding in the middest of her security will, according to her bloudy deserts and crimes, suddenly surprise and overtake her: for now this accident of her Lord Castel­novo's Murther, and of the Lady Perina's imprisonment, or to speake more properly and truly, of Gods sacred decree and divine Iudgement, throwes her into the sharp and bit­ter paines of travell for child; with whose heart-killing gripes and convulsions, she is so miserably tortured and tormented, as shee her selfe, her Mid. wife, and all the wo­men neere her, judge and thinke it impossible for her to escape death: when seeing no hope of life, and that already her pangs and torments had made her but as it were the very image and anatomy of death, shee beginnes to looke from Sinne to repentance from Earth to Heaven, and from Satan to God; and so taking on and assuming Christian resolution, shee will not charge her soule with the concealing of this single Adultery, much lesse of her double Murthers; but very penitently confesseth all, a [...] well it, as them; and so commits her selfe to the unparalleld and mercilesse mercies of her paynes and torments, hoping they will speedily send her from this world to a better. But her Adultery and Murthers are such odious and execrable crimes in God sight, as he will free her from these dangers of child-birth, and because worthy, will re­serve her for a shamefull and infamous death. So she is fafely delivered of a young son, who is more faire then happy, as being the off-spring of lascivious parents, and the issue of an adulterous bed; and by Gods providence and her owne confession, shee, for these her beastly and bloudy crimes, is the second day committed to prison, and the third hang'd and burnt in Nice, and her ashes throwne into the aire. A just reward and punishment for so hellish and inhumane a Gentlewoman; who, though otherwise shee shewed many testimonies and signes of Repentance at her end, yet her crime were so foule and odious to the World, as at her death shee was so miserable as shee found not one spectatour, either to weepe for her, or to lament, or condol [...] with her.

And now to shut up this History, let us carry our curiosities and expectations fro [...] Nice to Chambery, and from dead Ierantha to our living Perina, where that grave and il­lustrious Senate, in consideration of her famous chastity, and singular affection to th [...] Knight her husband, as also her noble parentage and tender yeares, they moderat [...] [Page 165] the Sentence of Nice, for murthering her Father in law Castelnovo, and so in stead of hanging, adjudge her there to have her right hand cut off, and her selfe to perpetuall imprisonment in Nice; where Gods sacred Iustice for this her bloudy Murther, and the remembrance of her dead husband, and living sorrowes, so sharpely torment and afflict her, as shee lived not long in Prison, but exceedingly pined away of a lan­guishing Consumption: and so very sorrowfully and repentantly ended her dayes, being exceedingly lamented of her kinsfolkes, and pittyed of all her acquaintance; and, had not her affection beene blinded, and her rage and Revenge too much tri­umphed o're her thoughts and resolutions, shee had lived as happy, as shee dyed mi­serable; and have served for as great a grace and Ornament to her Countrey, as Ieran­tha and old Castelnovo her father in law were a scandall and shame.

Thus we see how Gods revenging justice still meetes with Murther. O that wee may reade this History with feare, and profit thereby in reformation, that dying to sinne, and living to righteousnesse, wee may peaceably dye in this World, and gloriously live and raigne in that to come.

GODS REVENGE AGAINST THE CRYING AND EXE­crable sinne of Murther.
HISTORIE X.

ALbeit, that Valour bee requisite in a Gentleman, (and one of his most essentiall vertues and proper ornaments) yet sith Charity is the true marke and character of a Christian, wee should not rash­ly resolve to hazzard the losse of our lives for the preservation of the meere title, and vaine point of our honour, but rather religiously endeavour to save our soules in that of our owne lives, as also of those of our Christian brethren: for in Duells and single Combats, (which though the heate of youth and revenge seeme to allow, yet, reason will not, and Religion cannot) did wee onely hazzard our bodies, and not our soules, then our warrant to fight, were in earth as just, as now the hazzarding of our soules and bodies is odious and distastefull to Heaven, sith in seeking to deface man the creature, wee assuredly attempt to strike and stabbe at the Majestie of God the Creatour: but if there bee any colour or shad­dow of honour to kill our adversary, for the preservation of the vaine point of our ho­nour, what an ignoble ingratitude, and damnable impiety is it, for a Gentleman like­wise treacherously to kill another, of whom hee hath formerly received his life? yea as Grace fights against this former sort of fighting, so both Grace and Nature im­pugne and detest this second sort of Murther: A wofull and mournfull president wher­of, I here represent in the person of a base and wretched Gentleman, whose irregular af­fection [Page 168] to a Lady, first slue her brother in the field; and execrable revenge to her lo­ver, next drew him treacherously to Murther him in the street; and consequently, to his owne condigne punishment, and shamefull death for the same. May all such blou­dy Murtherers still meet with such ends, and may his miserable and infamous death premonish all other Gentlemen, to live and become more charitable, and lesse bloudy by his example.

THe friendship and familiaritie betwixt Seignior Iohn Battista Bertolini, and Seignior Leonardo Brellati, two noble young Gentlemen, native and resident of the Citie of Rome, was (without intermission) so intire and intimate, for the space of sixe whole yeares, which led them from their yeares of fourteene to twenty, as it seemed they had but one heart in two bodies, and that it was impossible for either of them to be truely merry, if the other were absent: and surely, many were the reasons which laid the foundation of this friendship; for as they were equall in yeares, so their [...]atures and complexions resembled, and their humors and inclinations sympathized: likewise they were ancient schoole-fellows, and neere neighbours: for their parents both dwelt betwixt the Palaces of the too Cardinals, Farnesi and Caponius: or if there were any dis­parity in their dignities and worths, it consisted onely in this, Bertolini's parents were richer then Brellati's, but Brellati was more Nobly discended then Bertolini: which notwithstanding could no way impeach or hinder the progresse of their friendship, but rather it flourished with the time: so as they increasing in yeares, they likewise did in affection, as if they were ambitious of nothing so much in this world, as not onely to imitate, but to surpasse the friendship of Orestes and Pillades, and of Damon and P [...]thias: whereof, all who knew them and their parents; yea, all that part and di­vision of Rome, tooke deepe and singular notice: but to shew that they were men, and not Angels, and consequently subject to frailty not inherent to perfection, that earth was not heaven, nor Rome the shaddow thereof; have wee but a little patience, wee shall shortly see, the thred of this friendship cut off, the props and fortifications there­of razed, battered and said levell with the ground, yea, we shall see time, change with time, friendship turned into enmitie, fellowes to foes, loue to loathing, courtesie to crueltie, and in a word, life to death: as observe the sequell of this History, and it will briefly informe yee how.

Bertolini sees that Brellati hath a faire and delicate sister, named Dona Paulina, some­what younger then himselfe, and yet not so young, but that the clocke of her age hath strucken eighteene, and therefore proclaimed her at least capeable, if not desirous of marriage, and although hee bee a novice in the Art of love, yet Nature hath made him so good a Scholler in the principles and rudiments thereof, as hee sees her faire, and therefore must love her; rich in the excellencie and delicacie of beautie, and there­fore is resolute to love her, and onely her: for gazing on the influence and splendour of her piercing eyes, hee cannot behold them without wonder, and then prying and contemplating on the roseat and lillie tincture of her cheekes, he cannot see these with­out admiration, nor refraine from admiring them without affection: but againe, re­marking the slendernes of her bodie, and the sweetnesse of her vertues, and seeing her as gracious as faire, and that her inward perfections added as much lustre to her exte­riour beautie, as this reflected ornament and decoration to these, hee, as young as he was, vowes himselfe her servant, and withall swore, that either shee, or his grave, must bee his wife and Mistresse.

Bertolini thus surprized and netled with the beautie of his dearely sweet, and sweet­ly faire, Paulina, hee is inforced to neglect a great part of his accompanying the bro­ther, [Page 169] thereby to court the sister: so hee many times purposely forsakes Brellati to fol­low Paulina, and delights in nothing so much as in her presence, and (in that regard) in his absence, not that it was possible, in his conceit and imagination, for him any way to hate him, in loving her; rather, that in generall tearmes hee must love Brellati for Paulina's sake; and in particular, onely affect her for his owne. And as his wealth and ambition made him confident hee should obtaine her for his wife: so hee in faire, amorous, and honourable tearmes, as well by his owne sollicitations, Letters, promi­ses, and presents, as by those of his parents, seekes her in marriage: yea, and when these could not suffice, hee, to shew himselfe as true as fervent a lover, addes sighes, teares, prayers, and oathes. But all these sollicitours serve only to betray and deceive his hopes: for if Bertolini were extreamely desirous to marry Paulina, shee is as reso­lute not to match him: which discords in affection, seldome or never make any true harmony in mindes.

His wealth deceiving him, hee hath recourse to her onely brother, and his best and dearest friend Brellati, to whom he relates the profundity and fervencie of his affecti­on to his sister Paulina, acquaints him with his suite, and her denyall; his attempt, and her repulse therein; and by the power and bonds of all their former friendship and familiarity, intreates and conjures him to become his oratour and advocate to­wards her, in his behalfe; whose smiles, hee alledgeth, are his life, and frownes, his death. Brellati having his generosity and judgement blinded with the respect of Berto­lini his wealth, as also of the affection hee bore him; all other considerations laid a­part, like a better friend to him, then a brother to his sister Paulina, promiseth him his best furtherance and assistance in the processe of this his affection: and so with his truest Oratory, best Eloquence, and sweetest Perswasion, begins to deale effectually with her herein. But as our hopes are subject and incident to deceive us, so Bertolini and Brellati come farre too short of theirs: for Paulina in absolute and down-right termes, prays her brother to informe and resolve Bertolini, that she hath otherways setled and ingaged her affection: and therefore prayes him to seeke another Mistresse, sith shee hath found another Lover and Servant, with whom she means to live and die. Her bro­ [...]er (for his friends sake) is extremely sorrowfull hereat, and prayes his sister to name him her servant: shee bindes him by oath to secresie. So hee swearing, shee informes him it is Seignior Paulus Sturio, a very ancient Noble man of the Citie. Hee tels her, hee is a Gentleman more Noble then rich: and shee replies, that Bertolini is more rich then Noble; and therefore shee will refuse him, and marry Sturio. Hee is obstinate in his requests, as shee resolute in her denyall. So having performed the part of a friend for his friend, and commending the nobility and vertues of Sturio, as much as hee pit­tyed the weakenesse of his estate and wealth, hee leaves his sister to her affection and designes: and so with an unwilling willingnes (without any extenuation) delivers his friend Bertolini her definitive answer; yet performes his promise to his sister, in con­cealing Sturio his name.

Bertolini is all in fire and choller at this newes, and begins no longer to looke on his friend Brellati with the eyes of affection, but of contempt and indignation: and so consulting with his passion, not with his Iudgement; with rage, and not with reason; as immoderate anger seldome lookes right, commonly squint-eyed; hee in the heat of his wrath, and height of his revenge, very much neglects and slights him, yea and most uncivilly and abruptly departs from him, as if hee were no longer worthy of the bare complement of farewell. Which Brellati well observes, and in observing, remembers, and in remembring, grieves at, sith Bertolini was his most intimate and dearest friend; and in whose behalfe, did occasion present, hee was ready, not onely to sacrifice his [Page 170] best service, but his best life. Lo here the first breach and violation, which Bertolini gives to their friendship: but the second is not farre behinde: For in the next company hee meets, which was some two dayes after, walking in Cardinall Farnesi his Galleries in presence of some foure or five other Gentlemen, both of his and of Brellati's acquain­tance, hee forgot himselfe so much, as some demanding for his consort Brellati, hee chollerickly replyed, that he was a base and beggerly Gentleman; and therfore hence­forth disdained his company, and that his sister Paulina was a lascivious and dissem­bling strumpet. But although the fire of his choller had foolishly banded forth these speeches in the ayre, yet they fell not to the ground; but some of the company then present, that very night report them to Brellati. It is impossible for my pen to relate how passionately and tenderly hee takes it: yea his affliction and griefe herein is far the more redoubled, in that (contrary to his desires and wishes) hee is assured his sister Paulina is likwise acquainted with the vanity and injustice of these speeches: the conceit and remembrance wherof, make her inraged and sorrowfull eyes powre forth many ri­volets and rivers of teares, upon the Roses and Lillies of her beauty. But as she is two impatient to rellish this scandalous affront and disparagement: so her brother Brellati is too generous and noble to digest it; whereof burning to know the truth, and resol­ving, if hee found it true, sharpely to revenge it on Bertolini, hee passeth away the night in restlesse and distracted slumbers: And so the very next morne taking his Sword and Lackey with him, hee goes to Bertolini his fathers house, and meeting first with him, demands of him for his sonne Seignior Iohn Battista Bertolini. His father informes him, hee is in the Garden very solitarily walking, and prays Brellati to goe to him; who needing not many requests, entreth, and with his hat in his hand approa­cheth him. Bertolini doth the like, and meetes him halfe way: when hee beeing pale for anger, and Bertolini blushing for shame, he prays him to exempt the Garden of his servants, because he hath something to reveale and impart him in secret, which needeth no witnesses: when Bertolini commanding his servants to depart, Brellati chargeth him with these disgracefull speeches, vomited forth two dayes since, against his honour; as also that of his onely deare sister Paulina, in Cardinall Farnesi his Palace, in presence of Seignior Alessandro Fontani, Seignior Rhanutio Pluvinio, and Seignior Antonio Voltomari (which words we have formerly understood.)

Bertolini is no way dismayed or daunted hereat, either in courage or complexion: and so losing his honour in his indiscretion, or rather burying his discretion in his dis­honour; hee with fire in his lookes; and thunder in his speeches, tells Brellati that hee confesseth these speeches his; adding withall, that what his tongue hath affirmed, his sword shall bee ready to make good and justifie; whereon they cover: When Brellati demanding of him if this were his last resolution, hee told him yea. Then (quoth he) I pray expect mine shortly: and so without giving each other the good morrow, they part; Brellati still leaving Bertolini in his fathers Garden. His sister Paulina having no­tice of her brothers speaking with Bertolini, very curiously and carefully awaits his re­turne; when rushing into his Chamber, shee, with teares, and sighes, demands him of the issue of his conference with Bertolini, and whether hee were so impudent to de­liver these dishonourable and base speeches both of her selfe and him. But her brother, like a true noble Romane, is too generous and brave to acquaint her with his designe and resolution: and so in generall tearmes prayes her, not to afflict her selfe at these speeches, and that this difference will bee very shortly decided and ended, to her ho­nour, and his owne content. Brother (quoth shee) if you will not right mine honour, and vindicate the unspotted purity of my reputation, I am sure that my true Lover Seignior Paulus Sturio will, though with the hazzard and losse of his owne life, had hee [Page 171] but the least notice thereof. Hee shall not need, sister, quoth hee: for a day or two will reconcile and finish this businesse: and so for that time hee leaves his sister Pauli­na, and shuts himselfe up in his chamber; where, not long able to containe himselfe against the insolencie and basenesse of Bertolini, he cals for pen and paper, and more re­specting his honor then his life, writes him this challeng; the which immediately after dinner he sends him, by Seignior Valerio, a confident Gentleman his follower.

Valerio performes his part well, and fairely working and screwing himselfe into Ber­tolini's presence, very secretly delivers him his Masters challenge. Bertolini not igno­rant, but conjecturing what it meanes, breakes off the Seales: and at the perusall ther­of, though his cause bee unjust and dishonourable, yet in his countenance and spee­ches, hee shewes much constancie, fortitude, and resolution; when considering they were to fight single, and that therefore Valerio could bee no second, hee deeming his Master had concealed this secret businesse from him, contents himselfe to give him onely this answer: Tell your Master Seignior Brellati from mee, that I will not faile to meet him, according to his desire and appoyntment. And so Valerio takes his leave, and departs: when finding out his Master, he reports him Bertolini's answer: whereat hee is so farre from being any way appald or daunted, as hee infinitely rejoyceth there­at. In the meane time, hee is curious in preparing two singular good Rapiers and Po­nyards of equall length, hilts, and temper. And thus with much impatient patience (as Revenge is an enemy to sleepe) they not out-sleepe, but out-watch the night. So the morne and day stealing and breaking into their windowes, they are no sooner out of their beds, but into the field; their Chirurgions awayting their arrivals by the Pyramides, in the place of Populi, by which of necessity they were to passe: when, tying up their horses to the hedges, like resolute Gentlemen, they throw off their dou­blets, commanding their Chirurgions not to stir from their stations; when, disdaining words, they both draw, and fall to deeds thus:

Brellati presenteth the first thrust, and Bertolini gives him the first wound in his left shoulder; whereat hee is inflamed; and so returnes Bertolini the interest of a most dangerous one, on his right side; but it toucht neither his bowels nor quayse. They cry againe: so Brellati againe wounds Bertolini in his left hand, when his Rapier run­ning thorow his sinewes and Arteries, he is no longer able to hold his Ponyard; but despight his resolution and courage, it fals out of his hand; which unlookt for disaster doth much perplexe and afflict him. But Brellati is two generous and noble, to blemish or taint his honour, by taking any advantage of this his adversaries misfortune: and so, [Page 172] to cleere his doubts and scruples, very valiantly and bravely throwes away his owne Ponyard to the hedge, that they might bee as equall in weapons, as courage. But Ber­tolini will basely requite this courtesie. They retire and take breath; and so traversing their grounds, thereby to take the benefit of the Sunne, they againe joyne: at the first close of this second meeting Brellati runnes Bertolini into the right flanke, when with­drawing his Rapier, and leaping backe to put himselfe upon his defensive guard and posture, his foot slipping, hee could not prevent falling to the ground; when Bertolini following him close, and being eager in his pursuit, and bloud-thirsty in his revenge, hee forgetting Brellati's former courtesie, and working upon the fortune of his misfor­tune, right then and there nayled him to the ground, and so redoubling his thrust, acted a perpetuall divorce betwixt his body and soule: when Brellati's Chirurgian shedding teares on his dead Master, and beginning to take order for his decent conveyance into the City, Bertolini takes up his Chirurgian behinde him, and so with all possible speed and celerity (the better to avoyd the danger of the law) poasts o're the fields, and comes into Mount Cavallo Gate, and so husheth himselfe up privately in a friends house of his, neere his fathers.

All Rome beginnes to eccho forth and resound this Murther, and farre the more, be­cause Bertolini and Brellati were so deare and intimate friends: but as good newes comes alwayes lame, and bad rides poast, so within one houre of Brellati's Murther, the newes thereof is brought first to his Father, then to his Sister Paulina; whereat hee grieves, and shee stormes, hee sorroweth, and shee weepes and laments, and in a word, the Father would, but cannot, and the Daughter can, but will not bee comforted, at this sad and mournefull Tragedy. Neither must wee forget, but remember Seignior Pau­lus Sturio, who loving Paulina a thousand times dearer then his owne life, is no sooner acquainted, but afflicted with this newes of Brellati his death, as being his deare friend, and which is more, the onely brother of his dearest and onely Mistris Paulina; so as Lovers and friends being best knowne and discerned in calamities and afflictions, hee repaires to her, condoles with her, and useth his chiefest art and zeale, not onely to participate, but wholly to deprive her of her sorrowes; yea, to proove himselfe a constant friend and a faithfull lover to her, hee proffereth her, not onely his service, but his life, as well to right her honour, as to revenge her brothers death on Bertoli­ni: but this affection and perswasion of Sturio is not capable to wipe off, or exhale his Lady Paulina's teares.

But againe to Bertolini, who is so farre from contrition and repentance of this his bloudy fact, as like a prophane miscreant, and debausht and dissolute Gentleman, hee triumphs and glories therein; yea, his impudencie is become so ignorant, and his ig­norance so sottish, as hee beganne to enter into a resolution againe to court and seeke Paulina for his wife, without respecting or regarding either the publike danger of the Law, or that of Paulina's private revenge; for sure her brothers death had throwne her into such violent passions of griefe, and extremities of sorrow, as if his folly had made her so happy, doubtlesse her revenge would have made him more miserable: but God had taught her rage more reason, and her malice and cruelty not so much impiety; yea, it pleased his Divine Majesty not so soone to call him to an accompt, and punish him for this his bloudy fact; but reserving him for a future shame and pu­nishment, being affrighted with a tumultuous rumour and alarum of a generall search to bee made that night for his apprehension, hee very subtilly, in a Capuchins habit, passeth Saint Iohn de Laterans Gate, and there having Poast-horses layd for him, hee as swift as the winde gallops away for Naples, and imbarking himselfe for Sicilie, passeth the Pharre of Messina, lands at that City, and so rides up for Palermo, where he thinkes himselfe safe. [Page 173] But having not made his peace with God, where ever he flie, God will in due time find him out, when he least dreames thereof. [...]ut although the power and influence of time bee so predominate to deface the actions and accidents of time; yet [...] can give no truce to her teares, nor will shee administer any consolation to her sorrowes for her brothers death: And if ever, now it is that Sturio resembling himselfe, beginnes to make her sorrowes his: for having deepely rooted and setled his affection on Paulina, and naturally ingraven her beauty and picture in the very centre of his heart and thoughts, hee beginnes to make his private affection to her publike, and so having al­ready wonne her heart from her selfe, hee now endeavoureth to winne her from her friends, and then to marry her. But old Seignior Sturio his father, is no sooner adver­tised of Brellati his death, of Bertolini's flight, and of his sonnes affection and intent to take Paulina to wife, but disdayning hee should match so low, and withall so poore, as also fearing that this might likewise ingage his sonne in some quarrell betwixt him and Bertolini, hee resolves privately to convey him away out of Rome, in some retired or obscure place, from whence hee should not returne, till his absence had cooled and extenuated the heat of his affection to Paulina, and of his malice and Revenge to Ber­tolini: to which end, three weekes are scarce past, but taking his sonne with him in his Coach, under colour to take the ayre in the fields of Rome, beyond Saint Pauls Church, hee having given the Coach man his lesson, commands him to drive away, and having two Braves or Ruffians with him, they dispose or rather inforce the humour of his son Sturio to patience, as despight him selfe, they carry him to Naples, where a Brigantine being purposely prepared, hee shippeth over his sonne for the Iland of Capri, or Ca­prea where long since, Seiar [...] his ambition caused Tiberius to sojourne, whiles hee played the pettie King, and domineered as Emperour at Rome in his absence) and gives him to the keeping and guard of Seignior Alphonsus Drissa, Captaine of that Iland; with request and charge not to permit him to returne, for the maine, for the terme of one whole yeere, without his expresse order to the contrary.

It is for none but for Lovers to Iudge, [...]ow tenderly Sturio and his sweet Lady Paulina grieve at the newes of this their sudden and unexpected separation: yea, their sighes and teares are so infinite for this their disaster, as all the words of the world are not capable to expresse them. As for Paulina, shee had so long and so bitterly wept for her brothers death, as it was a meere cruelty of sorrow, to inforce her to play any farther part in sorrow, for the departure and captivitie of her Lover Sturio: but her afflictions falling in, each on the necke of other (in imitation of the waves of the sea, occasioned by the breath and blast of Boreas) threaten her not onely with pre­sent sicknesse, but with approaching death. Againe she understands of Bertolini's safe­ty and prosperity in Cicilia, where hee triumphs in his victory, for killing her bro­ther Brellati; and like a base Gentleman, continually erects his Trophees of detracti­on upon the ruines and tombe of her honour: and these considerations (like reserved afflictions) againe newly afflict and torment her: so as having lost her jewell and her joy, her brother and her Lover, Brellati and Sturio, shee beginnes to bee extreame sicke, weake, and faint; yea, the Roses of her cheekes are transformed to Lillies; the relucent lustre of her eyes, to dimnesse and obscurity; and to use but a word, not onely her heart, but her tongue beginnes to faile, and to strike saile to immoderate sorrow and disconsolation. Her parents and friends grieve hereat, and farre the more, in respect they know not how to remedy it; and for her selfe, if shee enjoy any comfort in this life, it is onely in hope that shee shall shortly leave it, to enjoy that of a better. Thus whiles sorrow, [...]tion and sicknesse make haste to sp [...] out the thred and webbe of her life, if her griefes are extreme and insupportable in Rome, no lesse are those of her Lover Sturio in Caprea: for it [...]rets him to the heart and gall, to see how his father [Page 174] hath bereaved and betrayed him of his Mistris Paulina's presence, the onely content and felicity which this life or earth could afford him; a thousand times hee wisheth himselfe with her, and as often kisseth her remembrance and Idea; and then, as their affections, so their malice concurring and sympathizing, hee againe wisheth that hee may bee so happy to fight with Bertolini for the disgrace of his Lady Paulina, and shee for the death of her brother Brellati, and in that affection and this revenge, hee with much affliction and no comfort, passeth away many bitter dayes and torments, in the misery of this his inforced exile and banishment: and although his curiosity, affecti­on, or subtilty could never crowne him with the happinesse or felicity to free himselfe of his guards and captivity, and so to steale away from that Iland in some Foist or Galley for the maine; yet understanding that two dayes after there was one bound for the Port of Civita Vetcha, hee, to testifie his affection, constancie, and torments to his deare and faire Paulina, takes occasion to write her a Letter to Rome, the which, that it might come the safer to her owne hands, he incloseth in another, to an intimate deare friend of his. The tenour of his Letter was thus:

Paulina, in the middest of her forrowes and sickenesse, receives this Letter from her best and dearest friend Sturio, and although shee rejoyce to heare of his health and wel-fare in Caprea, yet she is more glad, that the extremity of her-sickenesse and weak­nesse informe her, shee shall shortly dye in Rome: for vanquished with afflictions, and overcome with variety of griefe and discontents, shee in conceit already hath left this world, and is by this time halfe way in her progresse and pilgrimage towards Heaven, yet in love to her deare Sturio, who wrote her this kinde Letter, she will not be so un­kinde, but will kisse it for his sake that sent it her; and peradventure if she had been so [Page 175] happy, that hee might have beene the bearer and deliverer thereof himselfe, or that he had borne and delivered himselfe to her in stead of his Letter, hee might then have given some comfort to her sorrowes, and some consolation to her discontents and afflictions, whereas now seeing him exiled, and mewed up in Caprea, without any ap­parance of returne, shee sees shee hath more reason to flye to her old despayre, then to any new hope; and so wisheth the desired houre were at last come, wherein shee might give her last farewell to this world: but againe perusing and over reading his Letter, shee findes it full fraught with love and affection towards her; and therefore disdayning to proove ingratefull to any, especially to Sturio, who is so kinde and cour­teous to her, calls for pen and paper, and by his owne conveyance returnes him this Answer:

This Letter of Paulina to Sturio meets with a speedy passage from Rome to Caprea, who receiving it, and thinking to have found her in her true and perfect health, with much joy and affection breakes up the seales thereof; when, contrary to his hope and expectation, understanding of her sickenesse and approach to death, hee tender­ly and bitterly weepes at his owne misfortune, in her discontent and disaster; yea, he passionately and sorrowfully bewayles his Fathers cruelty, in thus banishing him from her sight and presence, from the contemplation of whose beauty, and from his innate affection to her, the Fates and Destinies cannot banish him. But alas unfortunate Stu­rio! the newes of thy Paulina's sickenesse is but the Prologue to the insuing sorrowes and afflictions that are ready to befall and surprise thee: for the newes of her death shal shortly follow her Letter; and if that drew teares from thine eyes, this shall drowne [Page 176] thine eyes in the Ocean of thy Teares: neither shall he stay long to feele the miserable impetuosity [...] [...]is mournefull Storme. For scarce twenty dayes are past, after the writing of her Letter to Sturio, but Paulina, languishing with Griefe, Despaire, Sorrow and Sicknesse, as a female Love-Martyr, takes her last leave and farewell of this world in Rome; it being not in the power or affection of her parents, any longer to divert her from paying this her last due and tribute unto Nature, sith wee all have our Lives lent, not given us; and therefore as we receive, so must we repay them to our Creatour and Redeemer, of whom we have first received them.

Old Sturio is as glad in Rome for the death of Paulina, as her Parents grieve thereat; and now it is that he intends to be as happy and joyfull in his Sonnes presence, as hee hath formerly made himselfe sorrowfull in occasioning his absence: whereupon, with all expedition, hee dispatcheth a Servant of his to Caprea, with a Letter, to signifie his Son thereof, and consequently, to recall him. This newes of Paulina's Death-infinitely afflicts and torments our Sturio; for shee being the Queene of his affections, and the soveraigne Goddesse of his delights and desires, he resembleth himselfe, and so like a true Lover, as hee is, acteth a wonderfull mournefull part of sorrow for her unwished and unexpected Death: he is no longer himselfe; nay, such was his living affection to Paulina, and such is his immoderate sorrow for her death, as hee will not bee himselfe, because she is gone, who was the greatest and chiefest part of himselfe. But as wounds cannot be cured, ere searched; so passion transporting his thoughts beyond reason, and revenge beyond passion, he, for the time present, forsakes the effect, to follow the cause, and so hath no other object before his eyes and thoughts, but that of Bertolini's killing of her Brother Brellati, and this of his Fathers unkinde banishing of him from Rome to Caprea: wherefore, that he may out-live his sorrowes, and apply a Lenitive to his Cor­rosive, he vowes to revenge both. The manner is thus: That, as his Father deceived his hopes in carrying him from Rome to Caprea; so hee will deceive those of his sayd Father, in carrying himself from Caprea to Cicily, there to find out Bertolini, and to fight with him. It is not the poynt of Honour, much lesse, Iudgement, and least of all, Reli­gion, that precipitates and throwes him on this bloudy, and therefore uncharitable re­solution: but it is the vanity of his thoughts, and his living affection to his dead Mistris Paulina, which gives life and birth to it: for he (trampling on all disswasion and oppo­sition) finding a Galley of Naples, bound from Caprea to Cicily, very secretly imbarkes himselfe in her, and contemning the impetuosity of the Windes, and the mercilesse mercie of the Seas, lands at Palermo, where hushing himselfe up the first night privately in his Inne, and informing himselfe that Bertolini was in that City, he, the next morne, by his Lackey, sends him this Challenge:

Bertolini receives and reades this Challenge, which, to write the truth, is not so plea­sing [Page 177] to him, as was that of Brellati: he sees himselfe and his Honour ingaged to fight, and knowes not how to exempt and free himselfe thereof. For, first, he considereth that the ground of his Defence and Quarrell is not good, sith he knew in his soule and conscience, that Paulina was as chast, as faire, & that he had wronged himself, in seeking to wrong and scandalize her; then, that hee perfectly understood Sturio was valiant and generous, yea, and very expert and skilfull in handling his Weapons; and withall, that single Combates were variable, and onely constant in unconstancie: so that he be­g [...]n not onely to doubt, but feare, that as he had killed Brellati, so Sturio was reserved to kill him: but againe, considering that his birth and bloud was noble, it contrariwise so inc [...]red and animated his courage, and inflamed, and set an edge on his Generosity, as with a kinde of unwilling willingnesse hee accepts of Sturio's Challenge; and so bade his Lackey tell his Master from him, that hee would not faile to meet him, to give him his welcome to Palermo. The Clocke strikes five, and long before sixe, our two young Gentlemen come ride into the Field; where, giving their Horses to their Chirurgi­ans, with command not to stirre, till their due [...]y and office call them, they both draw; and so approach each other: but although this fury of theirs beginne in bloud, yet it shall not here end in death. At first comming up, Sturio wards Bertolini's thrust, and runnes him into the right Flanke, of a deepe wound, at the second, he wounds him a­gain in the neck, which draws much bloud from him neither is the third meetingmore propitious, or lesse fatall to him: for Sturio, without receiving any touch or scarre, gives him a third wound 'twixt his small ribs; whereat his courage feareth, and his strength fainteth; when willing to save his life, though with the losse of his honour, he throwes away his Rapier, and with his Hat in hand, begs his life of Sturio; and with as much truth as integrity, confesseth and voweth that hee is infinitely sorrowfull and repentant for the scandal, delivered against the honor of his most faire and chast Lady Paulina, for the which he craves pardon and remission. Sturio is astonished at this unexpected and cowardly act of Bertolini: whereat he bites his lip, but I know not whether more with disdaine then anger; only at first the remembrance of Brellati and Paulina's deaths, for the present make him inexorable to his reque [...] and submission: but at last, making rea­son give a law to choller, and Religion to Revenge, and considering that he was more then a Man, sith a Christian, as also that the lustre of his bloud and extraction, had distinguished him from the vulgar, and so made him honourable and noble, hee, not as a cruell Tygre but as a generous Lyon, disdayneth to blemish his reputation and va­lour, in killing a disarmed man; and so his honour outbraving his valour and revenge, he as a truely noble Gentleman, gives Bertolini his life, as holding himselfe satisfyed, by having righted the honour of his dead Mistresse Paulina, in Bertolini's confession and contrition. So they sheath up their Swords, and like loving fri [...]nds, returne together into the City: where Sturio prepareth for his departure, and Bertolini betakes himselfe to have his wounds dressed and cured.

This Combate, or Duell, is not so secretly carryed betwixt them and their Chi­rurgians, but all Palermo resounds and prattles thereof; and which is more, this newes speedily sayles from Cicily to Naples, and from thence rides poast to Rome, where Stu­rio and Bertolini likewise in short space arrive; but first comes Sturio, then Bertolini, whose Father by this time hath obtained his Pardon for killing of Brellati. The Nobility and Gentry of Rome speake diversely and differently of our two late return'd Gallants: some, [...]t of reason, highly applaud Sturio's fighting with Bertolini, occasioned through his affection to his dead Mistresse Paulina; and then his humanity and curtesie shewed and extended him, in giving him his life: others, out of the errours of youth and va­nity, taxe and condemne him for not dispatching and killing him: againe, many extoll Bertolini's valour in killing Brellati, but all taunt and taxe him for his Cowardise, in not [Page 178] fighting it out with Sturio; and, which is worse, for disgracefully begging and re­ceiving his life of him. Bertolini findes this scandall throwne and retorted on him, to bee very distastefull and dishonourable; in so much as hee cannot rellish it, but with discontent, nor digest it, but with extreme indignation and choller: which throwes him so violently on the execrable humour of revenge, as hee vowes to make Sturio pay deare for giving two much liberty to his tongue, to the prejudice of his honour and reputation. Puft up thus with these three execrable humours and vices, disdaine, en­vy and revenge, whereof the least is great and capable enough to ruine both a fortune and a life, hee, out of a wretched resolution, (unworthy the generosity of a Gentle­man) not onely forgets Sturio his singular courtesie in giving him his life, when it lay in his power and pleasure to take it from him, but also remembreth, and in that remem­brance resolveth to repay him with the ungratefull requitall, and mournefull interest of depriving him of his. O extreme ingratitude! O uncharitable and base resolution! Yea, hee is so devoyd of reason, and the purity of his soule and conscience so conta­minated and vilified with the contemplation and object of bloud, as hee gives way thereto, and resolves thereon; yea, permits it to forsake God, of purpose wilfully to fol­low the Devill: yea, his thoughts are so surprised and taken up with this execrable and hellish resolution of Murther, as hee thinkes of nothing else but of the meanes and manner how to dispatch Sturio; and so to send him in a bloudy winding-sheet, from this life to another. To fight with him againe in the field, hee dares not, to assassinate and murther him in his bed, he cannot, sith he must passe five or sixe severall chambers, ere hee can come at his; and to pistoll him in the open street, though it be lesse diffi­cult, yet hee findes it most dangerous, sith hee sees Sturio still went better followed and accompanyed then himselfe, as indeed being more eminent of birth, and noble of extraction then himselfe. But hee shall want no invention to accomplish and bring this his bloudy resolution to passe: for if hee faile thereof, the Devill is still at his el­bow to prompt and instruct him therein; yea, his impiety is growne so strong with the Devill, and his faith so weake with God, as now having turned over the records of his revenge, hee at last resolves to shoot Sturio from a Window, with a Petronell, as he passeth the street: and upon the attempt and finishing of this hellish stratagem and blou­dy Tragedy, the Devill and he strike hands, and conclude it; the contriving and perpe­trating where of shal in the end strangle him, because he was so prophane and gracelesse, as he would not strangle the first conceit thereof in their births and conceptions.

But leave wee here Bertolini ruminating on his intended bloudy crime of Murther, and come wee a little to speake of poore unfortunate Sturio, who not dreaming of his malice, much lesse of his ungratefull and bloudy revenge intended against him, like a mournful and disconsolate constant Lover, is thinking on nothing so much, as on the li­ving beauty and Idea of his dead Paulina: and although he knew it as palpable folly to bewray his immoderate sorrowes, as discretion to conceale them; yet their impe­tuosity and fervencie give such a predominating law to his resolutions, as hee cannot refraine from often stealing into Sancta Maria de Rotunda's Church, where shee was buryed, and there secretly bedewes her Tombe, and washes her Sepulcher with his teares: an act and ceremony of Lovers, which though affection authorize, yet Religion doth neither justifie, nor can approve. All the care of his father and friends is to seek how to purge his pensivenesse, and to wipe off his melancholy sorrowes and sorrow­full melancholinesse: to which end they proffer him great variety of noble and beau­tifull Ladies in Marriage, hoping that the sight and presence of a new beauty would de­face the memory and absence of an old: but their policie proves vaine; for Sturio will bee as constant in his sorrowes for his sweet Paulina's death, as hee was in his affection to her whiles shee lived; and therefore, although their power inforce him to see di­verse, [Page 179] yet his will can never bee drawne, or inforced to love any, as having inviolably contracted himselfe to this definitive resolution, that sith he could not be Paulina's hus­band, he will never wed himselfe to any other wife then his Grave.

And here I beginne to write rather with teares, then Inke, when I apprehend and consider how soone our poore and innocent Sturio shall [...]ee by the bloudy hand of Bertolini layd in his unfortunate and untimely Grave. Ah Sturio, Sturio, hadst thou been more vindictive, and lesse generous and compassionate, thou hadst prevented thy death by killing Bertolini, when thy valour in Caprea formerly reduced and exposed him to the mercie of thy Sword; or if thou hadst believed this Maxime, that dead men can never offend or hurt, thou needst not have relyed and trusted upon the false promises of an incensed and irreconciliable enemy: but what shall I say? It was not thy honour, but Bertolini's infamy, which hasteneth and procureth thy death. O that thou shouldest bee so true a friend to thine enemy, and hee proove so deadly an enemy to thee his true friend! Sturio gave Bertolini his life, and Bertolini in requitall will give Sturio his death: but such monstrous and bloudy ingratitude will never goe unpunished of God; for as it is odious to Earth, so it is execrable to Heaven: But I must bee so unfortunate to bring this deplorable Tragedy upon the Theater of this History. A misery of miseries, that wee are many times neerest our ends, when wee thinke our selves farthest from them; and (not to rush into the sacred and secret clo­set of Gods inscrutable providence) I can finde no other pregnant reason thereof, ei­ther in Divinity or Nature, but that at all times, and in all places, wee should bee still prepared and ready for death, e're death for us, and not protracting or procrastinating the houre thereof; but that whensoever it shall please God to call us to him, or him­selfe to us, that (like good Christians) death may still finde us alwayes arm'd to meet, never unprovided to incounter it.

But Bertolini is so obstinate in his malice, and so wretchedly implacable in his re­venge, as understanding that Sturio is accustomed to goe to his mornings Masse at the English Colledge, hee provides both himselfe and his Petronell charged with a brace of Bullets; or rather the Devill provides both the Bullets, the Petronell, and him­selfe: and so, watching the advantage of his houre and time, on a Monday morning, a little after the Cardinalls, Farnesi and Caponius, were ridden with their traines to the Consistory, putting himselfe into an unknowne house betwixt the sayd English Col­ledge and the Palace of Farnesi, hee having his Cocke bent, and seeing Sturio com­ming in the streete, upon his prauncing Barbary Horse and Foot-cloth, like a grace­lesse and bloudy villaine (having neither the feare of God, nor the salvation or dam­nation of his soule before his eyes, nor once imagining that hee shootes at the Majesty of God the Creatour, in killing and defacing Man, his Image and Creature) lets flye at him, and the Devill had made him so curious and expert a Marke-man, as both the Bullets pierce the trunke of his brest; with which mortall wounds our innocent Stu­rio, no longer able to sit his Horse, tumbles downe dead to the ground, without ha­ving the power to utter a word, but onely to breathe foorth two or three lamentable and deadly groanes. And this was the unfortunate and mournefull end of this no­ble Gentleman Sturio, which I cannot relate without sighes, nor remember without teares.

This bloudy Tragedy acted on so brave a Gallant, in the very bowels and heart of Rome, doth extreamely amaze, and draw all the Spectatours to lamentation and mour­ning, and his two servants, who walked by his Horse side, are so busie in lifting him up, and rubbing the temples of their dead Master; as they forget the research and in­quiry for his murtherer: but the Assistants, and standers by, hearing the report of the Peece, and not onely seeing the smoke in the window and ayre, but this noble Gen­tleman [Page 180] dead in the street, they ascend the house, finde the Petronell on the Table, [...] fled upon a sw [...] Spanish Gennet, by the back doore, they of the house affirming with teares, that they knew not the Gentleman that did it, neither was it i [...] their powers to stop or prevent his escape.

This Fatall and mournefull newes dispersed and spred o're the City of Rome; the Serjea [...]s and Captaines guard are busie to finde out the Murtherer, who by this time they know to bee Seignior Bertolini: but being gallantly mounted, hee speedes away thorow the stree [...]s amaine, and is so farre from despaire, as hee makes no doubt but to recover the Lateran Gate, and to escape this his second danger, as fortunately as he [...]id his first, by flying into the Kingdome of Naples: but his hopes shall deceive him; for if hee bought Brellati's Mu [...]her [...]t an easie rate, God hath now ordained and decreed that he shall pay deare for this his second of Sturio: and [...]o, here the impetuous storme of Gods just revenge and indignation now befalls him, when he least feares or thinkes thereof. The manner thus:

As hee was swiftly galloping thorow Campo de [...] (the publike place where the Pope (that Antichrist of Rome) burnes the children of God, for the profession of his glorious Gospell) and being at the farther end thereof, with an intent to draw towards the backe side of the Capitoll, behold, two Brick layers building of a house upon a Scaffold, two Stories high in the street, as Bertolini passed, both the Scaffold and the two Brick layers fell downe upon him, and his horse, and so beat them both to the ground: but as yet the newes of Sturio's Murther was not arrived thither; so as dan­ger and feare making Bertolini forget the hurt of his fall, hee againe riseth up, and calls for his horse, which was speedily brought him: so leaping into the Saddle, he spurres away, with as much celerity as his Gennet could possibly drive under him. But if hee have escaped this first judgement of God, hee shall not the second; for having past the Capitoll and the Amphitheater, his Gennet [...]twixt that and the Lateran, fell under him, which putting his shoulder out of joynt, the poore afflicted Beast could not r [...] with his Master, who by this time is more afflicted and grieved then the harmelesse Gennet hee rides upon. Whereupon being amazed, and fearing that the search would instantly follow and surprise him, hee leaving his horse, betakes himselfe to his ow [...] heeles: and so with much terrour both of minde and conscience, hee knowes not whither to goe, or where to hide himselfe, but at last considering that the greate [...] dangers have neede of the least distraction, and most discretion, hee thinkes to [...] on his right hand to Horta Farnesi, or the Gardens and Orchards which belong [...]o that illustrious Family: but then againe fearing to meet with a wooden face, in stead of finding an open doore, hee leaves that resolution, and (as fast as his legs and feet can beare him) flies on his left hand up towards Nero's Tower (so famous for that Emperours infamy, in standing thereon, when hee delighted to see all Rome on fire) and here in the ruines and demolitions of an infinite number of Palaces, Churches, and other stupendious buildings, our murtherous Bertolini hides and h [...]sheth up him­selfe, hoping if the day were past, to escape, and recover some secret friends house by night.

But God is too just to let this his cruell fact passe unrevenged, and this blou­dy Murtherer unpunished: for hee hath scarce beene there halfe an houre, but hee is knowne there, found out, and hemm'd in of all sides by the Captaine's Guard, arm'd with Partisans and Pistols. Heere Bertolini considering himselfe a Romane Gentleman, would fayne have made some resistance with his Rapier: but seeing their numbers to increase, and himselfe alone, as also that it would f [...]rther augment his crime, and exasperate his Iudges against him; hee at th [...]r first [...] delivereth up his Rapier, and yieldes, and rendereth himselfe [Page 181] into their hands, who presently convey him to prison, where hee shall have but little time to thinke of his hainous and bloudy Murthers, e're wee shall see him brought forth and arraigned before his Iudges: but in the Interim all Rome is possessed and in­formed hereof.

So the second morne of Bertolini his imprisonment, hee is fetcht before his Iudges, where at first the Devill is so strong with him, as hee once thought to have denyed this Murther of Sturio: but God proving more mercifull to his soule, hee upon his Iudges grave and religious remonstrances, with many sighes and teares freely confes­seth it, humbly beseeching them to take pittie of his young yeeres, and that it was onely the heate of youth, and the vanity of his ambitious honour, which had thus be­trayed and seduced his soule to perpetrate this cruell and impious Murther, and for the which he extremely and bitterly repented himselfe.

But the arrow of Gods wrath and Revenge is now fully bent against Bertolini, as his bullets were against Sturio: so as his sacred Majesty, causing his Iudges to resemble themselves, they are deafe to his requests, and tell him, it is not his youth or his ambi­tion, but the Devill that hath seduced and drawne him to performe this bloudy Mur­ther: and so for expiation thereof, they, in consideration hee is a Roman Gentleman, nobly descended, will not hang him, but adjudge his two hands to bee cut off be­fore the house where hee shot at Sturio, and then to bee beheaded at the common place of execution, at the foote of Saint Angelos bridge, his head to bee set upon a pole, over Saint Iohn de Laterans gate, and his body to bee throwne into Tiber: which the next day was accordingly executed in presence of many thousand people of both sexes, and of all ranks, notwithstanding the importunate sollicitations which his father made to Cardinall Borghese (the Pope Paulus Quintus Nephew) to the contray, who was too noble and generous to assist him in so base and ignoble a Murther.

And these were the lives and deaths of these three unfortunate Roman Gentlemen, Brellati, Sturio, and Bertolini, and of that beautifull, chaste, and sorrowfull Lady Pauli­na. And here to conclude and shut up this their mournefull History; I have beene in­formed that the curious wits of Rome made many exquisite Epitaphs upon the deaths of Sturio and Paulina, as also that Bertolini made a religious and most Christian speech at his end, of which I must confesse I was not so happy to recover the sight, or copies of either: for if I had, I would not have failed to have inserted, and placed them at the end of this their History, to have served as a grace and ornament thereunto, in interla­cing my prose with others verses, for the better delight and recreation of my Reader. But I must (justly) crave excuse herein: for my curiositie sought them, though my un­fortunacie found them not. And because I wholy ayme rather to profit then please my Reader, let us forget the shadowes, to remember the substance, and so looke from the Mappe, to the Morall of this History: that the foule example of Bertolini's crime of Murther, and the justnesse of his punishment, may make us lesse bloudy, and more compassionate and charitable to our Christian brethren, and consequently more pious towards God, of whom we all beare the living Image, and true and lively character.

History XI.

ALthough our perverse Nature, and rebellious thoughts may for a while make us esteeme Envie to be no Vice, and Murder a Vertue; yet if we wil erect the eyes of our Faith, and so looke from our selves to our soules, from Earth to Heaven, and from Satan to God, we shall then assuredly finde, that hating our Christian Brother, wee hate Christ who made us Brothers: and murdering him, that we maliciously and presumptuously attempt to recrucifie Christ, by whom we must, without whom we cannot be saved. But if we will turne Atheists, and be­leeve there is a Heaven, but no God; or Devils, and say there is a God, but no Hea­ven, then that uncharitable Tenent of Envie may be held lawfull, and this bloudy position of Murder, practised, because privileged, else not. Wherefore let us who are Christians resend this devillish doctrine, and doctrine of Devils, to Hell from whence it first came, and to the Devill himselfe who first broached and in­vented it: sith we cannot professe it without making our selves Agents, nor per­petrate it, without becomming his very limbs and members, in regard they will infallibly prove the wofull fore-runners of our misery, and the wretched He­ralds of our perdition: as the bloudy Actors of this ensuing mournfull History will make good, and instance to us in themselves when the severe judgements and pu­nishments of God befell them so suddenly, as it was too late for them either to re­voke or bewaile the enormitie of these their foule and infernall crimes.

[Page 188] THolouse (as well for greatnesse as state, the third citie and Court of Parliament of France) is the place wherein we shall understand, there was lately commit­ted and perpetrated, a tragicall History, which hath many mournfull and bloody dependances; the which to branch forth, and depaint in their naked colours, we must understand, that therein lived a Councellour of that famous Court (being a rich Gentleman well descended) tearmed Monsieur de Argentier, whose wife being deceased, left him father only to one hopefull sonne, of the age of two and twen­ty yeeres, tearmed Monsieur de Salez, who being wholly addicted to the warres (from which martiall Profession it was impossible for his old father to divert and withdraw him) he procured him an Ensignes place under Monsieur de Roquelaure, whom he served in the Adriaticke Sea, under the Noble and Generous Venetians, who then stood rather jealous than fearefull of the power and greatnesse of Spaine; but the Chymera of that warre (after the terme of three or foure yeeres) being vanished and blowen away, and consequently betwixt those two mighty Estates, a new Peace contracted and concluded, (although the old had not beene actually broken and delacerated) home returnes Monsieur de Roquelaure, for Gascogny, and with him De Salez for Lang [...]edoc and Tholouse, where he is received of his father with much content and joy, not that hee was contented to see his sonne professe these Militarie courses (which onely affords the smoake of Honour, and not the solidity of profit) but rather that hee exceedingly rejoyced to see him re­turne therefrom; and from whence, if he cannot hope that his requests will sole­ly divert him, yet hee is resolved and assured that his Commands both will and shall. To which end, (as any humour is soonest subject to be expelled and defa­ced by its contrary) so the old Councellour, having as much Iudgement and Pro­vidence in his head, as his sonne hath Vanity in his thoughts, and Rashnesse in his re­solutions, doth both request, and command him to leave the warre for Peace, Armes for Love, the Campe for the Citie, and his Captaine for a Wife, and so no longer to march and fight under the Banners of Mars and Bellona, but under the Standarts of Venus and Hymeneus; to which effect, he profers him the choyce of many rich and faire young Gentlewomen of the Countrey to his wife; but es­pecially (and with farre more earnestnesse than any other) to an exceeding rich match in the Citie, which was a young Gentlewoman tearmed La Frange, being the onely child of Monsieur de Clugny, one of the most famous and richest Presidents of that Court, young of yeeres, as being but sixteene, or seventeene, but withall de­formed both in favour and body, for shee was of a browne and sowre complexi­on, and not onely a Dwarfe in stature, but also exceedingly crooke-back'd, and yet beyond measure very amorous, and desirous of a Husband: onely the en­dowments of her minde most richly recompenced, and made satisfaction for the defects of her body: for shee had an active and nimble wit, a sweet and sugred tongue, a rich Memorie, and a powerfull and happy Iudgement, and was indeed an excellent Dauncer, and Singer, and withall a most perfect and exquisite Musici­an: But as yet De Salez warlike and generous resolution could not be so soone made flexible, to embrace the motion of a wife, and so he returnes his deniall in stead of his consent: but his wise old father Argentier, being therefore the more curious of his sonne De Salez his prosperity and welfare, because hee apparantly saw he no way regarded, but every way neglected it himselfe; (his sonnes exor­bitant resolution notwithstanding) although hee knew that Madamoyselle La Frange had many noble Suitors, who sought her in mariage: yet relying upon his ancient acquaintance and familiaritie with the President de Clugny, as also that that daughter of his, and this his Son were of both parties their onely children. Hee [Page 189] taking time at advantage, breakes with him about this match: whereunto De Clugny hearkens rather with delight than distast: for if there were any disparitie in the dignitie of their Offices, he well knowes, that Argentiers blood and wealth did at least equalize, if not exceed his; or if hee conceited any scruple in his thoughts, which impugned or imposed it, it was onely because De Salez was a Souldier, and not a Lawyer, and consequently delighted to use his Sword before his Pen, and to weare and preferre a Scarlet cloke before a Blacke. But then againe, these repugnant and averse reasons were as soone buried, as borne, and defaced, as conceived and ingraven in him; when hee considered that hee him­selfe in his adolescency was of the same humor and inclination, and therefore that Experience had made him a President to himselfe, that Time was both the refor­mer and refiner of manners, and that (in all well borne and well bred spirits) the Precepts of a father, and the sweet conversation and counsell of a wife, had pow­er to metamorphose the conditions of a young husband; whereupon the old fathers often meet and consult hereon, and so being fully agreed on all conditi­ons, they likewise appoint a solemne meeting for their children, but the effect and issue of this their enterview, will not corespond and answer their desires.

La Frange (as we have formerly said) being deformed and crook-backt, was no way agreeable but displeasing to De Salez, but he being a tall, and neat timbred Gentleman, of a faire and feminine complexion, she instantly most tenderly af­fected, and dearely loved him. In a word, I must request the curiositie of the Reader briefly to be informed and advertised, that as shee beheld him with the eyes of Love and Desire, so did he her with those of contempt and disdaine, she buil­ding castles of content in the aire of her thoughts and hopes, that Heaven would make him her husband; and hee rasing both her and her memory out of that of his contemplations, vowing that Earth should never make her his wife. Thus though the Parents have already shut up the Contract, yet their children shall never live to celebrate the Nuptials, for we shall see diversity of tragicall accidents which are providing, and almost ready to oppose and impugne it. Parents thinke to be the causes, but God will still bee the Authour of Marriages: for if his sacred and divine Majesty make them not first in Heaven, they shall never see them so­lemnized nor consummated on Earth.

And heere, to make an orderly progression in this History, th [...] Reader must likewise understand, that of all other of La Franges Suitors, none sought her with so much importunity and impatiency, as the Baron of Vaumartin, (whose chiefest house and lands lay betwixt Aigue-mortes and Narbone) a Nobleman of some thir­ty yeeres old, who (like many others of his stampe and ranke) had spent the greatest part of his youth and meanes in Paris, in lasciviously debaushing and re­velling with the Parisian Ladies and Dames: so that the vanitie of his pleasures and expences making his lands fly away peece-meale, and the devasting and fall of his trees and woods, making the rest of his Mannors shake, (an example and president for all other debaushed Gallants to observe and beware of) he leaves Paris with curses, and his bitter-sweet sinnes with repentance; and so (to re­payre his errors, and to redeeme his lost time, & decayed estate) he comes home to Langue [...]oc, where hearing in Tholouse of the President de Clugny's great wealth which he must solely leave to his onely childe and daughter La Frange, who was now marriageable, he resolves to set all his other businesse and designes apart, and so to lay siege and seeke her of her father and selfe in marriage. Now to take the better direction, and observation of this History, wee must likewise under­stand that this Baron of Vaumartin was of a swart complexion, a dwarfe of stature, [Page 190] and every way as crook-backt as La Frange, which the more slattered him in his hopes, and egged him on in his pursute, hoping indeed (though with as much Vani­tie as Ignorance) that this their corporall resemblance would the sooner induce and draw her to affect him: but his Arithmetique, or rather his Iudgement will de­ceive him: for it is conformitie of Humors and Inclinations, and not of faces and bodies, which breeds and inflames a sympathy in affections. But he is resolute in his research, and so better loving the fathers wealth, than the daughters Beautie, he well assisted and followed (with a traine and equipage worthy of his birth, and her merits) first seekes the daughter of her father, then her selfe of her selfe. As for the old President de Clugny, he hath heard of his debaushed pranks and ryots in Paris, and therefore vowes that his wealth gotten with wisedome, and purchased with providence, study, and care in his Age, shall never pay for the obscene plea­sures and vitious prodigalities of his Youth: and so with many verball comple­ments (resolving that he shall never triumph in the conquest of his daughter) he in generall tearmes puts him off. As for La Frange her selfe, the sweetnesse of De Sa­lez complexion and personage is so deeply imprinted in her heart and thoughts, that it is impossible for Vaumartin to find any admittance or entrance; for shee speakes of none but de Salez, thinkes of none but of de Salez, nor wisheth her selfe with any but with de Salez. Againe, she wonders at Vaumartins simplicitie, in see­king her for his wife: for if she hate deformitie in her selfe, how is it either likely or possible that she can love it in her husband? No, no; though de Salez will not love La Frange, yet La Frange must and will love de Salez, and none but him; and therefore sith de Salez his sweet feature is a pearle in her eye, needs must Vaumar­tin be an eye-sore to her; yea, and if modesty will permit mee to speake or write an immodest truth, her heart doth so burne and flame in love to de Salez, that both day and night shee many times with sighes, sometimes with teares, wisheth her selfe either impaled in his armes, or he encloystred in hers. Now by this time Vaumartin hath full notice and advertisement of her affection devoted to none but to de Salez, as also his sleighting and disdaining her: Whereupon encouraged by this, and dishartened by that, he leaves no cost, care, or curiosity (either in gifts, dancing, musicke, or bankets) unattempted, to crowne his wants, rather than his desires and pleasures, with this though deformed, yet rich heire La Frange: so lea­ving him to his vaine sute in courting her, speake wee a little of de Salez, that sith he will not affect La Frange, we may yet observe and discover which way hee in­tends to shape the course of his affections and resolutions.

For albeit he had formerly addicted himselfe and resolutions to be a professed Souldier, yet Peace calling him home now to Pleasure, and that to effeminacy, a fatall and dangerous vice, which in the iniquity of these our times and depraved man­ners not onely most insensibly creepes into common Souldiers and Comman­ders, but also into all Armies, and into many Estates and Kingdomes, still to the dis­paragement of their glory, and sometime to the price of their ruine, and perill of their subversion; he began to let his Colours hang dustie, and his Pike and Par [...]zan r [...]stie by the walls, and to frequent the company of Ladies, which the old Counsellor his father observes with joy, hoping that in the end he shall draw him to affect and marry La Frange: but these hopes of his will proove vaine, and this hi [...] joy will soone bee exchanged into sorrow, and metamorphosed into af­fliction and misery: for that his sonne is partly resolved to marry, tis true, but as true it is, that he is fully resolved never to love, much lesse to marry La Frange.

Now wee must understand, that in Tholouse there dwelt a Merchant of Silks, or as wee in England say, a Silk-man, termed Monsieur de Soulange, rather reputed [Page 191] rich of others, than knowne so of himselfe; and yet being an old widower, to the end the sooner to get him a new wife, he puts a good face on his estate, and main­taines himselfe, familie, and house, with great pompe and expences, having no son, but three faire daughters, all marriageable; & yet (out of ambition, and in emu­lation of the Gentry) severally knowne and stiled by their titles, not by their names, as Mesdamoyselles de Marsy, La pre Verte, and La Hay, all famous for their beauties, and indeed for the purenesse and excellencie thereof justly reputed & held the prime Birds of the citie, and yet the youngest of them La Hay was the Phenix of all the three: for she was so sweetly faire, and fairly sweet of complexion, as she drew all eyes to doe homage to hers; so as it was almost impossible for any man to looke on her without loving her, or to gaze on her without desiring her: for her body was so strait and slender, and the roses of her cheekes so deliciously gracing the lilies, and the lilies the roses, that the greatest Gallant either of the Citie or Country, held himselfe not only happy, but honoured with the felicitie of her presence and company. But in one word, to give these three sisters their true characters, de Marsy and la Pre-verte were far more vertuous than La Hay, though La Hay were far fairer than they: for as Religion and Pietie was their chiefest de­light and exercise, as more desirous to embelish their soules than their bodies; so wanton pleasure and vaine lasciviousnesse was hers, as rather delighting to please and adorne her body than her soule, they being more vertuous than faire, shee more faire than vertuous, different inclinations and resolutions; these as happy and blessed, as hers wretched and impious: their actions might have beene a Pre­sident, yea a Pilot to have conducted her fame as well to the Temple of Honour, as to the harbour of immortall glory, & of glorious immortalitie: but she vowes she will prove a President to her selfe, and her pleasure shall be a Pilot to her will, although she misse the Temple of Honour, to find out that of beastly concupiscence; and the harbour of immortall glory, to suffer shipwrack vpon the shelves of inglo­ [...]ious infamie, and the rocks of infamous perdition.

To this Monsieur de Soulanges house, the beauties of his three daughters, but especially that of La Hay, and withall her pleasing and tractable affabilitie, invites many young Gentlemen, and the eminentst Citizens, who there passe their time in courting and conversing, in dancing, singing, and the like, whereunto the Youth of France more than any other people of the world are most licentiously addicted; and as things are best discerned and distinguished by their contraries, so the ver­tues of De Marsy and La Preverte were made more apparant by La Hayes vices; and her lust and whoredomes were more palpably notorious in their chastitie. O that so sweet a creature should be subject to so foule a sinne, and that Beautie the best gift (and as I may say the gold) of Nature, should be thus vilified and pollute [...] with the beastly pleasures of carnall concupiscence and obscene sensualitie! For aye mee, I write it with as much griefe to my selfe, as shame to her, she was too prodigall of her favours; for she imparted them liberally unto some for love, but unto most for money, not caring to whom she prostituted her body, so they fil­led her purse, thereby to support her pride, and maintaine the excesse and vanitie of her braverie; and yet she was so subtill and cautious therein, that although she were a professed Courtisan, she would neverthelesse publikely seeme a pure and unspotted Virgin; and the better to fortifie her fame, and to make the reputation of her Chastitie passe currant with the world, she would sweare all those to con­ceale her favours, on whomsoever she imparted and bestowed them: but if this lascivious subtiltie of hers have power to bleare the eyes of the world, how can this her beastly sin of fornication be unseene of God, when the windowes, walls, [Page 192] and beames of her chamber, yea her very bed whereon she hath acted her whore­domes, shall one day give in evidence, and serve as witnesses against her; yea, and be petitioners on earth, that God will requite and reward them with vengeance and confusion from Heaven.

Now, among the rest of those deboshed Gentlemen, who devoted their lasci­vious service, and sacrificed their fond affections to La Hays beautie, in comes our De Salez to inroule himselfe one; who, feasting and surfetting his eyes on the de­licacies of her fresh and sweet complexion, leaves his owne fathers house, to fre­quent hers; yea his desires are so lustfully inflamed with her beautie, as with his best art and policie he lies close siege to her chastitie, and with many gifts, re­quests and oathes, seekes to endeere▪ her to his desires and pleasure: But see the subtiltie of this lascivious young Courtisan; for knowing De Salez deeply in love with her, and to be the only childe of his father, and he one of the richest Coun­cellors of Tholouse, she conceives a plot in her head, to goe a fishing to make him her husband, and so beares her selfe wonderfull modest and coy, casting a cloake and veile of chastitie over her unchaste desires and actions, as if she were now a virgin, yea a Saint to him, though heretofore she had many times played the Strumpet with others: but her deniall doth rather inflame, than quench the fire of his lust, so as making many assaults to raze downe the defences of her refusall, that he may enter and take possession of her heart and favour, his best Art and Oratorie proves vaine; for she outwardly retires her affection, thereby the bet­ter inwardly to advance and finish her purposes: so this repulse of hers makes him hang his head, and become pensive and melancholie; the true signes and symp­tomes of a foolish and fantasticall lover, as in effect wee shall shortly see de Salez will prove himselfe: for the colder shee is in affection to him, the hotter is hee in lust with her, forgetting the warres, yea, his discretion, himselfe and all, to crowne his desires in enjoying her: the which she well observing, begins to triumph in her good fortune, as thinking him already fairly come to the hooke, and so hopes that if the line of his folly and her good fortune and wit hold, shee will soone make him her husband, and her selfe his wife: For having formerly met with many knaves in others, shee now begins to rest confident either to finde, or make a foole of him, thereby to serve as a veile to over-veile her whoredomes: He pleads hard to her for love; she replies, it is impossible to finde love in lust: He vowes he will die her servant, she sweares she will never live his strumpet: He protesteth that shee shall share of his estate, shee tells him plainly that shee had rather live a poore Wife, than die a rich Courtesan: He replies, that he adores her beautie; she answers, that she knowes no other, but that he only seekes to prophane and defile it. And here, with more facilitie to make him swallow either a Gull, a Gudgin, or both, she by stealth permits him to cull some kisses, as well from the cherries of her lips, as the roses of her cheekes: and in the Interim like an hypocriticall and dissembling queane, reads him many lectures on the purenesse of Chastitie, and the foulenesse of Lust, on the blessednesse of Marriage, and the wretched estate of Fornication: Prophane and impious gig­let, whose speeches are perfumed with Vertue, and yet her actions stinke, and are polluted and infected with Vice: dissembling Syrene, who casts forth bit­ter sweet inchanting tunes and charmes to please the sense, and yet purposely to poison the soule; pills of worme-wood candid in sugar, hony to the pa­late, but gall to the stomack; A fatall rock whereon many inconsiderate and deboshed young Gentlemen have unfortunately suffered shipwrack, a wretch­ed Gulph and Labyrinth, which containes all varietie of endlesse miseries [Page 193] and calamities, whereunto whosoever enters with pleasure, is sure to retire with teares, curses, and repentance; A plague sent us from heaven in our age, for a just guerdon and recompense of the sinnes and folly of our youth. And into this intr [...]cate Laborinth and bottomlesse Gulph of miserie and calamitie, is our rash and lustfull yong Gallant, cheerefully entring and steering his course, without either the Starre of hope, or compasse of felicitie and saftie, bearing out toppe and toppe Gallant, yea (as I may say) with all the sayles of his folly bearing; and with the Flagge Ensigne and Pendants of his obscaene and lacivious desires, playing and dalying in the Aire of La Hayes fatall and infectious beautie; which hath so solely surprised his judgement, captivated his thoughts, and eclipsed his descretion, as in her abscence and presence hee extolls aswell her Vertues as her beautie to the Skies: vowing that shee is so faire a Nymph, and so pure a Virgine, as she deserves rather to bee his wife, than his Strumpet, or rather not his strumpet but his wife: And so two moneths being past since hee first fre­quented her, and sought to seduce and obtaine her to his lacivious desires; and seeing (desembling queane as shee is) that therein shee bore her selfe infinite­ly chaste and modest, and that it was impossible for him to observe or remarke any other inclination or testimony, either in her word or carriage, his wits are so besotted and in tangled in the fetters of her beautie, that hee preferres her sweet feature and complexion, a thousand times before La Franges, deformed; and vowes that hee had rather die La Hayes slave, than ever live to bee La Franges husband: But this folly of his in the end shall cost him deare, and so leade him to another, farre more unnaturall, and as I may justly say, damnable: But wee must proceed orderly in this History, and doe therefore reserve that part till anon.

By this time the slie subtiltie, & seeming chast behaviour of La Hay, hath acted won­ders in De Salez heart so as she now hopes confidently, and shortly to play her prise in surprising him, for he is extreamely amorous besotted, and as I may say, drunke with the love of her selfe and beautie: so on a Sunday, as shee returned from Vespres, he repaires [...]o her fathers house to see her, whom he finds in her chamber alone, waiting and attending him: having porposely dighted her selfe in a rich new Gowne and Pet­ticote, and trimmed and adorned her selfe in her gayest and most curious attier, there­by with more ease and facilitie to draw him to her lure: So as her beautie being both seconded, and graced by her apparell, she so ravished his heart, and delighted his sences, as he cannot refraine from kissing her; but this hony of her lippes, will in the end prove poyson to his heart: And here againe he layes close siege to her chastitie, but still she gives him the repulse and refusall, as if she were a Diana, and no Venus: He vowes hee doth affect, and will ever honour her; And she, that if he honour her, will still affect him: In the way of Love, quoth hee, I am wholly yours; and quoth shee, in that Honour I will not bee mine owne but yours: I will quoth hee in all affection both live and die your servant; and replies she, In all chastity, I will live to die your handmaid: Hee affirmes, hee cannot bee more hers in heart, than hee is; nor I quoth shee, lesse yours in lust, than I am: It is quoth hee my Love which makes me report so much; and quoth shee it is my Feare which makes mee affirme no lesse: Why, quoth hee, should my love procure your Feare? My feare, quoth she, is wholly ingendred and derived from your lust, but not from your Love: I pray expresse your selfe, quoth hee; she replies, my blushes may, but my tongue dares not, Quoth hee, did your affection equalize mine, La Hay would ac­cept of De Salez, and not refuse him, Nay quoth shee, did De Salez know how infinite mine exceeds his, hee would not refuse La Hay, [Page 194] but accept of her: Why quoth he, de Salez desires none but La Hay, Nor quoth shee, La Hay any in the world but de Salez: Whereupon de Salez being provoked with his owne lust, and animated and encouraged by her sweet speeches, he very joy­fully (yet falsly) flattering himselfe with the conquest of her favour and consent, [...]huts the doore, & like amost lacivious and disolute Gentleman, takes her in his armes, & strives to convey her to the bed, resolving there to inrich himselfe with more then kisses, yea, to reap the fruit of his beastly pleasures and obsceane and brutish desires; but his hopes shall deceive him: For although La Hay be a Courtisan in heart, yet she will not be so in tongue, especially now, where to get her selfe a rich husband, it behooves her to play her prise in Chastity, as if she were as vertuous, as faire, and as chast as lovely; Where­fore exclayming, and storming at this his lacivious attempt and enterprise, levelled at the defloration and shipwracke of her Honour, she with a violent power, and an enraged violence, unskrewes her selfe forth his armes, and with a world of hypocriticall sighes and teares, flies to his Ponyard, which he had throwne on the table, and vnsheathing it, vowes that she will be a second Lucretia, and that if she cannot kill him before he have defiled and defloured her, yet that she will assuredly murther her selfe after; be­cause she is fully resolved, that her chastitie shal out live her, not she her chastitie; A reli­gious and Honourable resolution of hers, if it had proceeded from a chast and sanctified heart, but alas, nothing lesse; for she speakes it out of subtiltie, not out of Vertue, out of Policie, no way out of Pietie: de Salez by this time having wholly lost his judgement in the sweet and [...]o seat garden of her delicious complexion; vowes that he is now as deep­ly in love with her chastity, as formerly with her beauty. When seeking to appease her Choler, and to pacifie her Indignation, as also to give truce to his owne thoughts, & con­tent to his defires; he sweares he is so farre from intending her any dishonour, as he is resolved to doe her all the honour of the world: Yea so farre, as if she please, he is ready to accept her for his wife, protesting, that of all the maydens of the world, he is desirous to be husband to none but her selfe, and that the fault shall be hers, if he make not his words deeds. La Hay having her thoughts tickled with delight, to heare the pleasant melody of these his sugred speeches, doth thereat presently bury her sighes, and drie up her teares: when throwing a way the ponyard, and making him a most respectfull courtesie, and gratefull reverence, she with extended armes runnes to him, and hangs about his necke, vowing that she loves no man in the world but him selfe; and in consen­ting to be her husband, she will till death yeeld, not only to be his faithfull wife in at­tending his pleasures, but his observant handmaid, to receive and obey his commands: and so they interchangeably greet each other with thanks and kisses. But yet she know­ing that his father Argintier was both rich and eminent, and her owne poore and of a farre inferiour ranke, she is so politicke and subtil in the managing of this her affection, as she is resolved to make sure worke, and to doe nothing by halfes: so as knowing that words are but wind, and what de Salez promiseth her now, he may either forget or deny to morrow, she intends to catch at opportunities forelocke, and so with a sweet and in­genious insinuation, drawes him to give her a Diamond Ring in token of marriage, and she in exchange returnes him a smal gold bracelet, which she wore upon her arme next her heart. And yet againe considering, that his father would very difficultly (or never) be drawen to consent to this match, she can give no true content to her desires, nor satisfaction to her feare, before she have united and linked him to her, in a more strict­er and firmer bond of assurance; when not onely feasting, but as it were surfetting him with varietie of kisses, she bethinks her selfe of a Policy, as worthy of her wit for attempting, as of his folly for performing: for directing him her speech (which shee accompanied with many amorous, yet dissembling smiles) shee told him she would futurely exced him in constancy, and now outbrave him in affection; when [Page 195] taking pen and paper, she writes him a faire promise, and firme assurance of her selfe unto him (in the maner of a Contract) and to make it the more powerfull and authen­ticall, subscribes her name and signe to it, and betwixt sighs and blushing, she delivers it him; no way doubting, but rather assuring her selfe, that he would requite her with the like curtesie and obligation, as indeed the event answereth her desires and wishes: For De Salez having now no power left him to see by his owne eyes, I meane, by those of his judgement, but only by these of his intemperate passion, and passionat affection, he is so far from discrying (much lesse from suspecting) her policy, as very simply and sottishly he attributes it to the fervency of her affection, the which he interprets and entertaines, I know not whether with more joy, or delectaion; and so vowing not to dye her debtor for Courtesie, he very rashly, and inconsideratly writes another to the same effect, and flyes so farre from wit or discretion, as to shew himselfe her superiour in affection, as well as in sex, he purposely cuts his finger, and so firmes his name there­unto with his owne bloud, and then with a million of kisses delivers it her, vowing that her pleasure shall be his law in the accomplishing thereof: onely he prayes her for a time to be secret and silent herein, for that he feares he shall hardly draw his Father to consent hereunto, the which she very courteously graunts him: and so he triumph­ing in her beauty, and she in his wealth, he in her youth, and she in his simplicity, they for that time part, not doubting but they shall shortly reape the fruits of their ma­trimoniall desires and wishes; for till then, she sweares (though with an equivocating reservation to forsweare her selfe) she will live a most pure and unspotted Virgine, and that as the least of her affection and courtesie towards him, shall be smiles, so the most shall be kisses.

But this (affection or rather folly) of De Salez, in contracting himselfe to La Hay, is not so secretly borne, but as her former unchastitie was a generall argument of talke to the whole citie of Tholouse: so now this of her subtilty and good fortune, is that of its uniuersall pratling and admiration, occasioned and redoubled by the opposite consi­derations of Argentiers knowne wealth, and de Soulanges supposed poverty? and a­gaine of de Salez supposed chastity, and of de la Hayes notoriously knowne whore domes. And as Fame is still so tatling a goddesse, that events and accidents of this nature can hardly be concealed, and difficultie suppressed and smaothered: so by this time contrary to the expectations and hopes of our two young Lovers, the old Councellor Argentier hath notice of this unlooked-for newes, and of this unwished for familiaritie betwext his sonne, and that strumpet La Hay, when considering the great opposition betewixt de Clugny's Nobilitie and wealth and de Soulanges meane extraction and povertie; as also by a true and uncontroleable Antithises, comparing the foule and enormious vices of La Hay with the sweet and resplendant vertues of La Frange; he (as much disdayning that match, as desiring this for his sonne, very hastily sends for him into the Arbor, where purposely attending him, he with light­ning in his lookes, and thunder in his speeches, layes before him the simplicity, and the sottishne sse of his resolution, in preferring La Hay before La Frange, a strumpet before a virgin, and a Pedlers brat, before a rich gentlemans onely daughter and heyre, shewes him the infamy of the first, and the glory of the last match; there his unavoydable misery, here his assured happinesse; in the first his utter ruine and ship­wracke, and in the last, his infallible prosperity and felicity: and so intermixing threats with teares, with a passionate paternall affection, he endeavoreth to perswade him to leave La Hay, and to marry La Frange; or if not, hee vowes and sweres wholly to disinherit him, and from thence-forth never repute or esteeme him for his sonne.

But de Salez his foolish vanity, and vaine affection in himselfe towards his new contracted Love La Hay, is so great, and consequently his filiall obedience to his [Page 196] father so small, as not withstanding this his wholesome advise and counsell, he is still resolute and constant to preferre La Hay before La Frange, the beauty of the one, before the deformity of the other, his owne content before his fathers, and Soulanges estate and byrth before the great wealth and noble extraction of De Clugny: but this rashnes, indiscretion, and ingratitude of his will cost him deare.

Now if Argentier have perfect intelligence and curious notice of his sonnes fami­liarity with that faire yet lewd Courtezan La Hay, no lesse hath la Frange, who poore soule is so deeply enamored of de Salez, as the very first newes and conceyt, that ano­ther should enjoy him, and not her selfe, for very grife and sorrow, shee seemes to drowne her selfe in the deluge of her teares. His father is chollerick thereat, she mournfull, he incensed, she afflicted, he inraged, & she perplexed and tormented, his passions and anger proceeds from suspition, that he shall so soone find a daughter in law in la Hay; her sighes and teares from feare, that she shall so soone loose her Love though not her Lover, his sonne de Salez. Againe, the argument of his choller, is la Hayes unchastitie and povertie, and the cause of her disconsolation, de Salez his wealth and vertues: likewise she sees that Argentier hath no reason to hope, that his sonne will marry her selfe, such is her deformitie, and againe, that he hath all the rea­sons of the world, as well to doubt, as feare, that hee will wed la Hay, such is her beauty: But sith de Salez will beare no more respect to his father, nor affection to la Frange, leave we therefore his father Argentiers passions, and la Franges perplexities, to be appeased and qualified by Time, or rather by God, the Authour and giver of Time, who out of his all-seeing providence and sacred pleasure, onely knowes in Heaven, how best to dispose and manage the actions of earth; and so come wee to other un­expected occurrents and events, which like so many enterjecting, and intervening poynts, are contained within the circumference of this History.

I have so long insisted on the affections of de Salez and la Hay, as but to the judici­ous and temperate Reader it would seeme to appeare, that the Baron of Vaumartin, hath wholly forgotten to remember his to his Lady La Frange: But to put that doubt out of question, and this question out of doubt, we shall see him returne too too soone, to act a part not so religious and honourable, as bloody, upon the Thea­tre of this History: For by this time both his creditors and his debts are growne so clamorous, and his reputation and lands so neere forfeited, for want of disingaging, as to secure the one, and provide for the other, hee knowes no other invention not meanes but to gaine La Frange to his wife: when as it were, provoked and precipi­tated on by the necessity of this exigent, his thoughts leave heaven to fly to hell, and consequently fly from God to Sathan, to consult how either by the bye, or the maine hee may obtaine her; yea, though with the perill and hazard of his owne life, to cut off theirs, who seeke therein to prevent his desires and designes. In which hel­lish ratiocynation, he as devoyd of Reason, as that is exempt either of Grace or Piety, thus reasoneth with himselfe: De Clugny hates me, for seeking to marry his daugh­ter, and that time may remedy for me; but which is worst of all, she loves De Salez, and seekes and desires to marry him, and this I must remedy in time, if I ever expect to obtaine or enjoy her; and so resolves to make him away: but is as yet irresolute how to perpetrate, and in what manner to finish so execrable a businesse. But this is not onely the voice of his malice, but the sentence of his revenge, that De Salez must die: wretched Vaumartin, unworthy to beare the name of a man, much lesse of a Baron, but least of all of a Christian, in that because De Salez hates La Frange, and she loves him, that therefore thou wilt not love but hate him; or because she loves him, and not thy selfe, that therefore thou wilt kill him, that she may love thee. See, see, rash and inconsiderate Nobleman, how treache­rously [Page 197] the Devill hath hood wink'd, yea inveigled thy judgement, and besotted thy senses, to kill one that loves thee, to kill I say, a Gentleman who hath not offended thee, but is every way thy friend, no way thine enemy: or if thou thinke it wisdome, that covetousnesse must redeeme thy former prodigality, alas, alas, canst thou yet be so cruell to thinke it either lawfull or religious, that future murther should either oc­casion or authorize it: But the Devill hath so farre prevailed with his impious resolu­tions, that againe he resolves, De Salez must die: and yet thou thinkest poyson as un­worthy of him, as he is worthy of thy sword; so had thy last resolution been answera­ble to thy first, assure thy selfe thou hadst made thy selfe more happy, and not so mi­serable: for as poysoning was the invention of the devill, and is practised by none but his agents; so this dishonourable point of honour to fight Duels, was never insti­tuted by God, nor professed by those who really professe his Gospell: yea, it is not only truely to dishonour God, in seeking falsly to preserve our own Honour and reputation, but we assuredly stab at the Majesty of the Creator, in seeking to deface man his crea­ture; and to use but a word, as it is repugnant both to Nature and Grace, so though it begin in the heat of passion and pleasure, it many times terminates in Repentance, but still in true Infamy and misery.

But Vaumartins faith being so strong with Sathan, and so weake with his Saviour, he will not take a law from Religion to give to his Envy, but rather takes one from his Envy to give to his Religion; and so very prophanely and rashly by his Lackey La Rose, sends De Salez this Challenge:

De Salez having received and read this Challenge, doth not a little wonder at the Baron of Vaumartins strange passion and resolution, in sending it him, especially, sith he knowes that the motives and grounds of his malice were so unjust and frivolous: so, how to answer him, as yet he knowes not; for as his Generosity one way invites him to fight, so his discretion another way perswades him from it: But considering the poore esteeme he makes either of the Lady La Frange, or her affection, thinking it folly to fight without cause, and to hazard his life without reason, he calls for pen and paper, and as a wise, yet valiant Gentleman, by his owne Lackey, returnes the Baron of Vaumartin this answer:

Vaumartin having received and perused this letter of refusall from De Salez, he out of the heat of his passion, and height of his folly, reputes it rather to cowardise, than discretion in him; and so his courage and revenge the more insulting and inflam'd thereat, hee bending his browes (as if Contempt and Envy sate wreath'd in the furrowes thereof) very speedily againe returnes him his Lackey, with this rash answer:

De Salez having received and runne over this Letter, and seeing that Vaumartin was still wilfull and resolute to fight, thinks that he should degenerate from him­selfe, his Blood, and Profession, if hee did not now accept and answer this his Chal­lenge: wherefore calling for Vaumartins Lackey, hee rounds him thus in his eare, Tell thy Master, that if I live, I will not faile to breake fast with him timely in the mor­ning, according to his expectation. Thus wee see these two inconsiderate Gentlemen a­greed, their match concluded, and nothing but the night to hinder them from figh­ting, as if their glory consisted in their shame, and as if Nature had never taught them how to preserve their lives, nor Grace, their soules.

So the Morne peeping forth through the windowes of Heaven, as soone as the Sunne with his glistering beames began to salute the woods and mountaines, our two resolute Champions bravely mounted with each his Chirurgion, are in the field at the assignd Rendevo [...]s, and first comes Vaumartin, and then immediately De Salez, when their Chirurgions performing the dutie and office of Seconds, being some hundred paces distant, they give spurres to their Steeds, and so drawing their swords, swiftly part, like two flashes of lightning each towards other. At their first meeting, de Sa­lez [Page 199] gives Vaumartin the first hurt in the right shoulder, and he de Salez another in re­quitall, in the right side of the necke: when being both good Cavaliers, (and well neere as equall in yeeres as courages) they turne short, and then fall to it againe with bravery and resolution, when againe Vaumartin runs de Salez through his left arme of a deepe and wide wound, and he onely sleightly cuts his shirt upon his ribbes, giving him onely a raze or scarre, but as yet both free from any danger of death, so they mu­tually consent to breath: but their ambitions and courages of both sides, are so exas­perated and inflamed, as although they are all bloody, yet this will not suffice: so they fall to it againe, and in this close de Salez his horse stumbles with him; whereat Vau­martin, (though a dwarfe in stature, yet not in Valour and Pollicy) taking the ad­vantage of this accident, gives him first a licke ore his pate, and then runnes him at the short ribbes: but de Salez rayning up his horse, prooved favourable to him; for by that meanes Vaumartins sword met and glanced on a rib, without doing him any farther hurt. De Salez seeing the redoubling of his wounds, beginnes to redouble his courage, and disdaining thus to be outbraved and beaten by a Pigmey, he lyes home at Vaumartin, and at their very next close, runnes him thorow the body, of a deepe and mortall wound, a little above his navell: whereat his sword presently falls out of his hand to the ground, and hee immediately likewise from his horse starke dead, without having the grace or happinesse, either to call on, or to name God. O what pit­ty, what misery is it, that a Christian should die like a beast, having neither power to pray, nor felicity to repent. Thus we see the Challenger kill'd, and hee who would have murthered a stranger, murthered himselfe by a stranger: a Lesson to teach others to beware, by the Tragicall and mournfull end of this rash Nobleman. De Salez see­ing Vaumartin dead, praiseth God for his victory; and so leaving his breathlesse corps to his sorrowfull Chirurgion, he gallops away to the next Village, where he causeth his wounds to be dressed, and from thence provides for his safety.

All Tholouse rings and resounds of this disasterous and Tragicall accident: De Clugny is glad, that De Salez hath escaped death, yet sorrowfull that Vaumartin is kill'd, in respect hee feares hee undertooke this quarrell for his daughter La Franges sake: who hearing that De Salez wounds are no way mortall, infinitely reioyceth, and triumpheth thereat, flattering her selfe (though with this false hope) that he affected her farre more dearer than he made shew of, or else that he would never have fought with Vaumartin for her sake, nor have kill'd him but for his owne. And thus, though humanitie made her grieve for Vaumartins death, yet that griefe of hers was as suddenly converted into joy, when she saw he received it by the hand of De Salez, whom shee respected and af [...]cted more dearer than all the Gentlemen of the world. Now, as for his father Argentier, the life of his sonne likewise wiped off the remembrance of Vaumartins death, and yet it grieved him inwardly, that hee to whom he gave life, should give death to another: and farre the more, in that this un­fortunate accident must now enforce him to beg pardon from that grave Court of Par­liament, for this murther perpetrated by his son, sith he had formerly so often pleaded for justice against others, for the like crime and offence; But all these joyes of Argent [...]r, De Clugny, and his daughter L [...] Frange, are nothing to those of La Hay for the life and victory of her deare De Salez: leaping as it were for meere content and pleasure, that shee should shortly see, and enioy him for her husband, and that God hath both reser­ved and preserved him to crowne her with the sweetnesse of this desired felicitie.

Thus while La Frange and La Hay triumph and congratulate the returne of De Salez, so Argentier publikely, and D [...] Clugny privately, imploy there chiefest power, friends, and authoritie, to procure his pardon first from the King, then from the Parli­ament, whereof they are two famous members. Which [...]t l [...]st, (by the meanes and [Page 200] favour of the Duke of Ventadour) they obtaine: So this murther of his, is remitted in Earth, but I f [...]re me, will not be forgotten in Heaven: for though men be inconstant in their decrees, yet God will be firme and upright, aswell in the distribution, as execution of his judgements. Men as they are men may erre, but as they are Christians they should not; but God (either to please or displease them) neither can nor will.

De Salez no sooner hath escaped this danger, but forgetting his former follies, and his fathers advise and house, he againe, in a manner voluntarily imprisoneth himselfe with his mistris La Hay in hers; whereat as his father stormes, so De Clugny and La, Frange bit the lip: hoping that this good office in procuring him his pardon, would more strictly have united him to her selfe, and consequently sequestred him from La Hay; but nothing lesse, for he sings his old tune, and will rather run the hazard of his fathers displea [...]ure, than leave La Hay to take La Frange: whereat his father Argentier reneweth his choller, and revives his indignation against him, as desiring nothing so much in this life, as to see him married to La Frange, but he shall never live to see it; for there are to many disasterous accidents preparing to crosse and pre­vent it:

Whiles these things happen in Tholouse, there betides an unexpected and unwi­shed businesse, which must call away Argentier to Paris: For the Lords of the Privie counsell of France, having received some informations and grievances against the body of the Court of Parliament of Tholouse; command them speedily to send up some Deputies to answer such matters as shall be objected against them: where­upon, the gravitie and wisdome of that Court, in obedience to their superiours, elect two Presidents and four Counsellours to undertake that journey and businesse among whome De Clugny is chosen for one of the Presidents, and Argentier for one of the Counsellours: as inded their integritie and profound Wisedome and Experience had made them eminent in that Court. As for de Clugny at his importunate request (made to the Court) he was dispenced with, from that journey; by alleadging that his age and sickenesse made him altogether unfit to undertake it: but all the evasions and excuses, which Argentier could make, could not exempt him, but he must needs see Paris. But first, before his departure he had a long and serious conference with de Clugny, how to effect the so long desired match of his sonne and daughter, the fini­shing whereof was referred till his returne from Paris, which sweet newes infinitely rejoyced and delighted the young Ladie La Frange, and the immediate night before he was to take Coach, hee calls his sonne de Salez to him, and with a perswasive and powerfull speech, requested him in his absence to love La Frange, which he in plaine termes protested and vowed to his father, he could not, then hee conjures him, never to marry La Hay, which likewise he would not grant; and to conclude, sith his father could not prevaile in the two former, he commanded him upon his blessing, that he would never marry any wife whatsoever without his consent, the which indeed de Salez could not denie, but faithfully promised his father; yea, and bound it with an oath, yet still hoping, that it was as possible for him to draw his father to consent he should marry La Hay, as it was as impossible for his father ever to perswade him to marry La Frange: and so that night the father takes leave of the sonne, and he the next morning of his father, wishing him a prosperous journey, and a speedy returne: who suspecting, and fearing, that in his absence, contrary to his requests and prayers, his Sonne would only abandone La Erange, to frequent La Hay; he being arived to the Cittie of Tours, thought himselfe bound in Nature, aswell for his owne content, as his sonnes tranquilitie and prosperitie; againe, to signifie him his mind in some few lines of advise and counsell, and to send it him by the ordinary Carrier of Tholouse which was then in that Cittie, bound thither from Paris: his letter spake thus.

De Salez having received this his fathers letter in Tholouse, exceedingly grieves to see him disgrace his mistresse, by the scandalous name of a strumpet, which hee knowes she is not, and therefore will never beleeve it; yea, he vowes, that if it were any other in the world, who had offered him that intollerable affront, hee would revenge it, though with the price and perill of his life, La Hay perceives this discontent and alteration of mirth in him, but from what point of the Compasse this wind proceeds, she neither knowes, nor as yet can conceive: but withall, determi­neth to make the discovery thereof her greatest Ambition, and not her least Care; which she now well knowes it behooves her to doe, sith she finds De Salez lesse free, and more reserved and pensive in her speeches than accustomed: But when in vaine she had hereunto used many smiles and fe [...]ches, lo [...] here falls out an unlook't for ac­cident, which bewrayes her the very pith and quintescence of the Mistery: For on a time, when hee lay slumbering on the table, shee as accustomed, diving into his pockets for sweet meats, or rather for gold (of both which, he many times went well furnished) she finds his fathers (aforesaid) letter, which she knew by the direction; and so flying into another chamber, and bolting the doore after her, she there reads it both with griefe and choller; when stunge to the quicke, and bitten to the heart and gall, to see her reputation and Honour thus traduced and scandalized by the fa­ther of her pretended husband; she with teares and interjected sighes and grones, flies backe to De Salez, and holding the letter in her hand, like a dissembling and impious strumpet as she was, there shewes it him, takes Heaven and Earth to beare witnesse of her innocency, and of the irreparable and extreame wrong his father hath offered her, in seeking to ecclips the Glory of her chastity, which she sweares she will beare pure and unspotted, not onely to his bed, but to her owne grave. But Alas, alas, these are the effects and passions of dissimulation, not of truth; of her prophanenesse, not of her piety, which time will make apparent to De Salez; though now her beau­ty and teares be so predominate with his judgement and folly, as he cannot, because he will not see it: So being still as constant in his [...]ottishnesse, as she in her hypocri­sie; he gives her many sweet kisses, and with a Catalogue of sugred words, seekes to appease and comfort her, whom he hath farre more reason to excerate and curse. But [Page 202] for her part, her heart is not so afflicted, for remembring her selfe, still her [...]its are her owne, and so remembring the conclusion of the letter, and fearing that De Sal [...]z his promise and oath to his father, might infringe and contradict his to her, she tels him, that her love is so fervent and infinite towards him, as shee can give no inter­mission, nor truce to her teares, before he reveale her his oath and promise, which his fathers letter informed her he had formerly made him.

De Salez seeing himselfe put to so strict an exigent and push, doth both blush for shame, and againe looke pale for anger, when for a small time, irresolute how to beare himselfe in a matter of this different Nature, wherein hee must either violate his o­bedience to his father, or infringe his fidelity and honour to his mistris; hee at last (consenting with folly, not with discretion, and with Vanity, nor with Iudgement) doth so adore her beauty, and commiserate her teares, as he sottishly reveales her his oath, given his father (Verbatim as we have formerly understood it) adding withall, that she hath far more reason to rejoyce, than grieve hereat; That a little time shall cancell his said late promise and oath to his father, and confirme his former to her: For sweet La Hay (quoth he) come what come will, two moneths shall never passe, ere I marry thee, when sealing his speaches with many kisses, our hypocriticall af­flicted Gentlewoman is presently againe come to her selfe, and in all outward appea­rance, her discontents are removed, her choller pacified, her teares exhaled, and her sighes evaporated and blowne away.

But all this is false, like her selfe, and treacherous like her beauty; For this letter of Argentier to his sonne, and his promise and oath to his father, hath acted such wonders in her heart, and imprinted such extravagancies in her thoughts, as she can­not easily remove or supplant it, nor difficultly forget or deface it, whatsoever she speake or make shew of to the contrary, for thus she reasoneth with her selfe: That [...] whoredomes are already revealed to Argentier, and for any thing she knowes, [...]y likewise be discovered to his son, how closely soever she either act or conceale them. That La Franges descent, wealth, and vertues, will in the end overprise and weigh downe her meane extraction, poverty and beauty; and in the end, that the wisdome of the father, will infallibly triumph ore the folly of the sonne, except her pollicy interpose, and her vigilency prevent it; which to prevent and effect, she sees no other obstacle to her content, nor barre to her pre [...]erment, but only La Frange: for, quoth she, if La Frange shine in the firmament of De Salez affection, La Hay must set; or if La Hay will shine, La Frange must set: againe, if she fall not, I cannot stand, and if she stand, I must needs fall; and as the skie is not capable of two suns, so both of us cannot shine in the Horison of his heart and thoughts at once: except thus, that La Hay may live to see La Frange his wife, and her selfe his strumpet, when burning with false zeale to De Salez, and true inveterate malice to La Frange, she forgetting God, swaps a bargaine with the devill, that La Frange must first goe to her grave, ere La Hay come to his bed, and soe resolves to sacrifice her as a Victime to her malice and jealousie, and to send her out of this world in an untimely and bloo­dy Coffin, Hellish Aphoris [...]es, Infernall Pos [...]ions, odious to Earth, and execrable to Heaven.

For wretched and impious strumpet, wilt thou needs not onely gallop, but fly to hell, and so redouble thy crimes purposely to redouble thy torments; as first of whore­dome, then of murther: Wretched, yea thrice wretched woman, how darest thou see earth, or thinke of heaven; when thy acted crimes are so odious, and thy pre­tended ones so monstrous, as thou deservest to be shut foorth of the one, and spewed out of the other: For alas, consider what this poore Gentlewoman hath done to thee, that thou shouldest doe this to her; She beares the image of God, and wilt thou [Page 203] therefore beare that of the devill to destroy her: Ah me, where is thy religion, thy conscience, thy soule; that thou wilt thus hellishly imbathe thy hands in her blood, and imbrue thy heart in her murther: If it be not that her vertues cry fie on thy Vi­ces, thou hast no reason in Nature, and lesse in Grace, to attempt a deed so Tragicall, an act so inhumane and execrable: But rest assured, that if thou proceed and finish this infernall and bloody stratagem of thine, although thou chance goe unpunished of men; yet the Lord (in his due time) will find thee out, and both severely scourge and sharpely revenge and chastice thee.

The effects of malice, and revenge in men, are finite; in women infinite, theirs may have bounds and ends, but these none, or at least, seldome and difficultly: for having once conceived these two monsters in their fantasies and braines, they long till they are delivered and disburthened of them; and so to bring their abortive issue to perfection, they (for the most part) are sharpe and severe in their designes, and sudden and malicious in their executions, hating all delayes, so it be not to do evil: So this our bloody and vi [...]ious Strumpet La Hay, is resolute to advance, and not to re­tyre in this dyabolicall businesse of hers. Of all kind of violent deaths, she thinks none either so sure and secret as poyson; whether she consider the manner, or the matter: If the Devill himselfe had not invented this unparaleld cruelty, his agents and members had never knowne how to have administred and practised it. But ha­ving resolved on the drug and ingredient, she now bethinks herselfe of some hellish Empericke or Factor of Hell, to apply and give it her, and her inveterate and impla­cable hatred making her curious in the research and inquiry thereof: she is at last ad­vertised, that there is an old Italian Empericke in Mompellier: tearmed S. Brnard [...] Michaele, who is his Arts master in that infernall profession, when wholly concealing this mystery and businesse from De Salez, she by a second meanes, (with promise of store of gold) sends away for Michaele from Mompellier: who in hope thereof, packs up his drugs and trinkets, and within three dayes arrives at Tholouse; where she thinkes no where so fit and secret as the Church to consult and resolve on this bloody busines, the houre is eight the next morne, and the place the Cordeliers, (or Gray Fri­ [...]s) Church, appointed and agreed on betwixt them, where they both meet. but she (the better to disguise her selfe, and to bleare the eyes of the world) wraps her selfe a­bout in a great furred cloake, and muffles her selfe up with a large coyfe of velvet, and a rich taffata scarfe over it, as if she were some grave and reverend old Matron: so being brought to each others presence, they being both on their knees, he to his Booke, and she to her Beads, she proposeth him the poysoning of La Frange, daugh­ter to the President de Clugny, for the which she promiseth to give him three hundred crownes of the Sunne to performe it; whereof he shall now have one in hand, and the other two when he hath dispatched her. Michaele like a limbe of the Devill, being deepely in love, and allured with this gold, undertakes it; when swearing secrecy, and withall to performe it within ten daies, she gives him the hundred crownes tyed up in her handkercher, and so for that time they part.

Good God, what prophane Christians, what monsters of Nature, and Devils in­carnate by profession are these, thus to pollute and defile the Church ordain'd for prayer, with the price and sale of innocent blood, a most prodigious and hellish im­piety, since there is no sinne so odious or execrable to God, as that which is mas­ked with piety, and overvayled with the cloke of sanctity? And what a damna­ble young strumpet, and old villaine are they, in so holy a place to treate and con­clude so hellish a businesse? But beware, for the sword and arrow of Gods just re­venge, and revenging Justice, threatens yee with no lesse, then utter confusion and destruction.

[Page 204] La Hay infinitely glad of this agreement, returns from the Church, and Micha­ele as glad of her gold, (being informed of La Franges deformity, and to lose no time) trips away towards President de Clugny his house, taking that for a fit occa­sion to assay to make his daughter become his Patient, and he her Empericke: who fleeringly insinuating, and skrewing himselfe into his knowledge and acquaintance, (in which profession the Empericks and Mountebanks of Italy, come no way short, but rather exceed all other Nations of the world) he proffers him his best service and skill, to redresse and reforme the body of the young Lady his daughter, adding with­all (thereby to adde the more beleefe and credit to his speeches) that hee is so farre from dispairing or doubting, as hee is very confident thereof: and in the phraises and mysteries of his profession, gives him in outward appearance many inward and plausible reasons to induce him to beleeve it. The good old President who prefer­ring the cure of his daughter before any other earthly respect; having heard of Mi­cha [...]les fame: begins to relish his reasons, and yet not ignorant that the Mounte­bankes and Charletans of Italy, are Cousin Germans to the Alcumists of France, who promise to make gold of drosse, and yet only bring forth drosse for gold, hee holds it fit to take a consultation of the learnedst Physicians, and expert Chirurgions of the City, whereunto Michaele willingly consents, so they sit, being six in number, Michaele delivers them his reasons to redresse the deformity of this young Ladies body (the President her father being present) whose reasons are heard, and con­troverted of all sides betwixt them, the conclusion is, foure are of opinion that this cure is repugnant to the grounds of Physicke, and the principles of Chirurgery, and therefore impossible to be effected: the other two are of a contrary judgement, and held it feasable, and that many times God blesseth the Art and labours of a man, not onely beyond expectation, but also beyond hope and reason: so De Clugny see­ing that these two with Michaele were three against foure, hee in respect of the ten­der care and affection he bore his daughter, resolves to imploy him, and gives him an hundred double Pistollets in hand to attempt it; with promise of as much more when he hath performed it; whereof this miscreant and hellish Empericke Michaele being exceedingly glad, he betakes himselfe to this businesse, visits the young Lady, who promiseth him to reduble her fathers summe, if he make her body straight: when to reduce his impious contemplation, into inf [...]rnall action, he outwardly ap­plieth playsters and seare-clothes to her body, and inwardly administreth her pills and potions; and (O griefe to write it) therein infuseth deadly poyson; which hee knowes at the end of ten dayes will assuredly make a divorce betweene her body and soule; and so send that to the death of this world, and this to the life of that to come: So this sweete and innocent Lady (wishing good to her selfe, and hurt to none in the wor [...]d) first finds a giddinesse and swimming in her head; and within some six dayes after (in which time the poyson had dispersed it selfe throughout all the veines and pores of her body) many sharpe gripes, and bitter throwes and convulsions, whereat her father grieves, and she weepes; onely that gracelesse villaine her Em­pericke, bids them be of good comfort, and that the more paine and griefe she suffe­red, the better and speedier hope there was of her cure; but yet inwardly in his devillish heart, knowes that the poyson effectually operated and wrought with her as hee desired and expected, and that by these infallible signes and simptomes, his patient drew neere towards the period of her end. Whereupon hee repaires secretly to La Hay, and bids her provide the rest of his mony; for that La Frange could not possibly live two dayes to an end, whereat she triumphing and rejoy­cing with much alacrity, againg promiseth it him: and indeed the hellish Art of this execrable Empericke doth not now deceive him, though in the end [Page 205] the malice of the devill his Doctor will: For just as the tenth day was expired, this harmelesse sweet yong Lady dyes, to the incomparable and unspeakable grief of the good old President her father; for that she was the staffe of his age, and the chiefe and onely comfort of his life, who disconsolatly and mournfully seemed to drown himselfe in his teares hereat, cursing the houre that he first saw this accursed Empe­ricke Michaele, who had robbed him of his only joy and delight, of his deare and sweet daughter La Frange. But this murdrous Michaele having learnt of the devill to feare no colours, meanes not to step a foot from Tholouse, and so sends privately for L [...] Hay, of whom he craves the performance of her promise, for that (quoth he) he had per­formed his. Why (quoth La Hay) is that crookbackt dwarfe La Frange dead? She is gone (quoth Michaele) to her eternall rest: when La Hay not able to retaine her selfe for excesse of joy, runs to him, gives him the other hundred crownes, together with many kisses, which take (quoth she) as a pledge of my continuall good will to­wards thee, when again swearing secresie, they both take leave each of other and part.

The newes of La Franges death, ratl [...]th and resoundeth over all Tholouse, her kinse­folkes grive at it, her frinds lament it, and all who eyther know her, or her fame, be­wayle it, onely De Salez, and execrable La Hay excepted, who knowing her to have beene the onely stop and hinderance of their mariage, they are so ravished with joy heereat, as they seeme to contest and envy each other, who shall first bring the newes hereof each to other: yea, the excesse of De Salez his joy is as boundlesse, as that of La Hayes delight, so that he seemes to flye to her to her fathers house, where she with out-spread armes receives and entertaines him; and there they mutually congratu­late each other for this her death, he affirming and she beleeving, that La Frange being gone to heaven, it shall not bee long ere the Church make them man and wife on earth. In the meane time, he being wholly ignorant of her poysoning, and yet the olde President her father, and the rest of her friends suspecting it, they cause her body to be opened: and although they find no direct poyson, yet remarking a little kind of yellow tincture on her heart and liver, as also some show thereof through her frozen veines: They cause Michaele to be apprehended and imprisoned, and so procure a De­cree from the Parliament to have him rack'd: At the newes whereof, La Hay is ex­treamely tormented and perplexed, as well foreseeing and knowing, that her life lay at the mercy of his tongue: wherefore to fortifie his secrecie, and thereby to secure her owne feare and danger, she by a confident friend of his, sends him a hundred French crownes more, and promiseth him to give him a rich Diamond worth as much againe; who (as before) being extreamely covetous, and the Devill (resembling himselfe) still ha [...]ping to him on that string which most delights him, his heart is so devillishly obdurated, and his fortitude so armed and prepared, as his pati­ence and constancy not onely endures, but outbraves the crueltie of his torments; and so he is acquited of this his pretended crime: but he hath not as yet made his peace with God.

And now is De Salez resolved to make a Journey to Paris, to draw his fa­thers consent that he may marry La Hay, but the wisedome of the father shall an­ticipate the folly of the Sonne, for he having heard in Paris of La Franges death, and still fearing, that because of his frequent familiarity with that strumpet La Hay, he will in the end marry her. He in Paris buyes a Captaines place for him in the Regiment of the Kings Guard, and likewise dealt with a very rich Counsellour of that Court of Parliament, named Monsieur de Brianson, that his sonne may marry his eldest daughter: Madamoyselle de Plessis, a very sweet and faire yong Gentlewoman; and the old folkes [Page 206] are already agreed on all conditions, onely it rests, that the young, sees and loves; To which end Argentier writes away with all speed to Tholouse for his sonne De Sal [...]z to come up to him, who before he had received his fathers letter, (as wee have for­merly understood) was ready to undertake that Journey: La Hay infinitly fearefull and jealous to lose her pray, with Crocodile teares in her eyes, and Hyena aspects in her lookes, informes De Salez, that she feareth that his father hath provided a wife for him in Paris, but he vowes and sweares to her, that neither his father, nor the whole world, shall make him marry any other than her selfe, and so after many embraces and kisses, he takes horse and leaves Tholouse.

Being arrived at Paris, his father very joyfully bids him welcome, and referres to conferre with him till the next morning; but such is De Salez rashnesse and folly, as hee hath no sooner supped in company of his father, but hee prayes to speake with him. When the servants voyding the chamber, he earnestly and hum­bly beseeching him, sith that La Frange is dead, hee will now be pleased that hee may marry La Hay, whom, quoth he, I onely affect and love before all the maides of the world: His father exceedingly incensed hereat, vowes that he had rather see him fairely buried in his grave, and that of all the females of the world, he shall not marry La Hay: and so for that night they betake themselves to their beds, the father grieves with his sonnes folly, the sonne with his fathers aversenesse: The next morne Argentier calls for his sonne. When the doores shut, hee bids him shut his eyes to his foolish familiarity with La Hay: and now to open them to the preferment, he hath purchased him, and so relates him how hee hath procured him the honour of a Captaines place, in the Regiments of the Kings Guard, as also a very faire young Gentlewoman for his wife, tearmed Madamoyselle de Plessis, the eldest daughter of Monsieur de Brianson, one of the richest Counsellours of Paris: But De Salez having his eyes and thoughts wholly fixed on La Hay, with a discontented looke, returnes his father this perverse and disobedient re­plie.

That he will not accept of the Captaines place, nor once see De Plessis, but that hee is constantly resolved, either to wed La Hay, or his grave, whereat his father is so extreamely incensed, as with much passion and choller, he commands him hence­forth, not to dare so much as to name him La Hay, swearing by his Saviour, that if hee for his obstinacy and disobedience, hee will disinherite him, as indeed hee might, having himselfe purchased three parts of his lands and revenewes, through his care and industry in his profession, and so much discontent and cholle [...], leaves in his Coleagues of Tholouse, who are already wayting and attending his comming.

De Salez is all on fire at this his fathers bitter resolution against him, and stormes and fumes, not only beyond the bonds of reason, religion, and humanity; but also beyond himselfe. For sith La Hay is his sole delight and joy, and that his father hath vowed he shall never marry her, his affection to her, makes him resolve to dispatch his father, yea, his head conceives such murtherous thoughts, and his heart atracts, and assumes such degenerate and devillish blood against him, that like an execrable wretch, and a hellish sonne, disdayning to take Counsell from God, and therefore ta­king it from the devill his bloody Tutor and Abettor, he vowes he will forthwith rid his hands of his father, and that he will therfore send him into another world, because he would give him no content in this.

Oh wretched monster of Nature, Limbe of the devill, nay a very devill thy selfe, thus to resolve to take his life from him that gave thee thine; Foule staine of man­kind, bloody Paracydious miscreant, can no respect either of thy naturall and filliall [Page 207] obedience to thy kind and deere father, or of his white haires, and venerable old age, restraine thee? or no consideration of thy consceince or thy soule, of heaven or hell deterre thee from this bloody inhumane, and damnable designe of thine, in laying violent hands on him? O me, where are thy thoughts, where thy senses; where thy heart, thy soule, to act so execrable and infernall a Tragidie, on him with whom thou hadst not been: on thy father, whom by the laws of Heaven and Earth, thou oughtest both to love, honour, reverence and obey.

But De Salez being resolute in this inhumane rage, and implacable malice and furie, watcheth how he may take time at advantage, to effect and finish this his bloo­dy businesse, and one a night after supper, hearing his old father complaine that he found himselfe not well, and commanding his Clarke De Buissie, very earely in the next morning to carry his water to Doctor Salepin, a famous Physician, whose chamber was farre off, in the place Maubert, he himselfe lying in Grennelles street: De Salez thinks this a fit opportunity to dispatch his father, the which, O a thousand griefes and pitties to speake off, he accordingly performeth. For the morne appearing, his father having sent away his Clarke with his water, and betaking himselfe to sleepe till his returne. His watchfull and murtherous sonne, having purposely made him­selfe ready; and through the key hole and cranies of his Chamber doore, espying his father sleeping, he intends that this shall be his last sleepe: When softly stealing into his Chamber, he (incouraged and animated by the divell) and approaching his bed, as exempt of feare or grace without any more delay or circumstance, stifles his father betwixt tow pillowes; when leaving him breathlesse in his bed, his face exposed to the ayre, and the doore shut, goes downe, gives the master of the house, the good morrow, and so trips away as fast as he can, to the signe of the swan with­in Saint Honnoryes Gate; and from thence rides away to Saint Clow, (two leagues distant from Paris) to see Gondyes gardens, fountaines, and house wherein that exe­crable and damnable Iacabine Frier, Iaques Clement murthered Henry the third king of France, but with an intent to returne to his fathers lodging immediatly after din­ner, and to plead ignorance of the fact, and withall if occasion serve to stand upon his innocency, and justification, as indeed he did. Now his fathers Clarke De Buissye, returning in the morning from Doctor Salepin, entering his masters chamber, finds him starke dead; and almost cold in his bed: whereat he makes many bitter outcries. and grievous exclamations: the man of the house hereat ascends the chamber, in­finitly laments, grieves at this sorrowfull accident and spectacle; Vowes to De [...]uissye that hee saw none whosoever in his house, much lesse in his masters chamber, and that his sonne Mounsieur De Salez departed assoone as he himselfe: they search his body, and find it no way wounded, so they beleeve and resove that some angue hath carried him away; Yet they hold it rather wisedome than folly to ac­quaint the Lievtenant Cryminall therewith; fearing lest hee might after suspect either violence or poyson: So hee comes, conferres with his sonne De Salez, with his Clarke De Buissye, and with the man of the house, hee visites the deadbody, findes onely his head somwhat swollen, which his Physicions affirme, may be his striving and strugling with death. When the Lievtenant out of his zeale and integrity to Justice: having informed himselfe of Doctor Salepin, of De Buissyes being with him, as also from Saint Clou of his sonne De Salez, being there timely in the morning, and withall, that his Trunkes were all safe, and nothing wanting; they banish all suspition, and without farther enquiry, of doubt, commend the dead corps to the grave: Whose funerall with exteriour shew of extreame griefe and sorrowe De Salez performes in Par [...], with all Decency and Decorum, answerable in all respects to his fathers [Page 208] ranke and quality. But wee shall shortly see this maske of his devillish hypocri­sie pul'd off, and this inhumane paraside of his, both shamefully, and sharpe­ly revenged, by the just judgement and finger of God: The manner is thus.

This harmelesse and innocent old father Argentier, is no sooner laid in his un­timely grave, but his bloody and execrable sonne De Salez, within eight dayes after leaves Paris, and returnes to Tholouse; where already this sorrowfull newes is dis­persed and divulged, being for his vertues and integrity of life, generally bewayled of the whole City, onely gracelesse and impudent La Hay triumphs hereat, and her very heart and thoughts dance for joy hereof: she welcomes home her De Salez, with a world of sweet and sugred kisses; who as glad of her presence, returnes her them with a plentifull and prodigall interest; but his lustfull love to her is so fervent, and his folly in himselfe so perverse and obstinate; as he hath scarce the patience, much lesse the respect and modesty to weare blackes for his fathers six weekes, but casts them off; takes on gaudie, and scarlet apparell, and very solemnely marries La Hay: Whereby in respect of the inequality of their descents and meanes: but especially, of her whoorish conditions; hee makes himselfe the laughter and May-game of all Tholouse.

But good God, what a prodigious and hellish match is this, sith man and wife, and both are Murtherers; O execrable and miserable wretches, O bloody and impious miscreants, for sure if this marriage of yours prove happy, I may boldly and truely say, there will never any prove unfortunate and mise­rable: For Alas, alas, what doe those impious and damnable crimes of theirs deserve and portend, but misery, ruine, and confusion of all sides? neither shall the curiositie of our enquiry carry us far, before we see it surprise and befall them.

For before they had been fully married three moneths, De Salez reaping his de­sires, and feasting himselfe with the pleasures of her youth; he directly, contrary to his hops and expectation, is in forced to see and know, that which before he would have thought never to have knowne or seen: for thinking his wife to have been a modest and chast Diana, he now sees she is a deboshed Layis: [...]ea, his misery is so great, as he needs no spectacle to see, that she dayly makes him a Knight of the forked or­der; and almost every houre, despight of his care and jelousie, claps a cuckowes feather in his hat: which to prevent and remedie, hee first administreth requests and perswasions, and then comblaines to her father; But these are too weake rea­sones and too gentle motives, to prevaile with so insatiable a strumpet; so as he is constrained to adde threats to his requests, and in the end blowes to his threats. But as it is impossible for the Leopard to change his skin, and the Aethiopian his hew, so de Salez sees it labour lost to thinke to reclayme his wife from her beastly sinne of adultery, wherein (notwithstanding all that possible he can doe) she takes such a delight and habite, as by this time she is growne so extreamely impudent, as when her husband is at home, she is abroad ranging; and he is no sooner abroad, but she is instantly at home revelling with her ruffians: Yea, she is growne to that hight of obscenity, as she contemns and sleights her husband; that whether he be abroad or at home, shee will play the whore before his face with open doores: which al­though it bee too late for him to remedy, yet it bites him to the heart, and grieves him to the gall: and now it is that hee a thousand times thinkes of his fathers advise and councell in forsaking her; and as often wisheth hee had followed it. Now it is that his unnaturall murthering of his father, thunders foorth horror, terror, and repentance to his foule and guilty conscience; and now it is that hee wisheth from his heart and soule, that hee had beene blind when hee first saw [Page 209] her, and fairely laid in his grave before he first lay with her in bed. But these his com­plaints and griefs, bring him onely vexation and misery insteed of comfort; for now he utterly dispaires, and sees no hope of his wives reformation: Whereupon he re­solves to divorce himselfe from her, and to that end takes counsell thereon: but it is not so secretly managed by him, but the strumpet his wife hath present notice and inckling thereof, whereupon seeing her husband exceeding rich, both in lands, coyne, plate, and other rich houshold-stuff, she vowes not to quite her great joynter share and interest hereof thus. But before he had inrolled his suite in the Spirituall Court, or any way vented his owne shame, and his wives infamy in publike, she like a true Courtisan, and debaushed strumpet as she was, vowes to prevent him that would prevent her, and to send him to his death, that would seeke to divorce her; and in respect of his jelousie and malice, that as shee had formerly poisoned La Frange for her husbands sake, so shee would now murther him for her owne.

But miserable and execrable wretch, Oh to what a monstroues heigh and huge summe will all these thy beastly sinnes, and bloody enormities arise and amount un­to? But Lust, malice, and Revenge like three infernall furies, so possesse and preoc­cupate her senses, as she will not retyre, till she hath sent her husband into another world in a bloody winding-sheet. To which end, watching the time when most of her servants were gone abroad to gather in the Vintage, she softly opening her hus­bands chamber doore, steales in, and finding him soundly sleeping approcheth his bed, when drawing forth a rasor from her sleeve, which she had purposely provided, she with an implacable and damnable malice steps to him, and cuts his throat, speaking onely these words to her selfe: Loe heere the reward of thy Ielousie; when throwing the knife, and her outward Taffata Gowne into the house of office, she leaving him weltring in his blood, very secretly conveyes her selfe through the Gal­lery to the Garden, where her wayting- Gentlewoman attends her, and so hyes away to the Church, thinking with a wretched impiety to cloake this her second murther, as her former, under the vaile of religion and piety: but her hopes, and the Devill that gave them her, will now deceive her.

De Salez, her husband striving and strugling for life against the pangs of death: feare and hast (contrary to her intent and minde) had so made his murtherous wifes hand shake and tremble, as she did not so fully cut his throat-boale, but he could yet both cry and groane, which he did very mournfully, and which indeed was soone over-heard by a man and a maid-servant of his, who only remained in the house, who hearing their masters voyce, and hastily running up, at these his pittifull and lamen­table out cryes; steping to his assistance, they heare him (with his best power) utter these fearefull speeches, That Strumpet my wife hath kill'd me: O that shee-Devill my wife hath murthered mee. Whereat they cry out at the windowes to the neighbours for helpe, alledging that their master is murthered. The neighbours assemble, and heare him report so much: so they send away for his Confessor, and the Lieutenant Crimi­nall, to both whom he againe confesseth, That it is the Strumpet his wife who hath mur­thered him: And then raising himselfe up in his bed (with as much strength as his dying wound would permit him) he taking them both by the hands, with infinite signes and teares reveales to them, that he it was, who at the seducing of the Devill, had stifled his father Argentier to death in Paris, that he did it onely to marry this whoore his murtherous wife La Hay; that the killing of his father, yea the very re­membrance thereof infinitely grieves his heart and soule, and for the which he infi­nitely repenteth himselfe, and beseecheth the Lord of mercy, in mercy to forgive it him; and likewise prayed all that were present to pray unto God for him: and these were his last words, for now his fleeting and fading breath would permit him to say no more.

[Page 210] All that were present, are amazed at this lamentable confession of his, to see that hee should murther his father, and his execrable wife, well neere himselfe; so they all glorified God for the detection and discovery hereof: But the Lievtenant Crimi­nell, and the Counsellors his Associates step to the window, and consult to have him hanged, whiles he is yet living, for the murthering of his father. But De Salez saves them that labour: for there and then he sinkes into his bed, and dyes away before them: so they instantly search the house and City for this wretched Murtheresse La Hay, whom impious and bloody strumpet they at last find in the Dominican Friers Church at a Sermon, from whence with much obloquy and indignity they dragge her to prison, where they charge her with the murther of her husband De Salez, which the Devill as yet will not permit her to confesse; but being adjudged by them to the Racke, she at the very first torment confesseth it.

Upon which severall murthers, the Criminell Iudges of the Tournells proceed to sentence: so first they adjudge the dead body of De Salez for so inhumanly murdring his father Argentier, to be halfe a day hang'd by the heeles to the common gallows, and then to bee burnt to ashes, which is accordingly executed: then they adjudge his wife La Hay, for murthering him, the next day to bee strangled, then burnt: so that night some Divines deale with her in prison about the state of her soule, whom they finde infinitely obdurated through the vanity of her youth, and the temptations of the Devill; but they worke effectually with her, and so at last (by the mercies of God) draw her to contrition and repentance, when willing her not to charge her soule with the concealing of any other crime; and shewing her the dangers thereof, she very freely, yet sorrowfully, confesseth; how she it was, that for three hundred crownes had caused the Empericke Michaele to poyson La Frange, for the which she told them she was now exceedinglie repentant and sorrowfull: Whereof the Di­vines (sith it was not delivered them under the seale of Confession) advertising the Judges, they all wonder at Gods providence, to see how all these murthers are dis­covered and burst forth, one in the necke of the other; so they alter her sentence and for these her double murthers, they condemne her to have her right hand cut off, and then to be burnt alive: and so they make curious inquiry and research to appre­hend this old bloody varlet Michaele.

In the meane time, that very afternoone, this miserable and murtherous Curte­san La Hay, though to the griefe of her sorrowfull father and sisters, yet to the joy of all Tholouse, is brought and fastned to her stake, where her hand being first strucke off, she with many sighes and teares delivereth these few words: That her crimes were so foule and odious, as she was ashamed to looke either God or man in the face: That she was very sorrowfull for causing La Frange to be poysoned, as also for murthering of her husband De Salez, whose wealth she onely affirmed she loved, but not him­selfe, the which she wholly attributed to the lust and vanitie of her youth, to her neg­lect of prayer and forsaking of God; which made the Deuill so strong with her, and she with the Deuill: and which was the sole cause and ground of this her miserable ruine and destruction; she with teares and prayers besought the Lord to be good un­to her soule; and (lifting up her eyes and hands to Heaven) likewise beseech the whole assembly to pray heartily unto God for her: when recommending her soule into the hands of her Redeemer, the fire being alighted, her body was soone consu­med to ashes, whose lamentable, yet just end and punishment, caused a number of spectators to weepe, as yet pitying her youth and beautie, as much as they detested the enormitie of her crimes.

And now for this devillish and murtherous Empericke Michaele, although as soone as he heard of La Hayes imprisonment, he (to save him selfe) left Tholouse, and fled to­wards [Page 211] Castres, disguised in a Friers habit, with his beard shaven: yet by the care of the Court of Parliament, or rather by the immediate finger and providence of God, he is found out, and brought backe to Tholouse, where for poysoning of La Frange, (the which he now without the Racke confesseth) he is adjudged to be broken on the Wheele, there to remaine till he be dead, and then his body to be throwne into the River of Garrone: the which the same day is accordingly executed and performed, to the infinite joy of all the spectators: but as hee lived an Atheist, so he desperately di­ed a Devill, without any shew at all, either of contrition or repentance; onely hee vomited forth this wretched speech, That because the world had so much to say to him, he would say nothing to the world, but bade the Executioner dispatch him.

Now by the sight of this mournefull and bloody History, the Christian Reader may observe and see how Gods revenge doth still triumph against murther, and how he in his due time and providence doth assuredly still detect and punish it. It is a History which may serve to deterre and forwarne all yong Gentlemen, not to frequent the com­panies of whores and strumpets; and all sonnes not to transgresse the will of their parents, much lesse not dare to lay violent hands on them. It is a glasse wherein yong Gentlewomen and Wives may at life see, what bitter fruits and sharpe ends ever attend upon Whoredome and Murther: it is a lively Example for all kinde of Empe­ricks and Drugst [...]rs whatsoever, to consider how severely God doth infallibly revenge and punish the poysoning of his Saints and children. In a word, it is a Lesson and Caveat for all people, and for all degrees of people, but especially of Chri­stians, (who professe the Gospell of Christ) not only to detest these foule sins of Revenge and Murther in others, but to hate and abhor them in their selves: which that all may endeavour to practice and performe, grant good God, who indeed art the on­ly giver of all goodnesse.

GODS REVENGE AGAINST THE CRYING AND Execrable Sinne of Murther.
HISTORY XII.

WIth what face can we presume to tread on the face of Earth, or dare lift up our eyes to that of Heaven, when our thoughts are so rebellious to conspire, and our hearts and resolutions so cruell to embrue our hands in the innocent blood of our harmelesse and Christian brethren? Thoughts they are, which in seeming to please our senses, poyson our hearts, (and doe therefore truely poyson our soules, because they so falsly please our senses,) Resolutions they are, which we cannot conceive or attempt with more in­humanity, than finish with misery. Sith in thinking to send them to their untimely graves, wee assuredly send our selves to our owne miserable and infamous ends; whereof in this ensuing History, we shall find many wofull Presidents, and mourne­full examples, in divers unfortunate and wretched persons, who were borne to happi­nesse, not to infamy; to prosperity, not to misery. If they had so much Grace to se­cure their lives, as Vanity, and Impiety to ruine them; It is a History purposely p [...] ­duced and penned, for our detestation, not for our imitation: Sith it is a point of (true and happy) wisdome in all men to beware by other mens harmes; Read it then with a full intent to profit thy selfe thereby, and so thou mayest boldly, and safely rest assured, that the sight of their sinnes and punishments, will prove the reformation of thine owne.

[Page 214] FRuitfull, and faire Lombardy is the Countrey, and the great, populous, and rich City of Millan (the Capitall of that Dutchie) the place where the Scene of this mournefull and Tragicall History is layen where perpetrated: The which to refetch from its first spring and Originall, thereby the more truely to informe our curiosity, and instruct our knowledge: We must then understand, that long since the Duke of Feria succeeded the Count De Fuentes, as Vice-roy of that potent and flourishing Dut­chie, for King Philip the third of Spaine his master: There was native and resident in that City an ancient Nobleman, tearmed Seignior Leonardo Capello, who in his younger yeares had married a Spanish Lady, and brought her from Spaine to Millan; tearmed Dona Maria de Castiana: He exceeding rich and noble, and shee as noble and faire; he by his fathers side allied to Cardinall Charles Barromeo (since Sainted by Pope Paul V.) she by her mother to the present Duke of Albucurque, hee infinitly honoured for his extraction and wealth: shee no lesse beloved and respected for her beautie and vertues: and although there are but few marriages contracted between the Millaneses and Spaniards, and those very seldome prove successefull and prospe­rous, in respect of the antipathy, which (for the most part) is hereditary betwixt the commands of the Spaniards, and the subjection of the Millaneses: yet it seemed that this of Capello and Castiana was first instituted in heaven, ere consummated on earth; for so sweetly did their yeeres, humours, and affections conjoyne and sympa­thize, as although thy were two persons, yet I may truely affirme and say, they had but one heart, affection and desire, which was mutually to please, and reciprocal­ly to affect and love each other. And as Marriages cannot bee reputed truly happy and fortunate, if they be not blessed and crowned with the blessings of children, (which indeed is not onely the sweetest life of humane content, but also the best and sweetest content of our humane life) so they had not beene long married, ere God honoured them and their nuptiall bed, with a beautifull and delicate and young daughter, tearmed Dona Clara, the onely childe of their loynes, and heire of their lands and vertues; being indeed the true picture of themselves, and the joyfull pledge and seale of their intire and involuable affections; who having overpast her infancy, and obtained the eighteenth yeare of her age; she was so exquisitely adorned with beauty, and so excellently endued and enriched with vertues; as distinctly for either or joyntly for both, she was, and was truely reputed, the Paragon of Nature, the pride of Beauty, the wonder of Millan, the glory of her Sex, and the Phenix of her Time. And because the purity and perfection of her beauty deserves to be seene through this dimme Perspective, and the dignity of her vertues knowne of the Reader in this my impollished relation. For the first, she was of stature indifferently tall, but ex­ceeding streight and slender: her haire either of a deepe Chesnut colour, or rather of a light blacke, But to which most adhearing and inclyning fancy mought, but curiosity could difficultly distinguish; her complexion and tincture, rather of an amorous and lovely browne, than of a Roseat and Lilly die; but yet so sweetly pure, and purely sweet: (and withall rather fat than leane) that no earthly object could more delight and please the eye, or ravish the sense. And for her cies, those two relucent lamps and startes of love, they were so blacke and piercing, that they had a secret and imperious influence, to draw all other eyes to gaze and doe homage to hers; as if all were bound to love her, and shee so modest, as if purposely framed to love none but her selfe: Neither did her Front, Lippes, Necke or Paps any way detract, but every way to adde to the perfection of her other excellencies of Nature: For the first seemed to be the Prom [...]ntory of the Graces, the second, the Residence of delight and pleasure; The third the Pyramides of State and Majesty; And the fourth [Page 215] the Hills and Valley of love. But leave we the dainties of her body, now to speake of the rarities and excellencies of her mind, which I cannot rightly define, whether the curiositie and care of her parents in her education, or her owne ingenious and apt incli­nation to Vertue and Honour, were more predominant in her: for in either, or rather in both, she was so exquisite and excellent, that in Languages, Singing, Musicke, Dancing, Wisdome, Temperance, and Modestie, she was so fully compleat and rare, that to give her her due, and no more, she could not be paraleld by any young Lady of Lombardy, or Italy, nor equalliz'd but by her selfe.

Thus if her noble extraction, and fathers wealth made her surmount others, and her delicious sweet beauty and vertues excell her selfe, no marvell if those Adamants, and these excellencies draw divers of the best Cavaliers and chiefest Gallants both of Milan and Lombardy, to effect and seeke her in marriage; and indeed although shee be sought by divers of them with much respect and honour, answerable in all regard to her ranke and quality; yet nether her parents, or selfe are so much importuned by any, as by Signior Giouani Albemare, a young noble Gentleman of the citie, who was adorned and fortified whith these humane priviledges, to be well descended, rich, and of some twenty five yeeres old; a match in the eye and censure of the world, yea, and in all outward appearance correspondent and equivalent; if his generous perse­ctions and vertues had paralleld hers, or if the candure and sinceritie of her affection had not justly transported her thoughts and heart from him, because she had formerly fixed and setled them on another Gentleman, younger of yeeres than Albemare, but in all other respects, as well of Nature, as Fortune, every way his superiour, named Signior Alphonsus Baretano, a young Gentleman of one of the noblest families of Mil­lan, of some eighteene yeeres old, whose father was lately deceased, and had left him sole heire to many rich lands and possessions; but (withall) exceedingly intangled in Law, and ingaged in many debts and morgages, where into the vanity and pro­digality of his youth had deepely precipitated and ingulphed him: which conse­quently reflecting and falling on his sonne, we shall see will prove a hinderance to his marriage, and an obstacle to his content and preferment. But to observe some or­der and decorum in the conduction and delation of this History, wee must briefly be informed, that as of all the Beauties of Lombardy, Albemare onely chiefly affected and loved Clara; so of all the Cavaliers of the world, Clara affected and loved no o­ther but Baretano; for as conformity of yeeres, manners, and inclinations, breed a sympathy in affections; so they in their tender youth often frequented one the others company, sometimes at the Dancing, and Musicke Masters, but many times at Weddings, Feastes, and noble assemblies: being well neere as equall in age as in complection and stature. Againe the vicinity of their residence added much to the combining and inflaming of their affections: for they were opposite in nothing but in their mansion houses, from whose galleries & windowes many times publike­ly; but more often by stealth, their eyes could not refrain to tilt at each other, with the invisible launces of love & affection, which bred such a habit, and that habit so power­full a second Nature that it was now becom impossible for them not to gaze each on other: so as if the innocency of their purilitie, made them delight in each others sight and company with desire; so now their more riper yeres inforce them to desire it with delectation: for when as yet they were so yong, as they knew not the instinct and influence of Nature (which cannot be taught by amore powerful or ingenious Tu [...]ix then her selfe) yet they never met but kissed, nor kissed, but as if their heart and thou­ghts checke their lippes for taking such short farewells each of other: But now when their yeeres had proclamed them both very capable to march under the Standard of Hymenaeus: This Venus and that Adonis, for so her fresh beauty, and his flourishing [Page 216] youth (with as much right as fame in Milan,) generally intituled them: They felt some pleasure wanting, which as yet they couldnot finde; and therefore no mar­vaile, if they desired to find that which they wanted: So as burning in affection each to other, Clara hearing spoken of a husband, infinitly wished that Baretano were hers; and when hee heard of a wife, hee ardently longed, and fervently desired that Clara were his. Neither can I rightly say, whether he were more affectionate in his constancy to her; or shee constant and resolute in her affection to him: so that as heretofore they hardly knew the way to kisse, now time (running on in her swift ca­reere) had taught them to desire to marry: and that whereas formerly Baretano only tearmed Clara his sweet Maid, and she him her deare Friend: Now love had sugge­sted and given them new desires, and therefore new Epithites: for sometimes as well in earnest as in jest, he could not refraine to tearme her his sweet wife, nor she him her deare husband; and herein there tongues were onely but the outward He­ralds of their inward hearts, as their hearts were of their more secret and retired de­sires. And as fervent love, and true discretion, very seldome concurre and meet; so although affection made them rich in inventing new inventions to meet and kisse: yet they were so poore, or rather so blind in discretion, as they could not beare their affections in secrisie and silence: but by this time they are bewrayed to their Parents, and divulged to their acquaintance: but if any grieve and storme at this unexpected newes, it is first Albemare, then Capello and Castiana, betwixt whom there was a secret promise, and verball contract, that hee and no other should marry their daughter.

Thus we see that Albemare and Baretano are become Competitors and Rivalls in their affections, for either of them affect Clara as the mistris of their thoughts, and both adore her as the Queene Regent of their desires. But as they simpathize in their hopes to purchase her to their wife: So they differ in the meanes and progresse of their resolutions, how to obtaine her. For whiles Baretano sues the daughter before her Parents, so doth Albemare the Parents before their daughter: but what effects and ends, these beginnings will produce, ye shall shortly see, and they themselves very soone both feele and find.

Capello and Castiana (as wee have formerly said) with much affliction and griefe, understanding of their daughters affection to Baretano, and reciprocally of his to her, they (with much impatience and passion) relate it to Albemare, whose affection to Clara hath made him so subtill towards them, as although his heart knowes this newes, yet he makes his tongue deny the knowledge thereof; when protesting of his intire and fervent affection to her: and that he must either wed her or his grave: they consult on their important businesse, how they may Dethronize Baretano, and in­thronize Albemare in the chaire and choice of Clara's affection: As for Capello and Castiana, they so highly affect Albemares great and free estate, and so disdainefully hate the intricate incombrances of Baretano's, as they vow, there resolutions shall Sayle by thecompasse of his desires; and he in exchange, that his affections and de­sires, shall still steere their course by that of their resolutions: So from the matter of their agreement, they proceed to the manner how to effect it; To which end her father and mother single their daughter apart, and in milde and faire tearmes de­mand her, what hath past betwixt her and Baretano, and whether she be so simple and inconsiderate to take so poore a Gentleman for her husband, whose estate is so weake and small, as it cannot well maintaine himselfe, much lesse her; Clara already prepared and armed by her affection to receive these, or the like speeches from her Parents, ha­ving twice or thrice metamorphosed the Lillies of her cheekes into Roses, very tem­perately and modestly returnes them this discreet and respective answer.

[Page 217] That as she must needs affirme she is confident of Baretano's affection to her, so she must as truly denie, that asyet he had ever motioned her for marriage; which if he had, considering that his birth, meanes, and vertues were such as every way deserved not onely her equall but her superiour, she is enforced to reveale them, that she loves him so tenderly and deerely, as if her will and pleasure be not contradicted by theirs, it will be not onely her joy but her felicity, to accept and take him for her husband, before all others of the world.

But this modest answer of hers, they hold too peremptory for a child to give, and Parents to receive; as if it savoured more of irregular zeale to Baretano, than of due respect and obedience to themselves, yet the sooner to devert her from her owne desires and resolutions to make her flexible to theirs, they as yet hold it fit, rather to continue mild than imperious towards her, and so by depraving the deserts and debasing the merits of Baretano, to seeke to extoll and magnifie those of Albemare, as if the first were only a foyle, and the second a rich Diamond, worthy of her affe­ction and wearing: and indeed so exquisite and excellent a Cavalier, they depaint him to her in the richest frame and pomp of all his praises, aswell of the endowments of mind, as of those of Fortune, that they leave no insinuating Oratory unessayed, nor perswasive attempt unattempted, to make her shake hands with Baretano, and consequently to extend her armes and heart to receive and retaine Albemare: But although she were yong in yeeres and experience; yet love in this fragrant and flourishing spring of her youth, had so refined her judgement, and indoctrinated and prompted her tongue, that her thoughts commanded and marshalled by her heart, and both by her desires and affection to Baretano, she confusedly intermixing, and interrupting her words with many far fetched broken sighes, againe returnes her Parents this reply.

If your age will not, yet my youth or rather my heart informes me, that Baretano as far exceeds Albemare in the priviledges of the mind and body, as Albemare doth him in those of Fortune, but that my resolutions and answers, may answer and correspond with my obedience, although I love Baretano, yet I will never hate, rather honour Albemare; but to make him my husband, or myselfe his wife, if Earth have, I hope Heaven hath not decreed it: And I humbly beseech yee, that this may [...]est your Resolution, as I assuredly thinke it shall and will remaine mine.

Capello and Castiana (like discreet parents) seeing their daughter Clara wholly wedded (in a maner) to the singularitie of her owne will; they yet conceive it to bee farre more requisite to revert her reasons by fairre meanes, than refute and refell them by force, sith love and discretion hath still reference to that, and this relation still to choller, many times to repentance: whereupon minding her of the blessings which infallibly attend filiall obedience; and the miseries and curses which indi­vidually wayt on contempt and disobedience, hoping that time will effect that which Importunitie cannot, they as then leave her to her thoughts, and she them to their care; careing for nothing so much, nay, I may wel say, for nothing else, than to see her affection divorced from Baretano, and contracted and wed­ded to Albemare, who having curious correspondence and intelligence with them, he is ever and anon acertained, not onely what hath, but what doth passe betwixt them and their daughter; and withall, is advised by them, to delay no time, but to frequent and haunt her as her Ghost and shaddow [...] yea, and no more to conceale his affection and suite from her, but to acquaint Millan therewith, sith it was no disparagement, but rather an equall honour for him to match with Clara, and Clara with him. Which con­cluded betwixt Capello and Castiana, Albemare is so farre from rejecting this [Page 218] advise and counsell, as hee embraceth it with much joy and delectation, and vowes (though with the perill of his life) to persevere and pursue her in marriage: To which end, authorized as well by his owne affection, as their authority, Clara is nei­ther abroad nor at home, but he meets her, gives away all time from himselfe, to give himselfe to her: so as it seemes to the eye of the world, that Capello's house is now become his, and that his daughter Clara likewise shortly shall be: yea, he addes such curiosity to his care, and such care to his affection in courting her, as shee cannot bee either at Masse, or Vespres, but he is either with her, or neere her, and when in so­lemne pompe or zeale shee visits the Domo (or Cathedrall Church) of that Citie, and in it the Shrine of the new Saint Charles, then hee waits and attends on her at the Porch staires, sometimes with his Coach, but many times (as the custome of Millan is) on his Foot-cloth, and prancing Barbarie horse, to conduct her home: yea, and not to faile in any Complement of an accomplished Lover, besides the har­mony of his owne insinuation and solicitation, he greets her with rich presents, and salutes her with all variety of mellodious Musicke, and mellistuous voyces: but all this notwithstanding, although hee every way use his best art and industry, and her father and mother their best skill to make her flexible to his desires, and their pleasure; yet shee, as having her thoughts fully bent and fixed on her deare and sweet Baretano, lookes haggard and averse on Albemare, giving him such generall answers, and cold entertainment, as hee seeth hee hath farre more reason to de­spaire than hope to obtaine her. Whereupon doubting of her affection, hee hath againe recourse to her parents love, who to confirme and seale it him, seeing faire meanes will not prevaile with their daughter, they resolve to vse force, and so to adde threats to their requests, and choller to their perswasions, to make her abandon Baretano, and embrace Albemare. But if the first prevaile not with her, the second cannot; for she now tels them plainly, that she neither can not will affect any man for her husband but Baretano; and yet she is so farre from any determinate resolution to marry him, as shee affirmes, that their will shall bee her law, and their pleasure her resolution.

Whiles thus Albemare in the way of marriage seekes our faire and sweet Clara publikely, no lesse doth Baretano privately; and although with lesse vanity and ostentation, yet hee hopes with farre more fortunacie and successe; as grounding his hopes upon these reasons: That in heart and soule Clara is onely his, as both in soule and heart he is hers: so hee entertaines her many times with his Letters, and yet not to shew himselfe a novice in discretion, or a coward in affection, hee ma­kingher content his commands, as shee did his desires her felicity; hee in remote Churches and Chappels, (for whose number Millan exceeds Rome) hath both the happinesse and honour privately to meet her, where if they violate the sanctity of the place, in conferring and cherishing their affections, yet they sanctifie thir affections, in desiring that some Church or Chappell might invest and crowne them with the religions honour, and holy dignitie of marriage. For having jested of Love here­tofore, now like true Lovers, they henceforth resolve to love, not in jest, but in earnest; and as of their two hearts they have already made one, so now they meane and intend to dispose of their bodies, thereby to make one of two: And this is their sole desire, and this, and onely this is their chiefe delight, and most pleasing'st de­sires and wishes.

But as it is the nature of Love, for Lovers to desire to see none but them­selves, and yet are seene of many: so this their familiarity and frequent meeting is againe reported to her father and mother, whereat they murmure with griefe, and grieve with discontent and affliction: and now not to substract, but to adde to [Page 219] their vexation, it is resolved betweene our two yong amorous Turtle Doves, Bare­tano, and his faire Clara, that he should publikely motion them for her in marriage; which he in wonderfull faire tearmes, and orderly Decorum, (as well by his friends as himselfe) performeth. When contrary to his wishes, but not his expectation, they give him so cold entertainment, and his suite such poore and sharpe acceptance, as they (in affection and zeale to Albemare) not onely deny him their daughter, but their house: an answer so incivill, and therfore so injust, as might give a testimony of some way of their care, yet no way of their discretion to themselves, or affection to their daughter. And here I must confesse, that I can difficultly define, whether this re­solution and answer of Capello and Castiana, more delighted Albemare, disconten­ted Baretano, or afflicted Clara: who although in the entrance of their Loves, their hopes seem'd to be nipt, and their desires crost by the frownes of their parents; yet they love each other so tenderly and dearly; as these discontents notwithstanding, they will not retire, but are resolute to advance in the progresse of this their chast and servent affections, and although their commands endevour to give a law to her obedience, in not permitting her to be frequented of Baretano; yet her obedience is so inforced to take a more stronger of her affection, as dispight her parents malice and jelosie towards them, when they are sweetly sleeping in their beds, then is their daughter Clara waking with Baretano, and he with her; oftentimes walking and tal­king in the Arboures, and many times kissing and billing in the close galleries of the garden; which they cannot conceale or beare so closely, but her father and mother have exact notice and intelligence thereof by some of their trusty servants, whom they had purposely appointed as Sentinels to espie and discover their meetings. Whereupon (as much in hatred to Baretano as in affection to Albemare) knowing that if the cause be once removed, the effect is subject soone to follow and ensue; they very suddenly and privately send away their daughter from Millan to Modena by Coach, there to be mewed and pent up with the Lady Emelia her Aunt, and besides her waiting Gen­tlewoman Adriana, none to accompany and conduct her but only Albemare, hoping that a small time, his presence and importunate solitations, would deface the memo­rie of Baretano, to engrave his owne in the heart and thoughts of his sweet Clara. Who poore soule, seing her selfe exiled and banished from the society of her Bare­tano's sight and company, wherein under heaven shee chiefly and onely delighted; she hereat, doth as it were drowne her selfe in the Ocean of her teares; storming as well at the cruelty of her parents, as at her owne affliction and misfortune; and no lesse doth her Baretano for the absence of his sweet Saint and deare Lady Clara: for as their affection, so their afflictions is equall; now mourning as much at each others absence, as formerly they rejoyced and triumphed in their presence. But although the jealousie of Capello and Castiana were very carefull to watch and observe Baretano in Millan; and the zeale and affection of Albemares safety to guard, and sweetly to attend on Clara and Modena: Yet as fire surpressed flames forth with more violence, and rivers stopped, overflow with more impetuosity; so despight of the ones vigilancie, and the others jealousie, though Baretano cannot be so happy and blessed to ride over to Modena, to see and salute his Clara: yet love, which is the refiner of inventions and wit, and the polisher of judgement, cannot yet deraine him from visiting her with his letters, the which in respect of the hard accesse and difficult passage to her, hee is enforced to send her by subtill meanes, and se­cret messengers; and the better to overshadow the curiosity of his Arts, and the Art of his affection herein, hee among many others, makesuse of a Frier and a Hermite, for the conveyance of two letters to Modena; to his Lady: which (as fit agents for such amorous employments) they (with more cunning and fidelity, than [Page 220] zeale, and Religion) safely delivered her, and likewise returned him her answers thereof. And because the servency of their affections and constancies, each to o­ther, are more lively depainted and represented in these two, than in any other of their letters; therefore I thought my selfe in a manner bound, here to insert them, to the end to give the better spirit and Grace to their History, and the fuller satisfaction and content to the curiosity of the Reader: That which Baretano sent Clara upon her departure from Millan to Modena by the Frier, spake thus:

Her answer returned by the Frier to Baretano at Millan, was to this effect.

Baretano's other letter sent Clara to Modena by the Pilgrime, was couched and pen­ned in these tearmes.

And Clara her answer hereunto returned to Millan to Baretano; by the foresaid Pilgrime was traced in these words;

By these loving Letters of these our Lovers, the Reader may observe and remark, what a firme league, and strict and constant friendship there was contracted and setled betwixt them, and what a hell their abscence was each to others thoughts and contemplations: In the meane time, whiles Baretano entertaines Clara with Let­ters, Albemare doth with words, wherein he useth his best Rhetoricke and Orato­ry, to draw her to his desires; and withall, to listen and espie out, if there passe any passages of Letters, or other correspondency betwixt them. Which although Clara her affection to Baretano vow, and her discretion to her selfe resolve to con­ceale and obscure from Albemare, yet loe here falls out a sinister and unex­pected accident, which will discover and bewray it; yea, and of all sides, and to all parties produce griefe, sorrow, choller, and repentance, which in effect (briefely) is thus:

Clara had reason in her former Letter sent by the Pilgrim, to tearme this her se­questration in Modena a captivity, sith the bounds of her aunt Emelias two small Gardens, and the walles of her little Parke, were the limits wherein her liberty was confined, and her selfe as it were, immured: for farther she was not permit­ted to goe, except to the Church with her aunt in her Coach, but still accompa­nied by Albemare, who left no minutes nor occasions, as well to see her, as to bee seene of her. Now to give some truce (though not peace) to her discontents, and thereby somewhat to calme the impetuosity of those tempests, which love had stir­red up in her heart and thoughts for the abscence of her Baretano, she never better accompanied then when alone, sometime past away, the irkesomenesse of her time in walking in the Gardens, but many times in the Parke close shut, followed only by her wayting Gentlewoman Adriana: for in respect of her aunts unkindnesse, and Albemares jelousie, she would neither accept of her familiaritie, nor of his company. Now to the neerest end of the Parke, not farre distant from the second Garden, was a curious walke, ranked about with many rowes of Sycamore trees, and at the farther end thereof a close ore-shadowed Bower; yea, so closely vailed, that the raies of the Sunne could neither peepe in, to scortch the purenesse of her beauty, or to contend with the piercing lustre and resplendancy of her eyes: and to this Bower, in a faire and cleare day, Clara (about three of the clocke after dinner) repaires, having in her hand to delude the time, the old amourous History of Hero and Leander, which was very lately illustrated, and newly reprinted in Millan and wherein indeed for the conformity of their loves with her owne, shee tooke a singular delight to reade: but that which gave sweeter musicke to her thoughts, and feli­city to her heart, and mind, were her Baretano's two Letters, (which we have formerly seene) and which as then she had purposely brought with her to survey and peruse; yea, she reades them ore againe and againe; and to write the truth, more oftner than there are words, or I thinke sillables therein contained: but [Page 223] when she descends to his name, she cannot refraine from kissing it; yea, and such is her tender love to Baretano, as she bedewes it with her teares; a thousand times she wished her selfe with him, or he with her, and bitterly blames the crueltie of her parents, for separating their bodies, sith she not onely hoped, but assured her selfe, that God had conjoyned, and united their hearts. But whiles she in the middest of these passionate extasies seemes to be rapt up into the heaven of joy, at the perusall of these Letters of Brretano; and then againe to be plunged into the hell of sorrow, at the consideration and remembrance of his absence, she heares a voyce, which she thinkes is not farre off from her, when looking foorth the Bower, and deeming it to be that of her wayting-Gentlewoman, whom she saw somewhat neere her gather­ing of Strawberries, and wilde Lillies, she within a flight shot from her, perceives it to be her Lover, (but not her love,) Albemare, who knowing her there in the Bower, and for want of other talke, speaking to the Eccho, she guessed by his course, (where­in she was not deceived) that he had an intent to salute and speake with her; which to prevent, because it wholly displeased her, to be cumbred with the company of so un­welcomed a guest as himselfe; shehastily folds up her letters in her handkercher, and clapping them (at least as she thought) into the pocket of her gowne, takes her booke in her hand, and calling Adriana, trips away backe towards the garden, by the other side of the Parke, purposely to eschew and avoide him, as indeed she did.

Albemare grieves to see Clara's coynesse and cruelty toward him, although she were departed foorth the Parke from him, yet his affection is so fervent to her, as he will needs ascend the Bower, esteeming it not onely a kind of content, but ables­sing to his thoughts; sith he cannot be where she is, yet to be where she hath beene: when thinking to mount the stayers of the bower, he unexpected at the foot thereof, finds the two letters whereof we have formerly spoken, which it seemes slipt foorth of Clara's handkerceh [...], as she was putting it into her pocket: Albemare taking up the letters, and seeing them directed to his sweet Clara, he betwixt the extreames of love and joy, kisseth them againe and againe for her sake: when sitting downe in the Bower, he betakes himselfe to reade and peruse them, verily expecting and hoping to gather and draw something from them which might tend to advance the processe of his affection towards her: But when he had read the first, he was so ex­tream [...]ly perplexed and afflicted, as he had hardly the patience to peruse the second, and yet at length hastily & passionately running it over, and seeing by all the circum­stances thereof, that it was in vaine for him any longer to hope for Clara, sith she was Baretano's, and Baretano hers, he like one Lunaticke, stampes with his foot, throwes away his hat, teares his haire for very griefe and choller, now thinking to teare the letters, and then to offer violence to himselfe: But when the fumes and flames of this his folly were over blowne, and that he had againe recalled his wits to take place in theproper seat of his judgement and discretion; then taking up his [...]at, and pulling it downe his eares, he leaves the Bower and Parke, and so going into the house, shewes them the Lady Emelia her aunt, who prayes him not to dis­paire, but that Baretano's letters notwithstanding, hee himselfe shall shortly marry her Niece Clara; onely she prayes him for the two letters, because she affirmes, shee will to morrow send them to Millan to her father and mother. Wherein he saith, hee will take advise of his pillow; when fasting out his supper, he betakes himselfe to his bed, to see whether he can sleepe away those his passions and vexations. And by this time Clara going to locke up these two aforesaid letters in her trunke, shee finds her handkercher, but misseth her letters; whereat blushing for shame, and then againe looking pale for sorrow, griefe and anger, [Page 224] she speedily sends away Adriana to the Bower, to looke them; who returnes with­out them, and then she knowes for certaine that Albemare hath found them: whereupon for meere griefe and anger, feigning herselfe sick, she withdrawes her selfe to her chamber, and there presently betakes her selfe to her bed.

I may well say that Clara and Albemare betake themselves to their beds; but I am sure not to their rest: For griefe and love so violently acte their severall parts in their hearts and thoughts, as sigh they doe, but sleepe they cannot: Yea their passionsand sorrowes are as different as their desires; for as Albemare now grives that he hath found these letters, so doth Clara that she hath lost them; and as he vowes not to restore her them, so shee neither dares, and yet disdayneth to demand them of him: Yea againe, which is more, as their sorrowes are different, so are their pretended consolations; at least if I may properly and truely rearme them consolations: For as Clara, although she have lost her Baretano's letters, doth yet rejoyce that she still retaines the writer and Authour thereof ingraven and caracte­red in her heart: so doth Albemare, that now fully knowing Baretano to be his rivall, and who by all probability is like to beare his mistris from him, he hath (as he injustly conceives, a just reason to be revenged, and a true occasion to fight with him: but as Clara's comfort and consolation herein proceeds from true affection, so doth the vanitie and impiety of this resolution of Albemares from hellish malice, and devillish indignation: yea, although the night doth or should bring counsell, yet as Clara pa­sseth it over onely with sighes, so doth Albemare with fumes of reveng against Bare­tano, vowing that he will in the morne towards Millan, and there trie his fortune, ei­ther to kill him, or to bee killed of him, in a Duell; to which end he is no sooner ready, but he acquaints the Lady Emelia with his intended journey, but not with his reso­lution to fight with Baretano, and the same he doth to the Empresse of his thoughts, and Queene of his desires) Clara, demaunding her if she please to command him any service for Millan; who both blushing and paling hereat, her affection to Baretano, having now made her expert in the subtilties of love, she well knowes what wind drives Albemare to Millan: and therefore guided by discretion, and not by passion, she returnes him this answer: That having neither reason nor desire to command him, she onely prayes him to remember her humble duty to her Father and mother, and so wisheth his journey prosperous: which answer of hers (being indeed no other than Albemare expected) he yet advanceth to kisse her at parting; which her civility though not her affection granted him; not so much as once dreaming or suspecting that he conceived the least thought or intent to fight with her sweet Baretano, and so he takes horse, having onely one servant with him.

Albemare being arrived at Saint Remie, a small Towne within fifteene miles of Millan, he resolves to dine there, which he doth; and to avoid the heate of the day, then betakes himselfe to sleepe an houre or two; being awaked, he commands his man to make ready his horse, and seeing the host of the house in his chamber, inqui­res of him if there were any Gentelmenin the house riding for Millan, who as soone turnes him this unlooke for and unexspected answer; that there was a brave Gen­tleman in the house named Signior Baretano, who was to ride thither some two houers hence. Albemare no sooner heares the name of Baretano, but his very heart blood flasheth up in his face, when demanding him again what manner of gētleman was, he told him he was a tall slender young Gentleman, with never a haire on his face, and out of this window quoth he, you may now see him walking in the garden; when Albemare looking forth, sees indeed that it was his very rival Baretano; when en­quiring further of the Host what followers he had with him, he told him that then he had none, but sometimes when he came thither, either to take the ayre, or breath his [Page 225] horse, he was attendedby two or three, and so the Hoast leaves him, not once suspe­cting of any difference between them. Albemare seeing his enemy (because his rivall) brought to him, whom he formerly resolved to seeke and find out, assumes a base and a bloody resolution to set upon him in the high way disguised, and there to ve [...] his owne life, to deprive him of his: which to effect he will have no eye witnesses of this his ignoble and trecherous businesse; and therefore purposely sends away his man to Millan before him, and so slipping into the towne, provides himselfe of a maske or visard; then takes his horse, and rather like a theefe than a Gentleman, lurkes behind a Grove (some three miles from Saint Remy) attending Baratano's com­ming, who poore harmelesse yong Gentleman, harbouring and breathing no other thoughts and wishes than charitie to all the world, and pure and fervent affection to his fare and deare Clara, likewise takes his horse, and drawes home ward toward Millan, when being arrived to the place where Albemare secretly lay in ambush for him, he furiously and suddenly rusheth foorth, and with his Rapier drawen in his hand; runnes Baretano into his right arme, who feeling the wound almost as soone as he saw his enemy who gave it him, he is at first as it were amazed hereat; when thinking him by his maske to be a Bandetti, who were then very busie in Lombardy, but especially in that Dutchie of Millan, he told him that all the coyne he had, which was some ten double Pistolsin gold, and two Duckats in silver, were at his service, but to fight in his defence he would not: Not quoth he, that he was any way a Coward, but that he affirmed he was latly affianced and ingaged to a yong Lady: so that he perfecty knew that her affection was so deare and tender towards him, as either the losse or preservation of his life would be that of hers: Albemare galled and touch't to the quicke with this his heart killing answere to him, is wholly inflamed with choller against him, when rushing towards him, he delivers him these words: Villaine it is not thy gold but thy life which I seeke, and then strayning himselfe to runne Baretano thorow, loe the string of his Maske breakes, where Boretano apparently sees it is his Rivall Albemare: whereat such is his tender affection to his sweete and fayre Clara, that he who before turned craven, and would not fight for his owne sake, is now cheerefully resolved not onely to fight, but if occasion require, to dye for hers: and so returning the villaine to Albemares throat, he instantly drawes, and joynes with him: and if Albermare be resolute in fighting, no lesse valiant and couragious is Baretano; for the remembrance of his Clara's sweet Idea, and fresh delicious beauty, infuseth such life to his valour, and such generositie, and animositie to his courage, as he deales his blowes roundly, and his thrusts freely, making Albemare know, that his Rapier is of an excelent temper, and yet his heart of a better: And Albemare see­ing hee must buy his victory dearer than hee expected, and disdaining to be out­braved and beaten by a boy, pluckes up his best spirits and courage to him, and so likewise behaves himselfe manfully and valiantly: in such sort, that within lesse than a quarter of an houre, Baretano hath given him five wounds, and he Baretano three, when the Count of Martingue passing that way in his Coach towards Millan, and seeing two Gentlemen so busily fighting, he cryes out to his Coach-man, to gallop away with all celeritie, and so parts them; when seeing them full of blood, sweat, and dust, having his Chyrurgion still in his traine with him, he out of an honourable courtesie and charitie, intreats and accompanies them to the next house, where he causeth their wounds to be drest and bound up; when by their apparell seeing them to be Millaneses, is desirous to know their quartell, and profers his best assist­ance to reconcile and make them friends: but their hearts are so great, and their malice so implacable, as they both thanke the Count for his noble courtesie, but be­seech him to pardon them, in obs [...]ring their names and quarrell; and yet he is so [Page 226] noble and generous, as he will not so leave them, but seeing them shrewdly woun­ded (though not he thinks mortally) he for their greater ease and saftie, causeth two of his Gentlemen to mount their horses, and takes them both up into his Coach with him, and so brings them within the Gates of Millan, where after they had severally rendred him many thankes for his Courtesie and Honour, he commends them both to their good Fortunes, and so leaves them.

Baretano and Albemare being thus arrived at Millan, they conceale their fighting, and so keepe their chambers, till they have secured their wounds; when Albemare visits Capello and his Lady Castiana, and reports to them the health and duty of their daughter, as also her aversnesse towards him, and withall shewes her Bareta­no's two Letters to her, whereby it is apparant, that she is so wholly his, as he him­selfe is sure never to obtaine or enjoy her. Her father and mother at the first seeme to hang their heads at this newes, and the perusall of the Letters; but at last bid him not dispaire, but be couragious, for he and onely he shall be their sonne in law. But Al­bemare considering that for the tearme of at least six moneths, he Camelion-like had onely had beene fed with the ayre of these their vaine promises, and that he perfect­ly knew that Clara onely intended to marry Baretano, and none but him, his love to her was so tender and fervent, as he cannot conceive the shadow of any hope how to obtaine her for his wife in this world, before he have sent Baretano to another; when being constant in his resolution thereof to himselfe, because hee was resolute in his constancy and affection to Clara: no reason, no Religion, not his Conscience, not his Soule, can divert him from this bloody designe, from this murtherous and there­fore damnable project: Feeding therefore on Malice, and boyling with Revenge towards Baretano, he not as a Gentleman, but rather degenerating from the vertue and honoure of that honourable degree and qualitie, bethinkes himselfe eitherby pistoll or poyson, how he may treacherously dispatch him: whereon ruminating and pondering (as malice and revenge may perchance slumber, but difficultly sleep) the Devill who is never absent in such hellish stratagems and occasions, gives him meanes, (though by a contrary course) how to dispatch him: For on a day descen­ding the staires of the Domo, hee sees Pedro, and Leonardo, (two Souldiers, or rather Braves of the Castle of Pavia) passe by him, with whom he had beene formerly ac­quainted, but so poorely apparelled, as weighing their bloody humours by their ne­cessity, hee (in favour of money) thinkes them very fit Agents and Instruments, to murther and make away Baretano, to which end, to play the Practique part as well as the Theorique, and so to reduce this his bloudy contemplation into action, he sends his man Valerio after them, and prayes them to repaire to him in the Cloysters of Bor­romeos Palace, for that he hath a businesse to impart them of great importance for their profits. Valerio overtakes them, delivers them his masters pleasure; who net­led with this word Profit, they repaire to the Rendeuous, and meet Albemare; when having refreshed their acquaintance, & he sworn them to secrecy, as he was a wretch­ed and perfidious Gentleman, acquaints them with his desire, some ten daies hence to have them murther Seignior Baretano in the strect by night, and to give it out, that it was done by some Spaniards of the Viceroyes Guard, and that he will give them an hundred Duckatons in hand, and leave them as much more with his man Valerio, which they shall receive of him, when they have dispatcht him; and for his owne part, some foure or five dayes hence hee will away for Modena, to cast the better varnish and colour that he was innocent thereof, and had no finger at all in the businesse.

Pedro and Leonardo seeing that Albemare proffered them gold, which they so much wanted and desired; like two limbes of the Devills, and as a couple of hellish Blood­hounds, [Page 227] not only promise, but sweare to him punctually, in all respects to performe his desires, and so they touch their first hundred Duckatons, which being the pledg and price of innocent blood, it will assuredly cost them deare, and draw downe vengeance, ruine and confusion on their heads from heaven, when they least thinke or dreame thereof. Albemare having setled this his bloody and mournefull businesse with Pedro and Leonardo, he is againe solicited by Capello, and Castiana, to returne to their daughter in Modena: whereunto hee willingly consehteth; when ar­med with their Letters to her, wherein they charge her on their commands and bles­sing, to dispose her selfe to affect and many him, he within fome daies departeth: But having secretly revealed his fight with Baretano to some of Capello his chiefest and most confident servants, they yet love and honour their young Lady Clara so well in her absence, as they send her the true relation and intelligence thereof, which is at Modena a little before Albemare, the which being unknowne to him, he is no sooner arrived there, but hee salutes first the Aunt Emelia, than her Neece and his Mistris Clara: to whom having delivered her Parents Letters, she stepping aside to the window, reades them; and so returning to him againe, gives him this sharpe and bitter welcome: My father and mother command mee to love thee; but how can I, sith upon the highway, thou basely and treacherously attemptedst to kill my deare Bareta­no, whom I love a thousand times dearer than the whole world? when with teares in her eyes, and choller in her lookes, she very suddenly and passionatly [...]ings from him, whereat Emelia wondreth, and hee both stormes and grieves; and so they betake themselves to their chambers, where Albemare throwing himselfe on his bed, saith thus to himselfe▪ Vnkind and cruell Clara, if thou take my fighting with Bareta­no thus tenderly, how wilt thou brooke the newes of his death? On the other side, Clara grieves as much at her Baretano's wounds, as shee rejoyceth at his safety and recovery; yea, so tender is her affection to him, as she a thousand times wishes, that the blood he lost, had streamed from her owne heart. Againe, knowing his wounds free from danger, she cannot but smile, and delight to see his deare and true affecti­on to her, in remembring that he would not fight for his owne sake, and yet was rea­dy, yea and valiantly hazarded to loose his life for hers; and in these amourous con­ceites and contemplations shee pensively drives away the time, admiring and won­dring that all this while she heares not from her Baretano: But alas, alas! she shall heare too too soone of him, though indeed never more from him: for these execra­ble wretches, Pedro and Leonardo, some foure daies after Albemares departure to Modena, they according to their promise and oath given him, like two most bloody and butcherly villaines, cruelly assault and murther this harmelesse and innocent yong Gentleman Baretano, in the streetes of Millan be night, with no lesse than seven se­verall wounds, whereof foure were cleane thorow his body; and so gives it out (as it was formerly concluded) that he was murthered by some Spaniards of the Vice-royes Guard: when the same night, they repaire to Valerio, acquaint him therewith, re­ceive their other hundred Duckatons, and so provide for their safety in the city but that bloody mony, and this cruell murther, will in the end cost them dearer, than ei­ther they imagine, or dreame of.

Whiles Millan ratleth with the newes of Baretano's bloody and untimely end, as his owne friends infinitly lament and grieve, so Capello and his wife Castiana cannot refraine from rejoying the reat, as now assuring themselves that Albemare shall short­ly be their sonne in law: and for Valerio, he with all possible speed writes away there­of to Modena, to his Master, who entertaines this newes with infinite joy, and de­lectation, and presently acquaints the Lady Emelia there with; whereat shee rejoy­ceth, and he triumphes but they [...] resolve as yet to conc [...]le it from Clara, because [Page 228] they know she will even dissolve and melt into teares thereat. But foure daies after are not fully expired, but her father and mother advertise their daughter Clara, their sister Emelia, and Albemare thereof, by a Gentleman, a servant of theirs, whom they purposely send to Modena, to bring backe Clara, and Albemare to Millan. But it is for none but Lovers, to conceive or judge, with what extreame excesse of griefe and immoderate sorrow our poore Clara understands this heart-piercing newes of her Baretano's mournefull and sorrowfull death: for she is no sooner advertised thereof, but she throws off her attyre, teares her haire, and twice following falls to the ground, in a swound, so as Emelia, Albemare, Adriana, and her fathers Gentleman can hardly referch and keepe life in her: but being come againe to her senses, and selfe; and faint­ly opening her cloudy eyes to the beames of the Sunne, who enamoured of her beauty (as well in pitty as love) came to comfort and revive her: shee wringing her hands, then crossing her armes, and lastly, looking up towards Heaven, betwixt sighing and speaking, breaths forth these mournefull, passionate, and affe­ctionate speeches:

O my Baretano, my sweet and deare Barenano, and shall thy wretched Clara live thou being dead? when the violence of her affection and sorrow making her forget her selfe, and her God, she secretly unsheathes her knife, and then and there would have stabbed her selfe to death, had not Albemare and her Aunt Emelia speedily stept to her assistance, and prevented her, by wresting it from her; when conducting her to the Garden; to take the aire, she praies Albemare to leave her, and in his ab­scence often againe repeating the name of her deare Baretano, shee a thousand times wisheth that her life had ransomed his, vowing that although she were a woman, yet if she knew his murtherers, shee would flie to their eyes, and teare out their hearts, in meere revenge of this inhumane and cruell death: when her sorrowes are so in­finite, and her griefe so unsupportable, as she cannot long remaine in one place, but withdrawes herselfe from the garden to her chamber, whither her Aunt Emelia care­fully accompanies her, lies with her that night to comfort her, who poore afflicted young Lady, neither can nor will be comforted: so as the next morning, had not her Aunt powerfully prevented and stopped her, she had then undoubtedly entred the Nunnery of her owne name, Saint Clara, and in that retyred and obscure life there ended her daies in Modena; resolving in true affection and zeale to her dead Bareta­no, never thenceforth either to see her parents, or Millan: but being diverted and comforted by some Divines, and many Ladies of that Citty, she brooking her sor­rowes as patiently as she may, (with much solicitation) after ten dayes, permits herself to be conveyed home to Millan, where although she were very cheerefully received, and joyfully entertained of her father and mother, yet shee likewise went neere to have their mewed her selfe up a spirituall sister in the Nunnery of the Annunciation; but that againe she was prevented; whereat grieving, she yet takes on mourning attire, and vowes to weare it a whole yeare for his sake: when to make her selfe (as she was) both a true Lover, and a true mourner to the memory of her dead Bareta­no, shee oftentimes steals into Saint Euphemias Church, where he was buried, and there bedewes his tombe with teares, living so pensively, and disconsolately, that al­though shee live in the world, yet it seemes shee neither is, nor long will be of the world.

But as women are but women, and as a Time is a soveraigne remedy for all disea­ses and sorrowes; so about some ten moneths after, the incessant importunity of her father and mother, and the continuall tender respect and observant courtesie of Albe­mare towards her, make her somewhat neglect and forget the memory of Baretano, and now to looke on him with a more pleasing and favourable eye than before. [Page 229] But here (againe) a consideration makes her afection die towards Albemare, almost as soone as it begins to live: For why (quoth she) should she affect or love him, who at Saint Remy gave her Baretano three severall wounds? But then Love againe steps in, and thus pleads with her for Albemare: That hee received five wounds, and gave Baretano but three, which made him lose farre more bloud than Baretano: and yet that this attempt of his was onely occasioned through his affection to her, and onely for her sake, as loving her dearer than his owne life; which againe gave her thoughts such satisfaction, as weighed downe and vanquished, as well by the power and prayers of her parents, as also by the endlesse sighs, letters, and presents of Albemare: the yeare is no sooner expired, and her mourning weeds and attire done away, but to their owne hearts content, and the unspeakable joy of their parents, they in Millan (with great pompe and bravery) are very solemn­ly married. But this marriage of theirs shall not prove so prosperous as they ex­pect and hope: For God in his all-seeing Providence, hath decreed to disturbe the tranquility and serenity thereof, and to make them feele the sharpe and bitter showres of affliction and misery, which briefly doth thus surprise and befall them.

Albemare and Clara have hardly beene married together a yeare and quarter, but his hot love begins to wax cold and frozen to her; yea, albeit she affected him truly and tenderly, yet hee continually neglecting her, and no longer delighting in the sweetnesse of her youth, and the freshnesse of her beauty, his lustfull eyes and thoughts carry his lascivious selfe abroad among Curtezans, when they should be fixed on her, and resident at home with his chaste and faire Lady: so as his infidelity proving her griefe and torments, and his vanity and ingratitude her unspeakable affliction and vexation; she with infinite sighs and teares repents her matching him, and a thousand times wisheth shee had beene so happy and blessed to have died Baretano's Martyr, and not so unfortunate and accursed to live to see her selfe Albemares wife: and yet were there any hope of his reformation, she could then prefixbounds to her calamities and sorrowes: But seeing that his vices grew with his age, and that every day he became more vicious and unkinde to her than other, her hopes are now wholly turned into despaire, her mirth into mourning; yea, her inward discontents so apparantly bewray themselves, in her outward sorrowfull complexion and countenance, that the Roses of her cheekes are metamorphosed into Lillies, and her heart so wholly taken up with anguish, and surprised with sorrow, as shee wisheth that her bed were her grave, and her selfe in Heaven with God; because shee could finde no comfort here on Earth with her husband: But beyond her expectation, God is providing to redresse her griefe, and to remedy her afflictions by a very strange and unlooked for accident.

The Providence and Iustice of God doth now againe refetch bloudy Pedro, to act another part upon the Stage and Theater of this History: For having spent that money lewdly, which he before got damnably of Albemare, his wants are so great, and his necessity so urgent, as having played the murtherer before, hee makes no conscience nor scruple now to play the theefe, and so by night breaks into a Jew­ellers shops, named Seignior Fiamata, dwelling in the great place before the Domo, and there carries away from him a small Trunke or Casket, wherein were some uncut Saphyrs & Emralds, with some Venice Chrystall pendants for Ladies to weare in their eares, and other rich commodities: but Fiamata lying over his shop, and hearing it, and locking his doore to him for feare of having his throat cut, gives the out-cry and alarum forth the window, which ringing in the streets, makes some of the neighbours, and also the watch approach and assemble; where fin­ding Pedro running with a Casket under his arme, he is presently hemb'd in, ap­prehended [Page 230] and imprisoned, and the Casket tooke from him, and againe resto­red to Fiamata; when knowing that he shall die for this robbery, as a just punish­ment and judgement of God, now sent him for formerly murthering of Baretano, he having no other hope to escape death, but by the meanes of Albemare, he sends early the next morning for his man Valerio, to come to the prison to him, whom he bids to tell his Master Albemare from him, that being sure to be condemned for this robbery of his, if he procure him not his pardon, he will not charge his soule any longer with the murther of Baretano, but will on the ladder reveale, how it was he who hired himselfe & Leonardo to performe it; Valerio reporting this to his Master, it affrights his thoughts, and terrifies his conscience and courage, to see himselfe reduced to this misery, that no lesse than his life must now stand to the mercy of this wretched Varlet Pedro's tongue. But knowing it impossible to ob­taine a pardon for him, and therfore high time to provide for his owne safety, by stopping of Pedro's mouth; he resolves to heave Ossa upon Pelon, or to adde mur­ther to murther, and now to poyson him in prison, whom he had formerly cau­sed to murther Baretano in the street, to the end he might tell no tales on the lad­der, thinking it no ingratitude or sinne, but rather a just reward and recompence for his former bloudy service; so to feed Pedro with false hopes, thereby to charme his tongue to silence, and to lull his malice asleepe, he speedily returnes Valerio to prison to him, who bids him feare nothing, for that his master had vow­ed to get him his pardon, as he shall more effectually heare from him that night; whereat Pedro rejoyceth and triumpheth, telling Valerio that his Master Albemare is the most generous and bravest Cavalier of Lombardy. But to nip his joyes in their untimely blossomes, and to disturbe the harmony of his false content, that very day as soone as hee hath dined, he is tryed and arraigned before his Judges; and being apparantly convicted and found guilty of this robbery, hee is by them ad­judged to be hanged the next morne, at a Gibbet purposely to be erected before Fi­amata's house, where he committed his delict and crime: which just sentence not only makes his joy strike saile to sorrow, but also his pride and hopes let fall their Peacocks plumes to humility and feare: But his onely trust and comfort, yea, his last hopes and refuge is in Albemare, who hearing him to be condemned to be exe­cuted the next morning; he is enforced to play his bloudy prize that night, and so in the evening sends Valerio to prison to him, with a Capon, and two Fiascoes (or bottles) of Wine, for him to make merry, informing him that he hath obtained his pardon, and that it is written, and wants nothing but the Viceroyes signe to it, which he shall have to morrow at breake of day. But the wine of the one of the bottles was intermixed with strong and deadly poyson, which was so cun­ningly tempered, as it carried no distastefull, but a pleasing relish to the pallate; Valerio like an execrable villaine, proving as true a servant to his Master, as a rebel­lious and false one to his God, he punctially performes this fearefull and mourn­full businesse; and having made Pedro twice drunke, first with his good newes, and then with his poysoned wine, he takes leave of him that night, and commit­ting him to his rest, promiseth to be with him very early in the morning with his pardon. When this miserable and beastly prophane wretch, never thinking of his danger, or death; of God or his soule; of Heaven or Hell, betakes himselfe to his bed, where the poyson spreading ore his vitals parts, soone bereave him of his breath, sending his soule from this life and world to another.

Now the next morning very early as the Gaoler came to his chamber, to bid him prepare to his execution, hee finds him dead and cold in his bed; and thus was the miserable end of this bloudy and inhumane murtherer (and theefe) Pedro: [Page 231] who yet for example sake was one whole day hanged by the heeles in his shirt, at his appointed place of execution, because his Judges deemed that he had cruelly poysoned and made away himselfe. And now doth Albemare againe rejoyce and triumph to see he hath avoided that dangerous shelfe and rocke whereon hee was very likely to have suffered shipwracke, yea, and now hee thinks himselfe so absolutely safe and secure, as he holds it impossible, that either his murthering of Baretano, or his poysoning of Pedro can any way reflect on him, or henceforth produce him any further stormes or tempests: but his hopes and joyes will de­ceive him, for God, who is the infallible revenger of innocent bloud, will not so leave him, but ere long, when he least thinks or dreames thereof, not onely in his providence detect these his foule crimes, but in his justice severely punish them, and the Readers curiosity shall not goe farre to see it; for as to a guilty consci­ence, it is the pleasure of the Lord, that one misery befall him in the necke and nicke of the other, so Albemare is no sooner freed of Pedro in Millan, but behold he is afresh intangled and assaulted with Leonardo (his other hired murtherer) in Pavia, who having there prodigally rioted away his hundred Duckatons, and al­so runne himselfe farre in debt; his Creditors joyne together, and so clap him prisoner, where having no other hope for his freedome and liberty, but to relie on Albemare, he writes him a Letter to Millan, wherein hee acquaints him with his poverty and misery, and prayes him (for the obtaining of his liberty) either to lend or give him fifty Duckatons: Albemare receives this Letter, but forgetting his former service; as also thinking it onely a fetch of Leonardo, to fetch him over for so many Duckatons, as God would have it, hee very inconsiderately burnes this his Letter, and answereth it with silence: but hee shall repent it when it will be too late, and out of his power to remedy this his ingratitude and indiscretion.

Leonardo having at least fifteene dayes expected an answer from Albemare, and receiving none, he is extreamly incensed and inraged to see himselfe thus sleighted and forgotten of him, when exasperated by his misery, and animated by his ex­treame poverty and indigence, in that hee is now inforced to sell away his appa­rell, and so to uncloth his backe, thereby to feed his belly, he intends no more to request and pray him, but now resolves to touch him to the quicke, the which he doth in these few lines which he sends him to Millan by a messenger of purpose.

[Page 232] Now although Leonardo meane not as hee write, yet this his messenger com­ming to Millan, and not finding Albemare at his house, he knowes not (and is re­solute) what to doe, either to stay his comming in, or to deliver his Letter to some of his servants: But waiting at his doore till late in the evening, and hea­ring no newes of him, he gives it to Valerio, and (without telling him from whom, or whence it came) prayes him safely to deliver it to his Master, and that hee will repaire thither the next morning for an answer. Valerio claps the Letter in­to his pocket, awayting his Masters comming: but hee is so bad a husband to himselfe, and so disloyall, and unkinde a one to his chaste and faire wife, as hee was out all night with his Curtizans, which good and vertuous Lady, even pierceth her heart with griefe and sorrow. Now Valerio seeing his Master ab­sent, his comming uncertaine, and himselfe inforced to goe forth about his affaires, he placeth the Letter upon a Cupboard neare his Masters study, that it might bee apparant to his eye when he came in, and so departs.

But here the mercy and providence of God invites the Christian Reader, to admire and wonder at the strange discovery and detection of this Letter: for as Albemare (more for sport than charity) kept a man-foole of some forty yeares old in his house, who indeed was so naturally peevish, as not Millan, hardly Italy could match him for simplicity. It so chanced, that this harmlesse foole gate into the roome after Valerio, and saw him put up this Letter on the Cupboard: Now, as Children and Fooles may in some sort bee tearmed Cousin Germaine to Apes, so as soone as Valerio was departed, this foole (no doubt led wholly by the direction and finger of God, rather than by his owne proper ignorance and simplicity) gets into the chamber, and taking a stoole to ascend the Cup­board, hee brings away the Letter, which both in the Hall and yard he tosses and dandles in his hand, as if this new found play gave delight and content to his extra­vagant and simple thoughts: when, behold our sweet and vertuous Clara comming from Saint Ambrose Church, where shee had beene to here Vespres, and seeing a faire Letter fast sealed in the fooles hand, shee enquires of him from whence hee had it? who singing and hopping, and still playing with the Letter, shee could get no other answer from him, but That it was his Letter, and that God had sent it him, that God had sent it him: which speeches of his hee often redoubled. When Clara weighing his words, and considering out of whose mouth they came, her heart instantly beganne to grow, and her colour to rise, as if God and her soule prompted her, that shee had some interest in that Letter: whereupon snatching it from the foole, whom shee left crying in the Hall for the losse there­of: she seeing it directed to her Husband, goes to the Parlor, attended by Adriana, and there sitting downe in a chaire, and breaking up the seales thereof, shee be­gins to reade it; but when shee drawes towards the conclusion thereof, and finds that it was her husband Albemare's who had caused her deare Lover and Friend Baretano to bee murthered: then not able to containe her selfe for sorrow, shee throwes her selfe on the floore, and weepes and sighs so mournfully, as the most obduratest and flintiest heart could not chuse but relent into pitie to see her: for sometimes shee lookt up to heaven, and then againe dejecting her eyes to earth, now wringing her hands, and then crossing her armes, in such disconsolate and afflicted manner, as Adriana could not likewise refraine from teares to behold her: when after a deepe and profound silence, she bandying and evaporating ma­ny volleyes of farre fetched sighs into the ayre, shee commanding Adriana forth, the doore shut, with the two extremities of passion and sorrow, shee alone ut­ters these mournfull speeches to her selfe.

[Page 233] And shall Clara live to understand, that her Baretano was murthered for her sake, and by her unfortunate husband Albemare? and shall she any more lie in bed with him, who so inhumanely hath layen him in his untimely and bloudy grave? And Clara, Clara, wilt thou prove so ungratefull to his memory, and to the tender affection he bore thee, as not to lament, not to seeke to revenge this his diastrous and cruell end? when againe, her teares interrupting her words, and her sighs her teares; she entring into a further consultation with her thoughts and consci­ence, her heart and her soule at last cotinues her speech in this manner: O, but unfortunate and wretched Clara, what speakest thou of revenge? for consider with thy selfe, yea forget not to consider, Baretano was but thy friend, Albemare is thy husband; the first loved thee in hope to marry thee, but thou art married to the second, and therefore thou must love him; and although his ingratitude and infidelity towards thee, make him unworthy of thy affection; yet yee two are but one flesh, and therefore consider, that malice is a bad advocate, and re­venge a worse Judge: But here againe remembring what a foule and odious crime murther was in the sight of the Lord, that the discovery thereof infinitely tended to his glory and honour, and that the poore Foole was doubtlesse inspired from heaven, to affirme that God sent the Letter: she knowes that her bonds of consci­ence to her Saviour, must exceed and give a law to those of her duty towards her husband; and therefore preferring Heaven before Earth, and God before her Husband, shee immediately cals for her Coach, and goes directly to Baretano's Vnkle, Seignior Giovan de Montefiore, and with sighs and teares shewes him the let­ter, who formerly, though in vaine, had most curiously & exactly hunted to disco­ver the murtherers of his Nephew. Montefiore first reads the letter with tears, then with joy; and then turning towards [...]he Lady Clara, he commends her zeale and Christian fortitude towards God, in shewing her how much the discovery of this murther tended to his glory, and so presently sends away for the President Crimi­nell; who immediately repairing thither, he acquaints him therewith, shewes him the Letter, and prayes him to examine the Lady Clara thereon; which with much modesty and equity he doth, and then returne, with her to her house, and there likewise examineth the Foole where he had the Letter: who out of his in­civilitie and simplicity, takes the President by the hand, and bringing him to the Cupboard, tels him, Here God sent the Letter, and here I found him: when Valerio being present, and imagining by his Ladies heavie and sorrowfull countenance, that this Letter had perhaps brought her into some affliction and danger, he loo­king on the direction of the Letter, as also on the Seale, he reveales both to the President and his Lady, that hee received that Letter from one whom hee knew not, and that hee left it purposely on the Cupboard for his Master, against his comming. The President being fully satisfied herein, admires at Gods provi­dence, revealed in the simplicity of this poore harmlesse Foole, in bringing this Letter, which brought the murther of Baret [...] to light, (when knowing th [...] God doth many times raise up the foolish and weake, to confound the wise and migh­ty things of the world) hee presently gr [...] out a Commission to apprehend [...]l­bemare who being then found in bed with M [...]ina, one of the most famous. Beauties, and reputed Curtezans of Millan: Hee, both astonished and amazed by the just judgements of God, is drawne from his beastly pleasures and adulte­ries, to prison: where being charged to have hired Pedro and [...] to have [...] thered Baretano, he stoutly denies it. But Leonardo's Letter being read him▪ [...] the [...] adjudged to the Racke, his Soule and Conscience ringing him [...]ny [...] of terrour, [...]ee there at large [...] it: when for this [...] [Page 234] and bloudy fact of his, he the same afternoone is condemned to be hanged the next morning, at the common place of Execution, which administreth matter of talke, and admiration throwout all Millan; when Serjeants are likewise sent away to Pavia, to bring Leonardo to Millan, who not so much as once dreamt or thought that ever this his letter would have produced him this danger and misery.

And now Albemare advertised of the manner how this letter of Leonardo was brought to light, (without looking up to Heaven from whence this vengeance justly befell him for his sinnes) hee curseth the cruelty of his wife, the simplicity of the foole, but most bitterly exclaimeth against the remisnesse and carelesnesse of his servant Valerio, in not retaining and keeping that letter, which is the onely cause of his death: yea, he is so farre transported with choller against him, as al­though he have but a few houres to live, yet hee vowes he will assuredly cry quit­tance with him ere he die.

Now the charity of his Judges send him Divines that night in prison, to pre­pare and cleare his conscience, and to confirme and fortifie his soule against the morne, in his last conflict with the world, and her flight and transmigration to heaven; who powerfully and religiously admonishing him, that if he have com­mitted any other notorious offence or crime, hee should now doe well to reveale it: He likewise there and then confesseth, how hee had caused his man Valerio to poyson Pedro with wine in prison, the verynight before he was executed: where­upon this bloudy and execrable wretch (according to his hellish deserts) is like­wise apprehended and imprisoned.

And now Gods mercy and justice brings this unfortunate (because irreligious) Gentleman Albemare, to receive condigne punishment for those his two horrible murthers, which he had caused to bee committed on the persons of Baretano and Pedro, who ascending the ladder in presence of a world of spectators, who flocked from all parts of the City to see him take his last farewell of the world: The sight and remembrance of his foule crimes, having now made him not onely sorrow­full, but repentant, he briefly delivered these few words.

He confessed that hee had hired Pedro and Leonardo to kill Baretano in the street, and seduced his servant Valerio to poyson Pedro in prison; whereof with much griefe and contrition he heartily repented himselfe, and besought the Lord to for­give it him: he likewise besought Leonardo and Valerio to forgive him, in respect he knew he was the cause of their deaths; because he was sure they should not long survive him. He likewise forgave his foole, as being assured, that it was not hee in the Letter, but God in him that had revealed the Letter for his just punishment and confusion. And lastly, he with many teares forgave his wife and Lady Clara, whom hee affirmed from his heart, was by farre too vertuous for so dissolute and vilde a husband as himselfe. He blamed himselfe for neglecting to love her, and cursed his Queans and Curtizans, as being the chiefe cause of all his miseries, when requesting all that were present to pray for his soule, he was turned off.

But his Judges seeing that hee had added murther to murther, they held it Ju­stice to adde punishment to his punishment; and so he is no sooner cut downe, but they cause his body to be burnt, and his ashes to be throwne into the aire, which is accordingly performed.

Now because the Lord in his Justice will punish as well the Agents, as the Au­thors of murther: whiles Albemare is acting the last Scene and Catastrophe of his Tra­gedy. His wretched hireling Leonardo, and his execrable servant Valerio are likewise a [...]ed, found guilty, and condemned to bee hang'd for their severall murthers o [...] [...] and [...]ro; and so the very same afternoone they are brought to their [Page 235] Executioners, where Leonardo his former life and profession having made him know better how to sinne than repent; he out of a souldier-like bravery, (or ra­ther vanity) thinks rather to terrifie death, than that death should terrifie him; he begging pardon for his sinnes in generall of God and the world, and then bid­ding the hang-man doe his office, he takes his last adiew of the world.

When immediately Valerio ascends the ladder, who having repentance in his heart, and griefe and sorrow in his looks; as neare as could be observed and ga­thered, spake these words:

That being poore both in friends and means, the only hope of preferment under his master, made him at his request to poyson Pedro in prison; That many times since he hath heartily grieved for it, and now from his very soule repents himselfe of it, and beseeching the Lord to forgive it him, That hee was as guilty of this murther, as innocent of Baretano's; yea, or of the knowledge thereof, before his Ma­ster was imprisoned for the same, and that as this was his first Capitall crime, so sith he must nowdie, he rejoyced it was his last, and so praying all servants to beware by his miserable example, not to be seduced to commit murther, either by their ma­sters or the devill; and beseeching all that were present to pray for his soule, he re­signing and commending it into the hands of his Redeemer, was likewise tur­ned off.

And these were the miserable (yet deserved ends) of these bloudy murtherers; and thus did Gods justice and revenge triumph over their crimes, and themselves, by heaping and raigning downe confusion on their heads from heaven, when the devill (falsely) made them beleeve they sate secure; yea, when they least dreamt thereof on earth: Oh that the sight and remembrance of their punishments may restraine and deterre us from conspiring and committing the like crimes! so shall we live fortunate, and die happy; whereas they died miserably, because they li­ved impiously and prophanely.

And here fully to conclude and shut up this Historie, and therein as I thinke to give some satisfaction to the curiosity of the Reader, who may perchance desire to know what became after of the faire and vertuous Clara. Why her sorrowes were so infinite, and her quality and Nature so sorrowfull, as being wearie of the world, and as it were weighed downe with the incessant vanities, crosses and afflictions thereof: she (notwithstanding the power and perswasions of her parents) assumes her former resolution, to retire & sequester her selfe from conversing with the world, and so enters into the Nunnery of the Annuntiation (so famous in Millan) where for ought I know, or can since understand to the contrary, she yet lives a pensive and solitary sister.